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summary: mingi has never let himself fall under the influence of being an alpha. no knotting. no claiming. just paint. colors. grey hues of the smoke from a blunt….. until you moved in across the hall.
warning: soft dom alpha mingi, switch omega reader, masturbation, oral, fingering, overstimulation, unprotected sex, knotting, creampie, dry humping, edging, use of weed
pairing: alpha mingi x omega afab reader
genre: slow burn, omegaverse, romance, smut
word count: 33.4k
masterlist
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The high always hit different when Mingi was painting. The world dulled at the edges, softened under thick curls of smoke that rose from between his fingers as he tilted the blunt lazily to his mouth. His other hand dragged color across canvas, thick black smudged with violet, streaks of rust red slicing through pale grey. His studio reeked of oil paint and resin and burnt cherry kush, like it always did.
Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” crackled softly from the battered vinyl player tucked near the window. The scratch in the record made Freddie’s voice stutter at the edge of every phrase, like even the music was drunk on whatever spell lived in this apartment. Mingi didn’t notice the paint drying on his hands, didn’t notice the ash falling onto his ripped black hoodie. He was somewhere else entirely. High. Focused. Consumed. This was the only way he could create lately. One hit, and he could forget how long it had been since he touched someone. Another, and he could ignore the way his instincts had started clawing at the inside of his ribs.
No mate. No claim. No knotting. He’d never crossed that line. Not once in all his twenty six years had he let himself lose control. He refused to become like the alphas he saw growing up, snarling, territorial, breaking things just to prove they could. He kept that part of himself locked up tight. Smothered it with weed, paint, and music loud enough to drown out the call of his own biology. But all of that shifted the second your scent slipped under his door.
It was barely there at first. A breath. A tease. Something new. Something omega. Mingi froze mid stroke, brush hovering over the canvas. His blunt hung between his lips, forgotten as the faintest curl of pheromones snuck into the air like a whisper. He blinked. The record kept spinning, Freddie belting “Is this the real life” but it felt like everything else had dropped away. His breath hitched in his throat. Slowly, slowly, he turned his head toward the door of his loft, like his body already knew exactly where the scent was coming from.
And fuck, it was good. Warm. Clean. Unmarked. It threaded through the paint fumes like a challenge, delicate but thick enough to make his pulse trip. Something sweet beneath the surface. Fresh laundry and something floral, no, citrus, maybe shampoo? Mingi stumbled back a step from the canvas, the heel of his boot dragging through a pile of crumpled sketches on the floor. No. No no no no. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, dragging it down his face, leaving a streak of blue paint across his cheek as he hissed through his teeth.
“She didn’t even fucking move in yet,” he muttered. But you had. He knew it. He’d heard it earlier, the dragging of boxes, Wooyoung’s voice echoing in the hallway, the slam of a front door. His omega neighbor’s best friend. That was all he’d known. Until now. Until you. And now your scent was in his lungs. His instincts flared like fire beneath his skin, alpha pushing to the surface like it hadn’t in years. Possession curled hot in his chest. His dick twitched behind his jeans, entirely uninvited. The kind of reaction he couldn’t control, not even high.
He reached for the window with shaking fingers, yanking it open, desperate for air. The music was too loud. The smell was too much. But even the wind didn’t help. Because it wasn’t just your scent now. It was the need. And you only just moved in.
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The apartment wasn’t much, but it was yours now. Or at least half yours. A cozy two bedroom tucked at the end of the hall on the fourth floor, brick walls half painted white, plants in the window that definitely weren’t watered consistently enough, and a couch that had seen more than it’s fair share of questionable nights. But it felt like the start of something. You were barefoot on the worn hardwood, hoodie sleeves covering your hands as you unpacked the last of your toiletries into the shared bathroom cabinet. In the kitchen, Wooyoung was sitting cross legged on the counter, grinder in one hand, already rolling a blunt like he hadn’t waited a single second for you to settle in. “I swear to god, Woo, if you ash on my skincare again…”
“You act like your toner’s not gonna survive a little weed love,” he said sweetly, tongue poking the edge of the blunt as he sealed it. “Also, hello? You’re officially moved in. This is a celebration blunt.” You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway, tugging your hoodie sleeve up to stack the last of your meds and perfume on the shelf. “You’ve been alone up here for like seven months. You didn’t go feral or anything, right?” Wooyoung slid off the counter and wandered into the living room, blunt balanced perfectly between his fingers like a ritual. “Nope. But I did run out of people to annoy. And my weed guy said if I kept showing up unannounced, he was gonna start charging me. Rude by the way” he muttered, then brightened. “Anyway. I’m glad you’re here. Like, really.”
You looked up, surprised at the sudden sincerity in his voice. He was already on the couch, knees tucked under him, flicking the lighter. For a moment, the apartment went soft, just the warm glow of string lights, the faint hum of someone’s music two floors down, and the scent of weed curling sweet in the air. “Me too,” you said quietly, crossing the room and flopping down beside him. “Los Angeles feels… better. Like I can actually breathe.” Wooyoung passed you the blunt, eyes soft. “No more assholes trying to force a claim. No more New York alpha drama. You’re here, you’re safe, and you’re with me.” You took a slow hit, letting the smoke warm your lungs, and exhaled with a low hum. “And your hot drug dealer apparently that lives downstairs.”
Wooyoung choked on his laughter. “San is not my dealer. He’s my dealer’s roommate.” He said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Still…. this place is good. I’ve got you now. And that means no more crying yourself to sleep over your ex and no more being afraid of your own heats.” Your smile faltered just a little. But Wooyoung didn’t push. He leaned his head on your shoulder, warm and safe, the same way he always had when you were both broke college dropouts trying to figure life out in New York.
You didn’t tell him the truth, that your heat was coming soon, that your scent had already started to shift, that the pheromones were getting harder to mask with suppressants. That a part of you was still scared, deep down, of what would happen if you did let an alpha have you again. You didn’t say anything. And you didn’t know that across the hall, your scent had already seeped through old apartment walls and straight into the lungs of the very alpha you hadn’t met yet.
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Mingi tried everything. Windows open. Music louder. A cold shower. Another blunt. A third. Nothing helped. Your scent was everywhere. It had seeped into the hallway hours ago, and now it was inside him, under his skin, in his bloodstream, pulsing in sync with his heartbeat. He stood barefoot in the middle of his loft, hoodie half zipped and hanging off one shoulder, sweat clinging to his neck despite the window breeze. His latest canvas sat untouched, streaked with the angry black lines he’d scratched into it before your scent had knocked him sideways.
He hadn’t painted since. He couldn’t. Instead, he paced. Five steps to the window. Five back. Over and over like he could walk the need out of his system. “She’s just an omega,” he muttered under his breath, fingers twitching. “Just a scent. Nothing more.” But his instincts weren’t buying it. Not when his entire body had been trained since birth to recognize this kind of scent for what it could mean. Compatible. Unclaimed. Close. He should’ve gone downstairs. Grabbed another blunt from Yeosang. Something stronger. Or gone out, anywhere but here. Instead, he grabbed the trash bag by the door, overflowing with torn canvas scraps and ash, and yanked the door open to take it down.
And that’s when he smelled it again. Closer. Lighter this time, a trail curling around the edge of the stairwell. He paused, chest rising. His hands curled tight around the trash bag, and he heard the sound before he saw you. Keys jangling. Quiet footsteps. Your voice, low and grumbling to yourself. “I swear if he locked the car again…” And then you turned the corner. Oversized hoodie. Messy bun. Slippers that barely made a sound as you padded down the hallway, too focused on whatever irritation you were muttering about to notice him. But Mingi noticed.
The way your scent swelled around you like heat waves. The way the bare skin of your thigh peeked beneath the hem of your hoodie. The way your eyes flicked up and locked with his. Everything in him stilled. Your lips parted. Just slightly. Your footsteps slowed. And in that moment, you both stared at each other like you were trying to place a dream you couldn’t quite remember. “Oh,” you said softly. “Hi.” Mingi blinked. Swallowed hard. Said absolutely nothing. He could feel it happening again, his alpha rising, his body reacting like it knew you. Like it recognized you before his brain had even caught up.
His mouth was dry. His jaw ached from how tight it was clenched. He wanted to speak, say something casual, neighborly, anything at all, but his tongue wouldn’t work. You waited another beat, then smiled faintly, like maybe you were used to awkward guys in hallways. “I’m Y/N. Wooyoung’s roommate.” He nodded. Still mute. Still staring. You didn’t push. You just reached past him toward the stairwell. “I left my phone in his car. I was just…. sorry. I didn’t mean to get in your way.” That finally snapped him out of it. He shook his head too fast, stepping back suddenly like you were made of fire. “You’re not. It’s fine. I… I was just….. trash.” Smooth, idiot.
You didn’t comment on the broken sentence. Didn’t say anything about how his voice was deeper than expected, or how he still hadn’t broken eye contact, or how he looked a little wrecked for someone taking out the trash. Instead, you gave him a soft, polite smile, sweet and brief and utterly unaware of the chaos you were causing inside him. “Nice to meet you.” And just like that, you were gone, down the stairs, leaving only the sound of your footsteps and the ghost of your scent trailing behind you. Mingi stood frozen, the trash bag still in his hand, heart pounding in his throat. Then, finally, under his breath, just for himself, “Fuck.”
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Mingi knocked three times, sharper than intended, knuckles tense, head swimming. The door creaked open to reveal Yeosang, as usual, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, black rimmed glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose, unbothered and glowing under purple LED lights. He didn’t even look surprised to see him. “Let me guess,” Yeosang said flatly, stepping aside. “You smelled her? She walked past me earlier and I nearly dropped my bong.” Mingi stepped inside the apartment like it offended him, pacing in a half circle before dragging both hands down his face. “I need something stronger. Like… forget your own name stronger.”
Yeosang raised a brow and sauntered toward the kitchen, where his “garden” glowed soft and green under LED lamps. San was on the couch, headphones around his neck, stretching out in a muscle tank that really had no business being that tight. San barely looked up. “Is this about the pretty omega best friend Woo moved in?” Mingi flinched like he’d been slapped. “You saw her?” San snorted. “Bro. Everyone saw her. Her scent is climbing the walls like ivy.”
Yeosang returned with a mason jar of pale green buds and a tiny dropper bottle. “Try this strain. It’s hybrid heavy. Mix it with two drops of this tincture and you might stop hearing your own heartbeat.” Mingi took it like it was holy. “Do you have anything that’ll also delete what I just said in the hallway?” San smirked. “What did you say?” Mingi hesitated before biting his bottom lip. “Trash. I called myself trash.” There was a beat of silence before San and Yeosang laughed.
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You closed the door behind you and immediately collapsed against it, pressing your palm to your chest like that might slow your pulse. It didn’t. Wooyoung was still on the couch, legs over the armrest, blunt in hand, scrolling on his phone like nothing was happening. You inhaled deeply. And then you grinned. Slowly. Like your body was only just catching up to what just happened. “So…” you started, peeling away from the door and flopping down beside him. Wooyoung arched a brow without looking up. “So?”
“Who’s the big tall hot guy across the hall covered in paint who calls himself trash?” Wooyoung choked at your question, eyes wide. “Wait…. You met Mingi already? That fast?” You laughed, tucking your feet under you. “Is that his name? He just kind of… stood there. All limbs and paint and panic. It was like meeting a cryptid who forgot how words work.” Wooyoung made a noise between a wheeze and a squeal, flailing dramatically. “That man has not spoken to anyone in this building other than San and Yeosang and you got a full sentence out of him?”
“Barely,” you giggled. “But he’s cute. Weird, but cute.” Wooyoung side eyed you like you’d just said you wanted to play hopscotch on a landmine. “Okay, listen to me carefully, Omega to Omega…” You rolled your eyes. “Oh god.” Wooyoung shook his head. “That man is dangerous.” You scoffed, laughing. “He called himself trash, Woo.”
“Exactly. You know what that means?” He leaned in. “It means he’s humble, hot, and emotionally unstable. And that, babe, is a recipe for ruin.” You shrugged, biting back a smile. “Maybe I like ruin.” Wooyoung gasped. “I knew LA was gonna turn you toxic.”
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By the time Mingi made it back upstairs, his hands were full, jar in one pocket, tincture bottle in the other, pre roll tucked behind his ear. He didn’t even bother with music this time. He lit up the blunt before his front door fully shut behind him.The first inhale was sharp. Sweet. Way stronger than usual. It curled down his throat and hit his lungs like heat, dragging a groan out of him as he sank into the overstuffed chair in the corner of his loft. Lights dimmed. Scent still there. Even though you weren’t.
That citrus and summer warmth clung to his hallway, his hoodie, the hoodie he still hadn’t taken off, because you’d looked at him in it. Because it smelled like you now too. He should’ve focused on the weed. Should’ve let it numb everything the way it always did. But his fingers were already twitching. Stained with dried blue and ochre. Reaching for the brush. And that blank canvas near the window? It suddenly looked like a solution.
He stood slowly, knees cracking, and stepped barefoot over discarded rags and old sketchbooks, blunt tucked between his lips as he reached for the easel. He didn’t think. Didn’t plan. He just… moved. Paint bled onto canvas in long, dragging strokes. Deep brown. A flick of gold. The curve of something soft. An edge that felt like a smile. Then the shape of a shoulder, a collarbone. Pale lighting on skin he hadn’t touched but remembered somehow. Time slipped. His mind was somewhere between the hallway and a dream, stuck in the space behind his eyes where your face had settled. The slope of your cheek. That little look of amusement in your eyes when he said he was “trash.” That hoodie that was just a little too short, giving him a glimpse of your thigh he hadn’t stopped thinking about since.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, barely breathing, eyes glazed, brush moving like it was guided by something outside himself. The blunt burned down to the filter and fell into an ashtray. The music didn’t play. The only sound was the soft scrape of bristles and the occasional curse under his breath when your image got too vivid, too clear, too intimate.
Until finally, he stopped. Shoulders tight. Jaw slack. Fingers stained. And in front of him, clear as fucking day, You. Your face. Your body, curled under a blanket, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, eyes half lidded like you had just woken up. Soft light behind you. Lips parted. The portrait wasn’t perfect. It was rough, emotional, primal in a way he didn’t know he was capable of. But it was you. And he had no fucking memory of deciding to paint it. He just stood there, paintbrush still in his hand, chest rising hard and fast, staring at the evidence of his own obsession.
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The basement laundry room always smelled like mildew, dryer sheets, and regret. You weren’t even planning to go down there tonight. You’d just pulled a shirt from your suitcase, only to realize it still reeked of plane air and sadness, and that wasn’t the energy you were bringing into your fresh LA start. So now here you were. One of Wooyoung’s oversized shirts hanging off one shoulder, bare legs chilled by the cement floor, mismatched socks and faded boy shorts visible every time you bent over.
You hadn’t expected anyone else to be there. Least of all him. Mingi looked up from the vending machine just as you turned the corner. Your breath caught in your throat. Shirtless. Paint streaked. Black hat pulled low. Grey sweatpants riding sinfully low on his hips like they’d been worn for three days straight, and judging by the dried smears of orange and red, maybe they had. You hadn’t seen him since the other day in the hall. For a second, neither of you moved.
The hum of the dryer behind him, the flickering fluorescent light above you, it all faded into the background as your eyes locked. You swallowed. Hard. “Hey.” Mingi didn’t answer immediately. His gaze dropped, once, slowly. Shirt. Legs. Bare thighs. Then back to your face like he was trying so hard to be polite and failing miserably. His voice was rough when it came. “Doing laundry?” You blinked. “I… yeah. Shocker, I know.” He huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, then turned back to the vending machine like it owed him money. “Sorry. That was stupid.”
“I’ve heard worse,” you said, stepping further in. You passed behind him, the scent of him hitting you like heat, smoke, paint, and something darker. Something alpha. Your breath hitched again. Mingi kept his back to you, jaw tense. He reached up to adjust his hat like it would somehow shield him from the fact that he could smell you too, sweet omega pheromones thick in the air, unclaimed and soft, tugging at instincts he had no business listening to. “You’re painting again,” you said, leaning against the counter. “We could smell it. Me and Woo, I mean.”
Mingi’s knuckles went white where he held the vending machine but you didn’t notice. Or maybe you did and didn’t mind. “What’s the new piece?” you asked, casual, like your presence wasn’t making his heart beat hard enough to bruise bone. He turned toward you slowly, eyes darker now under the brim of his hat. “I don’t know yet.” You smiled a little, tilting your head. “Still figuring it out?” He said nothing for a moment and then, almost too soft to catch, “It just… started showing up.”
You arched a brow in curiosity. “What did?” His gaze dropped to your lips. “Her.” Your stomach flipped. Mingi blinked, realization hitting hard, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. His cheeks flushed, his throat bobbed, and suddenly he was stepping back toward the washer like it might offer him cover from the embarrassment creeping up his neck. You let the silence stretch, the dryer rumbling behind you, his name lingering in your throat but unspoken.
Then, slowly, like you were testing the weight of the moment, you asked, “Is she pretty?” Mingi didn’t look at you this time. Just shoved a few quarters into the machine and muttered, “Yeah…. she’s beautiful.”
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You’d barely gotten two sips into your coffee when Wooyoung dropped the bomb. “Get dressed. We’re going downstairs.” You blinked over your mug, still wrapped in your blanket like a burrito. “Why?” Wooyoung walked past you into your room. “Because I’m doing God’s work,” he said, already in your closet like it was his own, rifling through your clothes with absolutely no shame. “And because you’ve been weird since the laundry room yesterday.” You flushed instantly. “I have not….”
“Babe, you’ve walked into our front door and sniffed the hallway three times this week like it owes you something. You opened your mouth. Closed it. “It smells nice.” He tossed a shirt and shorts at you. “Mmhm. You’re officially meeting San and Yeosang today. Come on.” You frowned. “Now? I look like I’ve been unconscious for nine hours.” Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “You look like the dreamy neighbor every alpha on Tumblr fantasizes about. You’re fine.”
Five minutes later, you were following him down the stairs, heart thudding a little too hard. You’d heard the stories from Wooyoung. San, the quiet alpha who worked at his parent’s restaurant. Yeosang, the impossibly chill beta who ran an indoor grow op and could roll a blunt one handed while judging you silently with his eyebrows. They lived in apartment 2C, the hallway already buzzing faintly with bass and that very specific sweet spicy weed smell.
Wooyoung didn’t knock. He just opened the door and strolled in like he paid rent. You lingered in the doorway until someone turned the corner, and there he was. San. Sweatpants slung low. No shirt. Tattoo peeking out beneath one pec. Arms crossed over a broad chest, and sleepy brown eyes that scanned you once, slow and assessing, before he gave you a lazy smile. “So you’re the girl making Mingi pace like he’s being hunted.”
Your jaw dropped and Wooyoung wheezed. “Oh my god, San!” Yeosang appeared from the kitchen then, cradling a coffee mug and already unimpressed. “You said you’d behave.” Sam grinned, not exactly as quiet as Wooyoung had said. “I am behaving.” Yeosang sighed and walked over to you, offering his mug like a peace treaty. “Welcome to the basement. We grow weed, play Mario Kart at ungodly hours, and bully Mingi for sport. You want coffee?”
You nodded slowly, still stunned, and stepped inside as San moved aside to let you pass, watching with a little too much interest. “You smell better up close.” Yeosang gave him a sharp look. “San.” San shrugged. “What? It’s true.” You turned to Wooyoung. “You brought me into the lion’s den.” He just grinned, flopping dramatically onto their beanbag. “No, babe. I brought you to the stoner circle of trust.” Yeosang raised a brow. “You’re not in the circle. You’re adjacent.”
“You literally gave me a key.” Wooyoung retorted and Yeosang glared at him. “That was an accident.” You were still adjusting to the energy when Yeosang handed you your own mug and tilted his head. “So. You planning to do anything about Mingi?” You choked. “Excuse me?” San popped an orange slice into his mouth. “We’re just wondering. Dude hasn’t shut up since you said, hi, in the hallway. You kinda short circuited his entire nervous system.”
You blinked. “I… he hasn’t even talked to me since… I mean… we kind of talked in the laundry room last night…” Yeosang hummed, thoughtful. “Yeah. That tracks. He’s spiraling.” San laughed. “Hard. He painted you, by the way.” You nearly dropped the mug. “What?” Wooyoung’s eyes went wide. “San!”
“What? She’s gonna find out eventually!” San once again shrugged as Yeosang ighed. “You really are a menace.” But you weren’t listening anymore. Because now you were picturing it, Mingi, shirtless and high, paint on his hands, sketching out your face like it haunted him. And you weren’t sure what was stronger…. The panic… Or the pull.
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Mingi hadn’t planned on staying long. He just needed to grab more tincture, his studio stash was low, and the last two paintings had left him so keyed up he’d accidentally deep cleaned his entire kitchen at 3:00 am. What he didn’t need was the smug look San gave him when he opened the door. “What?” Mingi muttered, stepping inside without a glance. “Nothing,” San said, biting into a slice of mango way too slowly. “Totally normal for you to show up twice in one day. No big deal.” Yeosang didn’t even look up from where he was fiddling with the temperature controls on the grow lights. “You’re early.”
“I just need a refill,” Mingi grumbled, heading toward the kitchen where they kept the jars, because of course these two treated their weed like fine wine. He was halfway to the counter when he heard it. Your laugh. Light. Nervous. Familiar in a way that made something in his chest hitch. “Back door’s open, Woo…. there’s a cross breeze.” Your voice. His body locked up so hard it was like someone had yanked a power cord from the wall. He turned his head, and there you were.
Curled on the end of their massive beanbag, wearing a cropped black shirt and legs bare in the shorts you had on, tucked beneath you, coffee mug in hand like you belonged there. You looked up. Saw him. And smiled. It was soft, like you weren’t trying to startle him. And for a second, he thought maybe this was fine. Maybe he could play it cool. But then he remembered. Laundry room. The painting. Paintings now. Fuck. His brain short circuited so hard he forgot why he came downstairs.
You sat perfectly still, watching him carefully, like you were trying not to spook him. San leaned over with a wicked grin. “Look who came by.” You looked at Mingi. Mingi looked at the wall and cleared his throat. “Didn’t know you’d be here.” Your smile didn’t falter. “Didn’t know you were coming by.” He nodded. You nodded. Everyone stared. Wooyoung, always the tactful one, beside you muttered muttered, “Should we kiss to break the tension or…”
Yeosang rolled his eyes. “Just get your refill and go, Romeo.” Mingi grabbed the jar without looking. His hands were shaking. You could see it. You pretended not to. You also pretended not to notice the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes. And he pretended you didn’t know. Didn’t know about the painting. Didn’t know about the brush strokes he’d dragged across canvas until your mouth was exactly right. Didn’t know that he’d looked at that painting every night for a week, hard and aching and trying not to rut into his mattress like some omega drunk teenager.
You sipped your coffee. “Hope your painting’s going well.” He froze. Then looked up, your eyes met, steady and Mingi swallowed. “It is.” And then, very softly, almost like he regretted it the moment it left his lips, “You looked good in the laundry room.” San choked. Wooyoung dropped his mug. Yeosang blinked. And you? You smiled. Slow. Like a secret. “Thanks,” you said, voice light. “You looked like trash.” Mingi exhaled a laugh, stunned and red to his ears. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That tracks.”
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Wooyoung’s parties were never chill. That was the one thing you should’ve remembered. It had started simple, balloons, cake, a very stoned Yeosang in the corner holding a sparkler like it was a war crime. But somewhere between the third round of Soju Pong and the moment San started pouring shots off his own abs, which you could not unsee, things went from cozy birthday party for Yeosang to crowded.
The apartment was packed. Sweaty. Loud. And you were starting to feel like your skin didn’t quite fit right. You’d already gone to the kitchen twice pretending to be looking for napkins. You’d taken your time lighting the candles. And now, standing in the hallway outside your bathroom while two strangers made out across from your bedroom door, you finally decided, I need out. You didn’t say anything to Wooyoung. He’d notice. Probably tease. Probably shove you into San’s lap and make you drink something neon and toxic.
So you slipped out. No shoes. Oversized old Fall Out Boy shirt and a pair of shorts. You barely got two steps into the hall before the door across from yours opened. And out walked Mingi. Black hoodie. Black sweatpants. Black hat pulled low. He stopped the second he saw you, mid step into the hallway, keys in one hand, blunt in the other, like the universe had sucker punched him. You both froze. Then you gave him a small smile, voice soft. “Hey.” He looked tired. Flushed. Like maybe he’d just finished something that took too much out of him. “Hey,” he echoed, nodding once.
You hesitated, looking back at your door. “Too loud?” he asked, voice rough like he hadn’t used it in hours. You turned back to him. “Too much.” He nodded. “Same.” For a second, there was just silence. Not awkward, just full. Charged. His eyes moved over you like he was checking for something, something he needed to see. And when he didn’t find it, he stepped to the side. “I was just gonna go for a walk,” he said. “Clear my head.” You bit your lip. “Midnight stroll around the apartment complex?” His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Something like that.”
You didn’t know why you said it. You didn’t plan it. But it slipped out before you could stop yourself. “Want company?” Mingi looked at you, really looked at you for the first time since that day in the laundry room. Since the moment you made him laugh, then called him trash, then walked away like your scent wasn’t still embedded in his pillow. His jaw flexed and he nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”
You ducked back inside just long enough to grab your sneakers, Wooyoung didn’t even notice, too busy trying to convince Yeosang to take a jello shot from a pool float in the middle of the living room. When you returned to the hallway, Mingi was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looked like he’d considered leaving without you and then decided he couldn’t. You didn’t say anything. Just gave him a nod and fell into step beside him as he pushed through the stairwell door.
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The world outside the apartment was still and quiet. The air was cool, not cold, just enough to raise goosebumps on your bare legs. Mingi didn’t say anything at first, and neither did you. Your steps echoed down the cracked sidewalk as you walked past the dim lit convenience store, the little corner bodega with it’s metal gate half closed, and the mural someone had tagged across the wall behind the recycling bins. You passed an orange cat sleeping under a busted up moped. Somewhere far off, a car alarm hiccupped and died.
Only then did Mingi speak. “You always this quiet?” You shrugged, shoving your hands into your shorts pockets. “Only when I’m trying not to say the wrong thing.” He glanced sideways at you. “What would the wrong thing be?” You smiled faintly. “I haven’t figured that out yet.” He let out a quiet huff, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Fair.” You walked a little farther in silence. Then you asked, “How long have you been painting?” His eyes flicked upward, like he had to think about it. “Since I was seven.”
You nodded. “That when you got good?” He barked a laugh, quiet, hoarse, real. “No. That’s just when I started. I didn’t get good until I stopped trying to paint for other people.” You turned toward him slightly, curious. “Who were you painting for before?” He hesitated. “Everyone.” You didn’t ask more. Just kept walking. When the silence stretched again, he cleared his throat. “What about you?” You blinked, furrowing your brows. “Me?”
“Why’d you move to LA?” His question made your steps slow just a little. The streetlight overhead buzzed. You looked down at the sidewalk and watched your shadows move beside each other. “Needed a reset,” you said softly. “Too many ghosts in New York.” Mingi nodded, slow. “Alpha?” You gave him a sideways glance and he held your gaze for a moment, then looked away as you sighed. “Yeah.” He didn’t press. Didn’t say sorry. Didn’t say that sucks. Just let it be. It felt… better that way. Real.
You reached the corner of the block and paused at the stop sign, even though no cars were coming. You turned slightly, enough that your shoulder brushed his. “Why don’t you come to Wooyoung’s party he’s throwing for Yeosang?” He scoffed. “You think I’d survive that many omegas in one room?” You snorted. “Fair.” He looked at you, eyes dark beneath the brim of his hat, but they softened when they landed on you. “You like parties?” You shook your head. “Not anymore.”
Mingi watched you. “Why not?” You laughed a little softly.” “Too loud.” He nodded, biting his lip, hands shoving into his pockets. “Mm,” he said. “Same.” The wind picked up slightly. You shivered. His eyes dropped briefly to your bare legs and bare arms before he looked away again like it hurt. “Cold?” he asked, voice low. You shook your head. “Not really.” He let the ghost of a smirk grace his lips. “Liar.” You smiled but he didn’t push again. Instead, you walked a few more steps in silence before you asked quietly, “Do you always paint in sweats and no shirt?”
Mingi froze and you caught the flicker of embarrassment, the flush climbing the back of his neck. Then, finally, he muttered, “No. Sometimes it’s worse.” You laughed, full and warm as he looked at you like he didn’t know what to do with the sound. “Worse how?” He gave you a long look. And then, just above a whisper,
“Sometimes it’s nothing.” You tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and tried to play it off. Mingi didn’t comment. But the smirk now fully tugging at the edge of his mouth said everything.
The walk took you past shuttered storefronts and silent intersections, through the backside of a run down neighborhood playground where a single swing creaked in the breeze. The park was technically closed but Mingi stepped over the low chain like he’d done it a hundred times before, and you followed without question. The grass was dry beneath your shoes, the benches faded with peeling paint, the air thick with quiet and something heavier, want. Mingi stopped near a little hill at the back of the park, one with a half broken jungle gym and a view of the distant skyline through the trees.
He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a blunt. No hesitation. Just instinct. “I always come here when I can’t think,” he murmured. “Do you always bring people with you?” He glanced at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No.” You smiled as he lit the blunt with one hand, shielding the flame from the wind, then took a slow pull, eyes falling closed just briefly. When he exhaled, the smoke curled upward in lazy spirals. Then, without a word, he handed it to you. Your fingers brushed as you took it. Something about the weight of it felt heavier than expected.
You didn’t speak for a while. Just passed it back and forth between you, the silence not awkward, just full. The world had gone soft around the edges, blurred by smoke and the haze of whatever was building between you. Crickets chirped somewhere nearby. A dog barked in the distance. The chain on the swing clinked once, like punctuation. Halfway through the blunt, your legs were almost touching. You weren’t sure when that started. “Do you ever paint here?” you asked quietly, voice soft with smoke. Mingi exhaled slowly, watching the cloud disappear into the dark. “No. Too much movement.”
“Isn’t that… kind of the point?” You asked and he turned toward you slightly, hat shadowing his eyes. “I only paint things I can’t stop thinking about.” You looked at him then, really looked. His jaw was tense. His lashes were long enough to catch the light. His hand rested just an inch away from your thigh. “And lately?” you asked, heartbeat stupidly loud in your ears, remembering how San had said he painted you. He didn’t answer at first. Just stared out across the park like the grass might tell him what he was allowed to say. Then, slowly, he turned to you. Eyes darker now. “Lately I’ve been painting a lot of skin.”
You bit your lip. He noticed. And looked away as you passed the blunt back to him. He took it with fingers just a little too careful, like he was afraid of brushing yours again. “You ever get high while you paint?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light. He huffed a laugh. “Almost always.” You bit your lip again to hold back a smirk. “That why you called yourself trash in the hallway?” He groaned, dropping his head back to look at the sky. “Fuck.” You smiled, letting your head tip to the side, studying him in the soft orange wash of the nearest streetlamp. “I liked it,” you said. “Made you seem real.”
That stopped him. He turned to you, blinking slowly. “You think I’m not?” You shrugged, lazy and high and bold now. “You paint like someone who sees the world in pieces. It’s kind of nice knowing you’re just a guy who forgets how to talk when someone says hi in a laundry room.” He laughed, real and warm, looking at you. For too long. And you looked right back. The air changed. Thickened. You could feel the smoke in your lungs and something else in your blood. The scent of him, resin, smoke, and that deeper alpha edge, wrapped around your senses like a hug you didn’t ask for but didn’t want to leave.
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You didn’t talk about going anywhere. No “do you want to,” no “should we.” Just an easy shift in momentum. One minute you were finishing the last drag in the park, the next you were walking along the edge of the quiet street, sneakers scuffing pavement, stomachs grumbling softly between shared glances and lazy smiles. It was Mingi who mumbled it first, voice low and hoarse, “Kinda hungry.” You looked up at him, eyes red from the high and hooded. “Same.” He nodded toward the corner. “There’s a diner a couple blocks down. Open all night. Feels like it hasn’t changed since the ‘80s.” You smiled. “That sounds perfect.”
The place was a neon miracle, flickering sign buzzing over the door, plastic lettering on the windows advertising, BURGERS, MILKSHAKES, OPEN LATE, and a couple of cracked stools at the counter that no one ever seemed to sit in. It was empty, except for a half asleep waitress reading a paperback and an old man at the far end nursing what looked like his fourth cup of black coffee. The two of you slipped into a booth near the back, cracked red vinyl, sticky table, and that comforting smell of fries and maple syrup that somehow made you feel safe.
Mingi sat across from you, hat still on, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the paint on his hands finally starting to fade but not gone. You tried not to stare at the veins in his forearms or the way his ringed fingers drummed softly against the menu. He blinked at the laminated chaos in front of him. “Why does this have seven full pages?” You grinned, flipping to the omelets. “Because this place has pancakes, steak, and shrimp scampi all on the same menu, and that’s the kind of unhinged late night energy we live for.” He snorted. “I want everything.”
You pointed at the greasiest possible thing. “You want the hangover special.” Mingi shook his head, eying you. “I’m not hungover.” You smirked. “You will be. From all that brooding.” That got a quiet laugh out of him, low and genuine as the waitress shuffled over, barely looking up as she slid two waters onto the table and pulled a pencil from behind her ear. “Y’all ready?” Mingi looked at you, silently asking, you good? You nodded. “One order of pancakes. And hashbrowns. With cheese. And hot sauce.” She grunted and scribbled as Mingi leaned forward. “Double cheeseburger. Fries. Milkshake. Vanilla. Extra whipped cream.” You blinked at him. “That’s a very confident order.”
He laughed. “I’m a man of conviction.” You snorted, teasing him. “You paint in sweatpants and forget how to talk when people say hi.” Mingi hated that he was blushing. “I said trash. That’s poetic.” You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the grin pulling at your lips. When the waitress walked away, you both slumped into the booth a little deeper. The lights above buzzed softly. The whole world felt quiet. Slowed. Like the universe had taken a breath and forgot to exhale. Mingi was watching you again. You felt it before you saw it, glancing up and caught him, eyes a little glazed from the high, but focused, warm, like he was trying to memorize something. You tilted your head. “What?”
He blinked. Looked away. Then, quieter than before, “Just thinking.” You waited. But he didn’t elaborate. So instead, you reached for the water, took a slow sip, and let the silence stretch between you like a blanket. Not awkward. Not even heavy. Just comfortable. Somewhere on the other side of the diner, the old man coughed into his sleeve. A truck rolled by outside. And across the table, Mingi looked like a boy who’d never let anyone sit this close to him before.
The food came fast. Hot, greasy, piled high. Pancakes the size of your face. Hashbrowns with actual personality. Mingi’s burger dripping cheese onto the wax paper liner, vanilla milkshake with a mountain of whipped cream already melting at the edges. You were halfway through your plate when it finally slipped out. “So why Los Angeles?” Mingi didn’t answer right away. He picked at a fry. Dipped it in the milkshake. Ate it without looking at you. “grew up in Busan,” he said eventually, voice low. “Not a lot of room for weird kids who paint too much and don’t like following rules.” You stayed quiet, watching the way his eyes drifted to the edge of the table like he was tracing old memories into the woodgrain. “I tried Seoul for a while. Didn’t work. Too much noise. Too many people trying to tell you what your art should be.”
You nodded slowly, chewing, letting him have the space. “So I left,” he said simply. “LA made more sense. Fewer questions. More quiet. And… Yeosang was already here.” You smiled faintly. “So you followed the plug.” Mingi snorted. “Basically.” You took another bite of pancake. Washed it down with your water. You could feel him watching you again, like he could tell you were holding something. He didn’t ask. Didn’t push. But you answered anyway. I left New York because I thought I was in love with someone who wanted to own me.” Mingi blinked. His hand froze halfway to his shake but you didn’t look at him when you said it. Just kept cutting your pancakes slowly, like if you focused hard enough on breakfast food, the words wouldn’t taste like acid in your throat.
“He was older. Smart. Charming. And he made me think that was love, being protected, being provided for, being someone’s.” You paused. Swallowed. Mingi didn’t breathe. “But it wasn’t that. It was control. He didn’t want a partner. He wanted a thing. Something soft and obedient and his.” You finally looked up and Mingi was staring at you, jaw tight, knuckles white on the edge of the table. You tried to smile. It didn’t really land. “Wooyoung flew out to pack my shit and drag me back here when I finally said it out loud.”
“Did he ever…” Mingi started, voice sharp, but stopped. You shook your head. “No. Not physically. But it was close. Too close.” Silence hung between you for a moment, thick with smoke and syrup and old wounds. Then Mingi said, softly, “I’m glad you left.” You blinked, staring at him, heart racing. “I’m glad you’re here,” he added, quieter. This time your smile landed as you reached over and stole one of his fries without asking. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even blink. Just dipped one in the shake and handed it over.
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The walk back was quiet. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… quiet. The kind of quiet that only exists between two people who’ve told each other something real. Mingi’s hoodie sleeves were pulled over his hands, head low under the shadow of his hat. You walked beside him, the music from your apartment grew louder the closer you got, Wooyoung’s party still in full swing, laughter and bass echoing down the hallway. Someone was yelling about karaoke. Someone else was clearly losing a game of drunken Uno. Mingi paused outside his door. So did you.
He looked at your door across the hall, then back at you. You didn’t move. The two of you just… stood there. The hallway light flickered once, soft and sputtering like even the building didn’t want to interrupt. He cleared his throat, voice rough. “You sure you wanna go back in there?” You glanced toward the party. Then back at him. “Not really.” He nodded. Didn’t say anything else as you looked up at him, barely a step between you. The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, the air too still. You could smell him now. Smoke and clean cotton and something warmer, sharper beneath it. Alpha. Undeniable. Your stomach flipped as you looked at his door.
“Are you… going in?” Mingi’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Just for a second. Then his eyes closed, like he needed to reset his entire system. “I should,” he murmured. You nodded. “But you’re not.” He breathed out a laugh. “No.” You didn’t move. Neither did he. The silence stretched until it felt like it might snap. You both looked at each other. And it was right there, the moment. Hanging in the air between your mouths like a held breath. He could lean in. You could reach. But neither of you did. You just smiled. Small. Soft. Devastating.
“Thanks for letting me walk with you.” His voice cracked when he answered. “Yeah. Anytime.” You nodded once, eyes flicking to his lips. Then slowly, you turned, stepped backward toward your door. Still facing him. Still smiling. You reached for the handle, pausing when the music spiked behind it. Then you said, like an afterthought, “Don’t paint tonight.” He blinked. “Why?” You shrugged, stepping into the doorway. “Because I’ll know.” And then you were gone. Door closing softly behind you. Leaving Mingi standing in the hallway with a heart that suddenly ached to be touched and hands that didn’t know what to do with themselves anymore.
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The cafe was small. Cozy. Smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso. You and Wooyoung had taken the corner booth, half for privacy, half because it was closest to the outlet and his phone was always on 12%. You were scrolling job listings, lip tucked between your teeth, laptop open in front of you, the screen glowing with phrases like “admin assistant,” “barista experience preferred,” and “health insurance after 90 days.” You weren’t even reading them. Not really. Your mind was somewhere else entirely.
Wooyoung was watching you over the top of his drink, something cold, pastel, and probably illegal in six states. He hadn’t said anything yet, but you could feel the questions building behind his eyes like a thunderstorm. “You’ve been weird since Saturday.” You didn’t look up. “I’m always weird.” He squinted at you. “No, like… Weird weird. Mentally not here. Not anywhere. Like your soul is still sitting in the hallway staring at Mingi’s lips.” That got your attention. You lowered your screen an inch. “What?”
“You disappeared from the party. Came back all glassy eyed and soft spoken. I heard the front door, Y/N. Don’t play dumb.” You rolled your eyes. “We just walked. And talked. And… he bought me pancakes.” Wooyoung snorted. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re so far gone the alpha fed you. You’re already nesting emotionally and you don’t even know it.” You narrowed your eyes. “It was just a walk.” Wooyoung gave you a look. The kind of best friend look that said, girl, I have seen you ruin omegas and alphas for less. “You like him.”
You went back to scrolling. “You like him,” he sing songed. “I like being around him,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “He’s… quiet. Safe. Real.” Wooyoung grinned. “And hot.” You rolled your eyes, not denying it. “He listens. He doesn’t push. He’s not… trying to take anything from me.” Wooyoung leaned back, lips twitching into a grin. “So you like like him.” You dragged your hands down your face. “It doesn’t matter.” He scoffed. “It super matters.” You looked at him, exasperated. “Woo, I’m unemployed, I’m emotionally recovering from an almost mate, and I’m living in a shared apartment with my best friend who puts chili flakes in his cereal.”
“Bold of you to assume that’s not delicious.” You rolled your eyes at him. “I can’t fall for a guy who paints like I’m inside his head and then pretends like he doesn’t know I know.” Wooyoung blinked. “Wait… he still doesn’t know you know?” You stared at your coffee cup. “Nope.” He gasped, over dramatically. “Oh my god! Oh my god, Y/N.” You closed your laptop and buried your face in your hands. “He painted you. Like full body, brush to canvas, mused up, haunted alpha art boy vibes. And you’re just sitting here acting like you didn’t watch him watch you like you invented the moon.” You groaned as Wooyoung was now halfway through composing your wedding vows. “You need to tell him.” You peeked out between your fingers. “What if he freaks?”
“What if he doesn’t? What if he’s just waiting for you to say something because he thinks you’ll freak?” You blinked and he raised a brow. “Ugh,” you muttered, dropping your head to the table. Wooyoung patted your head. “You’ve got Mingi brain,” he said. “It’s terminal. Sorry, babe.”
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Mingi liked the art store on Melrose because no one bothered him there. No weird stares. No pretentious art bros. No one asking what he was working on or if he had an Instagram. Just aisles of canvas, racks of sketchbooks, the thick smell of paper and pigment, and rows of acrylics that always left him feeling weirdly calm. Today he needed brushes. And more of that one red, the one he only used for skin, specifically lips, specifically…. He didn’t finish that thought. Just grabbed the tube, tossed it in the basket with a new angled detail brush, some black oil pastels, and a big bottle of varnish he’d probably forget to use.
He checked out, paid in cash like always, hoodie sleeves tugged down over his hands, hat low. Everything was fine. Until he stepped out the front door. And walked right into you. Literally. Your shoulder bumped his chest and he immediately stepped back like he’d been electrocuted. “Oh… shit….. sorry…” You looked up. And froze. So did he. Mingi’s heart punched his ribs once, then stuttered, hard. You were wearing a sheer white long sleeved top with a white bralette for show underneath, and your cheeks were slightly flushed from the wind. Your hair was a little messy. You looked like a memory he hadn’t painted yet.
Wooyoung was standing beside you, sunglasses on despite being in the shade, sipping something aggressively green. “Well,” he said, after a beat. “If it isn’t the ghost of emotionally repressed alphas past.” You coughed a laugh into your sleeve. Mingi blinked. “I… uh. Wasn’t expecting to see anyone.” Wooyoung arched a brow at him. “You came to a store,” he replied dryly. “They tend to attract people.” You elbowed him, still smiling as Mingi stared at you like he couldn’t figure out how this was real. Like he’d dreamed up this moment and now he was trying to catch up to it being actually happening.
“Hi,” you said finally, voice softer than expected. “Hey,” he echoed, shifting the little bag in his hand like it weighed ten pounds. Wooyoung was watching everything. The silence. The awkward shuffle. The fact that Mingi hadn’t looked at anyone but you. “You buying stuff for a new piece?” you asked, nodding toward the bag. Mingi cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sort of.” You smiled at him, looking up to meet his gaze. “What’s it about?” He looked down at you for one long, agonizing second. “Still figuring it out.”
Wooyoung, sipping loudly. “Bet it’s got legs in it.” You turned bright red as Mingi made a sound like a laugh and a choke had a baby. “I’m gonna go,” he said, taking a slow step back. “Don’t be a stranger, neighbor!” Wooyoung sing songed as you waved, still pink cheeked. And Mingi? He walked down the sidewalk with his ears hot, bag of paint supplies clutched in one hand, the memory of your scent, and your smile, burned into him like pigment on raw canvas.
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The blunt was half gone before Mingi even noticed he’d lit it. He was sitting on the floor of his living room , back against the wall, bag of art supplies discarded at his side like evidence. Paint tubes rolling out onto the wood floor. Brushes still in plastic. The second he’d stepped through the door, he knew there was no chance he was getting through the night without putting brush to canvas. Not after seeing you. Not after the way you said, hi, like you hadn’t been echoing in his head for the last couple of weeks. Not after the way your eyes lingered just a second too long. He bit his lip, pulling his grey sweats up, shirtless, hat tossed somewhere behind him. His hair was a mess. His lips stained pink from the blunt. Eyes glassy. Hands twitchy.
Fleetwood Mac hummed low from the Bluetooth speaker behind him, “Can you hear me calling out your name…” He pulled a fresh canvas from the stack. Didn’t even prep it. Didn’t even mix the colors like he usually did. Just uncapped that new tube of red. The one he’d bought knowing damn well it was your mouth. The one he hadn’t let himself open, until now. He pressed the brush into it. Dragged a line. Then another. He wasn’t thinking anymore. Wasn’t planning. Wasn’t even painting from memory. He was painting from feeling. From the ghost of your presence still clinging to the inside of his ribcage.
From the sharp buzz in his spine when your arm brushed his chest outside the store. From the way your lips curved when you said his name. By the time the chorus hit, “I want to be with you everywhere” he was on his knees in front of the canvas, high and flushed and lost in it. He painted your hand first. Just your fingers. Not perfect. But familiar. Then the edge of your jaw. Then the slope of your throat, where his eyes had accidentally lingered when you laughed at Wooyoung’s dig.
He didn’t even realize he was smiling until the brush slipped from his grip. “Shit…” he muttered, shaking it off, wiping his stained fingers on his sweatpants. The blunt was nearly out. The room smelled like weed and varnish and need. He sat back on his heels, breathing harder than he meant to, staring at the half finished piece in front of him. Your mouth wasn’t on the canvas yet. He hadn’t gotten that far. But he knew… once he painted your lips again, it was over. He’d never stop.
Fleetwood Mac was still playing when he heard it. He was on his knees in front of the canvas, brush dripping red onto the drop cloth, blunt still smoldering in the ashtray by his knee. The only sound had been Stevie Nicks floating through the speaker, “I want to be with you everywhere…” Until the hallway erupted. A thud. A hiss of words. Wooyoung’s voice, high and sharp. Then a growl. A low, unfamiliar growl that prickled the hair on the back of Mingi’s neck. He froze, brush hovering in midair. Another sound, this time your voice. Low. Angry. Not afraid. Angry. The kind of anger that carries years in it.
He was already moving before he realized he’d stood up. The brush clattered to the floor, red streaking across the wood. He wiped his hands on his sweatpants out of habit but left smears of paint on his thighs anyway. His heart was hammering. He could feel the shift in the air, the pheromones, alpha, omega, beta, all tangled, but one stood out. Not yours. Not Wooyoung’s. A stranger’s. A male alpha’s. Mingi’s instincts slammed into him like a wave. He yanked open the door. The hallway was chaos.
Wooyoung had his back to the wall, palms out, chest heaving, eyes flicking between you and the man pinning him there. The stranger, tall, broad, blonde, jaw clenched, reeked of aggression. His scent was sour with adrenaline, pushing at the walls like it owned the place. His arm was braced across Wooyoung’s chest. The other hand reaching toward you. And you… You weren’t crying. You weren’t cowering. You were glaring. Shoving at the alpha’s shoulder, voice sharp. “Get your hands off him and get the hell out, Alec. I told you we’re done.”
Mingi’s vision tunneled. Everything he’d been holding back, the weed, the quiet, the slow burn, the self control he’d trained for years to keep, cracked straight down the middle. His scent hit the hall before he even realized he’d released it. Dark. Heavy. Alpha. “Let go,” Mingi said, voice low. Alec turned slightly, still gripping Wooyoung. “This isn’t your business…” Mingi stepped forward once. The floor seemed to vibrate under it. “I said,” his voice dropped, a growl threading through it like thunder “let. Go.”
Wooyoung shoved against the arm pinning him just as Alex hesitated, eyes flicking up at Mingi, scent faltering. The taller alpha took a step closer, head low, paint still streaked across his bare chest and hands like war paint, eyes gone dark. “You don’t touch her,” Mingi said and your eyes widened as Alec sneered, but his grip on Wooyoung loosened. “Who the hell do you….” Mingi closed the distance. He didn’t shove. Didn’t strike. Just stood there, his chest a breath away from Alec’s, shoulders squared, scent flooding the hall like a warning. “Let. Him. Go.” Alec’s instincts flickered. He stepped back just enough for Wooyoung to slip free and scurry behind you.
Mingi’s eyes stayed locked on the him. His hands flexed at his sides, still streaked with red paint like blood. “Leave,” he said quietly. “Right now.” For a second, no one moved. Then Alec looked at you, eyes narrowing. “We’re not finished.” You glared at him. “Yes, we are.” Mingi shifted instantly, just enough to put himself between you and Alec without even thinking about it. Alec’s nostrils flared at the new scent dynamic in the hall. Something in him finally faltered as he backed up.
Mingi stayed where he was, muscles coiled, watching until Alec turned and stalked toward the elevator. The doors closed leaving you in silence. Fleetwood Mac was still faintly audible through Mingi’s open door. “Thunder only happens when it’s raining…” You were breathing hard. Wooyoung had a hand on your arm, wide eyed but unhurt. And Mingi was still standing there, chest rising and falling, paint on his hands, his scent still thick in the hall like a storm cloud. Slowly, he turned his head toward you. “Are you okay?” he asked. His voice was still low. Still dangerous. But softer now. For you.
You just stood there, heart thudding behind your ribs like it was trying to break out. Wooyoung had moved back into the doorway of your apartment, watching carefully but staying quiet for once. But your eyes? They were on Mingi. He stood just a few feet away, chest rising slow, scent thick around him like smoke and thunder. His skin gleamed with a sheen of sweat, paint streaked across his arms, his chest and hands like blood. His hair was messy with streaks of paint, his jaw clenched tight, lips parted like he was still mid growl.
And his scent, god, his scent. Dark. Protective. Possessive in a way that wasn’t yours but made your omega ache like it was. You weren’t afraid. You weren’t overwhelmed. But you were ruined. And you were trying, so hard, not to show it as you swallowed around the lump in your throat and took a slow step toward him. “Hey,” you said quietly. Mingi’s eyes flicked up, locking with yours. “Thank you.” He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at you like he was trying to memorize your entire face. The sharpness in his shoulders didn’t fade, not fully, but something in his expression softened, just a fraction.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you added, voice lower now. “But you did.” His lips parted. You could see the struggle in his eyes. The part of him that wanted to say something, anything, touch you, and the part that was still shaking with restraint. “You were in danger,” he said finally, voice like gravel. “Of course I did.” And then he shifted forward just slightly, just enough that your senses screamed with proximity. His scent hit you hard. Like the heat of a fire that hadn’t caught you yet, but was close enough to warm your skin. Your omega flared so fast it scared you.
Everything in your body screamed closer. Your knees went soft. Your heart stuttered. You could feel the pulse between your thighs kick like it knew he was there, this alpha, this wild, beautiful thing who had bared his teeth for you. You forced your voice to stay even. “You okay?” You repeated his same question right back to him. He blinked. “You’re asking me that?” he said, jaw tight. You nodded once. “Yeah. I am.” His throat bobbed. “I’m fine.” Liar. He was shaking. You wanted to reach out. Grab his wrist. Press your palm to his chest and feel the drumbeat of his heart.
But instead, you swallowed the heat rising in your throat and said, “You smell like paint.” He huffed a tiny laugh that made you smile. The moment stretched. Behind you, Wooyoung slowly, quietly, slipped back into your apartment and shut the door with a soft click. Leaving just the two of you in the hallway. Alone. Scent thick. Emotions thicker. You shifted slightly. Closer. Just enough that you were almost touching. And when you spoke again, your voice was barely more than a whisper. “I’m glad it was you.”
Mingi’s breath hitched. And for one second, just one, you saw it… The instinct flicker across his face. To reach for you. To claim. To take. But he didn’t. He turned his head, jaw clenched, chest heaving once like he was forcing it down as you took a step back. Just enough to let him breathe. “Goodnight, Mingi,” you said gently. And then, before he could stop you, you turned and walked back into your apartment. Door clicking shut behind you. Leaving him in the hallway…. High. Haunted. And hurting with the need to make you his.
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It was just supposed to be a normal night. Mingi had picked up dinner, headphones in, hoodie pulled tight around his frame, brain quiet for the first time in days. No music. No paint. Just stillness. He turned the corner of the hallway like he always did, groceries in one hand, keys in the other, and didn’t notice anything at first. Until he did. Until he stopped cold halfway down the hall. And breathed in. Once. Then again. And again. His entire body froze. The keys in his hand went slack, almost falling. His bag hit his thigh as his grip slipped. His eyes snapped to the apartment door across from his.
Your door. And then he felt it. That ripple of instinct down his spine. Low. Deep. Dark. Mingi’s nostrils flared, chest tightening. His eyes fluttered closed and the breath he took this time was not slow. It was desperate. And the scent was unmistakable. Sweet. Warm. Sticky and soft and drenched in omega pheromones. But not just any omega. You. It was your heat. Your first heat since you moved in. Your heat, seeping through the crack under the door, curling down the hall like a hand curling into a fist, and punching him directly in the chest.
The bag fell from his hand. The keys hit the floor with a metallic clatter. Mingi staggered back a step. “Fuck…” he whispered, jaw tightening. His scent reacted instantly, pushing into the hallway, unintentional, dark and unfiltered. He slammed it back down, teeth clenched so tight it made his jaw pop. He blinked hard, trying to pull back, trying to breathe around it. But it was everywhere. His heart was pounding. His dick was hardening without permission. His entire body reached. He turned away from your door like it had burned him. Shoved his key into his own lock, missing twice before jamming it home.
Got the door open. Grabbed his stuff off the floor. Slammed it shut. Locked it. Leaned back against it, breathing like he’d run a marathon. His hand fisted the front of his hoodie. Your name pressed against the back of his teeth. His alpha was clawing at the surface. Every cell in his body screaming go to her. He was shaking. “Not mine,” he whispered. “She’s not mine. She didn’t ask.” But your scent…. Your fucking scent… It knew him. And now that he’d breathed it in, tasted it on the air, felt it coat the inside of his lungs? There was no going back.
He stood there for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood of his door, trying to get his lungs to work. He could still smell you. Through the door. Through the walls. Through everything. His hands shook as he went for the tray on his coffee table. He ground up twice as much as usual, fingers clumsy, then rolled two blunts back to back with paint still smudged across his knuckles. The lighter sparked on the first try. He lit one. Deep pull. Hold. Exhale.
The room filled with smoke quick, grey clouds curling up to the ceiling, hazing the air until it smelled like resin and ash instead of you. He lit the second. Another long drag. Another cloud. The speaker in the corner played low Fleetwood Mac, but it was muffled now, as if even the music was holding its breath. He walked to the window and shoved it shut. Stuffed a towel under the crack of the door. Turned the bathroom fan on full blast. Hotboxed the entire apartment until his eyes burned.
Didn’t matter. He could still smell you. Sweet and sharp and ripe, curling under the smoke like a whisper against his skin. Every drag he took only made it worse, the weed lifting the edges of his control, making his senses sharper instead of duller. His dick throbbed against the waistband of his sweats, his alpha a low growl in his chest. “Stop,” he hissed to himself, pacing. “She didn’t ask. She’s not yours.” He repeated it like a mantra. Another drag. Another exhale. Smoke clung to his hair, his clothes, his hands.
Your heat clung harder. He sat down hard on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His breathing was ragged now, every inhale catching on a sound that was almost a whine. He’d never felt anything like this. Never been inside an apartment with an omega this close, this unshielded, scent spilling out like a storm, hitting every nerve in his body. His alpha instincts were pounding against his ribs like fists. Go to her. Go to her. Go to her. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing another drag, trying to bury it all under smoke.
He tried. He really tried. With the blinds drawn and the smoke thick, Mingi stripped down to nothing, skin already flushed, chest rising and falling in sharp, heavy breaths as he dropped back onto his bed. His hand wrapped around his dick, already hard and aching from the second he walked in the apartment. He closed his eyes, dragged his fist slow up the shaft, jaw clenched. But it wasn’t enough. Not even close. Your scent was seared into him now, laced into the air and his bloodstream, honeyed and sharp and fuck, it was driving him insane. Every time he stroked himself, it felt like edging on a scream. His other hand fisted the sheets, hips arching off the mattress, but the orgasm stayed just out of reach. Every inhale made it worse. Every drag of his palm was frustration.
He groaned, cursing out loud, throwing his arm over his face. His dick throbbed against his stomach, untouched now, angry and red and leaking. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he hissed, biting down hard on his knuckles. He couldn’t finish. Not like this. Not without you. And that was when it hit him. He got up, still fully naked, sweat glistening across his broad chest, and stumbled into the corner of the apartment where his easel stood waiting like a secret. His palette already had dried streaks on it, his brushes soaking in the jar of water he hadn’t changed in two days. He didn’t care. He grabbed a blank canvas and pinned it to the wall.
He didn’t sketch. He didn’t plan. He just painted. Fingers first, wet streaks of burnt umber and crimson across white. Then brush strokes, wild and wide. He dipped into blacks, deep violets, the tiniest bit of gold. Paint smeared across his chest, up his forearms, streaked his jawline as he worked, naked, high, hard, and utterly lost. He didn’t think. Didn’t stop. His alpha was silent now, watching from the inside, slack jawed. Because Mingi was painting you again. The way he saw you, not like he’d memorized, not like the girl in the oversized shirt at the laundry room or across the hallway at night.
No. He painted the ache. You, half in shadows. Your bare legs folded beneath you. Your mouth open, gasping. Head thrown back, hand on your chest, hair wild, back arched… He stepped back, chest heaving, dick still painfully stiff. He dropped the brush. And whispered your name.
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The apartment was dim. All the blinds drawn, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound. You were curled on the couch in one of Wooyoung’s hoodies, knees up, head tipped back, every nerve in your body burning. Your heat had never been like this. Never this strong. Never this sharp. Never this impossible to ignore. Wooyoung crouched down in front of you, trying for casual but his eyes worried. “Babe,” he said softly, “I’m gonna run to the store. You need anything? Water? Ice cream? A small exorcism?” You managed a tiny shake of your head. “No,” you croaked, your voice a thread. “Just… go. Please.”
He hesitated, studying you, nostrils flaring faintly at the scent rolling off you. Then he gave a short nod, squeezed your knee once, and got to his feet. “Lock the door behind me, okay? I’ll be back fast.” The door clicked shut. The silence hit you like a weight. You pressed your palms to your eyes, trying to breathe around the heat. You’d been through bad heats, but this was something else entirely. You were slick, aching, trembling under the hoodie. Your thighs pressed together automatically, trying to soothe the pulsing between them.
And then you smelled it. Not your own scent. Not Wooyoung’s soap or the coffee on the counter. Him. It slid under the door like smoke. Thick and dark and warm, curling into the apartment, wrapping around your senses. The scent of resin, paint, and something distinctly alpha, something you’d been trying not to think about since the hallway. Mingi. You gasped, hips rocking involuntarily. Your omega instincts surged, drowning out thought. Your body went hot and soft and needy all at once, clenching around nothing.
You pushed the hoodie up over your hips with shaking hands, slipping one down between your thighs. Slick met your fingers instantly, hot and wet and so much. You dragged a circle around your clit, desperate for release, hips arching off the couch. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close. You tried harder, biting your lip to keep from moaning his name. The ache only grew, deep and unbearable, your muscles trembling as you rubbed yourself harder, faster, chasing an orgasm that refused to come. Because you could smell him. Because your omega knew he was there. Because every nerve in your body was screaming alpha and your fingers weren’t him.
You dropped your head back with a strangled noise, tears stinging your eyes from frustration. Your thighs shook, your breath hitched, and still, nothing. Just more ache, more slick, more need. “Mingi…” you whispered, not even realizing you’d said it out loud. The sound of his name in the empty apartment made your whole body shudder. And across the hall, the scent of his alpha rolled in heavier, like an answer you weren’t supposed to get. You buried your face in the couch cushion, hips grinding helplessly against your palm, every cell of your body begging, please, please, please. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.
You couldn’t take it anymore. The apartment was too small, too hot, too full of your own scent. Every nerve in your body felt stretched, trembling. Your slick fingers had done nothing but make the ache worse. And Mingi’s scent, resin and weed and dark, heavy alpha was rolling through the crack under the door like a tide, curling around your brain until you were shaking. Your omega stopped whispering. It started screaming. Go to him. Before you could think yourself out of it, you were on your feet. Thighs slick and trembling, barefoot on the cold floor. You unlocked your door, opened it, stepped into the hall. The cool air made you shiver, but it didn’t clear your head.
You crossed to his door. Raised your hand. Knocked. Once. Twice. Nothing. Your pulse thundered in your ears. You pressed your forehead to the doorframe, eyes squeezed shut, heat scent spilling around you like an invitation. Please. Inside, you heard a sound, the faint sound of Sunshine Of Your Love by Cream playing, the scrape of feet against hardwood, a low curse. A pause. Then the click of a lock turning. The door opened a crack. Then wider. Mingi stood there. Barefoot. Hair messy, eyes dark and glassy. His chest was bare, paint smudged across his collarbones and down his arms. The only thing covering him was a grey throw blanket wrapped low around his hips, barely clinging, leaving a stripe of skin from his navel down to his V line.
He stared at you like he wasn’t sure you were real. You stared back, your breath hitching, your scent curling up into the doorway like smoke. Neither of you spoke. Mingi’s nostrils flared once, twice. His knuckles whitened on the edge of the door. His alpha pushed against his control so hard you could feel it, a low growl caught in his throat. “You’re in heat,” he said finally, voice a rasp. You swallowed hard. “Yeah.” His eyes flicked down, then back up. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I can’t….” Your voice broke. “I can’t stop.” His jaw clenched. The blanket shifted against his hips as he moved, like he might step back or forward, you couldn’t tell which. He exhaled, shaky. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” You took a small step closer to the threshold, eyes locked on his. “I do. I know exactly where I am.” The scent between you swelled, heavy and electric. His alpha and your omega circling, testing, pulling. Mingi’s fingers twitched on the doorframe. “If I let you in,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, “I don’t know if I can stop.”
You met his gaze, pupils blown wide. “Then don’t.” For a long moment he didn’t move. Then, very slowly, his grip on the door relaxed. His other hand came up, braced against the frame just over your head, and he leaned down until you could feel his breath on your face, weed and paint and alpha heat, one heartbeat away from touching. “Say it,” he whispered. You trembled under him, eyes fluttering shut. “Let me in.” The blanket slid an inch lower. And Mingi stepped back, just enough to open the door wider.
He shouldn’t have opened the door. His entire body was trembling under the blanket, the one thing keeping him from completely giving in to the wildfire crawling under his skin. He’d tried everything, hotboxing the apartment, jerking off, even painting with your scent in his lungs like perfume, but none of it worked. And then you knocked. You. Hair mussed, pupils blown, standing in your oversized hoodie, bare legs glistening from the heat that dripped off you like honey. Omega. His omega. He knew it the second your scent hit him. Not just heat. You.
Now you were standing inside his doorway, and he was drowning. You stepped inside, and the door shut behind you with a soft click that felt like a gunshot. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I know this is…. I shouldn’t have come.” But he didn’t move away. He couldn’t. “Why did you?” he asked. You looked up, lashes fluttering. “Because I didn’t want anyone else. I only…. I can smell you. Everywhere.” His throat worked as he swallowed, hand clenching at his side. “You’re… you’re in deep. You shouldn’t be thinking.”
“I am thinking,” you snapped, desperate. “And all I can think about is you.” Your eyes flicked downward, to the blanket barely hanging on his hips. His whole body tensed. You could barely focus. He was taller than you remembered. Wilder. Messier. Hair damp against his forehead, paint smeared across his chest and down his arms, some of it dried, some still tacky. And he was naked. The throw blanket barely covered anything. Your eyes dragged down his torso, broad shoulders, sculpted chest, thick arms streaked with crimson and ochre, the sharp lines of his V disappearing under the grey knit.
You felt yourself clench at the sight. You’d never been this deep in heat before. Never felt your body ache like this. But it wasn’t just that. It was him. Even before the scent, before the high, before the door, it was always him. Mingi was staring at you like you might disappear as you whispered, “Can I touch you?” He didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t stop you. So you stepped forward, slow, one breath at a time. You reached out, fingers grazing the paint on his forearm. His skin burned beneath it. “Paint,” you murmured, your voice floating. “You’re always covered in it.”
Mingi’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t even know I was painting you.” You froze, eyes lifting. “What?” His lips parted like he might take it back. Too late. “I didn’t mean to. After you moved in. The hall. That night. After the laundry room. I got high and I…. I started sketching, and it just… came out.” You stared at him, mouth dry as he shook his head. “And then I couldn’t stop.” You blinked up at him, wide eyed and dazed. He thought you might yell, maybe laugh. But you didn’t. You just stepped closer. And then your hand landed on his chest. Right over his heart and his whole body stilled. “Still beating,” you said softly.
His breath hitched. “Barely.” The blanket slipped. Only an inch. But it was enough for you both to look down. Mingi’s dick was already hard, had been, and now it was curving beneath the blanket, thick, long and heavy against his thigh, flushed red at the tip. Your eyes widened, your scent spiked, and Mingi felt his knees buckle. “Shit,” he breathed. “Don’t look at me like that.” Your voice came out breathless. “Like what?” He closed his eyes, inhaling your scent. “Like you want me to lose control.” You licked your lips. And smiled. You were already soaked. Already aching. Already feral. You didn’t need to be touched, you just needed him.
The moment you smiled, he moved. One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripped your waist, and suddenly you were pressed to the wall of his apartment, your feet barely catching up. Mingi’s mouth ghosted over yours, his scent thick with warning. “You sure?” he asked. Your hands were already tugging the blanket free. “Please.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna fuck you through your heat. Not tonight.” You whimpered. “Why not?” His mouth pressed to your throat. “Because,” he whispered, voice a growl, “the first time I fuck you, it’s not gonna be because you’re desperate.”
You were shaking, breathless, your body pressed to his bare chest. “But I am desperate,” you gasped as his tongue flicked over your neck. “I know,” he murmured, mouth against your skin. “Let me take care of you.” You were shaking. Not out of fear. No, never that. It was need, pure, primal, overwhelming need. Yourscent was so thick in the air he could taste it, warm and sweet, like peaches soaked in honey and moonlight. Your thighs trembled against his palms, and your breath hitched when he kissed your neck again, right over the place a claiming mark would go.
But he wouldn’t. Not tonight. He couldn’t. Still, fuck, he had to taste you. He dropped to his knees before he even registered the movement. Fell to them like he was praying. Your hands gripped his shoulders like you thought you might fall too, and maybe you would. He wanted that. Wanted you to melt for him. “Gonna take care of you,” he whispered, nose brushing along the inside of her thigh. “Let me.” You nodded. You whimpered. You whispered his name like it was the only word you knew. And Mingi exhaled right against your core.
You didn’t know how you were still standing. Your back was to the wall, your hoodie bunched beneath your arms, Mingi on his knees before you, eyes dark, lips parted, hair wild and sweat damp. He looked up at you like he was starving. And you were the feast. You whimpered again as he spread your legs wider, his broad hands pushing up the backs of your thighs. One strong arm slid under each leg and then, fuck, he lifted. Your legs draped over his shoulders, and the wall held you in place. He was so strong. So effortlessly strong. Then you felt him nose at your inner thigh again, the faintest trace of stubble making your skin twitch.
He kissed just beside your clothed center. Then again. And again. “Please,” you breathed. “Need to taste,” he growled. The drag of your panties to the side. The rush of cool air. The heat of his tongue. It was addictive. You were soaked. His tongue slid between your folds and he nearly choked on the scent. The taste. The heat. His dick twitched hard against his thigh, but he ignored it. This was about you. His mouth was relentless, tongue thrusting into you, then flattening against your clit, then retreating, teasing, making you gasp before he gave you more.
You were whimpering above him, thighs clenching around his head, hips bucking forward, trying to chase more friction. He moaned into your pussy, grinding his tongue deeper. One of your hands tangled in his hair. The other pressed flat to the wall as if that was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. “You taste…. fuck, baby,” he mumbled against you. “You taste like….. fucking perfect.” Your heat scent flared at the praise, thick and wet and sharp with need. And that was when Mingi groaned. Loud. Needy. Wrecked. Because your slick was coating his chin and he hadn’t even gotten his fingers involved yet.
He was everywhere.You could barely breathe. Your legs were trembling, mouth open in a silent cry, hips jerking uncontrollably as Mingi licked into you like he was trying to memorize you with his tongue. Every time he moaned, you clenched. Every time you moaned, he sucked harder.
It was a vicious, blissful cycle. Your heat made everything too much, his scent, his mouth, the burn of your arousal in your belly. You were climbing fast. Too fast. “I’m gonna…. Mingi, I’m gonna…”
His voice was wrecked, half mumbled into your cunt. “Come on, baby. Want it. Let me taste.” And then his mouth sealed around your clit, tongue flicking just right, just once and you broke. Eyes squeezed shut, thighs tightening, pussy gushing into his mouth as the orgasm ripped through you like fire. You would’ve fallen if he hadn’t been holding you up. You would’ve cried if he didn’t keep licking, softer now, coaxing you down. You sagged into his shoulders. And he just held you there.
He was high. On weed. On slick. On scent. On you. He didn’t even realize he was rutting against the floor until his hips stilled, dick leaking against the blanket still half around his waist. But he didn’t care. Not if it meant he got to hear that sound again. The sound you made when you came for him, shaky, gasping, a broken little “Mingi” in the air like you weren’t sure if you were thanking him or begging him to do it again. He nuzzled against your core, one last kiss over your clit. And then slowly, gently, he eased your legs off his shoulders.
You were still panting, hands in his hair, eyes glassy with heat. “You okay?” he asked, voice low, thumb brushing your thigh. You nodded. Your omega wanted to drag him up by the hair. Wanted to pull the blanket off. Wanted to feel him split you open, knot you, fill you until you couldn’t think. You reached for him, voice breaking, “Mingi… please. Need you…” His hands tightened on your thighs. His forehead dropped to your stomach, eyes squeezed shut. He exhaled a shaky breath, paint and sweat and your scent all over his skin. “I can’t,” he rasped.
You whimpered, hips rolling against his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair. “Please…” He pulled back just enough to look up at you. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but there was still a line of control in them, taut as wire. “Not like this,” he said, voice low but firm. “Not when you’re in heat and not thinking clear.” Your breath hitched, your omega keened in frustration, but somewhere in the haze his words landed. A promise. A restraint that made your body shudder harder than his tongue had.
He brushed a thumb across your inner thigh, soothing. “Let me take care of you like this. Let me get you off, keep you safe, get you through it.” He kissed the inside of your knee, slow and reverent, then nuzzled back between your thighs. “When you’re lucid,” he murmured against your skin, “when you look at me and tell me you want it, then I’ll give you everything. Not before.” You shuddered, torn between wanting to scream and wanting to cry. His tongue stroked you again, gentle now, coaxing another tremor out of you while his words wrapped around you like a tether, keeping you from slipping under completely. And for the first time in your heat, even as your body ached for him, some small, clear part of you breathed. He wasn’t going to take what you didn’t ask for. He was going to wait.
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Mingi didn’t remember walking you to his bed. Didn’t remember how the blanket slipped off his hips to let his dick throb free. He only remembered the feeling of your skin under his hands, warm, flushed, slick with need. You were trembling, eyes glassy but locked on his face like you were terrified he’d disappear if you blinked. His mattress creaked beneath both your weight, the sheets already damp where your back met them. One leg was curled up, the other draped over his shoulder as he knelt on the floor between your thighs, forearms braced on the edge of the bed like he was praying. He wasn’t sure if he was.
You were completely bare now. You’d dropped the hoodie on the way from the living room and when he’d knelt to kiss your stomach again, you’d whimpered and begged him to take it all off. So he did. Slowly. Letting you rise up on shaking limbs just enough for him to tug it over your head and toss it to the floor. You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And he’d painted a lot of beautiful things. Your skin glowed under the dim orange light of his lava lamp. Your fingers dug into the blanket, hips canting upward, scent curling around his brain like incense. Staining his sheets.
He pressed a kiss to your thigh. Then another. Then another, closer now, slower, until you were panting. “Still okay?” he murmured, voice hoarse. You nodded fast. “Please…” God. You were going to wreck him. You didn’t know how you were still breathing. Every nerve felt molten. Your skin was too hot, every inhale tinged with Mingi’s scent. He was kneeling between your legs like some wild, paint smeared dream, lips glistening, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to his forehead. But he didn’t move to climb onto the bed. Didn’t rut against your thigh or force himself inside you like your omega wanted him to.
He just looked at you. Like he could memorize you. “Oh my god,” you gasped. His tongue was back, soft at first, just a long, slow lick through your folds that made you jerk. He grunted softly and held your thighs open, mouth latching to your clit with a gentleness that almost made you cry. “Mingi…” You curled forward, fingers tangling in his hair. “Feels so good…” He hummed low, the sound vibrating against you. One hand slid up your stomach, pushing gently against your belly to hold you down as he flicked his tongue, steady and sure, like he knew exactly how to touch you now. Like you were a song he’d already learned the chords to.
His other hand moved lower, two fingers sliding through your slick, circling your entrance but not pressing in. Not yet. You whimpered, desperate. “Want them?” he asked softly, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your clit. “Need my fingers?” You nodded, frantic. “Please… need….. need something…” He grinned, eyes heavy lidded. “Yeah? You gonna come all over them for me?” You moaned, legs shaking as he slid two fingers inside. You were so fucking wet. His fingers disappeared inside you like you were made to take them. He curled them carefully, watching the way your back arched, the way your head dropped back into the pillow with a gasp.
You clenched around him instantly. So tight. He didn’t move at first. Just let you feel it, his mouth back on your clit, tongue slow, fingers buried deep. His dick ached, throbbing, but he didn’t care. This wasn’t about that. This was about you. Taking care of you. He thrust his fingers slow and deep, curling them again and again, adding rhythm as your moans turned broken. He watched your stomach tremble, your nipples pebble, watched you lose yourself in it. Watched you fall apart.
You came fast, heat making you hypersensitive, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he moaned into your pussy. You tried to squirm away, overwhelmed, but he only sucked harder, riding it out, giving you everything he could without losing control. And when you finally collapsed, twitching and panting and soaked, he slowly pulled back. His lips were wet with you. His chin streaked with slick. His dick was leaking and he didn’t even move to touch it. Instead, he crawled up beside you and pulled you into his chest, painting stained fingers stroking gently down your spine.
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You wake up first. Your thighs are sticky. Your body’s sore in a way that’s not unpleasant, but everything is overheated, skin flushed, mouth dry, muscles still clenching around the ghost of his fingers, his mouth. The scent of paint and Mingi and weed hangs heavy in the room. It wraps around you like a second blanket. The sheets beneath your back are tangled, one of Mingi’s arms still draped lazily over your middle, palm open like he fell asleep mid caress. And god, he looks beautiful like this. Hair a mess. Bottom lip pouty and swollen. One leg hiked up over the comforter, he had boxers on now, slung low, hint of his hipbone on full display. You lie there for a second, drinking him in. Remembering everything, his mouth between your legs, his voice in your ear, his restraint.
He didn’t knot you. Didn’t even fuck you. But it still felt more intimate than anything you’ve had before. Which is maybe why you quietly slip out of bed. Mingi doesn’t wake up. You’re halfway across his apartment before your knees threaten to give out again, the ache between your legs enough to make you wince. You reach for the couch to steady yourself and that’s when you see it. The painting. Your breath stutters. It’s big, probably three feet tall, propped against the far wall, half hidden behind a crate of canvases. You know it’s you. There’s no mistaking it.
Your body, laid out like a fever dream in lavender and amber tones, one arm flung over your head, your shirt barely covering your breasts, a flush over your chest, and the shadow of your panties where they curve over your hips. Something that’s never happened other than inside Mingi’s imagination. Your mouth’s parted. Your eyes are closed. And it’s you, but softer, more reverent. Like someone looked at you while you weren’t looking and memorized you. Your chest aches. You reach out, fingertips brushing the edge of the canvas like touching it might make it disappear.
“You weren’t supposed to see any of them.” The voice is hoarse, sleep rough. You turn around. Mingi is standing behind you, bare feet on the hardwood, hair messy, eyes heavy lidded but watchful. The moment hangs suspended between you like smoke. “I was gonna ask you,” he says softly, “if I could show you.” You don’t say anything. You just walk over to him and place a hand against his chest, warm and solid beneath your palm. His scent is stronger now, more grounded as you look up at him.
Mingi’s heart stumbles. He barely slept. Not because of you, well, no. Definitely because of you. Because you were so soft, curled up in his bed with his hand between your thighs, moaning his name, trembling in his arms. And now you’re standing in front of him in nothing but that hoodie again, looking up at him like that, like you still want more. He’s not made of stone. But before he can say anything, before he can even think….. BANG BANG BANG. “Mingi!” a voice yells from the other side of the door. “Hey, bro…. uh, sorry if you’re asleep but…. is Y/N with you? I swear to god if she….. Y/N?!”
Your eyes go wide. Wooyoung. “Oh my god.” You groan. “He’s gonna kill me.” Mingi just sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. Just…. breathe.” Another loud knock. “You’re not answering! I swear if you’re both dead…. Mingi, open up!” You scramble for your phone still in your hoodie pocket where you forgot it. Twenty seven missed messages.”Y/N!” Wooyoung again, but this time his voice sounds worried. “Please just say something…. I don’t care if you’re… just say you’re okay.” You press your forehead to the door. “I’m okay,” you call out gently. “I’ll be out in a second.”
Ten minutes later, Mingi opens the door for you, you step forward, rising up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” you whisper. “For last night. For not taking advantage.” He flinches like you struck him. “I would never.” You nod. “I know.” And then you slip out the door, across the hall, where Wooyoung is pacing barefoot in pajama pants and a hoodie of his own, phone in one hand and an energy drink in the other. He scowls at you, then grabs you in a hug so hard you can’t breathe. Mingi just watches from his doorway. His hand brushes his cheek where your lips touched him. His boxers are still half lowered, your scent still thick in the air, his painting of you catching the sunlight behind him. He’s completely and utterly fucked.
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The tiny café was warm with steam and bustle, tucked just off a side street where old locals argued over backgammon and university students hovered over laptops. A mix of garlic, broth, and fresh brewed barley tea filled the air. You sat in the corner booth by the window, stirring the lukewarm broth of your spicy tofu stew without much enthusiasm. The table between you and Wooyoung was cluttered, two bowls, three side plates, a crumpled napkin Wooyoung had used to blow his nose after the gochugaru hit too hard. He was watching you. Too quietly. You didn’t even look up. “Say it.” He blinked, feigning innocence. “Say what?”
“The question you’ve been sitting on for fifteen minutes.” Wooyoung leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. Then he pounced. “Okay, so just to clarify,” he said, voice rising with every syllable, “you disappeared during your heat, and I find out that you spent the entire night in Mingi’s apartment… You winced. “Keep your voice down.” Wooyoung ignored that. “and you’re sitting here trying to eat tofu like you didn’t get absolutely railed by that hot alpha who smells like sandalwood and smoke and paint and regret?”
You lowered your spoon slowly. “I didn’t get railed.” Wooyoung blinked. Once. Twice. “You’re kidding.” You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Nope.” Wooyoung scoffed. “You’re lying. You’re lying to my face right now in this holy place where kimchi jjigae was born.” You let your head fall into your hand, dragging it down your face with a groan as Wooyoung narrowed his eyes as he realized you actually weren’t lying. “What the fuck do you mean you didn’t fuck him?”
People were looking. You hissed, “Can you not yell the word fuck in the middle of the restaurant.” Wooyoung dropped his voice… barely. “How?! You were in heat. And he’s an alpha. And you’ve both been making goo goo eyes at each other for weeks.” Your lips pressed together. His eyes narrowed. “Oh my god. You tried. Didn’t you?” You picked at your rice. “You did go over there?” he asked, softer now, knowing that yes you did, but clearly not understanding your intentions. You nodded, slowly. “In what, exactly?” he asked, squinting.
“My hoodie…. And… just my panties” Your answer made his hand smack the table. “GOD IS REAL.” You rolled your eyes. “So you were basically presenting yourself to him like a fucking gift basket, and he… wait. He turned you down?” You finally looked up, gaze meeting his. “Not exactly,” you said. “He….. Got me through the worst of it. With his mouth. And hands.” Wooyoung froze. “He went down on you?” he asked, eyes wide. “Like… alpha down?” You gave a tight nod. “And didn’t ask for anything back?” Another nod. “He didn’t knot you?”
Wooyoung slowly pushed his soup away like it had suddenly lost all meaning. “That man is either a gentleman or a menace in disguise.” You laughed, quiet and quick. It wasn’t funny, really. Not the ache still curling in your belly. Not the memory of Mingi’s mouth on you. Not the way he pulled back when you begged for more. “I told him I wanted more. That I needed him. And he said he wouldn’t fuck me while I wasn’t in my right mind. That he didn’t want my heat making the choice for me.”
Wooyoung went quiet again. This time, not in shock. But something closer to awe. “That’s either the hottest thing I’ve ever heard,” he finally muttered, “or the most frustrating.” You shrugged. “Maybe both.” He took a sip of his drink, then jabbed his chopsticks toward you. “Okay. But real talk. Are you into him? Like…. really into him?” Your heart gave a little twitch. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Wooyoung leaned back in his seat with a sigh and a dramatic shake of his head. “Damn. You really are down bad for paint boy.” You smiled, just barely, and said nothing. Because yeah. You were. And now? It was too late to pretend otherwise.
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The hallway smelled like someone’s neighbor was making kimchi jjigae or burning incense. Maybe both. It had been a long day of job hunting, your tote bag hung heavy off your shoulder, sneakers scuffing the concrete as you trudged toward your apartment, unlocking the door with a sigh. You were still a little raw. Emotionally. Physically. Since your heat passed, you hadn’t seen Mingi. Not once. Not in the hallway. Not outside. Not even that flicker of sandalwood and turpentine on the breeze. He was gone. Or maybe just avoiding you. Either way, it stung.
You pushed the door open to your shared apartment and immediately…. Oh! Warm. That was your first thought. The air was… hot. Thick. Then the scent hit you. Alpha. Omega. Heat. “Oh my god!” You barely had time to kick the door shut before your eyes locked onto the couch. Wooyoung shirtless, flushed, panting, and thoroughly wrecked, was straddling San’s lap like his life depended on it, both of them half naked, half lost, like they hadn’t even heard the door open. “ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!”
San’s head whipped around, sweat in his hair, lips parted. He blinked once. “Shit.” Wooyoung didn’t stop moving. “Lock the door behind you.” You gaped. “YOU’RE IN HEAT?” Wooyoung gasped, bouncing slightly harder now. “It snuck up on me!” San did not look remotely sorry. He just grabbed Wooyoung’s hips tighter and groaned against his throat, “He literally launched himself at me. I wasn’t about to let him hit the floor.” You stared. “You’re feral. Both of you.”
Wooyoung groaned, biting his lip, trying, and failing, to meet your eyes as he rode his alpha like the world was ending. “Can you come back in, like, thirty minutes?” You turned around. “Can you not fuck on shared furniture!” San panted. “We put a towel down.” You turned around and walked back out the apartment, slamming the door behind you. You needed air. You needed peace. You needed somewhere that didn’t smell like sweat and slick and Wooyoung’s perfume bottle exploded.
Which is how you ended up knocking twice on the door of San and Yeosang’s apartment. Blessedly, the door was unlocked. You stepped in, already announcing yourself. “Hey, I’m crashing here. Don’t care what’s going on. You’ll get no questions from me as….” You froze. Because sitting in the middle of the living room, completely relaxed, was Mingi. Black basketball shorts hanging low on his hips.
Paint stains on his hands, even though he hadn’t been painting. A blunt clipped to Yeosang’s glass bong, which he was currently passing like a seasoned veteran. And nothing but a loose, open flannel over his chest, no shirt underneath.
He looked up. Paused. Eyes locking on you, mouth parted, chest rising with a slow inhale as Yeosang snorted smoke. “Hey. Couch is yours. We’re high as balls.” You nodded, heart now racing. “Yeah, I can see that,” you mumbled, already regretting your outfit, fitted leggings and an oversized tee that did nothing to hide how flustered you were. Mingi blinked a few times, as if trying to process whether this was real or just a hallucination. Then he shifted, spreading his legs a little wider on the floor, one hand resting on his thigh, the other pushing the bong toward Yeosang. You squinted at him, tone teasing a little. “You live here now?” Yeosang grinned. “He just wandered in. Like a large, very stoned stray cat.”
You kicked your shoes off and flopped onto the armchair, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Mingi. He didn’t need to know how wrecked you were from the last time you saw him, or how hard it was not to think about his mouth when your body was still remembering it. But then… you caught him glancing. Not just a glance. A slow, flickering look, one that slid from your face down to your thighs, lingering too long at the way your legs were tucked beneath you. His throat moved as he swallowed.
Then he looked away quickly. Like he hadn’t just thought about that night. Like he wasn’t already half hard in those shorts.
Yeosang, completely oblivious, held the bong out to you. “Want a hit?” You took it with a muttered thanks and inhaled deep, trying to calm your nerves. If Wooyoung was going to act like a whole unhinged omega in heat, the least the universe could do was give you a break. But then Mingi stood. And stretched. Long torso. Wide shoulders. Every inch of skin on display. The flannel slipped off one shoulder as he walked into the kitchen for a water bottle, his shorts hanging dangerously low. You nearly choked on the smoke. Yeosang reached over to pat your back. “You okay?” You coughed. “Peachy.”
Mingi returned, bottle cracked open, that slow stoner grin on his face. “Rough day?” he asked. You didn’t even blink. “Wooyoung was in heat. San was helping. On our couch.” Mingi’s eyebrows went up. “Oh.” He paused a moment as if hesitating before saying, “I was about to head back to my place,” he said casually, reaching for his phone. “Get dressed. There’s an exhibit downtown. Opens in a couple hours. Gallery’s doing this whole night time thing with DJs and food trucks and rooftop views.” Your brows lifted. “Sounds… very LA.”
“It is.” His smile curled, eyes catching yours. “You should come.” Your heart jumped as you stared at him, trying to read his face, whether this was him being polite, friendly, or something else entirely. “I mean,” he added, stretching again, “you probably need a distraction. And you did walk in here like a feral raccoon.” You rolled your eyes, biting your lip to not smile. “Fine. I’ll come. But only if there’s tacos.” Mingi grinned. “There’s always tacos.”
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The door shut behind you with a soft click, and thank god, San and Wooyoung had finally migrated to Woo’s bedroom. The scent of slick and alpha still hung faint in the air, but you shoved it out of your mind. You had bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that Mingi had just invited you to an actual art exhibit downtown. What the fuck were you supposed to wear to that? Something casual? Something cool? Something that didn’t scream “I nearly fucked you during my heat and now I’m pretending to be totally fine?” Your closet didn’t have a category for that. But then your fingers brushed over a hanger tucked in the back, a skirt.
Black with golden suns, moons, constellations, and phoenixes soaring across it in shimmering thread. Thigh high slit. Dangerous. Magical. You grabbed a black top and tied it at the waist. When you checked the mirror, you tilted your head. Okay… this worked. Kind of witchy, kind of sexy, kind of you. You looked like the kind of girl an artist might paint. Your heart thudded in your chest. You didn’t expect the knock just five minutes later. And when you opened the door…. Mingi. In a loose charcoal button up, half open over a white tank top, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair still a little damp from the shower, hair falling soft against his forehead. Silver rings on his fingers, bracelets peeking from under one sleeve, and a faint hint of his cologne mixing with fresh laundry and paint.
And the way he looked at you? He blinked once. Twice. Lips parting slightly. “Damn.” You raised an eyebrow. “Too much?” He huffed a short laugh, looking you up and down slowly. “Nah. You look like… you belong in a mural or something.” You smiled. “You trying to say I look like art?” His gaze darkened, tongue gliding across his bottom lip. “I’m saying if you were up on a wall, people would stare too long.”
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You expected an Uber. Or maybe to walk down with him, catch the train, something casual. What you didn’t expect was to follow him to the curb and see that. A black 1970 SS Chevelle. All sleek chrome and muscle, matte black rims. “You have a car?” Mingi didn’t even look back at first, just smirked as he opened the driver’s side door. “I mean. Not like I ride it often.” You scoffed, nodding your head. “No shit,” you muttered, still stunned. “You own a literal sex machine on wheels and it just… what? Sits there?” He glanced over the top of the roof. “Didn’t really have anywhere to go before.” You didn’t have a comeback for that. Not with the way he was looking at you.
When he stepped around and opened your door, because apparently he does that, you just stared at him a beat longer, heart thudding. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, sliding into the worn leather seat. He shut the door with a deep thump and walked around to the driver’s side again. Once he got in and started the car, the engine rumbled. Deep, throaty, primal. The kind of sound that sent a little vibration right through your spine. “Of course it sounds like that,” you muttered, throwing him a look. “You probably painted flames on the engine too.” He laughed, low, amused, and turned the wheel with one ringed hand, pulling out onto the street like he’d done this exact drive in his head a thousand times. You tried not to stare at his forearms. You failed. Of course you did.
You don’t talk for the first few minutes. Not because you don’t want to. Just because you’re still recovering from the car reveal. The sound of it. The feel of it. The fact that Mingi, your stoned, paint splattered, bare chested neighbor, owns this gorgeous, sexy, absolutely illegal sounding machine and drives it like he’s not aware that it turns heads at every intersection. You finally tear your eyes away from the soft leather interior and glance over, his hand resting lazily at the top of the wheel, chain around his neck catching in the warm LA sun bleeding through the window.
“Alright,” you say, leaning back in your seat. “Real question time.” He grins but doesn’t look away from the road. “Okay, shoot.” You return his grin. “What was your first painting?” The question makes him laugh as he remembers. “First canvas was my mom’s white kitchen wall. Got my ass beat for that one.” You laugh. “Okay, but now she brags about your art, right?” He smirks. “She keeps a framed photo of that wall in her wallet. Like it’s my first exhibition or something.”
“Cute,” you hum, then glance sideways again. “How old are you, anyway?” He shoots you a look before moving his gaze back to the road. “Twenty six, You?” You watch him, smiling. “Twenty three.” He nods, one hand tapping the beat of whatever lofi jazz is humming softly through the speakers. “You feel older.” You raise a brow. “That a compliment or….” He shrugs. “I don’t know…. It’s a vibe. You’re not like most omegas I’ve met.” You try not to react at that. Try not to let your heart pick up at the casual way he says omega like it doesn’t scare him. Like it doesn’t immediately reduce you to heat cycles and broken instincts like it does with most alphas.
You shift in your seat instead. “So. You gonna ask me something now?” He thinks for a moment, then says, “Have you seen him again?” You blink. “Who?” You ask even though you have a feeling who he’s talking about before he says it. “Your ex,” he says, still not looking at you, voice quieter now. “Since that day. In the hallway.” Your heart twinges, just slightly. You lean your head against the window, watching the city blur past. “No. Haven’t seen him since.” Mingi’s fingers tighten just a little on the wheel. You keep going, voice flat but honest. “I don’t know why he even followed me to LA. I moved here to start over. He wasn’t supposed to know where I went. But… he always finds a way.”
Silence follows. The sound of the engine hums low beneath it, comforting somehow. You turn to glance at Mingi, expecting judgment, maybe, or curiosity, but he’s just watching the road. And then he says, softly, “He won’t bother you again.” It’s not a promise. It’s a fact. Like he already decided it. You swallow once, then nod. “Thanks for that night.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he replies. “He was fucking lucky it was me that opened that door.” Something hot coils low in your stomach. Not fear. Not even desire. Just… safety. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smirk. “Alright, now I need to know what music you think fits this car best.” He grins now. “Fleetwood Mac. Specifically The Chain.” You clutch your chest. “Okay, yeah, respectfully? You’re hot.” He laughs so hard the car wobbles a little in its lane.
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The exhibit is in an industrial loft building with exposed brick and glass walls that gleam under gallery lighting. It’s the kind of place that smells like old books, wet paint, and ambition. People speak in hushed tones, holding thin glasses of wine like they’re props in a play neither of you were invited to. But Mingi looks right here. Like he’s not just visiting, like he belongs. His sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar open to show just enough collarbone. His rings click softly against the stem of his glass as he lifts it, eyes roaming across a massive canvas of oranges and reds, oil strokes that drip downward like they’re melting from the heat of someone’s memory.
He’s not smiling, but there’s something soft in his expression. Focused. Quiet. And you can’t stop watching him. The way his jaw tics when he’s thinking. How his eyes narrow just slightly when he’s taking something in. How he crosses one arm over his chest and props the other at his chin when he’s really studying something. You’re not sure what it is that brings the memory back. The real one. Not just his hands or his mouth. It’s the sound he made. That low, almost desperate groan when your thighs had tightened around his head, his breath warm and broken against your core. The way his voice had shaken when he said your name, like it wasn’t just heat he was trying to help you through, but something else he didn’t know how to name yet.
“You good?” You blink, startled slightly. He’s facing you now, glass still in hand, brow arched in question. You clear your throat and look away quickly, pretending to admire a nearby piece of abstract sculpture that honestly just looks like someone’s messy breakup in metal form. “Yeah,” you say. “Just…. taking it all in.” Mingi steps closer, shoulder brushing yours lightly as he looks at the same sculpture. “It’s giving… divorced Aries.” You snort into your wine and he grins. “No? You don’t see it? The rage? The regret?”
You laugh softly, the sound low and warm. “Okay, yeah, I see it. Definitely cheated during Mercury retrograde.” He chuckles, gaze flicking to you again. He’s close enough now that you can smell his cologne, faint smoke, cedarwood, and the memory of your skin on his sheets. The conversation quiets again. You’re not sure who breaks it first, but you glance up at him at the same time he looks at you. And it hits you all over again. You’ve been kissed before. Fucked before. You’ve had people beg for you, try to ruin you, swear they’d never get over you. But you’ve never been looked at the way Mingi looks at you. Like you’re a painting that haunts him. Like you’re something he can’t figure out and doesn’t want to stop trying.
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The art had been cool. But this? This was Mingi’s vibe. A corner taco stand with flickering lights, a broken speaker playing Aventura on repeat, and two paper plates already dripping with salsa roja and grilled onions. He leans his hip against the curbside bench while you sit and hum around your first bite, like it might just be the best thing you’ve ever tasted. He watches you chew. His fingers flex on the edge of his plate, pretending he’s not imagining dragging the slit of your skirt higher with one hand while holding your hip down with the other. Jesus, focus.
You lick a bit of sauce off your thumb and Mingi feels a pulse behind his zipper. His jaw clenches. “This place is insane,” you say, mouth full. “I would have never…. mmm… thought to stop here.” He smiles at your reaction, nudging his own taco toward your plate like he’s offering tribute. “They don’t have a sign,” he says. “But it’s on every list. Top ten in LA. Best lengua in the city.” You hum. “You like tongue, huh?” Mingi blinks. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he tilts his head to look at you. “I’m not answering that,” he says, smile curling as he brings the taco to his mouth.
“Coward,” you murmur, stealing a bite from his second taco. He licks his lips clean, fully aware your eyes follow the motion. The tension buzzes again, but different this time. Softer. You’re leaning on your elbow now, watching him. And then you say it. “So that night…” His chewing slows as you continue. “When I was in heat. You said… you weren’t gonna fuck me while I wasn’t thinking clearly.” Mingi swallows as he wipes his mouth with a napkin he doesn’t need and sets the plate aside. Here we go.
He looks at you, really looks this time, and it’s not flirty, not teasing. It’s serious in the way only Mingi gets when his mind starts spinning too fast for his mouth to keep up. “I meant it.” Your brows raise as he clears his throat, fingers tapping against the curb. “You were vulnerable. Out of your head. I didn’t want you to look back and think I took advantage of that. Of you.” You blink at him, startled. “But I was begging you.” Mingi groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Trust me. I remember.” He runs a hand through his hair, that frustrated, aroused, tortured look creeping back into his face, the same one he wore that night when he dropped to his knees and swore he wouldn’t take it further than his mouth.
“It wasn’t about what you wanted,” he finally says, voice low. “It was about what I couldn’t risk.” You tilt your head. “Risk?” He nods. “You. Regretting me.” The words hang there. You’re silent for a second, chewing your bottom lip as Mingi watches the way your fingers toy with the edge of your cup, your gaze suddenly far away. “I wouldn’t have,” you whisper. He doesn’t answer at first. But then, he leans forward, elbow resting on his knee, gaze locked on yours with that look again, the one that makes your stomach tighten and your mouth go dry. “You say that now,” he murmurs. “But I wasn’t willing to gamble on it. Not when it’s you.”
You freeze. And for once, you have no quick comeback. The silence stretches. The streetlight flickers. The radio stutters. A car honks three blocks down. But Mingi’s just watching you, tongue flicking briefly along his bottom lip before he clears his throat and stands up. “You wanna walk it off? Or head back?” You stand too, shakier than you expected. “Walk.” He nods, “Yeah,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw tight. “Yeah. Walk with me.”
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Mingi locks the SS with a sharp beep, tossing a glance over his shoulder as the two of you cross the street, the smell of grilled meat and car exhaust still lingering in the warm air behind you. You’re walking just off to his side, steps easy, head tilted up to look at the city lights, but he knows you’re still thinking about what he said. So is he. You wouldn’t have regretted him. That’s what you said. And maybe that truth is still tucked somewhere between his ribs, wrapped in a tangle of need and memory and everything he refused to give into that night.
“Where are we going?” you ask. “There’s a bar up here,” he says, nodding toward the corner. “Local. Chill. Not loud.” You snort. “Wow. So not your average LA club rat then?” He smirks. “Do I look like a club rat to you?” You side eye him. “You literally walked around an art exhibit with your whole chest practically out.” He laughs. “That’s not club rat,” he counters, pretending offense. “That’s tortured artist core.” You laugh now, and fuck, Mingi likes that sound more than he should. It’s easy with you like this. Walking at night. Brushing against each other. That crackling undercurrent of what’s still unsaid, thick as the smog hanging low over downtown.
The bar is tucked between a laundromat and a record store, a neon martini glass flickering above the narrow doorway. Inside, it’s dim and cool. Booths line the far wall, low tables and bar stools scattered near the front. There’s a pool table in the back, jukebox glowing nearby. Mingi pushes the door open for you and follows behind, hand hovering just over your lower back as you pass. He’s already scanning the bar for a corner when he realizes, you’re standing still. Looking up at him. That look again. “You’re really not gonna kiss me, huh?” you ask quietly.
Mingi’s throat bobs. Not here. Not yet. But instead of answering, he steps in a little closer, just enough to smell the remnants of your shampoo and your skin and the faintest pull of your omega beneath it. “No,” he murmurs. “Not when you’re asking like that.” You narrow your eye’s teasingly. “Like what?” He stares at you a moment before his voice drops. “Like you think it’s owed.” Your brows lift as he keeps going. “I don’t owe you a kiss,” he says softly. “Not when I want to give you everything.” Then he pulls away, the space between you suddenly feeling colder for it.
He walks toward the bar, orders two drinks, his usual and something fruity for you, and nods toward an empty booth near the back. You follow, quieter now, watching the line of his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath that loose shirt sleeve when he slides into the seat across from you. You’re both quiet at first until you break it. “You’re hard to read sometimes.” Mingi meets your gaze over the rim of his glass. “Good,” he says. “Because if you knew everything going on in my head right now…” You smirk. “I’d be scared?” You joke playfully.
“No,” he replies, eyes burning now. “You’d be on my lap.” Your drink stops halfway to your mouth and you swallow. “Now that’s club rat energy,” you whisper, heat creeping into your voice, heart pounding. He laughs, full and warm, head dropping for a second as he shakes it. “Shut up,” he mutters. “Drink your drink.” You do. But your foot brushes his under the table. And you leave it there as Mingi sipped the last of his whiskey, ice clinking gently in the glass as he leaned back in the booth. His eyes hadn’t left you in five minutes.
You were laughing again, loose and sun warmed by the tequila drink you’d half finished, chin resting in your hand while you teased him about being emotionally unavailable. He’d played along, of course, raised a brow, called you dramatic, tried not to stare at your lips every time you smiled. And now you were standing. “You want another drink?” he asked, reaching for his wallet. But you shake your head. “Nah. Gimme a sec.”
He watched as you stepped away from the booth, weaving through the low tables and toward the back wall. A glowing, old school jukebox sat in the corner like it had been there since the 70s, chrome edges worn, buttons slightly faded, soft amber lights flickering through dust. You tapped a few buttons without looking back. And when the song started playing, Mingi’s entire chest tightened. Fleetwood Mac. Silver Springs. He blinked slowly, realizing…. You remembered. You’d listened. You knew he loved them.
The vocals slid through the bar, smooth and bittersweet, Stevie’s voice curling through the air like a confession too old to burn out. It wasn’t a song for dancing. Not really. It was a song for feeling. You turned slowly, eyes finding his in the dark. And the moment stretched, so full of everything that hadn’t been said since that night. He could still taste you. Still remember the sound of your breath catching when he’d dropped to his knees and touched you like you were something he’d been waiting for his entire life. You walked back to the booth, sliding in next to him this time instead of across. “You picked this on purpose,” he murmured and you bit your lip, smiling. “Maybe.”
“You really trying to ruin me in public?” You shrugged at him. “You like them, don’t you?” He laughs under his breath, nodding. “Yeah, but pI didn’t say I wanted to feel like I’m getting broken up with in the middle of a bar.” You laughed, quiet, soft, like maybe you hadn’t expected him to say that as your knee touched his under the table again. “You wanna dance?” you asked, tipping your head slightly. “To this?” Mingi lifted a brow. “You trying to make me cry?” You reached out anyway, hand ghosting over his wrist. And maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the way your fingers curled slightly into his sleeve like you were trying not to hold onto him too hard. But Mingi stood. He stood, and let you lead him a few feet away, toward the emptier space near the jukebox, just far enough from the bar crowd.
You didn’t even fully press into him, not at first. You just swayed. Barely. Like the music was moving through your bones instead of your feet. And Mingi couldn’t stop looking at you. Even when you finally stepped in closer, arms loose around his neck, chin tilted up. Even when his hands slid to your waist like they belonged there. Even when you whispered against his collarbone, “I want you to kiss me.” His breath hitched. For a second, Mingi didn’t move. Not because he didn’t want it. But because everything in him ached for it, so much that it scared him a little. He was used to easy. Used to lust and pretty words and brush offs.
But this? You? You were dangerous in that way only someone real could be. He looked at you slowly, eyes dragging from your lips up to your eyes, and whatever he saw there, heat, hope, hesitation, it cracked him open. So he leaned in. No teasing smirk this time. No joking comment. Just the warm press of his lips to yours, slow, deliberate. The kind of kiss that curled into your chest and settled there. You exhaled against him like you’d been holding it in since the moment you first met him and he called himself trash. And when your hand slid into the back of his hair, tugging gently, Mingi groaned. Soft. Low. Almost like a warning to himself. Because now that he’d started… He wasn’t sure he could stop.
You kissed like you meant it. Like your mouth already knew his. Like your body had memorized him that night he laid you out in his bed and promised he wouldn’t take you unless you asked. You were asking now. With your lips. With your hands curling into his shirt. With the way you pressed up on your toes to kiss him deeper. When you pulled back, just enough to breathe, Mingi chased your mouth without even thinking making you laugh and whisper, “Easy.” He shook his head. “Don’t start something you don’t wanna finish.”
“I never said I didn’t wanna finish it,” you whispered back and his hands curled tighter on your waist, grounding himself as the jukebox shifted into a new song behind you and your lips brushed his again. “Take me home?” Mingi didn’t answer. He just nodded once… And took your hand.
The walk back to his car was quieter than before, but it wasn’t awkward. Not with the way your hand stayed in his, fingers loosely laced like it was normal, like it wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last. The kiss hadn’t ruined anything. It just made everything real. And now, with the moon slung low over downtown and the soft rumble of passing cars, the world felt like it had narrowed down to just the two of you. The low thud of his boots on pavement. The softer tap of your shoes. Your arms brushing every so often, every accidental graze feeling like a secret.
By the time you reached his car, Mingi unlocked it with a press of his key fob. The sound of the doors clicking open made you hesitate, just for a second. But you didn’t let go of his hand. He noticed. Didn’t say anything, just glanced at you, brow raised slightly. “Still good?” he asked, voice soft. You nodded. “Still good.” The drive back was silent but not in a bad way. The kind of silence that holds weight. You leaned against the window, your head tilted slightly toward him, letting the buzz of the night sink into your skin. Mingi tapped the steering wheel in time with whatever playlist was murmuring through the speakers, something vibey and low, probably something he’d added months ago and forgot about.
And when he pulled into the lot behind the apartment building, he sat for a second, engine idling as he looked at you. And you looked back. Still no one said anything. Still you didn’t let go of his hand. By the time you made it upstairs, the music behind your own apartment door was gone, but the soft thuds, muffled laughter, and low, familiar moans made it very clear that San and Wooyoung were still… occupied. You stopped in front of your door, keys in hand and turned slowly. Mingi had already opened his. The warm glow from his living room lit up half the hall behind him, casting a soft shadow over his bare collarbone. His hand was still on the knob. He didn’t ask. You didn’t need him to.
You stepped past your own door. Right into his and he stepped back, letting you in, watching you quietly as you moved through the threshold like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Thought you were going home,” he said, closing the door behind you. Locking it. You turned, standing in the center of his living room again, barefoot now, your heels in your hand, hair a little messy, lips still kissed and you smiled because the apartment smelled like him. Not just the faint trace of weed or the linen detergent on his blanket tossed over the couch, but that warm, musky, deep scent that hit you low in your belly. The one that had curled into your spine during your heat, and still lingered somewhere in your bones even now.
Mingi was at the coffee table, lazily grinding flower and dropping it into a wrap, his long fingers moving with practiced ease. He looked… relaxed. Wrecked in the best way. Collarbone bare, gold chain peeking out from under his shirt, his thighs wide as he sat, letting his fingers work. You didn’t say anything yet. Because your eyes were on the wall. Three canvases. Three versions of you. All different. All real. Mingi didn’t glance up when you moved closer to the paintings, barefoot, quiet. He just licked the edge of the wrap and sealed it, flicking the lighter once to test it, setting it aside to dry. “How many times have you painted me?” you asked, your voice soft, but steady.
He paused. The kind of pause that said, fuck, I knew you were gonna ask. And still, he didn’t lie. “Five.” Your head tilted. “Only three are here.” He glanced up, leaned back against the couch cushions, tongue pressing against his cheek before he replied. “One’s in my bedroom. The other’s still drying in the studio.” You turned to face him now. His eyes flicked to yours. “And why?” you asked, brows raising just slightly. “Why do you keep painting me?” Mingi reached for the blunt again. Lit it. Inhaled deep. Let the smoke curl out slow. Then he shrugged. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, voice low and matter of fact.
Your mouth parted. Your heart thudded, uneven and sharp. Mingi took another hit, eyes still locked with yours. Then he patted the spot beside him on the couch. “Come here.” You moved, because of course you did. Because you didn’t want to pretend either. You sank down next to him, knees brushing, bare leg against denim as he passed the blunt. And when your fingers touched his, your voice was quieter this time. “Are you gonna paint me again?” Mingi looked at you, eyes dipping to your mouth, then lower, to your bare leg through the slit of you skirt. He reached out, thumb brushing over your cheek like he was already outlining you in his head and smiled. Small. Honest. “Yeah….. Probably.”
Mingi watched as you took the blunt from between his fingers, easy, like you’d done it a hundred times, and brought it to your lips. The cherry flared as you inhaled, your fingers brushing his, and he tried not to show how that tiny graze made his pulse spike. You let the smoke linger, then exhaled slow. Lazy. Like you had all the time in the world. Then you passed it back. And while he was taking another drag, you stood up. He barely had time to process the movement, let alone the shift in the room, before your fingers found the hem of your shirt and began to pull it up, slow like you were unwrapping something sacred.
“Wait…” he started, sitting forward, smoke still on his tongue. “What are you doing?” The fabric hit the floor. Your bra came next. Then your skirt. Then your panties. You stood in front of him, completely bare, unapologetic, and even in the dim glow of his apartment, your skin was lit like the inside of a flame. “I want you to paint me,” you said. Simple. Straightforward. No hesitation. Mingi didn’t say anything at first. Couldn’t. His throat felt dry, his fingers tensed on the blunt still burning between them, his eyes drinking you in like he was afraid to blink. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. “You sure?” he asked, voice quieter now. Hoarse.
You nodded. And then you smiled. That soft, crooked, dangerous smile that had been haunting his canvas for weeks now. “Yeah,” you said. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.” Mingi let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The blunt was snubbed out as he stood, eyes never leaving you as he crossed the room, as he reached for a canvas already prepped in the corner, grabbing his palette and the jar of water beside it. You moved without being asked, stepping toward the rug in front of the windows, the LA skyline still glowing just beyond the glass. You sat. One leg tucked, the other bent. One arm resting casually across your knee.
Every inch of you was open. Soft. Vulnerable. Proud. Mingi dropped to the stool a few feet away, brush in hand. He started without a word. The first stroke was gentle. Deliberate. He painted your shoulder first, the curve of it, the shadow beneath your collarbone. He dragged the brush down slowly, lips parting as he worked, his eyes flicking from canvas to skin to canvas again. You watched him for a while. The way his brows drew in as he focused. The flex of his hand, the little furrow in his cheek when he blended too hard. But it wasn’t long before you noticed it, his scent shifting. Richer. Thicker. Desire. It rolled off him like heat. And he was trying to fight it. Trying to stay focused. Trying not to look too long between your legs or trace the slope of your breast with more than just his eyes.
But you saw it. You saw him. The quiet unraveling of a man trying to memorize every inch of you, not just on canvas, but in craving. He wad nearly halfway done. Brush strokes had slowed, gone less precise as the minutes ticked by, but he refused to stop. Refused to touch you. Refused to give in to the ache pulsing under his skin. Unless you asked. The painting had become more than he’d meant. Less of a pose, more of a confession. Not just curves and shadows anymore, no, this was you the way he saw you. The way you felt. Soft but defiant. Lit from within. A storm dressed in skin.
He was sweating now. Not from the heat, but from holding himself back. You had shifted your position halfway through, laying back against the rug, arm curled under your head, legs lazy and spread without shame. You were watching him with this impossible look, like you knew what you were doing to him. Like you were waiting for him to break. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And then your scent changed. It was subtle at first. A slow curl of something sweeter than before. Not the thick honeyed scent of your heat. No, this was deeper. Rounder. It filled the space between them like gravity. Like velvet. Like a signal. Mingi’s hand froze mid stroke. His nostrils flared. The scent punched straight into his lungs, raw and addictive.
Your eyes flicked to him. You knew. He knew you knew. He turned his head slowly, brush still poised in the air. His gaze dropped, and your thighs were slicked. Glossed with arousal, one knee twitching slightly as if you hadn’t even meant to move. But your scent didn’t lie. It told him everything. “You’re wet,” he said, voice cracked low. Like it hurt to say it out loud. You tilted your head slightly, lips curving. “I’ve been wet,” you murmured. “But now I’m wet because of you.” Mingi’s hand flexed around the brush. He finally set it down, fingers shaking as he let go of the palette too. His jaw ticked. “You weren’t supposed to…”
“What?” you asked, sitting up slightly, legs still parted. “You think I didn’t know what I was doing when I came over here?” His throat bobbed. “You think I didn’t remember exactly how your mouth felt?” you continued, your voice silk. “How you held me down and made me fall apart on your tongue?” He blinked slowly, like trying to shake something loose in his skull. “I’m not heat drunk this time, Mingi. I’m not confused. I want you. You.” Silence buzzed before Mingi broke it. “Say it again,” he growled as you crawled forward on your knees, closing the gap between you. His eyes dropped to where your slick glistened between your thighs. “I want you.”
He grabbed you before the last word had even left your mouth. The force of it knocked the breath out of you, one hand behind your back, the other cradling your jaw as he kissed you deep, hard, filthy. Tongue dragging over yours like he was finally letting himself taste as he picked you up, walking towards the couch and you pressed a single hand to his stomach, right beneath the base of his ribs and pushed, catching him off guard. You started pulling his shirt off, hands fighting at his pants until he was only in his boxers. He let it happen. Mingi stepped back slowly, his hands twitching at his sides as you followed him, calm, steady, focused in that way only omegas knew how to be when everything in them screamed mate but you weren’t rushing. No. You were savoring.
By the time the back of his thighs hit the couch, you sank to your knees before him. Still naked. Still dripping. But with the kind of power in your gaze that made Mingi forget how to speak. He watched you reach for the waistband of his boxers. Watched your fingers hook into the elastic, knuckles grazing skin that twitched in anticipation. “You don’t have to…” he started, voice frayed, but you cut him off with a look. That look. The kind that said shut up and let me worship you. Inside, you were burning. Not with heat this time, no. This was worse. More dangerous. This was clarity. The kind that sharpened everything else. You could smell him, fuck, his scent made your head spin. Rich and earthy with something dark underneath, something primal, tangled with the lingering sweetness of weed and the faintest hint of paint.
He smelled like Mingi. He smelled like home. You pulled his boxers fully down, letting them pool at his feet, and the second his dick sprang free, your mouth parted like your body had made the decision for you. God, he was gorgeous. Thick, long, flushed a dark pink at the tip, already leaking, already twitching toward you like he needed your mouth as badly as you needed to give it. You didn’t rush. You took a breath. Then another as Mingi looked like he was about to explode. His voice was hoarse. “Are you…” You cut him off again, this time with your tongue. One long, slow lick from base to tip, just to hear the sound he made. He groaned. Guttural. The kind of sound that made your thighs clench instinctively, made your slick get thicker between them.
You licked him again. Then kissed the tip. Then wrapped your lips around him, finally, slowly taking the head into your mouth and his knees bent slightly. “Shit…” he exhaled, one hand flying to your hair, not pushing, just holding. Like he didn’t know what else to cling to because Mingi didn’t know what he was looking at anymore. Because this? This was not a fantasy. This was you, real and alive and panting softly around his dick like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were stroking him with one hand, twisting just right, mouth drooling around him as you slowly took more. His dick hit the back of your throat and you relaxed, swallowing, pulling him deeper.
He choked on his own breath. “Fuck, baby…. slow…” But he didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. You were on your knees, looking up at him now, your lips swollen and slick, eyes glassy with hunger, and Mingi swore something in his chest cracked. His omega. The part of him he hadn’t let breathe in so long? It howled. Because this wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just a blowjob. This was an offering. And fuck, you were good at it. Too good. You were moaning softly now, like you loved the weight of him, the taste, the stretch of your mouth around his length. Your free hand slid up his thigh, nails raking gently as if to say, you like this too, don’t you? He did. God, he did.
And when you pulled back, spit connecting your lips to the tip of his dick in a string that shimmered like silk in the low light, he nearly came just from the sight of it as you stroked him slowly, thumb teasing the underside. “I’ve thought about this,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “So many times.” Mingi’s head fell back. He hissed through his teeth, gripping your hair a little tighter. He was so close it hurt. Your mouth was perfect, too perfect, wrapped around his dick, lips swollen, spit and slick making the whole thing obscene. His thighs had gone tight. His abs were flexed. His jaw clenched like a vice as he watched you sink again, throat swallowing him down like you craved it. And you did. He could smell it. Even more than that, he could feel it. The heat behind your eyes, the way your thighs were pressed together, rocking ever so slightly with each suck, like pleasuring him was getting you off just as much. Fuck, he was gonna come. He was gonna…. No.
No, not like this. He tugged at your hair a little hard, a sharp gasp falling from your mouth as he pulled you back. Your lips popped off his dick with a wet sound, your eyes wide, dazed, pupils blown out. You looked wrecked. Beautiful.
And completely confused. “Mingi?” He dropped to his knees and kissed you. Hard. Tongue deep, possessive, claiming every drop of him you still had on your tongue. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them, and you barely had time to yelp before he was underneath you, pushing you back onto the couch cushions, spreading you open like a feast.
“I need to taste you,” he growled, voice unrecognizable. Then his mouth was on your pussy again, loud, hungry, unrelenting making you cry out. He devoured you like a man starved, lips wrapping around your clit, tongue flicking, dragging through your folds, fucking into you as his fingers joined, two thick digits plunging in, curling up, working that spot he already knew made you lose your mind. “Fuck…. you’re so sweet,” he breathed, tongue lapping over your entrance. “I could live between your legs.” You keened beneath him, body twitching, hips bucking into his face as he sucked harder, groaned into you, the vibrations making your vision go white.
You came hard. Slick dripping onto his chin, thighs clamping around his ears as your voice cracked on his name. He didn’t stop. Not until you were panting, twitching, begging him with your hands to slow down, he was still hard and pressed against the couch, aching. When he finally pulled back, his mouth was a mess. His eyes darker than night. And you, still gasping, barely managed a breath before he lifted you like nothing. One arm under your knees, the other cradling your back. You instinctively curled into him as he carried you to his room. His room was dark. Only the dim hallway light reached inside when Mingi nudged the door open with his foot, his arms tight around you, chest still bare and streaked faintly with sweat and slick.
He carried you in like something precious. Not desperate now, not frenzied, worshipful. You let him set you down at the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. But he didn’t let go right away. Instead, he stood there for a second, his hands still warm on your thighs, thumbs grazing your skin as if grounding himself. As if to make sure this was real. You. Here. Naked and flushed from his mouth, your scent soft and sweet and ripe with need. His voice was rough. “You sure?” You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned in on your knees, lifted your face, and kissed him. Soft at first. Then deeper.
Your hands found his chest, sliding up, palms skating over the lean lines of his torso. You felt his heartbeat thudding beneath your fingertips, fast, hard, matching your own. He kissed you back like he meant it, like your lips were the only thing that had ever calmed him down. Then you moved forward, crawling properly onto the bed on your knees, pulling him with you until he was kneeling too. He cupped your face. You bit his lower lip making him groan. And then his mouth was everywhere. Mingi kissed down your jaw, then your neck, slow and unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world. His tongue flicked over the slope of your shoulder before his lips dragged back to your collarbone, nipping gently.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your skin. “I’ve dreamed of this.” You gasped when his mouth reached your chest. He cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and then he took one into his mouth, warm and wet and so gentle it sent goosebumps down your spine. He sucked lightly, then harder. Swirled his tongue and looked up at you through his lashes as he did. His hand still rolled your other nipple, palm hot and broad and possessive on your skin. When he switched sides, it was almost too much. You were already breathing fast, thighs pressed together, needing him again and again and again…. But he was taking his time. Because he needed this. To taste you. To savor you. To show you how long he’d wanted you without saying a word.
He pressed open mouthed kisses lower, between your breasts, down the center of your belly, his hands wrapping around your hips to guide you gently back until you were lying down fully. He followed you as you reclined, dragging his mouth along the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the soft swell of your inner thigh…. But then he paused. Looked up at you. You were already staring at him. Bare, flushed, breathless. Eyes wide, lips parted. And all Mingi could think was, mine. “Say it again,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Say what?” you asked, dazed as his hands slid up your thighs. “That you want me to paint you. That you want this.”
“I do,” you said without hesitation. “I want you.” He kissed the inside of your thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the scent of you. Your scent had shifted. You were ready. For him. For more. The moment stretched between you like molasses. Thick. Warm. Slow. Mingi hovered above you, bare and reverent, his mouth still damp from the trail of worship he’d left on your body. Your thighs trembled beneath his touch, your skin flushed all the way up to your ears. Your lips were kiss bruised. Your breath was shallow as you suddenly grew impatient. So you flipped him. Fast, bold, needy.
Mingi made a startled sound as you rolled him over, climbing into his lap with your knees bracketing his hips. His back hit the pillows with a dull thud, but his eyes never left yours. Not even when you reached down, wrapped your hand around his dick, and grinned at the way his breath stuttered. “Baby,” he rasped, already thick and hard and leaking for you. “You sure…”You cupped his face before he could finish. Eyes locked. Voice steady. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” That was all it took. Mingi’s hands flew to your hips, fingers curling around the soft give of your waist as you lifted yourself just enough to align him, his tip dragging through your slick folds, already soaked, desperate. Your body pulsed, needing him, begging for the stretch.
And then you sank. Slow. Deliberate. Until he was buried to the hilt inside you. Your mouth parted with a choked gasp, eyes fluttering shut as he filled you up inch by inch, the stretch stealing your breath. Your nails dug into his chest, and his grip on your hips tightened as he groaned, deep, from his gut. “Fuck…” he gasped. “You feel… so good.” You both sat there for a second. Still. Letting the weight of it settle. The weight of him inside you. The weight of this moment. The weight of everything you hadn’t said.
You tilted your hips experimentally, and Mingi shuddered. His voice was wrecked. “Baby… please don’t move yet, I’m gonna…. fuck.” You leaned forward, kissed his forehead. “It’s okay. You can come. I’m not stopping.” Your voice was soft, breathless, wrecked from wanting. Then you rolled your hips again, just once, and Mingi whimpered beneath you. He looked up at you like you were a dream. A storm. A goddamn painting come to life. One hand slid up your spine, palm wide and warm, until he cradled the back of your head, your palms were flat on his chest now, nails biting faint crescents into his skin.
Mingi lay back against the pillows, jaw tight, eyes glazed, watching every roll of your hips. You’d gone from slow and deliberate to something else entirely, a rhythm that wasn’t careful anymore. It was hungry. It was you, taking what you wanted, grinding down on him again and again until the sound of your slick around him filled the room. “Fuck…fuck, baby…” he groaned, head tilting back as your heat clenched around him. “You’re gonna…” He moaned, voice breaking as another orgasm rolled through you, sharp and sweet and overwhelming letting him feel it all. Your thighs trembled as you kept moving anyway, riding him and yourself through it, chasing the next wave.
Mingi’s hands flew from your hips to your waist, gripping hard enough to still you. His eyes were wild, nostrils flared, sweat beading at his temple. He was right there, he could feel the edge creeping up, the knot threatening to swell whether he wanted it or not. “Stop…” his voice cracked, low and raw. “I can’t… if you keep…” You looked down at him, hair falling into your face, lips parted. “Then come…” He sat up instead, catching you under your thighs, lifting you off him in one motion. His dick slid free of you with a wet, obscene sound and he hissed at the loss, forehead pressing to your collarbone as he held you above his lap.
“Not yet,” he panted, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t wanna finish yet. Not like this.” You were still shaking, your release pulsing through you, slick dripping onto his stomach, your breath hot against his hair. He pulled back enough to look at you, eyes dark but steady. One hand slid up your back, thumb rubbing a slow circle against your spine. “Breathe,” he murmured. “Just…breathe for me.” You clung to his shoulders, heart hammering, the world narrowing down to the two of you, his dick still hard and throbbing against your thigh, your body still quivering from your orgasm, both of you balanced on the knife edge of what comes next. He kissed your throat, slow and soft. “I’m not done with you. I just…need a second.”
Mingi’s heart was still pounding. Not from fear, not even just from lust, but from that dizzying feeling of being completely undone by you. By the way you took him. The way you wanted him. The way you were still trembling slightly in his arms, even as he laid you back against the bed. His mouth found yours again, softer now, slower. Like he needed to kiss you just to come back to earth. His lips lingered, parted against yours, breathing you in, grounding himself as you cupped his jaw. His eyes fluttered open to find you watching him. “Come back to me,” you whispered. He kissed you again as he shifted, grabbing one of your legs and lifting it over his shoulder while your other wrapped naturally around his waist, locking him in.
“Ready?” he asked softly, and when you nodded, he positioned himself, then slowly eased back into you. You both groaned at once as he dropped his forehead to yours. “God,” he breathed. “You feel… fuck….. every time I swear it’s better…” He stayed there, buried deep inside you, not moving yet. Just breathing. Just holding you. It would be so easy to lose control. To rut into you like every cell in his body was screaming for. To knot you, claim you, fill you until your body kept him there whether he wanted to stay or not. Except he did want to stay. That was the terrifying part. He swallowed, still catching his breath, hips barely rocking, just enough to keep you both on that edge.
“I’ve never…” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never knotted anyone before.” You blinked up at him, mouth parted, heart thudding beneath his hand where it rested on your chest. “I’ve had sex, yeah. But I’ve never let myself….” he broke off, biting down on his lip. “I’ve never let it get that far.” He looked at you like he was afraid to even want this much. “I don’t… just knot for the sake of it. That’s not me.” Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing through the longer strands of his hair. “Are you afraid?” you asked. He shook his head. “Not of that.” You kissed him, letting your lips linger against his own. “Then what?” He gulped, biting back a moan at the feel of himself buried in you. “That I won’t be able to stop.”
“Then don’t.” Your words snapped inside him. He started moving. He didn’t mean to go this slow. Not originally. But the moment he sank back into you, your leg over his shoulder and your other wrapped tightly around his waist, Mingi couldn’t rush a single second. Not when it felt like this. You were warm. Wet. Clenching around him like your body already knew him. And his knot, swollen, pulsing low, was already aching to lock inside you. He kissed you through the first roll of his hips, a slow drag, every inch of him drawing back before pushing back in. You moaned under him, your fingers threading into his hair, your lips brushing his jaw. “Fuck,” he whispered, breath shaking. The rhythm he set was deep, unhurried, each stroke hitting just right, just enough to keep you both teetering. He gritted his teeth as your walls pulsed tighter around him, a soft whine leaving your lips as your hips tilted up for more. “Need you, Mingi…”
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I got you.” He shifted lower, letting go of your leg to wrap both arms around your waist, pulling you up into him. His lips moved to your throat, brushing soft kisses between your collarbones. The pressure was building fast now. His knot was growing, pushing at your entrance with every stroke, and you felt it too, your breath catching, your back arching. You met his eyes. “You’re close,” you breathed. He nodded, jaw clenched. “Yeah.” Another slow thrust. His knot nudging harder. Another. And then your legs squeezed tighter. Your hands pulled him closer. And your voice, just a breath, “Let me have it.” He growled, low and guttural, as instinct finally overrode every cautious thought. His hips snapped forward once, twice, and then again, his knot popping inside you with a sudden fullness that made your whole body jerk under him.
“Fuck!” he gasped, eyes squeezing shut as your walls clenched desperately around his knot. “Oh my god…. shit… shit!” You were writhing beneath him, moaning his name, your nails sinking into his back as your orgasm hit hard and fast, ripping through you with the force of his knot locking you in place. Mingi barely held on. He stayed deep, buried to the hilt, grinding instead of thrusting now, helpless against the pressure building behind his knot. The first pulse hit hard, and then another. You felt him twitch deep inside you as warmth flooded your core in waves. Mingi moaned like he was in pain, like this was too much, too good, too overwhelming.
His arms were shaking from holding himself up. So he collapsed onto his forearms, breathing against your skin, holding still, his knot thick and swollen inside you. You both stayed like that, panting. Sweat clung to his back, the air thick with the mingled scent of your orgasms and something more, something new. Because Mingi could smell it now. Your scent had changed again. It wasn’t just yours anymore. It was his scent inside you. Around you. And something in him… tightened as you shifted, just slightly, whimpering at the sensitivity. “Still with me?” he whispered. You nodded, dazed, your arms wrapping around his neck as he kissed your temple. “Good.”
He stayed quiet for a while. Letting his body calm. Letting his knot slowly soften. But his mind… was anything but calm. He’d never done this before. Never knotted anyone. Never let himself go this far. But he didn’t regret it. Not even a little. Still, he hadn’t claimed you. He’d wanted to. For a split second, when you were shaking around him, begging for more, he’d nearly let his teeth sink into your neck, right over your gland. But he hadn’t. Because Mingi knew what claiming meant. And no matter how good this felt, no matter how deep you were inside him now, and he inside you, it had to be your choice too.
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It was the smell of paint that woke you. Not coffee. Not breakfast. Paint. Your body ached in a slow, satisfied throb, between your legs, along your thighs, at the curve of your neck where Mingi had pressed kisses so desperate you swore they’d brand you. But it was a good ache. Deep and heavy and warm. The morning sun filtered in through the open blinds, casting long golden streaks across the floor. You reached for the other side of the bed on instinct, fingers brushing only empty sheets. Still warm, though. You sat up slowly, sheet falling to your waist, and blinked away sleep. Somewhere outside, a car alarm chirped. Someone laughed. The real world was still turning.
But in here… Everything felt suspended. You slid out of bed, bare, your skin still humming with the memory of Mingi’s touch. You didn’t bother reaching for clothes. Not yet. Just padded quietly across the apartment until you reached the living room. And there he was. Mingi sat on the floor, cross legged, facing an easel near the window. His hair was still messy from sleep, ink black strands curling at his ears. A blunt burned low in an ashtray beside him, forgotten. A half eaten tangerine sat next to his knee. And on the canvas in front of him…. You. Nude. Lit like honey under the morning sun. One arm slung lazily across your chest. The curve of your hips, your thighs, the look on your face, half sleepy, half sated, entirely real. He didn’t even flinch when you entered. He just looked over his shoulder, brush paused mid stroke.
“You’re awake,” he said softly, smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world. You swallowed. Your voice still hadn’t come back, so you just nodded as Mingi looked back to the canvas, brushing a final stroke across your collarbone. He blew out a breath, leaning back to examine his work before he noticed you hadn’t moved. “You okay?” You stepped closer, slowly. Bare feet on cool floor. The painting still held your eyes as you nodded. He patted the spot beside him on the floor. “Wanna sit? I’ll show you.” You crossed the room and sank to your knees beside him, still naked, not even thinking to care. His bare thigh pressed against yours. He passed you the blunt. You took it, exhaled slowly. “Did you finish it?” you asked, nodding at the canvas.
He looked at it. “Almost,” he said. Then turned to you, his eyes traveling the length of your body again. Slower this time. His voice dropped. “You moved before I could finish your mouth.” You tilted your head, teasing. “Wanna fix that now?” His lips parted just slightly, eyes darkening. But instead of kissing you, Mingi reached for the brush again, dipped it in a pale wash of amber, and turned back to the painting, his hand steady, his face soft. And just like that, the moment stretched again. Gentle. Real. Yours.
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The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of whatever playlist he’d started hours ago and forgot to turn off. Some Metallica track with a beat that thumped low like a pulse. The kind that made you move without realizing. You were in his lap, soft thighs pressing into his sides, the hem of his shirt riding high on your hips, his shirt, oversized on you, sleeves swallowing your hands. The only thing you were wearing. And you were grinding. Slow, heavy rolls of your hips against the swelling pressure in his grey sweatpants. Just enough to tease, not enough to let him breathe. You brought the blunt to his lips, fingers brushing his jaw, eyes already half lidded. “Open,” you whispered, like a command. Like a prayer.
He did. Let you press the blunt to his lips and inhale, his eyes never leaving your mouth as you leaned in to take a hit after him, lips closing over the same spot on the wrap, smoke curling between you like a secret. You blew it out slow, watching it fog in the dim lamp light before rolling your hips again.
“Fuck…” he groaned under his breath, his head tipping back into the couch. His palm slid under the hem of the shirt, warm skin meeting the bare curve of your hips, waist, ass. You weren’t wearing a damn thing underneath. You never had to say it, he’d known the second you climbed into his lap and that scent of yours hit him like a sucker punch to the chest. “Thought you were gonna finish your painting,” you murmured against his jaw, voice thick and teasing, like you already knew you ruined him for anything else. He chuckled, low and breathy. “Couldn’t concentrate.” Not with the way you looked when you wandered out of his bed that morning, still marked with his mouth, the heat of you still trapped in his sheets. Not when you didn’t even glance at the door to your own apartment. Just stole one of his shirts, curled up in his space like you always belonged there.
And now? Now you were wrecking him in every way that mattered. Your hands were splayed over his bare chest, nails grazing just enough to make him shiver. You pressed yourself closer, and Mingi felt the outline of your breasts brush against him through the thin cotton. You rolled your hips again, slow this time, deliberate, watching his face the entire time. “You’re dangerous,” he muttered, dragging his hands up to grip your waist, thumbs pressing into the dip of your back. You smiled lazily. “So stop me.” He didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.
The smoke lingered in his lungs, in the air, on your skin. You smelled like weed and sleep and sex and him and it short circuited every last working part of his brain. His dick strained hard beneath the sweatpants, your slick already soaking through the fabric as you kept moving, dragging yourself over him with a kind of lazy confidence that made his jaw tighten. He kissed you then. Hard, with no warning. No softness. Just teeth and tongue and want. Your lips parted immediately, hungry for it, and you moaned into his mouth like you been waiting all day for this. You arched into him, and he could feel the heat of you against the damp spot growing on his pants. His hands slid up your back, dragging the shirt higher, revealing more of you to him inch by inch.
He barely had time to register what you were doing. One second you were in his lap, passing him the blunt with a smirk, tongue peeking out to wet your lips like you already knew what you were about to do to him. The next? You hand was slipping under the waistband of his grey sweatpants. You didn’t even warn him. Just curled your fingers around his dick, slow and deliberate, and pulled him out. Heavy. Hard. Already leaking for you. He hissed around the blunt, a low sound that melted into a groan as his head dropped back. “Shit…” You shushed him with a kiss to his jaw, soft and slow as he took another hit, deeper this time, trying to stay grounded, but his focus shattered the second he felt the slick glide of you against him.
You didn’t sink down onto him. You didn’t ride him. You just… used him. Your hips rocked forward, letting the thick length of his dick slide through your folds, hot and wet and soft, and Mingi nearly choked on the smoke still in his throat. “Y/N…” You moaned, biting your bottom lip, one hand steady on his chest as you kept moving, grinding yourself against him. His tip catching your clit each time you rocked forward, dragging between your soaked lips like you done it a hundred times before. “Fuck, baby…” he gasped, grabbing your hips, trying to do something, anything to hold on, but he couldn’t stop you. Didn’t want to.
Your pussy was dripping onto him, coating his length, the obscene slick sound of you using him echoing through the smoky room. His dick twitched, aching, and you felt it, smiled at it. “Feels good, huh?” You whispered, voice all sugar and sin. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he growled as you rolled your hips faster, letting the swollen head of his tip rub right over your clit again and again until your breath hitched. You were getting close, he could feel it, the way your thighs trembled, the way your hands curled against his chest. And still, you didn’t let him inside. Just kept using him. Slicking him up. Teasing you both to the very edge of madness. His hands clenched at your waist, trying not to lose it. “You keep going like that and I’m gonna come just from this,” he warned, voice hoarse, deep.
“Then do it,” you purred, grinding down harder, deliberately dragging his tip right along your clit again. “Come for me, Mingi.” His eyes rolled back. His jaw locked. You were fucking relentless. “Y/N!” he gasped, and his hips bucked, once, helplessly, thrusting up into nothing as your wetness coated every inch of him. And then it hit him. Hard. Hot. His breath punched out of his chest as his dick twitched violently between your folds, cum painting your thighs, stomach, the inside of his sweats, everywhere. He choked out a groan, the sound rough and broken, his whole body tensing under you as you kept rocking, riding out his orgasm like you owned it. Owned him. And maybe you did.
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It was almost peaceful. For once, their apartment didn’t smell like sex, takeout, and San’s cologne all blending together like the ghost of poor decisions past. Wooyoung had just brewed coffee, actual coffee, not the instant kind San always brought over in a jar, and was halfway through a bite of a croissant when he heard the telltale sound of the front door creak. He didn’t even have to look. He knew. He paused mid chew, blinking once. Then looked up slowly, croissant in hand. And there you were, sneaking in like you were auditioning for a spy movie. Hair messy in the way that only said one thing, wearing not your clothes, legs bare, one of Mingi’s oversized shirts barely hitting mid thigh, and that post orgasm glow all over your smug little face.
He took one long, slow sip of coffee, eyes narrowed over the rim of the mug. “Well, well, well,” Wooyoung said, voice flat, “if it isn’t the neighborhood slut.” He teased and you froze halfway to the kitchen. “I was….” you started, lifting your hand like you might defend yourself. He raised one perfect brow. “Don’t. Even.” You sighed and padded across the room, collapsing on the other side of the counter. “He bought me tacos,” you offered weakly, like that made anything better. Wooyoung stared. Then blinked. Then burst out laughing. “You didn’t even try to lie! I love that for you.” You dropped your head to the counter. “I’m so tired.”
“Oh, I bet you are.” He smirked, stepping around the counter to grab your face gently in one hand and squish your cheeks together like a judgmental grandma. “How’s it feel, huh? To betray me for a man with good dick and paint stains on his sweatpants?” You tried to say “I didn’t betray you,” but it came out more like “I did’n b’tray yuh.” Wooyoung let go of your face and slid onto the stool beside you, dramatically flipping his hoodie up. “Look. I knew this day would come. You meet a hot, quiet alpha. You disappear into his apartment for 48 hours. You come back reeking of sex and sage and sin.” You turned your head and deadpanned, “San was in our apartment for 48 hours.”
He waved you off. “That’s not the point. San leaves. You come back. I connect the dots.” You grumbled something about needing a shower and caffeine and maybe CPR. Wooyoung handed you his half eaten croissant. “Eat. Hydrate. Dehydrate again later when you go right back over there.” You groaned but took the bite anyway. “So?” he asked, nudging you with his elbow. “Was it worth it?” You paused. Looked at him. Then smiled. A slow, wicked, ruined smile. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It really fucking was.” Wooyoung cackled, loud and unbothered. “Oh, we’re never getting the old you back, are we?”
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It’d been three weeks since your first shift at Choi Family Grill, the old school Korean fusion restaurant nestled between a record store and a tattoo parlor just off 6th Street. The air always smelled like charred galbi and sesame oil, the windows fogged with steam during rush, and San’s grandma still came by every other afternoon to “supervise” from a back booth with her knitting needles and disapproving glances. You were finally settling in. The apron was worn in now, your name scribbled in thick Sharpie on the tag. Your regulars knew you. San gave you hell but always made sure you ate during your break. Wooyoung had taken to walking you there at least once a week just to “check the vibes” But Mingi? Mingi was different now.
Still the same teasing alpha with paint stained fingers and sleepy eyes, but something had shifted. Every time he picked you up from work, leaning against his car with sunglasses low on his nose and a half smile on his lips, that favorite black hat of his low on his head, you could feel it. Everyone could. The way he held your waist, kissed your temple in front of San. How he scowled when a customer flirted with you just a little too long. How his scent clung to you for days after you stayed over, stronger, deeper, almost like it wanted to stay. But he still hadn’t claimed you. And it was starting to gnaw at you. Not in a desperate way. Not yet.
But in that quiet, creeping way where you felt it everywhere, when your heat happened again, when he pressed his nose to your neck but never bit, when he knotted you and held you through it but whispered “not yet” like it meant something he wasn’t ready to explain. Even now, you could smell him on your hoodie. He’d dropped you off hours ago after staying the night, letting you ride him before the sun came up, before muttering against your neck, “I need to paint this…” and disappearing back across the hall to his canvas. You were in love with him. Maybe stupidly. Maybe recklessly. But you were. And when San yelled from the kitchen for you to grab Table 5, you shook the thoughts off like dust, moving with muscle memory now. The restaurant was busy. The sun was warm on the front windows and Mingi would be here to drive you home soon.
The lunch rush had just started to die down. A soft lull hung over the restaurant like a held breath, chopsticks clinking, the hiss of the grill from the open kitchen, one of San’s playlists quietly humming from the Bluetooth speaker perched above the counter. You were wiping down table four when the door opened. The bell above it jingled like always, but something in you stiffened. Skin prickling. Your hand paused mid swipe. You didn’t know why at first, until you turned your head. And saw him. Alex. Your ex. The one who’d followed you here. The one Mingi had stepped in front of a month ago in the hallway like a wall made of teeth and rage and heat. The one who hadn’t shown his face since. Until now.
His hair was longer. Sunglasses shoved into the collar of a designer tee he probably stole off someone’s Instagram. Hands in his pockets. That smug, lazy smirk on his face like he was exactly where he belonged. He met your gaze and tilted his chin like he knew you’d look first. And maybe you did. But this time? You didn’t flinch. You straightened. Threw the rag onto the table. And walked right up to him. Behind the counter, San clocked the way your shoulders squared. He’d never seen this guy before, but the shift in your scent? The way your jaw clenched and your eyes went cold? It said enough. Alex opened his mouth, probably to say something smart, maybe even sweet, but you cut him off with a sneer. “Are you stalking me or something?”
Your voice wasn’t loud. But it was lethal. A few heads turned. San stood straighter from behind the register. He hadn’t moved yet, but he was watching. One brow raised. His gaze flicking between you and the man who had clearly worn out his welcome. Alex smiled, slow and syrupy. “That’s how you greet me now?” You glared at him. “I didn’t think I’d have to greet you at all,” you snapped. “Especially not at my job. You lost, or are you just hoping to piss off my boyfriend again?” San blinked and Alex sneered. Boyfriend? His eyes sharpened. Oh, this was getting interesting. He chuckled, leaning against the host stand like this was some kind of game. “So what? You running around LA playing house with some art freak now? You really gonna pretend like we didn’t spend two years together? And now what, you’re working in some hole in the wall kitchen, dating some asshole who smells like weed and bad decisions?”
The door chimed again. You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. That scent hit you like a balm. Earthy. Deep. Calm. Mingi. You turned just in time to see him step inside, black hoodie half zipped, hair tousled from the wind, that lazy grin tugging at his mouth, until his eyes landed on Alex who was still running his mouth. “You wouldn’t let me claim you. But this guy? The first alpha who gave you attention, and suddenly you’re all knotted and marked up like a bitch in heat.” Mingi moved. Not rushed. Not wild. Deliberate. He stepped right up to Alex, barely an inch of space between them, voice like fire under ice. “You don’t ever talk to her like that,” Mingi said. “You don’t talk about her. You don’t even breathe the same air as her. Let me make something real clear since your ego’s louder than your brain,” he said, stepping closer, slow and measured. “You didn’t lose her because of me. You lost her because you treated her like something you were owed.” Alex laughed under his breath. A short, ugly sound. “You think you’re different?”
“I know I’m different,” Mingi said, still not raising his voice. “I don’t take what isn’t mine. I wait until she gives it freely. Until she says, I want you, which, remind me, she never said to you, did she?” You could feel the heat crawl up your spine at that, your heart pounding now for entirely different reasons. Mingi wasn’t just defending you, he was protecting your dignity, your choice. Your autonomy. And he was doing it in front of the one person who had tried to take all of that away. Alex looked between the two of you, like he couldn’t quite figure out where the power in the room had shifted. But it had. It definitely had.
Mingi looked over at you now, eyes softer, mouth twitching like he could tell your pulse had jumped. “You ready to go, baby?” he asked, voice low, familiar. You nodded, stepping from behind the host stand. Alex opened his mouth again, probably to say something cruel, but you didn’t give him the chance. “Don’t bother,” you said flatly, staring him down. “You followed me all the way to LA to do what exactly? Watch someone else treat me right? Get a hobby.” San let out a quiet, impressed laugh behind you as Mingi’s hand slid gently to the small of your back, not possessive, not territorial. Just steady. Reassuring. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Alex wasn’t worth another second.
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You wore red. A silky deep wine that clung in the right places, open in the back, with thin straps and a slit up the side that made Mingi blink twice when you stepped out of the building. “That’s not fair,” he’d said under his breath, already holding the car door open for you. “You gonna tell me to change?” you teased, sliding in. He smirked, leaning down to whisper, “No, I’m gonna tell everyone at the gala that you’re mine.” And then he kissed you. Softly. Like it was already true.
The gallery was in West Hollywood. High ceilings, polished concrete floors, chandeliers that looked like they belonged in some celestial ballroom. There were flutes of champagne being passed around and murmured conversations in pockets of linen and velvet. You walked beside him, fingers loosely hooked into his. It was a date. An actual date. Not a night tangled up in heat or smoke or afterglow or messy laughter on his couch. This was Mingi in his element, watching you out of the corner of his eye every time you caught someone else’s attention. This was Mingi introducing you to people, gallery owners, curators, fellow artists, his hand sliding to your waist in quiet, familiar claim.
But it was when you rounded the corner and saw it that everything slowed. One of his pieces. Hung in a gallery like it belonged there, because it did. It was acrylic, brushstrokes wild and deliberate all at once. You knew this piece. You remembered the day he painted it, that week when he’d barely spoken, holed up in his apartment. The colors were aggressive but controlled, like him. Like his mind. Like the things he never said but always felt. Your chest tightened. The placard read: Song Mingi, Untitled Acrylic on Canvas – $11,500 Eleven. Thousand. Dollars. Jesus. And he didn’t even blink at the price. Because of course he didn’t. You looked at him, really looked, and it finally hit you. You weren’t just infatuated. You weren’t just sleeping with an insanely hot alpha who could paint and roll blunts and talk about music and still make you laugh on the worst days.
You were in love with him. You were completely, terrifyingly, deliciously in love with Mingi. Every stubborn, cocky, soft spoken inch of him. He caught you staring, brow arching just slightly. “What?” he asked, quietly. “Nothing,” you said, smiling, stepping closer. “Just… proud.” Mingi’s expression flickered. Something softened there, the muscle in his jaw, the heat in his eyes. Like maybe he was realizing something too. But he didn’t press. He just leaned down, kissed your temple, and said, “Still not fair you wore that dress.”
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He’d always thought of the studio as his spine. The one place no one could touch, the one room above the noise of the city where everything was his, his mistakes, his unfinished ideas, his private colors. It wasn’t big. Just a converted attic room on the top floor of your building, with skylights instead of windows and old wood floors that creaked under his boots. Canvases leaned against the walls like an army, stacks of sketchbooks on the desk, jars of turpentine and paint water lining a shelf like strange potions. It smelled like oil paint, smoke, and him. He’d never brought anyone up here. And now you were standing in the doorway, red dress glowing in the dim light, looking at the room like it was a cathedral. “You really painted all of these?” you asked quietly. “Yeah,” he said, throat tight. “This is… my place. I don’t let people come in here.”
You stepped in anyway, slow, like you were afraid to wake something. Your fingers trailed along a stack of brushes, over a half finished canvas on the easel, a study of your collarbone and the hollow of your throat, though he hadn’t told you that yet. When you reached the worktable you picked up one of his brushes, heavy with cobalt blue. He blinked at you. “Careful…” he started. Too late. You stepped close and dragged the brush right across his cheek. A bright streak of blue against his skin and you grinned. “Now you look perfect.” Mingi froze. For a heartbeat he wasn’t Song Mingi the alpha, or the guy who rolled blunts, or even the artist who had managed to build a name in a city full of them. He was just a boy with paint on his face, staring at the girl in his studio, realizing she’d slipped past every wall he had.
You laughed softly, and before he could think, you were kissing him. Paint smudged between your palms and his jaw. Your lips warm, slow, sure. He kissed you back like he’d been starving for it all night, one hand sliding to your waist, the other curling around the back of your neck. When you finally pulled back, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “Y/N…” he murmured. “I don’t… I don’t do this. I don’t let people in here. I don’t let people…” He swallowed, his thumb stroking a smear of blue from your chin. “You’re different. You’ve been different since the first day I smelled you in that hallway.” You didn’t speak. You just kept looking at him, eyes wide and soft and unguarded. And the words tumbled out of him before he could stop them. “I’m in love with you.” It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was just there, in the air between the two of you, honest and raw and terrifying.
You exhaled a shaky laugh, brushing more paint across his jaw with your thumb. “I was hoping you’d say that,” you whispered. “Because I’m in love with you too.” Something inside Mingi cracked open at that, and he smiled, big, shy, wrecked, pulling you in again, kissing you slow and deep, his hands already leaving smears of blue down the back of your dress. The studio smelled like turpentine and smoke and now, finally, you. Your lips were soft and insistent, tasting like cheap wine and something sweeter. Your hands already sliding down the front of his shirt, gripping the hem like you were claiming territory. Mingi let you pull him backwards, blindly, toward the old couch in the corner of the studio. His legs hit it first, and you went with him, half falling into his lap with a quiet gasp, both of you laughing against each other’s mouths. Paint smeared on your cheek. Cobalt blue on his jaw. Love in the air like static, about to strike.
You sat on top of him, straddling his thighs, and started peeling his shirt up slowly. Palms dragging across the hard slope of his stomach, up his ribs. “I love you,” you whispered again, like it was a secret just for him. Mingi closed his eyes. No one had ever said that to him like this, while touching him, while looking at him like he mattered. He didn’t even know how to hold the words yet. But he reached for you anyway, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other slipping up your thigh beneath that dress. “Say it again,” he breathed, voice rough. “I love you, Mingi.” He groaned, head dropping back for just a second before he surged forward, kissing you hard, deep, tongue sliding into your mouth as his fingers gripped your hips. Your dress was already riding up. He helped you take it off completely, eyes raking over your bare chest like he hadn’t already painted you three different ways.
“God, baby…” he muttered, hands covering your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “You drive me fucking crazy.” Your hands were back on his chest, pushing his shirt down his arms, slow and reverent. His skin was warm beneath your palms, his body hard and trembling slightly. You kissed the dip between his collarbones, then down, lower, your mouth dragging fire with it. He hissed when you kissed the spot right under his ribs, fingers curling into the cushion behind him. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” you whispered, nose brushing along the edge of his hipbone. Mingi’s heart was pounding now, loud in his ears, loud in his throat. You moved back onto his lap, lips ghosting over his again, hips grinding down just once to feel the shape of him beneath his pants. He was already hard. Already aching for you. But there was no rush. Not this time. You kissed him again. Slower. Deeper.
And as your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his pants, dragging them down inch by inch, Mingi’s mind went quiet for the first time in years. Just you. Just this. Just the steady rise of something sacred between your bodies. When he was finally bare beneath you, your eyes met his, glinting with something that wasn’t just lust anymore. “I want to love you like this,” you whispered, settling your weight onto his thighs again. “Not just fuck you. Love you.” Mingi didn’t speak. He just nodded, completely undone. The moment you sank down onto him, Mingi forgot how to breathe. You were slow, like you wanted him to feel everything. And he did. God, he did. Your thighs framed his, your nails digging into his shoulders as you lowered yourself fully, inch by inch, until your hips met his. His eyes rolled back, mouth parting in a silent curse, hands grabbing at your waist, barely able to contain the tremble that ran through him.
You were so warm, so tight, clenching around him like you were trying to memorize the shape of him. His hands slid up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, eyes locked on where your bodies met. And then you moved. Slowly. Like a tide rolling over him. Rising, falling, every motion controlled, dragging pleasure through his spine like static until he was gripping the couch for dear life. “Mingi…” you whimpered, breath hot against his jaw as you leaned forward, your chest flush against his. “I’m gonna….” He caught your face in both hands, kissing you hard as you came around him, body shaking with it, your walls fluttering, squeezing, driving him mad. He didn’t move, not yet, just held you to him, kissing your forehead, your cheek, the corner of your mouth as you gasped through it. “You’re so perfect like this,” he murmured, sweat cooling at the nape of his neck. “So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”
But when you slumped against him, dazed and wrecked, he couldn’t stay still any longer. He shifted, gripped your thighs and lifted you, just barely, enough to slide out of you before standing. You made a small, confused sound at the loss of him, but he was already moving, already laying you down on the couch, already crawling up behind you. He kissed the middle of your back, then higher, lips soft between your shoulder blades. He took his time, moving slow, dragging his mouth across your spine as your body arched instinctively beneath him. “Just wanna feel you again,” he whispered, brushing your hair off your neck as he nudged his length against you once more. “Wanna take my time with you now.” You gasped when he pushed in, deeper this time, the new angle stealing your breath. One of your legs bent beneath you, the other instinctively lifted and draped behind him, your foot curling at his thigh.
Your head dropped forward, fingers gripping the cushions like lifelines. He groaned against your skin, one hand grabbing your hip, the other stroking up your back, thumb brushing along your shoulder. “You feel so good, baby,” he whispered against your ear. “You always do.” His hips moved slow at first. Deep. Rhythmic. The kind of pace that drove you crazy with how complete it felt. And as he kissed your neck, your shoulder, your lower back again, worshiping you with every movement, Mingi realized something that made his chest ache….. He’d never want anyone else like this. No one else would ever come close. You were his muse. His lover and he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop the way his hips met yours, again and again, from behind, slow at first, measured, letting you feel the depth of every thrust as he stayed nestled deep inside you. Couldn’t stop the soft, low sounds he made every time your walls fluttered around him, still sensitive, still greedy for more.
“So good for me,” he murmured, eyes half lidded as he watched the curve of your spine dip under his hands. His other hand gripped your hip while the other moved to stroke up your side, thumb brushing under your breast before gliding to your throat, just barely resting there. A possessive touch, not choking, not pushing, just holding you, gently, like a promise. “You feel me?” Y… Yeah,” you breathed, wrecked. “Good girl,” he groaned, kissing your shoulder as his hips moved with more purpose now, the wet sound of you echoing against the walls of his studio, your back arching beautifully with every deep thrust. Mingi couldn’t look away. You were all he could see, all he could feel. His scent was all over you now, his need, his devotion. But it still wasn’t enough. He needed more.
With a low grunt, he slowed his rhythm just long enough to pull you up, guiding your back flush against his chest. One hand slipped down to circle your clit while the other stayed splayed across your stomach, holding you in place as he began to thrust up into you again, deeper now, filling you so completely you cried out. “I got you,” he whispered into your neck. “I got you, sweetheart. Just like this…” His lips grazed your pulse, brushing warm and soft over the skin. He let himself inhale you, mouth watering, eyes fluttering shut. You smelled like his. Like you already belonged to him. “Do it,” you whispered. “Mingi… I want you to claim me.” He froze. Heart pounding. Your voice was so breathless, so sure. Your head tilted without hesitation, baring your neck for him. “You sure?” he murmured, voice rough with restraint. “Yes. Make me yours.”
Mingi groaned like the words physically broke him. He didn’t wait anymore. His mouth found the crook of your neck, lips parting, tongue licking gently once, twice, tasting you, before he sank his teeth into the soft flesh right above your scent gland. You gasped, his name on your lips as he held you tightly, letting his knot begin to swell inside you, locking you in place. The pain was sharp, but the pleasure followed like fire. Warm, consuming, undeniable. Mingi felt the bond take root the moment he marked you. His whole body trembled with it, his chest, his throat, his dick pulsing as he spilled into you with a broken moan. “Mine,” he whispered against your skin, voice thick with awe. “You’re mine now.”
He kissed the mark and held you tight through it all, through the wave of his knot settling, through your soft cries, through your shaking thighs and fluttering walls. There was no going back. And he didn’t want to. The moonlight filtered in through the high window of his studio, casting silver shadows across the paint streaked floor and unfinished canvases. Somewhere behind them, a brush had fallen with a soft clatter. His shirt lay forgotten across the back of the couch. And you… you were curled into him like you’d always belonged there. Mingi’s knot was still nestled deep inside you, the warmth of it binding your bodies like a secret only the two of you would ever fully understand. His arms stayed wrapped around your waist, his chin resting gently on your shoulder as you both breathed in sync. Slow. Steady. Real.
His fingers traced idle patterns over the soft skin of your stomach. He wasn’t even thinking about it, he just needed to touch you, keep you close, remind himself this was real. That he was yours now. And you were his. Claimed. Not just marked. Not just mated. Loved. You shifted slightly, not in discomfort, but to press a kiss just beneath his jaw. The small gesture made his chest ache, in the best, most ruinous way. “You okay?” he whispered, voice low and rough, still tinged with awe. You nodded, one hand coming up to slide into his hair, fingertips brushing the damp strands at the nape of his neck. “I’ve never felt more okay.” He smiled then, soft and crooked, a little shy and a little wrecked. “You smell like me,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Like you’re mine.”
“I am,” you whispered and Mingi held you tighter, eyes fluttering shut. The bond pulsed quietly between you now, like a second heartbeat. He could feel your contentment. Your calm. Your trust. It wrapped around him like silk. No gallery crowd. No canvas. No filter of color or charcoal could ever capture what this felt like. Only you could. And as you drifted to sleep in his arms, the only sound in the room was your breathing, the quiet creak of the couch beneath you, and the soft hum of the city outside. His studio had always been a sanctuary. Now it was home.
trigger warning: minors do not interact. sensitive content ahead, read at your own risk.
word count: 22,5k
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y/n:
hey, it's san, you already know that. okay, you know i'm bad at this, so i'm sorry in advance. there might be a right way to write this and i don't think i know it, but for you i'll try. please don't judge the handwriting too much. or the wording, or how short or long it is. i rewrote the first part four times and it still feels bad. anyway, i'm sorry, here's the letter. i guess i should start from the beginning, no? is that stupid? i don't know. [scribbled] the first time i saw you was in that class we both didn’t want to be in. i don’t even remember what the professor was saying, but i remember you. you were leaning over the desk, hand on your cheek, resting your head. i remember thinking you looked easy to be around. i don’t know why, but it did. this is embarrassing but i think i knew i wanted to marry you way earlier than i probably should have. i didn’t say it, obviously, that would've been creepy. i just knew you looked so so pretty and now that i know you, you became so beautiful. not that you weren't beautiful before being with me, you always were, i'm just saying from my perspective just how mesmerized you had me from the start, you know? you are just so smart, so creative, so diligent. [scribbled] it's like when you balance numbers and they finally add up the way they’re supposed to, that's what it kind of felt like, but in the romantic way. i'm sorry i'm not good at expressing my feelings and all that, you know that better than anyone else. but i want you to know that choosing you has never felt like a decision i had to force myself into. i want this more than anything, with you. we have this apartment now. it’s small and the walls are kind of thin and the kitchen light flickers sometimes, but it’s ours. i keep thinking about how this is the place where everything will start. mornings, dinners, normal days, hard days, all of it. and i like knowing you’ll be here at the end of the day. i like knowing i get to come home to you. i promise i’ll take care of you. i promise i’ll work hard. [scribbled] i know i don’t always say what i’m thinking, but i feel things even when i don’t show them right. does that make sense? well, [scribbled] i’m really proud to be your husband. that still feels strange to write, but in a good way. i hope we grow old together. i hope we don’t stop choosing each other, even when life gets busy or complicated. i hope you always know that you’re my favorite person in the world, even if i forget to say it out loud sometimes. i’ll always try to try, even if i’m bad.
i love you.
san
tucked beneath the neatly folded cashmere sweaters, exactly where you left it. lace covered box, meant for letters he had promised to fill with, yet a year and a half later, only the first one stood alone. you weren't angry, not even sad. it actually made you chuckle a little. just a quiet grief for what had been started to root deep inside, for the vibrant colors that had softened into pastels, for the soft reverence in his eyes that had slowly faded into habit. you often found yourself staring at the box, a wry smile touching your lips.
the paper, once crisp, now yielded to countless revisits. you knew every word by heart, the rhythm of his awkward sincerity etched into your memory. you traced the faded ink. his handwriting, usually neat in ledgers, was a little clumsy here. each letter formed with an almost painful deliberation. it was short, a simple promise. a quiet declaration of his intent to build a life with you, to be your home. no extreme pronouncements of undying passion, but a solid foundation of devotion. san had never been one for grand gestures, at least not in words. his love manifested in the certainty of his presence, the steady rhythm of his life intertwined with yours. in fact, you had asked for the letter in the first place, at that diner right before receiving the keys to the apartment.
"a letter?" he'd shifted on his seat, a blush creeping up his neck. "i'm not... good with words, y/n."
you shook your head with an endeared smile. "you don't have to be shakespeare sannie, just you."
he seemed in thought for a moment, trying to resist looking at your puppy eyes asking pretty please before straightening his back, accepting the challenge. and he did. pen clutched tight, brows furrowed in concentration. you’d watched him, your heart swelling with a love so potent it felt like a physical ache. then when he finished, he slid it across the booth table, eyes avoiding yours with his shy offering.
now, the paper, soft as old linen, whispered between your fingertips. you didn't rush. each sentence, each carefully chosen word, you read them slowly, precious memory reexperiencie. tasting the hope, the fresh promise of that day when he later bought you the box, saying he'd get better at it and you'd have it spilling out with his loving written words. you ran your fingers over the intricate patterns of the lace, delicate threads contrasting the hollow space.
you folded the letter along it's original creases, the paper folding easily, and placed it back before checking your thight bun in the mirror, perfect posture, every single hair placed where it was meant to be. he still looked at you, of course, but the spark, the raw wonder, had dimmed. it wasn't his fault. life had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of infatuation, leaving behind the smooth, enduring stone of work life.
silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant city chorus. you tell yourself he just forgot. got busy, or thought one was enough. you're good at explaining things away. but when did trying turn into remembering? when did the promise of a future become the past?
the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the air, a comforting scent that tonight told a solitary performance. table was set, candles unlit, everything waiting for a moment that kept getting delayed. the antique clock sat on the mantelpiece. seven thirty, again. you waited for the familiar click of keys in the lock, the sound that usually signaled the end of day and the beginning of us.
when he comes in your head lifts before you even realize. smoothing your dress automatically, fingers brushing over fabric that was never wrinkled in the first place. a small smile already forming, reserved for him. san already halfway out of his shoes, shoulders slumped, a dark suit jacket draped over his arm. he didn’t glance at the table set for two, but knows everything looks exactly as it always does.
"hey," his voice tired, worn down. like business of the city still clung to him.
"hi," you answer, softer.
he leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. familiar, practiced.
"sorry i’m late," he adds, already loosening his tie as you walked towards the dining table. "we had to redo part of the quarterly report because... how do i put this- there was a discrepancy in one of the ledgers, and it threw off the whole reconciliation process. so we had to go back and..."
pulling out his chair. the heavy oak scraped across the polished floor. he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "had to redo a section. whole damn thing.” he ran a hand through his hair, already tousled from the day. “hours. just… hours.”
you watched him, spooning roasted vegetables onto his plate. you pushed his plate closer, then sat across from him. "must be frustrating," you offered, a soft murmur.
he picked up his fork, turning the chicken over. "frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. the whole team, scrambling. for a single misplaced figure." he took a bite, chewed slowly. "it’s done now. mostly."
he keeps talking about work, deadlines, numbers, something about a client. you listen, always do. you don't understand every word, but you understand him in the way he talks when he’s tired. the slight edge in his voice, the way he explains things like he’s still in the middle of solving them. it’s easier for him to talk about numbers than about how his day actually felt.
nods at the right moments. hums of acknowledgement. small "and then?" once in a while, just to keep him going.
"…where did those come from?" he signals behind you at the counter. a faint lift of an eyebrow. a hint of a smile, almost.
you glance back, even though you know exactly what he’s looking at. the vase sits neatly by the sink, filled with fresh flowers. soft colors, carefully arranged.
"oh," you say, turning back to him, a warmth creeping up your neck. "mrs. jones gave them to me. i brought her some brownies earlier."
he paused, fork halfway to his mouth and exhales a small breath through his nose in genuine bewilderment.
"y/n," he says, setting his fork down for a second, "you need to stop baking so much."
you blink at him. "why?"
"i don't know, it's just..." he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. "it's every day. there's always something new. brownies, cookies, that cake from yesterday. the whole building must be swimming in your desserts." he didn’t sound angry, just... resigned.
"i like baking," your voice still gentle, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth
"i know, i know," he says quickly. "i'm just saying… it's a lot, isn't it?"
a small pause settles and you shrug, barely lifting your shoulders. "it keeps me busy."
he reached across the table, covering your hand with his. his palm was warm, calloused. "tell you what. how about i book you a day at that salon you like? the one on fifth street. hair. nails. the works. i can tell my sister to join you."
"what? am i starting to look like a hag?" you managed a weak laugh.
his grip tightened slightly. his eyes, usually so guarded, held yours with an intensity that surprised you. "you know that’s not what i meant." his voice was firm, no trace of humor.
the small joke withered and you nodded, slowly. "okay." you swallowed. "okay, that sounds... nice."
the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face. he picked up his fork again, the brief moment of connection already fading.
later, the apartment settled into it's nightly quiet. you lay in bed, the soft glow of your reading lamp illuminating the pages of a novel you couldn't quite focus on. normal people by sally rooney, but the words blurred. beside you, san lay on his back, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands. the blue light painted his face in stark contrasts. his thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled. numbers, probably. reports. another discrepancy.
you watched the subtle movements of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. he was so focused, so far away. still, you reached out, tentative touch to his forearm. his skin was warm beneath your fingers.
he didn’t stir, didn’t look up. his thumb kept scrolling.
you moved your hand, gently, up his arm, over his shoulder, until your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, then threaded into his hair. soft, dark strands. you leaned closer, your breath stirring the air near his ear.
a soft sound escaped him and it almost seemed like he was leaning into it. a yawn. deep, stretching. he lowered the phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. his eyes, heavy lidded, met yours. fleeting moment, again.
"long day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he gave you a quick short peck on your cheek then turned onto his side, facing away from you, the duvet pulled higher. "good night."
lamp clicked off. darkness enveloped the room, thick and immediate. you lay there, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, soon turning into soft snores. beside him but alone in the quiet. the book lay open, unread. words still blurred.
୨୧
acetone and something floral, both sharp and comforting. hum of dryers and low chatter fills the space, blending into a steady background noise that makes everything feel easy. normal.
you sat in the middle chair, hands resting neatly on the small cushion in front of you, fingers relaxed but still. a sigh escaping your lips before you could stop it. the manicurist, a young woman with a bright, knowing smile, took your hand, her touch cool and precise. she filed your nails into neat, elegant ovals. you picked a soft, clean color without much thought. something simple, safe, that goes with everything.
across from you, two of your friends leaned into each other, their overlapping voices a stream of gossip. too loud and uncaring. the others chime in, voices overlapping. one of them threw her head back, a peal of laughter echoing, the other one nodded, eyes wide with feigned shock. they talked about a mutual acquaintance’s recent engagement, the scandalous details of a breakup, the endless parade of societal expectations.
"he actually said that?"
"no, stop-"
"i'm serious, i swear-"
to your left, rhythmic snip of scissors. noeul, san's older sister listened quietly, sat under a cloud of foil, her head tilted back as a stylist worked through her dark hair. but her attention drifts back to you more often than not. she owned a warm, reassuring glint. offering a small, conspiratorial smile whenever you caught her gaze in the mirror, silent acknowledgment of the shared escape.
a few chairs down, a woman with kind eyes spoke in hushed tones to her stylist. "she just graduated middle school with the highest scores," her voice, thick with a mother’s proudness, drifted over.
the stylist hums a singing note. "you must be so proud."
"oh, more than that" the woman exhales. "she's even already thinking about what she wants to study after high school."
she spoke of her daughter, a girl she’d poured her heart into.
your fingers still for a second on the cushion. the stylist murmurs something gentle back, and the conversation folds into the background. but it lingers.
your gaze drifted from the woman’s satisfied face to the neat row of polish bottles, then to your own hands, at the careful brush of polish gliding over your nails. you imagined those hands, smaller, softer, reaching for yours. a child. a son, perhaps, with san’s dimples and your own tendency to blush when surprised. or a daughter, with san’s quiet strength and your expressive eyes. the thought bloomed in your mind like a fragile hothouse flower.
you try to picture it. years stacked quietly on top of each other. a child in your apartment. toys where there are now empty surfaces. noise where there is now silence. san, coming home from work. would he pick them up? would he be too tired? would he talk to them the way he talks to you now, half there, half somewhere else? or would it be different? the thought catches you off guard. unfamiliar.
because you've never talked about it. not seriously. not beyond passing comments, vague things people say because they’re supposed to. someday. eventually. no timelines, no plans, no want or don’t want laid out clearly between you.
you don't even know if he wants kids. and for a second, that realization feels heavier than it should. there’s a whole future on a limbo sitting out of reach. not because it’s impossible, but because it’s never been named.
"y/n? you’re miles away!" the brightness of your friend's voice cut through your reverie.
the other leans forward slightly, "how’s married life treating you?"
you don't look up right away, only tilting your hand slightly when the nail tech asks you to. a practiced tug at the corner of your lips masked the tremor beneath.
"it's good, really good." you offered, voice light and airy.
"ugh," someone groans playfully. "of course it is. you guys were always like... perfect for each other."
you let out a soft laugh. "thank you, emma."
"it is," the friend grins. "seriously though, what have you guys been up to lately? anything fun?"
there’s a pause. you glance up for just a second, like you're checking your memory for something recent, something worth telling. "not really," tone still light. "just... normal stuff."
"that's adorable," another friend says, laced with genuine admiration. "no drama or chaos. must be so peaceful to marry an office guy."
"yeah," you nod, smile a little wider. "exactly."
the conversation shifts easily after that, flowing like a meandering river to other topics, someone starts talking about a coworker, someone else about a trip they want to take, and you listen, add comments here and there, smile when you're supposed to. their voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. you watched them, their easy camaraderie, the way they finished each other’s sentences, and a familiar pang of loneliness pierced through the carefully erected wall around your heart.
noeul’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the din. she leaned closer, her perceptive eyes, meeting yours.
"how’s he been?” she asks.
you turn slightly. "san?"
a small nod. "yeah."
your smile didn’t falter. it felt glued on now, a permanent fixture. "he’s good," you say. "just busy with work, you know how he is." the words came out a little too quickly, a little too smooth. you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the manicurist applying the top coat, making sure each nail was perfectly glossy.
noeul scoffs and tilts her head. "i do." a faint, wry smile touched her lips. "you know, i’ve known my brother a long time. longer than you, even." she paused, letting her words hang in the air. "i know how he gets. when things pile up and he forgets the rest of the world exists."
for a second, the façade threatened to crack. the truth, the bitter, stinging sensation, rose in your throat. you wanted to confess, to unburden yourself, to say, he’s not here, noeul. even when he’s here, he’s not here. i’m so lonely. i feel like i’m drowning in this calm. but the words remained trapped. fearful of conflict, ingrained habit of presenting things softly. you forced a small, reassuring nod. "yeah, it's nothing." the lie tasted like ash.
she watches you for a second longer, like she’s weighing something, then hums lightly and looks away, letting the moment dissolve back into the room. as the conversation drifts away again, your gaze lowers, unfocused.
the manicurist finished, buffing your nails to a high shine. she applied a cuticle oil, the scent of almond and rose a delicate perfume. your hands, now impeccably groomed, felt foreign.
"all done, dear." she announced, her smile bright.
you lift your hands slightly, turning them under the light. they’re perfect. smooth, even, untouched.
"thank you," you say, smiling.
for a moment, you imagine asking him. should be simple. do you ever think about kids? it doesn’t feel like a big question. it's not.
and yet, you can’t picture the moment clearly. when you'd ask, how he’d answer, whether it would feel natural or out of place, like introducing a topic that doesn’t belong in the quiet shape of their life. so you let the thought go.
you reach for your phone absentmindedly. no new messages. thumb hovers over the screen for a second, like you might type something, then you lock it instead and set it back down.
"do you guys want to grab something after this?" a girls asks. "coffee?"
"perfect! i’m craving that new lavender latte."
"oh, i can't," you say quickly, forcing another regretful smile. "i really should head home. dinner, you know." you gestured vaguely, as if the very concept of an empty fridge was an urgent, looming threat.
"alright, wifey," someone teases.
you simply smile again in a thin line as you stand, smoothing down your dress out of instinct and reach for your bag. giving everyone a small goodbye hug. as you pass behind noeul, there’s a brief brush of hands, intentional to pause you.
"hey, if it’s ever not nothing," she says quietly, a hint of concern still lacing her words. "you can tell me."
you hold her gaze for a second. then you smile. soft, reassuring, effortless. "i know." and you mean it, you just don't use it.
blur of city sounds and hurried footste. you stepped out, the cool afternoon air a sharp contrast to the salon’s warmth. rose scented oil on your nails, faint blush of pink, it felt like a disguise. you walked, footsteps echoing on the pavement, toward the quiet of the apartment, toward the silent kitchen, toward the dinner you had to make. the thought of it, a weight in your stomach, settled in with the dull ache of loneliness. the calm awaited.
୨୧
the last of the suds swirled down the drain, taking with them the faint scent of tonight’s braised short ribs. you wiped down the counter, movements precise, methodical. the clinking of ceramic plates against the drying rack was the only sound in the kitchen. you dried your hands on a towel, folding it neatly over the edge of the sink when you're finished. dishes done, kitchen clean again.
san's in the living room, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face. he's not typing much. just staring, scrolling, thinking. you paused at the archway, shoulder pressing lightly against the cool plaster. the conversation from the salon, a snippet of motherhood, rang in your mind. it had all been a gentle nudge, a question mark in the back of your thoughts all afternoon. you hadn't realized how much space the idea of a child, of your child, could occupy until that moment.
the future, once a vibrant tapestry you and san wove together with eager hands, now a blank canvas. you’d painted the college days in bright, bold strokes, the wedding vows in shimmering gold. but the years beyond, the ones stretching into a quiet domesticity, remained unsketched. you found yourself wondering if san even saw that canvas anymore, if he still held a brush.
you watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he began typing, the subtle ripple beneath his shirt. his dark hair, a little longer than you usually liked, fell across his forehead. he didn’t look up, his focus absolute, a tunnel vision you’d come to recognize.
"still have a lot to do?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, a whisper against the keyboard’s clatter.
his fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed their pace. "almost," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. "just finishing up these projections for the morning."
a breath, deep and slow, air cool in your lungs. you watch him for a second. the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his attention narrows into whatever’s on the screen. focused. distant. the question, the real question, the one that had been brewing since you left the salon, fell heavy on your tongue. it wasn't just about kids. it was about us. about the unspoken, the unasked, the growing chasm of silence. you wanted to ask if he ever thought about them, about a future that wasn’t neatly tied to quarterly reports and spreadsheets. you wanted to ask if he still saw you, really saw you, beyond the perfectly made bed and the carefully planned dinners. maybe, just maybe, this question could be the key, a small crack. it could lead to an actual conversation, a real one, not just about work or groceries or the weather. your heart beat a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
"hey," you start.
he hummed, signaling acknowledgement without breaking concentration. his head tilted slightly, silent invitation to continue.
do you ever think about kids?
words once so clear in your mind, so simple in your head, at least, suddenly tangled. they became a knot in your throat, a lump of unspoken fears and resentments. the image of him, so engrossed, so far away, solidified the doubt. what if he says no? what if he doesn’t want them? what if he thinks it’s a silly question? the fear of that disappointment in his eyes, was a known, suffocating weight. you’d spent years perfecting the art of soft landings, of avoiding any ripple in the calm surface of your shared life. to shatter that now, to introduce a potential disagreement, felt like a betrayal of your own carefully constructed peace. the question of children, of your future, of his love, dissolved into a vague, unformed anxiety.
"do you…" you began, then faltered, sentence dying on your lips. "do you want some tea?"
he looked up then, slanted brown eyes meeting yours, a faint smile touching his lips. the blue light softened the edges of his face, highlighting the dimples that appeared only when he was genuinely pleased. "yeah," he nodded. "sounds nice."
and just like that, the moment passed. the opportunity vanished. you offered a small, tight smile in return, then turned and walked back into the quiet kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. behind you, the quiet settles back into place. the question dissolves somewhere between the sink and the stove, blending into the rhythm of water filling, mugs being set out, something warm being made and offered instead of something uncertain being asked. by the time the kettle starts to hum, you can’t even tell if it would’ve been the right moment or if there would ever be one.
୨୧
the supermarket was colder than you'd expected when the automatic doors whispered open, spitting out artificial chill. paused just past the entrance, adjusting your grip on the heavy cart as the air settled unwelcome against your skin. for a moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet hum of refrigerators and distant chatter fill the space around you. a shiver traced it's way down your spine, cold reminder that you had to move, and so you pushed the metal basket forward as it's wheels squeaked faintly.
there was no reason to rush. you followed the aisles in a pattern you didn’t have to think about anymore. chicken first, hand reaching for the familiar white tray. then the vegetable section. flour, again. sugar, constant drain on the pantry, always seemed to run out faster than it should. everything found it's place in the cart without hesitation, each item chosen with the same steady certainty. each line on your shopping list crossed off with a decisive stroke of the pen. at some point, you realized you had already walked down the same aisle twice.
nothing missing, nothing forgotten. the necessities secured, a small indulgence felt earned. you slowed, then stopped altogether at the snack aisle. eyes drifted over the shelves, lingering on things you didn’t need. brightly colored packaging, a mental tally forming: which ones you wouldn't you buy, which ones would san wrinkle his nose at? the familiar ritual offered a brief, quiet comfort. you imagined his polite imperceptible nod of approval when you presented his favourite chocolate covered crispy biscuits, or the slight, teasing lift of his brow if you dared bring home something too exotic.
"y/n?" the voice came from behind, uncertain but enough to make you turn, the cart creaking in protest. you couldn’t place him until the crooked smile appeared and recognition settled in.
seonghwa.
he stood a few feet away, a half basket hooked over his arm. the boy you remembered, all sharp angles and adolescent angst, had softened around the edges, but the core was undeniably him. the piercings that once studded his ears and lip were gone, leaving only ghost like indentations. but new ink snaked up his forearms, dark tendrils against his skin, a testament to a life lived beyond high school hallways. his wolf cut, a shaggy, artfully dishevelled frame around his face, was longer, wilder than you remembered. his round eyes, still piercing, held a glint of surprise, then something else, something assessing.
"oh...hi," you said, a small, surprised smile breaking through. "wait, hi."
"wow, it's really you." he smiled back, a little wider, like he’d been more sure of it than you were. "i almost didn't recognize you. you... look good, exactly the same," he added, almost as an afterthought.
you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "that’s not true."
"it is," he said lightly. "just... older. in a good way."
you smiled again, more out of politeness this time, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as if to give your hands something to do.
"what are you doing around here?" he asked. "do you live nearby?"
"yeah," you nodded. "not too far. i just came to... groceries."
"right," he said, glancing at his own cart. "same."
there was a brief pause, the kind that should have felt awkward, but didn’t quite. not yet.
"so... are you still in touch with... what was her name? sarah? no- samantha?”
you smiled faintly. "no."
"right, yeah," he said quickly, waving it off with a small laugh. "i always mix those up."
you didn’t correct him. his gaze shifted then, catching on your left hand, lingering for a fraction on the thin band around your ring ringer. you followed his eyes, as if you hadn’t noticed it until that moment.
you offered a practiced smile, a smooth, well rehearsed performance. "oh, yeah. met him in college." the words came out light, airy, almost dismissive of the years of shared history, of the dreams whispered in dorm rooms, the silent promises.
"college, huh? that's nice," he said, and it sounded genuine.
"it is," you replied, too quickly. "his name is san, he's an accountant." the description felt flat, inadequate, a pale shadow of the man you loved.
"an accountant. fancy." he chuckled. "so, what have you been up to? still arguing about about freud versus jung for fun?"
"no, not really." you corrected gently. "i mean, i got a psychology degree but i'm… i'm a stay at home wife now." the phrase almost felt embarrassing on your tongue.
his eyebrow shot up. "huh... i always pictured you, like, running a therapy practice, saving the world from going insane."
you shrugged. "well, it’s nice, though. i get to... manage the house. bake. plan meals. save him from going insane, you know?" the words hollow, even to your own ears.
"i bet san’s a lucky man. always coming home to fresh cookies." he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
small, tight knot formed in your stomach. you baked when you were anxious, yes. but san rarely came home early enough for the cookies to still be warm. and most of them, you gave away to the neighbours, offerings of surplus comfort. "something like that," you murmured, deflecting. "what about you? still making music?"
his face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated passion sparking in his eyes. the words lingered between you for a second before dissolving into something lighter. you talked after that. nothing important, nothing that would be remembered in detail later. work, vaguely. life, in broad strokes. the kind of conversation that filled space easily without asking too much of either of them. he asked questions and waited for the answers. reacted in the right places. kept things moving without letting them settle too long in any one place. you found yourself talking more than you expected to.
"a few of us get together sometimes," he said, almost casually. "nothing big. just... hanging out. you should come, we’re going to a friend's house next week. old times' sake."
you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because you did. your mind immediately conjured a mental checklist: the laundry basket overflowing in the utility room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun on the living room floor, the intricate dinner you had planned for san, a quiet attempt to reignite a spark that felt increasingly dim. the thought of all those small, domestic duties, waiting patiently for your attention, made a familiar pang of guilt twist in your gut.
"i don’t know," you said lightly, automatic refusal on your lips. "i might be busy."
"with what?" he asked curiously.
you searched for something immediate, something obvious.
"just… stuff," you said instead, smoothing it over with a small smile.
he nodded, accepting it without question.
"well," he added, "if you’re not, you’re welcome. it’d be nice to catch up properly. it’s good to break free sometimes and let loose, you know?"
a small yearning stirred within you. the idea of an afternoon free from chores, from the quiet hum of your own thoughts, from the subtle ache of loneliness, held an unexpected appeal. "okay," you said, the word simple.
"yeah?" his eyes amused.
"yeah."
you exchanged numbers. nothing ceremonious about it, a small addition, barely noticeable in the moment. "well, it was good running into you, y/n. don’t be a stranger." he offered a quick, easy smile, then turned, his basket still hooked over his arm, and disappeared down the aisle towards the dairy section.
that night, you work through the knots in your hair in front of the vanity mirror. each stroke of the brush pulls a small discomfort. the rush of water from the tap in the en suite bathroom ceases. the door creaks open and san emerged, a towel draped low around his waist. water still clings to the dark hairs on his chest, glistening under the low light. he moves with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment before he crosses to his side of the bed, carrying the clean scent of his soap. he doesn’t look at you, not directly, as he peels the towel away, letting it drop to the floor. your gaze, however, finds the smooth expanse of his back, the hard lines of his muscles shifting as he reaches for the pajama drawer. you note the way his bicep flexes, the familiar curve of his neck, the slight slump of his shoulders that wasn’t there when you first met him.
you continue brushing, rhythmic scrape of bristles against scalp filling the silence. your heart a persistent bird, flutters.
"i ran into someone today," you say, your voice almost lost in the rustle of san pulling on a shirt.
a low hum sound from inside the fabric, he pulls the shirt down, smoothing it over his chest. he turns then, his eyes, dark and heavy lidded, finally finding yours in the mirror. a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before settling into a tired affection.
"at the market?" he asks as he pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed.
you nod, watching his reflection as he settles onto the mattress, propping himself up against the headboard. "an old friend. from high school." you pause, the brush still in your hand, it's bristles splayed. "apparently some of them still hang out, and i was invited."
the bed dips as he adjusts the pillows. "that’s good. you should go." his voice is calm, even. he picks up his phone from the nightstand, it's screen glowing blue for a moment before he sets it back down.
you turn fully then, the brush forgotten on the vanity. your bare feet touch the cool wood floor. "really? you don’t mind?" you walk to your side of the bed.
he looks up, his brows furrowed slightly. "why would i mind? it’s good for you to see people. you’re always here." his gaze sweeps around the room, then back to you. "you should get out more."
the words, meant to be reassuring, land with a surprising weight. always here. a small, sharp ache begins in your chest. you climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. the sheets, cool against your skin, feel vast tonight.
"i mean," you start, choosing your words carefully, "i haven’t seen them in years. since graduation, probably." you watch his face, searching for something, a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern.
he just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "people change. that’s okay. it’ll be nice to reconnect." he reaches over, his hand finding yours under the duvet. his fingers, warm and strong, intertwine with yours, a familiar comfort. "you’ve been cooped up. it’s good to have plans."
his thumb strokes the back of your hand, it’s a connection, yes, but one that feels practiced, automatic. you want to tell him more, to say, it was seonghwa, the boy with the emo hair, the one who used to draw skulls in his notebook during history class, but the words catch in your throat. the moment feels too delicate, too easily broken.
"i guess so," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. you squeeze his hand, a silent plea for more, for him to ask, who was it? what did you talk about?
soft exhalation that sounds like relief escapes him. he leans over, his head dipping. his lips, warm and soft, brush your forehead, then your temple, then your mouth. it’s a brief, chaste kiss, a familiar closing to the day. his lips taste faintly of mint. he pulls back, settling deeper into his pillow.
"good night, y/n," he says, his voice already thick with sleep.
eyes closing and breathing deepening almost immediately. the rhythm of his breath fills the room, steady and even. his hand, still holding yours, loosens it's grip. fingers, heavy with sleep, slide away.
darkness pressed in as you layed there, the silence amplifying the quiet hum of the city outside. your eyes trace the familiar contours of his face in the dim light. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rest against his cheekbones. faint smile, ghost of a dream, plays on his lips. he looks peaceful, untroubled.
he hadn’t asked. he hadn’t asked anything beyond the most superficial. he hadn't asked who. he hadn't asked if you wanted to go. he just assumed.
you turn onto your side, facing away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around you. the warmth of the blankets does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep within you. still, you tried to push the thought away. it’s not fair. san is tired. he works hard. he provides. this is what you agreed to. this is the life you built. you chose this, to be here. for him. but the loneliness curls around your heart. the perfection of the bed you made this morning, the carefully planned dinner, the unspoken anxieties baked into the pastries you gave away, all of it feels like a silent scream swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of your days.
tears won’t come even if the knot in you throat screams for a cry. instead, your mind drifts to the closet, to the neat rows of clothes, the perfectly folded sweaters. tomorrow, you think, you’ll reorganize the winter section. it needs it. you need it. a small, manageable task to fill the endless hours.
y/n choi: hi, it's y/n from the store. i think i'm free that day if the invite still stands
seonghwa park: hey!
seonghwa park: yeah of course 😉
seonghwa park: glad ur coming, heres the address
seonghwa park: [location]
୨୧
the building wasn't what you expected. grimy canvas of faded brick and peeling paint that slightly unnerved you. you pulled your phone from your pocket a third time, checked the address, then glanced up at the entrance like it might correct itself if you stayed waiting long enough.
no, this was it.
bass vibrated through the pavement, pulse beneath your feet. for a second, you consider leaving, then you adjust your grip on the small container in your hands and step inside. the hallway swallowed you whole, narrow canyon that smell suspiciously of gasoline. when you reach the graffiti painted door, it was already slightly open. you knocked anyway.
there's a small shuffle inside before seonghwa emerges, his grin a flash of white teeth.
"y/n! thought you weren't gonna make it." he stepped aside, his arm sweeping an invitation.
you offered a small, polite smile, stepping into the room. the air hit you first, thick with a cloying sweetness you couldn't recognize and the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. the apartment was a controlled chaos. art adorned every available surface, canvases leaning against walls, sketches tacked to corkboards, a half finished sculpture draped in cloth in a corner. the room swam with bodies. girls, their midriffs bare, navel piercings glinting under the strung fairy lights. men, their arms drawn with ink, sprawled on beanbags or perched on the worn, leather couches. they moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, as if the space molded itself around their presence. your modest linen shirt, a soft ecru, felt suddenly like a costume, an ill fitting disguise.
"hey everyone, this is y/n, from high school." seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze, a casual announcement.
a few heads turned, a couple of languid nods, but most remained immersed in their conversations, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. your gaze swept across the room, searching for a familiar face, a flicker of recognition. nothing.
"it’s... nice to meet you all," you murmured, voice a little too soft, a little too formal for the raucous atmosphere. you clutched the clear container in your hands, the weight of it suddenly grounding.
a girl with a constellation of tiny tattoos climbing her neck, her hair a violent shade of fuchsia, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at your hands. "what’s that?"
you felt a blush creep up your neck. "oh. cookies. i made them." you held the container out, a silent offering.
a woman with striking, dark eyes and a generous smile detached herself from a group near the window. she wore spiked hair and her eyebrows seemed to be gone, but her presence offered a quiet anchor. "cookies! how cute. anna, by the way." she extended a hand, her grip firm and warm.
"y/n." you returned her shake, a surge of relief washing over you.
"i didn't know this was a bake sale," a gravelly voice grumbled from a corner, followed by a snort.
anna turned, her dark eyes narrowing playfully at the fat guy with a mohawk. "shut up, mark. you never bring anything." she gave his arm a quick, sharp shove. despite his joke, he came up as well.
a fresh wave of embarrassment hit you, cheeks burning as you began to stammer, "i just thought, you know, as a... a thank you for inviting me..."
anna waved your apology away. "no, it’s great! we love snacks. what kind?" she peered into the container, her eyes sparkling.
"chocolate chip. with sea salt." you offered, a small smile tentatively forming.
the lid popped open with a soft click. the aroma of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted through the air, momentarily cutting through the other scents. it was like a siren song. suddenly, a small crowd materialized around you, drawn by the scent. hands reached in, fingers deftly plucking cookies from their neat rows.
"someone brought cookies?"
"wait, i want cookies."
"no way, cookies?"
"save me one. i said save me one!"
the conversation dwindled, replaced by the soft sounds of chewing and contented murmurs. a lanky guy took the last cookie, giving you a between apologetic and grateful look and you laugh it off. within minutes, the container lay empty, a few crumbs clinging to it's clear sides. you felt a genuine smile spread across your face. the tension in your shoulders eased. "i’m glad you liked them."
for a moment everything was filled with overlapping conversations and easy movement, people drifting in and out without much structure. you sat at the couch with anna and mark. being spoken to, responded to, included without having to work for it. she asks you what else you like to bake. he asks where you live. the questions aren’t deep, but they come one after another and you answer, laugh and nod. the silence you've been carrying around doesn’t follow you in, it stays somewhere outside the door you walked through.
after a while, when the rhythm starts to feel harder to follow and topics shift quickly, you find your way back to seonghwa in the kitchen. he’s near the counter, talking to someone, but he glances over when you approach, like he’s been keeping track of where you are.
"hey," he says, turning slightly towards yo.
"hi," you answer before a small pause, then casually, "are any other people from our school coming?"
he doesn't hesitate. "nah," he says, shaking his head. "couldn't come."
"oh," you felt a pang of disappointment, small knot tightening in your stomach. you’d envisioned friendly faces, shared anecdotes, a comfortable bridge to this unfamiliar landscape. "okay."
"why?" he adds. "were you expecting someone?"
"no,no. i just thought maybe-" before trailing off, you shake your head lightly. "it's fine."
he watches you for a second, then nods once, like that’s enough.
"you’re good," he says. "don’t overthink it. come on, let’s get you a drink." seonghwa grinned, his hand briefly brushing your lower back as he steered you towards a cooler overflowing with ice and bottles.
you chose a sparkling water, the chill of the can a welcome sensation against your palm. you gravitated towards anna, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with mark about a band you’d never heard of. you hovered at the edge of their circle, listening, slowly piecing together fragments of their world. they spoke of gigs, of art installations, of obscure films, their words painting a vibrant, chaotic picture of lives lived on the fringes of convention.
as the evening continued it's slow, winding course, the hours passed by without warning, suddenly, it was later than you thought. through the subtle buzz in your veins and lightness you hadn't realized you were missing, the image of san already in bed, alone, stirred something in you. your small bag and empty container already in your hands.
"you can come in anytime, even if seonghwa isn't here." anna said before hugging you goodbye.
as you made your way towards the door, seonghwa intercepted you. "leaving already? come on, just one more drink." his voice was persuasive.
"i really should go. it’s getting late." you offered a polite, but firm smile.
he stepped closer, his hand briefly touching your arm. "you know, you’re really something, y/n. a real breath of fresh air." his eyes held yours, flicker of something unreadable in their depths.
"thank you, seonghwa. for inviting me." you pulled your arm away subtly.
"anytime. seriously. we should hang out again, just us two." his voice dropped, a low murmur intended only for your ears.
you felt a shiver, a faint unease prickling at your skin. "maybe," you said, voice noncommittal, then slipped out the door, back into the cool night air.
the street was quieter now, the bass from the building still a faint thrum in the distance. you walked and thought of the laughter, the music, the easy camaraderie, and a strange sense of longing settled in your chest. it was a world so different from your own, a world where boundaries seemed to blur, where emotions were worn on sleeves, where life felt raw and immediate.
stale cigarette smoke clung to your clothes, a new perfume you hadn't anticipated, but somehow, it felt less offensive than the lingering scent of dish soap from your day to day. your sensible sedan, parked a block away, seemed almost out of place among the battered vans and motorcycles. once you got in safely, you pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a single text from san from an hour ago: 'home. have a good time, night.' short, efficient, just like him. you stared at it and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to him, to tell him about the fuchsia hair, the tattooed arms, their reactions to your cookies, the melancholic music, anna’s kind eyes. but you tucked your phone back into your purse, the small, bright screen now dark.
you unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the silent space. the air inside was still, heavy with the scent of your carefully chosen strawberry cake diffuser. a half eaten bowl sat on the kitchen counter, remnants of the chicken stir fry you had prepared earlier, the pan still on the stove, a few grains of rice clinging to it's surface. a small sigh of relief escaped your lips. he had eaten. the simple act, a confirmation of your effort, brought a satisfaction to you. you moved through the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic and metal as you rinsed the bowl, scrubbed the pan. it was a mindless task, your hands working on autopilot, while your mind drifted back to the vibrant chaos of anna's house.
the bedroom was a hushed darkness. san lay sprawled on his side of the bed, a rumbling snore escaping his lips, his face buried in the pillow. the sheet, pulled up to his waist, outlined the broad expanse of his back, the familiar curve of his spine. a sight you knew intimately, a tableau repeated almost every night. he worked hard, you reminded yourself, always.
you untangled your hair from the neat french twist, the pins scattering like tiny metallic insects onto the polished wood of your dresser. soft fingers massaged your scalp, releasing the tension that had gathered there throughout the day. you stripped off your clothes replacing them with silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. teeth brushed and bathroom light off, the bed dipped slightly as you eased yourself in, careful not to disturb san. he remained a dark, unmoving mass beside you, his breathing deep and even.
sleep, usually a welcome embrace, felt elusive tonight. your mind buzzed, a kaleidoscope of new faces, loud music, and unfiltered laughter. the freedom of it all, the raw, unpolished authenticity, contrasted sharply with the quiet, ordered life you had carefully constructed.
shifting restless, silk rustling against the sheets. the image of the girl's fuchsia hair, defiant and vibrant, flashed in your mind. her confident stride, her easy smile. what did she worry about? did she ever feel this profound, aching quietness? you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of san's back. the moonlight, filtering through the gap in the curtains, painted a silver line along his broad shoulder, the muscle defined even in repose. he was strong, reliable, your rock. yet lately, the rock was a mountain you couldn't climb.
a pang of something sharp, something akin to longing, twisted in your gut. you wanted to feel. you wanted to be seen. not just as the wife who kept the house, who cooked the meals, but as you, again. the you who had laughed tonight, unburdened. the one you knew san had fallen in love with.
your hand, almost without conscious thought, slipped beneath the silk of your pajama shorts. the fabric parted, your fingers, tentative at first, found the soft mound of your grown pubic hair, then the slick, warm folds beneath. a small gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the quiet room. your core, already sensitive, pulsed beneath your touch. you stroked, slowly, deliberately, soft pressure building.
subtly, your hips began to tilt, involuntary movement, pressing into your palm. your fingers worked with a quiet urgency, tracing the delicate ridges, circling the peak of your clitoris. a moistness spread, warm, slick rush that dampened the silk shorts beneath your hand. the sensation intensified, a delicious ache blooming deep inside you, spreading through your belly. your breathing hitched, growing shallow, ragged.
wake up, i'm here.
you closed your eyes, a torrent of images flashing behind your eyelids. san, the warmth of his touch, a vague, undefined hunger. you pressed harder, your thumb finding a rhythm, a steady, insistent pressure. a low moan, barely audible, escaped your throat, a sound of pure pleasure. your whole body tensed, arching slightly into your hand. the climax a sudden, exquisite release, wave of heat that cascaded through your limbs, leaving you trembling, breathless.
୨୧
the shrill ring of the alarm ripped you from a dreamless sleep. your eyes fluttered open, the room still shrouded in pre dawn gloom. a glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through you. 6:45 am. san left at 7:30. you had overslept.
you scrambled out of bed, the silk shorts clinging briefly before you shed them. the floor was cool beneath your bare feet.
"san, wake up," you whispered, nudging his shoulder. he grunted and slowly, reluctantly, stirred.
you moved with practiced efficiency, a whirlwind of motion in the quiet kitchen. the scent of brewing coffee began to fill the air, mingling with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. toast popped, butter melted, and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping fruit filled the space. san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed, his black hair still damp, clinging to his forehead. he looked tired, his eyes still holding the remnants of sleep, but his movements were precise, methodical.
"morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam curling around his face.
"morning," you replied, already assembling his lunch. a neat stack of sandwiches, a small container of cut fruit, a handful of almonds. you wrapped it all meticulously, fitting it into his lunch bag.
"did you sleep okay?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. he leaned against the counter, watching you.
"yeah, eventually," you said, trying to keep your voice light. you packed a small thermos of tea. "i went to that thing last night, you know, the hangout thing?"
he nodded before picking up a slice of toast, spreading jam onto it. "how was it?"
"it was...different," you began, a small smile playing on your lips. you wanted to tell him everything, about the fuchsia hair, the tattoos, the unexpected warmth. "it was in this old building, kind of grungy, but everyone was so nice. there was this girl, sally, she had the most incredible hair, like, bright pink and her face was like a strainer, filled with piercings, it was so cool. and then i met anna, she had these dark intimidating eyes but she was actually really sweet. she’s a photographer for bands."
he turned to you with a slight frown. "y/n?"
"yeah?" you cleaned your hands with a kitchen towel.
"you're not... getting into anything dangerous, are you?"
you tilted your head, looking at him confused. "what? no, no. they were really nice people, they had this energy, like they just didn't care what anyone thought. it was kind of... inspiring."
"hmm..." he took a bite with a raised brow. "be careful y/n, you know how those types can be."
the warmth you’d felt, a flicker of shared experience, began to cool. "i am. but listen, there was also music, not like the music we usually listen to, more like a band sound," you continued, a little more emphatically, trying to inject some of the excitement you had felt into your words. "there was this guy, he had these huge arms filled with tattoos and he had a mohawk, i'd never seen one of those in real life."
he looked away again, finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "just don’t get into anything foolish." he reached for his briefcase and lunchbox, already moving towards the door.
your shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, there was so much you still wanted to tell him. but there was also no time, you knew. there never was. he was already halfway out the door, his hand on the knob.
"i'll make your favorite soup for dinner tonight," you offered, a last ditch effort to connect, to anchor him for just a moment longer.
he paused, turning his head slightly. a small, tired smile touched his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "thanks, that sounds great, i'll try not to be too late. love you."
"love you," you mumbled as the door shut and he was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the now silent apartment. you stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and eggs.
y/n choi: hi, it's y/n, i had a really good time yesterday.
seonghwa park: hey, me too
seonghwa park: everyone loved u btw, they were all talking about how sweet you were when you left
y/n choi: really? that's so nice to hear
seonghwa park: ur coming next week, right?
y/n choi: again?
seonghwa park: yeah
seonghwa park: we hang out every weekend
seonghwa park: always at annas
seonghwa park: come ooon, ull have t come
seonghwa park: ur a part of the group now
the words, simple and direct, landed like a soft blanket on your exposed nerves. a part of the group now. the phrase resonated, a balm to the quiet ache san’s rushed departure had left behind. it wasn’t profound, not a declaration of affection, but it was an invitation, a recognition. it felt like a small hand reaching out in the growing expanse of your solitude.
y/n choi: i’d like that, thanks seonghwa.
the next week crawled by, each day a slow, methodical march of chores and quiet anticipation. the perfect bed, the planned dinners, the reorganizing of the linen closet. each task a meticulous attempt to fill the hours, to ward off the encroaching loneliness. but seonghwa’s words, hummed beneath the surface.
a part of the group now.
as saturday evening approached, nervous flutter stirred in your stomach. you pulled out a simple, soft cotton t-shirt, one you usually wore for lounging. then, a pair of well worn dark jeans. your fingers went to your hair, letting it fall, then found a simple black velvet hairband, pushing back the front strands.
the grungy building loomed, a concrete behemoth adorned with a tapestry of peeling posters and vibrant graffiti. the door stood ajar again, inviting light spilling onto the cracked pavement. but politeness, ingrained deep within you, compelled your knuckles to tap softly against it.
the door swung open further, revealing anna. her spiked hair, dark halo around her face, seemed to defy gravity. thicker eyeliner from the last time, you noticed. a cigarette dangled from her lips, thin wisp of smoke curling lazily into the air.
"well, look who it is," anna’s voice, raspy like gravel, held a surprising warmth. a slow smile spread across her face, revealing a glint of metal in her upper teeth. "you bring cookies this time, wifey?"
you laughed, unforced sound that surprised even yourself. "i didn’t, i’m afraid." faint blush touched your cheeks.
anna leaned against the doorframe, taking a drag from her cigarette. "shame. your hair looks good though, so i'll let you in." she winked, a playful glint in her dark eyes.
you stepped inside murmuring a small "thanks." she led you into the living room as seonghwa, who was meticulously cleaning something that looked like a round bottom flask, rose from the couch.
"hey, you. where's my hug?" he grinned, a flash of genuine pleasure in his expression. he offered a thight hug, quick squeeze that felt surprisingly comforting. "glad you came back."
"come on, i’ll show you my current obsession." anna, having stubbed out her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, clapped you on the shoulder and led you to a corner of the living room, where a makeshift studio was set up. a flash unit sat on a tripod, and a black backdrop hung from a makeshift frame.
she showed you her new lighting techniques, her raspy voice softening as she spoke about her craft, explaining each of the series of prints tacked to the wall. the subjects, all punk, stared out with an intensity that pulled you in. low groan emanated from the other side of the room. mark, with his pants that perpetually threatened to slide off his ample frame, was getting another tattoo. the machine buzzing like an angry bee.
you watched, a strange mix of fascination and unease stirring within you. the raw intimacy of the moment, the deliberate pain, the permanent mark being etched into skin. it was so far removed from your carefully ordered world. visceral, unapologetic. you thought of san, of his disciplined body, his aversion to anything that might disrupt his carefully constructed order. a tattoo, to him, would be an act of reckless abandon, an unnecessary defacement.
anna exchanged a few words with the tattoo artist and you followed seonghwa and sally into the kitchen.
"tacos?" you asked, a sudden urge to ground yourself in something familiar, something productive.
"attempting to," seonghwa repeated, a wry smile playing on his lips. sally, armed with a knife, was making a valiant but clumsy effort to chop an onion. tears streamed down her heavily made up face.
"this is harder than it looks," she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing eyeliner.
"i don’t even know if this is cooked enough. it still looks… pink."
you stepped forward with quiet confidence. this, you knew. this was your domain. "let me help," you offered, already reaching for the cutting board. you gently took the knife, demonstrating a quick, efficient chop that produced even dice.
you moved with an easy grace, hands finding their rhythm. chicken seasoned, a blend of spices from the overflowing spice rack that seemed to surprise even seonghwa. you showed sally how to properly dice tomatoes and shred lettuce, your voice soft but instructive. the kitchen, which had been a scene of mild culinary disaster, slowly began to transform into an efficient workspace.
"wow," sally beamed, her fuchsia hair bouncing. "seriously, my mom just nukes everything."
it was a simple thing, a small act of connection, of contribution. but you felt useful, appreciated. the feeling was a pleasant counterpoint to the quiet solitude of your own kitchen at home, where your culinary efforts often met with san’s polite, but often silent, approval.
the group gathered at the living room again, something being passed from hand to hand. you saw it before you recognized it, it wasn't tobacco.
the joint made it's rounds, anna took a long drag, her eyes closing in apparent contentment. seonghwa inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke that dissolved into the dim light. sally giggled, her eyes a little brighter, her movements a little looser.
then, mark’s hand, big with his new tattoo, extended towards you, holding the burning joint. the tip glowed orange, small pulsating ember. a hush fell over the group, subtle, expectant. no one said anything, but their gazes, soft and encouraging, rested on you.
your breath hitched. your mind, usually so clear, swam with conflicting thoughts. weed. the word echoed in your head, sharp and disapproving. san’s voice, clear as day, cut through the hazy atmosphere.
disgusting. it’s not a gateway. it destroys lives.
his lectures, delivered with a quiet intensity, about the dangers of drugs, of anything that clouded judgment, that compromised control. he hated it. he hated all of it. smoking, drinking to excess, any form of escape that wasn’t productive, wasn’t measured.
your gaze flickered to mark’s hand, then to seonghwa, who offered a small, reassuring nod. a strange defiance, a tiny spark of rebellion, ignited within you. san, with his rigid rules and his unspoken expectations, felt miles away, a distant, fading echo. here, in this room, with these people, there was an unspoken permission, an acceptance of difference.
you thought of the quiet mornings, the unasked questions, the emotional chasm that had grown between you and san. you thought of the lingering loneliness, the slow, insidious fading of sparks. you thought of his hurried goodbye, his preoccupation, his casual dismissal of your small joys.
a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips. it wasn’t about wanting to get high. it was a quiet protest. a moment of reclaiming a sliver of yourself that felt lost, submerged under layers of wifely duty and unspoken disappointment. it was a fleeting, irrational thought, but it felt powerful in it's simplicity.
trembling fingers, usually so steady, reached for the joint. your eyes met seonghwa’s, then anna’s. they offered soft, almost imperceptible smiles.
the joint touched your lips. the paper felt rough against your skin. the smell, pungent and earthy, filled your nostrils. you hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent battle raging within. then, you inhaled.
the smoke, harsh and acrid, scraped your throat. you coughed between involuntary gasps. tears sprang to your eyes. the group chuckled softly. your lungs burned, heat spread through your chest, then a dizzying lightness in your head. it wasn’t pleasant, not yet. but as the initial shock subsided, a curious sensation began to bloom. a loosening. a letting go.
the world around you, already vibrant, seemed to soften at the edges. the music, a low thrumming before, now seemed to pulse with a deeper rhythm. the faces around you, previously distinct, now blurred into a warm, accepting tableau.
you exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath. the smoke drifted upwards in a cloud, carrying with it a rebellious whisper.
the taco shell crumbled in your fingers, a warm, messy embrace of seasoned chicken and melted cheese. a laugh, sharp and high, tore from your throat. it wasn’t your laugh, not really, but it escaped anyway.
"y/n, these are..." sally kissed the tips of her fingertips at once. a piece of tomato, vibrant red, clung to her chin. you watched it, mesmerized, as it wobbled precariously. like a tiny significant event.
"no, for real. this is the best shit i've ever eaten," someone grunted as they took another bite, cheeks bulging. the sound of their chewing a symphonic rhythm, wet crunch that filled the room.
you smiled, you think, a wide, unbidden thing that stretched your face. your cheeks felt warm and tingly. the praise, usually a balm, now felt like a spotlight, too bright, too focused. you didn't need to respond. the air itself seemed to hum with approval.
seonghwa leaned in, his hair brushing your shoulder. the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils. it was a new smell, suddenly potent, a story in itself.
"you have to come over more often," he murmured. his words were slow, stretched out, like taffy. "we’d starve without you."
you nodded, or thought you did. the room swirled, a gentle eddy of color and sound. the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across anna’s living room became individual, shimmering points, each one a tiny sun.
anna, perched on the armrest of a worn armchair, watched you, her eyes unblinking. she held a half eaten taco, but she wasn’t eating. she was just watching. a flicker of concern crossed her face, or maybe it was just the way the light caught her smudged makeup.
you turned your head, the motion slow, deliberate, like moving through thick syrup. seonghwa’s face was inches from yours. his eyes liquid and half lidded. a tiny mole, small and innocent on his ear. you had never noticed it before.
"you know," he began, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for you, "i actually lied to you."
the words themselves were like individual pearls, strung together on an invisible thread that made your breath hitch.
"about what?" you managed a reedy whisper. it sounded like someone else speaking.
he chuckled like it was obvious. "about keeping in touch with people from high school. i don't. not really. i just... wanted you to have a reason to come."
the confession ignited a fresh burst of laughter. bubbled up from deep inside, unrestrained, joyful. it felt like a new sensation, a freedom you hadn't known existed. the idea of him lying, out of all things, struck you as profoundly hilarious.
he smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as his hand, warm and calloused, covered yours on the couch cushion. his thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle on your skin. it wasn't unpleasant. it was just... there. a sensation.
"y/n, i know you’re unhappy."
unhappiness? that was a concept. right now, there was only the incredibly soft fabric of the couch, the taste of spices on your tongue, the intricate pattern on anna’s rug.
"you deserve so much more," he continued, voice thick and low, "than whatever you’re settling for."
you blinked. his face, so close, seemed to waver, like a reflection in water.
"i want you so bad," a whisper you didn't caught on the movements of his lips, his grip tightening on your hand. "i want to make you happy."
you don't know why he kept making sounds with his mouth. the words drifted past, like smoke. meaningless vibrations in the air. your mind, untethered, floated above them, observing.
then, the world tilted. a wave of warmth, heavy and comforting, washed over you. the trip slowed, the colors blending into a soft, indistinct haze. the universe faded into a gentle lullaby.
୨୧
rough wool blanket against your cheek, smelling faintly of incense and something vaguely sweet, covering you. your eyes fluttered open. the room was bathed in a dim, pre dawn light, a pale grey filtering through the blinds. you blinked, trying to orient yourself. the couch. anna’s couch.
a low snore rumbled from the floor. you peered over the armrest. mark, a lumpy silhouette, was sprawled on a pile of blankets, his mohawk flattened. sally was curled up near him, a splash of fuchsia against the muted tones. anna was nowhere in sight. seonghwa? you scanned the room. no.
dull throb resonated behind your eyes. your mouth felt like sandpaper. you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping to your lap. the memories of the night were a jumbled mess, like a deck of san's numbers scattered on the floor. flashes of laughter, the taste of tacos, the feeling of warmth. but specific words, specific moments, they were gone, swallowed by the haze.
you fumbled for your purse, slung precariously over the back of the couch. chocolate. a small, dark bar, your emergency comfort. you tore off a piece, the rich, bitter sweetness a welcome shock to your tongue.
you pulled out your phone. three forty seven a.m.
your heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. san. you could almost hear the silence of your apartment, the empty space beside him in bed. a wave of guilt, cold and sharp, washed over you, chasing away the last vestiges of the warm fog.
as careful as you could be, you rose quietly to not disturb the sleeping figures. your movements quiet, deliberate.
the drive home was a blur of streetlights and silent roads. each turn of the wheel felt like a small act of atonement. the city was asleep, a vast, dark canvas. then you finally pulled into your parking spot, the apartment building quiet and imposing.
apartment dark, save for the faint glow from the digital clock on the microwave. you slipped off your shoes, the sink. a plate, crusted with dried sauce, sat precariously on the edge, a half empty mug beside it. san. he had eaten, gone to bed. done.
straight to the bathroom, you stepped under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over your skin. it wasn’t just the smell, but the night itself. the laughter, the forgotten words, the unsettling intimacy. you scrubbed, hard, as if you could scour away the memory, leaving your skin, and your mind, clean and blank once more. you wanted to emerge, refreshed, as if the night had never happened. as if you hadn’t tasted that strange, momentary freedom.
୨୧
the sound pulled at your teeth. tremor in the soles of your new sneakers, premonition of the chaos within. this weekend, anna's apartment building pulsed with an unholy rhythm. this wasn't the hazy, languid hum of last week. this was a beast unleashed.
seonghwa’s band, the ruptured veins or something like that, thrashed in the living room. how they’d squeezed a drum kit, a full amp stack, and three guitarists into the already cramped space remained a mystery. mark, sweat plastering his mohawk to his skull, pounded the drums with a primal ferocity that threatened to crack the plaster. sally contorted over her bass, each pluck a sharp jab to your eardrums. seonghwa, all flailing limbs and guttural shouts was at the center. the sound wasn’t music. it was a wall of noise, an excuse of distorted guitars and ear splitting percussion that clawed at your sanity.
bodies, too many bodies, swayed and thrashed in the dim light, a sea of black leather and ripped denim. you felt like an alien even if you tried dressing in your darkest clothes. a hand, sticky and warm, brushed your arm, offering a glass. you instinctively recoiled, the smell of cheap beer and something cloyingly sweet, making your stomach churn.
seonghwa’s eyes flashed you a grin across the room, a feral baring of teeth, and gave a thumbs up. you forced a weak smile back, the corners of your mouth feeling stiff and unnatural. the volume intensified, a new wave of sound washing over you, drowning out thought, drowning out everything.
a bong, you learned, it's glass bulb milky with smoke, appeared before your face. a girl with tangled dreadlocks and eyes that swam in their sockets pushed it closer.
"hit it, y/n!" she slurred a shout, her voice a gravelly whisper against the roar.
you shook your head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "no, thanks!"
she shrugged, apathetic, and passed it to the next person. another, a lean guy with a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck, who had earlier complained about the brownies you brought not being the "fun ones."
the words felt like pebbles in your throat. you had enough, you needed quiet, needed to escape the relentless assault on your ears. you navigated the throng, each step a battle against jostling elbows and oblivious revelers. you reached the bathroom and pushed open the door for the now muffled sound to lower, then you saw her.
sprawled on the cracked linoleum, half hidden by a discarded shower curtain, lay a woman. her head rested at an awkward angle against the toilet bowl, a thin stream of saliva tracing a path down her chin. she looked older than the others, perhaps in her early thirties, though the lines etched on her face spoke of a life lived hard, not necessarily long. two distinct scars stood out against her skin. her face, even in repose, held a weary resignation, map of battles fought and lost. she wasn't breathing right. shallow, ragged gasps punctuated the silence, each one a struggle.
panic seized you. you knelt beside her, your fingers fumbling for her pulse, finding a weak, thready beat at her neck.
"hey," you whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. "hey, are you okay?"
no response. her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. this wasn't a drunken nap. this was something else, something far more sinister.
your hand instinctively went for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. 911. ambulance. you needed to call an ambulance. your fingers, trembling, navigated the screen.
"i wouldn't do that if i were you."
a hand, heavy and surprisingly strong, clamped around your wrist. your breath hitched. you looked up, startled. a man stood over you. he was burly, with a shaved head and a face like hammered iron. his eyes, dark and flat, bore into yours.
"unless you wanna be trouble," his voice cut through the residual band noise. it wasn't a suggestion. it was a command, heavy with unspoken threat.
your heart hammered against your ribs. you tried to pull your wrist free, but his grip was unyielding, almost bruising. "she needs help," you managed barely a squeak. "she’s not breathing right."
mirthless chuckle rumbled in his chest. "she’s fine. just had a little too much fun." his gaze flickered to your phone. "you call anyone, you’ll regret it."
the warning hung thick and menacing. you met his stare, a shiver running down your spine. the flat emptiness in his eyes, the casual cruelty in his tone, left no room for doubt. he meant it.
slowly, reluctantly, you let your hand drop, your phone clattering softly against the tiles. his grip loosened, then released. you scrambled backward, away from him, away from the unconscious woman, from the suffocating threat. he watched you, unsettling smirk playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the woman, nudging her with his foot.
you burst out of the bathroom, the music now a mocking roar. you needed anna. anna would know what to do. anna would understand. you pushed through the bodies, eyes scanning the faces, a frantic desperation clawing at your throat. "anna!" you shouted, the word swallowed by the sheer volume. "anna!"
no one heard you. no one even seemed to notice your distress. they just continued to push each other, lost in their own discordant revelry. you spotted a doorway, half hidden behind a towering speaker, and instinctively veered towards it, hoping to find a quieter space, a less crowded corner where anna might be.
it led to a short, narrow hallway, mercifully less populated. at the end, another door, slightly ajar, spilled a soft, yellow light onto the floor. you pushed it open, a desperate plea for help forming on your lips.
the room contrasted to the chaos outside. a single, bare bulb cast a warm glow over a small, unmade bed. and there, on the floor, surrounded by a haphazard collection of worn stuffed animals and bright plastic blocks, sat anna, but she wasn't alone. a small figure, no older than five, sat nestled against her side, a book with brightly colored illustrations open in it's lap. the child, a boy with a shock of dark hair and wide, innocent eyes, looked up as you entered.
"mommy, who’s that?" his voice, clear and sweet, pierced the lingering noise in your ears like a needle.
mommy.
the word echoed, reverberated, then shattered something fragile inside you. anna’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. a flicker of something, guilt? embarrassment? crossed her face before she quickly composed herself.
"y/n," she said, her voice lowered as she gently pushed the boy behind her. "everything alright?"
everything alright? the irony tasted heavy. now, a child. her child, in this suffocating place. the realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. this wasn’t just a party. this wasn't just a group of friends messing around. this was a life. a harsh, brutal, unforgiving life that you had no part in. the music, which had been an unpleasant background noise, now felt like a blaring siren, screaming the truth. you didn't belong here. not even close. this wasn't edgy. this wasn't rebellious. this was dangerous. this was real.
you shook your head, unable to speak, your throat tight with unshed tears. the image of the passed out woman, the man’s cold eyes, the innocent child, all swirled in a sickening vortex.
"i..." you started, then stopped, the words catching. you didn’t need to explain. anna, with her sudden shift in demeanor, her protective stance over the child, understood.
you turned, a silent retreat, your feet moving on their own accord. you didn't say goodbye. you didn't look back. the door clicked shut behind you, a soft thud against the relentless thrum of the bass.
you navigated the hallway, then the living room, a ghost moving through the throng. no one noticed your departure. the band still roared, seonghwa still shrieked into the mic as he kicked the audience in the face in a blur of motion. you pushed past the last lingering bodies near the door, the cool night air hitting your face like a lifeline.
the street was alive with a different kind of noise. the band’s sound, though fainter, still pulsed through the asphalt, relentless reminder of what you were leaving behind. a group of figures huddled under a flickering street lamp, their movements jerky, unnatural. as you approached, their eyes, glazed and vacant, fixed on you.
"hey, pretty thing, all alone?" one slurred, his voice hoarse, lewd grin spreading across his face.
"where you going in such a hurry?" another whistled, a long, drawn out sound that made your skin crawl.
you kept walking, pace quickening, eyes fixed straight ahead. don’t look. don’t engage. don’t acknowledge. your heart hammered a frantic drum against your ribs. you felt exposed, vulnerable, felt the harsh reality of the street.
your car door shut like a beacon of safety at the end of the block. you fumbled for your keys, fingers clumsy with fear, gripping the steering wheel with knuckles white the whole drive back home, breath coming in ragged gasps. not daring to glance in the rearview mirror once. you drove faster than necessary.
this was not your world. this was not where you belonged. you would never come back. you promised yourself that, a vow whispered into the empty, echoing space of your car, a promise etched in the raw, aching fear still thrumming beneath your skin.
the click of the lock echoed. inside, the air heavy with scent of instant noodles and something sweet, like canned peaches. a white plastic container sat on the kitchen counter, half-eaten, a pair of chopsticks resting beside it. san had takeout. a cold knot tightened in your stomach. you forgot to make him dinner earlier. another layer to the evening’s sour taste.
san, shirtless, was just shrugging out of his work trousers when you entered the room, his back to you. he paused, one leg still in the pant leg, turning his head at the sound of your entrance. his brown eyes, warm and steady, widened slightly.
"you’re back early," he said, the words a quiet murmur in the hushed room. a flicker of surprise crossed his face. he finished pulling off his pants, tossing them onto the laundry hamper with an easy flick of his wrist.
you managed a weak nod, the muscles in your face protesting the effort, too tired to feign a smile. your gaze slid past him, landing on the bathroom door. escape. you moved towards it.
"y/n." his voice stopped you mid stride. you looked over your shoulder, hand hovering over the cool brass doorknob.
"what’s that smell?"
you didn't turn around, the lie already forming on your tongue, bitter pill. "i... i fell into a puddle earlier."
a beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. you watched him, standing there, his brow furrowed, processing your words. you waited for the follow up, the gentle probing, the concern that used to laced his questions. but it didn’t come.
"oh," he said, the single syllable flat, devoid of inflection. he picked up his shirt from the bed, pulling it over his head, then pulled back the covers.
you finally turned, gaze fixed on his retreating back, already settling in. your eyes traced the strong line of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. he was there, and he wasn't. is that all you’re going to ask? the words hovered on your tongue, sharp and desperate. you wanted him to push, to see through your flimsy lie, to demand more. you wanted him to care enough to unravel the carefully constructed facade. almost, you wanted him to know. to know about the music, the drugs, the woman, the fear, the suffocating loneliness that had driven you there in the first place.
"is that all you’re going to ask?" you heard yourself say.
he paused, his hand reaching for the bedside lamp. "is there something else i should know?'
your heart hammered against your ribs. this was it. the open door. the invitation. a single word, a sigh, a broken sentence, and the truth would spill out. you needed to test the boundaries, to see how far he would go, how deep he would dig.
"no," you said, the lie tasting like ash. your gaze held his, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of suspicion, anything that would tell you he wasn’t buying it.
he held your gaze for a moment longer, then his lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "okay then." he reached for the lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. he shifted, settling deeper into the pillows.
a choked sound, a low groan of frustration, escaped your lips. he hadn’t pushed. he hadn’t questioned. he hadn’t cared enough to look beyond the surface. you turned abruptly, stalking towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a satisfying thud. the sound echoed, a punctuation mark on your silent fury.
san lay in the sudden darkness, his eyes wide open. the faint aroma of something acrid you brought and he couldn't quite place, still lingered in the air. a puddle, he thought. she fell in a puddle. it sounded plausible enough. you were clumsy sometimes, always lost in your own thoughts. he trusted you. he trusted you completely. a small smile touched his lips. it was good you were out, seeing old friends. you needed that. a small part of him felt a pang of guilt for not being able to provide more excitement, more spontaneity in your life. but he was working for your future, for your stability, to provide for you. he believed that was love, that was care. he rolled onto his side, pulling the duvet up to his chin. he heard the shower running, the sound a soft, comforting hum. he closed his eyes, his mind already drifting to tomorrow's spreadsheets, the complex equations that made perfect sense in a world that often didn't. everything was fine. you were having fun. it was okay if you forgot dinner sometimes. you could always order takeout. he was happy. he assumed you were too.
the next morning, the apartment hummed with the usual rhythm of your routine. you woke before him, the first rays of dawn painting the bedroom walls a soft grey. you made the bed, pulling the sheets taut, plumping the pillows with practiced ease. the scent of freshly brewed coffee soon filled the air, followed by the sizzle of eggs in the pan.
san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed in his crisp white shirt and specifically tailored pants. he kissed your cheek, a soft brush of lips, and then sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.
it became a monotonous cycle of routine.
you'd have your small talk, watch him eat, his movements precise, efficient, and then he was out the door. then, you'd wander into the bedroom, the perfectly made bed an ironic symbol of your life. you'd pick up your phone, cold blinding glass, and scrolled through social media. endless stream of meaningless shorts of nothing. you'd sink yourself in bed and let the hours melt. youtube videos, a reality show you cared about for two hours, articles about celebrity gossip. anything to fill the void, to drown out the insistent whisper of your own thoughts.
you woke him, prepared his meals, vaguely cleaned what was obvious. but the moments in between stretched, vast and empty. you spent them in bed, phone in hand, the world outside shrinking to the confines of your screen. at night, you wouldn't sleep. every shadow twisted into a threat, every creak of the floorboards a reminder of unspoken dangers. san had simply mentioned you seemed a little tired. you’d blame it on a bad dream, a headache. anything but the truth. the vibrant, productive life you once shared with san, the shared dreams, the late night conversations, they felt like a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, isolated existence.
one evening, san’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, the familiar jingle of his keys preceding his entrance. he walked into the kitchen, his briefcase thudding softly onto the counter. he paused, his eyes scanning the immaculate space. the stovetop was clean, the counters clear. no scent of cooking, no simmering pots.
"i ordered pizza," you said, voice flat, emerging from the living room where you sat on the sofa, scrolling through your phone. the thought of cooking, of meticulously chopping vegetables and stirring pots, felt like an insurmountable task. the effort, the pretense of normalcy, was too much. you simply couldn’t.
"okay," his voice quiet. you couldn't decipher his tone, surprise? confusion? whatever.
for once, he didn't immediately take his laptop. he watched you, his expression unreadable. he picked up a slice, silence punctuated only by the soft chewing sounds.
"i spoke to noeul today," he said, cutting through the quiet.
you froze, a slice of pizza halfway to your mouth. "oh?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice came out a little too sharp.
"she was wondering why you stood her up for lunch," he continued, took another bite of pizza, his eyes still fixed on you.
"i... i wasn't feeling well," you swallowed, the pizza suddenly tasting like cardboard.
he paused, chewing slowing. his dark eyes, usually so placid, held a new depth, a subtle intensity. he studied your face, his gaze searching, probing.
"is everything okay, y/n?" he asked, the question soft, gentle, yet it hit you with the force of a blow. this was the first time in weeks, months even, that he had truly looked at you, truly asked.
you felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you. relief that he was finally seeing, finally asking. fear that he would see too much. anger that it had taken him this long. a desperate, clinging hope that he might actually understand.
you opened your mouth, but what could you say? no, san. everything is not okay. i’m lonely. melancholic. i’m lost. i’ve been hanging out with people who smoke weed and threaten me. i lied to you. i don’t know who i am anymore. the truth felt too vast, too overwhelming, too ugly to articulate.
you closed your mouth, nodding slowly. "yes," you whispered, the lie a refuge. "everything’s fine."
he didn’t push further. he simply nodded, a slow thoughtful movement. he finished his pizza in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking towards you. he didn't know what to do. he thought he was doing everything right, providing stability, working hard. but he felt that something wasn't actually right. he could feel it. and for the first time, the thought that his stability might not be enough began to gnaw at him.
୨୧
"well, well, well," you couldn't see seonghwa's face through the phone but you just knew a smile stretched across his face, all teeth and charm. "look who finally decided to give signs of life."
you took a breath, "i’m sorry about that. i felt a little... overwhelmed."
"overwhelmed?" he chuckled a sound that grated. "we had a blast, though. sally was asking where you went."
a forced light laugh came out of you. "i'm sorry, it's just... don't take this the wrong way but, i don't think it's my scene."
the seconds of silence made you more nervous than you liked to admit. "oh? why’s that? did anna scare you off? she’s all bark, no bite, you know."
"it’s not anna." you walked to the window, staring out at the streets. "it’s just not... it’s not for me." you chose your words carefully.
"not for you, huh... too much for the perfect little housewife?"
you didn't know what to say, or even if you should reply. this is not the way you had wanted to come off.
"come on, y/n. " his tone shifted again, becoming almost playful, seductive. "you can’t just ditch us. we were just getting to know you. and you, me, we had a connection, didn’t we?"
you closed your eyes and sighed. "i appreciate the invitation, seonghwa. but i really don’t think it’s a good idea."
"wait, wait, wait." his voice was quick, slightly desperate. "don’t hang up. this saturday. it’ll be different. i promise."
"different how?"
"no loud music. no... overwhelming crowds." he mimicked your earlier word with annoyance. "it’ll be at my place. daylight. we’ll just chill. listen to some records. maybe sally will bring her new bass. anna her camera, snap some pictures. it’ll be... a real hangout. no pressure. just us."
a day hangout. at his place. no crowds. the thought of seeing anna, of making sure she was okay, flickered. and sally. you’d genuinely liked sally. you chewed on your lip, disappearing without a trace, even from people who were clearly not good for you, felt... rude. you were not rude. you prided yourself on your manners, on leaving things tidily. this would be your last clean exit. a proper goodbye.
"it'll be calm? no substances?" you asked with a small voice.
"yeah. we'll just chill."
you sighed, a long, slow release of air. "fine. but if it gets crazy, i’m leaving."
"deal!" his voice triumphant. "i’ll text you the address. saturday. two o’clock. don’t be late, y/n."
you hung up on him, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on you. a mistake? probably. but you had to make things right. you had to say goodbye. properly.
the next few days were a flurry of quiet preparations. you found a well loved cookbook at a second hand store, it's pages dog eared and stained with flour. sally had seemed genuinely interested in your chicken tacos, you remember her bouncing as she peered over your shoulder. a small childish bunny stuffed animal, soft and grey, caught your eye in a boutique window. anna’s son. he deserved a little softness in a world that seemed so hard. you wrapped the gifts carefully, a futile attempt to infuse them with the warmth you wished you could offer.
saturday afternoon, the sun bright in the sky. you drove, the directions seonghwa had texted leading you through unfamiliar streets, past industrial parks and forgotten warehouses. the address finally brought you to a hidden nook, tucked away behind a row of dilapidated auto shops. a trailer park. a small, unexpected community of metal boxes, each with it's own patch of scraggly grass and faded plastic lawn ornaments. you hadn’t known such a place existed in the heart of the city.
seonghwa’s trailer, a faded blue, stood at the end of a gravel path. your stomach twisted. you clutched the gifts tighter, the paper rustling. you knocked, a soft tap that felt too polite for the setting. the door creaked open, revealing him. his hair looking a little disheveled, as if he’d just woken up. a faint smell of something herbal, not entirely unpleasant, wafted from inside.
"oh, you actually came." he grinned as he rubbed the weariness out of his face.
"i said i would." you offered a small smile, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness that settled between you. "i brought some things." you held up the wrapped gifts.
"oh, for me?" he reached for them, but you pulled back slightly.
"no. for sally and anna’s son."
his hand dropped, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "right. well, come on in. you’re the first one here."
the trailer was small, surprisingly neat but dim. a worn couch, covered in a faded floral sheet, dominated the living area. a small television flickered silently in the corner, displaying a nature documentary. a guitar leaned against the wall. it felt... lived in.
"make yourself at home," he gestured vaguely at the couch. "the others should be here any minute. mark’s always late. sally said she had to pick up some new strings. anna… well, anna’s anna." he laughed, a short, nervous sound.
you sat on the edge of the couch, placing the gifts carefully beside you. the cushions sagged beneath you, smell of old fabric rised to meet you. the silence, punctuated only by the chirping of unseen birds on the television, was deafening. you felt a sudden urge to fill it, to chatter, to ask about his band, about anything. but you couldn't.
"want something to drink?" he asked, already moving towards a small, cluttered kitchenette.
"just water, please." you watched him, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone so wiry. he pulled out two glasses, poured a clear liquid from a plastic bottle into one, and then, to another one that was already sitting on the counter. he didn’t seem to notice your gaze.
a tiny, insistent voice in the back of your mind, screamed. you took the glass, your fingers brushing his, skin rough. you brought the glass to your lips, pretending to take a sip, letting the rim touch your mouth, but not letting any liquid pass.
"so," he said, settling beside you on the couch, much closer than you would have preferred. "how’s... housewifing?"
you stiffened. "it’s good. i like it."
"yeah? seems a little... boring for someone like you." he leaned back, his arm brushing yours. the contact made your skin prickle.
"it’s not boring,”°"you said, maybe a little too quickly. "i like taking care of things. taking care of san."
"san." he said the name slowly, like tasting it. "busy guy, huh?"
"he works hard," you defended automatically. "he provides for us."
"yeah, i bet." he turned his body fully towards you, knee touching yours. his gaze dropping to your hands, clasped tightly in your lap. "but does he... pleasure you?"
you looked at him in shock, offended. your cheeks flushed crimson, a wave of heat rushing through you. shock, outrage, and a deep, mortifying embarrassment tangled together. you stared at him, mouth agape, unable to form a single word. the flickering television, the stale air, his proximity, it all coalesced into a suffocating pressure. "what did you just say?"
he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. his eyes held yours, unwavering. "i mean, you’re bright, y/n. you’re smart. you’ve got this... spark. yet you spend your days fucking, polishing silverware and waiting for some suit to come home. does he ever even make you feel good?"
your heart hammered against your ribs. "i like polishing silverware. i like making a home."
"do you?" he reached out, his fingers tracing a pattern on your arm, just above your elbow. "or do you just tell yourself that because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?"
you flinched, pulling your arm away. "i don’t appreciate that, seonghwa."
"just being honest. that’s what friends do, right?" he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.
the small, dusty clock on the wall pointed at four, you glanced at it, then at the door, wishing that your eyes could pierce a hole and reveal other people, anyone. yet no one else had arrived. the pit in your stomach deepened. "maybe i should call sally. or anna."
"nah, don’t bother." he waved a dismissive hand. "they probably won't even come. you know how it is." he paused, a predatory glint appeared in his round eyes. "guess it’ll be just us."
the words rang heavy and suffocating. it clicked. a cold, sickening realization washed over you. there was never "others." you had been tricked. the gifts, the polite goodbyes, all of it a naive delusion.
"oh." you stood up abruptly, the movement jarring. "i... i think i should go. maybe i should come back when the others arrive." your mind raced, scrambling for an excuse, anything to get out. you tried to infuse your voice with a calm you didn’t feel, to make it sound like a reasonable suggestion, not a desperate plea.
"don’t be stupid, y/n. you just got here." he stood and pulled you towards him. the close proximity of his body, the insufferable smell of weed making you almost gag. "you’re lonely, aren’t you? i see it in your eyes. the way you just exist and he doesn't even notice."
"i don’t know what you mean." your voice trembled.
"why? you don’t want to admit it?" he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear. his insidious words pricked at the spots. the truth of them, despite the venomous delivery, stung. but the way he was using them, twisting them, made your skin crawl.
you tried to push past him, a surge of adrenaline making you bold. “let me go.”
he grabbed your arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist. "no." he pulled you back, hard, sending you stumbling onto the couch. the gifts clattered to the floor. he pinned you there, his face inches from yours. "i know you don’t love him. you're goddamn pathetic with him and everyone sees it."
you felt a surge of adrenaline, a pumping desperate need to escape. “you don’t know anything about me. or san.” you pulled harder, twisting your body, trying to create distance.
he didn’t let go. instead, his other hand came up, resting on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin. "i know you don't love him. i know you’re unhappy." the accusation, so utterly false, ignited a furious spark within you. "why else would you keep coming back here?"
"you’re wrong!" sharp and venomous, your voice cut through the fear. "you’re completely wrong. i love san. i love him more than anything. and i would never, ever be unfaithful to him. especially not with... with someone like you!" the last words, raw and unfiltered, spilled from your lips. the thought of betraying san, of allowing this man to even suggest such a thing, filled you with a righteous anger.
a vein throbbed in his temple. for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. his face contorted, a mask of rage. primal scream ripped through your mind, though no sound escaped your lips. a sudden, visceral revulsion surged through you, a raw, untamed force you hadn’t known you possessed. you didn’t think, you reacted. with a guttural cry that was more gasp than sound, you twisted your body, yanking your arm free from his grasp with a strength born of pure terror. you stumbled back, tripping over your own feet, but you caught yourself, your eyes wide, fixed on him.
"hey, y/n, calm down. let's talk-" his face a mask of something ugly. he took a step towards you, his hand still outstretched.
"don’t you touch me!" you shrieked, the words finally tearing free holding a fierce conviction.
with a desperate lunge, you pushed past him and found the doorknob, fingers clumsy with terror and heart pounding against your ribs. please, please be unlocked. the knob turned protesting a squeal. a small miracle. you yanked it open, the weak sunlight blinding you for a moment.
you didn’t look back. you ran. the gravel crunched under your shoes, the faded blue trailer shrinking behind you. you didn’t stop until you reached your car, fumbling with the keys, your hands shaking so violently you could barely push the button. you threw yourself inside, locking the doors, lungs burning. the engine roared to life, and you sped away, leaving the trailer park, the sickly rose bush, and the terrifying encounter in a cloud of dust. the gifts lay forgotten on the floor of the trailer, naive hope, now shattered.
୨୧
"i ran into someone today."
"at the market?"
"an old friend. from high school. apparently some of them still hang out and, i was invited."
"that's good, you should go."
"really? you don't mind?"
"why would i mind? it's good for you to see people, you're always here. you should get out more."
"i mean... i haven't seen them in years. since graduation, probably."
"people change, that's okay. it'll be nice to reconnect. you've been cooped up, it's good to have plans."
"i guess so."
knees drawn to your chest, the phone thrown to the cushion next to you. you had to call him, you really had to, and he did leave. cheeks damp, tiny ragged sobs caught in your throat, you barely registered when the door swung open. he stood at the doorway, crisp button down now slightly rumpled, his tie loosened. his eyes scanned the room, then landed on you. he didn't say anything, just kicked the door shut with his heel and moved towards you deliberately.
"san," you choked out a fragile whisper, "i'm so sorry. i'm so, so sorry i made you come home."
he didn't answer with words, simply sunk onto the couch beside you, the springs protesting faintly. his strong arms wrapped around your shaking shoulders, pulling you into his chest. the clean, subtle cedar scent of his cologne filled your senses, chasing away the lingering stench of smoke and fear. you buried your face in his shirt and let the dam break.
hot and stinging tears streamed down your face, soaking into his shirt. each sob tore through you, tearing sounds you hadn't realized you were holding back. his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. he didn't try to stop the tears, didn't offer empty platitudes. he just held you, a silent comforting presence.
"it’s okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "it's okay, y/n. i'm here."
fingers fisted in his shirt, the fabric stretching taut. the world outside the circle of his arms ceased to exist. there was only the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breathing. time stretched and blurred. you cried until your throat ached, until your eyes felt swollen and raw, until the tremors in your body slowly began to subside.
when the sobs dwindled to quiet sniffles, you pulled back slightly, your head still resting against his shoulder, your gaze fixed on the intricate weave of his shirt. a deep, shuddering breath hitched in your chest.
"i… i need to tell you something," you whispered.
he squeezed your shoulder gently. "take your time."
the silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. you needed to say it, all of it. the truth, ugly and raw, demanded to be set free.
"i haven’t been... i haven’t been doing well, san," you began, your voice still hoarse. "not really. i mean, i love being home. i love our apartment, i love cooking for you, taking care of everything. i really do. but" you carefully searched for the right words, the words that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. "it got... lonely. really lonely."
at his arm tightening around your waist, you glanced up at his face. his brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet concern, but no judgment.
"i know you work hard," you continued, rushing the words out before you could lose your nerve. "i know you do it for us, for our future, and i appreciate it, san, i really do. sometimes, i just... i just want to talk. to someone. about anything. about my day, about a stupid show i watched, about a new recipe i found. just... to talk. and you're not there."
he didn’t interrupt, just listened, his gaze steady on your face.
"and then… i met seonghwa again."
the name plastered, foreign and sharp. san’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.
"seonghwa?" he repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "who is... i thought you said you were meeting anna? your old classmate?"
your heart sank at his innocence, at how you had let him assume with unclear conversations.
"no, anna is... seonghwa’s friend,” you explained, the words tumbling out. "she’s part of his group. he was my classmate in high school. not a close one, but... yeah. he’s the one i ran into at the supermarket."
san’s placid eyes held a hint of something unreadable. he still didn’t speak, just waited.
"i didn’t mean for any of it to happen," you confessed, your voice cracking again. "i just... i just wanted to be included. to feel like i was part of something. they seemed so... free. and easy. and i was so lonely." you paused, drawing a shaky breath, preparing for the hardest part. "at first it seemed harmless. they were just... different than me, something new. but then it escalated. the parties. the noise. the... the smoke.” you hesitated, then forced yourself to say it. "i... i smoked weed, san. once. i know, i know it was stupid. i’m so sorry."
tears welled up again and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for his reaction. but he still didn’t say anything, just held you closer, so you continued and everything spilled. the memories flooding back, sharp and vivid. from the hazy afternoons to the girl, her unnatural stillness and anna's so, so young son yet already involved into such a chaotic world. your voice broke with the image behind eyelids. then today, at seonghwa's. reliving the terror, the helplessness, made you shiver with a torrent of fear and disgust and self reproach.
you dissolved into fresh sobs, the weight of the confession crushing you. you waited for anger, for disappointment, for the distance to grow between you even more. but instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.
"y/n," he said, his voice deeper than usual, a quiet intensity in his tone. "look at me."
you reluctantly lifted your head, tear streaked face meeting his gaze. his eyes were now clouded with a raw pain that mirrored your own.
"you have nothing to be sorry for," he stated, his voice firm, unwavering. "not for feeling lonely. not for wanting connection. and not for trying to find it." he paused, his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away a tear. "i’m the one who should be sorry. i let you feel that way. i let you feel so alone that you had to look for it somewhere else. i was so caught up in work, in making sure we had everything we needed, that i forgot to give you what you actually needed. me."
fresh tears pricking your eyes, you shook your head. "no, san. that’s not fair. you work so hard. you provide everything. i should have just told you. i should have talked to you. i just... i didn’t want to cause conflict. i didn’t want to seem ungrateful."
"conflict is part of a relationship, y/n," he countered softly. "it’s how we grow. and you are never ungrateful. i know you. i just... i wasn’t listening. i wasn’t seeing. i was so focused on building a future, i forgot to live in the present. with you." his gaze was intense, full of regret. "i saw you, every morning, making the bed perfectly. i saw the dinners you planned. i saw the baked goods you made, and gave away. i thought... i thought you were happy. i thought that was just you, being you. i didn’t realize it was... a symptom. i thought stability meant happiness. i thought if i provided for everything, you wouldn’t have to worry. i thought that was how i showed you i loved you. but i forgot to show you i loved you with my time. with my presence. with my words."
"but i should have said something," you insisted, your voice still thick with guilt. "i let it fester. i bottled it up. i smoked weed behind your back. that’s not okay, san. that’s not okay."
"and it’s not okay that i left you feeling so emotionally neglected that you felt like you had to," he countered, his voice gentle but firm. "we both made mistakes, y/n. mine was in being absent. yours was in not speaking up. but none of that changes how much i still love you."
he pulled you back into his embrace, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear. a comforting, familiar rhythm.
"i love you, y/n," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "more than anything. and i am so, so sorry that you went through all of that. that you were scared. that you were hurt. that you felt alone. i promise you, you will never feel that way again. not with me."
you clung to him, tears still flowing, but these were different. these were tears of relief, of release, of a profound love finally understood. you felt the tension that had been coiled in your chest for months slowly unwind, dissolving into the warmth of his embrace.
"i love you too, san," you sobbed, the words muffled against his shirt. "i love you so much."
held for a long time, the only sounds the quiet sniffles, the soft rustle of clothes, the steady rhythm of two hearts beating in unison. the city outside grew darker, the streetlights casting long, pale shadows through the window. but inside, in the circle of his arms, a fragile light had begun to glow. it wasn’t a solution, not yet. but it was a new beginning.
୨୧
morning rays painted stripes across the duvet. you stirred, the warmth beside you a comforting anchor. san’s arm, heavy and solid, rested across your waist. his breath, slow and even, feathered against your neck. you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. the memory of yesterday, the raw vulnerability, the shared tears, a fragile precious thing.
quiet sigh escaping your lips, you stretched with a yawn. the bed felt different today, lighter, like a burden had lifted. you eased yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. the choreography of making coffee began. the gentle hum of the machine, the rich aroma blooming in the air. you poured two mugs, placing san’s on his bedside table before returning to your side of the bed, he still slept.
you traced the line of his jaw with your finger, the slight stubble rough beneath your touch. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rested against his skin. a small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.
"morning," his voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, startled you. his eyes slowly opened, finding yours.
"morning, sannie," you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple.
he stretched, his big arms flexing, the muscles taut beneath his skin. he reached for you, pulling you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. "i’m not going to work today."
you blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. "what?"
"i said, i’m not going to work today," he repeated, his thumb stroking the skin of your arm. "or tomorrow. i took the weekend off."
a small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you. "you did not. you never take the weekend off. you have that big report due monday."
he shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his gaze steady. "i called lee at like 3 am. he’s covering. the report can wait. we can’t."
your heart gave a small, hopeful flutter. the words, simple and direct, resonated deep within you. you reached up, cupping his cheek. his skin felt warm against your palm.
"really?" you asked thin with emotion.
he nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "really."
the weight that had pressed down on your chest for so long began to ease, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t felt in months. you leaned into him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin, a mix of sleep and his subtle leftover cologne.
"what are we going to do?" you murmured, the question laced with a hesitant joy.
he held you tighter. "whatever you want. show me your world, y/n."
a lump formed in your throat. you pulled back, a small, genuine smile blooming on your face. "okay," you breathed. "okay."
the morning unfolded slowly for once, no rush to get ready, no frantic dash for him to find a parking spot. you made a more elaborate breakfast than usual, eggs scrambled with herbs, crisp bacon, and slices of avocado. he watched you, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his phone conspicuously absent. he simply watched, gaze attentive, as you moved with a quiet efficiency.
he ate with a quiet appreciation, savoring each bite. the silence between you was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but comfortable, filled with the soft clink of forks against plates, the distant chirping of birds.
after breakfast, you led him to the bedroom and demonstrated your bed making routine, movements precise and practiced. he watched, his head tilted, an expression mixed with amusement and curiosity.
the hours melted into a gentle rhythm. you showed him your small rituals. the way you organized the pantry, grouping spices by frequency of use. the careful sorting of laundry, whites, colors, delicates. the methodical scrubbing of the bathroom, each surface gleaming. he followed you, your silent observer, occasionally offering a helping hand.
you found yourself talking more than you had in months, explaining the logic behind your choices, the small satisfactions you found in these mundane tasks. he listened, truly listened, his eyes never leaving your face. it was no longer how are you? but why do you do this that way?
lunch was a rather simple affair, sandwiches and fruit, eaten at the kitchen counter. you found yourself telling him about a new recipe you wanted to try, a complicated japanese stew you’d been researching. he listened, asking questions about the ingredients, the cooking process. it felt like a real conversation, not just a series of perfunctory exchanges.
as dusk began to settle, casting a soft, blue hue through the apartment, you found yourselves in the living room. you moved the large, plush couch, pushing it closer to the wide window that overlooked the street below. the city lights began to twinkle a distant murmur from the streets.
you sat side by side, the comfortable silence settling around you once more. he reached out, his hand slowly finding your arm. his fingers traced a gentle path from your wrist to your elbow, a soft reassuring touch. you leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear.
the silence stretched, not empty, but full of unspoken emotions, of rediscovered intimacy. you watched the cars pass below, their headlights cutting through the growing darkness.
after a long while, he stirred. his hand tightened on your arm, then he slowly, gently, pulled you onto his lap. your legs tangled with his, your body molding against his hard frame. he shifted, adjusting you until you were nestled perfectly, your back against his chest. his lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss, then moving to the delicate skin of your neck. a shiver ran through you, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. he kissed the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and a soft giggle bubbled up from your chest.
"you okay? is this okay?" he murmured.
you nodded, your head resting against his shoulder. "more than okay."
he pulled back slightly, turning you so you faced him, his hands resting on your hips. his brown eyes held a tenderness that made your breath catch.
"y/n," he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "do you... do you ever think about kids?"
୨୧
effortlessly, he laid you gently on the bed, following you down, his body a warm weight against yours. his lips found yours, soft at first, then deepening, hungry desperation underlying the tenderness. your mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in. his tongue tangled with yours, a slow, sensual dance, tasting of coffee and him.
"mine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to whisper the word. "you’re mine, y/n. no one else’s."
his hands, large and strong, moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly, deliberately, pulling it up and over your head. the cool air brushed against your skin for a moment before his hands were there, warm and firm, stroking your sides, your ribs, the soft skin of your belly.
you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat. you reached for his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. he helped, peeling the fabric from his broad shoulders, revealing the taut muscles of his chest before he reached around, touch gentle, unfastening the hook of your bra. the lace fell away, revealing your breasts, full and soft in the dim light. he stared, his gaze lingering and before you knew it, he leaned down, lips closing over one nipple, drawing it into his mouth. a jolt of pure pleasure shot through you. he sucked, softly at first, then harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. your breath hitched, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him closer. he moved to the other breast, suckling with equal fervor, his free hand stroking your side, making goosebumps rise on your skin.
"so beautiful," he breathed, pulling back to look at your flushed face. "so fucking beautiful."
rough with desire, igniting a fire deep within you. you reached for the button of his jeans, eager to shed the remaining barriers between you, pushing them down his hips, along with his boxers. his cock sprang free, already hard and engorged, glistening in the dim light. you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his heat, stroking the soft skin. he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.
"baby," he gasped, his voice strained. "god, y/n."
you continued to stroke him, feeling the pulse of his arousal against your palm. your own desire mounted, a burning ache between your legs. he reached for your shorts, pulling them down with your panties. the cool air kissed your bare skin, a fleeting sensation before his hand was there, warm and knowing, finding the wetness between your thighs.
his fingers parted your folds, gently, slowly, exploring the slickness, the delicate curves of your clit. you gasped, your hips arching instinctively. he dipped a finger inside you, then another, preparing you. you were already so wet, your body aching for him. a soft squelching sound accompanied his movements, a wet, intimate symphony.
"so wet," his voice husky, eyes never leaving yours. "for me."
he watched your face, gauging your reactions, thumb circling your clit, drawing out whimpers and soft cries from deep within your throat. you writhed beneath his touch, your body trembling, on the precipice of release.
"please," you pleaded, your voice hoarse. "san, please."
he shifted, kneeling between your legs. his heavy cock, slick with your wetness, brushed against your opening. you gasped, a desperate sound. he hesitated, looking into your eyes, a possessive fire burning in his gaze.
"say..." he whispered, slightly overwhelmed already. "say you’re mine."
"yours," you choked out, tears stinging your eyes, a heady mix of pleasure and raw emotion. "i’m yours, san. only yours."
he entered you then, slowly, pushing past the soft resistance, filling you completely. a deep groan rumbled in his chest as he buried himself within you. you cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. he paused, letting you adjust, letting your body stretch and encompass him. the feeling was overwhelming, profound sense of fullness, of belonging.
he began to move, slow, deliberate rhythm at first, his hips rocking against yours. the friction was exquisite, the sound of your bodies joining, a wet, rhythmic shlicking. he pulled back almost completely, then drove back in, deep and hard, a sigh escaping his lips. your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.
"mine," he repeated, each thrust punctuated by the word. "no one will ever... have you like this, only me."
the pace quickened, becoming more urgent, more primal. he pounded into you, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks on his tanned skin. your hips rose to meet his, matching his rhythm, your bodies a blur of motion in the dim light. the bed creaked beneath you, a testament to the intensity of your passion.
he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plundering yours, tasting your desire, your cries muffled against his lips. your climax built, a tight coil in your belly, spreading outwards, consuming you. you bucked against him, your body convulsing around his cock. a guttural cry tore from your throat as you shattered, waves of pure bliss washing over you.
the thrusts got deeper, harder, his own climax building quickly on the heels of yours. groans and bodies tensing, hips slamming into yours one last time as he emptied himself deep inside you. his hot cum flooded you, warm thick rush that made you gasp.
collapsed and slick with sweat, your legs were still wrapped around him, intimately entwined. he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
"mine," he whispered the promise again. "forever."
fingers tangling in his damp hair, you held him close. the noise outside, the loneliness, the fear, all faded away, replaced by the overwhelming presence of him, of this rediscovered connection. you felt utterly safe, utterly loved, utterly his.
he shifted, pulling back slightly, propping himself on his elbows, his eyes soft, heavy lidded. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a tender exploration.
"i love you, y/n."
the words, so rarely spoken, so deeply felt, resonated through you. a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but these were tears of joy, of relief, of a profound sense of peace.
"i love you too, san," you whispered back. "more than anything."
a new chapter had begun. a chapter filled with soft reassurances, intentional conversations, and a love that, though tested, had found it's way back home. the question of children lingered, a new seed planted in the fertile ground of your renewed intimacy, a promise of a future you could now, finally, envision together.
each day a thread re-stitched into the fabric of your life together. no longer a frayed edge, but a strengthening seam. the silence shedding it's heavy cloak of unspoken expectation. now, it held the hum of shared understanding, a quiet comfort that didn't demand filling. some days you still spent less time together than you'd wanted, yet, even then, the goodbye no longer felt like a hurried escape.
you learned to speak your needs, not with the tremor of a plea, but with the steady beat of a declaration. he listened, brow furrowing in concentration, his eyes soft with an empathy he’d struggled to articulate before. you saw the effort, the conscious wrestling with words that didn’t come easily to him. it was a language you were both learning, halting at first, then gaining fluency with each shared vulnerability. he’d ask about your day, not as a formality, but with genuine curiosity, sometimes even calling during his lunch break, a rare occurrence that made your heart do a little skip. love rediscovered, a future being built, one honest word, one tender touch, at a time.
your phone still buzzed with notifications from instagram. you scrolled past anna’s stories, a flurry of candid shots from her son’s fifth birthday party. a lopsided cake, sticky fingers, a wide, gap toothed grin. you tapped the little heart icon, then saw sally’s latest transformation, her hair now a vibrant neon green. she’d posted a picture of a sizzling pan, tagged with a question about your secret to perfectly crisp tofu. you sent back a detailed message, outlining marinades and pan temperatures, a smile touching your lips. you knew, and they knew, that the physical space between your worlds had widened, perhaps irrevocably. there was no expectation of meeting up, no casual invitations to late night gigs. seonghwa’s shadow still stretched too long, too dark, across that part of your memory. the thought of stepping back into that haze, even for a moment, made your stomach clench. you had found your way back to the light, and you were fiercely protective of it.
this morning, however, began with no alarms. skin to skin, a perfect fit. he had begged for five more minutes and how could you say no when his mouth was already moving in between your thighs? lazy swipes, you felt your muscles tense slightly, then relax, his hand finding your hip, drawing you closer, before moving your legs over his shoulders. his tongue stroked the soft skin of your pussy, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
time dissolved. the soft rustle of sheets, the faint thumping of your heart against his. the world outside your bedroom, outside this intimate cocoon, ceased to exist. you were just two bodies, intertwined, rediscovering a forgotten language.
when your third orgasm of that morning alone hit, you pulled your head back, accidentally looking at the clock and freezing, a gasp escaping your lips. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still clouded with passion, then clearing with the dawning realization. a groan, this one of frustration, escaped him.
"shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath. "oh, san. you're going to be late."
a deep sigh, rueful sound laced with disappointment escaped him. you pushed yourself up, pulling the sheet with you, a sudden chill striking your skin. he ran a hand through his hair, dishevelled from sleep and your shared passion. "i know." he sat up, stretching, his muscles rippling, a sight that still made your breath catch. he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet falling away, revealing the strong lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders and his half erect dick.
"go, go," you urged, though a part of you wanted to pull him back, to steal a few more precious minutes. you threw off the covers, padding naked to the closet, already mentally planning his lunch.
he glanced back, a wry smile on his face. "you’re not exactly helping." his eyes lingered on your retreating figure, a spark of lingering desire in them.
"i’m making your lunch. that’s helping." you laughed shyly, a clear sound before pulling out a crisp white shirt, a dark tie, laying them out on the bed for him.
when the sound of the shower starting grounded you, you moved with purpose, opening the fridge, pulling out containers. yesterday’s leftover bulgogi, a side of kimchi, some fresh fruit. you packed it all neatly into his bento box, arranging the colours, making it appealing.
now dressed in his dark suit trousers, he emerged from the bathroom, his shirt still unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. his hair was damp, slicked back, making him look even more handsome, more put together. he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his solid frame. chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.
"i love you," he murmured, the words no longer feeling forced, but a natural outflow.
you leaned into him, closing your eyes for a moment. "i love you too," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.
he squeezed you gently, then released you, picking up his jacket. you followed him to the doorframe, a familiar ritual, but one that now held a deeper significance. he turned, his eyes searching yours, then he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss. it was a kiss that spoke of hurried passion, of regret for lost time, and of promises for the future. his hand found your butt, giving it an extra, firm squeeze, a playful, intimate gesture that made you giggle.
"sannie, you have to go." you laughed against his lips.
"i know, just let me-"
he pulled you back in, tongues dancing against each other as he opened the door.
"you gotta... go... leave..." despite your protests, you were leaning into the kisses as well.
finally, when he pulled back, a wide grin appeared on his face, those dimples on full display. "i left something for you on the counter." his eyes twinkled.
your eyebrows rose in surprise. "oh?"
he just winked, then stepped out into the hallway. "have a good day," he called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.
"you too." you watched him go with a warmth spreading through you, chasing away the morning chill. your cheeks burned pleasant blush. you closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, the echo of his kiss still on your lips.
a curious smile played on your lips. you turned, walking back into the kitchen, your eyes scanning the clean, uncluttered surface. amidst the neatly stacked mail and the fruit bowl, an envelope lay, pristine white, tucked beside the coffee maker.
your heart gave a little flutter. you picked it up, fingers tracing the simple, elegant script of your name. you recognized his handwriting, though it was slightly more rushed than usual, a testament to his morning scramble. you glanced back at the lace box that sat on your dresser. finally, a new companion piece awaited. you carefully tore open the seal, your breath held in anticipation.
you pulled out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. it wasn’t a thick expensive stationery, but a page torn from a small, spiral bound notebook, perhaps one he kept for jotting down notes at work. the paper felt thin, slightly rough urough under your fingertips. the words were penned in his familiar, slightly cramped hand, some of them a little smudged, as if he’d written it quickly, probably during a stolen moment on his break.
you began to read, a soft smile blooming on your face.
my y/n:
you know how i am with words, they get stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. it’s frustrating. for both of us, i know. i think about that first letter i wrote you. it was bad. really bad. i cringed just thinking about it. but i tried, i guess, even if it doesn’t look like it. these past few weeks... they’ve been good, better. i hope it's the same for you. seeing you smile again, truly smile, it’s like the sun coming out after a long winter. i never want that winter to come back. i never want you to feel that coldness again. i was so blind. so stupid. i thought providing was enough but i was wrong. you taught me that. you always teach me things, even when you don’t mean to. i want to be better. for us. for you. i want to learn how to say these things out loud, not just write them down when no one’s looking. i’m sorry for the pain i caused. i’m sorry i let you feel alone. i promise to keep trying. to keep learning. to keep loving you, in all the ways you deserve. you are my home, y/n, my everything, my wife, and i will never ever let another man think they got a mere chance with you, never again. you're mine and i'm yours.
⋙ something takes a part of me, you and i were meant to be.
FREAK ON A LEASH [bassist!yeosang x cheerleader!reader]
⋙ college au, exes to fwb to lovers, regina george x rodrick heffley type shi. intended to be read as a standalone, but is tied to dare. wc 23.2k
⋙ yeosang was the starting running back, until he gave up the cowhide leather in his palm for an instrument strapped across his back. you wanted nothing to do with him after he quit football and joined a band, he went from a star to a loser. but still, after everything, no one compares. no one could ever be him.
⋙ smut minors dni | sub-leaning switch!yeosang, dom-leaning switch!reader, toxic behavior, reader is a warning herself. pinv, mommy kink, creampie, oral (both), facesitting, hate sex/jealousy sex, humiliation, dry humping a hand?
⋙ playlist: freak on a leash — korn / operate — peaches / crazy bitch — buckcherry / glamorous — fergie / feiticeira — deftones
⋙ thank u beamie duckie for fixing my banner so i didn't rip out my hair. i love u @sungbeam
Two hands at twelve on a Sunday night. Six weeks.
It’s been six weeks since he’s seen you. Six weeks since he’s felt your manicured nails on his skin, tasted your lip gloss, smelled your designer perfume layered over the lotion he’s massaged into your aching muscles a thousand times. It’s been six weeks since you’ve stood in the doorway of his apartment; he can’t remember the last time you asked to come inside and waited to hear him say yes.
Six weeks ago you would’ve walked in on your own.
“Hi,” you mumble, shy. Your shoulders are set, your back straight, your eyes pointed but your glossy, bottom lip is tucked between your teeth. Yeosang’s brows furrow, the pulse point in his neck throbbing, he hopes you can’t hear it like he can, a steady rhythm of bass pounding in his eardrums.
“Hi,” he mutters, confused, starstruck, and relieved all at once.
“Can I come in?” you ask, eyes sliding behind him, peering into his apartment. Baby pink sweatpants sit low on your hips, your white, strappy tank barely meeting the waistband, showing a sliver of your skin that makes Yeosang’s short nails curl into his front door.
He steps to the side, allowing you entrance as he mumbles, “Sure.”
There’s flip-flops on your feet, showing off your toes always lined with white, thin, silver rings clamped on the middles. A miniature pink purse sits on your shoulder, you let it fall down to hold it loosely between your fingers as you glance around, taking in the sight of his apartment that hasn’t changed.
“I thought you would’ve gotten rid of the football posters,” you say absentmindedly, as if it’s normal for you to be here, as if you didn’t shatter his heart to shrapnel six weeks ago.
“I still like football,” Yeosang closes the door behind him, but he lingers, fingertips still touching the oak. “My priorities are the only thing that changed.”
“Changed,” you repeat, turning to face him, blowing annoyed amusement through your nose. “You ruined your future, that’s what you did.”
Yeosang sighs. “If that’s what you believe.”
“It’s what I know.” You throw a hand on your hip. “Why haven’t you texted me? You haven’t reached out once.”
Yeosang lets his bare shoulderblades touch the door, letting the cool wood seep into his skin as he counters, “You broke up with me. What did you want me to say?”
You shrug, hands waving in the air on either side of you, purse swinging as you all but whisper, “Something.” There’s an edge to your voice, one that makes his gut rumble, something deep and low. “You could have said anything, Yeosang.”
“You made a choice,” Yeosang keeps his tone calm, soft. “I respected it.”
Your top lifts in distaste, taking a step towards him. “God forbid you actually disagree with me on something.”
“Isn’t acceptance better?” Yeosang’s voice goes shallow, airy. He can smell you and it’s making his head fuzzy, his knees weak. He wonders how long it’ll take to get the smell out this time.
“Define better,” you take another step towards him, eyes flickering over his build. The shorts on his legs, hanging too low for company, the lack of a shirt on his upper half. You drink him in like you missed him.
“Why are you here?”
“I need,” you start, full of confidence, but you cut yourself off. Standing just a foot away from him, Yeosang’s head is angled downward to see you, the first thing he notices is the shift in your breathing. Quicker, shallow breaths, you conjure as much certainty as you can to say, “I want you.”
Yeosang’s brows raise, length opening an eye in his basketball shorts. You don’t give him a chance to respond, running your fingers through your styled hair, voice pitched with impatience.
“No one else gets it,” you mutter, stress bleeding through your words. “You’re different. You get it, you get me.”
“What do I get?” Yeosang’s whispering, he needs to know, even if he’s scared you might change your mind and push past him if he asks. He’s terrified that giving in will alter his brain chemistry. “Why me?”
“Yeosang,” you say his name like it relays everything. He keeps your stare even if he wants to look away, like he was facing a bull, dressed in crimson and there was no way in hell he’d win, but something forces him to stand his ground. Maybe it’s because he knows you just as well as you know him.
“I know your priorities have changed,” your voice lowers, but you keep your eyes on him like you know his defense is already stripped. Like all you had to do was say the magic word and he’d be putty in your palms once more. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants me at all, I need a favor. I need… I need to… I want to fuck you.”
Yeosang can hear his own heartbeat. He can feel the sweat prickling his skin at the back of his neck, on his pecs, at the base of his spine. His eyes blow wide, swallowing down his shock, hesitance making him blink at you, lips parting.
You groan, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, covering your eyes. “Please say something,” you mutter, “it’s humiliating enough that I’m even here right now.”
“I,” Yeosang starts, but his voice cracks on the singular word. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head a little, “I don’t understand.”
“What is there to understand?” Your arms stretch out on either side of you, bewildered that Yeosang didn’t immediately respond yes, that he wasn’t on his hands and knees begging for it. “We had one good thing, Yeosang.”
It hurts his chest, like your manicured hand pierced his skin, reached right for his heart and squeezed. You had plenty of good things, several good things, your relationship was damn near perfect before he quit football. Before he joined Jay’s band.
You take a step towards him and he can see the last six months flash before his eyes.
“You don’t miss me?” Your voice is softer now, dripping in a fake sweetness that makes his breathing manual, he can feel the heat of your body.
Low, almost a whisper, Yeosang says, “I do.”
Your lips curve at the corner, glossy, sparkling and edible. Like he’d given you the green light, your voice coated in candy, you ask, “Can I take care of you?”
Yeosang’s brows knit together ever so slightly, a sign of want, of need. All he can muster is a tiny, whimpered, “Please.”
You don’t kiss him.
You drop to your knees, eyes on his, staring up over your forehead. Slowly, your purse falls to the floor beside you, your fingers reach up to the waistband of his shorts. Yeosang’s brows are already tied together, back arched, hips bent toward you while his shoulders stay flush to the door.
“Do you want to cum in my mouth, or inside me?”
Yeosang sucks in a sharp breath, hollowing out his stomach, abdomen flexing. “Wherever you want me to.”
Your smile is wide and true as you tug his shorts down to his thighs, his cock springing out, slapping against the skin between his veiny hipbones. Pupils dilating like you were starved, like Yeosang was your last meal, you licked your lips, muttering a curse under your breath.
Yeosang’s hips twitch toward you, “Please.”
“Don’t beg,” your eyes flicker upward again. “The fact that you’re this hard when I haven’t even touched you is pathetic.”
A small, tight moan slips from between his lips, cock jumping, face scrunched up in pleasure. Your soft, dainty hand finds the base of his length, sliding up over his tip, your palm rolling against his slit, spreading the slick that’d already begun dribbling down the side. The sound he makes should be embarrassing, it’s deafening, laying over the silence of the room, loud and sharp and needy.
“Quiet.” The order isn’t harsh, but it’s not fully confident, either. Your eyes flicker upward again like you needed to see if he’d listen, like it’d give you confirmation to continue. His lips fold between his teeth and your knees part further on the floor, other hand wrapping around his cock, the two holding him in full.
He fights his own instinct to rock his hips into your hands. His breathing is verbal, heavy, chest rising and lowering, muscles contracting as you squeeze, but don’t move. You stay there for a second, testing him, his restraint, his control– he assumes he passes when you guide his tip toward your glossy lips, tongue poking out to lick over his slit, soft and flat and wet.
Your lips wrap around him and the dull thud of the back of his head hitting the door sounds through the room. Taking him into your mouth, hands falling to his hips, he groans as your tongue massages the underside of his length, sliding down until your nose meets the tuft of hair at his base.
“S-shit,” he grinds out, “s’good.”
You hum around him, vibrating his cock, his hips twitch into your mouth. He glances downward, but you don’t react, you start bobbing your head, working up a rhythm. His hands dig into the wood behind him, whines escaping from his lips one after another, pitched and loud and embarrassing, but he doesn’t care.
It’s been six weeks.
Gagging yourself on him, he whimpers, thighs shaking from how hard he’s trying to keep himself composed. You can feel the way he’s climbing, reaching out for euphoria, silently begging you to let him paint your throat white, you bring him as close as you can to his peak before you’re pushing off him with a pop.
His hips follow, a muddled curse rolling off his tongue, two fists banging against the door behind him. You huff a laugh, licking your lips that curve into a sly grin, “That quick?”
His chest is heaving, golden skin splotched with shapes of pink, his face angled and sharp with denial. “I–, I don’t–”
“Go. On the couch.” You don’t move from where you’re planted on the hardwood, ass on your calves, staring up at him. He listens, still trying to catch his breath, pulling his shorts down to his ankles before he sits back on the deep brown couch, waiting for you.
Standing before him now, you don’t waste any time pulling your sweatpants down, leaving the pink, lacy panties with a bow at the center of the waistband on your hips. Yeosang’s eyes flock to it like a moth to a flame, his favorite. So cute, so dainty, so you, absentmindedly he almost reaches for his cock that leaks onto his abdomen.
“Last longer,” your voice is firm, direct. “You don’t cum until I do. Okay?”
His nod is eager, “Y-yes.”
You kick your sweats and your panties off before you swing a leg over his lap, a manicured hand finding the base of his length again. Yeosang hisses out a curse, you lick your lips, watching him react. Tummy flexing, muscles still just as defined as they were six weeks ago, you note that he’s still going to the gym. Nothing’s changed except his hair color, what was once a pretty blonde was now a neon green, ends tipped with black, a foul pair of hues. You look at his pretty face instead, his pecs that sit flexed, his cute, pink nipples that pebbled in the open air of his living room.
You lift yourself to line him up with your core, bracing yourself for the stretch, it’s been over a month since you’ve sat on his length and fuck you weren’t prepped even a little. Sliding his tip through your folds, wetness coating him, dripping down the width of him, you take your time guiding him inside you, letting yourself feel every inch, every vein, each twitch of his cock that pulsed as you sank down.
Yeosang’s head tips back, groaning, hands finding your hips. “Oh my god.”
You moan as your thighs meet his, fully seated, mounted onto him like he was your throne. Clenching around him, breath picking up, your heart pounds against your ribs at how good he feels inside you. You missed this, you missed him, the way he feels, the sounds he makes, how easy and compliant he is, always.
His fingers squeeze, “T-tight, baby. So tight– shit.”
Yeosang feels like he could bust at any second. Six weeks without sex, without you, it was blowing his fucking mind and you haven’t even moved yet. It feels so good, it’s so wrong, you aren’t together, he doesn’t even know who else you’ve been with. He doesn’t care; he still loves you. The way you look at him, the way your skin feels on his, the way you can read every single one of his expressions, he doesn’t have to say a word. He loves how you take care of him. He loves how easy it is for you to make him cum.
He missed your smell. He missed your smile. He missed the way you order him around and the way his body responds without his brain.
“Gonna move,” you whisper. “Take it.”
You start rocking your hips and Yeosang’s head snaps forward again, eyes wide, jaw slack. It’s so good, you feel so fucking good, clenching around him like he was nothing but a toy. He watches your chest bounce beneath your tank, no bra, your nipples poking through the thin, useless fabric.
His hands follow his thoughts, pushing the hem over the peak of your breasts, cupping them in his palms, thumbs running over your peaked nipples. So fucking pretty, his mouth waters, he needs–
“Go ahead,” you sigh, moving your hair away from your face, over your shoulders.
He leans forward, lips wrapping around your nipple, his hand massaging the other, brows knitted together like he’d died and gone to heaven. Satisfied wasn’t the word, pure bliss, his mouth occupied, your hips moving in a dirty grind against his cock, beautiful, pitched noises leaving your lips, music to his ears.
He feels alive again, it’s so easy to ignore that this is wrong. He shouldn’t be doing this. The ramifications of his actions will be too heavy to bear, a weight on his shoulders for the weeks to come, he doesn’t care, not when your moans grow louder, head tipping back, core clenching around him with every other drag of your hips, chasing an orgasm he’d never deny you.
He’d never deny you anything.
Your hands find his hair, pulling his head backward, you stare into him, his eyes glossed over, his swollen, pink lips parted, so beautiful you want to lean down and kiss him. You don’t, though, it feels too intimate, like it’d send the wrong message, like you wanted him for something more than his cock poking at your cervix.
“Please,” he mumbles, voice lagged and heavy with arousal, “need to feel you cum around me, want– need to fill you up.”
You moan a curse, lifting your hips, dropping them down against his cock harshly, picking up your pace to chase the pressure that’s steadily building in your gut. So pretty, so beautiful, so yours, you mumble a question you don’t register asking, “Have you fucked anyone else?”
He’s quick to answer, “No.”
You’re glad you asked. You laugh a little, a small, tiny breath of amusement, “Of course not.”
He grunts when you clench around him, like it gets you off knowing that in the six weeks you’ve been apart he hasn’t even looked at anyone else. He’s spent the last six weeks in class, in Jay’s garage, or here, on his couch with his bass on his lap, playing the same song over and over. Practicing, thinking, debating on whether or not he made a mistake– he never thought quitting football would make him lose you, too.
But here you were, back in his apartment, wrapped around him like no time had passed, as if you never ended things with him in the first place, like you didn’t ghost him for six weeks. It’s not like he reached out, either, you made it clear that if he wasn’t on the team, you had no business being together. Who was Yeosang to argue with you about what you wanted?
The captain of the cheerleading team and a running back, you liked him in uniform, with shoulder pads and cleats and his fingers wrapped around brown leather. You liked it when he was practicing on the field and the cheerleading team was in the corner, rehearsing, doing stunts on the turf. You liked it when you were both sweaty and high off adrenaline and you’d meet eyes across the green, thinking about what came later. You liked it when he won games, when you could run over and jump in his arms and kiss him stupid, then fuck him in congratulation afterward.
You built a routine together, one that wasn’t official–because that seemed to be the norm on this campus, at this age–and a routine built off instability rarely had a happy ending. Part of Yeosang saw it as a ticking time-bomb, one that met its inevitable end.
Skin wet like you were dripping in condensation, your body moved against Yeosang’s like you were built for him. Like no one else in the world could make you feel this good, he could hear it in how you sang for him, how reactive you were to his touch, to him. You were the one that missed him, that’s the only explanation for you showing up unannounced, mere days after he heard the rumours about you and Jaemin.
Now you’re here. And he let you in so easily.
“Y’feel so good,” you moan, fingers curling into his shoulders. His hands find your hips again, guiding you on his length at the pace that always made you cum quick, his hips angled to curve into the spot at the front of your walls. “Yeosang!” You clench around him again and he bites down a curse. “I’m close.”
His brows knitted together, jaw slack, middle flexing over and over, he focuses on angling himself at that same spot, moving you at the same pace, a fixed rhythm, using your sounds as motivation to keep himself anchored.
You reach down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit and he’s thinking of anything he can to stop himself from coming. A whimper escapes him, pitched and needy and pathetic, he knows it is. You gasp before clenching around him, hard, your body trembling, legs shaking on either side of his body, Yeosang smiles.
“Yes, cumming f’me,” he sounds ragged, rambling out of arousal. “So pretty, so sexy, missed you s’much. Let me fill you up, please? Please let me.”
Your hips pick up in pace on their own, it drives him crazy. He’s moaning, fingertips pressing into your hips, his mouth unmoving because his orgasm is so close he can taste it.
“Cum for me,” you soothe, voice encouraging and full of praise. “Made me feel so good, you deserve it. Wanna feel you, Yeo.”
It’s enough to push him over, stuttering a groan as he empties himself inside you, hips bucking up into yours as he feels every second of release. Six weeks without sex is a long time.
You stay there for a moment, hands warm on his skin, controlling your breathing until your heart rate slows into something regulated. Yeosang keeps his eyes on you, watching, feeling, etching the memory into his mind because he doesn’t know if it’ll happen again. He doesn’t know how long he’ll go without you this time. Maybe forever.
Then you’re lifting yourself off him, standing on his rug before the couch, fixing your white tank, reaching for your panties and your sweatpants. He waits for you to speak.
Your lips flatten as you tug your clothes up to your hips, “Can I use your bathroom before I go?”
A slow nod from Yeosang, a small mumble of of course.
He fixes his clothes, pulls his briefs and his shorts back over his hips, then leans back into the couch, letting himself relax into the plush. Letting himself feel. It feels like his birthday to have you in his apartment – but to sleep with him? Because you missed him? There’s a rush of giddiness inside him, one blooming from his chest to the tips of his fingers, you missed him as much as he missed you.
His heart beats to the sound of your flip flops smacking through his apartment, he opens his eyes to you grabbing your tiny little pink purse from the floor, reaching inside for your lip gloss.
He feels like he should say something. Ask something. He’s scared you’ll leave without a word if he doesn’t.
“Hey–”
“Look,” you cut him off, screwing the cap back onto your gloss, shoving it in your miniature purse. “I’m sorry I came over unannounced, it won’t happen again. I just… I needed that.”
“It can happen again.” He doesn’t want it to be over. “I get it.”
You sigh, a hand on your hip, “It shouldn’t happen again. We aren’t ever going to be anything, Yeosang.”
“Then why come back?” He sits forward a little. “Why fuck me? And not Jaemin?”
Your eyes widen like he caught you red-handed. You stand a little straighter as you swing your purse over your shoulder, “Leave Jaem out of this.”
“Okay,” Yeosang nods, shrugging, internally despising that you just called him Jaem. “I will. Whatever makes you happy.”
Your eyes find the floor, shoulders slouching ever so slightly. “I have to go,” you mumble, not meeting his eye. “I have practice early tomorrow.”
He watches, he hears you as you leave, as your flip flops smack down the hallway outside of his apartment. He wishes he had the balls to ask you to stay. He looses a breath he didn’t know he was holding, running a hand through his sweaty hair, cursing under his breath when he looks at his fingers and sees green.
He smacks his teeth together, the box the neon-green dye came in said it wouldn’t bleed. Disappointed in the hair dye, disappointed in you, disappointed in himself, he knows in his soul he shouldn’t have fucked you. It restarted all the progress he’s made the past six weeks, coming to terms with the fact that you and him were over, that he had a new life now. He’s different now.
He terminated his contract and bleached his head. He dyed it green, texted Jay, asked if he still had the spot open in his band, to which Jay responded hell yeah and Yeosang hauled his ass to his garage with his bass strapped over his back.
In six weeks, he’s played two shows. Everything was just starting to feel right.
There’s fear stemming at the base of his spine, that thirty minutes of his life, thirty minutes of sharing saliva and being inside of you would destroy all the work he’s put in. Everything he’s already changed. Everything he already loves.
Because in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his heart, he knows he loves you more than all of it.
He doesn’t see you again for another three weeks.
You made good on your promise, not swinging by his apartment again. It took days to get the smell of you out of his living room, again. He still smells the couch cushions daily just in case. Maybe a part of him wishes it lingered.
He doesn’t reach out, though. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t DM. He doesn’t go anywhere near the places you frequent on campus. If you miss him, you’d let him know. You’d show him. Somehow.
Yeosang thinks maybe this is your way of saying it, in the Arts Building, nowhere near the lecture hall majority of your classes are in. Did you change your schedule? Forced into taking another elective for the sake of credits? There’s no reason for you to be walking towards him in a denim skirt so small he can almost see the lacy pair of panties beneath it.
Your face is pointed like you had an agenda. All Yeosang can do is sit there, in the common space, on the same cushioned chair he always sat in, sketch pad on his lap, waiting for you to approach him, to speak.
But you don’t.
You walk past him, heeled feet somehow clinking against the carpet-covered floor. Your head doesn’t move but your eyes stay on him until he’s in your peripherals, your chin up, shoulders squared, back straight, Yeosang can’t take his eyes off you. Denim kissing the crease where your ass meets your thighs, the shadow above your waistband showing the indent of your spine, the muscles in your calves flexing with each step, he swings his legs around to the front of the chair just so he can watch you leave.
Moth to a flame.
He curses himself for how easily he gives in to you. You let him see you because you wanted him to see you, you wanted yourself on his mind, you wanted him to go home and sit on his bed with a fist wrapped around his length, recalling the last memory of it being your mouth, instead.
He shoves his sketchbook into his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and hauls himself outside. Screw his last class, he’d look at the notes online, maybe. He doesn’t really care what he’s about to miss. He needs to grow a backbone, needs to strengthen his mind so you can’t penetrate his mental walls so effortlessly. Already he’s stirring beneath his cargos, he needs to go somewhere, he needs to do something, he refuses to go back to his apartment and lose time thinking about you.
Impulse brings him outside of campus. Hours walking through busy streets of the city, listening to music and chatter from restaurants, the traffic rushing between them, he finds comfort in the sunshine on his skin, making his head feel hot, his cheeks feel pink.
Impulse brings him to a piercing shop. Brow quirked, lips pursed, there isn’t much thought in his head as impulse pushes his legs inside.
By ten he’s at home again, throwing his bag on the couch, turning on the speaker in the corner of the room just to fill the silence while he lights a joint. In the kitchen, he makes himself dinner, the thought occurs that he was out for so long and didn’t eat– routine and discipline embedded in his veins makes him pull out meal-prepped food from his fridge.
Half a joint burned to ash and a meal digested, he’s only half-satisfied, he wonders when the practices that years of playing football have embedded in him will fade. If he’ll ever just be Yeosang again, instead of an ex-running-back, or the guy who dropped football for a bass guitar.
He debates checking his phone, calling Jongho, calling Aven, someone to occupy his fucking time, to ease his thoughts, so his fuzzy mind doesn’t hyperfixate on everything being different. So he can forget that he saw you today.
Three knocks sound at his door, loud, angry noises that make him jump where he stood beside the counter. He runs to the front door, swinging it open, about to open his mouth when you barrel past him into his living room like a fucking fly buzzing past his ear.
“You looked at me today.”
You’re angry. Eyes pointed, chest puffed out, brows chiseled and furrowed, Yeosang looks behind him like maybe he isn’t on the receiving end of this. Seeing nothing but an empty hallway, he closes the door behind him, and turns to you again.
“Okay?” He asks, says, it’s genuine. What answer is he supposed to have?
You’re in a sports bra and shorts that cling to your body. They reach high, over your belly button, but the hem squeezes right at the tips of your thighs, painted onto your skin. Yeosang’s breath turns manual as he takes in every detail, how your outfit doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, not that it’s anything he hasn’t seen before.
“Don’t do that,” you huff, hands on your hips, a wristlet hanging from your silver-covered forearm. Three bracelets, bangles, sparkly, they hang off your wrist, still dancing together, sounding like wind chimes on a summer day.
“Okay,” Yeosang’s brows furrow ever so slightly. “I won’t.”
“God, you piss me off,” you start pacing, hands on your forehead, walking back and forth in his entryway, if he could even call it that. If you open his front door, you’re already inside of his living room. “You do understand that I want nothing to do with you, right? That we’re not together?”
Yeosang nods, slowly, brows still furrowed like there are a million points he’s missing. “I’m very aware.”
“Then don’t look at me like that!” You finally stop in the middle of the room, voice loud, accompanied by the wind chimes on your wrist and the music coming from Yeosang’s speaker. “Don’t look at me like you still have some sort of feelings for me. Especially in public, Yeosang, I don’t need anyone asking me questions about you.”
His arms cross over his chest, once again dumbfounded, unsure of how to reply.
Your arms fall to your sides, eyes slimming. “What’s in your ears?”
His head cocks to the side, fingers coming up to touch his ears, suddenly reminded when it stings that he filled them with metal today. Simply, he responds, “Earrings.”
Then you’re marching up to him, manicured hands in his hair, pushing it off his face. You’re so pretty, skin soft, eyelashes long, coated in black. Sunkissed, like you’d just come from an outdoor practice, a little flushed with exertion, as if it wasn’t just after eleven. You’re talking, he can’t hear you, lost in your features, wondering how it’s possible for someone to exist this beautifully.
“Yeosang,” you urge, it’s a warning, stealing his attention. His brows raise in question. “The green hair was enough. What else are you gonna do to ruin yourself?”
“Are you my mother or something?” It slips out of his mouth, instinctive, he smacks his lips together. He blames the weed, the lingering smell of sweat on your skin, your face so close to his, his head is fuzzy. He short-circuited.
Your eyes darken, thinning, your hands fall to your sides. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I wanted earrings, so I got them.”
“Don’t change the subject,” you bite. “What did you just say to me? Say it again.”
He swallows, eyes meeting the floor. Voice quiet, under his breath, he answers, “I asked if you’re my mother.”
You laugh, a short, chopped sound of feigned amusement, it makes goosebumps rise on his arms.
“Did you finally learn how to fight back?” Your arms cross, pushing up your chest in your sports bra, Yeosang averts his eyes elsewhere. “To me, of all people. The one person you shouldn’t argue with.”
His eyes flicker upward, meeting your irritated stare. “Why not? We aren’t together, are we?”
From annoyed to impressed to angry, Yeosang watches your face morph into each emotion, a dance of your eyebrows and a scrunch of your lips. He can’t believe he said it, and neither can you.
“No,” your voice lowers, quieter now. “But if there was any chance of us fucking again, it’s gone.”
Yeosang’s eyes flicker down to your chest then, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty for it. If he doesn’t know when he’s going to see it again, then he might as well etch it to memory now.
“You know,” you start, eyes twinkling with mischief, a snag in your smile. “It’s funny you used that as an insult, of all things. Am I your mother.”
Yeosang doesn’t respond, but his chest feels heavy. Like he already knows where this is headed.
You take a step forward, close enough that Yeosang can smell the lingering sweat on your skin. He can see the remnants, too, a gloss on the highest point of your cheekbones, over your brows. It melts into your perfect skin, skin you care for daily, every morning, every night. He’s watched you complete your routine enough times to know it was time-consuming and expensive; he knows each and every step, the ingredients in each product, how much they cost.
“There was a time you used to call me something… similar,” you pop a brow, the snag in your grin widening to a smirk. “Remember?” Yeosang gives you a ghost of a nod, barely a twitch of his head. You cock your head, “Remind me, it seems to have slipped my mind. Weird.”
Yeosang’s jaw clenches, embarrassment flaming in his cheeks. He can feel his Adam’s apple move as his throat bobs, like a lump of shame he can’t pass. Quietly, almost under his breath, he mumbles the word. The reminder.
“What was that?” your voice is playful, a sing-song tone. Like you’re eating up every fucking second of this. “Say it louder. With your chest, Yeosang.”
His eyes find the floor, his pale, bare feet a contrast to the hardwood. He says it quicker, louder, a one-syllable confession like he despised the curve of his lips as he said it, “Mommy.”
You smack your teeth, and your grin spreads from ear to ear. “Right, that’s it, can’t believe I forgot!”
Yeosang glares from under his brows, despising the rush of adrenaline he knows is coursing through you at the title on his tongue. A word he used to say proudly, more often than he should’ve, a word that used to push you past the finish line if he said it coated in a desperate whine. Right now, all it’s doing is feeding your already-huge ego.
“Are you finished?” Yeosang asks, and the question is honest. Without remnants of a snide tone, no snarky attitude, he’s over the humiliation ritual. If you were just going to stand here and tease him, you could leave. Even if every fiber of his being wants you to stay.
You shake your head before answering a smooth, “No.” Shifting your weight onto one leg, you ask again, “Do you remember when you used to call me that?”
Yeosang pops a brow, unsure of the correct answer. “When I was fucking you?”
You blow amusement through your nose. “You never fucked me, I fucked you.”
And maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the half of him that’s still in love with you. Some part of him stands a little straighter and responds, “So do it again.”
Your face scrunches for half a millisecond. Taking a half-step back, you ask, “What?”
“Do it again,” he says with his chest this time, taking a half-step forward, closing the distance again. He searches for the reason inside himself and he comes up with nothing. You came here to tell him to stop looking at you, even if you put yourself in his line of sight. You insulted him, his hair, his earrings, his appearance. You made fun of him for what he used to call you at his most vulnerable moments with your chest puffed, chin jutted upward, making you seem six feet tall.
Is wanting you some kind of incurable fucking disease? Should he go to the goddamn doctor?
“Remind me why I used to call you that,” he leans down, his voice low, smooth. “Give me a reason to do it again.”
Possibly for the first time ever, you seem speechless. Eyes wide like saucers, he can hear your breath catch, an accidental sound between a gasp or spit getting stuck in your throat. You stutter, “N-no, I told you last time was the last time.”
“Then why’d you come here?” he’s too quick to ask, it spills out of him. “Where were you? Working out? On a run, trying to get all this pent-up shit out, when you know the only thing that works is me?”
Your heels come together, back rigid. Your eyes dance around his face, even the shake of your head stutters, like you were desperately trying to control the instinct driving you. He feels like he’s vibrating, electricity threading from his thighs to his fingertips that linger millimeters beside them, body begging to touch you so he could share the lightning.
“Admit it,” he whispers.
Your jaw clenches. “You can’t fucking bait me.”
“I’m not baiting you,” he quips. “I just know you.”
“Fuck you,” you bite, baring your pearly, white teeth.
Yeosang grins. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”
You lunge for him. Not that there’s much space to clear, you nearly jump onto him, into him, his arms catching you underneath your thighs swiftly, holding you tight as your arms wrap around his neck. Your lips hit his and all he could taste was your anger, frustration, all pent up in your sickeningly perfect body, he can’t believe he’s tasting you again. He can’t believe he’s kissing you.
He walks you to his bedroom himself. You don’t even process that you’re moving, he doesn’t break the kiss, he could walk around his apartment without a singular misstep in pitch black darkness. Smooth, effortless, he only breaks the kiss to lay you down gently on his bed.
Still perfectly made from this morning, thank god, you’d have a fit if it wasn’t. Another thing that's stuck. Meal-prep, hydration, shaving, his gym routine, making his bed… Yeosang is a man of practice.
“This is what you wanted,” you growl as soon as your back hits his comforter. “You wanted me here. On your bed.”
“You wanted me,” he pops a brow, words easy. “You came here for one reason, and one reason only.”
Your jaw clenches, “Take my shorts off.” It sounds like your best attempt at coming off icy, but Yeosang hears the burnt edge of arousal, the impatience on your tongue. Your hips twitch against the bed, legs dangling in open air.
Yeosang doesn’t listen. He watches you, taking his time with each sneaker, unlacing the bunny ears before throwing them to his floor. He barely waits to hear the sound of foam and rubber hitting the hardwood before his thumbs are tucking into your socks, sliding them down your smooth, strong ankles, taking his time rolling them off your feet. He doesn’t care where they land on his floor, he hopes it takes time to find them later.
Your cheeks match your chest, both flushed and bleeding impatience, your upper half rising and lowering rapidly like you also couldn’t believe this was happening. Again.
“Yeosang,” you say when he takes a moment to press a knee into the mattress. “My shorts. Now.”
His palms find your knees for leverage as he leans down, eyes catching on the dampened spot on your shorts. A deepened, asymmetrical shape of teal, darker than your turquoise shorts, your matching sports bra. He swallows, mouth filling with saliva, he could feel his eyes fucking dilating and he knows you can see it, too. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, using might to pull them down your lower half. With the way they were painted onto your skin, the slight gleam of sweat still sparkling in his dim bedroom, the curves and muscle on your body…
And you have nothing on underneath. He nearly moans.
“Fuck,” he utters under his breath. “So pretty.”
“Shut up, Yeosang,” you huff. “You’re taking too fucking long.”
He doesn’t know how you switched places. Swift movement had Yeosang on his back, your knees pinned to the mattress on either side of his head, and faced with the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, impulse has his forearms curling over your thighs, pulling you down onto his tongue.
Your pitched moan pierces his bedroom. You peel your sports bra over your chest once your hips start their rhythm on his tongue, fingers flying to your boobs, pinching your peaked nipples. He keeps his tongue poked out, eyelids fluttering, savoring the taste of your soaked folds that coat his tongue in candy.
He takes a moment to inhale, to bask in your scent; natural, mild, a little tang from sweat. Has he ever been this hungry in his life? Can he blame any of this on the weed anymore?
Your hips roll over his flexed tongue, head tipped backward, filling the air of his bedroom with a song of your pleasure, the bass-line the jingle of your bangles dancing down your wrist as your fingers grab for his hair. He can’t hear the music coming from his living room anymore, each one of his senses enveloped by you, and he’d gladly die right here, right now, his last meal being you.
“Yes,” you moan out, and the word is so full of sheer relief it makes Yeosang grip your thighs harder, makes him moan into your core. He focuses on licking over your clit, the rhythm only broken up by his lips swirling around the bundle of nerves, sucking without making it overwhelming, too much too quickly. A pace you love, the pressure he knows pushes you further down the line, Yeosang’s only goal is getting you over it.
You tilt your hips up, clit grazing the tip of his nose, and the way your abdomen flexes has his own hips bucking upward. An abrupt jerk of movement you feel, you know is happening, even if it’s behind you.
Eyes low-lidded, glazed over, you take a peek over your shoulder before asking, “You’re getting off on this?” Yeosang can’t answer with a mouth full of you. You try to laugh, but you suck in a sharp intake of air as his teeth ghost your clit. “You want to be used. Does anyone know what a bitch you are? That you get off on just tasting me?”
Yeosang moans into your center, hips bucking again.
“I’m sure they don’t.” Your eyebrows are tied together as you reach one arm behind you, palm landing on Yeosang’s abdomen for leverage, using the strength of him to give free movement to your hips. You grind yourself onto his mouth harder, faster, a quicker rhythm as you say, “Do they know about me? Or did you get rid of our history when you got rid of your own?”
His fingers sear your thighs, knuckles bone-white. You croak out a whine, “You’d never be this pliant for anyone else. No one else can make you feel this way without even fucking touching you.”
Yeosang moans his agreement, tongue plunging into your entrance, he hopes it’s answer enough. Your head falls back, chest heaving, free hand squeezing your chest, “Shit, I’m close.”
He’s never felt so motivated before. Nodding his head in rhythm with your hips bucking over his mouth, he keeps himself focused, brows furrowed and brain clear. When your moans grow in pitch, when your hips stutter, he keeps your pace fixed by his grip on your thighs. He keeps his tongue flexed, focused on rolling over your clit, using the same pressure, the same speed, never once faltering.
Then you’re crying out, hips seizing, body rolling, the muscles in your stomach clenching and unclenching; but never once do you say his name. Never once do you praise him for being the one to push you over the finish line, to bring you to orgasm.
Sitting back, nearly putting all your weight on his chest, it’s a comfort to him, even if you already look disappointed in the fact that you let this happen again. He can see your heavy breath, upper body expanding, caving in, lips parted and brows upturned ever so slightly. You take a moment to stare at him, to put the pieces together.
“Give me a shirt to go home in,” is all you say before climbing off of him like he was a fucking ride at an amusement park.
Yeosang sits up on his elbows, his own chest heaving, covered in slick from the bridge of his nose to his chin. He licks his lips, whatever skin his tongue can reach, just to savor the taste.
You’re pulling your bra over your chest, grabbing your shorts from his hardwood floor. “Are they in the same drawer?” You ask, not even looking at him. Then you’re before his dresser, opening his tee shirt drawer, grabbing a random white one, pulling it over your head.
It swallows you, down to mid-thigh. Yeosang’s head feels fuzzy, he searches for words inside of himself, he can’t find any. You turn to him, face tight, eyes blown, pupils dilated enough to swallow the color.
“This was the last time, Yeosang,” you say, but you don’t look like you mean it. “I mean it.”
All he can do is grin. He can smell the lie from where he lays.
“You guys don’t have to come.”
Aven and Jongho flanked him, his two best friends, the only two to understand Yeosang down to atoms and particles. Other than you, he supposed; but that was neither here nor there, and he knows you shouldn’t be on his mind, anyway.
“I want to hear your new song,” Aven, on his right, walks in-step with him, while Jongho trails just a step behind.
The latter adds, “This is the only day this week I have off from practice.”
Yeosang’s giddy. He was just being nice, saying they don’t have to come, but the truth is that he’s elated that his friends are coming to his band practice with him. Really, he has plenty of things to be happy about.
You’ve shared his bed twice since the last time. The first time, you’d come over under the guise of giving him his shirt back, just to leave in a different one. The second time, you didn’t have much of an excuse. You’d walked inside his apartment like you owned it, then fucked Yeosang like you owned him. And, in a sense, he supposed you did.
The air feels warmer, the sun feels brighter, the grass looks as green as his hair. Pink and orange flowers blooming on trees wafted sweet-smelling air straight into his nose, as if a reminder to appreciate all that he came across, that everything was okay and will be okay. His life is going back to normal, even if he’d uprooted all of it.
“We have three original songs for our gig at Eonian in two weeks,” Yeosang says, turning the corner that Jay’s house sat on, an older two-story home on the corner, just outside of campus. An easy walk from his apartment, Aven’s apartment, Jongho’s apartment. “The rest are covers.”
Yeosang can hear Jisung shredding, Jongseob on the drums, even from around the corner. Jay’s voice becomes clearer the closer they get, a rough, heavy tone; perfect for the punk genre of music they make, perform.
The garage door was wide open, the inside refurbished into a make-shift studio. Not really. It was the same worn-down garage that came with the home, posters on the walls, the same shelves sitting at the far corner holding mechanic supplies and tools of the sort. Jongseob’s drum set sat at the center of the room, mic stands and amps scattered around the space, Jay’s garage was a cookie-cutter neighborhood’s worst nightmare.
The music died out when the three men caught Yeosang’s head of green hair rounding the corner. Shouts of about damn time, finally, and get in here all met his ears at once, making him flinch.
“I’m sorry!” Yeosang threw his arms up in defense, then threw a thumb pointing behind him. “I had to stop and get these two.”
Jisung’s cheeks went pink at the sight of Aven. “Oh– oh. Hi, guys.”
Yeosang rolled his eyes, pulling on the strap of the nylon guitar bag to get it over his head. Jisung wore a baseball cap on his head, the hood of his zip-up laid on top, his cheeks and white smile the only things visible in the shadows of his hood. Fender strapped around his front, his fingers holding the neck, his body language morphed to something smaller. He’s always had a crush on Aven, and Aven’s always allowed him to.
“Hi, Hanji,” her head tilted, lashes fluttering.
“Hey,” Jongho smacked her arm. A warning.
Yeosang snorted. He pulled his bass from the bag, slinging the strap over his head, and played a few chords just to check the tuning as he made his way toward his spot, just beside Jay, opposite of Jisung.
Jay, lead guitarist and lead singer, took a step forward as Yeosang plugged the chord of the amp into his bass. “You’re happy today.”
Short, cropped hair, midnight-colored and gelled into spikes, his outfit was everything punk. Yeosang lifted a brow, “Yeah? It’s nice out.”
“It’s nice out everyday,” Jay slims his eyes and Yeosang feels his stomach tumble. Fuck Jay for knowing him so well already. “What’s new?”
“You have that freshly-fucked look about you,” Jongseob gleams from behind his drumset. Sitting centered behind the toms, cymbals surrounding him, he twirls a stick in one hand, his blonde hair tied up and braided into an upstyle that made him look feminine. The youngest, a freshman, but he was the fan favorite.
Yeosang’s laugh is nervous, he can’t help it. “What? No.”
Everyone’s face falls as they land on Yeosang. From Jongseob, who looked somewhat surprised, to Jongho standing just over the lifted line of the garage entrance, silence had fallen over the open space like a weighted blanket.
Jongho was the one to interject, “You’re lying and nervous.”
“Holy shit,” Aven mumbles under her breath, eyes sparkling with discovery. “It’s her.”
“No,” Jisung stands a little straighter, eyes going wide. “Yeosang, no.”
Yeosang’s heart is in his asshole. He starts with a rebuttal, shaking his head rapidly, “No it’s not, no it’s not. I don’t know what you guys are talking about.”
“Do you not remember what state you were in when you joined the band?” Jay asks, face angled in disappointment. “You’re like a fucking girl, going back to a shitty ex. I’ve been the shitty ex that girls have gone back to, Yeo, and it doesn’t fuckin’ end well.”
“Okay, well, you suck,” Yeosang’s lips form a line. “We’re seeing each other again, big deal.”
He knew you were not seeing each other again. He knew that it wasn’t anything more than sex.
Yeosang catches Aven throwing a hand over her mouth from the corner of the garage, he sees Jongho shaking his head slowly. But it’s Jongseob who asks, “I thought she was fucking Jaemin now?”
“Jaemin doesn’t fuck her like I do.” Yeosang quips, catching himself smiling, giddy as hell. But his face falls immediately when he takes in the five pairs of eyes on him, all staring with heavy disappointment. Clear distaste.
“Has she stayed over?” Jongho asks, arms crossed over his chest. Long shorts, a black tee tucked in, hair styled over his forehead, he wore the silent accusation in the thin line of his lips. Yeosang swallows. Shaking his head, he tries not to let the shame show in his eyes. Jongho smacks his teeth, “I thought so.”
Yeosang can feel the heat on his cheeks. “It’s not a big deal–”
“She hurt you,” Aven continues, “because you pursued your passion. Do you really want to be with someone like that? Who wants to be with you for looks, the image it portrays, instead of liking you for you?”
Yeosang can feel the frustration bubbling up inside him, overflowing before he has the chance to close the lid. “Are you in any place to give me shit? You’ve been fucking the same guy for four months, and he won’t even–”
Jongho cuts him clean off, “Do not finish that sentence.”
Yeosang didn’t even realize that he stepped forward, that his chest was heaving. For years they’ve bickered like siblings, saying the truth even when it hurts. Yeosang nods at Jongho, taking a steadying pause, silently thanking him for interrupting before he said something he’d regret. Wooyoung was the touchiest subject of them all for Aven, four months of back-and-forth, a relationship hidden in the shadows. He supposed he couldn’t give her shit, anymore, either.
“We just care about you,” Jay admits from beside him, the center of the makeshift-garage-stage. “And we don’t want to see you hurt again.”
Yeosang’s jaw ticks. “I know what I’m doing.”
He can feel the phantom stretch of his nose growing an inch longer. The lie burns. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.
Yeosang hears his door open, then close. He doesn’t even look, he knows it’s you, no one else would be barging into his apartment after the sun goes down, it’s the entire reason he left his front door open.
Tuning his bass on the couch, he’s sitting hunched over it, eyes on the heads, thumb on a string. He hears you come closer, stopping on the other side of his coffee table, he’s willing to bet a thousand dollars you have your hands on your hips, weight beared on one side of your body.
When he looks up, he makes a mental note that he owes himself a thousand dollars. Standing in his hoodie, it comes down to mid-thigh, swallowing the shorts he wasn’t completely sure you were wearing. He blinks, you’re staring. Hard.
“What, you don’t care that I’m here?” You finally bark out, arms crossing over your chest. “I could have been, like, a murderer or something.”
“I knew it was you,” Yeosang answers, then brings his attention back to the instrument on his lap, playing a chord. His top lip lifts, he tweaks the head. “I know your footsteps.”
There’s a pause before you kick your shoes off, walking towards his kitchen. He eyes your flip flops sprawled across the rug beneath his coffee table, making yourself at home, when this wasn’t your home. At one time you’d treated his apartment just like this, walking in unannounced, leaving your shit wherever because you could, because you shared just as much of Yeosang’s space as he did.
He looks over his shoulder, watching your head of hair bop around his kitchen, silently. After a moment, you hold up a laptop charger and turn to him. “Who’s charger is this? It’s not your laptop charger.”
His lips flatten, a sigh threatening to escape. “It’s Aven’s, she was here earlier with Jongho, studying.”
Your brows raise a millimeter. “Aven’s,” you repeat. “They were here studying.”
“Here we go,” he says under his breath.
You cross the kitchen, back into his living room, eyebrows tied together as you make your stand beside the couch. “She’s here often, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Yeosang says, voice flat. “Just like she always has.”
Your eye twitches. “And she just leaves things here, often?”
“No, she has a lot going on right now.”
Your face blows into surprise, disgust. “Oh, and now you’re making excuses for her.”
“She’s literally dating Mingi,” Yeosang argues, hating the taste of the lie on his tongue. “Why is this a big deal?”
“It’s not,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance. You walk back to the kitchen, putting the laptop charger back where you found it, white chord glowing atop the charcoal granite. You used a little more force in dropping it than necessary. You keep your voice steady as you say, “Jaemin asked me to go get drinks tomorrow after his game.”
He can hear the control you’re reaching for as the words leave your lips. He asks, “Yeah? You going?”
He wasn’t sure what you were doing in his kitchen now. He plays another chord, and it sounds smooth. “I think so,” you respond. “Probably.”
Yeosang doesn’t know what kind of strength he has in his soul that made him respond, “Good, you should go.”
There’s a pause, he doesn’t hear your bare feet moving across the tiled floor of his kitchen. His fingers pick at the strings, strumming a small, melodic, funky rhythm. Then he hears your feet slapping against wood as you trudge into the living room, beside his couch again, face twisted up in confusion. “You don’t care if I get drinks with Jaemin?”
“Why should I?” Yeosang asks. You wouldn’t be telling him if you were actually going, you wouldn’t be telling him if Jaemin had actually asked you, but his heart is below the hem of his shorts, anyway. “You’re not my girlfriend, are you?”
“No,” you answer simply, happily, almost. Yeosang plays another beat, another strum of chords, his finger catching the wrong strong, the entire melody clashing. He didn’t realize his fingers had started shaking. You grin, “I knew it.”
All five of Yeosang’s fingers point toward the kitchen, “You just flipped shit over a laptop charger.”
“Because it’s hers!” You argue, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You have a girl over here every other day, leaving her shit here, her hair-ties, her charger. What’s next, her clothes? Tampons in your bathroom?”
“It’s Aven,” Yeosang reiterates, like the mention of her name was enough explanation. “She’s been my best friend for years, you know this.” You blink at him, and his lips curve in a grin. “You’re jealous.”
“Why the fuck would I be jealous?” you spit out, arms uncurling from where they sat twisted over your chest. “I’m the one that’s fucking you.”
Yeosang can’t help but laugh. Head tipping back, bass and body slumping into the couch cushions, his laugh is genuine, straight from his belly. “You–” he tries to get out, head turning to the side, laughter still barreling out of him. “You tried to make me jealous with Jaemin, the fucking kicker.”
Your body feels hot. You’re positive your face is flushed, arms crossing right back over your chest again, you could stomp your fucking foot in irritation. “You’re so fucking aggravating, Yeosang.”
“Yet you’re here,” he responds, his laughter dying down to a breathy giggle. “Look at where you’re standing.”
Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, body ignited, growing hotter by the second. Just his stare, chocolate eyes, long lashes, knowing they were fixed on you made you feel two feet tall. You don’t answer, not as he pulls his bass off his body, setting it down beside him on the floor, the neck leaning against the couch. You can hear your heartbeat, feel the heat on your skin, sweat prickling beneath your hoodie. His hoodie.
“We’re not dating,” you finally announce. “We aren’t exclusive.”
“I know,” he nods once. “Which means you’re free to go do whatever with the kicker.”
You hate the way he mocks him, the way he says kicker like it’s an insult– he doesn’t even play anymore. Jaemin’s nice; a little stupid, he definitely doesn’t let you rough him up, and he certainly doesn’t know any of the kinks you keep buried, revealed to Yeosang and Yeosang only.
“I do,” you lie. “And I’ll continue to. Just wanted to make sure you were aware.”
Yeosang sits up a little straighter. “Aware of what? The possibility of getting an STD?”
Irritation only makes you burn hotter. “He’s clean, Yeosang, and so am I.”
“You sure?” his brows lift. He’s taunting you. “When’s the last time you got tested?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked me that,” you pull your hands out from your sleeves to count on your fingers, “a few weeks ago, before you fucked me raw, came inside me, let me sit on your face? Or how about when I had your cock down my throat? Shouldn’t you have wondered before that?”
He shrugs, a small thing. “Forgive me for having trust in you.”
“Trust,” the word makes you laugh. “Because there’s so much trust in what we have.”
Yeosang stands, his bulky build swallowing you, height towering over you. You can’t believe your body forced you to swallow.
“We don’t have anything,” he uses emphasis on the last word. “As per your choice. You come here to fuck, blow off steam, you come here to get what no one else can give you. You tell me that only you can make me feel this way, but what about you? Who else is fulfilling every little thing your nasty fuckin’ mind gets off on?”
Your breath catches. He continues, “And you want me angry over Jaemin? Did you forget I know him, and know him well? That I was on the same team as him? Lived in the same house as him?” You don’t answer, eyes widening, you can feel your pupils dancing below your lids, trying to gauge his next move. “You don’t think I know that he drinks whiskey like it’s water, and can barely get it up half the time? That when you fucked him—which I’m sure was, what, once or twice?—he busted after three strokes and was already asleep by the time he rolled off you.”
You can feel your heart beating, an unsteady thrum in your chest. “You’re wrong, Yeosang.”
He’s right.
“Does he let you call him names?” He asks. You notice that his green hair has faded a little, framing his sculpted, flushed cheeks. His birthmark seemed brighter, more opaque, a spot you’ve kissed a million times, it beckoned you to do it again. “Does he let you slap him? Does he let you choke him? Does he call you mommy?”
You gasp. It’s small, but it’s clear, slicing through the air between your faces. Every ounce of you wishes you could suck it back in, retract it, feign that his words were doing nothing to you. It would be useless, anyhow, he knows you down to the bone, keeping any sort of emotion from him proved futile time and time again.
“Answer me,” Yeosang urges, and there’s nothing in his voice that’s calm. The subdued, submissive man you’ve spent countless hours with is nowhere to be seen. The muted hum of adrenaline swimming through your body zaps at the base of your spine, like it’d been woken up, branching off to every nerve ending.
“No,” you whisper, hating that you’re admitting it, but what choice was there? “He doesn’t.”
“I know,” Yeosang grins. There’s no warmth in it, it’s sly, mocking. Like all of that was just to get you to say it. “Remember that, the next time you want to make me jealous of the goddamn kicker.”
His chest is flushed pink beneath the white tank he wore. Heaving, rising rapidly, lowering just enough to suck more air in. He’s pissed, and you don’t know why the sight is going straight to the throb in your panties. Never once has Yeosang been dominant, never once has he been mad at you, never once has Yeosang not been the submissive man you trained.
“When he does fuck me,” you start, and you genuinely have no idea where you’re going with it. “He’s… rough. He does to me what I do to you.”
Lies. You’re lying through your fucking teeth. To anyone else, Yeosang would seem unbothered. But you see the flash in his eyes, the deepening of chocolate to coal, how his lips peeled back from his teeth ever so slightly.
“And I like it,” you breathe. “I like it better.”
There’s a semblance of amusement in the curve of his brow. “Yeah?”
You nod, “He’s better than you. Bigger than you, too.”
The snag in Yeosang’s grin, you’ve never seen before. Mischievous, like he was already planning the million-and-one ways he’d break you apart. It makes your toes curl into the hardwood beneath your feet, your fingers twitch, your heart double in speed. Excitement, thrill, that’s what was passing through the air between you, a stand-off of sorts.
Do it, you think, hoping, praying he can hear you. Do it, Yeosang.
And he does.
His lips find yours in a hasty crash, his right hand reaching for your throat. Unsteady, uncontrolled movements, not entirely full of confidence but not insecure, either. You moan into it, the sound desperate and relieving all at once, and his fingers tighten. Pressing against the sides of your neck, weight on your veins, your eyes flutter beneath your lids, knees trembling.
“This what you want?” He asks into your mouth, breath heavy, panting like he’s been waiting for this.
Your knee hooks over his hip, “Yes, Yeo, yesyesyes.”
His hand leaves your throat, grabbing at the leg you threw over his body, using just that one fucking hand under your thigh to lift you off the floor. You answer with your other leg, he catches it swiftly, moving your bodies backward, toward his bedroom. Never breaking the kiss, your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging at his roots with enough force that he hisses into your mouth.
He throws you back on the bed instead of laying you down delicately, and as your back hits the mattress, your eyes peel open to catch the sight of him. Pupils dilated, cheeks splotched, forehead kissed with moisture, he looked at you with such hunger it made your back arch off the fucking bed.
“Teasing me,” he mutters, and you think he’s talking more to himself than to you as he climbs over your frame. “Dangling him right in front of my fucking face like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”
“Yeah?” you push his hair off his face, throwing your legs over his muscled thighs. “What are you gonna do about it, then?”
He studies you for a cool, calm second before moving. Sitting back on his calves, he pulls your body flush to him, then he flips you over in one swift movement. With a yelp, you’re on your stomach, eyes wide and legs parted, hips lifted off the mattress.
“What can you take?” He asks, and instinctively, you weren’t sure if it was rhetorical. “What’s he do when he fucks you rough?”
Without you answering, he pushes the back of your hoodie up, fingers digging in the elastic of your shorts, pulling them over your ass. You whimper, pushing yourself up by your knees to help him get them off you.
Elastic rolled around your thighs, he lands a harsh smack to your ass. You barely get a cry out before he’s repeating himself, “I asked you a question.”
“Fuck,” is all you can get out, nails curling into the duvet beneath you. “H-he fucks– he fucks me hard.”
You don’t have time to wonder if he’s buying the bullshit you’re spewing, not when he gets your shorts down to your knees, then down and off your ankles. Two strong, callused hands lift you by the hips, hiking you upward until you’re on your knees.
“You’re such a fucking liar,” he hisses from behind you, painting a finger through your folds. A moan forces itself through your lips at the stimulation, thighs already shaking. Did he know you were lying from the jump? Was he doing it anyway?
“‘m not lying,” you whimper in response, knees spreading further, needing more.
“If you wanted me rough, you could have just asked.” You can hear the ruffle of his shorts sliding down his thighs, the elastic of his briefs snapping against his skin. Then you feel his length, his tip, sliding against your folds, spreading the slick that’s already gathered. “Aren’t we past the point of pretending I wouldn’t do anything for you?”
The question lights you up like a Christmas tree, but sends a pit of something other to your gut simultaneously. You weren’t sure how to break down the feeling, you didn’t have the brain power to try, not when his tip was prodding at your entrance without prep, without stretch, without anything.
“Yeosang!” You squeal, turning your head to the side, trying to catch even a glimpse of green over your shoulder. But then he’s pushing in, and the feeling sucks all the air from your chest, forcing your eyes to squeeze shut.
“Baiting me,” he gruffs out, like he was talking through his teeth. “Telling me Jaemin’s bigger than me when I’ve seen his fucking cock. We lived together. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“N-no,” you whine, head in the clouds, somewhere else entirely. His hips snap against yours, a rough, nasty pace; sliding over the front side of your walls, massaging you deliciously, all you can do is shake with pleasure.
“You talk so much shit, run your fucking mouth,” he says, fucking into you like he was strumming along to a beat. “What happened to you didn’t fuck me, I fucked you? Huh? Look who’s getting fucked now.”
You think you might be crying, face hot, mouth pried open. Your fingers lose their grip on the duvet, body completely at Yeosang’s mercy, to his hips that snap against yours brutally, relentlessly.
“Quiet now?” He asks, then his thrusts stop completely. His hands grab for your arms, pulling you backward, up toward him. He grabs your hoodie by the hem, pulling it over your head, throwing it elsewhere; then one hand splays across your stomach, the other up at your throat, and he fucks into you again like he never stopped. “Did I break the fucking bitch inside you?”
Your body folds. Or tries to, a loud, uncensored cry ripping from your throat. He holds you steady, two hands keeping your back pressed to his chest, his mouth on your ear.
“You liked that, huh?” He asks, amusement playing in his tone. “Good to know, for the next time you want to make fun of me because I call you mommy, I’ll remind you of today. Of tonight.”
“Yeosang,” you whimper, eyelids fluttering again, your hands searching for his, clasped around your body. Tugging, pulling at them, nails clawing into him, he doesn’t budge.
“Mm,” he moans into your ear. “I don’t think so. Should I make you call me daddy? Call me sir?”
Your head tips back, falling limp against his chest, the pocket of skin between his pec and his shoulder. “Yeosang.”
His hips switch into a nasty grind, cock dragging against your walls perfectly, his hand drops from over your stomach to between your thighs. Two fingers rub at your clit at the same pace his cock fucks into you, and you nearly fold again.
“Shit!” you gasp out, “shit, shit, shit.”
“Ask me,” he says from behind you, voice clear like you were the only one losing your mind. Pressure looms, pleasure building steadily with each circle he traces. “Ask me if you can cum.”
You think you might have whiplash. It makes sense, you think, in all the months you’ve dommed him, all the times you’ve said nasty shit, for him to pocket every single movement, every single sentence.
You whimper, “Please.”
He grunts. “Ask. Me.”
“Please, Yeosang,” you urge, eyes finally cracking open. And thank god you did, because the sight before you threatens to rip the breath from your lungs all over again. Green hair stuck to his forehead, bleeding down his cheeks, over the red mark beside his eye. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and crazed; you nearly cum on the spot. Instead, you ask, “Can I cum? Please?”
He kisses you, forgoing a response, forcing you to hold it. His tongue slides into your mouth, teeth clashing against yours, so messy and hot you find yourself teetering scarily on the edge, thinking of anything to delay the inevitable.
“No,” he says into your mouth, the word final.
Despair seems like a tangible thing. A sob cracks from your throat as he lifts his fingers from your clit, sliding out of you, and pushing you face-first onto the mattress. Your body might be jerking, twitching, twisting– you weren’t exactly sure, because too quickly his hands hook under your legs again, flipping you onto your back.
“Denial sucks, doesn’t it?” he asks, grin wide. You wished you had the brainwidth to wonder how he was so good at this, where this experience came from. The easiest answer would be from you. He pushes your knees up to your chest, settling between them, callused palm leaving your skin only to line himself up with your entrance.
Pushing in smoothly, he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, muffling his moan of pleasure. You reach for him, his face, his shoulders, his hair, and he gives you all three as he leans down, elbows bracketing your head. His lips find yours, tongue and teeth and spit, another messy conjoining with the slick sounds of his hips hitting the backs of your thighs.
“Want you to cum, just like this,” he says, voice quiet, barely more than a ragged breath. His bottom lip stays on yours, sharing breath, sharing space. And for a moment, staring into his eyes, you’re scared.
It’d be easy to get addicted to this, you think. To him, all over again. When you were together, it was addiction; it was daily, sharing spit, sharing space, him inside you like that was his first home, then the apartment surrounding you. With Jaemin, with anyone else, on the field, you performed. You acted, you were someone other than yourself, living outside of your skin.
You’ve never had to perform with Yeosang. Other than the acts you enjoy putting on, the displays of dominance– submission now, too. It was natural, fitting, like water and ice, matchstick and flame. Running back and captain of the cheerleading team.
Staring into his eyes, panting into his mouth, clenching around him as euphoria swallows you whole, there’s a part of you that damns him for quitting football. For stretching the gap between you, ruining routine, forcing you into having feelings for a fucking bassist of a garage band.
He had everything. He had it all. He had a future, he had stability, he had routine– he had you.
And he ruined all of it. For what?
He kisses you as he empties himself inside you, spit warming your tongue, filling the space where your breath had dried it. You push the feelings down, the wave of dread, the feeling of everything crumbling around you. You let his weight on your chest be a comfort, the smell of him, a little weedy, sweaty and Yeosang.
There was no one else on the planet who understood you like him. There was no one else who could satisfy you like him. There was no one else who could handle everything that you are.
The thought haunts you, that he might accept you for all of it. Pom-poms, glitter, bi-weekly manicures, a nasty personality and a sex drive that challenged a virgin’s. He might even like the parts of you that you consider a nuisance, the parts that even you can’t comprehend.
Would anyone else pay so much attention? Would anyone else learn you down to what’s at your core?
“Why are you crying?” he asks, face warped into confusion, concern.
You blink. Once, twice before your hands are flying to your face, wiping at your tears. “Subdrop, maybe,” you laugh a little, nervous. Embarrassed. “Happens sometimes. Never been on this side of it before.”
He moves your hair out of your face, swiping his thumb under your eye. He shakes his head once, “Can I get you anything? Water? Food? A shower? Clothes?”
“Jesus, Yeosang,” you laugh again, the sound fully forced out of your chest as you push him off you. Sitting up, you can feel the rumbling of emotion in your chest. You push it down, down, down. “I’m fine.”
He stares at you for a long second, and you shudder under the weight of it. Moving, your legs aching, you swing them over the edge of the bed, running a hand through your hair. Sheepishly, you look over your shoulder, “Maybe water?”
“Lay with me,” he says, naked and flushed, chest still heaving. Eyes softer now, less terrified, a comfort. “Five minutes.”
This wasn’t right. Usually it was you offering comfort, you’ve never been the one having the come-down after a release of emotion. Of control.
You swallowed, face heating. But you nodded, and then laid back down.
And as his body engulfed you with sticky, sweaty heat, it terrified you that there was nowhere else you wanted to be.
He didn’t mean to pass you.
Not really.
But on the way to the Arts Building, if he took the long way, especially if he really needed to get his steps in… it’s for his stamina, he swears, to keep his lungs strong onstage. That's the only reason he passed the field, rounding the corner of the one-hundred-twenty yard turf. It just so happened that he passed by your side, catching a glimpse of your black, tiny shorts, your black sports bra, white Nfinity sneakers on your feet.
Hands on your hips at the top of the formation, stood opposite of the rest of the team, your team, nodding your head with each beat of the actually kinda sick song. Heavy bass, guitar riffs, vocals dim and monotone. Not a competition mix, then.
He hears your voice yell over the turf, bold and dominant, a captain’s voice. “Five, six, seven, eight. Tight! Tight, strong, clean. Get it right!”
Yeosang pauses for a second, his own head nodding along to the beat, watching the twenty-something girls with their hands balled in fists burst into quick, clean movements. Over their heads in a V, hands on their hips, knees bent as they damn near glide into their next formation, fluid with the song.
He kicks his feet into motion as you bark out another order, a girl’s name. He’s lucky he played football instead of being a cheerleader, he thinks, he doesn’t know if he’d survive you as his captain.
But it’s sexy nonetheless, seeing you in your element, guiding, controlling, watching with a calculating eye, picking out mistakes as soon as you see them. A perfectionist, someone who thinks good isn’t good enough, a captain who cares about her team, how they’re perceived. How they rank.
You don’t see him, thank god. But that means he still has to pass his team—his old team—and he wonders if it was worth it to catch a glimpse of your boobs tucked into your bra or your ass peeking out of the legs of your bloomers.
He snorts to himself. Of course it was.
Eyes trickling down to the field, opposite of where you practice, he recalls all the time he’s spent on the turf. Drills, sprints, positional work, formations, it’s weird looking down to the green, the guys on it, and feeling nothing. He could cling to nostalgia all he wanted, the feeling he had when he scored, when he won a big game for his team.
But he didn’t miss being down there. He didn’t miss those guys at all. And he feels guilty for it, because they never did anything bad to him.
He spots Mingi, the quarterback, his hair dark, long and sweaty, visible without a helmet on. He’s dancing on his cleat-covered toes, football between his gloved palms, watching Haechan run down the field, waiting to throw the ball. He can remember the days when it was himself sprinting down the field, adrenaline pushing his legs harder, faster, readying himself for Mingi’s no-doubt perfect pass.
His mind wanders, thinking of Aven, thinking of those two, together. Part of Yeosang worries that she’ll get hurt in her plan to hurt Wooyoung, that Mingi would crack the last bits of her that still wanted to try, that still had hope of a relationship, of love.
He shakes his head, ridding himself of the thoughts. If anything, Aven will eat him alive.
His ears catch onto a particularly loud yell, and his head snaps backward, watching as you saunter out on the turf, fingers pointing, voice lashing. He laughs to himself as he watches you correct someone’s form, physically fixing her arms into place, throwing your hands over hers to strengthen her fists.
Yeah, he wouldn’t survive you as his captain. Thank god he played football.
Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he dials Jay, wondering if the younger man was in class, or home. With a seven-second long conversation, he turned on his heel, and headed home to grab his bass, instead.
Twenty minutes before he ended up in Jay’s garage, he was thankful his lead singer didn’t press him about the reason he was there. Jay didn’t question Yeosang at all, the two understood each other differently than the other two– what music meant, how it shaped a person. Jisung and Jongseob were in class, leaving Yeosang and Jay standing on opposite sides of the garage, their instruments plugged in, and in complete verbal silence, they played.
Finding each other’s melodies, adapting when the other switched, trying to keep in-tune with one another, it was a game. A challenge. A fun one, Yeosang quickly realized, sweat kissing his brow, his tongue poking out between his lips in focus, listening to Jay while simultaneously moving his own fingers, slapping his bass to the tune of the younger man’s electric guitar.
This is what Yeosang lived for. Music has always been vital; morning workouts, evening workouts, a playlist he had plenty of songs forced into ringing through the speakers during practices. When he was younger, his parents had music playing almost all the time. He woke up to soft rock, ate lunch to metal, played in his backyard to pop, ate dinner to jazz, fell asleep to classical.
He first picked up an acoustic guitar when he was eight. His first song might have been Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but as soon as he learned the chords, the strings, how to move his fingers along a fretboard, it was over. Yeosang came home from school and picked up his guitar like it was the only thing he cared about— the only thing he lived for.
And for a long, long time, it was. The first time he picked up a bass he was twelve. Different from guitar, the neck was longer, the strings were thicker, Yeosang quickly became obsessed with how if you aren’t listening, you can’t pin-point where the bass is in a song. But if you really listen, if you look for it, you’ll know that bass is vital.
Rhythmic precision, in-sync with the beat of the drums, the sounds coming from a bass guitar are low, but not any quieter. A song without bass is hollow, depthless. For whatever reason, Yeosang became infatuated with the idea, with the fact that if he played bass, if he mastered it, he’d be as vital as the instrument.
Then he learned he was really good at catching a football, and at that point Yeosang had so many hobbies he still to this day wonders how he made time for them all. Keeping up with guitar, with bass, and with football was a lot easier when he was twelve than when he was seventeen, getting scouted for college. Long talks with his guidance counselors, with his parents, and Yeosang knew that football was his choice. It’d put him through on a scholarship, and he could still play, he could still shred, but football was his top priority.
And for the first two years, he loved it. Life was easy— he lived in the football house, he had friends, his team, a shared routine with all of them, he’d found a family. He spent countless hours in his bedroom on the second floor, playing for no one. He’d bring his bass downstairs during parties, play it like it was his hidden party trick. No one knew what his bass meant to him, what music meant to him. He had Jongho and Aven for that, the two people he fully confided in, that knew the feelings he kept in the small corner of his conscience. For those first two years, that was enough.
The end of his sophomore year, when he met the younger man beside him, Jay had heard through the grapevine that Yeosang played bass, and approached him in his lecture hall looking for a bassist for his band. Jisung, Jongseob, two younger guys he didn’t know at all, Yeosang almost laughed in his face, almost asked Jay if he knew who he was.
When he met you, for those first few weeks, everything in his life cracked open. He started playing more, he became addicted to it all over again, the weight of mahogany on his lap, strapped over his shoulder. Slapping his callused fingertips on strings and being mesmerized with the sounds that it made, he played often, any moment he could find, with you always at the forefront of his mind. He cared less about football, only that you were on the other side of the field, or on the sideline. He didn’t really care about his teammates, was it so terrible that the only weight they held for him was surface-level friendship? He started focusing on the things that mattered, whatever brought him joy.
You, and his bass. Jongho and Aven, too, when they weren’t a pain in his ass.
It was hours now that he’d spent in Jay’s garage, but thankfully, Jay didn’t bring you up once. As if the younger man knew Yeosang was plunging balls-deep in his own mind, and didn’t want to bring it to the surface. They talked about their show instead, in a week and a half, at the bar they frequented on Fourth Avenue, just outside of campus. It wasn’t their first show at the dingy dive, but they had more original songs now then they did last time they performed there, and pressure was a weight he gladly bore.
“I have an idea,” Yeosang told Jay, the pair in beach chairs on his driveway now. A pizza sat on a folding table between them, two brown bottles of beer on the cement beside their chairs.
Jay popped a brow, “Yeah?”
“A song to cover,” Yeosang says, reaching down to grab his beer bottle, bringing it up to his lips. Swallowing, flushing down the pizza, he continues, “For the show at Eonian.”
“The show is in like, a week.” Jay shook his head. “Fuck no.”
“Come on,” Yeosang leaned forward in his beach chair. “Do you trust me?”
“Fine, I’ll bite.” Jay says, reaching for his beer. Bringing it up to his mouth, his bottom lip touching the rim, he asks, “What song is it?”
Yeosang’s lips pursed. “I don’t know. Yet.”
“You don’t know?”
“I just heard it,” Yeosang explains, cheeks flushing pink. This is what he gets for speaking without thinking. “I’ll find out tonight, play it for you tomorrow.”
“I don’t doubt that, you fuckin’ weirdo,” Jay laughs to himself. “It creeps me out when you do that, learn a song just by listening to it.”
Yeosang shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.
When he gets back to his apartment, immediately he's on his couch, sitting over his bass, on the couch, trying to play the melody from memory. He thinks he has one section down, maybe, possibly, by the time you’re bursting through his apartment, right on-time.
His front door slams behind you. You’re still half-dressed, but at least you had a shirt on now. Even if it was his, and the bottom hem was tucked up into the band of your sports bra, showing off the stretch of skin from your upper abdomen down to the waistband of your shorts.
Your hair was still tied up, off your face, white sneakers still on your feet. Fresh off the field, then. “I’m irritated.”
Fresh off the field and pissed. Yeosang sits a little further back on the couch, readjusting himself, waiting for the explanation.
“Those girls have no fucking respect,” you throw your wristlet onto his coffee table, arms crossing over your chest.
“Karina?” Yeosang asks, remembering when you were appointed captain at the end of the previous captain’s, Jihyo’s, reign. Karina is the only one on your team who never accepted that you were captain, and not herself.
“Karina and her evil fucking minion, Giselle,” you snap, eyes big and raging. “I think they’re doing it on purpose. Either to get me to step down or get my rank removed, but the joke’s on them, because neither is going to fucking happen.”
Walking from one side of his rug to the other, you keep going. “We’re doing a pep rally next week, and I was told about it a week ago. I only had a few days to choreograph a routine before we needed to start practicing, and I did, now I don’t know if it’s because of where Karina is placed in the formation, but the ones that are watching her are copying her. These girls have been cheering for years, Yeosang, we’re a D1 fucking school and they can’t learn a routine in a few days?”
Yeosang’s lips flatten. “You’re putting in the work and they aren’t.”
You stop in your tracks. “You’re right, it’s literally only me putting in work, isn't it? I need to talk to my coach, I don’t know how half of these girls made it onto the fucking team.”
“I could probably learn the routine quicker than them,” Yeosang shrugs.
You nod ecstatically, “You could. You literally fucking could, Yeosang. You should see these girls, it’s like they’ve never cheered a day in their life.”
“Show me the routine,” Yeosang says.
You pop a brow, standing still, palms finding your hips. “What?”
“Show me,” Yeosang shrugs, then smiles. “Let me see if I can do it.”
“No!” You shake your head like the idea was ridiculous. “I’m not cheering for you, that’s embarrassing.”
“Okay, fine,” he huffs. “At least let me hear the mix.”
“It’s not a mix,” you say, quieter. Voice small, like you were even embarrassed of that. “It's a song.”
Yeosang tilts his chin up. “Let me hear it.”
As you pick up your wristlet, unzipping it to pull out your phone that somehow fits in the tiny, skinny thing, Yeosang’s grip tightens on the frets of his bass, fingers steadying over the strings.
It takes you only a moment to pull up the song, to press play, like you hadn’t even checked your phone after finishing practice, you had come straight here. He doesn’t let the thought linger as the beat starts playing through the small speakers, Yeosang’s ears straining to pick apart the melody like he could see the sheet music in front of him.
He nods his head as you nod yours, your limbs moving like you couldn’t stop yourself from micro-performing if you tried. Counting in his head, gauging the sound, the rhythm, the beat, Yeosang’s fingers start moving.
Your eyes fly to his bass, wide, then back up to him. He starts playing, flawlessly, as if he’d heard the song a million times before.
“What?” You mumble under your breath, eyes locked in on where his fingers smack at his strings. “How the fuck are you doing that?”
Yeosang smiles, pride in the display of teeth, head nodding along as his fingers pluck the strings. A monotonous beat, his other hand barely moves on the frets.
He gets it now. The song takes shape in his head, his lips scrunch in satisfaction, tongue poking out, nodding to the beat he plays without even looking now.
You look starstruck. Unblinking, stuck in place, eyes wide, jaw slack. You take a step forward, like you couldn’t believe it, like Yeosang was a fucking hologram or something.
“Yeo, that’s really fucking cool,” you almost whisper. Your eyes meet his again, finally blinking, fast enough that Yeosang thinks you might’ve actually convinced yourself he was an illusion. “How do you do that? Can you do that with any song? How do you know how to play it?”
Yeosang shrugs off what he takes as compliments. “I’ve kinda always been able to,” he explains. “I started playing guitar when I was eight, bass when I was twelve.”
Your jaw drops further as you round the coffee table, taking your spot next to him on his couch. “That long? Like, over a decade?”
Yeosang snorts, “Yes, over a decade. It’s about time that I did something with it.”
The song ends, you bury your phone in the couch cushion absent-mindedly, eyes twin saucers as you stare at him like he was a completely different person. “Is that what you want?” you ask, leaning into the back of the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest. “To make it your career?”
He nods without hesitation. “I thought I wanted football… obviously, going to a D1 school and all. But then I met Jay, and realized that I only played football because I had to, then everything felt like it was moving in the same direction, y’know?”
“Like it was meant to be,” you offer. He nods. Your lips purse, scrunching to one side before you admit, “You seem happier.”
“Really?” He grins, teeth showing. “I guess I am, I like being onstage, I’ve always liked performing, actually.”
“I never thought that about you,” your eyes find the couch, a string of fuzz ripped from the seam. You pick at it with your manicured fingers, mumbling, “Outside of football, you seemed content being… hidden. Quiet, like a mouse. I guess that makes sense, though, you were kind of a star on the field.”
“Mingi’s the star,” Yeosang says. “He gets all the glory.”
“Well, I was always cheering for you.” You finally look up at him, eyes sparkling, and he can feel his breath catch, hear it. So pretty, so perfect, he’s never loved anything in his fucking life the way he loves you. Maybe music. Maybe his bass. But there’s still the part of him that knows neither compared to what he feels for you, that you were the reason he fell back in love with music all over again.
“Would you still cheer for me?” He finds himself asking, but to him, it feels like a different question entirely. “When I’m onstage. Would you cheer for me in the crowd?”
Your head tilts, a playful smile taking over your entire face. “Wait, like, actually come to one of your shows?”
“Yes, actually,” he teases, shifting his body so he faces you a little more, bass still taking up space between you. He doesn’t mind it, though, barely notices it, not when your gaze fixed on him is hotter, brighter than stage lights. “Next Friday. Eonian.”
Your lips scrunch again, a cute flush spreading across the apples of your cheeks, your nose. “I don’t know, Yeosang.”
“You don’t have to be front and center,” he urges, “even though I know that’s where you love to be. Just…come see me play.”
You stare at him, eyes dancing across his face, contemplating. Your smile falls a little, and he knows you’re running through the events in your head, what could go wrong, what people would think, what it’d look like if you showed up for him.
“I’ll think about it,” you nearly whisper, and he knows that not giving him an answer, avoiding yes or no, was intentional.
You’ve already made up your mind. He knows you won’t come. He can feel it, an icy chill spreading through his blood, prickling his scalp. Rejection.
All you have is sex. That’s all it’s been from the jump.
He stands, placing his bass carefully in its stand, deciding that he didn’t want to stare at your perfect face anymore. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he asks, “Have you eaten?”
“No,” you admit. “I came straight from the field.”
That, he knew. He knew you didn’t eat before he even asked the question. Without thought, without words he aims for his kitchen, sorting through his fridge for something that wasn’t prepped already, his cabinets for anything in-line with your diet which was just as extensive as his own.
“What are you doing?” In the entryway of his kitchen, your shoes are gone, you probably kicked them off somewhere on his rug.
He doesn’t look for longer than a millisecond. “Trying to find something to feed you with.”
“You can feed me something else.” Your voice lowered into velvet, he can hear the want lining your tone, slurring the words together. “I’m still irritated, and I’d rather fuck it out than eat right now.”
“Should I act surprised?” He quips, leaning his hip into the counter, brows flat.
You step closer, confusion spreading across your features. “Where’d the attitude come from?”
He runs a hand through his hair, sighing as your feet land before his, your arms swinging around his neck. “I don’t have an attitude.”
You raise yourself on your toes to bring your face close to his as you say, “You do, and if you keep it up, I’m gonna redirect my irritation to you.”
Your fingers find his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, and his eyes close, lungs emptying. He can remember when you first came to his apartment, vulnerable and needy, asking to fuck him. You told him you had one good thing. He wonders if you were right.
Your lips press into his, soft, questioning, searching for the taste of yes on his mouth. His hands find your waist, lips parting, tongue slipping into your mouth to answer your silent ask. Always yes, he’d never deny you anything, he ignores the way his chest aches, how his throat constricts.
He can remember the day he picked up his bass from the corner of his bedroom at the football house, sitting on his bed, and playing the same measly love song he’d memorized years prior. He hummed the lyrics as he played, fucking up chords, his bass completely out of tune. He didn’t care, though, he could barely hear it over his thoughts swarming, every single one about you. The cheerleader he’d just started hooking up with, the one with a loud mouth and a pretty smile, the girl that made him feel whole again.
For a while, you just kissed. You turned him until his back hit the counter, hands in his hair as you kissed him breathless. Your tongue licked into his mouth like there was new space to cover, land to explore, like he felt new. He let you, mind wandering, hands falling under the tee shirt that swallowed your body, touching every inch of skin he could find, wondering if he’d ever feel the rush of picking up his bass from the corner of his bedroom like it was the first time again.
When you broke away from him, panting, fingers still curled in his hair, you kept his face close to yours, mouths barely an inch apart. He spoke first, though. “Thought you wanted to fuck it out.”
Your lips curve, a breathy laugh tumbling into his mouth. “Me too.”
You kiss him again, palms sliding across his chest, down to his abdomen, nothing about your touches felt impatient, or stemming from frustration. Like you were basking in him, as if he were the anchor bringing your temper, you back down to earth.
In the times that you’ve fucked since you knocked on his door those weeks ago, you’ve never just kissed. He isn’t sure if you’ve ever just kissed. The lack of heat, without promise, just exploratory, easy. Intimate, in a way, more intimate than his most vulnerable moments with you.
A man he is, with disgusting, primal, masculine instincts, the blood rushing below the hem of his shorts is anything but voluntary. He gasps when your front brushes against him, your body warm, your scent in his nose, stray hairs tickling his cheeks. You’re all over him, part of you lives inside him, it’s second nature that your spit on his tongue gets him hard. You smile into the kiss, and he can feel the shape of pride in it, the arrogance.
Your palm drops, ghosting over his length in his shorts and he moans. It’s pathetic, really, how easy he is, how fucking worked up you get him without even doing anything. Your palm lays flat, adding pressure, and he groans.
“Work for it,” you whisper, palm curving over his length, fingers gripping the width. Yeosang’s hands leave your waist to grab the edge of the counter behind him. “You know what to do. Make me proud.”
His hips rock once, experimentally grinding his length into your palm. His head tips back when he’s met with a wall of pressure, your hand unmoving, a surface for him to get off on. He can’t fight the high-pitched whimper that crawls up his throat, pleasure igniting each nerve ending in his body, the apples of his cheeks on fire because he can’t believe he’s getting himself off on your hand.
You make a small sound, maybe in awe, Yeosang isn’t sure. He rocks his hips faster, harder, broken moans and ragged breaths slurring together, completely unbothered by the fact that there were two layers of cloth between skin.
“So pretty when you’re like this,” you murmur, palm made of stone, warm like a boulder basking in the summer sun. “Thinking with your cock, doing anything I tell you to. Do you always get this hard when you kiss me?”
He forces out a breathy, “Yeah.”
“My pretty boy,” you coo, then smack your lips. “So good for me. Y’gonna get on your knees after I make you cum in your pants?”
He moans, head rocking forward again, features twisted tight. “Fuck, yeah, yes.”
“You want it? Don’t wanna fill me up?”
He bares his teeth, your question slicing through his pleasure, not enough to get him to fuck up his rhythm. “Where– wherever you want– want me to, mommy.”
You gasp, and he opens his eyes to see your brows furrowed in pleasure, eyes dark and focused. His cock twitches at the sight of your swollen, kiss-plump lips, parted, glossy with spit. Pressure builds in his gut, knowing what the title does to you, that it tumbled off his tongue.
“Cum,” you demand, the word coated in arousal. “Cum for me, wanna see you make a mess.”
He grunts, gasping out a desperate, muddled moan, but it takes no more than three more humps of his cock on your hand to spill hot, sticky release into his briefs. He hisses at the feeling, uncomfortable, messy, humiliating. When his hips slow to a stop, you don’t move your hand, you don’t lessen up the pressure. Your fingers wrap around his cock over his shorts instead, and Yeosang curses so loudly he prays the entire complex can’t hear him.
“Shut up.”
He shudders, backing into the counter impossibly further, lowered down to his elbows, knees trembling. Whines, whimpers and moans spill from his lips, bucking away from you, jerking rapidly under the weight of your hand. “I can’t take it,” he shakes his head, sucking air down to the base of his diaphragm. “I can’t– I can’t–”
“You can,” you move closer, caging him in. Eyes locked on his hips, how he shakes beneath you, he can see the grin on your lips from above you, the curve of your cheeks. “Wanna see how much.”
“No,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut, his body in fight or flight. The overstimulation burns to the point of ache, his mind going fuzzy, all you do is laugh. “Please– please.”
“One more,” your eyes glance upward, round and doe-like as if you weren’t pushing him past the breaking point. You still haven’t even taken off his shorts. “Can you do that for me?”
There’s a demon inside him that loves to obey you. That gets off on doing what you ask of him. It erases his refractory period like it didn’t exist at all.
“Y-yes,” he whimpers, tongue lolling out of his mouth, swiping over his bottom lip.
“Yes what?”
“Yes–yes mo–mommy.”
“Kiss me, baby,” your voice is so soft he blinks to make sure he heard it right. “Come here.”
Lifting himself up, your wrist twists over his shorts, palm rolling over his tip and it’s just enough pleasure to get him building again. He pants into your mouth, the kiss not much of a kiss at all, exchanging breath and spit, teeth clashing together. Yeosang’s babbling into your mouth, begging for something he isn’t sure of, reprieve, maybe. But he’s close and you taste so sweet and your hand feels so fucking good and it’s not even touching his skin.
Your other hand finds his hair, fingers tugging at his roots, with a sharp hiss from his lips and a stuttered, staggered grunt, he’s spilling into his shorts all over again. You coax him through it, praises, compliments, sweet words he only got to hear when he was obeying you, it makes his brain all fuzzy, makes his abdomen twitch and his cock jump like he had more to give. He knew in his soul that he didn’t.
You kiss the corner of his lips, his chin, his jaw, then pepper short, soft presses of your lips down his neck. “You’re so good,” you whisper into his sweaty skin, “always so good for me. So proud of you.”
His chest is still heaving, eyes barely closed, but your praise gives him clarity. “Need to clean up.”
“Wanna see,” you whisper, soft, delicate hands traveling down his abdomen, over his tee. “Let me see.”
Your fingers dip into the elastic of his shorts, pulling them down. He can feel the heat of shame, his head tipping backward, eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t want to see the mess he’d made.
He hears you gasp, the trickle of awe falling past your lips. Maybe he does want to see what you see. “You’re so perfect,” you whisper, and he looks down at his light gray briefs, the shattered splotch of wetness darkening them into charcoal. Marvelling at the sight, you mumble, “Look at you.”
“Stop,” he whines, hips twitching, “‘s embarrassing.”
“It’s hot,” you counter, fingers tugging at the waistband of his shorts, pulling them over where his soft length hangs heavy. “So messy, you’d do anything for me if I asked.”
His cheeks burn. He doesn’t answer, tucking his lips between his teeth, eyes finding the ceiling once more. “C’mon.” His briefs snap against his hips again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Confused, he fixes his gaze on you again. “Wha–? Do you–”
“Bathroom,” you hum, already turning. “Come on, messy boy.”
He follows, like a moth to a flame, a dog to his owner. You clean him, though, a warm towel to his pelvis, his wet clothes thrown in his hamper. In silence, the hum of the bathroom fan sound enough, he watches you move, the fluidity of your movements, brows crooked in focus, with care. You care about him.
You walked through his apartment like you were angry at god himself and somehow, he diffused it. His head tilts, sitting on his bed, watching you sort through his drawers for new clothes as if he were incapable of doing it himself. Thinking out loud, he says, “You really should talk to your coach.”
Your head snaps to the side, black briefs in your hand. Your face reads calm, but your answer is short, “I know.”
“If they’ve been torturing you this long, they’re not going to stop.”
You sigh, and he knows you’re trying to find your favorite pair of his shorts. Gray, soft, long, they reach below his knees. Finding them, you close his bottom drawer and turn, crossing his bedroom to hand the fabric to him. “What kind of captain does that make me? That I can’t handle two girls.”
He stands, “It’s not that you can’t handle them, you shouldn’t have to.”
You watch him tug his briefs over his hips, his shorts. “The other girls, my girls, I don’t want them to think I’m some kind of dictator. That if you don’t like me, you’re out.”
Yeosang grins, “That sounds like a very you attitude to have.”
You roll your eyes, sitting on his bed, then deflate as your back stretches over his duvet. He can see the hint of a smile tugging on your lips as you argue, “Not when it comes to them. I don’t want them to hate me, or hate cheer because of me. They felt that way with Jihyo, I felt that way with Jihyo, and she chose me. I wanna be different.”
Yeosang lays down on his bed beside you, flat on his back, lungs emptying as he stares at his ceiling. “You’re different from her, you’re strict, but you’re not unfair. Just because you don’t condone bullying doesn’t mean you’re a dictator.”
He can feel your eyes on him, so he turns his head, meeting your stare. “What would you do? If you were me.”
“I’d give it right back,” he answers, without a second of thought. “You’re not the kind of person who backs down. Remind them who you are.”
You stare at him for a second, unanswering. Then your head turns, eyes finding the ceiling, and Yeosang mimics you, staring at the beige wall above him.
Minutes might have gone by, maybe hours.
You finally turn to him, “I’m hungry.”
His brows lift. “It’s late.”
“I think we both know by now that your bed’s big enough for two.”
The pep rally was rough.
In the locker room, chatter filled the air, high-pitched giggles, yells, conversation swarmed the hallways, bouncing off the metal lockers, directly into your fucking ears.
The Birds put on a beautiful show, which you assumed they would, probably the outcome of a pep-talk by the one and only Song Mingi. The team revered him as if he were a god or something, desperate to impress him, like if Mingi said the word, they’d be drafted to the NFL alongside him. It helped you out, though, it left the crowd distracted, focused on them, a thrum of adrenaline passing through the stadium as you ran onto the turf with your girls.
You don’t think the crowd even looked at you or the team once when you were in the middle of the field, fucking up each step of your goddamn choreography.
Your friends weren’t there, there wasn’t a familiar face to look at, to keep your focus on. Not that it specifically bothered you, there were plenty of away games you cheered at where you had to stare at random faces, maybe an older man’s bald head, and used it as a beacon. Somewhere to look. Something to keep your eyes on while you performed outside of your own fucking body.
But the team still didn’t have the routine down, and the last-minute tweaks you made to make the routine easier, to dumb it down, failed. The team couldn’t keep their heads on straight, Karina couldn’t remember what you had just taught her two days ago, and had been rehearsing since. It was frustrating, to know that you failed, to accept that all that you had done still wasn’t good enough. You shuddered thinking about getting a call from your coach later.
Enduring all of it, feeling all of it, you knew in the pit of your gut there was something else. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, what’s wrong. A sense of dread was consuming you head-to-toe, like something was off, something was missing. You couldn’t put your finger on it.
Maybe it was just a rough week; you’re sure the girls hated you right now, with how hard you pushed them all week, they must feel relieved to know the pep rally’s over. Even if you have to start preparing for competition tomorrow.
You caught Jaemin’s eye on your way to the locker room, just a glimpse over the kelly green pom-pom in your hand that held the door open for the rest of the girls. He winked at you, smiled with every single one of those beautiful, white teeth, and you felt nothing. Nothing.
You never have felt anything for Jaemin, if you were being honest with yourself. If you were being really honest, if you came to terms with what you felt, you’d remind yourself that every time you catch Jaemin’s eye on the field, after practice, all the times he’s sauntered up to you when you were cleaning up on the turf, flirting with you shamelessly… you remembered when it was Yeosang. You wished it was Yeosang.
Your stomach aches. Twists, churns, like cramps on the second day of your period. You slammed your locker shut a little harder than you meant to, jaw settled in frustration, palms sweating.
“You good?” Karina asks, black hair still tied at the crown of her head, curled and framing her face, laying on her shoulders. The massive, bright green bow glimmered, lined with gold and white, bringing out the red in her cheeks.
You grimace. Feigned concern, Karina doesn’t give a fuck if you’re okay, she doesn’t care about anyone except herself.
“Fine,” you respond, a short, curt reply. It meant don't push it.
Karina huffs a laugh as Giselle comes up to her side, the brunette twin smirking as if she could read Karina’s mind. You think maybe they could read each other’s minds— where one goes, the other follows. Your eyes bounce between the two with growing confusion, your upper body jerks as if to ask what.
“Nice hickey,” Giselle giggles. “Jaemin?”
Your hand comes up to clasp around your neck, the spot where Giselle’s eyes were locked. You didn’t even know it was there, you don’t know how you didn’t notice when you were putting your makeup on.
“No,” Karina makes drama of the word, dragging it out, head tilting to the side, body leaning into Giselle’s. The two had dressed already, back to denim shorts and microscopic tank tops, flip flops on their feet. “She’s not fucking Jaemin anymore. Right, Captain?”
Your cheeks flush, an embarrassed heat flooding you. Maybe the reminder of Yeosang is what you needed to fake a laugh, one icy, mean. “And since when are you two so interested in who’s inside me? Are you waiting for your turn?”
Giselle nearly gags. Karina huffs, “That’s disgusting, why would you even say that?”
You shrug, a nasty smirk tugging at your lips. “Seemed like where it was headed. If you asked nicely, I might have said yes.”
“I wanted to know because I fucked Jaemin,” Karina stands a little straighter, arms crossing over her chest. “He said you haven’t called him in weeks. Ghosted him. Guess it’s ’cause you’re gay now?”
You grab your duffel bag from the bench, a rectangular, heavy bag beaming hues of green and gold through the locker room like a kaleidoscope. “Were you talking about me before, or after you fucked him? Or was I on your mind during all three strokes?”
Karina’s cheeks redden, face morphing into something horrified. Her eyes dance, searching for something to argue with before she flat out asks, “I— you— are you still fucking Yeosang?”
You hate the way his name sounds on her tongue. Your hand grips your bag strap tighter, knuckles changing color with strength. “No,” you hiss.
“We know you are,” Giselle crosses her arms, like Karina’s mini. “Are you going to his show on Friday? To watch your little garage-band boyfriend?”
Your jaw clenches, ears moving with the grit of your teeth. Karina laughs, head tipping back, “It’s a shame, you know. He had a bright future, but now he’s a loser. Do you think he quit football to get away from you? Just for you to follow him like a lost puppy dog?”
“I wonder if he’s thinking ‘damn, I can’t get rid of her’,” Giselle sighs, a finger poking her cheek like she’s mid-thought. “Or maybe he’s so fucking high from all the weed he smokes he just doesn’t care who he’s fucking.”
“You don’t get to talk about him,” you hiss, stepping forward, dropping your duffel to the floor in a harsh smack. “Keep his name out of your filthy fuckin’ mouth.”
“Or what?” Karina steps closer, meeting your broadened shoulders, her chin jutted upward. “Go ahead, do something. I’ll be made captain so fucking quick it’ll make your head spin.”
You laugh, and it’s vile. Low, coated in malice, it takes everything in you not to spit on her. Tipping your chin up, looking down at her over your nose, you say, “You wish you had someone like Yeosang. The only guys you can get to fuck you are the ones so fucking drunk they can’t see you.”
You snap your head to Giselle, “I’ll be at his show, proudly watching my garage-band boyfriend while you keep plowing through the lacrosse team, praying one of them will actually text you back this time.”
You bend down, grabbing your duffel bag from the floor. “I’m captain because I deserve to be, I worked my ass off for that title. What have you accomplished, other than living in my shadow?”
Karina counters, “Those girls watch me, not you.”
“I wouldn’t be able to look away from a trainwreck, either,” you bark back, teeth bared. “I’ll make sure to keep you in the back from now on.”
Karina gasps, eyes blowing wide like that was a death sentence. “No.”
“I’m the captain,” you respond, leaning forward, making her shrink where she stands. “You’ll be lucky if Coach doesn’t kick you off the goddamn team after I call her.”
Steam is radiating off you as you barrel out of the locker room. Chest heaving, jaw locked, fingers shaking around the strap of your duffel bag, your mind is roaring as you nearly sprint down the hallways dripping in gray. Flickers of green and white beckoned for your sight, posters, banners, streamers, you couldn’t see until you were out of the stadium. And then began your trek to him.
He wasn’t home, though. His apartment door locked. You knocked, you banged, you called his name. No answer. You thought about calling him, your phone buried somewhere in your duffle, when you looked down you realized you never even changed. Still in uniform, a green and white tank, Birds printed diagonally across your middle, your matching mini-skirt reaching just mid-thigh.
You needed him, you needed him, not to blow off steam, not to touch him and feel like you had a semblance of control over something. You needed him to tell you again, that you’re strong, you don’t back down, that you’re worthy of your title and you aren’t just like Jihyo. You wanted to hear him say that he was proud of you for sticking up for yourself, that you’re right, only his reassurance could ease the raging war in your chest.
You needed him. You’ve never needed anyone in your fucking life.
“Hey,” you hear from behind you, a voice so comforting and warm your body twists.
Your eyes widen, taking in his outfit. Green tee, oversized, white long-sleeve covering his arms. Denim on his legs, boots poking out, hair styled over his forehead, silver gleaming in his ears. You’re slapped with the memory of waking up beside him, the both of you naked, bodies molding together like you’d both been dreaming of it.
You blink, “Where were you?”
His cheeks go pink. Sheepishly, he admits, “The pep rally.”
It steals the air from your lungs, relief flooding you, rendering your body hot. “You came?”
“You were stressed about it,” he shrugs. “I skipped band practice for it. You were right, that bitch was smug, she knew exactly what she was doing–”
You drop the duffel bag, throw your arms over his shoulders, and steal his lips. He smiles into the kiss, holding you tight, laughing a little at your enthusiasm. “Why?”
“You came,” you’re smiling, pressing your forehead against his. “I didn’t think you were there, I didn’t even think to ask you to come, Yeosang.”
“I thought you would’ve spotted me,” he’s laughing, his smile silly and happy. “Green hair and all.”
Your hands find his hair, soft between your fingers, “So much team spirit.”
He kisses you again. “You caught me, I dyed it so everyone would know I was there for you.”
You laugh, head tipping back, arms tight around his shoulders. Words thrum under your skin, floating through your limbs, climbing to the tip of your tongue. Your smile falls. Swallowing all three of them down, you admit, “I fought with Karina in the locker room. I think I won.”
“Like, fist-fight?”
“Strongly-worded verbal argument.”
“That’s your forte,” he makes a face like that was obvious. “No shit, you won.”
Your smile returns tenfold. “Can we go in?”
“Does that mean you’re going to change out of your uniform?”
“Yeah.”
“Then, no.”
You feel like you’re living outside of your own body.
You aren’t a dive-bar girl, you were lucky you had your ID in your purse, you didn’t even think about needing to show it to the tall, bulky brunette guy standing outside the front door. He let you in, and you mentally thanked god he got you away from the guy smoking the disgusting cigarette out front that nearly choked you. Who even smokes anymore?
Reality hits you, and you remember you're at a bar. Not a nice one, either. Neon signs hang from the walls, license plates and dollar bills scribbled on with black marker stapled to the deep brown oak lining the roof over the bar, music played through the speakers, rock music, heavy music, you fought not to cringe. The smell– the smell, tobacco and beer and sweat, there were college kids fucking everywhere.
All people your own age, but fuck, each and every single one you laid eyes on, you gave a stare of disgust. You didn’t understand the point of coming here on weekends, drinking until you blacked out, kissing randoms in the corner, the idea of you doing it had you gagging. The bar was packed, brown leather stools topped with people in denim, a guy with a shaved head behind the bar juggling bottles.
You felt scarily out of place. You think you might turn around and leave.
You had too much to make up for. Too much to prove. Too much to fix.
Conventional relationships weren’t for you. Your taste was different– what got you off, what you searched for in a partner, wasn’t something you could find in just anyone. When you met Yeosang and realized you could be yourself, that you were free, you dug your nails in and refused to let go.
When he quit football and ripped your world from under your feet, you hated him. You hated him for a long while. You were embarrassed that you felt so deeply for someone who was comfortable with climbing down the social ladder instead of up. You felt shameful that you were so attached to someone who didn’t mind upending his entire life, without even considering you or how you felt about it.
You can remember the night he told you he was quitting football, how you screamed at him, you can still count how many times you said no. You’ll regret that night for the rest of your life, because how free you felt with Yeosang, how everything fell into place, how comfortable you’d become being yourself, is what he became after he quit. When he committed himself to his passion.
He was comfortable changing his entire life because he felt safe enough to be happy. He assumed he had your support, that you’d be by his side through it all, and you let him down. You left him. And for what? What the fuck did you leave him for? What shame did you think you’d carry, if your boyfriend was no longer on the football team?
You ordered a drink from the bald guy and ignored his face when Aperol Spritz left your lips. Yeosang showed up for you, after he asked you to show up for him, and you basically said fuck no to his face. Were you really so ignorant that you couldn’t see yourself cracking each and every layer of his confidence? Were you so shallow that the only thing that’s real to you, is how other people see you? Did that make it reality?
It’s pathetic. He’d give you the world if you asked him to, and you’ve never done anything for him. You’ve never given him any reason to be kind to you, any reason to love you. And yet he still trusts you with every ounce of himself, trust you’ve never, not once, deserved.
You’re simmering in rage, self-loathing as you take the seat of a high top table in the back corner. Bare legs crossed, one knee over the other, the toe of your heel sits on the bar of the chair, your mini-skirt covering only what it needs to. You feel eyes on you, on your low-cut top, and the part of you that still clings to being perceived, wonders if they’re judging the streak of green you clipped into your hair. The one that matches Yeosang’s shade exactly.
You keep the skinny black straw attached to your lip, the orange liquid in the tall glass bitter. Your eyes find the stage, still dark, the head peeking out of the side. Olive skin, dark eyes, ebony hair spiked atop his head, you think that’s Jay. You’ve never met him, only heard about him from Yeosang, but from the description you remember receiving, it matches him. Your back straightens when you realize his eyes land on you, the two of you wide-eyed, staring at each other. You couldn’t be sure, the stage on the opposite side of the bar, but how his body seemed to freeze, you think he might know you, too.
You poke at your phone that laid dark on the table-top. They were supposed to go on any second now. Your leg starts bouncing, lips sucking on your straw, guzzling down liquid. Impatient, nervous. You scan the bar, muscleheads, girls half-dressed, people dressed in all black, silver sparkling on their wrists and necks.
You spot Mingi at the bar, and for a second you feel relief seeing a familiar face. His eyebrows are tied together, mouth moving, hands splaying with every word like he’s mad. Then you spot Aven beside him, chin jutted upward, shoulders back like she could will herself into being taller than him. Your brow pops in curiosity.
Eyes sliding to the corner, you spot Karina, Giselle, standing with another girl that looks semi-familiar. Then you notice cigarette-guy at her back, arms wrapped around her, and you cringe as you remember the smell of tobacco. Says a lot about your two teammates, if that’s the company they keep.
It feels like fucking forever until the music shuts off, the lights go dim, and the stagelights burn warmth. Jay walks out first, you think the brunette is Jisung, the small blonde boy Jongseob. Yeosang’s last, and your glass nearly falls from your fingers.
He’s in leather. Black, on his legs, hugging each and every muscle in his thighs. On his bicep, a band, leather and tight, it squeezes him ever so slightly, his bicep bulging out above and below it. On his left hand, a loop around his pointer finger, covering the stretch of skin on the outside of his palm.
The tank on his upper half is cotton, you think, low-cut, showing off his pectorals, the hint of purple from the hickey you’d left days ago still bruising his skin. His hair is messy, freshly dyed, bright and neon and attention-stealing. His smile is wide and sure, his grip on his bass firm, you’ve never seen him look so confident. So assured.
His eyes scan the crowd, the people who flocked to the stage. Jay’s speaking, you can’t hear him, it was as if there was a tunnel between yourself and Yeosang, the two of you on opposite sides, all you could see was him, all you could hear was him.
And like he really was on the opposite end, his eyes landed on you. They stay there, widening ever so slightly in surprise, maybe happiness? You hope it’s happiness. You can feel your heartbeat pick up, heat on your cheeks like you were the one beneath the spotlight, you wondered if you made a mistake in coming here.
Jay strikes a chord, and Yeosang’s muscles flex as his fingers find the strings of his bass. For too long, his eyes stay on you, like he couldn’t believe that you were really there, as if he’d made it up. You throw him a little wave, a small smile, and he beams.
The first song was original, you recognized it, something punk, loud and rhythmic. Your head nods, your foot bouncing against the bar on the chair in tune with Jongseob beating on the drums. Halfway into it you know they’re talented, better than good, and you curse yourself for never asking Yeosang to play for you. For never caring about this side of him, never showing interest, never wanting to know.
It’s not until the third song that your cloud of self-loathing dissipates, because you recognize it. Last week, he sat on his couch, bass in his lap while you played it from your phone. Just days ago, you performed with this song as the fucking track.
You stand from the chair, his eyes find yours. Smirking, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. Then you’re fighting through the crowd, kitten heels stepping in puddles of liquid, arms pushing people out of your way like they were nothing but obstacles. You were sure people cursed at you, yelled at you, you didn’t hear them, not when you were feet away from the man you love and he was playing a fucking song for you.
Bodies jumped at the front, arms swinging, people singing along. You stood there, eyes wide, trying to catch your breath, hand over your pounding heart in your chest. He’s beautiful. Sweat kisses his skin, his pink-splotched chest, hair already wet and sticking to his face. You’ve never seen him look this way before, confident, more than confident, arrogant, even– fingers plucking at the strings like he could play it with his eyes closed.
You love him. You love him.
Overcome with emotion, adrenaline pounding through you like Jongseob’s sticks hitting the drums, you let go. Jumping, singing along, your arm swings over your head, the sound of your heels hitting the floor completely drowned out. You keep your eyes on him, completely and utterly ecstatic, and Yeosang smiles back, refusing to take his stare away from you like he didn’t want to look away, either.
You love him, you love him, you fucking love him.
You loved the structure of your relationship before he quit football. You loved him in uniform, in cleats, a football in his hand– but was this that much different? Was this not better, doused in black and leather, his fingers creating instead of catching? Did the rush you felt when you kissed him on the field even compare to the rumbling in your chest right now? Why the fuck did it take you so long to give it a goddamn chance?
For the rest of his show, you stayed up front, and to your surprise and his, you knew some of the songs. Old music your dad used to play when you were growing up, but that kind of nostalgia sticks with you, glued to your spine. Much like your eyes stayed glued to him, swaying back and forth, jumping out of your skirt when Jay and Jisung started shredding. What the hell have you been so afraid of?
After they bow and leave the stage, you’re moving with them, pushing through bodies to the left of you to try and get yourself where Jay had poked his head out earlier. You weren’t thinking, you didn’t even consider if you were allowed backstage as you pushed yourself forward, forward, forward.
You needed to see him, needed to touch him, you needed him. You needed to tell him you fucking love him, that you’re proud of him, that nothing makes you happier than seeing him happy.
He meets you at the curtain. Dark eyes dilated, body doused in sweat, clothes sticking to him, you didn’t care. He pulls you behind it and you don’t say a word before you throw your arms around his neck and crash your lips onto his.
He holds you steady, one foot stepping backward to keep you both upright, he’s laughing into the kiss, giggling like he still didn’t quite believe you were here. Pulling away, your hands fly to his hair, “I’m so proud of you.”
“You came,” he says, voice breathy, he still hadn’t caught it. “You’re here.”
“You’re insane.” You laugh, pushing the stray hairs off his face, your feet not even touching the ground. “You’re fucking insane, Yeosang, I didn’t know– I didn’t know you were so good.”
“Damn, what about us?”
Your smile drops, eyes blowing wide as you lift your head up. Jisung stands with a brow popped, Jay’s face flat, Jongseob’s face blown into full surprise, hands half-gripping his drumsticks like even he couldn’t believe you were here. It was a sorry excuse for a backstage, or a green room, you weren’t sure. You were at a dinky dive bar.
Yeosang slowly lowers you back down to the ground as you swallow, “Sorry. Hi guys.”
Jay’s lips stay flat, he waves, just a movement of his fingers. Jongseob blinks. Jisung grins, “Hiii.”
“That was incredible,” you force a smile, it’s nervous. “You’re all so talented.”
“We put him back together,” Jay says, tone flat. Yeosang jumps, trying to interject, but Jay cuts him off, “We were there when you destroyed him. Do you even know what he went through?”
You swallow, cheeks flaming. You shake your head.
“Jay,” Yeosang warns, his voice tight. You’ve never heard it before, but you barely notice, you can’t when Jay’s eyes thin further.
“Don’t force us to do that shit again,” Jay barks. “It took too long, and we’re too busy.” You loose a breath at the amusement playing in his tone. “And we better see you at our show next week.”
Nodding, you immediately agree, “I won’t, I’ll be there. I promise.”
Jisung’s hands find Jay’s shoulders, nudging him forward, “Come on, father Jay, Jesus Christ. Let’s give them some space.”
Jongseob follows the pair, eyes still wide and sparkling, head never once turning away from you as all three of them walk through the curtain. You release the rest of the breath you didn’t know you were holding as you turn back to Yeosang, “Did he mean that?”
Yeosang starts to shake his head, mumbling reassurance, hands searching for your waist, but you stop him. “Sangie,” you urge him, “did he mean what he said? Did I hurt you?”
“Can I say something without freaking you out?” Yeosang asks, and your hands find his shoulders as you nod. “I was, like, balls-deep in love with you. When you ghosted me, I went off the deep end a little.”
Your bottom lip curves, pain slicing through you. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“That’s in the past,” he shakes his head. “Long time ago.”
“Not long enough,” you whisper. “I’ll regret hurting you forever, Yeosang. I’ll never do that to you again.”
His eyes dance across your features, reading in-between the lines. He doesn’t respond.
“Do you still love me?” you ask, and fear curls in your gut.
His lips perk upward, “You know I do.”
A smile dares to swallow your face. “Is it okay that I love you, too?”
He answers with his lips on yours, both of his hands on your back, kissing you so hard it dips your body backward. You squeal into his mouth, arms flying around his neck, holding him tight as he lifts your feet off the ground.
“You showed up for me,” he says into your mouth, before kissing you again. “You cheered for me. That’s all I could have ever wanted, ever asked for.”
“Start thinking of new gifts,” you say as you land back on your feet. “There’s a lot I need to make up for.”
He presses his forehead to yours, fingers squeezing at your hips. “The fact that you love me is enough.”
You cup his cheeks in your hands, heels lifting off the floor to press another kiss to his lips. “You make me a better person, Yeosang. You let me be me. I want to be that person for you, too.”
“You are–”
“No, I’m not,” you shake your head, your smile weak. “But I will be, if you let me.”
He kisses you again, and it’s answer enough. He pushes you backward by your hips, five steps before your back gently hits a wall, arms closing around his neck. You throw one of your legs over his, pushing your tongue into his mouth, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Say it again,” he says into your mouth, pushing his hips into yours.
“I love you.”
He moans, quiet, but telling. “Again.”
You roll your hips against him, “I love you, Yeosang.”
His palm finds your thigh, gripping tight as his other hand tilts your jaw upward, kissing you deeper, harder. Your hands search his abdomen, his chest, sliding up to cup his cheeks, using the smallest bit of force to pry his lips off yours.
“You’re not fucking me here,” you breathe out, taking in his dilated pupils, his red cheeks. “This place is disgusting.”
He snorts, head dipping forward, “You’re gonna have to get over that, what if I go on tour one day and wanna have a quickie backstage?”
A full-body shiver racks through you, and it only makes him laugh harder. He kisses you once more, then peels himself off you. “I love you, too, even the high-maintenance.”
“You don’t even know half of it,” you bring your leg back into yourself, both feet finding the floor, fixing your skirt. “How high-maintenance I actually am.”
“I assume I’ll be learning.”
“Yes, you will.”
you are an HONEST PERSON with a warm heart do NOT steal my shit
masterlist 🦠
⋙ something takes a part of me, you and i were meant to be.
FREAK ON A LEASH [bassist!yeosang x cheerleader!reader]
⋙ college au, exes to fwb to lovers, regina george x rodrick heffley type shi. intended to be read as a standalone, but is tied to dare. wc 23.2k
⋙ yeosang was the starting running back, until he gave up the cowhide leather in his palm for an instrument strapped across his back. you wanted nothing to do with him after he quit football and joined a band, he went from a star to a loser. but still, after everything, no one compares. no one could ever be him.
⋙ smut minors dni | sub-leaning switch!yeosang, dom-leaning switch!reader, toxic behavior, reader is a warning herself. pinv, mommy kink, creampie, oral (both), facesitting, hate sex/jealousy sex, humiliation, dry humping a hand?
⋙ playlist: freak on a leash — korn / operate — peaches / crazy bitch — buckcherry / glamorous — fergie / feiticeira — deftones
⋙ thank u beamie duckie for fixing my banner so i didn't rip out my hair. i love u @sungbeam
Two hands at twelve on a Sunday night. Six weeks.
It’s been six weeks since he’s seen you. Six weeks since he’s felt your manicured nails on his skin, tasted your lip gloss, smelled your designer perfume layered over the lotion he’s massaged into your aching muscles a thousand times. It’s been six weeks since you’ve stood in the doorway of his apartment; he can’t remember the last time you asked to come inside and waited to hear him say yes.
Six weeks ago you would’ve walked in on your own.
“Hi,” you mumble, shy. Your shoulders are set, your back straight, your eyes pointed but your glossy, bottom lip is tucked between your teeth. Yeosang’s brows furrow, the pulse point in his neck throbbing, he hopes you can’t hear it like he can, a steady rhythm of bass pounding in his eardrums.
“Hi,” he mutters, confused, starstruck, and relieved all at once.
“Can I come in?” you ask, eyes sliding behind him, peering into his apartment. Baby pink sweatpants sit low on your hips, your white, strappy tank barely meeting the waistband, showing a sliver of your skin that makes Yeosang’s short nails curl into his front door.
He steps to the side, allowing you entrance as he mumbles, “Sure.”
There’s flip-flops on your feet, showing off your toes always lined with white, thin, silver rings clamped on the middles. A miniature pink purse sits on your shoulder, you let it fall down to hold it loosely between your fingers as you glance around, taking in the sight of his apartment that hasn’t changed.
“I thought you would’ve gotten rid of the football posters,” you say absentmindedly, as if it’s normal for you to be here, as if you didn’t shatter his heart to shrapnel six weeks ago.
“I still like football,” Yeosang closes the door behind him, but he lingers, fingertips still touching the oak. “My priorities are the only thing that changed.”
“Changed,” you repeat, turning to face him, blowing annoyed amusement through your nose. “You ruined your future, that’s what you did.”
Yeosang sighs. “If that’s what you believe.”
“It’s what I know.” You throw a hand on your hip. “Why haven’t you texted me? You haven’t reached out once.”
Yeosang lets his bare shoulderblades touch the door, letting the cool wood seep into his skin as he counters, “You broke up with me. What did you want me to say?”
You shrug, hands waving in the air on either side of you, purse swinging as you all but whisper, “Something.” There’s an edge to your voice, one that makes his gut rumble, something deep and low. “You could have said anything, Yeosang.”
“You made a choice,” Yeosang keeps his tone calm, soft. “I respected it.”
Your top lifts in distaste, taking a step towards him. “God forbid you actually disagree with me on something.”
“Isn’t acceptance better?” Yeosang’s voice goes shallow, airy. He can smell you and it’s making his head fuzzy, his knees weak. He wonders how long it’ll take to get the smell out this time.
“Define better,” you take another step towards him, eyes flickering over his build. The shorts on his legs, hanging too low for company, the lack of a shirt on his upper half. You drink him in like you missed him.
“Why are you here?”
“I need,” you start, full of confidence, but you cut yourself off. Standing just a foot away from him, Yeosang’s head is angled downward to see you, the first thing he notices is the shift in your breathing. Quicker, shallow breaths, you conjure as much certainty as you can to say, “I want you.”
Yeosang’s brows raise, length opening an eye in his basketball shorts. You don’t give him a chance to respond, running your fingers through your styled hair, voice pitched with impatience.
“No one else gets it,” you mutter, stress bleeding through your words. “You’re different. You get it, you get me.”
“What do I get?” Yeosang’s whispering, he needs to know, even if he’s scared you might change your mind and push past him if he asks. He’s terrified that giving in will alter his brain chemistry. “Why me?”
“Yeosang,” you say his name like it relays everything. He keeps your stare even if he wants to look away, like he was facing a bull, dressed in crimson and there was no way in hell he’d win, but something forces him to stand his ground. Maybe it’s because he knows you just as well as you know him.
“I know your priorities have changed,” your voice lowers, but you keep your eyes on him like you know his defense is already stripped. Like all you had to do was say the magic word and he’d be putty in your palms once more. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants me at all, I need a favor. I need… I need to… I want to fuck you.”
Yeosang can hear his own heartbeat. He can feel the sweat prickling his skin at the back of his neck, on his pecs, at the base of his spine. His eyes blow wide, swallowing down his shock, hesitance making him blink at you, lips parting.
You groan, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, covering your eyes. “Please say something,” you mutter, “it’s humiliating enough that I’m even here right now.”
“I,” Yeosang starts, but his voice cracks on the singular word. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head a little, “I don’t understand.”
“What is there to understand?” Your arms stretch out on either side of you, bewildered that Yeosang didn’t immediately respond yes, that he wasn’t on his hands and knees begging for it. “We had one good thing, Yeosang.”
It hurts his chest, like your manicured hand pierced his skin, reached right for his heart and squeezed. You had plenty of good things, several good things, your relationship was damn near perfect before he quit football. Before he joined Jay’s band.
You take a step towards him and he can see the last six months flash before his eyes.
“You don’t miss me?” Your voice is softer now, dripping in a fake sweetness that makes his breathing manual, he can feel the heat of your body.
Low, almost a whisper, Yeosang says, “I do.”
Your lips curve at the corner, glossy, sparkling and edible. Like he’d given you the green light, your voice coated in candy, you ask, “Can I take care of you?”
Yeosang’s brows knit together ever so slightly, a sign of want, of need. All he can muster is a tiny, whimpered, “Please.”
You don’t kiss him.
You drop to your knees, eyes on his, staring up over your forehead. Slowly, your purse falls to the floor beside you, your fingers reach up to the waistband of his shorts. Yeosang’s brows are already tied together, back arched, hips bent toward you while his shoulders stay flush to the door.
“Do you want to cum in my mouth, or inside me?”
Yeosang sucks in a sharp breath, hollowing out his stomach, abdomen flexing. “Wherever you want me to.”
Your smile is wide and true as you tug his shorts down to his thighs, his cock springing out, slapping against the skin between his veiny hipbones. Pupils dilating like you were starved, like Yeosang was your last meal, you licked your lips, muttering a curse under your breath.
Yeosang’s hips twitch toward you, “Please.”
“Don’t beg,” your eyes flicker upward again. “The fact that you’re this hard when I haven’t even touched you is pathetic.”
A small, tight moan slips from between his lips, cock jumping, face scrunched up in pleasure. Your soft, dainty hand finds the base of his length, sliding up over his tip, your palm rolling against his slit, spreading the slick that’d already begun dribbling down the side. The sound he makes should be embarrassing, it’s deafening, laying over the silence of the room, loud and sharp and needy.
“Quiet.” The order isn’t harsh, but it’s not fully confident, either. Your eyes flicker upward again like you needed to see if he’d listen, like it’d give you confirmation to continue. His lips fold between his teeth and your knees part further on the floor, other hand wrapping around his cock, the two holding him in full.
He fights his own instinct to rock his hips into your hands. His breathing is verbal, heavy, chest rising and lowering, muscles contracting as you squeeze, but don’t move. You stay there for a second, testing him, his restraint, his control– he assumes he passes when you guide his tip toward your glossy lips, tongue poking out to lick over his slit, soft and flat and wet.
Your lips wrap around him and the dull thud of the back of his head hitting the door sounds through the room. Taking him into your mouth, hands falling to his hips, he groans as your tongue massages the underside of his length, sliding down until your nose meets the tuft of hair at his base.
“S-shit,” he grinds out, “s’good.”
You hum around him, vibrating his cock, his hips twitch into your mouth. He glances downward, but you don’t react, you start bobbing your head, working up a rhythm. His hands dig into the wood behind him, whines escaping from his lips one after another, pitched and loud and embarrassing, but he doesn’t care.
It’s been six weeks.
Gagging yourself on him, he whimpers, thighs shaking from how hard he’s trying to keep himself composed. You can feel the way he’s climbing, reaching out for euphoria, silently begging you to let him paint your throat white, you bring him as close as you can to his peak before you’re pushing off him with a pop.
His hips follow, a muddled curse rolling off his tongue, two fists banging against the door behind him. You huff a laugh, licking your lips that curve into a sly grin, “That quick?”
His chest is heaving, golden skin splotched with shapes of pink, his face angled and sharp with denial. “I–, I don’t–”
“Go. On the couch.” You don’t move from where you’re planted on the hardwood, ass on your calves, staring up at him. He listens, still trying to catch his breath, pulling his shorts down to his ankles before he sits back on the deep brown couch, waiting for you.
Standing before him now, you don’t waste any time pulling your sweatpants down, leaving the pink, lacy panties with a bow at the center of the waistband on your hips. Yeosang’s eyes flock to it like a moth to a flame, his favorite. So cute, so dainty, so you, absentmindedly he almost reaches for his cock that leaks onto his abdomen.
“Last longer,” your voice is firm, direct. “You don’t cum until I do. Okay?”
His nod is eager, “Y-yes.”
You kick your sweats and your panties off before you swing a leg over his lap, a manicured hand finding the base of his length again. Yeosang hisses out a curse, you lick your lips, watching him react. Tummy flexing, muscles still just as defined as they were six weeks ago, you note that he’s still going to the gym. Nothing’s changed except his hair color, what was once a pretty blonde was now a neon green, ends tipped with black, a foul pair of hues. You look at his pretty face instead, his pecs that sit flexed, his cute, pink nipples that pebbled in the open air of his living room.
You lift yourself to line him up with your core, bracing yourself for the stretch, it’s been over a month since you’ve sat on his length and fuck you weren’t prepped even a little. Sliding his tip through your folds, wetness coating him, dripping down the width of him, you take your time guiding him inside you, letting yourself feel every inch, every vein, each twitch of his cock that pulsed as you sank down.
Yeosang’s head tips back, groaning, hands finding your hips. “Oh my god.”
You moan as your thighs meet his, fully seated, mounted onto him like he was your throne. Clenching around him, breath picking up, your heart pounds against your ribs at how good he feels inside you. You missed this, you missed him, the way he feels, the sounds he makes, how easy and compliant he is, always.
His fingers squeeze, “T-tight, baby. So tight– shit.”
Yeosang feels like he could bust at any second. Six weeks without sex, without you, it was blowing his fucking mind and you haven’t even moved yet. It feels so good, it’s so wrong, you aren’t together, he doesn’t even know who else you’ve been with. He doesn’t care; he still loves you. The way you look at him, the way your skin feels on his, the way you can read every single one of his expressions, he doesn’t have to say a word. He loves how you take care of him. He loves how easy it is for you to make him cum.
He missed your smell. He missed your smile. He missed the way you order him around and the way his body responds without his brain.
“Gonna move,” you whisper. “Take it.”
You start rocking your hips and Yeosang’s head snaps forward again, eyes wide, jaw slack. It’s so good, you feel so fucking good, clenching around him like he was nothing but a toy. He watches your chest bounce beneath your tank, no bra, your nipples poking through the thin, useless fabric.
His hands follow his thoughts, pushing the hem over the peak of your breasts, cupping them in his palms, thumbs running over your peaked nipples. So fucking pretty, his mouth waters, he needs–
“Go ahead,” you sigh, moving your hair away from your face, over your shoulders.
He leans forward, lips wrapping around your nipple, his hand massaging the other, brows knitted together like he’d died and gone to heaven. Satisfied wasn’t the word, pure bliss, his mouth occupied, your hips moving in a dirty grind against his cock, beautiful, pitched noises leaving your lips, music to his ears.
He feels alive again, it’s so easy to ignore that this is wrong. He shouldn’t be doing this. The ramifications of his actions will be too heavy to bear, a weight on his shoulders for the weeks to come, he doesn’t care, not when your moans grow louder, head tipping back, core clenching around him with every other drag of your hips, chasing an orgasm he’d never deny you.
He’d never deny you anything.
Your hands find his hair, pulling his head backward, you stare into him, his eyes glossed over, his swollen, pink lips parted, so beautiful you want to lean down and kiss him. You don’t, though, it feels too intimate, like it’d send the wrong message, like you wanted him for something more than his cock poking at your cervix.
“Please,” he mumbles, voice lagged and heavy with arousal, “need to feel you cum around me, want– need to fill you up.”
You moan a curse, lifting your hips, dropping them down against his cock harshly, picking up your pace to chase the pressure that’s steadily building in your gut. So pretty, so beautiful, so yours, you mumble a question you don’t register asking, “Have you fucked anyone else?”
He’s quick to answer, “No.”
You’re glad you asked. You laugh a little, a small, tiny breath of amusement, “Of course not.”
He grunts when you clench around him, like it gets you off knowing that in the six weeks you’ve been apart he hasn’t even looked at anyone else. He’s spent the last six weeks in class, in Jay’s garage, or here, on his couch with his bass on his lap, playing the same song over and over. Practicing, thinking, debating on whether or not he made a mistake– he never thought quitting football would make him lose you, too.
But here you were, back in his apartment, wrapped around him like no time had passed, as if you never ended things with him in the first place, like you didn’t ghost him for six weeks. It’s not like he reached out, either, you made it clear that if he wasn’t on the team, you had no business being together. Who was Yeosang to argue with you about what you wanted?
The captain of the cheerleading team and a running back, you liked him in uniform, with shoulder pads and cleats and his fingers wrapped around brown leather. You liked it when he was practicing on the field and the cheerleading team was in the corner, rehearsing, doing stunts on the turf. You liked it when you were both sweaty and high off adrenaline and you’d meet eyes across the green, thinking about what came later. You liked it when he won games, when you could run over and jump in his arms and kiss him stupid, then fuck him in congratulation afterward.
You built a routine together, one that wasn’t official–because that seemed to be the norm on this campus, at this age–and a routine built off instability rarely had a happy ending. Part of Yeosang saw it as a ticking time-bomb, one that met its inevitable end.
Skin wet like you were dripping in condensation, your body moved against Yeosang’s like you were built for him. Like no one else in the world could make you feel this good, he could hear it in how you sang for him, how reactive you were to his touch, to him. You were the one that missed him, that’s the only explanation for you showing up unannounced, mere days after he heard the rumours about you and Jaemin.
Now you’re here. And he let you in so easily.
“Y’feel so good,” you moan, fingers curling into his shoulders. His hands find your hips again, guiding you on his length at the pace that always made you cum quick, his hips angled to curve into the spot at the front of your walls. “Yeosang!” You clench around him again and he bites down a curse. “I’m close.”
His brows knitted together, jaw slack, middle flexing over and over, he focuses on angling himself at that same spot, moving you at the same pace, a fixed rhythm, using your sounds as motivation to keep himself anchored.
You reach down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit and he’s thinking of anything he can to stop himself from coming. A whimper escapes him, pitched and needy and pathetic, he knows it is. You gasp before clenching around him, hard, your body trembling, legs shaking on either side of his body, Yeosang smiles.
“Yes, cumming f’me,” he sounds ragged, rambling out of arousal. “So pretty, so sexy, missed you s’much. Let me fill you up, please? Please let me.”
Your hips pick up in pace on their own, it drives him crazy. He’s moaning, fingertips pressing into your hips, his mouth unmoving because his orgasm is so close he can taste it.
“Cum for me,” you soothe, voice encouraging and full of praise. “Made me feel so good, you deserve it. Wanna feel you, Yeo.”
It’s enough to push him over, stuttering a groan as he empties himself inside you, hips bucking up into yours as he feels every second of release. Six weeks without sex is a long time.
You stay there for a moment, hands warm on his skin, controlling your breathing until your heart rate slows into something regulated. Yeosang keeps his eyes on you, watching, feeling, etching the memory into his mind because he doesn’t know if it’ll happen again. He doesn’t know how long he’ll go without you this time. Maybe forever.
Then you’re lifting yourself off him, standing on his rug before the couch, fixing your white tank, reaching for your panties and your sweatpants. He waits for you to speak.
Your lips flatten as you tug your clothes up to your hips, “Can I use your bathroom before I go?”
A slow nod from Yeosang, a small mumble of of course.
He fixes his clothes, pulls his briefs and his shorts back over his hips, then leans back into the couch, letting himself relax into the plush. Letting himself feel. It feels like his birthday to have you in his apartment – but to sleep with him? Because you missed him? There’s a rush of giddiness inside him, one blooming from his chest to the tips of his fingers, you missed him as much as he missed you.
His heart beats to the sound of your flip flops smacking through his apartment, he opens his eyes to you grabbing your tiny little pink purse from the floor, reaching inside for your lip gloss.
He feels like he should say something. Ask something. He’s scared you’ll leave without a word if he doesn’t.
“Hey–”
“Look,” you cut him off, screwing the cap back onto your gloss, shoving it in your miniature purse. “I’m sorry I came over unannounced, it won’t happen again. I just… I needed that.”
“It can happen again.” He doesn’t want it to be over. “I get it.”
You sigh, a hand on your hip, “It shouldn’t happen again. We aren’t ever going to be anything, Yeosang.”
“Then why come back?” He sits forward a little. “Why fuck me? And not Jaemin?”
Your eyes widen like he caught you red-handed. You stand a little straighter as you swing your purse over your shoulder, “Leave Jaem out of this.”
“Okay,” Yeosang nods, shrugging, internally despising that you just called him Jaem. “I will. Whatever makes you happy.”
Your eyes find the floor, shoulders slouching ever so slightly. “I have to go,” you mumble, not meeting his eye. “I have practice early tomorrow.”
He watches, he hears you as you leave, as your flip flops smack down the hallway outside of his apartment. He wishes he had the balls to ask you to stay. He looses a breath he didn’t know he was holding, running a hand through his sweaty hair, cursing under his breath when he looks at his fingers and sees green.
He smacks his teeth together, the box the neon-green dye came in said it wouldn’t bleed. Disappointed in the hair dye, disappointed in you, disappointed in himself, he knows in his soul he shouldn’t have fucked you. It restarted all the progress he’s made the past six weeks, coming to terms with the fact that you and him were over, that he had a new life now. He’s different now.
He terminated his contract and bleached his head. He dyed it green, texted Jay, asked if he still had the spot open in his band, to which Jay responded hell yeah and Yeosang hauled his ass to his garage with his bass strapped over his back.
In six weeks, he’s played two shows. Everything was just starting to feel right.
There’s fear stemming at the base of his spine, that thirty minutes of his life, thirty minutes of sharing saliva and being inside of you would destroy all the work he’s put in. Everything he’s already changed. Everything he already loves.
Because in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his heart, he knows he loves you more than all of it.
He doesn’t see you again for another three weeks.
You made good on your promise, not swinging by his apartment again. It took days to get the smell of you out of his living room, again. He still smells the couch cushions daily just in case. Maybe a part of him wishes it lingered.
He doesn’t reach out, though. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t DM. He doesn’t go anywhere near the places you frequent on campus. If you miss him, you’d let him know. You’d show him. Somehow.
Yeosang thinks maybe this is your way of saying it, in the Arts Building, nowhere near the lecture hall majority of your classes are in. Did you change your schedule? Forced into taking another elective for the sake of credits? There’s no reason for you to be walking towards him in a denim skirt so small he can almost see the lacy pair of panties beneath it.
Your face is pointed like you had an agenda. All Yeosang can do is sit there, in the common space, on the same cushioned chair he always sat in, sketch pad on his lap, waiting for you to approach him, to speak.
But you don’t.
You walk past him, heeled feet somehow clinking against the carpet-covered floor. Your head doesn’t move but your eyes stay on him until he’s in your peripherals, your chin up, shoulders squared, back straight, Yeosang can’t take his eyes off you. Denim kissing the crease where your ass meets your thighs, the shadow above your waistband showing the indent of your spine, the muscles in your calves flexing with each step, he swings his legs around to the front of the chair just so he can watch you leave.
Moth to a flame.
He curses himself for how easily he gives in to you. You let him see you because you wanted him to see you, you wanted yourself on his mind, you wanted him to go home and sit on his bed with a fist wrapped around his length, recalling the last memory of it being your mouth, instead.
He shoves his sketchbook into his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and hauls himself outside. Screw his last class, he’d look at the notes online, maybe. He doesn’t really care what he’s about to miss. He needs to grow a backbone, needs to strengthen his mind so you can’t penetrate his mental walls so effortlessly. Already he’s stirring beneath his cargos, he needs to go somewhere, he needs to do something, he refuses to go back to his apartment and lose time thinking about you.
Impulse brings him outside of campus. Hours walking through busy streets of the city, listening to music and chatter from restaurants, the traffic rushing between them, he finds comfort in the sunshine on his skin, making his head feel hot, his cheeks feel pink.
Impulse brings him to a piercing shop. Brow quirked, lips pursed, there isn’t much thought in his head as impulse pushes his legs inside.
By ten he’s at home again, throwing his bag on the couch, turning on the speaker in the corner of the room just to fill the silence while he lights a joint. In the kitchen, he makes himself dinner, the thought occurs that he was out for so long and didn’t eat– routine and discipline embedded in his veins makes him pull out meal-prepped food from his fridge.
Half a joint burned to ash and a meal digested, he’s only half-satisfied, he wonders when the practices that years of playing football have embedded in him will fade. If he’ll ever just be Yeosang again, instead of an ex-running-back, or the guy who dropped football for a bass guitar.
He debates checking his phone, calling Jongho, calling Aven, someone to occupy his fucking time, to ease his thoughts, so his fuzzy mind doesn’t hyperfixate on everything being different. So he can forget that he saw you today.
Three knocks sound at his door, loud, angry noises that make him jump where he stood beside the counter. He runs to the front door, swinging it open, about to open his mouth when you barrel past him into his living room like a fucking fly buzzing past his ear.
“You looked at me today.”
You’re angry. Eyes pointed, chest puffed out, brows chiseled and furrowed, Yeosang looks behind him like maybe he isn’t on the receiving end of this. Seeing nothing but an empty hallway, he closes the door behind him, and turns to you again.
“Okay?” He asks, says, it’s genuine. What answer is he supposed to have?
You’re in a sports bra and shorts that cling to your body. They reach high, over your belly button, but the hem squeezes right at the tips of your thighs, painted onto your skin. Yeosang’s breath turns manual as he takes in every detail, how your outfit doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, not that it’s anything he hasn’t seen before.
“Don’t do that,” you huff, hands on your hips, a wristlet hanging from your silver-covered forearm. Three bracelets, bangles, sparkly, they hang off your wrist, still dancing together, sounding like wind chimes on a summer day.
“Okay,” Yeosang’s brows furrow ever so slightly. “I won’t.”
“God, you piss me off,” you start pacing, hands on your forehead, walking back and forth in his entryway, if he could even call it that. If you open his front door, you’re already inside of his living room. “You do understand that I want nothing to do with you, right? That we’re not together?”
Yeosang nods, slowly, brows still furrowed like there are a million points he’s missing. “I’m very aware.”
“Then don’t look at me like that!” You finally stop in the middle of the room, voice loud, accompanied by the wind chimes on your wrist and the music coming from Yeosang’s speaker. “Don’t look at me like you still have some sort of feelings for me. Especially in public, Yeosang, I don’t need anyone asking me questions about you.”
His arms cross over his chest, once again dumbfounded, unsure of how to reply.
Your arms fall to your sides, eyes slimming. “What’s in your ears?”
His head cocks to the side, fingers coming up to touch his ears, suddenly reminded when it stings that he filled them with metal today. Simply, he responds, “Earrings.”
Then you’re marching up to him, manicured hands in his hair, pushing it off his face. You’re so pretty, skin soft, eyelashes long, coated in black. Sunkissed, like you’d just come from an outdoor practice, a little flushed with exertion, as if it wasn’t just after eleven. You’re talking, he can’t hear you, lost in your features, wondering how it’s possible for someone to exist this beautifully.
“Yeosang,” you urge, it’s a warning, stealing his attention. His brows raise in question. “The green hair was enough. What else are you gonna do to ruin yourself?”
“Are you my mother or something?” It slips out of his mouth, instinctive, he smacks his lips together. He blames the weed, the lingering smell of sweat on your skin, your face so close to his, his head is fuzzy. He short-circuited.
Your eyes darken, thinning, your hands fall to your sides. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I wanted earrings, so I got them.”
“Don’t change the subject,” you bite. “What did you just say to me? Say it again.”
He swallows, eyes meeting the floor. Voice quiet, under his breath, he answers, “I asked if you’re my mother.”
You laugh, a short, chopped sound of feigned amusement, it makes goosebumps rise on his arms.
“Did you finally learn how to fight back?” Your arms cross, pushing up your chest in your sports bra, Yeosang averts his eyes elsewhere. “To me, of all people. The one person you shouldn’t argue with.”
His eyes flicker upward, meeting your irritated stare. “Why not? We aren’t together, are we?”
From annoyed to impressed to angry, Yeosang watches your face morph into each emotion, a dance of your eyebrows and a scrunch of your lips. He can’t believe he said it, and neither can you.
“No,” your voice lowers, quieter now. “But if there was any chance of us fucking again, it’s gone.”
Yeosang’s eyes flicker down to your chest then, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty for it. If he doesn’t know when he’s going to see it again, then he might as well etch it to memory now.
“You know,” you start, eyes twinkling with mischief, a snag in your smile. “It’s funny you used that as an insult, of all things. Am I your mother.”
Yeosang doesn’t respond, but his chest feels heavy. Like he already knows where this is headed.
You take a step forward, close enough that Yeosang can smell the lingering sweat on your skin. He can see the remnants, too, a gloss on the highest point of your cheekbones, over your brows. It melts into your perfect skin, skin you care for daily, every morning, every night. He’s watched you complete your routine enough times to know it was time-consuming and expensive; he knows each and every step, the ingredients in each product, how much they cost.
“There was a time you used to call me something… similar,” you pop a brow, the snag in your grin widening to a smirk. “Remember?” Yeosang gives you a ghost of a nod, barely a twitch of his head. You cock your head, “Remind me, it seems to have slipped my mind. Weird.”
Yeosang’s jaw clenches, embarrassment flaming in his cheeks. He can feel his Adam’s apple move as his throat bobs, like a lump of shame he can’t pass. Quietly, almost under his breath, he mumbles the word. The reminder.
“What was that?” your voice is playful, a sing-song tone. Like you’re eating up every fucking second of this. “Say it louder. With your chest, Yeosang.”
His eyes find the floor, his pale, bare feet a contrast to the hardwood. He says it quicker, louder, a one-syllable confession like he despised the curve of his lips as he said it, “Mommy.”
You smack your teeth, and your grin spreads from ear to ear. “Right, that’s it, can’t believe I forgot!”
Yeosang glares from under his brows, despising the rush of adrenaline he knows is coursing through you at the title on his tongue. A word he used to say proudly, more often than he should’ve, a word that used to push you past the finish line if he said it coated in a desperate whine. Right now, all it’s doing is feeding your already-huge ego.
“Are you finished?” Yeosang asks, and the question is honest. Without remnants of a snide tone, no snarky attitude, he’s over the humiliation ritual. If you were just going to stand here and tease him, you could leave. Even if every fiber of his being wants you to stay.
You shake your head before answering a smooth, “No.” Shifting your weight onto one leg, you ask again, “Do you remember when you used to call me that?”
Yeosang pops a brow, unsure of the correct answer. “When I was fucking you?”
You blow amusement through your nose. “You never fucked me, I fucked you.”
And maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the half of him that’s still in love with you. Some part of him stands a little straighter and responds, “So do it again.”
Your face scrunches for half a millisecond. Taking a half-step back, you ask, “What?”
“Do it again,” he says with his chest this time, taking a half-step forward, closing the distance again. He searches for the reason inside himself and he comes up with nothing. You came here to tell him to stop looking at you, even if you put yourself in his line of sight. You insulted him, his hair, his earrings, his appearance. You made fun of him for what he used to call you at his most vulnerable moments with your chest puffed, chin jutted upward, making you seem six feet tall.
Is wanting you some kind of incurable fucking disease? Should he go to the goddamn doctor?
“Remind me why I used to call you that,” he leans down, his voice low, smooth. “Give me a reason to do it again.”
Possibly for the first time ever, you seem speechless. Eyes wide like saucers, he can hear your breath catch, an accidental sound between a gasp or spit getting stuck in your throat. You stutter, “N-no, I told you last time was the last time.”
“Then why’d you come here?” he’s too quick to ask, it spills out of him. “Where were you? Working out? On a run, trying to get all this pent-up shit out, when you know the only thing that works is me?”
Your heels come together, back rigid. Your eyes dance around his face, even the shake of your head stutters, like you were desperately trying to control the instinct driving you. He feels like he’s vibrating, electricity threading from his thighs to his fingertips that linger millimeters beside them, body begging to touch you so he could share the lightning.
“Admit it,” he whispers.
Your jaw clenches. “You can’t fucking bait me.”
“I’m not baiting you,” he quips. “I just know you.”
“Fuck you,” you bite, baring your pearly, white teeth.
Yeosang grins. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”
You lunge for him. Not that there’s much space to clear, you nearly jump onto him, into him, his arms catching you underneath your thighs swiftly, holding you tight as your arms wrap around his neck. Your lips hit his and all he could taste was your anger, frustration, all pent up in your sickeningly perfect body, he can’t believe he’s tasting you again. He can’t believe he’s kissing you.
He walks you to his bedroom himself. You don’t even process that you’re moving, he doesn’t break the kiss, he could walk around his apartment without a singular misstep in pitch black darkness. Smooth, effortless, he only breaks the kiss to lay you down gently on his bed.
Still perfectly made from this morning, thank god, you’d have a fit if it wasn’t. Another thing that's stuck. Meal-prep, hydration, shaving, his gym routine, making his bed… Yeosang is a man of practice.
“This is what you wanted,” you growl as soon as your back hits his comforter. “You wanted me here. On your bed.”
“You wanted me,” he pops a brow, words easy. “You came here for one reason, and one reason only.”
Your jaw clenches, “Take my shorts off.” It sounds like your best attempt at coming off icy, but Yeosang hears the burnt edge of arousal, the impatience on your tongue. Your hips twitch against the bed, legs dangling in open air.
Yeosang doesn’t listen. He watches you, taking his time with each sneaker, unlacing the bunny ears before throwing them to his floor. He barely waits to hear the sound of foam and rubber hitting the hardwood before his thumbs are tucking into your socks, sliding them down your smooth, strong ankles, taking his time rolling them off your feet. He doesn’t care where they land on his floor, he hopes it takes time to find them later.
Your cheeks match your chest, both flushed and bleeding impatience, your upper half rising and lowering rapidly like you also couldn’t believe this was happening. Again.
“Yeosang,” you say when he takes a moment to press a knee into the mattress. “My shorts. Now.”
His palms find your knees for leverage as he leans down, eyes catching on the dampened spot on your shorts. A deepened, asymmetrical shape of teal, darker than your turquoise shorts, your matching sports bra. He swallows, mouth filling with saliva, he could feel his eyes fucking dilating and he knows you can see it, too. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, using might to pull them down your lower half. With the way they were painted onto your skin, the slight gleam of sweat still sparkling in his dim bedroom, the curves and muscle on your body…
And you have nothing on underneath. He nearly moans.
“Fuck,” he utters under his breath. “So pretty.”
“Shut up, Yeosang,” you huff. “You’re taking too fucking long.”
He doesn’t know how you switched places. Swift movement had Yeosang on his back, your knees pinned to the mattress on either side of his head, and faced with the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, impulse has his forearms curling over your thighs, pulling you down onto his tongue.
Your pitched moan pierces his bedroom. You peel your sports bra over your chest once your hips start their rhythm on his tongue, fingers flying to your boobs, pinching your peaked nipples. He keeps his tongue poked out, eyelids fluttering, savoring the taste of your soaked folds that coat his tongue in candy.
He takes a moment to inhale, to bask in your scent; natural, mild, a little tang from sweat. Has he ever been this hungry in his life? Can he blame any of this on the weed anymore?
Your hips roll over his flexed tongue, head tipped backward, filling the air of his bedroom with a song of your pleasure, the bass-line the jingle of your bangles dancing down your wrist as your fingers grab for his hair. He can’t hear the music coming from his living room anymore, each one of his senses enveloped by you, and he’d gladly die right here, right now, his last meal being you.
“Yes,” you moan out, and the word is so full of sheer relief it makes Yeosang grip your thighs harder, makes him moan into your core. He focuses on licking over your clit, the rhythm only broken up by his lips swirling around the bundle of nerves, sucking without making it overwhelming, too much too quickly. A pace you love, the pressure he knows pushes you further down the line, Yeosang’s only goal is getting you over it.
You tilt your hips up, clit grazing the tip of his nose, and the way your abdomen flexes has his own hips bucking upward. An abrupt jerk of movement you feel, you know is happening, even if it’s behind you.
Eyes low-lidded, glazed over, you take a peek over your shoulder before asking, “You’re getting off on this?” Yeosang can’t answer with a mouth full of you. You try to laugh, but you suck in a sharp intake of air as his teeth ghost your clit. “You want to be used. Does anyone know what a bitch you are? That you get off on just tasting me?”
Yeosang moans into your center, hips bucking again.
“I’m sure they don’t.” Your eyebrows are tied together as you reach one arm behind you, palm landing on Yeosang’s abdomen for leverage, using the strength of him to give free movement to your hips. You grind yourself onto his mouth harder, faster, a quicker rhythm as you say, “Do they know about me? Or did you get rid of our history when you got rid of your own?”
His fingers sear your thighs, knuckles bone-white. You croak out a whine, “You’d never be this pliant for anyone else. No one else can make you feel this way without even fucking touching you.”
Yeosang moans his agreement, tongue plunging into your entrance, he hopes it’s answer enough. Your head falls back, chest heaving, free hand squeezing your chest, “Shit, I’m close.”
He’s never felt so motivated before. Nodding his head in rhythm with your hips bucking over his mouth, he keeps himself focused, brows furrowed and brain clear. When your moans grow in pitch, when your hips stutter, he keeps your pace fixed by his grip on your thighs. He keeps his tongue flexed, focused on rolling over your clit, using the same pressure, the same speed, never once faltering.
Then you’re crying out, hips seizing, body rolling, the muscles in your stomach clenching and unclenching; but never once do you say his name. Never once do you praise him for being the one to push you over the finish line, to bring you to orgasm.
Sitting back, nearly putting all your weight on his chest, it’s a comfort to him, even if you already look disappointed in the fact that you let this happen again. He can see your heavy breath, upper body expanding, caving in, lips parted and brows upturned ever so slightly. You take a moment to stare at him, to put the pieces together.
“Give me a shirt to go home in,” is all you say before climbing off of him like he was a fucking ride at an amusement park.
Yeosang sits up on his elbows, his own chest heaving, covered in slick from the bridge of his nose to his chin. He licks his lips, whatever skin his tongue can reach, just to savor the taste.
You’re pulling your bra over your chest, grabbing your shorts from his hardwood floor. “Are they in the same drawer?” You ask, not even looking at him. Then you’re before his dresser, opening his tee shirt drawer, grabbing a random white one, pulling it over your head.
It swallows you, down to mid-thigh. Yeosang’s head feels fuzzy, he searches for words inside of himself, he can’t find any. You turn to him, face tight, eyes blown, pupils dilated enough to swallow the color.
“This was the last time, Yeosang,” you say, but you don’t look like you mean it. “I mean it.”
All he can do is grin. He can smell the lie from where he lays.
“You guys don’t have to come.”
Aven and Jongho flanked him, his two best friends, the only two to understand Yeosang down to atoms and particles. Other than you, he supposed; but that was neither here nor there, and he knows you shouldn’t be on his mind, anyway.
“I want to hear your new song,” Aven, on his right, walks in-step with him, while Jongho trails just a step behind.
The latter adds, “This is the only day this week I have off from practice.”
Yeosang’s giddy. He was just being nice, saying they don’t have to come, but the truth is that he’s elated that his friends are coming to his band practice with him. Really, he has plenty of things to be happy about.
You’ve shared his bed twice since the last time. The first time, you’d come over under the guise of giving him his shirt back, just to leave in a different one. The second time, you didn’t have much of an excuse. You’d walked inside his apartment like you owned it, then fucked Yeosang like you owned him. And, in a sense, he supposed you did.
The air feels warmer, the sun feels brighter, the grass looks as green as his hair. Pink and orange flowers blooming on trees wafted sweet-smelling air straight into his nose, as if a reminder to appreciate all that he came across, that everything was okay and will be okay. His life is going back to normal, even if he’d uprooted all of it.
“We have three original songs for our gig at Eonian in two weeks,” Yeosang says, turning the corner that Jay’s house sat on, an older two-story home on the corner, just outside of campus. An easy walk from his apartment, Aven’s apartment, Jongho’s apartment. “The rest are covers.”
Yeosang can hear Jisung shredding, Jongseob on the drums, even from around the corner. Jay’s voice becomes clearer the closer they get, a rough, heavy tone; perfect for the punk genre of music they make, perform.
The garage door was wide open, the inside refurbished into a make-shift studio. Not really. It was the same worn-down garage that came with the home, posters on the walls, the same shelves sitting at the far corner holding mechanic supplies and tools of the sort. Jongseob’s drum set sat at the center of the room, mic stands and amps scattered around the space, Jay’s garage was a cookie-cutter neighborhood’s worst nightmare.
The music died out when the three men caught Yeosang’s head of green hair rounding the corner. Shouts of about damn time, finally, and get in here all met his ears at once, making him flinch.
“I’m sorry!” Yeosang threw his arms up in defense, then threw a thumb pointing behind him. “I had to stop and get these two.”
Jisung’s cheeks went pink at the sight of Aven. “Oh– oh. Hi, guys.”
Yeosang rolled his eyes, pulling on the strap of the nylon guitar bag to get it over his head. Jisung wore a baseball cap on his head, the hood of his zip-up laid on top, his cheeks and white smile the only things visible in the shadows of his hood. Fender strapped around his front, his fingers holding the neck, his body language morphed to something smaller. He’s always had a crush on Aven, and Aven’s always allowed him to.
“Hi, Hanji,” her head tilted, lashes fluttering.
“Hey,” Jongho smacked her arm. A warning.
Yeosang snorted. He pulled his bass from the bag, slinging the strap over his head, and played a few chords just to check the tuning as he made his way toward his spot, just beside Jay, opposite of Jisung.
Jay, lead guitarist and lead singer, took a step forward as Yeosang plugged the chord of the amp into his bass. “You’re happy today.”
Short, cropped hair, midnight-colored and gelled into spikes, his outfit was everything punk. Yeosang lifted a brow, “Yeah? It’s nice out.”
“It’s nice out everyday,” Jay slims his eyes and Yeosang feels his stomach tumble. Fuck Jay for knowing him so well already. “What’s new?”
“You have that freshly-fucked look about you,” Jongseob gleams from behind his drumset. Sitting centered behind the toms, cymbals surrounding him, he twirls a stick in one hand, his blonde hair tied up and braided into an upstyle that made him look feminine. The youngest, a freshman, but he was the fan favorite.
Yeosang’s laugh is nervous, he can’t help it. “What? No.”
Everyone’s face falls as they land on Yeosang. From Jongseob, who looked somewhat surprised, to Jongho standing just over the lifted line of the garage entrance, silence had fallen over the open space like a weighted blanket.
Jongho was the one to interject, “You’re lying and nervous.”
“Holy shit,” Aven mumbles under her breath, eyes sparkling with discovery. “It’s her.”
“No,” Jisung stands a little straighter, eyes going wide. “Yeosang, no.”
Yeosang’s heart is in his asshole. He starts with a rebuttal, shaking his head rapidly, “No it’s not, no it’s not. I don’t know what you guys are talking about.”
“Do you not remember what state you were in when you joined the band?” Jay asks, face angled in disappointment. “You’re like a fucking girl, going back to a shitty ex. I’ve been the shitty ex that girls have gone back to, Yeo, and it doesn’t fuckin’ end well.”
“Okay, well, you suck,” Yeosang’s lips form a line. “We’re seeing each other again, big deal.”
He knew you were not seeing each other again. He knew that it wasn’t anything more than sex.
Yeosang catches Aven throwing a hand over her mouth from the corner of the garage, he sees Jongho shaking his head slowly. But it’s Jongseob who asks, “I thought she was fucking Jaemin now?”
“Jaemin doesn’t fuck her like I do.” Yeosang quips, catching himself smiling, giddy as hell. But his face falls immediately when he takes in the five pairs of eyes on him, all staring with heavy disappointment. Clear distaste.
“Has she stayed over?” Jongho asks, arms crossed over his chest. Long shorts, a black tee tucked in, hair styled over his forehead, he wore the silent accusation in the thin line of his lips. Yeosang swallows. Shaking his head, he tries not to let the shame show in his eyes. Jongho smacks his teeth, “I thought so.”
Yeosang can feel the heat on his cheeks. “It’s not a big deal–”
“She hurt you,” Aven continues, “because you pursued your passion. Do you really want to be with someone like that? Who wants to be with you for looks, the image it portrays, instead of liking you for you?”
Yeosang can feel the frustration bubbling up inside him, overflowing before he has the chance to close the lid. “Are you in any place to give me shit? You’ve been fucking the same guy for four months, and he won’t even–”
Jongho cuts him clean off, “Do not finish that sentence.”
Yeosang didn’t even realize that he stepped forward, that his chest was heaving. For years they’ve bickered like siblings, saying the truth even when it hurts. Yeosang nods at Jongho, taking a steadying pause, silently thanking him for interrupting before he said something he’d regret. Wooyoung was the touchiest subject of them all for Aven, four months of back-and-forth, a relationship hidden in the shadows. He supposed he couldn’t give her shit, anymore, either.
“We just care about you,” Jay admits from beside him, the center of the makeshift-garage-stage. “And we don’t want to see you hurt again.”
Yeosang’s jaw ticks. “I know what I’m doing.”
He can feel the phantom stretch of his nose growing an inch longer. The lie burns. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.
Yeosang hears his door open, then close. He doesn’t even look, he knows it’s you, no one else would be barging into his apartment after the sun goes down, it’s the entire reason he left his front door open.
Tuning his bass on the couch, he’s sitting hunched over it, eyes on the heads, thumb on a string. He hears you come closer, stopping on the other side of his coffee table, he’s willing to bet a thousand dollars you have your hands on your hips, weight beared on one side of your body.
When he looks up, he makes a mental note that he owes himself a thousand dollars. Standing in his hoodie, it comes down to mid-thigh, swallowing the shorts he wasn’t completely sure you were wearing. He blinks, you’re staring. Hard.
“What, you don’t care that I’m here?” You finally bark out, arms crossing over your chest. “I could have been, like, a murderer or something.”
“I knew it was you,” Yeosang answers, then brings his attention back to the instrument on his lap, playing a chord. His top lip lifts, he tweaks the head. “I know your footsteps.”
There’s a pause before you kick your shoes off, walking towards his kitchen. He eyes your flip flops sprawled across the rug beneath his coffee table, making yourself at home, when this wasn’t your home. At one time you’d treated his apartment just like this, walking in unannounced, leaving your shit wherever because you could, because you shared just as much of Yeosang’s space as he did.
He looks over his shoulder, watching your head of hair bop around his kitchen, silently. After a moment, you hold up a laptop charger and turn to him. “Who’s charger is this? It’s not your laptop charger.”
His lips flatten, a sigh threatening to escape. “It’s Aven’s, she was here earlier with Jongho, studying.”
Your brows raise a millimeter. “Aven’s,” you repeat. “They were here studying.”
“Here we go,” he says under his breath.
You cross the kitchen, back into his living room, eyebrows tied together as you make your stand beside the couch. “She’s here often, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Yeosang says, voice flat. “Just like she always has.”
Your eye twitches. “And she just leaves things here, often?”
“No, she has a lot going on right now.”
Your face blows into surprise, disgust. “Oh, and now you’re making excuses for her.”
“She’s literally dating Mingi,” Yeosang argues, hating the taste of the lie on his tongue. “Why is this a big deal?”
“It’s not,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance. You walk back to the kitchen, putting the laptop charger back where you found it, white chord glowing atop the charcoal granite. You used a little more force in dropping it than necessary. You keep your voice steady as you say, “Jaemin asked me to go get drinks tomorrow after his game.”
He can hear the control you’re reaching for as the words leave your lips. He asks, “Yeah? You going?”
He wasn’t sure what you were doing in his kitchen now. He plays another chord, and it sounds smooth. “I think so,” you respond. “Probably.”
Yeosang doesn’t know what kind of strength he has in his soul that made him respond, “Good, you should go.”
There’s a pause, he doesn’t hear your bare feet moving across the tiled floor of his kitchen. His fingers pick at the strings, strumming a small, melodic, funky rhythm. Then he hears your feet slapping against wood as you trudge into the living room, beside his couch again, face twisted up in confusion. “You don’t care if I get drinks with Jaemin?”
“Why should I?” Yeosang asks. You wouldn’t be telling him if you were actually going, you wouldn’t be telling him if Jaemin had actually asked you, but his heart is below the hem of his shorts, anyway. “You’re not my girlfriend, are you?”
“No,” you answer simply, happily, almost. Yeosang plays another beat, another strum of chords, his finger catching the wrong strong, the entire melody clashing. He didn’t realize his fingers had started shaking. You grin, “I knew it.”
All five of Yeosang’s fingers point toward the kitchen, “You just flipped shit over a laptop charger.”
“Because it’s hers!” You argue, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You have a girl over here every other day, leaving her shit here, her hair-ties, her charger. What’s next, her clothes? Tampons in your bathroom?”
“It’s Aven,” Yeosang reiterates, like the mention of her name was enough explanation. “She’s been my best friend for years, you know this.” You blink at him, and his lips curve in a grin. “You’re jealous.”
“Why the fuck would I be jealous?” you spit out, arms uncurling from where they sat twisted over your chest. “I’m the one that’s fucking you.”
Yeosang can’t help but laugh. Head tipping back, bass and body slumping into the couch cushions, his laugh is genuine, straight from his belly. “You–” he tries to get out, head turning to the side, laughter still barreling out of him. “You tried to make me jealous with Jaemin, the fucking kicker.”
Your body feels hot. You’re positive your face is flushed, arms crossing right back over your chest again, you could stomp your fucking foot in irritation. “You’re so fucking aggravating, Yeosang.”
“Yet you’re here,” he responds, his laughter dying down to a breathy giggle. “Look at where you’re standing.”
Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, body ignited, growing hotter by the second. Just his stare, chocolate eyes, long lashes, knowing they were fixed on you made you feel two feet tall. You don’t answer, not as he pulls his bass off his body, setting it down beside him on the floor, the neck leaning against the couch. You can hear your heartbeat, feel the heat on your skin, sweat prickling beneath your hoodie. His hoodie.
“We’re not dating,” you finally announce. “We aren’t exclusive.”
“I know,” he nods once. “Which means you’re free to go do whatever with the kicker.”
You hate the way he mocks him, the way he says kicker like it’s an insult– he doesn’t even play anymore. Jaemin’s nice; a little stupid, he definitely doesn’t let you rough him up, and he certainly doesn’t know any of the kinks you keep buried, revealed to Yeosang and Yeosang only.
“I do,” you lie. “And I’ll continue to. Just wanted to make sure you were aware.”
Yeosang sits up a little straighter. “Aware of what? The possibility of getting an STD?”
Irritation only makes you burn hotter. “He’s clean, Yeosang, and so am I.”
“You sure?” his brows lift. He’s taunting you. “When’s the last time you got tested?”
“Shouldn’t you have asked me that,” you pull your hands out from your sleeves to count on your fingers, “a few weeks ago, before you fucked me raw, came inside me, let me sit on your face? Or how about when I had your cock down my throat? Shouldn’t you have wondered before that?”
He shrugs, a small thing. “Forgive me for having trust in you.”
“Trust,” the word makes you laugh. “Because there’s so much trust in what we have.”
Yeosang stands, his bulky build swallowing you, height towering over you. You can’t believe your body forced you to swallow.
“We don’t have anything,” he uses emphasis on the last word. “As per your choice. You come here to fuck, blow off steam, you come here to get what no one else can give you. You tell me that only you can make me feel this way, but what about you? Who else is fulfilling every little thing your nasty fuckin’ mind gets off on?”
Your breath catches. He continues, “And you want me angry over Jaemin? Did you forget I know him, and know him well? That I was on the same team as him? Lived in the same house as him?” You don’t answer, eyes widening, you can feel your pupils dancing below your lids, trying to gauge his next move. “You don’t think I know that he drinks whiskey like it’s water, and can barely get it up half the time? That when you fucked him—which I’m sure was, what, once or twice?—he busted after three strokes and was already asleep by the time he rolled off you.”
You can feel your heart beating, an unsteady thrum in your chest. “You’re wrong, Yeosang.”
He’s right.
“Does he let you call him names?” He asks. You notice that his green hair has faded a little, framing his sculpted, flushed cheeks. His birthmark seemed brighter, more opaque, a spot you’ve kissed a million times, it beckoned you to do it again. “Does he let you slap him? Does he let you choke him? Does he call you mommy?”
You gasp. It’s small, but it’s clear, slicing through the air between your faces. Every ounce of you wishes you could suck it back in, retract it, feign that his words were doing nothing to you. It would be useless, anyhow, he knows you down to the bone, keeping any sort of emotion from him proved futile time and time again.
“Answer me,” Yeosang urges, and there’s nothing in his voice that’s calm. The subdued, submissive man you’ve spent countless hours with is nowhere to be seen. The muted hum of adrenaline swimming through your body zaps at the base of your spine, like it’d been woken up, branching off to every nerve ending.
“No,” you whisper, hating that you’re admitting it, but what choice was there? “He doesn’t.”
“I know,” Yeosang grins. There’s no warmth in it, it’s sly, mocking. Like all of that was just to get you to say it. “Remember that, the next time you want to make me jealous of the goddamn kicker.”
His chest is flushed pink beneath the white tank he wore. Heaving, rising rapidly, lowering just enough to suck more air in. He’s pissed, and you don’t know why the sight is going straight to the throb in your panties. Never once has Yeosang been dominant, never once has he been mad at you, never once has Yeosang not been the submissive man you trained.
“When he does fuck me,” you start, and you genuinely have no idea where you’re going with it. “He’s… rough. He does to me what I do to you.”
Lies. You’re lying through your fucking teeth. To anyone else, Yeosang would seem unbothered. But you see the flash in his eyes, the deepening of chocolate to coal, how his lips peeled back from his teeth ever so slightly.
“And I like it,” you breathe. “I like it better.”
There’s a semblance of amusement in the curve of his brow. “Yeah?”
You nod, “He’s better than you. Bigger than you, too.”
The snag in Yeosang’s grin, you’ve never seen before. Mischievous, like he was already planning the million-and-one ways he’d break you apart. It makes your toes curl into the hardwood beneath your feet, your fingers twitch, your heart double in speed. Excitement, thrill, that’s what was passing through the air between you, a stand-off of sorts.
Do it, you think, hoping, praying he can hear you. Do it, Yeosang.
And he does.
His lips find yours in a hasty crash, his right hand reaching for your throat. Unsteady, uncontrolled movements, not entirely full of confidence but not insecure, either. You moan into it, the sound desperate and relieving all at once, and his fingers tighten. Pressing against the sides of your neck, weight on your veins, your eyes flutter beneath your lids, knees trembling.
“This what you want?” He asks into your mouth, breath heavy, panting like he’s been waiting for this.
Your knee hooks over his hip, “Yes, Yeo, yesyesyes.”
His hand leaves your throat, grabbing at the leg you threw over his body, using just that one fucking hand under your thigh to lift you off the floor. You answer with your other leg, he catches it swiftly, moving your bodies backward, toward his bedroom. Never breaking the kiss, your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging at his roots with enough force that he hisses into your mouth.
He throws you back on the bed instead of laying you down delicately, and as your back hits the mattress, your eyes peel open to catch the sight of him. Pupils dilated, cheeks splotched, forehead kissed with moisture, he looked at you with such hunger it made your back arch off the fucking bed.
“Teasing me,” he mutters, and you think he’s talking more to himself than to you as he climbs over your frame. “Dangling him right in front of my fucking face like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”
“Yeah?” you push his hair off his face, throwing your legs over his muscled thighs. “What are you gonna do about it, then?”
He studies you for a cool, calm second before moving. Sitting back on his calves, he pulls your body flush to him, then he flips you over in one swift movement. With a yelp, you’re on your stomach, eyes wide and legs parted, hips lifted off the mattress.
“What can you take?” He asks, and instinctively, you weren’t sure if it was rhetorical. “What’s he do when he fucks you rough?”
Without you answering, he pushes the back of your hoodie up, fingers digging in the elastic of your shorts, pulling them over your ass. You whimper, pushing yourself up by your knees to help him get them off you.
Elastic rolled around your thighs, he lands a harsh smack to your ass. You barely get a cry out before he’s repeating himself, “I asked you a question.”
“Fuck,” is all you can get out, nails curling into the duvet beneath you. “H-he fucks– he fucks me hard.”
You don’t have time to wonder if he’s buying the bullshit you’re spewing, not when he gets your shorts down to your knees, then down and off your ankles. Two strong, callused hands lift you by the hips, hiking you upward until you’re on your knees.
“You’re such a fucking liar,” he hisses from behind you, painting a finger through your folds. A moan forces itself through your lips at the stimulation, thighs already shaking. Did he know you were lying from the jump? Was he doing it anyway?
“‘m not lying,” you whimper in response, knees spreading further, needing more.
“If you wanted me rough, you could have just asked.” You can hear the ruffle of his shorts sliding down his thighs, the elastic of his briefs snapping against his skin. Then you feel his length, his tip, sliding against your folds, spreading the slick that’s already gathered. “Aren’t we past the point of pretending I wouldn’t do anything for you?”
The question lights you up like a Christmas tree, but sends a pit of something other to your gut simultaneously. You weren’t sure how to break down the feeling, you didn’t have the brain power to try, not when his tip was prodding at your entrance without prep, without stretch, without anything.
“Yeosang!” You squeal, turning your head to the side, trying to catch even a glimpse of green over your shoulder. But then he’s pushing in, and the feeling sucks all the air from your chest, forcing your eyes to squeeze shut.
“Baiting me,” he gruffs out, like he was talking through his teeth. “Telling me Jaemin’s bigger than me when I’ve seen his fucking cock. We lived together. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“N-no,” you whine, head in the clouds, somewhere else entirely. His hips snap against yours, a rough, nasty pace; sliding over the front side of your walls, massaging you deliciously, all you can do is shake with pleasure.
“You talk so much shit, run your fucking mouth,” he says, fucking into you like he was strumming along to a beat. “What happened to you didn’t fuck me, I fucked you? Huh? Look who’s getting fucked now.”
You think you might be crying, face hot, mouth pried open. Your fingers lose their grip on the duvet, body completely at Yeosang’s mercy, to his hips that snap against yours brutally, relentlessly.
“Quiet now?” He asks, then his thrusts stop completely. His hands grab for your arms, pulling you backward, up toward him. He grabs your hoodie by the hem, pulling it over your head, throwing it elsewhere; then one hand splays across your stomach, the other up at your throat, and he fucks into you again like he never stopped. “Did I break the fucking bitch inside you?”
Your body folds. Or tries to, a loud, uncensored cry ripping from your throat. He holds you steady, two hands keeping your back pressed to his chest, his mouth on your ear.
“You liked that, huh?” He asks, amusement playing in his tone. “Good to know, for the next time you want to make fun of me because I call you mommy, I’ll remind you of today. Of tonight.”
“Yeosang,” you whimper, eyelids fluttering again, your hands searching for his, clasped around your body. Tugging, pulling at them, nails clawing into him, he doesn’t budge.
“Mm,” he moans into your ear. “I don’t think so. Should I make you call me daddy? Call me sir?”
Your head tips back, falling limp against his chest, the pocket of skin between his pec and his shoulder. “Yeosang.”
His hips switch into a nasty grind, cock dragging against your walls perfectly, his hand drops from over your stomach to between your thighs. Two fingers rub at your clit at the same pace his cock fucks into you, and you nearly fold again.
“Shit!” you gasp out, “shit, shit, shit.”
“Ask me,” he says from behind you, voice clear like you were the only one losing your mind. Pressure looms, pleasure building steadily with each circle he traces. “Ask me if you can cum.”
You think you might have whiplash. It makes sense, you think, in all the months you’ve dommed him, all the times you’ve said nasty shit, for him to pocket every single movement, every single sentence.
You whimper, “Please.”
He grunts. “Ask. Me.”
“Please, Yeosang,” you urge, eyes finally cracking open. And thank god you did, because the sight before you threatens to rip the breath from your lungs all over again. Green hair stuck to his forehead, bleeding down his cheeks, over the red mark beside his eye. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and crazed; you nearly cum on the spot. Instead, you ask, “Can I cum? Please?”
He kisses you, forgoing a response, forcing you to hold it. His tongue slides into your mouth, teeth clashing against yours, so messy and hot you find yourself teetering scarily on the edge, thinking of anything to delay the inevitable.
“No,” he says into your mouth, the word final.
Despair seems like a tangible thing. A sob cracks from your throat as he lifts his fingers from your clit, sliding out of you, and pushing you face-first onto the mattress. Your body might be jerking, twitching, twisting– you weren’t exactly sure, because too quickly his hands hook under your legs again, flipping you onto your back.
“Denial sucks, doesn’t it?” he asks, grin wide. You wished you had the brainwidth to wonder how he was so good at this, where this experience came from. The easiest answer would be from you. He pushes your knees up to your chest, settling between them, callused palm leaving your skin only to line himself up with your entrance.
Pushing in smoothly, he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, muffling his moan of pleasure. You reach for him, his face, his shoulders, his hair, and he gives you all three as he leans down, elbows bracketing your head. His lips find yours, tongue and teeth and spit, another messy conjoining with the slick sounds of his hips hitting the backs of your thighs.
“Want you to cum, just like this,” he says, voice quiet, barely more than a ragged breath. His bottom lip stays on yours, sharing breath, sharing space. And for a moment, staring into his eyes, you’re scared.
It’d be easy to get addicted to this, you think. To him, all over again. When you were together, it was addiction; it was daily, sharing spit, sharing space, him inside you like that was his first home, then the apartment surrounding you. With Jaemin, with anyone else, on the field, you performed. You acted, you were someone other than yourself, living outside of your skin.
You’ve never had to perform with Yeosang. Other than the acts you enjoy putting on, the displays of dominance– submission now, too. It was natural, fitting, like water and ice, matchstick and flame. Running back and captain of the cheerleading team.
Staring into his eyes, panting into his mouth, clenching around him as euphoria swallows you whole, there’s a part of you that damns him for quitting football. For stretching the gap between you, ruining routine, forcing you into having feelings for a fucking bassist of a garage band.
He had everything. He had it all. He had a future, he had stability, he had routine– he had you.
And he ruined all of it. For what?
He kisses you as he empties himself inside you, spit warming your tongue, filling the space where your breath had dried it. You push the feelings down, the wave of dread, the feeling of everything crumbling around you. You let his weight on your chest be a comfort, the smell of him, a little weedy, sweaty and Yeosang.
There was no one else on the planet who understood you like him. There was no one else who could satisfy you like him. There was no one else who could handle everything that you are.
The thought haunts you, that he might accept you for all of it. Pom-poms, glitter, bi-weekly manicures, a nasty personality and a sex drive that challenged a virgin’s. He might even like the parts of you that you consider a nuisance, the parts that even you can’t comprehend.
Would anyone else pay so much attention? Would anyone else learn you down to what’s at your core?
“Why are you crying?” he asks, face warped into confusion, concern.
You blink. Once, twice before your hands are flying to your face, wiping at your tears. “Subdrop, maybe,” you laugh a little, nervous. Embarrassed. “Happens sometimes. Never been on this side of it before.”
He moves your hair out of your face, swiping his thumb under your eye. He shakes his head once, “Can I get you anything? Water? Food? A shower? Clothes?”
“Jesus, Yeosang,” you laugh again, the sound fully forced out of your chest as you push him off you. Sitting up, you can feel the rumbling of emotion in your chest. You push it down, down, down. “I’m fine.”
He stares at you for a long second, and you shudder under the weight of it. Moving, your legs aching, you swing them over the edge of the bed, running a hand through your hair. Sheepishly, you look over your shoulder, “Maybe water?”
“Lay with me,” he says, naked and flushed, chest still heaving. Eyes softer now, less terrified, a comfort. “Five minutes.”
This wasn’t right. Usually it was you offering comfort, you’ve never been the one having the come-down after a release of emotion. Of control.
You swallowed, face heating. But you nodded, and then laid back down.
And as his body engulfed you with sticky, sweaty heat, it terrified you that there was nowhere else you wanted to be.
He didn’t mean to pass you.
Not really.
But on the way to the Arts Building, if he took the long way, especially if he really needed to get his steps in… it’s for his stamina, he swears, to keep his lungs strong onstage. That's the only reason he passed the field, rounding the corner of the one-hundred-twenty yard turf. It just so happened that he passed by your side, catching a glimpse of your black, tiny shorts, your black sports bra, white Nfinity sneakers on your feet.
Hands on your hips at the top of the formation, stood opposite of the rest of the team, your team, nodding your head with each beat of the actually kinda sick song. Heavy bass, guitar riffs, vocals dim and monotone. Not a competition mix, then.
He hears your voice yell over the turf, bold and dominant, a captain’s voice. “Five, six, seven, eight. Tight! Tight, strong, clean. Get it right!”
Yeosang pauses for a second, his own head nodding along to the beat, watching the twenty-something girls with their hands balled in fists burst into quick, clean movements. Over their heads in a V, hands on their hips, knees bent as they damn near glide into their next formation, fluid with the song.
He kicks his feet into motion as you bark out another order, a girl’s name. He’s lucky he played football instead of being a cheerleader, he thinks, he doesn’t know if he’d survive you as his captain.
But it’s sexy nonetheless, seeing you in your element, guiding, controlling, watching with a calculating eye, picking out mistakes as soon as you see them. A perfectionist, someone who thinks good isn’t good enough, a captain who cares about her team, how they’re perceived. How they rank.
You don’t see him, thank god. But that means he still has to pass his team—his old team—and he wonders if it was worth it to catch a glimpse of your boobs tucked into your bra or your ass peeking out of the legs of your bloomers.
He snorts to himself. Of course it was.
Eyes trickling down to the field, opposite of where you practice, he recalls all the time he’s spent on the turf. Drills, sprints, positional work, formations, it’s weird looking down to the green, the guys on it, and feeling nothing. He could cling to nostalgia all he wanted, the feeling he had when he scored, when he won a big game for his team.
But he didn’t miss being down there. He didn’t miss those guys at all. And he feels guilty for it, because they never did anything bad to him.
He spots Mingi, the quarterback, his hair dark, long and sweaty, visible without a helmet on. He’s dancing on his cleat-covered toes, football between his gloved palms, watching Haechan run down the field, waiting to throw the ball. He can remember the days when it was himself sprinting down the field, adrenaline pushing his legs harder, faster, readying himself for Mingi’s no-doubt perfect pass.
His mind wanders, thinking of Aven, thinking of those two, together. Part of Yeosang worries that she’ll get hurt in her plan to hurt Wooyoung, that Mingi would crack the last bits of her that still wanted to try, that still had hope of a relationship, of love.
He shakes his head, ridding himself of the thoughts. If anything, Aven will eat him alive.
His ears catch onto a particularly loud yell, and his head snaps backward, watching as you saunter out on the turf, fingers pointing, voice lashing. He laughs to himself as he watches you correct someone’s form, physically fixing her arms into place, throwing your hands over hers to strengthen her fists.
Yeah, he wouldn’t survive you as his captain. Thank god he played football.
Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he dials Jay, wondering if the younger man was in class, or home. With a seven-second long conversation, he turned on his heel, and headed home to grab his bass, instead.
Twenty minutes before he ended up in Jay’s garage, he was thankful his lead singer didn’t press him about the reason he was there. Jay didn’t question Yeosang at all, the two understood each other differently than the other two– what music meant, how it shaped a person. Jisung and Jongseob were in class, leaving Yeosang and Jay standing on opposite sides of the garage, their instruments plugged in, and in complete verbal silence, they played.
Finding each other’s melodies, adapting when the other switched, trying to keep in-tune with one another, it was a game. A challenge. A fun one, Yeosang quickly realized, sweat kissing his brow, his tongue poking out between his lips in focus, listening to Jay while simultaneously moving his own fingers, slapping his bass to the tune of the younger man’s electric guitar.
This is what Yeosang lived for. Music has always been vital; morning workouts, evening workouts, a playlist he had plenty of songs forced into ringing through the speakers during practices. When he was younger, his parents had music playing almost all the time. He woke up to soft rock, ate lunch to metal, played in his backyard to pop, ate dinner to jazz, fell asleep to classical.
He first picked up an acoustic guitar when he was eight. His first song might have been Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but as soon as he learned the chords, the strings, how to move his fingers along a fretboard, it was over. Yeosang came home from school and picked up his guitar like it was the only thing he cared about— the only thing he lived for.
And for a long, long time, it was. The first time he picked up a bass he was twelve. Different from guitar, the neck was longer, the strings were thicker, Yeosang quickly became obsessed with how if you aren’t listening, you can’t pin-point where the bass is in a song. But if you really listen, if you look for it, you’ll know that bass is vital.
Rhythmic precision, in-sync with the beat of the drums, the sounds coming from a bass guitar are low, but not any quieter. A song without bass is hollow, depthless. For whatever reason, Yeosang became infatuated with the idea, with the fact that if he played bass, if he mastered it, he’d be as vital as the instrument.
Then he learned he was really good at catching a football, and at that point Yeosang had so many hobbies he still to this day wonders how he made time for them all. Keeping up with guitar, with bass, and with football was a lot easier when he was twelve than when he was seventeen, getting scouted for college. Long talks with his guidance counselors, with his parents, and Yeosang knew that football was his choice. It’d put him through on a scholarship, and he could still play, he could still shred, but football was his top priority.
And for the first two years, he loved it. Life was easy— he lived in the football house, he had friends, his team, a shared routine with all of them, he’d found a family. He spent countless hours in his bedroom on the second floor, playing for no one. He’d bring his bass downstairs during parties, play it like it was his hidden party trick. No one knew what his bass meant to him, what music meant to him. He had Jongho and Aven for that, the two people he fully confided in, that knew the feelings he kept in the small corner of his conscience. For those first two years, that was enough.
The end of his sophomore year, when he met the younger man beside him, Jay had heard through the grapevine that Yeosang played bass, and approached him in his lecture hall looking for a bassist for his band. Jisung, Jongseob, two younger guys he didn’t know at all, Yeosang almost laughed in his face, almost asked Jay if he knew who he was.
When he met you, for those first few weeks, everything in his life cracked open. He started playing more, he became addicted to it all over again, the weight of mahogany on his lap, strapped over his shoulder. Slapping his callused fingertips on strings and being mesmerized with the sounds that it made, he played often, any moment he could find, with you always at the forefront of his mind. He cared less about football, only that you were on the other side of the field, or on the sideline. He didn’t really care about his teammates, was it so terrible that the only weight they held for him was surface-level friendship? He started focusing on the things that mattered, whatever brought him joy.
You, and his bass. Jongho and Aven, too, when they weren’t a pain in his ass.
It was hours now that he’d spent in Jay’s garage, but thankfully, Jay didn’t bring you up once. As if the younger man knew Yeosang was plunging balls-deep in his own mind, and didn’t want to bring it to the surface. They talked about their show instead, in a week and a half, at the bar they frequented on Fourth Avenue, just outside of campus. It wasn’t their first show at the dingy dive, but they had more original songs now then they did last time they performed there, and pressure was a weight he gladly bore.
“I have an idea,” Yeosang told Jay, the pair in beach chairs on his driveway now. A pizza sat on a folding table between them, two brown bottles of beer on the cement beside their chairs.
Jay popped a brow, “Yeah?”
“A song to cover,” Yeosang says, reaching down to grab his beer bottle, bringing it up to his lips. Swallowing, flushing down the pizza, he continues, “For the show at Eonian.”
“The show is in like, a week.” Jay shook his head. “Fuck no.”
“Come on,” Yeosang leaned forward in his beach chair. “Do you trust me?”
“Fine, I’ll bite.” Jay says, reaching for his beer. Bringing it up to his mouth, his bottom lip touching the rim, he asks, “What song is it?”
Yeosang’s lips pursed. “I don’t know. Yet.”
“You don’t know?”
“I just heard it,” Yeosang explains, cheeks flushing pink. This is what he gets for speaking without thinking. “I’ll find out tonight, play it for you tomorrow.”
“I don’t doubt that, you fuckin’ weirdo,” Jay laughs to himself. “It creeps me out when you do that, learn a song just by listening to it.”
Yeosang shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.
When he gets back to his apartment, immediately he's on his couch, sitting over his bass, on the couch, trying to play the melody from memory. He thinks he has one section down, maybe, possibly, by the time you’re bursting through his apartment, right on-time.
His front door slams behind you. You’re still half-dressed, but at least you had a shirt on now. Even if it was his, and the bottom hem was tucked up into the band of your sports bra, showing off the stretch of skin from your upper abdomen down to the waistband of your shorts.
Your hair was still tied up, off your face, white sneakers still on your feet. Fresh off the field, then. “I’m irritated.”
Fresh off the field and pissed. Yeosang sits a little further back on the couch, readjusting himself, waiting for the explanation.
“Those girls have no fucking respect,” you throw your wristlet onto his coffee table, arms crossing over your chest.
“Karina?” Yeosang asks, remembering when you were appointed captain at the end of the previous captain’s, Jihyo’s, reign. Karina is the only one on your team who never accepted that you were captain, and not herself.
“Karina and her evil fucking minion, Giselle,” you snap, eyes big and raging. “I think they’re doing it on purpose. Either to get me to step down or get my rank removed, but the joke’s on them, because neither is going to fucking happen.”
Walking from one side of his rug to the other, you keep going. “We’re doing a pep rally next week, and I was told about it a week ago. I only had a few days to choreograph a routine before we needed to start practicing, and I did, now I don’t know if it’s because of where Karina is placed in the formation, but the ones that are watching her are copying her. These girls have been cheering for years, Yeosang, we’re a D1 fucking school and they can’t learn a routine in a few days?”
Yeosang’s lips flatten. “You’re putting in the work and they aren’t.”
You stop in your tracks. “You’re right, it’s literally only me putting in work, isn't it? I need to talk to my coach, I don’t know how half of these girls made it onto the fucking team.”
“I could probably learn the routine quicker than them,” Yeosang shrugs.
You nod ecstatically, “You could. You literally fucking could, Yeosang. You should see these girls, it’s like they’ve never cheered a day in their life.”
“Show me the routine,” Yeosang says.
You pop a brow, standing still, palms finding your hips. “What?”
“Show me,” Yeosang shrugs, then smiles. “Let me see if I can do it.”
“No!” You shake your head like the idea was ridiculous. “I’m not cheering for you, that’s embarrassing.”
“Okay, fine,” he huffs. “At least let me hear the mix.”
“It’s not a mix,” you say, quieter. Voice small, like you were even embarrassed of that. “It's a song.”
Yeosang tilts his chin up. “Let me hear it.”
As you pick up your wristlet, unzipping it to pull out your phone that somehow fits in the tiny, skinny thing, Yeosang’s grip tightens on the frets of his bass, fingers steadying over the strings.
It takes you only a moment to pull up the song, to press play, like you hadn’t even checked your phone after finishing practice, you had come straight here. He doesn’t let the thought linger as the beat starts playing through the small speakers, Yeosang’s ears straining to pick apart the melody like he could see the sheet music in front of him.
He nods his head as you nod yours, your limbs moving like you couldn’t stop yourself from micro-performing if you tried. Counting in his head, gauging the sound, the rhythm, the beat, Yeosang’s fingers start moving.
Your eyes fly to his bass, wide, then back up to him. He starts playing, flawlessly, as if he’d heard the song a million times before.
“What?” You mumble under your breath, eyes locked in on where his fingers smack at his strings. “How the fuck are you doing that?”
Yeosang smiles, pride in the display of teeth, head nodding along as his fingers pluck the strings. A monotonous beat, his other hand barely moves on the frets.
He gets it now. The song takes shape in his head, his lips scrunch in satisfaction, tongue poking out, nodding to the beat he plays without even looking now.
You look starstruck. Unblinking, stuck in place, eyes wide, jaw slack. You take a step forward, like you couldn’t believe it, like Yeosang was a fucking hologram or something.
“Yeo, that’s really fucking cool,” you almost whisper. Your eyes meet his again, finally blinking, fast enough that Yeosang thinks you might’ve actually convinced yourself he was an illusion. “How do you do that? Can you do that with any song? How do you know how to play it?”
Yeosang shrugs off what he takes as compliments. “I’ve kinda always been able to,” he explains. “I started playing guitar when I was eight, bass when I was twelve.”
Your jaw drops further as you round the coffee table, taking your spot next to him on his couch. “That long? Like, over a decade?”
Yeosang snorts, “Yes, over a decade. It’s about time that I did something with it.”
The song ends, you bury your phone in the couch cushion absent-mindedly, eyes twin saucers as you stare at him like he was a completely different person. “Is that what you want?” you ask, leaning into the back of the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest. “To make it your career?”
He nods without hesitation. “I thought I wanted football… obviously, going to a D1 school and all. But then I met Jay, and realized that I only played football because I had to, then everything felt like it was moving in the same direction, y’know?”
“Like it was meant to be,” you offer. He nods. Your lips purse, scrunching to one side before you admit, “You seem happier.”
“Really?” He grins, teeth showing. “I guess I am, I like being onstage, I’ve always liked performing, actually.”
“I never thought that about you,” your eyes find the couch, a string of fuzz ripped from the seam. You pick at it with your manicured fingers, mumbling, “Outside of football, you seemed content being… hidden. Quiet, like a mouse. I guess that makes sense, though, you were kind of a star on the field.”
“Mingi’s the star,” Yeosang says. “He gets all the glory.”
“Well, I was always cheering for you.” You finally look up at him, eyes sparkling, and he can feel his breath catch, hear it. So pretty, so perfect, he’s never loved anything in his fucking life the way he loves you. Maybe music. Maybe his bass. But there’s still the part of him that knows neither compared to what he feels for you, that you were the reason he fell back in love with music all over again.
“Would you still cheer for me?” He finds himself asking, but to him, it feels like a different question entirely. “When I’m onstage. Would you cheer for me in the crowd?”
Your head tilts, a playful smile taking over your entire face. “Wait, like, actually come to one of your shows?”
“Yes, actually,” he teases, shifting his body so he faces you a little more, bass still taking up space between you. He doesn’t mind it, though, barely notices it, not when your gaze fixed on him is hotter, brighter than stage lights. “Next Friday. Eonian.”
Your lips scrunch again, a cute flush spreading across the apples of your cheeks, your nose. “I don’t know, Yeosang.”
“You don’t have to be front and center,” he urges, “even though I know that’s where you love to be. Just…come see me play.”
You stare at him, eyes dancing across his face, contemplating. Your smile falls a little, and he knows you’re running through the events in your head, what could go wrong, what people would think, what it’d look like if you showed up for him.
“I’ll think about it,” you nearly whisper, and he knows that not giving him an answer, avoiding yes or no, was intentional.
You’ve already made up your mind. He knows you won’t come. He can feel it, an icy chill spreading through his blood, prickling his scalp. Rejection.
All you have is sex. That’s all it’s been from the jump.
He stands, placing his bass carefully in its stand, deciding that he didn’t want to stare at your perfect face anymore. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he asks, “Have you eaten?”
“No,” you admit. “I came straight from the field.”
That, he knew. He knew you didn’t eat before he even asked the question. Without thought, without words he aims for his kitchen, sorting through his fridge for something that wasn’t prepped already, his cabinets for anything in-line with your diet which was just as extensive as his own.
“What are you doing?” In the entryway of his kitchen, your shoes are gone, you probably kicked them off somewhere on his rug.
He doesn’t look for longer than a millisecond. “Trying to find something to feed you with.”
“You can feed me something else.” Your voice lowered into velvet, he can hear the want lining your tone, slurring the words together. “I’m still irritated, and I’d rather fuck it out than eat right now.”
“Should I act surprised?” He quips, leaning his hip into the counter, brows flat.
You step closer, confusion spreading across your features. “Where’d the attitude come from?”
He runs a hand through his hair, sighing as your feet land before his, your arms swinging around his neck. “I don’t have an attitude.”
You raise yourself on your toes to bring your face close to his as you say, “You do, and if you keep it up, I’m gonna redirect my irritation to you.”
Your fingers find his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, and his eyes close, lungs emptying. He can remember when you first came to his apartment, vulnerable and needy, asking to fuck him. You told him you had one good thing. He wonders if you were right.
Your lips press into his, soft, questioning, searching for the taste of yes on his mouth. His hands find your waist, lips parting, tongue slipping into your mouth to answer your silent ask. Always yes, he’d never deny you anything, he ignores the way his chest aches, how his throat constricts.
He can remember the day he picked up his bass from the corner of his bedroom at the football house, sitting on his bed, and playing the same measly love song he’d memorized years prior. He hummed the lyrics as he played, fucking up chords, his bass completely out of tune. He didn’t care, though, he could barely hear it over his thoughts swarming, every single one about you. The cheerleader he’d just started hooking up with, the one with a loud mouth and a pretty smile, the girl that made him feel whole again.
For a while, you just kissed. You turned him until his back hit the counter, hands in his hair as you kissed him breathless. Your tongue licked into his mouth like there was new space to cover, land to explore, like he felt new. He let you, mind wandering, hands falling under the tee shirt that swallowed your body, touching every inch of skin he could find, wondering if he’d ever feel the rush of picking up his bass from the corner of his bedroom like it was the first time again.
When you broke away from him, panting, fingers still curled in his hair, you kept his face close to yours, mouths barely an inch apart. He spoke first, though. “Thought you wanted to fuck it out.”
Your lips curve, a breathy laugh tumbling into his mouth. “Me too.”
You kiss him again, palms sliding across his chest, down to his abdomen, nothing about your touches felt impatient, or stemming from frustration. Like you were basking in him, as if he were the anchor bringing your temper, you back down to earth.
In the times that you’ve fucked since you knocked on his door those weeks ago, you’ve never just kissed. He isn’t sure if you’ve ever just kissed. The lack of heat, without promise, just exploratory, easy. Intimate, in a way, more intimate than his most vulnerable moments with you.
A man he is, with disgusting, primal, masculine instincts, the blood rushing below the hem of his shorts is anything but voluntary. He gasps when your front brushes against him, your body warm, your scent in his nose, stray hairs tickling his cheeks. You’re all over him, part of you lives inside him, it’s second nature that your spit on his tongue gets him hard. You smile into the kiss, and he can feel the shape of pride in it, the arrogance.
Your palm drops, ghosting over his length in his shorts and he moans. It’s pathetic, really, how easy he is, how fucking worked up you get him without even doing anything. Your palm lays flat, adding pressure, and he groans.
“Work for it,” you whisper, palm curving over his length, fingers gripping the width. Yeosang’s hands leave your waist to grab the edge of the counter behind him. “You know what to do. Make me proud.”
His hips rock once, experimentally grinding his length into your palm. His head tips back when he’s met with a wall of pressure, your hand unmoving, a surface for him to get off on. He can’t fight the high-pitched whimper that crawls up his throat, pleasure igniting each nerve ending in his body, the apples of his cheeks on fire because he can’t believe he’s getting himself off on your hand.
You make a small sound, maybe in awe, Yeosang isn’t sure. He rocks his hips faster, harder, broken moans and ragged breaths slurring together, completely unbothered by the fact that there were two layers of cloth between skin.
“So pretty when you’re like this,” you murmur, palm made of stone, warm like a boulder basking in the summer sun. “Thinking with your cock, doing anything I tell you to. Do you always get this hard when you kiss me?”
He forces out a breathy, “Yeah.”
“My pretty boy,” you coo, then smack your lips. “So good for me. Y’gonna get on your knees after I make you cum in your pants?”
He moans, head rocking forward again, features twisted tight. “Fuck, yeah, yes.”
“You want it? Don’t wanna fill me up?”
He bares his teeth, your question slicing through his pleasure, not enough to get him to fuck up his rhythm. “Where– wherever you want– want me to, mommy.”
You gasp, and he opens his eyes to see your brows furrowed in pleasure, eyes dark and focused. His cock twitches at the sight of your swollen, kiss-plump lips, parted, glossy with spit. Pressure builds in his gut, knowing what the title does to you, that it tumbled off his tongue.
“Cum,” you demand, the word coated in arousal. “Cum for me, wanna see you make a mess.”
He grunts, gasping out a desperate, muddled moan, but it takes no more than three more humps of his cock on your hand to spill hot, sticky release into his briefs. He hisses at the feeling, uncomfortable, messy, humiliating. When his hips slow to a stop, you don’t move your hand, you don’t lessen up the pressure. Your fingers wrap around his cock over his shorts instead, and Yeosang curses so loudly he prays the entire complex can’t hear him.
“Shut up.”
He shudders, backing into the counter impossibly further, lowered down to his elbows, knees trembling. Whines, whimpers and moans spill from his lips, bucking away from you, jerking rapidly under the weight of your hand. “I can’t take it,” he shakes his head, sucking air down to the base of his diaphragm. “I can’t– I can’t–”
“You can,” you move closer, caging him in. Eyes locked on his hips, how he shakes beneath you, he can see the grin on your lips from above you, the curve of your cheeks. “Wanna see how much.”
“No,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut, his body in fight or flight. The overstimulation burns to the point of ache, his mind going fuzzy, all you do is laugh. “Please– please.”
“One more,” your eyes glance upward, round and doe-like as if you weren’t pushing him past the breaking point. You still haven’t even taken off his shorts. “Can you do that for me?”
There’s a demon inside him that loves to obey you. That gets off on doing what you ask of him. It erases his refractory period like it didn’t exist at all.
“Y-yes,” he whimpers, tongue lolling out of his mouth, swiping over his bottom lip.
“Yes what?”
“Yes–yes mo–mommy.”
“Kiss me, baby,” your voice is so soft he blinks to make sure he heard it right. “Come here.”
Lifting himself up, your wrist twists over his shorts, palm rolling over his tip and it’s just enough pleasure to get him building again. He pants into your mouth, the kiss not much of a kiss at all, exchanging breath and spit, teeth clashing together. Yeosang’s babbling into your mouth, begging for something he isn’t sure of, reprieve, maybe. But he’s close and you taste so sweet and your hand feels so fucking good and it’s not even touching his skin.
Your other hand finds his hair, fingers tugging at his roots, with a sharp hiss from his lips and a stuttered, staggered grunt, he’s spilling into his shorts all over again. You coax him through it, praises, compliments, sweet words he only got to hear when he was obeying you, it makes his brain all fuzzy, makes his abdomen twitch and his cock jump like he had more to give. He knew in his soul that he didn’t.
You kiss the corner of his lips, his chin, his jaw, then pepper short, soft presses of your lips down his neck. “You’re so good,” you whisper into his sweaty skin, “always so good for me. So proud of you.”
His chest is still heaving, eyes barely closed, but your praise gives him clarity. “Need to clean up.”
“Wanna see,” you whisper, soft, delicate hands traveling down his abdomen, over his tee. “Let me see.”
Your fingers dip into the elastic of his shorts, pulling them down. He can feel the heat of shame, his head tipping backward, eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t want to see the mess he’d made.
He hears you gasp, the trickle of awe falling past your lips. Maybe he does want to see what you see. “You’re so perfect,” you whisper, and he looks down at his light gray briefs, the shattered splotch of wetness darkening them into charcoal. Marvelling at the sight, you mumble, “Look at you.”
“Stop,” he whines, hips twitching, “‘s embarrassing.”
“It’s hot,” you counter, fingers tugging at the waistband of his shorts, pulling them over where his soft length hangs heavy. “So messy, you’d do anything for me if I asked.”
His cheeks burn. He doesn’t answer, tucking his lips between his teeth, eyes finding the ceiling once more. “C’mon.” His briefs snap against his hips again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Confused, he fixes his gaze on you again. “Wha–? Do you–”
“Bathroom,” you hum, already turning. “Come on, messy boy.”
He follows, like a moth to a flame, a dog to his owner. You clean him, though, a warm towel to his pelvis, his wet clothes thrown in his hamper. In silence, the hum of the bathroom fan sound enough, he watches you move, the fluidity of your movements, brows crooked in focus, with care. You care about him.
You walked through his apartment like you were angry at god himself and somehow, he diffused it. His head tilts, sitting on his bed, watching you sort through his drawers for new clothes as if he were incapable of doing it himself. Thinking out loud, he says, “You really should talk to your coach.”
Your head snaps to the side, black briefs in your hand. Your face reads calm, but your answer is short, “I know.”
“If they’ve been torturing you this long, they’re not going to stop.”
You sigh, and he knows you’re trying to find your favorite pair of his shorts. Gray, soft, long, they reach below his knees. Finding them, you close his bottom drawer and turn, crossing his bedroom to hand the fabric to him. “What kind of captain does that make me? That I can’t handle two girls.”
He stands, “It’s not that you can’t handle them, you shouldn’t have to.”
You watch him tug his briefs over his hips, his shorts. “The other girls, my girls, I don’t want them to think I’m some kind of dictator. That if you don’t like me, you’re out.”
Yeosang grins, “That sounds like a very you attitude to have.”
You roll your eyes, sitting on his bed, then deflate as your back stretches over his duvet. He can see the hint of a smile tugging on your lips as you argue, “Not when it comes to them. I don’t want them to hate me, or hate cheer because of me. They felt that way with Jihyo, I felt that way with Jihyo, and she chose me. I wanna be different.”
Yeosang lays down on his bed beside you, flat on his back, lungs emptying as he stares at his ceiling. “You’re different from her, you’re strict, but you’re not unfair. Just because you don’t condone bullying doesn’t mean you’re a dictator.”
He can feel your eyes on him, so he turns his head, meeting your stare. “What would you do? If you were me.”
“I’d give it right back,” he answers, without a second of thought. “You’re not the kind of person who backs down. Remind them who you are.”
You stare at him for a second, unanswering. Then your head turns, eyes finding the ceiling, and Yeosang mimics you, staring at the beige wall above him.
Minutes might have gone by, maybe hours.
You finally turn to him, “I’m hungry.”
His brows lift. “It’s late.”
“I think we both know by now that your bed’s big enough for two.”
The pep rally was rough.
In the locker room, chatter filled the air, high-pitched giggles, yells, conversation swarmed the hallways, bouncing off the metal lockers, directly into your fucking ears.
The Birds put on a beautiful show, which you assumed they would, probably the outcome of a pep-talk by the one and only Song Mingi. The team revered him as if he were a god or something, desperate to impress him, like if Mingi said the word, they’d be drafted to the NFL alongside him. It helped you out, though, it left the crowd distracted, focused on them, a thrum of adrenaline passing through the stadium as you ran onto the turf with your girls.
You don’t think the crowd even looked at you or the team once when you were in the middle of the field, fucking up each step of your goddamn choreography.
Your friends weren’t there, there wasn’t a familiar face to look at, to keep your focus on. Not that it specifically bothered you, there were plenty of away games you cheered at where you had to stare at random faces, maybe an older man’s bald head, and used it as a beacon. Somewhere to look. Something to keep your eyes on while you performed outside of your own fucking body.
But the team still didn’t have the routine down, and the last-minute tweaks you made to make the routine easier, to dumb it down, failed. The team couldn’t keep their heads on straight, Karina couldn’t remember what you had just taught her two days ago, and had been rehearsing since. It was frustrating, to know that you failed, to accept that all that you had done still wasn’t good enough. You shuddered thinking about getting a call from your coach later.
Enduring all of it, feeling all of it, you knew in the pit of your gut there was something else. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, what’s wrong. A sense of dread was consuming you head-to-toe, like something was off, something was missing. You couldn’t put your finger on it.
Maybe it was just a rough week; you’re sure the girls hated you right now, with how hard you pushed them all week, they must feel relieved to know the pep rally’s over. Even if you have to start preparing for competition tomorrow.
You caught Jaemin’s eye on your way to the locker room, just a glimpse over the kelly green pom-pom in your hand that held the door open for the rest of the girls. He winked at you, smiled with every single one of those beautiful, white teeth, and you felt nothing. Nothing.
You never have felt anything for Jaemin, if you were being honest with yourself. If you were being really honest, if you came to terms with what you felt, you’d remind yourself that every time you catch Jaemin’s eye on the field, after practice, all the times he’s sauntered up to you when you were cleaning up on the turf, flirting with you shamelessly… you remembered when it was Yeosang. You wished it was Yeosang.
Your stomach aches. Twists, churns, like cramps on the second day of your period. You slammed your locker shut a little harder than you meant to, jaw settled in frustration, palms sweating.
“You good?” Karina asks, black hair still tied at the crown of her head, curled and framing her face, laying on her shoulders. The massive, bright green bow glimmered, lined with gold and white, bringing out the red in her cheeks.
You grimace. Feigned concern, Karina doesn’t give a fuck if you’re okay, she doesn’t care about anyone except herself.
“Fine,” you respond, a short, curt reply. It meant don't push it.
Karina huffs a laugh as Giselle comes up to her side, the brunette twin smirking as if she could read Karina’s mind. You think maybe they could read each other’s minds— where one goes, the other follows. Your eyes bounce between the two with growing confusion, your upper body jerks as if to ask what.
“Nice hickey,” Giselle giggles. “Jaemin?”
Your hand comes up to clasp around your neck, the spot where Giselle’s eyes were locked. You didn’t even know it was there, you don’t know how you didn’t notice when you were putting your makeup on.
“No,” Karina makes drama of the word, dragging it out, head tilting to the side, body leaning into Giselle’s. The two had dressed already, back to denim shorts and microscopic tank tops, flip flops on their feet. “She’s not fucking Jaemin anymore. Right, Captain?”
Your cheeks flush, an embarrassed heat flooding you. Maybe the reminder of Yeosang is what you needed to fake a laugh, one icy, mean. “And since when are you two so interested in who’s inside me? Are you waiting for your turn?”
Giselle nearly gags. Karina huffs, “That’s disgusting, why would you even say that?”
You shrug, a nasty smirk tugging at your lips. “Seemed like where it was headed. If you asked nicely, I might have said yes.”
“I wanted to know because I fucked Jaemin,” Karina stands a little straighter, arms crossing over her chest. “He said you haven’t called him in weeks. Ghosted him. Guess it’s ’cause you’re gay now?”
You grab your duffel bag from the bench, a rectangular, heavy bag beaming hues of green and gold through the locker room like a kaleidoscope. “Were you talking about me before, or after you fucked him? Or was I on your mind during all three strokes?”
Karina’s cheeks redden, face morphing into something horrified. Her eyes dance, searching for something to argue with before she flat out asks, “I— you— are you still fucking Yeosang?”
You hate the way his name sounds on her tongue. Your hand grips your bag strap tighter, knuckles changing color with strength. “No,” you hiss.
“We know you are,” Giselle crosses her arms, like Karina’s mini. “Are you going to his show on Friday? To watch your little garage-band boyfriend?”
Your jaw clenches, ears moving with the grit of your teeth. Karina laughs, head tipping back, “It’s a shame, you know. He had a bright future, but now he’s a loser. Do you think he quit football to get away from you? Just for you to follow him like a lost puppy dog?”
“I wonder if he’s thinking ‘damn, I can’t get rid of her’,” Giselle sighs, a finger poking her cheek like she’s mid-thought. “Or maybe he’s so fucking high from all the weed he smokes he just doesn’t care who he’s fucking.”
“You don’t get to talk about him,” you hiss, stepping forward, dropping your duffel to the floor in a harsh smack. “Keep his name out of your filthy fuckin’ mouth.”
“Or what?” Karina steps closer, meeting your broadened shoulders, her chin jutted upward. “Go ahead, do something. I’ll be made captain so fucking quick it’ll make your head spin.”
You laugh, and it’s vile. Low, coated in malice, it takes everything in you not to spit on her. Tipping your chin up, looking down at her over your nose, you say, “You wish you had someone like Yeosang. The only guys you can get to fuck you are the ones so fucking drunk they can’t see you.”
You snap your head to Giselle, “I’ll be at his show, proudly watching my garage-band boyfriend while you keep plowing through the lacrosse team, praying one of them will actually text you back this time.”
You bend down, grabbing your duffel bag from the floor. “I’m captain because I deserve to be, I worked my ass off for that title. What have you accomplished, other than living in my shadow?”
Karina counters, “Those girls watch me, not you.”
“I wouldn’t be able to look away from a trainwreck, either,” you bark back, teeth bared. “I’ll make sure to keep you in the back from now on.”
Karina gasps, eyes blowing wide like that was a death sentence. “No.”
“I’m the captain,” you respond, leaning forward, making her shrink where she stands. “You’ll be lucky if Coach doesn’t kick you off the goddamn team after I call her.”
Steam is radiating off you as you barrel out of the locker room. Chest heaving, jaw locked, fingers shaking around the strap of your duffel bag, your mind is roaring as you nearly sprint down the hallways dripping in gray. Flickers of green and white beckoned for your sight, posters, banners, streamers, you couldn’t see until you were out of the stadium. And then began your trek to him.
He wasn’t home, though. His apartment door locked. You knocked, you banged, you called his name. No answer. You thought about calling him, your phone buried somewhere in your duffle, when you looked down you realized you never even changed. Still in uniform, a green and white tank, Birds printed diagonally across your middle, your matching mini-skirt reaching just mid-thigh.
You needed him, you needed him, not to blow off steam, not to touch him and feel like you had a semblance of control over something. You needed him to tell you again, that you’re strong, you don’t back down, that you’re worthy of your title and you aren’t just like Jihyo. You wanted to hear him say that he was proud of you for sticking up for yourself, that you’re right, only his reassurance could ease the raging war in your chest.
You needed him. You’ve never needed anyone in your fucking life.
“Hey,” you hear from behind you, a voice so comforting and warm your body twists.
Your eyes widen, taking in his outfit. Green tee, oversized, white long-sleeve covering his arms. Denim on his legs, boots poking out, hair styled over his forehead, silver gleaming in his ears. You’re slapped with the memory of waking up beside him, the both of you naked, bodies molding together like you’d both been dreaming of it.
You blink, “Where were you?”
His cheeks go pink. Sheepishly, he admits, “The pep rally.”
It steals the air from your lungs, relief flooding you, rendering your body hot. “You came?”
“You were stressed about it,” he shrugs. “I skipped band practice for it. You were right, that bitch was smug, she knew exactly what she was doing–”
You drop the duffel bag, throw your arms over his shoulders, and steal his lips. He smiles into the kiss, holding you tight, laughing a little at your enthusiasm. “Why?”
“You came,” you’re smiling, pressing your forehead against his. “I didn’t think you were there, I didn’t even think to ask you to come, Yeosang.”
“I thought you would’ve spotted me,” he’s laughing, his smile silly and happy. “Green hair and all.”
Your hands find his hair, soft between your fingers, “So much team spirit.”
He kisses you again. “You caught me, I dyed it so everyone would know I was there for you.”
You laugh, head tipping back, arms tight around his shoulders. Words thrum under your skin, floating through your limbs, climbing to the tip of your tongue. Your smile falls. Swallowing all three of them down, you admit, “I fought with Karina in the locker room. I think I won.”
“Like, fist-fight?”
“Strongly-worded verbal argument.”
“That’s your forte,” he makes a face like that was obvious. “No shit, you won.”
Your smile returns tenfold. “Can we go in?”
“Does that mean you’re going to change out of your uniform?”
“Yeah.”
“Then, no.”
You feel like you’re living outside of your own body.
You aren’t a dive-bar girl, you were lucky you had your ID in your purse, you didn’t even think about needing to show it to the tall, bulky brunette guy standing outside the front door. He let you in, and you mentally thanked god he got you away from the guy smoking the disgusting cigarette out front that nearly choked you. Who even smokes anymore?
Reality hits you, and you remember you're at a bar. Not a nice one, either. Neon signs hang from the walls, license plates and dollar bills scribbled on with black marker stapled to the deep brown oak lining the roof over the bar, music played through the speakers, rock music, heavy music, you fought not to cringe. The smell– the smell, tobacco and beer and sweat, there were college kids fucking everywhere.
All people your own age, but fuck, each and every single one you laid eyes on, you gave a stare of disgust. You didn’t understand the point of coming here on weekends, drinking until you blacked out, kissing randoms in the corner, the idea of you doing it had you gagging. The bar was packed, brown leather stools topped with people in denim, a guy with a shaved head behind the bar juggling bottles.
You felt scarily out of place. You think you might turn around and leave.
You had too much to make up for. Too much to prove. Too much to fix.
Conventional relationships weren’t for you. Your taste was different– what got you off, what you searched for in a partner, wasn’t something you could find in just anyone. When you met Yeosang and realized you could be yourself, that you were free, you dug your nails in and refused to let go.
When he quit football and ripped your world from under your feet, you hated him. You hated him for a long while. You were embarrassed that you felt so deeply for someone who was comfortable with climbing down the social ladder instead of up. You felt shameful that you were so attached to someone who didn’t mind upending his entire life, without even considering you or how you felt about it.
You can remember the night he told you he was quitting football, how you screamed at him, you can still count how many times you said no. You’ll regret that night for the rest of your life, because how free you felt with Yeosang, how everything fell into place, how comfortable you’d become being yourself, is what he became after he quit. When he committed himself to his passion.
He was comfortable changing his entire life because he felt safe enough to be happy. He assumed he had your support, that you’d be by his side through it all, and you let him down. You left him. And for what? What the fuck did you leave him for? What shame did you think you’d carry, if your boyfriend was no longer on the football team?
You ordered a drink from the bald guy and ignored his face when Aperol Spritz left your lips. Yeosang showed up for you, after he asked you to show up for him, and you basically said fuck no to his face. Were you really so ignorant that you couldn’t see yourself cracking each and every layer of his confidence? Were you so shallow that the only thing that’s real to you, is how other people see you? Did that make it reality?
It’s pathetic. He’d give you the world if you asked him to, and you’ve never done anything for him. You’ve never given him any reason to be kind to you, any reason to love you. And yet he still trusts you with every ounce of himself, trust you’ve never, not once, deserved.
You’re simmering in rage, self-loathing as you take the seat of a high top table in the back corner. Bare legs crossed, one knee over the other, the toe of your heel sits on the bar of the chair, your mini-skirt covering only what it needs to. You feel eyes on you, on your low-cut top, and the part of you that still clings to being perceived, wonders if they’re judging the streak of green you clipped into your hair. The one that matches Yeosang’s shade exactly.
You keep the skinny black straw attached to your lip, the orange liquid in the tall glass bitter. Your eyes find the stage, still dark, the head peeking out of the side. Olive skin, dark eyes, ebony hair spiked atop his head, you think that’s Jay. You’ve never met him, only heard about him from Yeosang, but from the description you remember receiving, it matches him. Your back straightens when you realize his eyes land on you, the two of you wide-eyed, staring at each other. You couldn’t be sure, the stage on the opposite side of the bar, but how his body seemed to freeze, you think he might know you, too.
You poke at your phone that laid dark on the table-top. They were supposed to go on any second now. Your leg starts bouncing, lips sucking on your straw, guzzling down liquid. Impatient, nervous. You scan the bar, muscleheads, girls half-dressed, people dressed in all black, silver sparkling on their wrists and necks.
You spot Mingi at the bar, and for a second you feel relief seeing a familiar face. His eyebrows are tied together, mouth moving, hands splaying with every word like he’s mad. Then you spot Aven beside him, chin jutted upward, shoulders back like she could will herself into being taller than him. Your brow pops in curiosity.
Eyes sliding to the corner, you spot Karina, Giselle, standing with another girl that looks semi-familiar. Then you notice cigarette-guy at her back, arms wrapped around her, and you cringe as you remember the smell of tobacco. Says a lot about your two teammates, if that’s the company they keep.
It feels like fucking forever until the music shuts off, the lights go dim, and the stagelights burn warmth. Jay walks out first, you think the brunette is Jisung, the small blonde boy Jongseob. Yeosang’s last, and your glass nearly falls from your fingers.
He’s in leather. Black, on his legs, hugging each and every muscle in his thighs. On his bicep, a band, leather and tight, it squeezes him ever so slightly, his bicep bulging out above and below it. On his left hand, a loop around his pointer finger, covering the stretch of skin on the outside of his palm.
The tank on his upper half is cotton, you think, low-cut, showing off his pectorals, the hint of purple from the hickey you’d left days ago still bruising his skin. His hair is messy, freshly dyed, bright and neon and attention-stealing. His smile is wide and sure, his grip on his bass firm, you’ve never seen him look so confident. So assured.
His eyes scan the crowd, the people who flocked to the stage. Jay’s speaking, you can’t hear him, it was as if there was a tunnel between yourself and Yeosang, the two of you on opposite sides, all you could see was him, all you could hear was him.
And like he really was on the opposite end, his eyes landed on you. They stay there, widening ever so slightly in surprise, maybe happiness? You hope it’s happiness. You can feel your heartbeat pick up, heat on your cheeks like you were the one beneath the spotlight, you wondered if you made a mistake in coming here.
Jay strikes a chord, and Yeosang’s muscles flex as his fingers find the strings of his bass. For too long, his eyes stay on you, like he couldn’t believe that you were really there, as if he’d made it up. You throw him a little wave, a small smile, and he beams.
The first song was original, you recognized it, something punk, loud and rhythmic. Your head nods, your foot bouncing against the bar on the chair in tune with Jongseob beating on the drums. Halfway into it you know they’re talented, better than good, and you curse yourself for never asking Yeosang to play for you. For never caring about this side of him, never showing interest, never wanting to know.
It’s not until the third song that your cloud of self-loathing dissipates, because you recognize it. Last week, he sat on his couch, bass in his lap while you played it from your phone. Just days ago, you performed with this song as the fucking track.
You stand from the chair, his eyes find yours. Smirking, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. Then you’re fighting through the crowd, kitten heels stepping in puddles of liquid, arms pushing people out of your way like they were nothing but obstacles. You were sure people cursed at you, yelled at you, you didn’t hear them, not when you were feet away from the man you love and he was playing a fucking song for you.
Bodies jumped at the front, arms swinging, people singing along. You stood there, eyes wide, trying to catch your breath, hand over your pounding heart in your chest. He’s beautiful. Sweat kisses his skin, his pink-splotched chest, hair already wet and sticking to his face. You’ve never seen him look this way before, confident, more than confident, arrogant, even– fingers plucking at the strings like he could play it with his eyes closed.
You love him. You love him.
Overcome with emotion, adrenaline pounding through you like Jongseob’s sticks hitting the drums, you let go. Jumping, singing along, your arm swings over your head, the sound of your heels hitting the floor completely drowned out. You keep your eyes on him, completely and utterly ecstatic, and Yeosang smiles back, refusing to take his stare away from you like he didn’t want to look away, either.
You love him, you love him, you fucking love him.
You loved the structure of your relationship before he quit football. You loved him in uniform, in cleats, a football in his hand– but was this that much different? Was this not better, doused in black and leather, his fingers creating instead of catching? Did the rush you felt when you kissed him on the field even compare to the rumbling in your chest right now? Why the fuck did it take you so long to give it a goddamn chance?
For the rest of his show, you stayed up front, and to your surprise and his, you knew some of the songs. Old music your dad used to play when you were growing up, but that kind of nostalgia sticks with you, glued to your spine. Much like your eyes stayed glued to him, swaying back and forth, jumping out of your skirt when Jay and Jisung started shredding. What the hell have you been so afraid of?
After they bow and leave the stage, you’re moving with them, pushing through bodies to the left of you to try and get yourself where Jay had poked his head out earlier. You weren’t thinking, you didn’t even consider if you were allowed backstage as you pushed yourself forward, forward, forward.
You needed to see him, needed to touch him, you needed him. You needed to tell him you fucking love him, that you’re proud of him, that nothing makes you happier than seeing him happy.
He meets you at the curtain. Dark eyes dilated, body doused in sweat, clothes sticking to him, you didn’t care. He pulls you behind it and you don’t say a word before you throw your arms around his neck and crash your lips onto his.
He holds you steady, one foot stepping backward to keep you both upright, he’s laughing into the kiss, giggling like he still didn’t quite believe you were here. Pulling away, your hands fly to his hair, “I’m so proud of you.”
“You came,” he says, voice breathy, he still hadn’t caught it. “You’re here.”
“You’re insane.” You laugh, pushing the stray hairs off his face, your feet not even touching the ground. “You’re fucking insane, Yeosang, I didn’t know– I didn’t know you were so good.”
“Damn, what about us?”
Your smile drops, eyes blowing wide as you lift your head up. Jisung stands with a brow popped, Jay’s face flat, Jongseob’s face blown into full surprise, hands half-gripping his drumsticks like even he couldn’t believe you were here. It was a sorry excuse for a backstage, or a green room, you weren’t sure. You were at a dinky dive bar.
Yeosang slowly lowers you back down to the ground as you swallow, “Sorry. Hi guys.”
Jay’s lips stay flat, he waves, just a movement of his fingers. Jongseob blinks. Jisung grins, “Hiii.”
“That was incredible,” you force a smile, it’s nervous. “You’re all so talented.”
“We put him back together,” Jay says, tone flat. Yeosang jumps, trying to interject, but Jay cuts him off, “We were there when you destroyed him. Do you even know what he went through?”
You swallow, cheeks flaming. You shake your head.
“Jay,” Yeosang warns, his voice tight. You’ve never heard it before, but you barely notice, you can’t when Jay’s eyes thin further.
“Don’t force us to do that shit again,” Jay barks. “It took too long, and we’re too busy.” You loose a breath at the amusement playing in his tone. “And we better see you at our show next week.”
Nodding, you immediately agree, “I won’t, I’ll be there. I promise.”
Jisung’s hands find Jay’s shoulders, nudging him forward, “Come on, father Jay, Jesus Christ. Let’s give them some space.”
Jongseob follows the pair, eyes still wide and sparkling, head never once turning away from you as all three of them walk through the curtain. You release the rest of the breath you didn’t know you were holding as you turn back to Yeosang, “Did he mean that?”
Yeosang starts to shake his head, mumbling reassurance, hands searching for your waist, but you stop him. “Sangie,” you urge him, “did he mean what he said? Did I hurt you?”
“Can I say something without freaking you out?” Yeosang asks, and your hands find his shoulders as you nod. “I was, like, balls-deep in love with you. When you ghosted me, I went off the deep end a little.”
Your bottom lip curves, pain slicing through you. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“That’s in the past,” he shakes his head. “Long time ago.”
“Not long enough,” you whisper. “I’ll regret hurting you forever, Yeosang. I’ll never do that to you again.”
His eyes dance across your features, reading in-between the lines. He doesn’t respond.
“Do you still love me?” you ask, and fear curls in your gut.
His lips perk upward, “You know I do.”
A smile dares to swallow your face. “Is it okay that I love you, too?”
He answers with his lips on yours, both of his hands on your back, kissing you so hard it dips your body backward. You squeal into his mouth, arms flying around his neck, holding him tight as he lifts your feet off the ground.
“You showed up for me,” he says into your mouth, before kissing you again. “You cheered for me. That’s all I could have ever wanted, ever asked for.”
“Start thinking of new gifts,” you say as you land back on your feet. “There’s a lot I need to make up for.”
He presses his forehead to yours, fingers squeezing at your hips. “The fact that you love me is enough.”
You cup his cheeks in your hands, heels lifting off the floor to press another kiss to his lips. “You make me a better person, Yeosang. You let me be me. I want to be that person for you, too.”
“You are–”
“No, I’m not,” you shake your head, your smile weak. “But I will be, if you let me.”
He kisses you again, and it’s answer enough. He pushes you backward by your hips, five steps before your back gently hits a wall, arms closing around his neck. You throw one of your legs over his, pushing your tongue into his mouth, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Say it again,” he says into your mouth, pushing his hips into yours.
“I love you.”
He moans, quiet, but telling. “Again.”
You roll your hips against him, “I love you, Yeosang.”
His palm finds your thigh, gripping tight as his other hand tilts your jaw upward, kissing you deeper, harder. Your hands search his abdomen, his chest, sliding up to cup his cheeks, using the smallest bit of force to pry his lips off yours.
“You’re not fucking me here,” you breathe out, taking in his dilated pupils, his red cheeks. “This place is disgusting.”
He snorts, head dipping forward, “You’re gonna have to get over that, what if I go on tour one day and wanna have a quickie backstage?”
A full-body shiver racks through you, and it only makes him laugh harder. He kisses you once more, then peels himself off you. “I love you, too, even the high-maintenance.”
“You don’t even know half of it,” you bring your leg back into yourself, both feet finding the floor, fixing your skirt. “How high-maintenance I actually am.”
“I assume I’ll be learning.”
“Yes, you will.”
you are an HONEST PERSON with a warm heart do NOT steal my shit
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⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART TWO [FINAL] 14.2k
⪼ this is the second half of my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! genuinely so happy and grateful to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, i've met so many wonderful mooties & friends through this whole process, and im so glad to be beside them in such a banger ass collab!!! be sure to check out everyone else's bangers fr
⪼ smut minors dni 18+ | p in v, fingering, dirty talk, you and mingi are both sluts, wooyoung lore, LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. if you made it this far thank you so, so much for reading, sorry i had to split it lol, this fic is genuinely my baby and everything i could ever want in my life. i hope you enjoy xoxo
When was the last time you cried? Like seriously, actually bent over and cried real tears into your palms? When was the last time it was at the hands of a man? Did you even have something to cry over?
It was too confusing, you didn’t have the energy to pick it apart while heaved sobs rip from your throat. Was this a release? Too much emotion built up inside, with nowhere to go? The tears began after picking an argument with a still-drunk Yeosang in the car, pointless, yet you still left him to fend for himself while you ran up the steps to your apartment, still fighting to keep the sobs inside.
Alone in your living room, sitting hunched over on the couch, face in your palms, you cried.
And cried, and cried, and cried.
Your phone lights up, sitting face-up on the coffee table, multiple notifications from the square, pink icon that’s been draining your battery all fucking day. You can only imagine what they say, what vile fucking things are waiting for you, all from real accounts, real people who hate you because of Song Mingi.
Maybe it’s masochism, or maybe you need to keep the release flowing, a devil on your shoulder tells you to unlock your phone and read. You make it through three before your shoulders shake all over again, your phone falling to the floor, you have half a mind to smash the screen so you can’t look even if you wanted to. Curling up onto the couch, you let yourself cry, you sink into the feeling, into the emotion; if you let your brain wander enough, you can still feel his covered palm on your skin, his lips on yours, you can still see his eyes, how he looked at you. So fond, affectionate, so fucking different from any man who has ever looked at you, ever.
There’s a knock at your door, rendering you quiet, sniffing up snot that dared to fall.
“Hello?” You call out, sounding so unlike yourself you cringe.
Three presses of someone’s knuckles at your door again, you whimper as you push yourself up off the couch to open it. Hand on the knob, you close your eyes, sucking in a deep, grounding breath. You hope you don’t look insane.
Just as another knock sounds, you open it. Standing with his fist out, he wears a blank face, one that warps into confusion then concern as he looks you up and down. “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck are you doing here, Wooyoung?”
“I came to get my hoodie,” he shakes his head like that was beside the point. “What’s wrong? Are you crying?”
“Have you gotten your eyes checked recently?” You sniff again, wiping at your nose with your bare wrist. It’s clear you’ve been crying, are crying, sounding nasally on top of your appearance, you can’t be bothered to care. “What do you want, for real? I know you’re not here for your fuckass hoodie.”
“I broke up with Winter,” he admits easily, too fucking easily.
There’s no feeling in your gut, no excitement, no disappointment, there’s nothing. Your face reflects it, shoulders shrugging, free arm flying to say okay? You feed him an irritated laugh, “Congratulations?”
“I broke up with her because I miss you,” he tries again, “she isn’t you.”
His hair is messy, undone. Clothes dark, hanging off him, like he rolled out of bed to come here. You study his face, his mismatched eyes, the dot of espresso that sits on the apple of his cheek. There’s nothing unclear about the way he’s looking at you– there’s the hinge in his jaw, his dilated pupils, his slouched shoulders, deflated. Like he didn’t want to admit it, but here he is.
“No shit,” you sniff again. “What was the plan? You come here, confess your bullshit to me, I take you back, and we live happily ever after?”
“I’m not going to give you a bullshit speech,” his gaze averts to the floor, “I know you have a boyfriend. I just wanted you to know, I needed to get it off my chest.”
You laugh again, and it’s accompanied by disbelief and shock, but what rings truest is understanding. You lean into your door, still wide open, “You don’t have to lie. She found out, didn’t she?”
He glances up, “You’re the only one who gets it.”
“I’m the only one who put up with it,” you correct him, “those days are over.”
“Why are you crying?” He asks, straightening again. “What happened?”
“Nothing you give a fuck about.”
He takes a step forward, hands reaching out, but he doesn’t touch you. “I care about everything that involves you. What happened?”
You hold his stare, your jaw locking. Familiarity, routine. Pattern.
“If I asked you,” your voice comes out shaky, you clear your throat, “to fuck me, would you do it?”
“You have a boyfriend–”
“Would you fucking do it?”
His hand wraps around your jaw, searing your skin, lips smashing onto yours like he was fucking waiting for it. It’s blinding, dizzying how he pushes you backward, kicking the door shut behind him, lips rough and tongue taking, your mind shuts off in a second’s time. Muscle memory kicks in, Mingi’s jersey on the floor, mini skirt hiked up to your waist, panties pushed to the side, this is it. This is everything.
This is all you’ll ever get, and you’ve made peace with it.
“Are you coming tomorrow?”
Inside, at the very edge of the tunnel, tucked off to the side to avoid lingering eyes, Mingi’s vibrating with excitement, he can’t believe Winter is here and wearing his fucking jersey. He was already excited because they won their game; even if he knew they’d win and it was no surprise to him, Mingi played such a perfect game he was high off adrenaline, off arrogance, like absolutely nothing could go wrong.
“Of course,” her back is against the wall, her head tucked right under Mingi’s outstretched arm. She wears a cute, dainty smile, almost innocent, it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. He has to fight his instinct to not tell her about the life he’s imagined for them. “I broke up with Wooyoung, by the way.”
This might be the best day of his fucking life.
“I’m… sorry?” He eases a smile, one that turns into a full-fledged grin when he sees how Winter smiles back.
She giggles, “Don’t be sorry. That night at the bar, she was right.” Winter bites her lip and Mingi wishes he could bite it for her. “Will she be there?” She asks, “Your girlfriend?”
“Huh?” Mingi’s brows furrow, then he remembers the bar, and then a picture of you in his passenger seat rushes through his mind. “Oh. I don’t know, I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“I saw her in your jersey,” she tilts her head to the side, a manicured nail between her teeth, “unfair, she gets the real one, and I’m stuck wearing this.”
“Not for long,” it rushes out of his mouth before he can think about it. He chuckles, nervously, “I mean, like, things aren’t really that great between us right now.”
“Oh, really?” Her brows lift in soft surprise, “She seemed kinda… mad, when she saw me in this. I told her I’m a huge fan, but she didn’t seem to like that answer. Does she get jealous often?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, head cocking to the side. Jealous? Mad?
“What do you mean?”
She giggles, a hand covering her mouth, “I don’t want to paint her in a bad light, or make you guys argue or something.”
“We won’t,” he pulls his arm back to his side, sounding assured, “tell me.”
“She asked me why I was wearing your jersey,” she looks down at her shoes, then back up to him, “she looked really mad, Mingi, like she was seconds away from ripping it off of me or something. I was kinda scared.”
“Huh,” he looks away, he isn’t sure where. You were already acting off when you came down to the field, he could feel it, he could see it on you. How you forced a smile on your face, faked laughter, looked like Lucifer had come to pull you back down to Hell before he kissed you.
For some reason in his stupid fucking mind, he thought kissing you would make it better. That you’d laugh, call him an asshole, brush it off like it was nothing– selfishly, he wanted it to make it better, he wanted to be the reason why. He wanted to see your smile, the real one, not that fake shit you were putting on so no one would shoot you a second glance.
You looked like he hurt you instead. He supposes it’s time to break up anyways, if the conversation he’s currently having is any indication, there’s no real reason for you to be together anymore if everything had already worked out. But fear lingered, in the way you looked at him, in how you jumped away from him like he burnt you, it stuck heavy in his mind, scared that you wouldn’t be friends after this. He’s afraid you’ll never speak again. He’s terrified you’re the first real friend he’s ever made.
“I’m okay, though,” she brushes a hand on his chest and he doesn’t like how it feels. “She left me alone after that, that’s why I waited until she left to come see you.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” he’s speaking, not thinking. “And no, she doesn’t do that often, I don’t think she’s feeling well today.”
Should he not have kissed you? Did that make everything worse? Did he cross a line, for real?
“I hope she feels better,” Winter smiles, showing off the pearly white teeth hidden behind her glossy lips, “are you doing anything tonight?”
“Yeah, I– um,” he looks around again, moving backward so her hand falls from his chest. Are you mad at him? Should he apologize? “The team is going out to celebrate tonight, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, you deserve the celebration for how well you played. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay,” it’s mindless, absent.
He walks back to the locker room with furrowed brows and tunnel vision. Opening his locker, pulling out his phone, he doesn’t even take his jersey off before texting you.
mingi: were having a party tomorrow at the house to celebrate
mingi: if u wanted to come
mingi: and im sorry for kissing u
mingi: idk if i shoulda done that
mingi: im sorry
mingi: if u want we can break up tomorrow at the party
mingi: a lot of people will be there
You stare at the pictures Yeosang sent you. Minutes go by, maybe an hour, you aren’t sure, but you’ve zoomed in on every inch of each picture, and the looming cloud of dread won’t dissipate for shit. You weren’t imagining how he looked at you, how he held you, it was eternalized in pixels on your screen.
The more you stared, the more you hated it.
“What’s that?”
You lock your phone, throwing it on the nightstand beside you. “Can you get the fuck out already?”
He smacks his teeth, “We haven’t had a sleepover in so long, why so mean?”
“I don’t like you,” you finally turn your head to see him. Eyes low with sleep, dark hair frizzy and sticking out in every which way, shirtless, littered with marks you’ve never been allowed to give him before. “I don’t want you here.”
“Then why’d you let me stay?”
“Because you did me a favor,” you run your hands over your face, rubbing at your swollen eyes, “but I have to prepare to break up with my boyfriend tonight, so unless you’re helping me come up with a plan, go.”
“Just tell him you cheated,” he shrugs, and when you look at him he’s wearing the nastiest of smirks. “Worked for me.”
“You didn’t even tell me, you fucking asshole,” reaching over, you smack him dead in his chest. “Get out of my apartment.”
He laughs, slowly sitting up, giving you a pretty view of his spine, the tattoo that sits at the top, the muscles in his shoulders. You hum, head tilting as you stare, he really is pretty. You missed the sight. He turns his head halfway, “Have a smoke with me before I go.”
You keep your eyes glued to him for a moment, his eyes peeking over his shoulder, he’s still shamelessly naked in your bed. So many things, Jung Wooyoung is, but most of all a complexity you don’t think you’ll ever fully understand.
You sigh, soft, pleasant, almost. “Okay.”
On the balcony, you’re in Mingi’s jersey you picked up from your living room floor, the first thing you saw when you realized you needed something on your body to go outside. He’s across from you, boxers on his hips, shirtless, comfortable. Always comfortable with you.
He turns around to face you while your lips wrap around his cigarette, a Marlboro Red, he takes a second to watch you. His eyes don’t follow the smoke as it leaves your lips, they stay on you, analyzing, thinking.
“What’s up with you?” He finally asks. “Don’t bullshit me.”
Face going unchanged, you respond, “I think I like him for real.”
He stares a second before breaking out in laughter. Hand clutching his stomach, his brows furrow, “So you slept with me because you like your boyfriend?”
“I slept with you because you’re the opposite of him,” you reach out your arm, two fingers sliding the tobacco into his, “he freaked me out. He kissed— kisses me like he cares about me.”
“I don’t kiss you like I care about you?”
“You kiss me like you’re saving the nice shit for her,” you huff, craning your neck, stretching your aching muscles. You really went too long without getting laid.
Wooyoung’s brows wiggle, shoulders shrugging as he brings the cigarette up to his lips like he couldn’t argue with you even if he tried. “You don’t make sense.”
You sigh, turning to face the balcony, the neighborhood below. So quiet, it was busier closer to campus; here, it was nothing but peace. Warm, not quite humid yet, a clarity in the air you haven’t felt in so long, you let the sunshine beat on your skin, the kelly-green polyester covering it.
“You don’t need to understand,” you reach out your fingers, he places the cigarette between them. “Being with him is too much exposure, too many eyes on me. You should see my Instagram DMs.”
“Bad?”
“Worse than bad.” Tilting your head, blowing smoke from your lips, you ask, “Wanna come with me tonight?”
“To watch you break his heart?”
“Something like that.”
“I’m game,” he takes a step toward you, leaning over the balcony, shoulder touching yours. “Did you know Winter has a thing for him?”
“Yes,” you laugh a little, “you’re late to figuring that one out.”
He stayed until the cigarette burnt down to the filter, shoving it in the ashtray you bought and kept on the small table in the corner, solely for him. You stayed on the balcony for what felt like forever after he showed himself out— sitting with yourself and your thoughts, flooded with Mingi, the inevitable end a part of you had begun to think might not actually come.
FIFTH OUTING: THE BREAK UP, FOOTBALL HOUSE. 10:21 PM
Mingi has always been grateful for his height. It’s helped him tremendously, helping his mother much smaller than him, in football, with women. He remembers being a kid and being giddy about holding the caboose of his class’s line because he was the biggest.
He thinks he’s never been more grateful than he is right now, facing Seungmin, looking over his brown head of hair clearly, effortlessly— you, in his living room, dancing like you didn’t give a fuck. Hair let loose behind you, your top clinging to your body like it was painted on, jeans hugging your swaying hips in a way that made him jealous of black denim.
You greeted him like you weren’t here to break up with him, a soft hey rolling off your tongue, cheeks already flushed with liquor, shoulders already slouched. Mingi put his beer down on a table littered with empty bottles and hasn't once thought about picking it back up.
You told him he looked good, apologized for his jersey smelling like cigarettes, which made him quirk a brow in confusion, but he forgave you in the same breath with a little laugh as you stumbled over your feet.
Drunk. Cute.
You didn’t mention the kiss, didn’t mention breaking up, you didn’t mention anything that happened in the last twenty-four hours. Mingi wasn’t going to remind you, not when you’re blissfully boneless, a smile permanently etched onto your cheeks, there wasn’t a line in your face to be seen. No worries, no stress, no anger, unaware like it was purposeful. You seemed like you needed it.
“Hello? Mingi?”
He blinks into focus, eyes back on Seungmin before him who wore furrowed brows and tilted jaw, staring at him expectantly.
“Sorry,” he laughs a little, jutting his chin in the direction of you, making Seungmin turn his head. “Look at her.”
“You’re sick,” Seungmin looks only for a second before turning back to Mingi whose eyes are glazed over, the younger man’s face rendered flat. “Obsessed.”
Mingi giggles like he’s proud of it. No denial, no rebuttal, he thinks he might be, just a little, maybe infatuated was the better word. Especially since you’re not mad at him. The nerves he’s felt from last night leading up to when you walked through the door of the football house were full-bodied, eating at every vein below his skin, every organ felt like it wasn’t working right.
You answered his texts, which should have eased him at least a fraction.
princess: i kissed you back did i not
princess: moron
princess: ill be there
princess: and im breaking up with you btw
He couldn’t figure out a response, mostly because a huge part of him wanted to stall breaking up, but he couldn’t figure out why. Or he wouldn’t let himself, he should say, because the answer was staring at him in the fucking face: he likes you. He knows he does, Yeosang’s show confirmed it, forced it to the front of his mind, a life-altering observation— he’s so fucked.
This is an arrangement. An even exchange, he gets Winter, you get whatever the fuck your plan with Wooyoung is. It dawns on him that he’s never even asked, there are so many things he wants to ask, so many things he wants to say, he doesn’t have enough time to say them. You made it clear yesterday that you wanted to break up.
“Go get her,” Seungmin huffs, “I know you want to.”
“I don’t dance,” Mingi looks at Seungmin like he’s crazy.
“Why else did you ask Woozi to DJ then?”
“Fair.”
Seungmin turns on his heel, toward the kitchen, maybe. Mingi takes one step before he stops in his tracks, eyes blowing wide, body running ice-cold.
Like a shadow, he was at your back, hands on your hips, smiling like he was supposed to be there. Like you were allowing it. You clearly were, head tilted backward, smile wide as a laugh he couldn’t hear rolled off your lips. God, Mingi can’t even say his name— he’s a roach, a fucking rat that’s lingering around Mingi, waiting for the opportunity to give him diseases or something.
He finds his feet moving, not aware of himself body slamming people who were minding their own damn business, certainly not aware of the anger that hung in the hinge of his jaw, in his clenched fists. He pulls you by the wrist, your name on his tongue, you barely notice. Hazy eyes finally landing on him, your smile widens, sparkles in your eyes shining brighter, your fingers tighten in the fabric hanging off his shoulders. “Mingi!”
He eyes Wooyoung over your head, face flat, unimpressed, pissed off. Wooyoung’s smirk is cynical, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, what’s happening. Mingi feels left out and he doesn’t fucking like it.
“Where have you been?” You’re whining, head tilted to the side, lips pouty even if your body sinks into him more than it ever has before. You’re drunk.
Mingi eyes dance over to Riyo and Jia, two of your friends, he thinks those are their names. One red-haired and wide-eyed, body rigid with fear as she meets Mingi’s gaze, the other dark-haired and panicked like she was already searching for a distraction, a way to get you out of this situation.
Wooyoung speaks up before Mingi can get a word out, “Did you two break up yet?”
Yet. His jaw clenches. Riyo and Jia turn confused.
“We’re not breaking up,” Mingi responds, “fuck are you talking about?”
“I need another drink,” you turn around, back leaning into his chest, laying your whole weight on him as your arms reach down to his thighs, palms splayed flat over denim for purchase. “Can we go find cutie Kai? He’ll get me one.”
He can’t even focus on your hands on him, how mindless you are, he’s so fucking irritated. He ignores you, asking Wooyoung again, “The fuck are you talking about?”
Wooyoung’s brows raise, smirk growing like he was about to drop a bomb. “Interesting, that’s what she told me this morning,” he takes a step closer to you, “right, baby?”
“Huh?” You ask, body swaying, Mingi uses two hands on your waist to keep you steady.
“You’re breaking up with Mingi,” Wooyoung repeats, “that’s why we had sex last night. Right?”
Sorry if your jersey smells like cigarettes.
He pushes you forward like you fucking burned him, just enough for you to fall into Wooyoung’s chest instead. Jia and Riyo are side-by-side, watching everything unfold like it was a train wreck they couldn’t look away from.
“Wait,” hands braced on Wooyoung’s chest, you turn around, eyes wide and lips trembling. “Hold on a second.”
Wooyoung pulls you into him, arms slithering around your torso like he knows every inch of your body. It makes Mingi sick, or it would if he could feel anything, his body’s numb like it didn’t belong to him anymore.
“You fucked him?” His voice is pitched like he didn’t believe it. “He cheated on you,” Mingi feels like the three of you are alone, like this isn’t a party full of one hundred something people. “Twice.”
“I know—”
“Then what, you don’t give a fuck?” His voice is raised, he doesn’t care. “What the fuck was the point then, huh? What the fuck was the point if you were just gonna go back to him?”
Wooyoung cocks his head, “The point of what?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Mingi blurts, “I’m not talking to you.”
“Mingi,” your jaw drops, “I don’t—”
“You couldn’t wait?” Mingi asks, “Couldn’t at least have the decency to break up with me first before running right back to him?”
“I’m sorry!”
The apology off your lips makes him stand straighter. It’s pleading, like you’re just asking him to be quiet, to stop, but it seems to screw his head back on his body, his consciousness forcing itself back into his six-foot build with vengeance.
You call after him as he turns around, walking away as quick as he can, fingers tapping at his sides just to remind himself he has them. This can’t be real, he’s gotta be dreaming, there’s no way in hell that just happened to him.
Is he just gonna leave you with Wooyoung? Drunk as you are? Is that why you’re so fucking hammered in the first place? You seemed so comfortable in his hold, Mingi wonders if that was you or the alcohol, he could see it in your eyes, the fear of being caught. The confusion, like you didn't understand why Mingi was so angry.
You probably didn’t. You probably thought he wouldn’t find out, because why would he? You were supposed to break up tonight, be done with each other. A chapter closed. Mingi feels like turning on his heel and pulling you away from him, just to ask you every fucking question he’ll never have the chance to.
He feels like apologizing.
He feels like confessing.
But he’s so fucking pissed he bullies into the kitchen instead, eyes on alert, searching for something he can’t place, anything that will rid him of this dirty fucking feeling.
It’s full circle, he thinks, as his eyes land on Winter. Sitting on the counter, two guys in front of her, clearly chatting her up.
Nah.
Forcing a smile when he gets close enough, his voice carries a warning to the two unnamed, no-faced men. “Hey, beautiful.” They scatter.
“Should you be calling me that?” She teases, hands gripping the edge of the counter, leaned forward, feet kicking where they hung. Hair pulled up, tiny top, little shorts, she looked bare-faced, natural. Pretty. Good enough.
“I can’t be honest?” A cocky smirk, a character he hates playing. Approaching her pinned knees, they open, letting him step between them, he takes the silent offer.
“You can be honest,” she nods, batting her lashes. “But I would rather you be mine.”
He has to force the twinge of disgust out of the back of his throat, tasting like coke-drip and disappointment. He didn't feel this way talking to her last night, Mingi blinks at her before a slow chuckle rolls off his lips. “Smooth.”
“Vodka makes me bold,” she shrugs, winking. “Problem?”
This could work. He could make this work. He has to make this work, actually. “I’m supposed to be the bold one,” he hums, palms landing on her bare knees, so soft beneath his burning skin. Her eyes drop to where their skin meets, but she makes no move to stop him.
“I didn’t think you were available enough to be,” her eyes flicker upward, “do you have good news for me?”
He nods, “You won’t believe it, actually.”
Her brows furrow, smile faltering a little. “What?”
“Don’t worry about it, nevermind,” Mingi shakes his head, “we don’t have to talk about her, we can talk about us now, finally.”
They talked. And talked, and talked and fucking talked, Mingi heard every other word, something about her classes and school-air fucking up her makeup. Something about Wooyoung, he thinks, he tuned out after he heard that godforsaken name. Mingi didn’t really care, he wanted to kiss her, to fuck her, he hoped you’d find out and feel as shitty as he did right now.
The tips of Winter’s sandals toyed with his pants, his hands planted on the counter, on either side of her thighs. He was so close to scoring he could taste it, this was the right outcome, the whole purpose. This is what he should have been focused on the entire time.
“Bro,” Jaemin snaps him into focus, a pest at his side, a hand on his shoulder. “Your girlfriend’s on a table.”
“Not my girlfriend,” Mingi shoves his hand off, but then the words sink in. He cranes his neck, “A table?”
“She’s dancing on a fucking table,” Jaemin confirms, laughing like it’s funny. Like you aren’t piss-drunk and surrounded by people who don’t care about you.
Mingi doesn’t even look at Winter again before he’s moving. Rushing past bodies, physically moving them out of his way as he follows the sound of cheering into the dining room, he can see you over everyone’s heads. No, this is full-circle, he thinks for just a moment at the entryway, here you are, in his dining room where the plotting truly began, where Mingi first lost his mind over the girl he could give two fucks about right now.
Dancing, swaying your hips to whatever song is playing, something pop with heavy bass from the early two-thousands, it’s deaf on his ears. Arms above your head, smile absent, eyes absent, you aren’t even in your fucking body and everyone surrounding you is cheering you on. Mingi’s sick and he can feel every tapered edge of it.
Bodies are glued together, phones out, he smacks two out of the air as he forces his way past. He spots Jongho and Yeosang, the only two trying to get you down, arms reaching out in caution, faces stressed beyond what they should be at a party.
Mingi meets the edge of the table and he catches Wooyoung out of the corner of his eye, standing up against the wall, watching, smirking. Like he was loving every second of this. Like you wouldn’t want to rip your fucking hair out when you wake up tomorrow. Somehow it pisses him off worse that he’s watching you like this was reality TV, as if you’re not a real person, someone he slept with last night. He shivers. Rage runs deep.
“Mingi!” Jongho yells across the table, “Thank god you’re here, please get her down.”
Bare feet— where the fuck did your shoes go? Hair stuck to you, shirt splotched with wetness, probably liquor, maybe worse. There’s bottles on the table, grinders open and full of weed, puddles of water, beer, solo cups from a game of pong. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, panic, like he was responsible for you, for this.
“Get down,” his voice stands out amongst the music, the cheers. Louder, heavy with direction, order. Like he’s on the field.
Your head spins in every direction like you weren’t sure where the sound came from. Even now, irritated and shocked beyond belief, he softens at the sight of you. “Please, baby, get down,” his voice is layered with worry as you finally meet his gaze, eyes glossed over, smile lazy and gone. Holy shit.
“You’re mad at me,” you drop down to your knees, pouting, fuck this table big enough to seat half the goddamn team, stopping him from pulling you away from each and every pair of eyes.
“No I’m not,” he shakes his head, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not mad at you, I just want you to come to me.”
On all fours, you start crawling across the fucking table, a lazy grin taking over like you didn’t have any eyes on you, so unaware that Mingi’s anxious. Head tilting, a split of consciousness entering your vision, you ask, “You want me?”
He swallows, nodding, a palm reaching out for you, “Yeah, I do.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a shadow of black leaving the room. He doesn’t look, keeping his eyes on you, each agonizing second of your arms and knees pushing you forward, not a semblance of haste to your movements.
You reach out your arm when he’s close enough to grab your hand and he pulls you the rest of the way, hearing the slick sound of black denim sliding against shiny oak, he isn’t fucking thinking as he bends at his knees and throws you over his shoulder. You yelp, body deadweight over his back before your legs bend up in front of him, bare feet covered in a layer of grime, wet and sprinkled with god knows what. He sighs.
“Put me down!” You yell, your tiny hands flat against his back, pushing yourself up.
He turns, one arm holding your legs down, hauling you out of that room faster than he’s ever sprinted down a field. He spots Kai across the living room, a head of blonde hair standing tall over the crowd, the only face easy to spot at his full height.
“Huening!” He shouts. Kai’s brows furrow when he sees him, bending into bewilderment when he sees you over his shoulder. “Get me my keys.”
“You drink?”
“Get me my keys, Kai.”
He feels you smacking his back, yelling something unintelligible as he hauls you through the living room, through the front door, the air outside no fucking relief to the sweat forming at the base of his spine. Down the lawn, to his car that’s parked at the edge of the street, he puts you down on the hood with a muddled grunt from the back of his throat.
You lay back as soon as your ass meets steel. Eyes closed, head turned to the side, your arms straight out on either side of you, you heave a breath and mumble, “I’m s’fucking drunk.”
Mingi didn’t realize he was out of breath until he leaned into the side of the car, elbows resting on the roof plate. He laughs, a small one, full of disbelief and utter shock. “No shit.”
“You called me baby again,” your eyes peek open to point at him with a weak, bent arm, “you were nervous.”
Mingi feels seen. He squints, “You were gonna fall off the table, I had to get you down, of course I was nervous.”
“You like me,” you sing, arm falling back down to the steel with a smack, dopey grin on your cheeks. “You like me for realsies.”
Mingi snorts, pulling his arms off the roof of his car to step to the side, palms landing on the hood to lean forward. Your hand sways through thick air before your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist, “I like you too, even though you’re kind of rude.”
He wills his heartbeat calm. “You think I’m rude?”
“You’re so rude,” the words slur together, his lips tighten at the sound. You open your eyes again, “Wanna fuck on the car?”
Mingi cracks a laugh, a belly laugh he couldn’t hold back, “What the fuck?”
You laugh with him, loud and obnoxious, the arch of your back lifting off the car, head turning to the opposite side before it snaps back to look at him. “Just a question,” you sing again, “jus’wonderin’.”
“Can I ask you a question?” He waits for your slurred mhm. “Did you really fuck Wooyoung?”
You suddenly frown, “Yeah, he caught me at a real vulnerable time. Do y’know what vulnerable means?”
He shakes his head, “Yes.”
“Means exposed. He caught me crying ‘cus you kissed me and you were nice and your Instagram army was calling me crazy shit.” Your eyes open all the way, “They’re wild on there, did you know that?”
“People are messaging you about me?”
You choke on a laugh, “So many people.”
“Let me see–”
You scoff, “Fuck no.”
“Song!”
He hears Kai shout from the tip of the lawn, Mingi turns and Kai throws his keys across the green, landing perfectly in Mingi’s palm like he aimed for it. “Thanks,” he yells back up, and Kai nods once before turning back inside.
“Can you get up on your own or am I putting you in the car?” He receives nothing but a groan in response, a turn of your head in the opposite direction. He sighs. “Come on, you can’t even sit up?”
You turn your head back to him, “Why’d you kiss me?”
“Because I wanted to,” he says it like it’s obvious.
“They’re gonna kill me for it,” you grumble, “they’re gonna kill me and it will be your fault.”
“No one’s killing you–”
“Did you like it?” You’re blinking at him, knees opening and closing like you needed to move to remind yourself you’re conscious, "Kissing me?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow when you’re so–”
“Tell me now.”
Mingi sighs, taking his eyes off you to look at the trees across from the football house. Tall, shadows filling space between them, calm. The music inside is muffled, bass still vibrating the ground beneath his feet. The confession sits heavy on his tongue. Fuck it.
“Yeah I did,” he says it in one breath before he looks down at you again. Your brows are upturned, a pout on your lips, watching him until you hear what he says, then you smile.
“Yay,” the word is light, cute. Then you look as if reality snapped back into you, “Damn, I probably shouldn’t have fucked him, huh?”
Mingi snorts as he walks around the front of his car, grabbing you by your wrists one after another, pulling you upward. “No,” he says, shaking his head, but his smile stays, “you shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, then bring your hand up to your forehead, groaning. “Fuck, ‘m dizzy.”
“I’m taking you home.” He scoops you off his hood, an arm curled under your knees and another holding your back until he’s got you next to the passenger door, letting your feet touch the grass beside the curb. Opening the door, one hand still on your waist, he says, “Get in.”
Your body is a mess of tucked angles as you quite literally fall into his passenger seat, Mingi has to fasten your seatbelt for you when he finally gets in the driver’s seat. You smell like liquor, cigarettes, sweat– he rolls the windows down and you stick your head out like a dog.
Twenty minutes to your apartment, no music, just Mingi and his thoughts. He thinks about her, his first girlfriend after he started becoming known, how the long-term relationship ended so soon after going public. Comments, DMs on every platform, it didn’t matter what revisions she made to her social media, the words still made it to her eyes, her ears. Nasty, disgusting, vile words and not one of them was true, Mingi hasn’t spoken to her since they broke up. She hates him, down to his core because of something he had no control over. It’s what put his wall up in the first place, made of brick, of steel, a wall so thick it didn’t let any emotion in, only desire.
He can’t imagine what’s sitting in your phone. Terror lives in his grip on the steering wheel, white-knuckled, bottom lip tight between his teeth, brows furrowed in thought, in remorse. He didn’t think you’d be affected by his status since your relationship was fake, an oversight, one he regrets already.
“You awake?” He parks just outside of your apartment, but your head doesn’t move off the window frame.
“No.”
He reaches over, unbuckling your seatbelt, “Come on, drunkie.”
You moan something belligerent, picking your head up slowly, the seatbelt going over your head, stuck around your arm. Mingi can’t help but laugh as he rolls the window up, turning off the car, he expects to have to haul your ass inside. You let him, deadweight in his hold, your bare feet crossing over one another with each step, all the way up to the second floor. Thank god your building has an elevator.
“Key?” He asks. You point to the mat on the floor, eyes half open. He flattens his lips. “Yeah, we’re gonna have to change that.”
You stand on your own long enough for him to get the door open, and he’s on alert this time, taking in his surroundings. The last time he was here he didn’t walk past the threshold, but now that he’s in, he can smell you everywhere. A large mirror next to the TV surrounded by plants, a tall lamp in the corner, a cozy couch set cream-colored. A coffee table filled with books, an unlit candle and his jersey thrown over it, your apartment screamed comfort, peaceful.
His eyes squint at the Lego sets under your TV. An open shelved media console, a polaroid camera, a record player with flowers, a starry night painting, all Legos, it’s all he could pick out until you start moaning and groaning again.
“Uh-uh,” he grabs you by the wrist when you start making for the couch, “your ass is taking a shower. Where is it?”
You gasp, staring down at your feet, wrist limp in his palm. Your toes wiggle as you ask, “Where are my shoes?” You look back up at him wide-eyed, “I had shoes on, didn’t I?”
“I’ll find them at the house tomorrow,” he pulls you closer by the wrist, “come on, drunkie. Shower time.”
“I don’t like that nickname,” your top lip lifts, “you have better ones. Why are you here?”
“To get you into bed,” he starts leading you toward the entryway to his right, a small walkway he can only pray holds a bathroom at the end. “You smell like a brewery.”
You smile, following behind him like this was his apartment and not yours. There’s movie posters, framed paintings, decor on your walls he stores for later as more questions come to mind. He notes how clean and sophisticated you decorated, minus the closet door left open with clothes strewn about like you tore it apart before going out tonight. The bathroom tucked in the back corner is worse, makeup scattered across the vanity, pairs of shorts and underwear littered the white tile, you didn’t seem to mind as you walked in right behind him.
“Do I have to?” You sit on the closed toilet, back bending over the tank, head hitting the wall with a thump.
He opens the shower curtain, turning it on, heating it up instead of answering. You giggle, more of a single sound of amusement, legs spread out in front of you, body molded to the shape of the toilet.
“Fine,” your grumble is somehow still amused, and Mingi swears it takes five whole minutes for you to stand up, toying with your skinny studded belt as your feet stumble over tile, fingers missing the prongs like you couldn’t get a grip.
He sighs again, sitting down on the toilet instead, “C’mere.”
Your hands find his shoulders for purchase, standing between his legs, body still swaying. He steadies you with two hands on your thighs and you lean into him, his touch, voice filled with pleased confusion, “You’re being nice to me.”
“I want to be nice to you,” he glances up at you, face flushed, eyes low, hair a mess. So vulnerable, a new word in his dictionary, to see you like this, for you to act this way in front of him. He wonders how much of it has to do with the messages in your phone.
“Nice is scary,” you whisper as he starts undoing your belt, pushing the prongs out of leather, your grip stays tight on his shoulders. “You scared me when you kissed me.”
“I didn’t want to scare you,” he pulls leather through the loops of denim, throwing it on the floor. “Button?”
You nod, body swaying again, he holds you upright with his fingers tucked in the hem of your jeans. “No one has ever kissed me like that before,” you’re still whispering like you’re telling him a secret. He looks up after getting your zipper down, seeing your glassy eyes, your dilated pupils. Pretty.
“I think that’s how you should be kissed,” the answer comes quickly, easily. Honest.
Your hands find the hem of your top, pulling it over your head, throwing it to the floor beside you. He fights to keep his eyes on yours. Your forearms sit on his shoulders this time, finding them like magnets as you flip your hair over your shoulder, out of your face. He swallows, breath catching in his throat, “You should get in the shower, don’t waste water.”
“You didn’t like me when you met me.” It’s not a question, but an observation. A memory.
He counters, “You didn’t like me either.”
“You were an asshole.”
“You’re sober enough to get in the shower–”
“What changed?” You ask, words sounding fragile, like you were scared of the answer.
“Everything,” he smiles halfway, leaning back an inch. The room feels hotter, steam taking up space, the sound of the shower hitting the tub a small hum, his ears ring with the quiet. “Most of all, me, I think.”
You’re looking at him differently, like you’re trying to figure something out. You reach up to his hair, pushing it out of his face, your touch featherlight, so delicate a shiver shoots through him like a firework. Your fingers glide over his temple, his cheek, you press your palm flat against his cheekbone, he leans some of his weight onto it, he lets you toy with him like he’s yours to do as you please. There’s a part of him that thinks he is, even if it’s fucked up, even if the two of you are still somewhere in purgatory.
“Pretty,” you mumble, a mindless word. “I can understand why they hate me.”
His bottom lip curls, “I’m so sorry–”
“No,” you shake your head. “Not your fault.”
His lungs twist hard enough to steal his breath. His hands find your hips, pulling you forward until his forehead meets the heat of your abdomen; so soft under him, fragile in his hold, you have no idea how long he’s waited to hear those words, no idea the weight they hold. No idea the guilt that lives glued to his spine.
Your hands find his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp, holding him against you like it’s where you wanted him, where he’s supposed to be. He thinks it’s where he’s supposed to be, too. He picks his head up only to place a kiss against your skin, a soft press of his lips over your stomach, it holds everything he can’t say to you right now. He hopes you can feel it.
Your knees buckle a little, fingers stalling in his hair, he hears the breath you suck in, feels how you bend into him. “I’m drunk, don’t make me horny, I’ll jump you.”
He snorts, your words pulling a laugh straight from his gut, he leans back to look up at you, your fingers still in his hair. You’re smiling, lazy and stupid, but then you break away from him, thumbs tucked into your jeans like you’re about to shove them down.
“Hold on, damn.” He stands on weak knees, quickly skipping out of the bathroom, he peeks his head back in just before closing the door. “Be careful. Shout if you need anything.”
“You’ll stay?” Your face is round with supplication.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hey.”
Your nose twitches.
“Wake up, it’s after twelve.”
Your top lip curls.
“Wake up, I’m getting bored.”
You peek an eye open as your whole face tightens up, hands finding your cheeks, rubbing your eyes awake. Your stomach hurts, your knees feel sore, you grumble out a curse as your body stretches itself into consciousness.
“She’s alive.”
You pause, peeking over your fingertips to Mingi sitting on the edge of your bed. Dark hair messy on his head, shirtless, a pair of your shorts painted onto his thighs. You’re too confused to laugh at the sight.
“What the fuck?” You ask, voice laced with sleep, face scrunched up beyond recognition. “The fuck are you doing here?”
“Come on,” he frowns, “you didn’t even throw up, there’s no way you blacked out. Think, smart girl.”
You blink at him, letting the memories come back one after another. Wooyoung, shots, shots, shots, table, car, bathroom, bed. Mingi’s head on your stomach. Mingi’s lips on your skin.
“Oh, shit.” You sit up on your elbows, eyes on your bedspread, still blinking crust out of your vision, “Oh, shit.”
Mingi huffs a noise of amusement through his nose, “Still confused?”
You shake your head, heart picking up speed in your chest. Your head feels heavy, stomach nauseous, limbs tingly with leftover alcohol in your blood. You look up at him, “Why are you still here?”
“You asked me to stay,” he shrugs, like that was the most normal thing in the world. Like he’s stayed over a thousand times before.
“So you stayed?” Your brows stay knitted together, confused, confused confused confused.
“So I stayed,” he nods, “how do you feel?”
“Like dog shit.”
“Sounds about right,” he’s smiling but he’s trying to hide it. It makes your lips twitch upward. “You remember dancing on my dining room table?”
Your eyes close, lips flat, brows raised. “Yup,” you nod, “unfortunately, I do.”
“Remember asking to fuck on my car?”
Your eyes shoot open, tone full of disbelief, “No.”
“You’re funny,” he chuckles, laying flat on his back at the edge of your bed. “You’re always funny, but you’re an especially funny drunk. It was cute when I wasn’t terrified you were gonna die.”
“The scaries are gonna haunt me for weeks,” you push yourself up, forehead meeting your palms. “Fuck.”
“I was hoping we could talk,” he sounds coy all of the sudden, nervous. Shy.
You nod, “Let me shower again, eat something, drink a bottle of water. I feel like a fucking zombie.”
After cursing yourself out under your breath upon entering your messy bathroom, half your shower was spent with your forehead pressed to the wall, somehow cooling down your body temperature while steaming water soaked away all your shame. You ran through the events last night over and over, a little fuzzy at the edges, but each and every damning moment was crystal clear. You dried yourself off, completed your routine all with the same thought in mind: What the hell does he want to talk about?
It’s not like he likes you for real. You’d never work– your past is too messy, your current state is too messy, actually. He needs someone with a clean record, a nice, pretty girl who dresses in dainty clothes, someone who says please and thank you– that’s his goddamn destiny, a girl like Winter. Reserved, bashful, composed, you wonder if she’s ever said a curse word out loud, she’s nothing like you. She’s someone the internet would love, his coaches would love, his family would probably love, not that you know anything about his family.
You’re getting ahead of yourself— you’re spiraling. The only outcome of this conversation is that tension ran high, he was kind enough to take care of you when you were drunk, you’d go back to normalcy in an hour. Maybe Wooyoung’s free later tonight, he’d make a snide comment about you dancing on the table, you’d laugh like it was intentional. Like there weren’t videos of you on people’s phones that’d haunt you at two in the morning for weeks to come.
“What’s all this?” You asked upon walking into the living room, Mingi stood beside your small kitchen table, rummaging through one of two plastic bags.
“I ordered food,” he says, pulling out containers from the bag. Setting them down on the table neatly, one on top of another, neat.
Your brows furrow, walking into the kitchen hesitantly, “Food?”
“I can’t cook,” he looks up at you with a half-smile, “no idea how. But you need to eat, I also got juice for you, and I found ibuprofen in your cabinet–”
“Mingi,” you shake your head, trying to gather your bearings, “what are you doing?”
He holds up a hand, flat palm facing you, features straight and unimpressed. “Don’t start with me, sit down and eat. We’ll talk after there’s food in your stomach.”
You must still be drunk. Limbs feeling heavy, you trudge into the wooden seat, the one with the broken bar that supports the legs. Breakfast food, so much breakfast food, your stomach hurts at the sight of oil and grease, but you need it, you need the juice, too– you sucked that down in record time.
Silence, other than the sound of chewing and plastic ruffling, it was comfortable. Maybe a little awkward, unless that was your nerves talking which was absolutely plausible, you still sat in fucking confusion. Feeding you, catering to you, taking care of you like he did last night– and he still only had on your shorts. Your powder blue waffle shorts that fit you loose but clung to his muscled, golden, tan-lined thighs like they’d rip at the seams if he moved the wrong way.
You hate that it’s nice having him here. You hate that you’re letting it happen.
Pills swallowed, enough food in your stomach to take an hour to digest, the awkwardness grew after cleaning up the table. Both aimlessly pacing the kitchen, pretending to still have something to do, avoiding the conversation that needs to happen. Might as well get it over with.
“Mingi–”
“Can I start?”
You sigh, pointing a finger in the direction of the living room. “Couch.”
Your stomach feels uneasy like you’d throw up every bite as you sit across from him, both taking edges of the couch like you’re scared to get close. You sit on a leg like it’d give you an easy escape if you needed it, despite it being your apartment.
“I’m sorry,” he starts, voice small. Your brows furrow, ready to ask what the hell he’s sorry for, but his lips part instead. “I’m so sorry you were sent messages about me, this has happened before, my ex-girlfriend broke up with me because of them, because people didn’t leave her alone about me.”
“Mingi, it’s not your fault–”
He looks up at you and his glassy eyes kill the words on your tongue. His voice is small, layered with struggle, “We were together for a year. When I posted her, us, she broke up with me within two weeks. We never spoke again.”
Your jaw drops, “Two weeks?”
He nods, “I don’t even think we made it to the fourteenth day, I can’t believe I didn’t think that would happen to you. I guess I thought because our relationship was fake it wouldn’t, but no one knows it was fake, I just didn’t think, again. I let it happen again. I’m sorry.”
Ah, and now everything makes sense. “You didn’t need to do all of this because you feel bad. I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself, I also know when things are out of your hands, and the messages are one-hundred-percent out of your hands.”
His brows furrow after a second, “I didn’t take care of you because of the messages, or because I feel bad. I took care of you because I care about you, I like you.”
“No,” you shake your head, “no you don’t. You might think you do, but you don’t.”
“Huh?” His eyes thin, top lip lifting, “Who are you to tell me what I feel?”
“I just know, I’ve seen your type, and it’s not me. Which is fine, I don’t–”
“You told me you liked me last night,” he argues.
Your lips flatten. “I was drunk.”
“Drunk words are sober thoughts.”
“What are you? Sixteen years old?” Your face twists, “I’m being realistic and logical, you’re acting on emotion.”
“Well I haven’t felt this much emotion since she broke up with me!” His hands fly up on either side of him, voice strained. “And I’ve missed it, I missed feeling this way. I want to keep feeling this way, about you.”
Your blinks are stuttered, slow. Your lips purse, he might have shocked you into silence. He runs a hand through his hair, face torn up into exasperation, he sighs, one deep and grounding. Looking at you again, he asks, “Do you really not want me? There’s not one bone in your body that wishes everything we’ve done the last few weeks was real?”
Your chest is tight. Your lips won’t move, your mind is blank.
“You don’t think you deserve it,” his voice switches to something calm, understanding. “Someone to like you, or care about you, I know. You’re used to guys like him, guys who use your feelings as ammunition. I won’t do that to you.”
You feel like stone. Stuck, still, eyes wide, unblinking. Fear simmers.
He shifts himself closer, eyes pleading. “I was sick when I found out you slept with Wooyoung, I’ve never acted like that before in my life, so jealous and angry, like he was taking you from me. I felt like you were mine, and he was trying to steal you–”
“I asked him to,” you finally speak, rushed and panicked. There’s nothing else left to argue with other than this. “I basically begged him.”
“You were upset,” Mingi shakes his head, “you told me. You said you were upset because of the messages and because I kissed you, you didn’t want to–”
“I needed to,” you try to swallow, throat squeezed tight, “I needed him to. He isn’t kind, he isn’t genuine, he doesn’t hold me like I’m breakable, he wouldn’t do all the shit you did for me last night. He isn’t you, and I needed the reminder. That’s what I deserve, not you.”
“Do you even know what you’ve done for me in the weeks we’ve known each other?” Mingi’s voice is pitched now, layered with raw emotion. “You’ve reminded me what freedom is like. That I can do whatever I want, I’m not a machine, or a puppet for someone else to use. You gave me back myself, is it so ridiculous that I don’t want to let you fucking go?”
“I’m scared,” you blurt it out, two words pulled from so deep in your psyche you can’t believe you said them out loud. “I’m scared to let myself feel anything towards you.”
“You already feel something towards me,” he argues, “a lot of something. You wouldn’t have slept with him if you didn’t.”
Stunned into silence again, your lips purse. He continues, “I’m not stupid. My vocabulary might not be as big as yours but I’m not stupid, I know you have feelings for me. You can’t hide that no matter how much you want to, how much you try to get it fucked out of you.” He shifts closer. “I’ll show you. Let me kiss you again.”
“Fuck no,” your brows furrow.
He deadpans, “Let me fuckin’ kiss you.”
“Did you even brush your teeth?”
“Shut up,” he stands up on his knees, too big in front of you, chiseled body on display, your heart drops to your stomach. “Stop deflecting. I see through you now.”
“Mingi–”
His hands find the armrest behind you as you uncurl your leg from beneath you, trying to accumulate space, space you’re quickly losing as he leans closer. “You don’t have to be scared with me.”
Your breath is shallow and shaky, heart in your throat, eyes halfway out of your head. He keeps his face close, forehead a millimeter from yours, you feel his heat first. He’s so big, he swallows your figure, he’s too big for the fucking couch, it’s dizzying.
“I’m gonna kiss you.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
He smiles before pressing his lips to yours, soft, so fucking delicate it takes you a moment to ease into it, to process that it’s even a kiss. Softer than it was on the field– his lips barely graze yours at first, as if he was testing the waters, like he wanted to feel your breath on his skin, wanted to feel your body say yes before your mouth said the word. Your lips part for him, soft and steady, molding to his, letting him guide, lead.
He asks for entrance with his tongue, swiping along your bottom lip with a certain courtesy like even though you were following him, letting him show you, you still held the reins. Your insides feel molten, fingers grabbing onto your shirt like you didn’t know where else to put them, mind in a constant battle to pick every detail apart or shut off completely. It’s different– it might be everything, laying here and kissing him softly, lazily, like nothing else exists except for him, his weight, his mouth. He tastes like something new, something blue, a memory you’d come back to for a long, long time.
He parts from you, lips swollen and red like he’d bitten them, he stares. Chocolate eyes big and round, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed a pretty rose, he looks at you like he’s just discovered you. Like even though he kissed you to prove something to you, it’s proven something deeper to himself.
He doesn’t smile, still calculating, but in a quiet voice he asks, “Do you feel it too?”
Your fists are still tight in your shirt, you search his eyes, the way they fall to your lips, you don’t answer— you kiss him again, harder this time, faster, tongue passing through his lips like his mouth belonged to you, like you were running out of time. You shift down on the couch, pillow falling to the floor, his elbows bracket your head as your calves hook over his thighs, moving in unison like your bodies were acting without either of you thinking about it.
Your hands find his hair when you wrap your arms around his neck, lifting yourself into him, pressing yourself against him, feeling the strength of him, it makes a tight noise leave your lips, one needy and begging. He rolls his hips into you on instinct and you moan into his mouth like you need him to do it harder.
“Fuck,” he curses into your mouth, lifting himself up on his palms, “wait— wait.”
“What?” You follow on your elbows, bug-eyed, “Why? What happened?”
He swallows, panting, running a hand through his hair as he sits back on his calves, your legs still thrown lazily over his thighs. The print of his length sits heavy and prominent with his legs spread in your cotton shorts, your eyes flicker back and forth to his face, mouth watering, patience already scarily thin.
“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he shakes his head, chest splotchy, tummy expanding with each aborted breath he takes. “I want this, I want you, I want to do it right.”
Your heart flutters in your chest, it’s at war with your dampening panties, your thighs that twitch as the words leave his mouth. His eyes drop to your figure, the big tee you wore hiked up to your stomach, tiny shorts clinging to your dampened core, he squeezes his eyes shut like it’d erase the sight from his memory.
“You want to stop because you want to take me out on a date?” You ask, brows raised. “We’ve been on, like, two already. Maybe three or four if you squint.”
He opens his eyes to narrow them, “You’re such a smartass.”
You smile at that, head tilting, cocky, “Clearly you like it, since you wanna date my smart-ass.”
His hands fall to your hips, tugging them towards him until your back is flat against the couch again, “I wanna do more than that.”
“Then do it,” you huff, hips bucking into him, arms lifting to reach for him, “you’re the one who stopped.”
“Do you ever shut the fuck up?” He asks, leaning forward enough to let you wrap your arms around his shoulders, he uses his hands at your waist to lift you up onto his lap.
You gasp at the movement, at the fucking ease in which he maneuvers you, your knees land beside his hips before you answer. “If you want me to shut the fuck up then give me a reason to.”
“I lied, don’t want you quiet,” he’s looking up at you from this angle and the sight of him steals your breath, makes everything feel a little more real. He’s so beautiful and he wants you and fuck you want him, too.
“Make up your mind,” you press yourself to his chest, keeping your faces close. “Y’know, you talked big game that night at the LAX house, been wondering if you could back it up.”
His hands tuck beneath your tee, fingers warm against your skin as they drag up your sides, palms landing heavy on your waist, it makes you shiver. He smirks, “Now you’re baiting me into fucking you?”
“Maybe,” your faces are so close your lips graze, “is it working?”
He kisses you again, more feverish than the last, hands squeezing your waist before they drop down to your hips, grinding you against him. You keep your arms folded around his neck, tongue slotting between his lips messily, teeth clashing together as you grind your core against his clothed length, roughly, purposely, letting him feel the arousal that’s bottled up inside. You part to empty strangled noises into each other’s mouths, eyes screwed tight, your hips move steadily in a rhythm guided by his hands. So hard, long and thick beneath you, you could feel him through your shorts, his shorts, there was no stopping. There was no pausing.
His hands find the hem of your tee, you help him pull it over your head, his lips find your neck, your chest, your head tilts back to give him access, for small, pitched breaths to leave your lips, a song for him to hear. He groans when your hips slow into a nasty grind, his tongue pokes out to drag down your chest, over your heart where he places an open-mouthed kiss. He looks up at you to say, “This is mine now.”
Your heartbeat picks up, he smiles like he can feel it. Brows knitted together, face bent with intoxicated arousal, you respond, “I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
“We’re technically still dating,” his teeth catch onto the hem of the lace bralette you wore, tugging on it before placing a kiss right above, at the center of the valley between your breasts, “and we’re not breaking up.”
“Are you trying to gaslight me?” You ask, hips still moving against him, fingers knotting in his hair when your clothed clit rolls over the ledge of his tip, “ah– I think we had a very public breakup last night.”
One of his hands slithers over the curve of your hip, down between your thighs, two fingers adding pressure where you needed it. You choke on a moan, back arching, hips digging into the pressure as he grins wide, “I forgave you already. This is make-up sex.”
“More,” your fingers tighten in his hair, eyes squeezing shut, “Mingi.”
“Oh, I like that,” he circles his fingers twice over your clit, smirking, “beg a lil’ more, put that mouth to good use.”
Your eyes open wanting to scowl but your brows are knitted too deeply in pleasure, lips parted and glossy with his spit, you can’t force yourself to as his fingers circle over your clit again. “P-please,” you stutter over the word, hips rolling into his touch, “wanna feel you.”
His face contorts in pleasure like you were the one touching him, he catches your lips again, tongue slotting into your mouth as his fingers dive beneath your shorts. He groans into your mouth as he slips between your folds, feeling the wetness that seeped through your damp shorts, “So wet for me, princess.”
Your hips buck into his hand, body twitching at how thick his fingers feel at your center combined with that fucking word on his tongue. “Feels s’good, more, Mingi, inside.”
“Say please,” the words are muffled, lips still pressed to yours.
You whisper, “Please.”
“Good girl,” he mutters, feeling you clenching around nothing as his fingers prod at your entrance. His eyes flicker upward, “You liked that? Being called my good girl?”
You nod shamelessly, hips rolling into his fingers, beckoning him to put them inside. Slowly he inches forward and you gasp, breath catching in your throat, fingers tightening in his hair, he curves them with each inch he gives you, adding pressure on that spot as soon as he reaches it, you’re choking on your own pleasure as your hips grind to fuck yourself on his fingers.
“So greedy,” he whispers, completely in awe, “look at you, baby, fucking yourself on my fingers. You gonna be good for me and cum on ‘em?”
“Holy shit,” you whisper, hips stuttering, his words going straight to the pit in your belly. You’ve never had someone pay this much attention to you or your pleasure, never had someone even insinuate making you cum before they’ve taken their pants off. He crooks his fingers and you whine, “You don’t h-have to, ‘hmygod.”
“Yes I do,” his fingertips massage that spot, fucking into you in small, stuttered thrusts so he can keep pressure, “need you to cum around my fingers, then around my cock, gonna do that for me?”
“Yeah,” you roll your hips faster, harder, meeting the thrusts of his fingers, his movement trapped within your shorts, the edge of his palm kissing your clit. It’s fucking dirty, nasty the way you’re moving, so shameless, if you weren’t so consumed by pleasure you’d be mortified at how easily he cracked your composure.
“Yeah? You wanna cum around my cock?” He asks, tone arrogant because he knows the answer, “Gonna make a mess on me with this wet lil’ pussy?”
“Mingi,” you whine, “stop.”
“You like it, I can feel you clenching,” he grins, you open your eyes just enough to see it. Cocky, but he’s backing it up and fuck you might die if he stops. “So good for me, bet you’d take anything I give you, bet you’d ask for more.”
The pit of pleasure builds steadily in your gut and you bite your lip to try to keep your mewls inside. It’s futile when he kisses you, drinking up every wrecked moan you spill into his mouth, keeping his fingers moving at the same pace, the same pressure. The rough edge of his palm hitting your clit with each movement and it’s so fucking obvious he knows exactly what he’s doing, how to pull you to the finish line with ease.
“Mingi,” you gasp out, limbs locking as you climb, “I’m close.”
“I know,” he presses his lips to your chin, under your jaw, “give it to me– cum for me, baby.”
Your hips stutter first before your orgasm crashes over you heavily, body twitching, rolling into him, he moves with you, keeping his hand steady as you ride out your orgasm, chanting praises into the space between you, encouragement that extends your pleasure, the feeling of euphoria that rocks through you never-ending. You keel after you finish, forehead meeting his, body deflating like he took everything out of you, he kisses your unmoving mouth, smiling into you when you don’t respond.
“Did so good for me,” he pulls his fingers out of your shorts, bringing them up between your faces, slipping them between his lips. He moans in pleasure, “Mm, can’t wait to eat her. You’ll let me, right? You’ll ride my face if I tell you to?”
The pit in your stomach twists all over again, core clenching around nothing, he’s filthy. You love it. “Need you inside,” you mutter, voice tight with arousal but winded, “need to feel you, Min.”
His smile returns, “Can you handle it, big girl? Look at you after just two fingers.” You whine and he laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen, “I can’t believe you’re so easy. You’ve got such a fuckin’ attitude and now you’re whining and crying for my cock.”
“You asked me if I ever shut the fuck up,” you grind yourself against him, bleeding impatience, “do you?”
He makes a sound he keeps lodged in his throat, it makes you smirk. He answers, “Not if it makes you this wet. You soaked through your shorts, princess.”
“Stop calling me that,” you huff, “fuck me already, ‘m tired of hearing you run your mouth.”
His hands find your thighs, holding onto them tight as he lifts himself up, you fall backwards fast with a loud yelp, back hitting the cushions of the couch. He’s predatory as he leans over you, “This mouth can make you cum faster than my fingers did,” his fingers find the hem of your shorts, “wanna find out?”
“I want you to fuck me,” you lift your hips for him and he tugs them down to your ankles, “save your filthy fuckin’ mouth for another time.”
“There she is,” he stands on his knees, tugging at the baby blue shorts on his hips, “knew the brat was in there somewhere.”
“It only comes out when you’re a cocky motherfuck–” he tugs his shorts down and the word dies on your tongue. Bigger than he felt beneath you, thick, red, leaking, your mouth waters, back arching off the couch at the sight, “Damn.”
He’s smirking and you hate that his cockiness is starting to become sexy. “Gonna take it all like a big girl?”
You’re nodding, not even looking at him, you can’t take your eyes off his cock. Bigger than Wooyoung, than Hyunjin, he might even be bigger than Mingyu and that’s a feat. All you can muster is, “Hurry.”
He settles between your legs, your knees spread under his heavy palms, he licks his lips when he gets eyes on your center. “She’s so pretty, baby. Why didn’t you tell me? Woulda been fucking you weeks ago.”
“God, Mingi, shut up,” you buck your hips toward him, “get inside me already.”
“She’s soaked,” he wraps his fist around his cock, sliding it through your folds, rubbing circles over your clit that make you shiver, “so pretty, gonna ruin her. Can I? So you can’t fuck anyone but me?”
Impatience is a band that snaps hard, “Is that why you talk so much? You have a big dick that you don’t even know how to use–”
He wastes no time slipping back down to your entrance and pushing inside, just his tip has your body locking up, head tipping back, a tight, wilted noise slipping out of you involuntarily, it tells him everything you can’t say. He’s smirking even if he’s fighting to keep his own pleasure at bay, “Yeah? I don’t know how to use it? Say that again.”
He’s curved, carving into you like he’d make you take it even if you couldn’t, your walls suck him in like you were made for it, clenching around the width of him, mushroom tip kissing your cervix just enough that it’s pleasurable– you shake your head, biting your fucking tongue, nails clawing at the couch cushions because no one’s ever felt this good just sitting inside you.
“Exactly,” he pulls out slowly, filling you back up just as slowly, letting you adjust to his length, his thickness, the perfection your mind couldn’t comprehend. “Lay there and take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”
“Fuck, Mingi,” it’s high-pitched, filled with anticipation and slight disbelief. You watch as his abdomen flexes, how his tummy fills with air and deflates, his jaw that goes slack with each thrust, he’s so sexy it hurts. “Faster.”
He picks up speed on command, palms finding your shins, pushing them back into your chest as his cock starts bullying into you, “Like that?”
You can barely choke out a yes, hands flying to his biceps, nails marking crescents into his skin, half-curses fly from your lips drowned out by tight moans, pitched noises when his tip drags over that spot inside you, repeating, “Mingi, Mingi,” like it’s the only word you know.
“I’m here,” he leans down to press a kiss to the side of your knee, “I got you, know it’s big, baby, you can take it.”
You curse again as he fucks into you harder, back trying to arch but he has you pinned so deep you can’t move, “Mingi!”
He smiles, eyes half-lidded, “That all you can say? Fucked out already? Just started.”
You whimper, legs shaking beneath his palms, he lets go of your shins so he can lean down and kiss you, trading speed for a pace so deep and heavy you can’t kiss back. Moaning straight into his mouth, arms around his neck, you keep him close, legs hooked around his back, “Mingi.”
“Doing so good,” he kisses your cheek, your jaw, down your neck, “pussy so tight, baby, so perfect, gonna have to fuck you every day.”
You sound hypnotized, you might be. “Yes, yes, every day.”
“You know why?” He doesn’t wait for your answer. “‘Cause you’re mine.”
“Uh-huh,” you nod, and when he picks his face back up to kiss you, you kiss him back. It’s a mess of teeth and spit, too distracted and moving to be considered a kiss, but you’re lucid enough to tangle your fingers in his hair, for your hips to start fucking back.
“Say it,” he whispers in your mouth, edged like a blade. It makes you moan.
He groans, hips picking up speed all over again, he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, lips mindlessly pressing against your skin, tongue poking out just to taste the sweat that's formed. He slips an arm between your bodies to press two fingers against your clit and you twitch, a sharp moan escaping you, bucking into him at a pace unsteady and uncontrolled as the pressure builds fast.
“Mingi!” It’s loud and pitched, “Too much, too much.”
“No ‘ts not,” his words are muffled, lips pressed against your skin, “Take it, cum around my cock. Wanna feel it. Wanna feel you cum f’me, baby.”
Strangled noises escape you one after another, his fingers circling your clit with practiced movements like he already knew your body inside and out. He’s still talking as pleasure climbs, your fingernails clawing shapes into his back, his rhythm doesn’t change or falter for a second. His words feel mindless, babbles of praise, “C’mon, baby, cum for me. Need to feel you clenching around my cock, say my name, say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, Mingi,” you don’t sound any more composed than he does, “Mingi, ‘hmygod I’m gonna cum, just for you, all for you.”
He moans as your pleasure hits its peak, seizing beneath him, legs locking around his body, fingers raking at his back hard enough to leave marks, you’re a mess of moans and cries and whimpers, but he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t let up even a little. He’s cursing, hips jerking into you at that same fucking damning pace like his life depended on it, like he refused to give you anything but the entirety of your orgasm.
You’re still shaking when he pushes himself up, body red and splotchy, veins swollen and prominent and everywhere. “Gonna flip you,” you think he might be saying it to himself more than to you with the way he moves you fully on his own, your front meets the couch with a squeak, body spent, head fuzzy.
You’re flat against the couch, his legs straddle yours just below your ass, he spreads you to lean down and spit before he’s pushing inside once more. You curse sharply into the pillow, eyes rolling back, hands swatting behind you as he fills you up in one fell swoop.
He shushes you, two hands grabbing your swatting arms by your wrists, pinning them at the base of your spine, “You can take it. Breathe, princess.” When he moves, you feel like you might never recover. Your wails are muffled by the cushion you buried your face in, the pleasure was different, more, deeper, the way his cock grinds against that spot inside you and you can’t get away– you feel the pressure build like it never stopped, steady, heavy, so euphoric you might not be in your body at all anymore.
“You’re perfect, oh my god,” you hear him behind you, “gonna let me fill you up? Let me mark what’s mine? Fuck, baby, need to fill this perfect pussy up, need to cum inside.”
You dig your fingernails into your palms, kicking at the armrest on the other side of the couch, grinding your teeth, you turn your head just to cry, “Yes, fill me up, inside,” your voice cracks, “please.”
“Clenching around me s’fuckin’ hard,” his voice is rough, “y’gonna cum again?”
You let out a noncommittal sound and he changes the angle ever so slightly, your vision blurs, breath taut in your chest, his cock drilling against that spot like he was aiming for it, you don’t know if the damp spot under your head was from tears or drool. Keeping the angle, the pace, he lets your arms go before leaning over, pressing a sloppy kiss to your shoulderblade, breath hot in your ear, “So fucking perfect, let go f’me, baby.”
The sound you let out in response was from the deepest part of your lungs, a sob, a prayer, you’re so close you can fucking taste it. He presses another kiss to the tip of your spine, leaning over your shoulder again, mouth opening, teeth grazing your skin– when you feel him clamp down in a bite you lose it, trembling, sobbing, fisting the couch cushions with his name on your tongue, “Mingi!”
“Yes,” in awe again, his hips stutter, “there you go, fuuck– fuck, gonna fill you up, gonna make you mine.” You’re spasming around his length, hips bucking, trying to escape the unending pleasure as his thrusts only get heavier, sloppier, quicker. He keeps himself close, “My perfect girl, y’gonna take every drop? Fuck– fuck, gonna cum, baby, you want it?”
“Yes, Min,” you’re grabbing for him again, nails clawing at his thighs behind you, “fill me up, make me yours. Need you inside.”
One hand snakes under your jaw, turning your head he kisses you sloppily as his hips stutter, groaning a curse into your mouth as he twitches inside you, then he slows, warmth filling you up, ropes of his release heavy, hot, nasty. His breath is short, winded, exhausted, you don’t think yours is any more even.
“Mingi,” it comes out like a whimper, you feel him twitch inside you, he lets go of your face. A lazy grin takes over your cheeks, eyes closing, “You weren’t lying.”
He laughs, a small, easy thing, lifting himself up. “Why would I lie?”
“Dunno,” you answer absent-mindedly, “make yourself sound better.”
“Baby,” his hands smooth over the skin of your back, he leans down to press a soft kiss in the middle of your spine. Mumbling into your skin like he was too shy to say it with his chest, “I don’t need to do that.”
You hum, “Of course, how could I forget, you’re the entire package.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or if you’re fucking with me.”
“Good.”
He smacks his teeth, “I’m gonna pull out, ‘kay?”
You pop a brow at the warning, but as he starts to slip out inch by inch, you’re grateful for his thighs keeping you locked in place because the full-body twitch it gives you is lethal. You whine a little as his spent cock lays still-heavy on your ass, “How do you keep that thing hidden?”
He snorts, “Like in my pants?”
“That’s a weapon,” you’re still twitching beneath him, “and you just used it on me.”
He’s giggling as he shifts himself to be able to carefully flip you over, another movement he does with ease as if you’re some kind of toy. It still makes your stomach curl with warmth, body flushing hot as he lays himself down next to you, sliding an arm under your body, holding you close. “Smells like sex in here.”
You curl into his side, cheek pressed to his bare chest, eyes closing again. “Don’t care.”
“I really like you, you know,” his voice is low but steady, honest, “and I want to be your boyfriend.”
You pick your head up to look at him, his eyes big and round, glossed over like he was nervous to say the words. You reach a hand up, running your fingers through his chocolate locks once before cupping his cheek, guiding him down to press your lips softly against his. “You already are my boyfriend, moron.”
“I mean seriously–”
“And I mean seriously, you’re already my boyfriend,” you raise your brows in expectation, “so no more ogling girls at parties, no more calling me stupid names and no more Winter.”
“I thought you said you’ve never been anyone’s girlfriend before,” there’s a stupid smile on his face, “seems like you got the gist, princess.”
“What did I literally just say–”
“What about the messages?” His question is a little sturdier.
Your brows furrow, “What about them? I already turned my requests off.”
His brows match yours, “That’s it? It doesn’t turn you off from being with me?”
“I fucked Wooyoung like, two days ago, Mingi,” you smile when he makes a face of disgust, “if you can mentally handle that, I can mentally handle being in the spotlight, as long as its smaller than yours. But if I can’t, I’ll tell you, and we’ll figure it out. Wait, what about your coaches?”
“That is such a non-issue,” he rolls his eyes, “who gives a fuck?”
You make a face of surprised agreement, bottom lip bending over, brows raising, “Sure. Who gives a fuck?”
He smiles, “Cool, I think that’s everything.”
“Cool,” you nuzzle yourself back into his chest, pressing a short kiss to his skin, “by the way, how long until we can fuck again? I’ve been waiting three weeks for this too, y’know.”
masterlist 🏈 part one
this is my soul project. ive never loved another mingi as much as i love this one. if you read all of this, genuinely thank you from the bottom of my fucking heart. i could write about him endlessly, my muse fr. i hope you enjoyed and pls dont hesitate to tell me all your thoughts 🩷
i love a good crying scene, esp when theyre bawling their eyes out and i can feel the weight of their shoulders
sorry had to stop to say the word feed here is gloriously used. also YES the irritated-wtf-who-asked 'congratulations?'
OH. BABE WHAT R WE DOIN HERE. OH NONONONONONONO WHAAAAAAAAAT IS HAPPENING okay. and we're going directly to mingi and winter like this feels sus as FUCK MAN GET ME OUT 😭😭 also winter sybau oMG.
okay wait u always eat w mingi's inner monologue like:
*head in hands* *pool of my own tears* *SCREAMS* okay first off that lucifer line was great like the IMAGE it put in my head was so goddamn clear. that is the PERFECT way to get her expression across to us as a reader i canNOT gush abt this little detail EEENOUGH.
and then the yellow part where he's realizing that HE wanted to be the one to fix things, HE wanted to be your reason to smile and feel better. before, he had only ever been the reason to make u pissed off or other negative emotions, but THINGS HAVE CHANGED. HE IS TERRIFIED OF SEEING U LIKE THIS. HE HATES IT AND HE WANTS IT GONE AND HE WANTS TO BE YOUR REASON.
and the blue—OH THE BLUE—i felt that one in my bones ngl loke oh boy, it's like the yellow but one step deeper. he not only wants to be the reason u smile/return to your normal self, he wants to be A PART of your normal life. even if this whole scheme is fake, he wants a real connection out of this UGH
also that last part of his convo w winter is SO telling
fck dude the part w her and wooyoung on the balcony is so... like this feels like. A FEVER DREAM. theyre so complicated and messy and—idk dude i feel like i understand her even tho im screaming at her thru the screen. like this shit's scary and not at ALL what she wanted. she knows so much abt mingi now that its like,,, she knows both the good and the bad and yet she finds herself having fun w him, and that LOOK he gives her is fcking terrifying bc wtf is this, this wasn't part of the plan. also mingi is supposed to like winter and he was still EXCITED abt winter in his fcking jersey, so he will prob end up w her anyway, and what does that leave u with?
PRINCESS.
ALRIGHT. TAKING A SCREENSHOT SO I CAN TAKE A BREATH BC OH MY GOD. i really cannot tell if princess was apart of that plan or not bc she genuinely seemed drunk as hell and wooyoung was acting like a piece of shit as always. also she never told him that she and mingi weren't actually dating. BUT FUVK she really sounded upset and distressed by how he found out, and mingi was actually HURT 😭😭😭 OH. *hand slaps over mouth* and just MINGIS. INNER. DIALOGUE. HE WANTS TO ASK U HE DOESNT WANT NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. HE WANTS TO CLARIFY. HE WANTS TO CONFESS AND APOLOGIZE. HE STILL WANTS U AND NOW HE'S JUST HURT AND ANGRY AND KSNDKSNDJ
also can we just talk abt how he saw winter and the last thing he thought was "good enough" . like this man at the beginning of the fic pulled out the WHITEBOARD to gameplan a way to cuff her and now she's just pretty and good enough. EEUUUUGH i love development I LOVE ANY KIND IF DEVELOPMENT
WHY DID HER SMILE FALTER *eye twitch*
omg this is like in 10 things i hate about you OMG MINGI GO GET HER (also buzzword for early two thousands song EVERYBODY PLAY LEAK IT BY FLO IT'S EARLY 2000s ENOUGH FOR ME 😝😝😝)
her split of consciousness U WANT ME. JONGHO AND YEOSANG STRESSED AND KNOWING MINGI WOULD GET THE JOB DONE. WOOYOUNG BEING A PIECE OF SHIT. oh that was stressful. i need a smoke break like girl omg pls let him carry u out like a sack of potatoes. im already feeling the bad energy when people start posting their fuckass videos girl is not gonna catch a break 😭 BABY. BABYBABHYDMFNKR
drunk princess coaxing that gentle giant out STOP and the realsies.... theyre so cute THEYRE SO CUTE 😭😭
"do u know what vulnerable means" OH IM DEAD
YAY....... oh homegirl is TOO CUTE THIS WHOLE EXCHANGE IS TOO CUTE THIS FEELS LIKE AN EARLY 2000s ROMCOM LIKE I CAN HEAR THE CRICKETS IN THE BACKGROUND AS THEYRE OUTSIDE FAWK. and their little banter back and forth too oml
"no one's kissed me like that before" "i think that's how u should be kissed" oh :(((( "everything. most of all me" OH (´Д⊂ヽDUDE THE CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT OH .
this feels so parallel to the other two lines i screenshot above from mingi, lile they're both wanting opposite things than they BELIEVE they should be wanting/thinking. princess's earlier inner rationalization of winter being more suitable for mingi is contrasted against the fact that he is Here. in Her apartment, not winter's. and as much as u convince urself that ur not right for him or his destiny, u like the idea of him being yours. (and its like... it kind of makes me feel bittersweet knowing that both of them share similar sentiments abt if they end up splitting, that they don't really wanna lose ech other. they enjoy the other's company far too much.)
I HAVENT FELT THIS MUCH EMOTION SINCE HER OHHHHHHH FUUUUUUCK ME (´Д⊂ヽ(´Д⊂ヽ
omg i got so wrapped up in everything happening on the party that i forgot to comment that it all came like full circle. like we started w mingi being pissed at wooyoung for stealing his dream girl, and now, we have mingi pissed again at wooyoung for stealing His Girl™ anyways back to the confession—
i cant believe this is happening and hes in your tiny blue waffle shorts
AWWWH OK WAIT THE AFTER TALK BANTER IS SO CUTE 😭😭 also u write smut so fluidly and like . masterfully how is it not repetitive, its like beautiful o_0
okay wait. ending thoughts bc WHEW. WHAT A RIDE I FEEL LIKE I JUST WATCHED THE COOLEST EXTENDED DIRECTOR'S CUT OF A ROMCOM EVER. t a c e . u write like there is a classic film grain over the lens ur WRITING EVOKES THIS NOSTALGIA IN ME im in awe dude. i looove aesthetic writing, not in the actual formatting, but the /way/ in which u set scenes, ur words flow, UR STYLE SHINES UGH MWAH. this was gorgeous wth. also just princess and mingi's characters were so true to themselves throughout the entire thing, like consistent and REAL. GOD THEY WERE SO REAL. like man i wanted to hit both of them at some point, but their flaws were so real and so raw, and that confession scene—man.
thank you SO much for writing this and sharing this with us. YOU'RE A GIFT 😭😭💖
Omg idk how to use Tumblr but I wanted to comment tat this is such a gd break down,, I agree with ur thoughts UGHH the underlying feelings and parallels rly ties the fic tgt well
I'm still thinking about this fic fr it's been days this is the best thing Ive ever read
kq university's newest and hottest social club is dropping their collection from the past quarter, and she's full of drama, comedy, and spice! be there or be square 🫵🤨 (find the flyer here)
the following content will be released between april 10 - april 30. some of the work featured here is 18+ ONLY! heed warnings, respect boundaries, and DON'T FORGET TO REBLOG <3
a message from our club president: thank you so much to all the lovely writers who joined me for this collab!! i was so thrilled to meet so many great writer atinys and i absolutely cannot wait to read your fics 🥹 you were what made this collab so successful, and i can't thank you all enough for your enthusiasm and work 💖 lots of love, beam x
DISCLAIMER: please reach out to individual writers about taglists as i am not managing a taglist for this event :]
DO I KNOW YOU? ☆ @starlitjoong
Freshman year of college was supposed to be your fresh start. Your opportunity to put your best foot forward. Then a familiar face you’re not too thrilled by rips that chance away. Kim Hongjoong was assigned to train you for your new job in the campus library. He was thorough, too thorough, recalling things you didn’t quite want to remember. The memories with your first love haunt you in your sleep. Will seeing him every day cause your hate to grow? Or will the feelings you worked so hard to bury erupt into a chaotic mess of storage closet makeouts and cold shoulders?
HARD TO FOCUS ☆ @belongjoong 18+
physics was never a strong subject for you, but when your hot new tutor kim hongjoong comes to the rescue, you start to wonder if you're really staying for the lessons - or just for him.
ONE MORE LINE ☆ @blizzardfluffykpop 18+
Everything in your senior year of college felt like you needed just one more; one more class, one more test, one more line, and it would all be over, and you could finally rest your bones. And with Hongjoong by your side; every class, every test, every line came easy. And when Tuesdays and Thursdays came to a close, you could peacefully rest your bones beside him. Drawing to your hearts content as he scribbles down a half a page of lines.
CURTAIN CALL ☆ @sangis-puppy
College was draining enough without having D1 athlete and ‘Pride of the school, Chris, up your ass for two years trying to get you in his bed. You’d do anything to get him off your back for even a week of peace. So when the chance to knock him down a few pegs presents itself in the form of Park Seonghwa, a nerdy type that said athlete torments, you take it. What starts as a few campus spottings to get under Chris’s skin turns into blurred lines and moments that feel too real for a fake relationship. Time ticks to Homecoming and the curtain will fall on this act. How will you bow out?
SUNBURN ☆ @sungbeam
you and park seonghwa, petty rivals since the third grade, can't stand the sight of each other. at least, that's what you both claim. sometimes, getting the truth out of two stubborn people just requires turning up the heat.
SWEETHEART ☆ @ja3hwa 18+
ATZ was the place to be. Everyone either wanted to be in the fraternity or be with one of the members... And this push and pull you had seemingly fallen into with one of the brooding frat boys was making you dizzy. Your neck quickly aching from whiplash over the constant what ifs and maybes...
Oh... Oh wait, it was just the dark bruising hickies he left that were the ache and the overflow of alcohol that made you dizzy... Whoops.
LEVEL ZERO ☆ @03jyh23 18+
Jeong Yunho is the human equivalent of a system crash. A 6’2” wreck of stuttered sentences, fogged-up glasses, and nerves he can’t outgrow. He has spent his first year of college trying to be invisible. He’s a tactical genius on screen, but on campus, he can barely survive a three-word greeting without his voice cracking.
He tries to start a Gaming Club in a basement that smells like dust and dump. When a pack of “Mean Girls” turns his recruitment drive into a public execution, you step in.
You lie. You improvise. You claim you’re his pro-tier carry—his star recruit.
Now you learn the hard way: Rule #1 of saving a cute nerd from bullies is this—don’t claim you’re an expert in a game you’ve never heard of.
NEW PERSPECTIVE ☆ @from-izzy
the stage has always been jeong yunho's, star university's top acting student, happiest place. but as time goes on, and pressure makes him slip away from acting, a certain girl with her canvas paints a story from a new perspective that keeps him going.
SLEEPOVERS IN MY BED ☆ @everyonewooeverywhere 18+
jeong yunho and song mingi have always been the campus's "it couple." even those who don't know them say they're a match made in heaven--meant to be in every universe. but you know different. you know the truth: that jeong yunho spends her sunday nights in your bed and song mingi is a fucking weirdo. but while her boyfriend thinks she's studying, you're giving her what he could never fulfill. she may love him, but at least she's in your bed.
AFTER HOURS ☆ @17teezers 18+
being an ra comes with a lot of responsibilities: managing residents, hosting events, surviving move in day… but apparently you need to learn how to survive your co-ra, kang yeosang, as well. that definitely wasn’t in the manual.
he’s professional, intelligent, organized, and also really good at making you feel stupid. after being assigned the same floor, you start to realize he might not be as bad as you thought. which would be fine — if there wasn’t one very simple rule: don’t date your coworkers.
LITTLE MISS CATASTROPHE ☆ @hyungszn
meet kang yeosang. sophomore, gymnast, and most importantly, campus’ most eligible omega. yeosang’s been trying to set the record straight for years but thanks to his slightly awkward nature, people kind of just brush him off for a pretty face. however just when he thinks of giving up, the universe concocts the most disastrous “outing” imaginable: you.
WATER GIRL ☆ @yeonlymine 18+
between lectures and slaving in the training room, choosing athletic training as your work study job was supposed to be the easy part of college. until a transfer named yeosang joins the roster mid season and suddenly the nickname “water girl” isn’t just harmless locker room teasing anymore.
A PACK A DAY ☆ @maho6any 18+
you asked him what kind of doctor smokes? he said he'd quit once he gets his degree. you didn't like each other very much. you hated that you sat next to each other in class, to which you both used the excuse that it was only because it was the desk closest to the wall outlet. the professor seems to think you do this by choice, and decides you would be the perfect pair for the childcare simulation. and unfortunately for you and your poor sensitive heart, a pack a day does not in fact keep the doctor away
HANDS ON ME ☆ @xomakara 18+
You join KQ University’s Taekwondo club and immediately get underestimated — especially by San, the star member who treats you like you might break. When you finally reveal your true skill by sweeping him in a spar, everything shifts, and San becomes fascinated, competitive, and increasingly drawn to you.
DARE ☆ @minkieater 18+
you can’t fucking stand jung wooyoung, mingi really really wants kim minjeong. when wooyoung and winter end up together, you and mingi have no choice but to figure out how to win winter’s favor, to stab wooyoung in the back. mingi needs a favor, and you want revenge... do you dare?
PAS DE DEUX ☆ @way2jellyous 18+
at Seoul's most prestigious ballet university, no pair is more legendary than you and Ikhyun - until a scandal destroys his career overnight. Varna is coming up, and you're forced to pick a new partner. But maybe some things are never meant to be replaced. - or lowkey a k-drama that somehow got converted to a fanfic on tumblr dot com
PIPE DREAM ☆ @yestodayys 18+
song mingi is a lot of things. he’s top of the class you hate the most, a mutual friend of your roommates, probably the best dressed guy on campus… and now he’s haunting your dreams, too.
FLASH POINT ☆ @hyungszn 18+
there’s a very thin line between lust and hate; a concept of which you are intimately familiar. when you push, wooyoung pulls, and soon what started out as a battle of wills has quickly morphed into a war of temptation with no ceasefire in sight. TL;DR: in a world where opposites are meant to attract, you and wooyoung couldn’t be more alike… so why the hell do you want each other so bad?
KANJO ☆ @jitaewoo 18+
there’s two subgroups of hashiriyas that rule japan: the kanjozoku of osaka and the roulettezoku of tokyo.
in osaka, you live your days out either on campus or at work. on the outside, it’s all seems so repetitive and boring—but that is exactly what you want. then, one day, it all gets messed up when a new transfer student, jung wooyoung, comes and threatens to shatter everything you have built. stupid tokyo boys have no clue what really goes on in osaka, and wooyoung is going to have to learn the hard way.
THE OFF LIMITS RULE ☆ @stxrrywoo 18+
coming back from studying abroad for two years you had two goals in mind: win the annual end of summer fashion design contest and jung wooyoung... your brothers best friend. only issue? your brother had forbidden you from his friends and likewise has forbidden his friends from you. yet when yeosang gets the opportunity to study abroad you start to see an opportunity to finally make your move, so you take it. I mean.... what's the worst that could happen?
AS IF ☆ @moooonandroses 18+
you can’t stand jongho, but the universe doesn't seem to catch the signals. everywhere you went, he was there. friends teased you both, saying that you liked each other so much you were manifesting the other everywhere. ugh, as if you would ever like him, right?
[NOUN] LOVE ☆ @redemptions 18+
you and jongho met as children during a letter writing project. years later, you get the chance to meet in person because of a study exchange but you are determined to keep your feelings a secret - after all, how do you tell your best friend you’re in love with him?
THE LAW OF ATTRACTION ☆ @jinkoh
Jongho was everything you weren’t: ambitious, diligent, promising—all in all the perfect law school student. Naturally, your chaos didn’t fit into his prearranged life. Not for long, anyway. Your silly little relationship was never meant to last. So how come you couldn't seem to move on? Of course, being grouped together for a semester-long assignment didn't exactly help your case.
⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART ONE ~28k
⪼ you can’t fucking stand jung wooyoung, mingi really really wants kim minjeong. when wooyoung and winter end up together, you and mingi have no choice but to figure out how to win winter’s favor, to stab wooyoung in the back. mingi needs a favor, and you want revenge... do you dare?
⪼ fake dating au, college au, slow burn, lowk enemies to lovers, this is my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! so happy to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, be sure to check out the masterlist for other banger college fics :)
⪼ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. i hope u enjoy this is my pride and joy in a fic i would eat this mingi as my last meal
“Fuck you.”
Jung Wooyoung has never promised you anything. In your four months of doing whatever the fuck this was, he’s never once lead you believe you’d be anything more than his bed warmer. At least not verbally, and honestly, you had to hand it to him, he’d repeat the same monologue over and over like it was his personal gospel: We’re too young to be in a serious relationship, don’t you think? We should be enjoying our youth, our freedom, doing whatever we want…
If you ever hear the words serious relationship, youth, or freedom ever again, you might actually fucking vomit. In the beginning, it was easy to believe him; you rarely spoke to him outside of the bedroom, yours, his, that one supply closet on campus, the bathroom of that stupid fucking dive bar he loves so much. When he began sleeping over, kissing you awake, leaving with promises of later just to do it all over again, you started feeling blasphemous. Questioning gospel, his words of wisdom, you started to think there was more than just sweat and saliva to your relationship– maybe he enjoyed spending time with you. Maybe he even likes you.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” leaning against the wall of his foyer, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other, you didn’t even make it inside his apartment. The bare, beige walls seemed to laugh at you even if there were no pictures on them, no paintings, no decor.
Too good to be true, of course, since you caught him hand-in-hand with her, Kim Minjeong, Winter, that pretty little thing you’re positive you shared a class with at some point in your three years at ATZU. Your immediate reaction was defense, denial, naturally, because why on Earth would he need anyone but you? He’s told you plenty of times you’re not like anyone he’s met before, that your personality was unique, that you’re the best he’s ever had.
“You’re sorry?!” Your arms were flying around the space, you voice loud, harsh, angry. You didn’t care if his roommate was home, maybe you’d apologize to San if you saw him on campus somewhere. Maybe. Right now, your anger was behind the wheel, driving you to insanity, “Who’s next, Summer? Spring? Fall? You gonna fuck all four seasons, you asshole?”
He shakes his head, black hair falling around his face, the poster board for nonchalance. You wonder how many times he’s had this conversation, how many girls he’s done this to. Maybe you were the problem for thinking you were different, that he’d alter his Ten Commandments for you. He uncurls his arms, straightens out his legs, and motions for the door, voice frustratingly monotonous, “I think you should go.”
“Yeah, I should,” you bite, already turning towards the dark brown, wooden door, “I hope I never fucking see you again.”
“Should be easy,” he says through a much too casual breath, reaching around you to grab the worn, brassy knob, forcing you to step sideways so he can open it. You take a step through the threshold and he leans his lanky body into the frame, “Make sure you return the Chrome Hearts hoodie I left at your place, though, doll. Paid good money for it.”
Face morphing into sheer disbelief, the audacity, only your head turns to look at him, eye legitimately twitching, “You’ll be lucky if I don’t fucking burn it.”
A corner of his lips tug upward in a smile, “Now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”
“Just like the last four months?” Your brows raise, a faux smile creeping onto your lips, “Don’t text me ever again. Hope she fucks you like I do.”
He doesn’t answer– just stares as you stand there, waiting for an argument, for a rebuttal. Your jaw clenches when you realize you aren’t getting one. Turning on your heel, you stomp down his hallway, down the three fucking flights of steps you’ve climbed every other day for the past four months.
Fuck him. Fuck him.
Humiliation sinks in as you leave his building, anger crumbling into something small, something sad, pathetic. You should have seen this coming, you aren’t stupid, you’re definitely not naïve. You could blame his pretty smile, his cheekbones so sharp they could be considered blades, his beautiful bronzy skin you’d miss tasting, the way he filled you up so perfectly you wondered how you fucked anyone else. You could blame his touch, the grace he used with your body, how he cared for you after he split you open.
The only person to blame here is you. And you know it, deep in your gut, in the ache in your back from carrying the entire relationship you made up in your head, you know it’s your fucking fault you’re hurt. Your friends would tell you soon, too, that they knew this was coming, that they told you he’d do this, they advised you to not get involved with him.
Sighing, looking up at the sky, you squint at the overcast, the blue sky that was now a deep, sad grey. Great, even the fucking sun didn’t want you.
Song Mingi didn’t care about much outside of football. He didn’t have time to.
Almost every day, his schedule was the same: wake up at six, eat his breakfast that was the same every single morning: egg white omelet, two slices of whole-wheat toast, a cup of fresh fruit, sometimes he’ll have cranberry juice diluted by water, usually just plain water.
He’s at the gym by seven, following his training program, by nine he’s in the meeting room in the same building as the gym, he meets his team, his coach, going over the practice schedule, reviewing any changes made for the day or the week. By ten, he’s showered and on his way to class, where he fights to keep his brain turned on until two.
By three, he’s getting taped, at three-thirty he’s out on the field, practicing. By six, he’s back in the gym, then he’s eating dinner until seven, when he showers, fighting to stay awake for the academics squad that arrives specifically for the football team, helping them with homework, plain old studying, any projects they might be involved in.
He’s lucky if he’s finished by eight thirty, where he can finally go back home, to the house the entire fucking team lives in. In the beginning of the season, it’s usually quiet by nine, everyone so exhausted by the day they don’t have the energy to be rowdy– but that never lasts long, once everyone is comfortable in their routines, Mingi’s convinced they have endless pits of energy. Music, laughter, conversation, video games, it’s so fucking loud Mingi has to put on noise-cancelling headphones when he reaches his bedroom.
He doesn’t have the energy for anything outside of his schedule. His days are grid-locked, no room to pencil anything in, no time for partying, for socializing, for anything that would damage his D1-starting-quarterback reputation. He thinks he’s the only person in this whole fucking university that has a reputation, everywhere he goes, people watch. Everyone he speaks to, people listen. When he raises his hand in class, the whole fucking room turns their heads. It doesn’t help that he gets escorted to class. It’s unfortunate that his treatment comes with the gig.
It’s nauseating, the pressure of football was enough, there’s so much added bullshit that comes with it. On his good days, when his adrenaline is pumping, when he feels restless, when he’s really fucking tired of being Mr. Perfect, he makes time. He goes to the party the LAX house is throwing, he takes shots with his teammates, he even dances a little if Woozi’s mixing– if it’s Vernon DJing, he’s probably standing on the side, bobbing his head to whatever funky shit is playing while the nth girl of the night is in his ear.
The girls, the girls, that’s a whole other issue he tackles daily. Nightly. Literally. The cheerleading team, the dance team, the girls on campus he makes eyes at that quite literally fold. Well, he folds them, on the nights he doesn’t feel like releasing his pent up energy at a party, or when he needs to release his frustrations after an especially bad practice. There’s always girls, there’s an endless supply on a college campus, even more in his DMs, he’d assume half of his forty-three-thousand Instagram followers are women, at least that’s what it seems when he clicks his requests folder.
Mingi hasn’t really ever been denied in his life, not with women, not with his college applications, he was getting scouted by university after university in high school. Which is why he can’t wrap his mind around what happened to him last week, a typical crazy night at the LAX house, who throws weekly in their off-season, celebrating absolutely nothing but partying like it was everyone’s birthday.
Mingi was in his favorite outfit, short, dark hair slicked back, jewelry on his neck, his wrists, his fingers, he felt good. He felt lucky, even, when he eyed up the dark-haired beauty across the kitchen, standing alone, staring at her phone like she was waiting to be approached by him. He put on his pretty boy smile and crossed the room, running a hand through his hair, and approached her with every ounce of swagger he could conjure.
Winter. Such a pretty name for such a beautiful girl, Mingi was nearly drooling, her voice sweet like honey, her outfit screamed danger, he needed her. She didn’t smile when she looked at him, didn’t ask for his name, he didn’t think twice, Mingi just assumed she didn’t need to ask, everyone on campus knew his name.
“Do you know when Wooyoung will get here?”
He thinks his heart might have flatlined.
Mingi isn’t like his bitchless teammates, who jump at every opportunity to fuck just because they can. Mingi fucks, but it’s with purpose, every woman he approaches, every woman he hits on, it’s because they fit the criteria.
He coughed a little, brows furrowed, head tilted in confusion. He knew that name, he knew Wooyoung, he’s roommates with San who’s friends with Jongho, one of his teammates, on the starting offensive line.
“Wooyoung?” He found himself asking, choking on a laugh. “Like, the guy who got some girl pregnant last semester?”
She rolled her eyes, “That was a rumour, he didn’t get anyone pregnant.”
Then her phone lit up, and so did her entire fucking face. That smile, Mingi nearly groaned, she’s perfect, she’d look so good on his arm, flaunting her to the entire campus, to his teammates, his coach. He watched as she walked away, taking all of his hopes and dreams with her. His future, the mother of his unborn children, gone in a flash, off to find that leather-jacket-wearing fucking asshole that didn’t even have a career. Is she kidding? Mingi was on the brink of getting drafted to the fucking NFL, and she wanted Wooyoung? What did he fucking have that Mingi didn’t?
He stood there for at least another two minutes, stunned into silence, fingers slowly gripping his solo cup harder until he could hear the crackling of hard plastic bending in his palm. Then and there, Mingi decided she wasn’t worth it. How could she be worth his time, when she wants him? It showed a lot about her.
Mingi spent the night burying himself into whatever girl he could find that looked closest to her. For the week that followed, his mind was clouded by a dark vignette, the picture of her at the center. Winter. He didn’t even fucking like snow, that’s why he went to school somewhere warm.
Slowly, day after day, the rejection began to eat away at him, making him look inward, a practice he doesn’t have much experience in. What does Wooyoung have that he doesn’t? He came to the conclusion that there’s nothing. In every which way possible, Mingi’s better than Wooyoung, so why the fuck did she want him so bad when Mingi was standing right in front of her, in his favorite black party shirt, rings on his fingers, Aquaphor freshly applied on his lips?
She wouldn’t leave his mind. He replayed the rejection so many times, involuntarily and voluntarily, Mingi found himself attracted to the bored stare she gave him. Eyebrows straight, lips wet from liquor, shoulders slouched, not even a hint of a smile. She’s beautiful. She doesn’t care about him. She’s perfect for him.
He has to do something, has to commit some kind of crime, or somehow get Wooyoung kicked out of the school. He sat his teammates down in the dining room days later, the whiteboard they kept for discussing gameplay filled with scribbles and lines in red at the head of the table, in the center was a circled photo of her. His teammates called him crazy, down bad, but Mingi considers himself the next Albert fuckin’ Einstein.
All he has to do is prove to Winter that he’s better than Wooyoung. Easy.
“...I’m sorry you feel that way?” Your eyes, so wide they took over the entire upper half of your face as you all but screeched, “doll?!”
Yeosang and Jongho eyed each other from across the table, then redirected their gaze back onto you. The three of you at the most popular coffee shop on campus, Lucent, you didn’t even care to have this conversation somewhere private, all the ears who might listen should take it as a warning. You considered it a service to the ATZU campus.
Yeosang, green hair messily waved over his cheekbones, sighed, “I can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I know,” you bit back, eyes pointed, already prepared for that response. “But can you wait before saying I told you so and comfort me first?”
“Thank you,” you grumbled, “it’s just stupid. She’s not even prettier than me.”
Yeosang and Jongho shared another look, but it’s Jongho who spoke up this time, “I bet she’s not, probably just easy.”
“Exactly!” You screeched again, eyes wide, jumping out of your seat a little. After receiving looks from around the semi-crowded shop, you shrank in your seat again, cheeks heating up. In a quieter, but still sharp voice, you continued, “Because that’s what Wooyoung likes. He’s a no-good piece of shit who just wants to get his dick wet, it doesn’t matter who wets it.”
“I wish someone would have told you that before you jumped in bed with him,” quips Yeosang, a small grin playing on his lips. When you cursed him out with nothing but your eyes, his smile disappeared.
“Why are we blaming me?” Your fingers curled onto the table as your eyes danced between your two best friends, probably looking insane, but you didn’t care. “I’m the victim here. He played me.”
Jongho runs a hand through his hair, still half-damp from his training this morning, or maybe he actually showered after the gym this time. He sits back in the booth, eyeing you with a bored look, “Wooyoung plays everything. All he does is play, that’s who he is.”
“Well, forgive a girl for wanting to be different.”
Yeosang snorts, and the way your eyes pierce his soul makes his laugh die on his tongue. “What are you laughing at?” You scoff, “You can’t even look your girl in the eye publicly.”
Yeosang gasps, “Do not bring up my situation because you’re pissed about your own.”
“Well?” Your head shakes, arms flailing about in front of you to say What the fuck is the difference?
“Okay!” Jongho intervenes, his arm literally laying over the black table between you to cut the two of you off. “I’m sorry you’re upset, and I’m sorry he hurt you. But he seriously isn’t worth a shred of emotion, you aren’t losing anything by cutting him off.”
You bury your face in your palms, elbows holding you up. Muffled from the edges of your hands over your mouth, you mutter, “He’s so hot, and he’s so good at sex.”
Jongho chuckles, his head shaking, you could see it even with your hands over your eyes. “Is that why all the girls on campus flock to him? Because he’s a good fuck?”
You split four fingers down the middle to peek an eye out, “Yes. And he has this, like, magnetizing aura about him, I don’t know. He’s good at talking, at making you feel special, like wanting him was your idea all along.”
“Hm,” Yeosang’s head tilts, plopping back into the booth, arms crossed. “So he’s just… a manipulator?”
You whine, faking an annoying, high-pitched crying noise. “Yes, he’s really good at it.”
“Damn,” Jongho mutters under his breath, “he’s giving the whole campus problems. How long until he runs through everybody, you think?”
“Not long,” you grumble, “who else is he giving problems?”
“Mingi,” Jongho’s lips scrunch to one side, and a shiver runs down your spine. Mingi. “He wanted to bag this one girl and she dubbed him for Wooyoung. He’s torn up about it.”
“He should be torn up,” you snatch Yeosang’s coffee cup from in front of him and take a long sip. He makes a face like he’s disgusted you’re drinking from his cup, so you make the same one back, mocking him.
Yeosang turns to Jongho, “Mingi never gets dubbed. What is Wooyoung, like a sex god?”
“He’s the bad boy trope in every shitty coming-of-age movie you’ve ever seen,” you sip again until you hear the rattle of the last bits of liquid between ice cubes. Yeosang makes the same face when you slide the coffee cup back to him.
“Mingi is genuinely losing his fucking mind,” Jongho laughs a little, shaking his head like he didn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t think the man has ever been told no in his life.”
“I wouldn’t tell him no, that’s for sure,” you say with the smallest laugh, and Jongho gives you a long stare, like he’s putting puzzle pieces together. You look on either side of you, then down at your shirt, then back up to him, “Do I have something on my face?”
Jongho shakes his head, eyes widening like he was about to shout eureka, “This could work.”
“What could work?” You ask, and within four seconds of him not responding, you ask again, “Ho, what could work?”
“Stop calling me Ho,” Jongho’s lip lifts in distaste, “Mingi’s trying to figure out a way to get revenge on Wooyoung, or prove that he’s better than Wooyoung, I guess, so he can steal the girl from him.”
“Just tell him to wait a month and she’ll be free again,” you shrug, “he doesn’t need an elaborate plan.”
Yeosang’s brows raise, bottom lip flipped over, shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say Yeah, true.
Jongho holds a finger up between you, “What if I set you up with Mingi?”
Your jaw drops, a disgusting sound leaving your lips that you’d die if anyone else heard. “Me? And Mingi? Are you stupid?”
“No, no, no,” he shakes his finger back and forth, “hear me out. Wouldn’t Wooyoung be pissed off if you bounced back with the star QB mere days after he cut you off?”
You, still sitting in anxious disbelief, plant your palms against the black table, shaking your head rapidly. “Even if he is–”
“Hear me out,” Jongho says a little stronger, and your lips smack back together. “Wooyoung will be so enraged that he cuts the girl off and gets back with you, maybe he’ll even be so mad he realizes his feelings for you were stronger than he thought–”
Yeosang cuts him off, “Hold on a second–”
“–Mingi gets the girl, and then you can break Wooyoung’s heart to get back at him.”
You sit back in the booth, arms crossing, face scrunching together in thought because it actually doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Jongho is grinning like he’d just solved one of the seven wonders of the world, and Yeosang is looking back and forth between you like he’s never heard anything so fucking stupid.
“There’s no way in hell you’re actually considering this,” Yeosang’s voice is shaky, drenched in disbelief, “have you ever watched To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before?”
“This is different,” you’re quick to answer, “I’m not Lara Jean, there are no letters, there’s just an Wooyoung who needs to learn what it feels like to be on the opposite end of the knife.”
“And Mingi won’t shut up until he sinks his claws into that girl, I think it’s a pretty even exchange,” Jongho adds, both of you two peas in an optimistic pod while Yeosang just stares, dumbfounded.
He blinks once, twice, before his lips part to speak, sucking in a breath. They close, and his face twists in confusion, “Let me get this straight, you’re suggesting fake dating Song Mingi, like, football player Song Mingi. And you think he’ll agree?”
You turn to Jongho who just shrugs. “Why not?”
“I don’t know how to say this without insulting you, girl,” Yeosang’s bottom lip is tugged down to expose his bottom row of teeth, a nervous but apologetic look. “But his taste is… refined. Of snotty girls and like, barbie dolls. Plus, you’re opposites.”
“Fuck you Yeosang, I’m hot!” You immediately bark out, then turn to Jongho, “I’m hot, aren’t I?”
“Yeah Yeo, she’s hot,” Jongho nodded, saying Yeosang’s name like it was an insult, then immediately cringing because those words feel gross on his tongue, “Mingi will be into it, trust me. And if he’s not, I’ll just remind him of the bigger picture, it’s not like he has to kiss her or anything.”
You make a face that is nowhere near pleased, lips thinning, brows flattening. “You guys have known me too long, you’re too comfortable insulting me to my face.”
Yeosang barely gives you a glance, “She doesn’t party anymore, she doesn’t socialize with anyone outside her study group and us. They’re opposites, even if she’s–” he cringes, “–hot.”
“Her study group goes out!” Jongho argues, also not sparing you a glance, “Jia and Riyo are always at the LAX house, she can just tag along with them or with Mingi or whatever. I don’t know, once I get him to agree, it’s out of our hands.”
Your jaw drops again. “Out of your hands? Hello? I’m right here, first of all, second, this is your idea, Ho.”
The flex in Jongho’s jaw is his way of saying stop it with the fucking nickname. Deadpanning, he responds, “It’s just an idea, you and Mingi can figure out the details.”
“Stop acting like he said yes already,” Yeosang argues, amusement in his voice now, “you’ll get her hopes up of fucking a football guy.”
You can’t react to the response, because fucking Song Mingi would be a dream— not that the football part has anything to do with it. Your face reflects the thought.
“He’ll say yes,” Jongho nods, “trust me.”
“Fuck no. Are you stupid?”
Maybe Jongho should have waited until they got to the gym, or at least until after Mingi had consumed four bites of his breakfast. Maybe waking him up a minute before his alarm went off at a mere six in the morning wasn’t the best idea, but his anxiety wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Come on,” Jongho whines, legitimately whines, because if Mingi didn’t say yes he’d have to hear about it for weeks to come, and he can’t bear to hear another complaint from the older man’s mouth. “She said yes already, it’s the perfect plan. Girls are jealous like that, they want what they can’t have.”
Dark hair, a little oily and piecey on his head, shooting out in every which way, he was shirtless under the navy blue comforter, sheets crumpled at the foot of his bed. Jongho can’t remember the last time Mingi used the washing machine in the basement of the football house.
Mingi sits up a little, yawning, before looking up to Jongho with an uninterested look, “Is she hot?”
Jongho can’t help the face he makes. Head craning back and forth, almost touching each shoulder as a high pitched, unconvincing, “Yeah,” slides from his lips.
Mingi smacks his lips, laying back in his bed and turning away, pulling the comforter over his shoulders as he utters, “Waking me up before my alarm for some bullshit, Jongho.”
Jongho tries defending himself, “I’ve known her since she was fourteen, she’s like a sister. If you’re talking about, like, conventionally attractive then I guess, yes—”
“I don’t even know what conventionally means,” Mingi huffs, “get out of my room.”
“Mingi, Wooyoung just broke her heart, she wants revenge, and you want the girl. It's an even exchange, no strings. You have nothing to lose.”
Mingi’s grumble slowly grows in volume as he turns back over, eyes still closed. “What about my pride? Making some elaborate scheme just to get a girl who I shouldn’t even care about.”
Jongho’s lips thin— not the pity party, again. He can’t listen to it another time or else he might explode. They’ve already hidden the whiteboard.
He bends at the knees, arms folding over the empty space at the edge of Mingi’s mattress, “Listen, bro, it’ll stay between me, you and her—” and Yeosang, “—it’s the perfect plan. You don’t even have to learn her last name, just stand next to her for a little while until your dream girl’s interest is piqued. Easy peasy.”
One of Mingi’s eyes opened, “It’ll work?”
Jongho nods.
“And she’s hot?”
Jongho’s lips thin again, but he nods.
“Fine,” Mingi huffs, “tell her to come over or something so I can get a good look before I agree to this.”
If it was any other circumstance, your fingertips would be buzzing at your sides, heart pounding in your chest with having a man so beautiful in front of you. Plump lips, dark hair still a little damp laying over his sculpted cheekbones, strong shoulders on display in his sleeveless tank. He sat sunken into the couch, one leg folded over the other with his ankle kissing his knee, arms crossed over his chest. Gorgeous. His skin looks so soft you want to touch it— maybe lick it.
But he did not look pleased. On top of ruining the fantasy, you’re disappointed that men like him still exist.
Standing before him across the living room, a hip popped with your arms crossed, the only thing Jongho said to you before walking inside the football house was that Mingi wanted to meet you. Not that you’d be put on display for him to judge your appearance before he agreed to being your fake fucking boyfriend.
“This is misogynistic in ways my mind can’t even comprehend right now,” you huffed the words to Jongho, your best friend of nearly a decade, not even looking at Mingi. As far as you’re concerned, he’s not in the room anymore. He no longer fucking exists.
There was an apology in his deep brown eyes, his features softened, lips tightened. But he didn’t answer. Mingi’s thick eyebrows were furrowed, top lip curled, but his eyes didn’t read distaste even if his body language portrayed it. With the rage simmering within you right now, he should thank whatever god he prayed to that you weren’t at the boiling point yet.
“I don’t know what that means,” Mingi shakes his head a little, voice lazy, “this will do, though. I guess.”
“You guess?” Your entire face jerks forward, “You fucking guess? I’m a human, you know. Standing right in front of you.”
“No shit,” Mingi sighs, head leaning back into the couch cushion, chin tipped up, face reading utter boredom. “You’ll get me the girl, though? You’re sure she’ll want me if I pretend I’m… dating you?”
He said the words like you casted a fucking curse on him.
Your eye twitched as you glance at Jongho. Meeting his apprehensive stare you uncurled your arms from your chest, legs moving for the front door, “Fuck no, I’m not doing this. Absolutely not, plan is cancelled.”
“Wait!” Jongho stands, eyes wide, palms pressing into your shoulders to stop you from walking straight out the front door. “He’s tired, we had a hard practice today. He’s not usually this bad, I swear, I swear.”
“What do you mean?” Mingi sits up a little, turning halfway to see the two of you, “What do you mean ‘this bad’? I’m being normal.”
“See?” Your arm flies in his direction, “he’s being normal. You never told me he’s a fucking asshole, Ho.”
“An asshole!?” Mingi stands up straight, arms at his side, jaw dropped. “I have to tell every single person in my life I’m dating you, and I’m an asshole for wanting to make sure it’s fitting?”
“What are you so worried about?” You raise your voice, “you’re twenty-one years old, it’s college, it’s not like you have a reputation to uphold, no one cares. You play football, big fuckin’ deal.”
Mingi gasps, insulted, “Big deal? Big deal? It’s my entire future, thank you very much.”
“You won’t have a future if you treat women like they’re your little playthings,” you snap, voice bitter, “is the NFL gonna draft a misogynist?” You smack your lips, eyes meeting the floor, regretting the words as soon as you said them. The NFL would in fact draft a misogynist. Plenty of them, actually.
“Why do you even care? We just have to show face a few times,” Mingi responds, voice bored yet again, “you don’t have to like me, I don’t have to like you. I just want her.”
Rage bubbles up inside you again as Wooyoung crosses your mind. It would feel really, really good to hurt him after he hurt you. And Mingi’s right, you guess, you don’t have to get to know him, or speak to him ever again after this. You could look past the flaws you were sure ran deep if it was just temporary. Situational.
You look up, brows flat, mumbling the reiteration, “A few times.”
Jongho is nodding, smile growing as his eyes bounce between you, whispering, “Yes, friendly, this is good, this is good.”
You face Mingi from across the couch, holding up a flat hand, curling a finger into your palm with each rule, “We don’t speak to each other outside of pre-scheduled meetings, we only act like a couple when there’s people watching, and do not fucking touch me.”
“Don’t touch you?” Mingi pops a brow, “people won’t believe we’re a couple. How am I gonna prove to her I’m boyfriend-worthy if I can’t show off my boyfriend skills?”
“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking away, “you’re right. Wooyoung won’t be jealous if you don’t make him jealous.”
“Exactly,” Mingi’s brows raise, pleased, dimples out to play as his lips thin in a tight smile. “I don’t want to touch you as much as you don’t want to touch me, trust.”
Your head snaps up to shoot him another pointed stare, grumbling under your breath, “Asshole.”
Mingi’s smile morphs into a nasty little smirk, “Your asshole now, baby.” You give him an unimpressed, blank stare and his smirk falters as what he said sinks in. Sheepishly, he mumbles, “Sounded better in my head.”
“Like you actually think before you speak,” you snap, rolling your eyes, bringing your attention back to Jongho who looks like if he breathes wrong his entire plan will go in the shitter. “I’ll figure out where Woo will be next, you can tell Mingi and plan out when we’re meeting and where, whatever. Keeping this very much so in your hands, Ho.”
“Good,” you nod, then glance back at Mingi, “don’t embarrass me by saying stupid shit around people, ‘kay?”
Mingi cocks his head to the side wearing the biggest smile, “Don’t embarrass me by wearing that outfit in public again, ‘kay?”
FIRST OUTING: SOFT LAUNCH, THE LAX HOUSE. 11:20 PM.
“How the hell did you get Song Mingi to be your boyfriend?” Riyo is on your hip, bright red hair in a single braid down her back, denim booty-shorts hugging her hips, a cropped, tight bandeau top covering her chest. You suppose for where you went to school that was the uniform, something you quickly realized weeks into your freshman year, clothes were optional here.
You scoff, walking in-step with her, grass from the lawn of the LAX house sneaking around the edges of your flip-flop covered feet. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”
She giggles, a step ahead of you as she walks up the front stairs, “It’s weird, you have no correlation to the football team. Where did you even meet him?”
“On campus,” your voice is high-pitched, certainly not convincing. You clear your throat, “I mean, I applied to be a part of the football team’s academics unit, I just got in, like, a month ago.”
Riyo pauses at the door, a hand on her hip, eyebrows furrowed, “The fuck? And you just didn’t tell me that you,” she counts on her fingers, “applied, got accepted, and started?”
“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, nervously laughing to cover up the so fucking obvious lie, “I’m just helping them study, Mingi and I.. clicked.”
God, the words feel sour. So unconvincing you could vomit– and he’s inside, waiting for you, you could really fucking empty your guts on the LAX house’s porch. It’s already cluttered with lacrosse sticks, solo cups, backpacks, containers of white balls you can only assume are used in the game, your vomit would probably go unnoticed. Or washed away by beer, maybe your tears by the end of the night.
You don’t know why you agreed to this, it was a moment of weakness. Of rage. Wanting revenge. Because behind the stained, scratched white door, was the entire lacrosse team, the entire football team, God knows who the fuck else if Riyo’s here. You could hear the music bleeding through the walls, something with heavy bass, something rap, something you might know if you opened the door.
Jongho texted you yesterday that Mingi asked for you to make your first appearance here, he said it was the perfect spot, that Wooyoung and Winter might even be here. As much as you were regretting your decision, you hoped he was here. You want to see the look on his face when he spots you at Mingi’s side, when word spreads that you’re dating him, you want to watch his face morph into confusion, into regret, hopefully something lustful that you could use to your advantage.
“That’s gotta go in, like, the top five most insane things to ever happen on this campus,” Riyo wears a supportive smile, yet her head still shakes in disbelief, “I’m happy for you, though. Actually, I think you kinda suit each other.”
You fight the cringe, that was an insult. You smile instead, already hating the words about to come out of your mouth, “Let’s go inside, I wanna see him.”
You’ve been here before, you frequented the LAX house plenty freshman year, a lot less sophomore year after your fling with Kim Mingyu, you haven’t been here once yet this year. It hasn’t changed, medium-sized house, open floor plan, giant kitchen, silver appliances. The furniture was dull, broken in, old, thrifted. It’s nostalgic, being here, these people, you barely see the lacrosse team on campus, you know a few of them from your times here as a freshman, mornings escaping after a night with Mingyu, you don’t know anyone well enough to be considered a friend.
Riyo is immediately squealing upon walking inside, hugging girls you only know the first names of, you smile in greeting from behind her. Jia, another girl from your study group that you’re close with, approaches with the same squeal Riyo had unleashed on the room, her dark hair styled in waves behind her back, deep, golden-olive skin glowing beneath the barely-there lights in the room.
Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees you, “Hello? Shut the fuck up?”
“Hey baby,” your tongue sneaks out between your teeth and she squeals again, throwing her arms over your shoulders in a tight hug. Swaying you side to side, she’s a giggling mess, sandal-covered feet tapping against the floor.
“I haven’t seen you here since last year!” She yells, grin spread wide, showing her dazzling white teeth you couldn’t believe shone so bright in a room this dark.
You shrug, smiling, “I have good reason.”
“She’s seeing her boyfriend,” Riyo teases, nudging you with her shoulder, smiling like a fucking crazy person. Leaning in close to Jia, her voice is still loud, even if she was trying to be secretive, “Song Mingi.”
Jia looks like nothing in the world makes sense, and she’s been transported to another dimension. “I saw you two nights ago, babe, and there was not one mention of a boyfriend, most certainly not a word about Song Mingi.”
“We’re not being, like, super public about it,” you shake your head, cheeks burning, “it’s chill guys, seriously, don’t make a huge deal about it, he’s not a celebrity.”
“Closest we’ll ever get to one, plus, last I heard you were still fucking Wooyoung,” the look on Jia’s face hasn’t left, and God you wish you thought out a better plan with Mingi before you left the football house the other day, you’re scrambling for a story.
“Ew, why are you talking about him?”
Speak of the fucking devil– a shiver racks down your now rigid spine, you fix your eyes that involuntarily widened. Jia and Riyo watch with dropped jaws as Mingi slides an arm over your shoulder, an easygoing smile on his face, looking at you so fucking fondly it makes your heart skip a beat. Fuck him for being so damn beautiful.
Dark shirt clinging to his torso, showing off every fucking muscle that was etched into his skin beneath it, his hair was styled, purposely messy how it hung over the sides of his head where it was shorter, faded into his skin. Baggy jeans on his legs, low enough to show the Calvins under them, he wore a skinny, silver chain around his neck, one to match on his wrist, with pretty, bulky rings on his fingers.
This is so fucking unfortunate– he’s beautiful and he sucks, you hate him, his personality, the misogyny he so easily wields as a weapon, it makes you sick. He doesn’t deserve a perfect face and an even more perfect body. Fuck him.
“We were talking about you,” you force a smile on your lips, turning back to Jia and Riyo as your stiff body leans into Mingi’s huge one, so stiff and broad and muscled you tried to not pay too much attention to it. “Of course you missed it.”
“Start again,” his smile is cheesy, so fucking cheesy you want to slap it off his face. “I wanna hear all the cute things my baby said about me.”
Spit lodges in your throat that constricts around nothing, you choke. Coughing, you pull away from his grip, turning around, smacking your chest with a fist, eyes tearing– he did not just call you baby unironically.
He leans in close, feigning concern, “Are you okay?”
Your other hand flies up, back still facing him, “Fine– fuck.”
Gathering yourself, you turn back around, plastering a smile onto your face. Bidding a wave to the two girls, through gritted teeth, you ask him in a false, sweet voice, “Don’t you have people to introduce me to?”
He quirks a brow, but nods, slinging his arm over your shoulder again as he guides you away from your group of friends. Voice low, keeping himself tight to your ear, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”
“Do not ever call me baby again,” you keep your smile, but your voice is venomous, “that was fucking disgusting.”
“You think I enjoyed it?” He whispers back, voice pitched sharply, “It’s kinda part of boyfriendism, no? Pet names and shit?”
You’re wading through the crowd, Mingi shooting smiles and dapping up tens of people you don’t know, mainly men, all beefy and drunk and eyes dilated like they just railed lines in the kitchen. You shift your shoulders under his heavy ass arm, “Jesus, Mingi, I’m not a fucking ledge for you to put your whole weight on, big ass.”
He grins as he looks down at you, wiggling his brows, “You think my ass is big?”
You roll your eyes, “I don’t think I’m gonna survive you.”
“You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that line,” his grin is proud, he’s not even looking at you as he says it, eyes focused on the people in front of him, in the hallway where a large table is set up, holding a messy game of beer pong. Water beneath the table, a shallow film on top of the painted surface, swirls of brown covering your school’s logo shittily lined in black, gross.
You don’t have time to scoff– you know these guys, Jeno, Chris, Kai, Haechan, Soobin, Changbin. All on the football team, all huge, you’re already vibrating, body stiffening under Mingi’s arm that’s so casually thrown over your shoulders, heavy and thick. Suffocating.
You wish you could be meeting them under different circumstances. You’re tainted now, if they even cared about boy-code, which they might not usually, but you wondered if Mingi pulled rank with them, or if girlfriends were off limits compared to casual lays. Your answer is quickly delivered to you on a silver platter as Jeno eyes you from across the table, hip to hip with Chris who does the same, eyes sliding down your body and back up like they were sizing you up, waiting to pounce.
Your posture changes, subtle, but your arms uncurl from in front of you, back arching slightly, eyes drooping into that pretty, low stare that did Wooyoung in when you first met him. A small smile on your lips, you tilt your head away from Mingi while he introduces you– as his girlfriend. Right. You lock back in, blinking into focus, smiling and nodding to each man that introduces himself like you didn’t already know all of their names and their positions.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Changbin has one palm planted on the painted table, clearly he didn’t care about the murky water, one of his hands palms a can of beer close to his chest, “you were crying over what’s-her-face two minutes ago.”
Mingi makes a face, head nodding towards you with his eyebrows raised like he was silently telling Changbin to shut the fuck up, like you weren’t supposed to hear that, as if you didn’t know already. He’s playing it up, smart.
“Nice to meet you,” Chris grins from the other side of the table, his voice warm, smile pretty, it makes you feel fuzzy inside. You can’t wait to fake-break-up with Mingi. “Your boyfriend didn’t get you a drink yet?”
“Was waiting for one of you to do it for me,” Mingi juts his chin out in Kai’s direction and he nods, eyes wide as he receives the order, and he scrambles. Like, literally scrambles. Nonchalantly you nudge your elbow into Mingi’s ribs, silently telling him to stop being an asshole.
Hiding his hiss in a forced laugh, he steals his arm back from around your shoulders, hiding his formerly exposed ribs, “You should have one hand-delivered to you, ba– sweetheart.”
God, you can feel the bile churning in your gut. You fix your face before it morphs into full disgust.
“How did you two meet?” Haechan asks, his voice whiney– you were not expecting that from his bulky build, broad and toned, so hot. His cherry-red hair is a mess of curls atop his head, skin bronzy under the far light dimming the hallway, allowing them to see the game, you presume.
“The library.”
“On campus.”
You and Mingi respond at the same time, then look at each other, eyes panic-stricken at the fumble. You couldn’t repeat your lie from earlier, they would know you aren't a part of their study team, all you could think was on campus, a generic answer.
You stutter, “The– The library.”
“The one that’s on campus,” Mingi nods, assured.
“Why the fuck were you at the library?” Soobin asks, leaned up against the wall of the hallway, dark brows furrowed, two hands around his can of beer. Valid question, your heart picks up speed in your chest, you weren’t expecting them to pry.
“Studying,” Mingi responds nonchalantly, his voice high, shoulders shrugging.
“Extra tutoring,” you add, “on top of what you guys have, yeah. One of the girls on your academics team told me Mingi needed extra help and volunteered me because our schedules lined up.”
“Exactly,” Mingi nods, lips pursed in an attempt to be more convincing, “love at first sight type shit.”
You tuck your lips between your teeth to hide your smile, smothering the snort that fights to climb to the surface, redirecting your gaze to the floor beneath you. You can’t wait to make fun of him for that line later.
“Right,” Changbin’s brows are tied together, dark hair sprawled across his forehead, almost hiding his skepticism. He redirects his attention to Jeno, the silver-haired hunk of a man beside him, Chris splitting the three. Tilting his chin up, he asks, “Keep playing?”
Mingi’s lips tighten, turning to you again, “Should we go find where Kai is?”
“Sure,” you sigh, flipping your hair off your now slightly sticky shoulders, “I could use a drink.” One of his hands slides to your lower back, guiding you away, and you realize then that he doesn’t have a drink– moving in-step towards the kitchen, you ask, “You’re not drinking?”
“No, not tonight,” his voice is monotonous, he doesn’t look down, keeps his eyes ahead. “Need a clear mind if I’m gonna lie to a hundred people.”
“It’s hot in here,” you complain, face crunching to cringe, it’s humid for November, even for where you live.
“I can tell, you’re sweating all over me, bro,” he responds, voice dripping in boredom, pressing his hand to your back a little harder instead of removing it from your body altogether. “Gross.”
“Then take your hand off me, bro,” you huff, turning the corner, the kitchen coming into view. Surprising high ceilings, white cabinets, silver appliances, marble countertops, probably the nicest room in the whole house, you wondered if there was still a hole in the back door from that one night Hoshi got a little too drunk. You sneer, “You probably smell like a wet dog after practice.”
You spot a few members of the lacrosse team in the corner, standing in front of the back door, a black mesh screen severing the house from the backyard, letting cool air from outside in. Joshua, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, a joint lit in Seungkwan’s mouth, the youngest of the three, a sophomore. Guess they really chilled out during their off-season, no worries about a drug test in their future. Good for them.
“I smell like a beautiful woman after practice,” Mingi scoffs, guiding you in front of him with his palm, hands gliding up to sit on your shoulders, pushing you through people that parted at the sight of him. You keep a tight-lipped smile on your face, giving a small nod each time you make eye contact with someone new. He leans down into your ear, “You’d probably like it, you’re the gross one. Pheremone-lover.”
“Keep your androstenone away from me,” you answer with disgust in your voice, without changing your face an inch, “you probably don’t even know what that is.”
“Guilty as charged, smart girl,” he catches Kai’s head of blonde hair over the crowd, the two men probably the tallest in the entire kitchen. “Huening!” Mingi yells, stealing Kai’s attention, he wears a wide, excited grin, holding two cans of beer over his head like he’d discovered the One Piece.
“I got beer!” He yells across the kitchen, immediately wading through people to get to you and Mingi. A freshman, you think, also on the offensive line, Jongho’s told you about him– a smart kid with great instincts for football, uses his build to his advantage. Innocent, ignorant like a child, a little stupid, he’s cute. Chubby cheeks, a kind smile, your already heated skin rises in temperature as he approaches, opening your can for you.
You introduce yourself properly, thanking him for the beer, “How’s your first year on the team?”
Mingi’s head snaps down to look at you, brows tied together in surprise.
Kai grins, blushing immediately, running a hand through his blonde hair, “Great, thanks for asking, the guys are really cool, Coach is terrifying lowkey, but he’s cool, too.”
You giggle, head tilting, “I’ve heard that, he’s famous though, right? Coach Suh?”
“Yeah, he’s like, renowned in the football world,” Kai babbles on, the two of you erupting into easy conversation, all while Mingi’s head bobs back and forth, watching, listening, his confusion growing with each new word that falls from your lips.
He can’t help but interject, “Since when do you know so much about the team?”
Your giggle slows to a stop, smile faltering, “What do you mean? I’ve always known, this is a D1 school, silly.”
Silly is synonymous with stupid fuck, he can feel it in how your pointed eyes stare into him.
“She couldn’t be your girlfriend if she didn’t know football, Song,” Kai adds, so innocent, so easygoing, oh my God you love him.
Mingi nods like he was the one who reminded himself you were his girlfriend, not Kai, forcing a laugh out, more punched and nervous than anything. “Right, yeah, yeah.”
Your blood runs cold as you catch a head of recognizable black hair around Kai’s ridiculously huge bicep, bronzy skin, a cloud of smoke surrounding him like it was his brand, his aura. Your eyes widen, head swerving around Kai’s arm to get a better look, taking in his leather jacket, the rings on his fingers, the cigarette dangling between his teeth as he smiles, Corona in one of his hands.
“Nice meeting you, Kai,” you don’t even look at the boy, grabbing onto Mingi’s arm, dragging him sideways, away from Kai’s earshot. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.”
“Who? Who?”
“Who do you think, dumbass?” You spit, chin pointing in Wooyoung’s direction, “The only man who’s more of an asshole than you.”
“Oh my God, she’s with him,” a hand comes up to cover Mingi’s mouth, his brown eyes wide, excitement gleaming in chocolate, drawing them hazel. Beside Wooyoung is Winter, long, dark hair pinned up halfway, a short, black skirt on her hips, halter top tugging her upper half just right. He lowers his voice, “Fuck, she’s so hot.”
“Pause,” you turn to him as the realization sinks in– he wants Winter? Winter is the girl you’re helping him get? Kim Minjeong? “You want Winter?!”
“Yes,” he groans out, head tilting back, a whine to his voice like he was four years old and you just took away his favorite toy. “She’s perfect, dude. Like, perfection in a human, I love her, I think.”
“What the fuck?” Completely baffled, you shake your head in disbelief at how perfect this is lined up. You don’t know how you didn’t put it together sooner, you didn’t once think about who Mingi wants, who the girl might be. You didn’t really care. “This is good, this works in our favor, this is perfect, actually,” you’re rambling as you turn around, watching Wooyoung and Winter across the room, how Wooyoung introduces her to the lacrosse trio at the backdoor, how he pulls his cigarette from his lips to press them to her cheek in a short kiss.
“Ew, he’s touching her, that’s my wife,” Mingi props his forearm on your shoulder, you immediately shake yourself out of his grip, eyes never leaving them, laser-focused. He whines, “Comfort me, I’m heartbroken. He’s touching her, bro.”
“They’re together, what do you expect?” You whisper-yell, twisting around to get him out of your personal space. “How can we get their attention? We need them to see us together, being coupled up and shit.”
“I’m boys with Shua and Wonwoo, we can go over there,” Mingi suggests, finally looking at you, and the excited gleam in his eye was now dulled down to desperation, a sadness only caused by yearning. If he wasn’t such an asshole, you might feel bad for him.
You nod, “Good idea, let’s do it. Let’s go, come on, football boy.”
With his hands on your shoulders again, you guzzle the beer in your hands as you cross the kitchen, eyes screwing shut as the spicy carbonation burns your throat. Beer is so fucking gross, at least it’s cold, it gets the job done– you burp before you approach them, a closed fist covering your mouth in an attempt to hide the noise.
“Ew!” Mingi gasps from behind you, “Did you just burp? You’re disgusting, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Shut up,” you spit, “I couldn’t help it, and they’ll hear you, go back to boyfriendism and make it believable.”
“You want me to put on a show?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, the wiggle of his stupid thick brows.
“I do, actually,” you answer with a defeated sigh, “do your worst.”
Approaching the lacrosse trio, Wooyoung and Winter, Mingi throws his arms fully around your front, tucking your back into his chest, his chin sitting on the top of your head. In an obnoxious yell, he makes his presence known, “Hey guys, how we doin’ tonight?”
Ew. One of your hands wraps around his forearm glued to your chest, a wide grin on your cheeks, your head leaned up against one of his biceps that boxes you into his hold, “Hey guys.”
“Song!” Joshua yells, smile widening, lighting up his whole face, “I was hoping you’d show tonight.”
Wooyoung’s smile drops when he sees you, you meet his eyes immediately, your fake grin turning real. Yes, be mad, be so angry you flip the fuck out.
“Of course I’d show,” there’s so much confidence in Mingi’s voice it’s nauseating, “had to introduce my girl to all my people, do you guys know her?”
With a coy smile, you introduce yourself as Mingi’s girlfriend, head leaning into his chest impossibly further, forcing a stupid, lovestruck look on your face, you prayed it was believable.
Joshua nods, as does Wonwoo, both recognizing you from all the times you’ve been here, probably also your fling with Mingyu. The two lacrosse boys greet you kindly, where Seungkwan introduces himself, newer to the team, to those who party in their house.
“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Wonwoo’s brows furrowed, “the campus isn’t burned down, I’m confused.”
You and Mingi both laugh, but Mingi says, “I don’t think word has spread yet, don’t worry, expect the heat soon.”
“It’s hot enough,” you add, rolling your eyes, “your fangirls will be just fine, there won’t be a fire.”
“You have no idea,” Joshua snorts, “I remember one girl having to deactivate her Instagram account because word got out you were sleeping with her, remember that, Min?”
“Let’s not talk about the past in front of my girlfriend,” Mingi’s voice slips into something strict, “it’s disrespectful, Shua.”
You stiffen in his arms, that’s oddly kind, it makes your situation more believable. You briefly wonder how Mingi is with his girlfriends, if there’s any form of chivalry in his cold, chauvinist heart.
Joshua snorts, shaking his head, “‘m sorry, you’re right, my bad.” His pretty brown eyes fall to meet yours and you melt into Mingi all over again, “Blame the weed, sweetheart, my social awareness has depleted to zero.”
“It’s okay,” you smile softly, liking the word as it falls from Joshua’s plump, wet lips, eyes wandering back over to Wooyoung who’s still staring, lips slightly parted, the cherry on his cigarette so long it’d fall soon. You avert your eyes to it, cocky amusement in your tone, “Planning to start the fire yourself?”
His eyes find his cigarette and he jumps into action, twisting around to flick it in the ashtray behind him, sitting full on the corner of the kitchen island. Your eyes find Winter who’s eyes are staring up at Mingi, looking at him the same way Wooyoung was looking at you.
Your smile turns devious– it’s fucking working. You knew it would, but it’s still surprising, how stupid could these two be? Maybe they deserve each other. You remind yourself that Mingi’s stupid, too– maybe they could explore polyamory together.
“Preseason start yet?” Mingi asks, either unaware of Winter’s eyes or he’s playing his cards right, the three lacrosse boys erupt into conversation, complaining about their coach, their training, the program they go through in the fall season to ensure they’re in shape come Spring.
Wooyoung leans into Winter, a hand around her waist, pulling her into him to whisper something in her ear. It’s like she’s forced back into reality, how her hand lays over his chest, giggling at whatever he said. Gross. You could probably bet money on what nasty shit he just whispered in her ear, dirty talk so smooth it used to make you go weak in the knees, clinging to him like a moth to a flame, how she arched into him you assumed he probably asked to pull her into the bathroom. A move you’d fallen victim to plenty of times yourself.
Jealousy stems in your gut, anger pushing blood through your veins, you look up to Mingi, batting your lashes. You could do it, too. His eyes meet yours and blink into focus, into realization, you watch as his brows ever so slightly knit together, so slight it could go unnoticed, you’re sure you wouldn’t have if you weren’t so close.
A smirk creeps onto his cheeks, voice velvety and smooth, “I know what you want.” Thank God. “Excuse us,” Mingi winks at the lacrosse boys who start snickering upon the words leaving his mouth, “what the princess wants, she gets.”
You catch Wooyoung’s eye, his head whipping around Winter’s, a flicker of surprise. Winter turns too, eyes on Mingi’s biceps around your head, sinking down his build, you hope she’s thinking about fucking him. You hope Wooyoung’s thinking about all the things you’re about to fake-do to Mingi.
You wave as Mingi turns you around, voice light, “Nice to meet you, Seungkwan.”
A few steps away, his biceps flex around your head to get your attention, “Nice move, smart girl.”
You giggle to yourself in victory, bringing your beer up to your lips, “I do have to pee, though, we have to actually go to the bathroom.”
“There’s one at the end of the hallway,” he pulls his arms from around your head to sink down to your hips, his fingers curling through the loops of your denim shorts, guiding you where to go like you’ve never been here before.
Does he think you’re a LAX house newb? You run a hand through your hair, “And there’s two upstairs, one connected to Mingyu and Cheol’s room, another between Dino and Hoshi’s rooms.”
“Look at you, flexing how many bathrooms you’ve gotten laid in.”
“Only the one connected to Mingyu’s room, he’s huge, you can’t blame me.”
“Disrespectful,” he snickers, smacking his teeth, winking at his teammates he passes by in the hallway, you give them all a feigned, bashful smile. “Telling your boyfriend who you’ve slept with.”
“You don’t want to know who I’ve slept with,” you stop in front of the bathroom door, twisting the knob carefully, and thankfully, it opens. You rush inside and Mingi follows, closing the door behind him, locking it. You stare at him with furrowed brows, “What the hell are you doing?”
“We’re supposed to be fucking, remember?” His brows raise, hands landing on his hips, his face falling into the usual disgust. You didn’t have to pretend in here.
You groan, head tipping back, “I have to pee.”
“Then pee!” A hand flies out from his side, five fingers pointing to the toilet, “I’m not stopping you, there’s a toilet right there.”
“What are you gonna do, watch?”
“Are you offering?”
“Fuck you, you’re disgusting,” you spit, a revolted chill making you shiver, he laughs like it’s funny. The weight in your bladder is clear, you whine, shoving your beer into his chest, “I can’t pee if you’re in here, I’m pee-shy.”
“Do you want me to sing? Do a little dance for you?”
You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, “Actually, yeah.”
His amused smile drops, “Deadass?”
“You offered,” you shrug, “turn around, do a lil’ dance for me, football boy.”
His face morphs into regret, but he turns around, facing the shower, he takes a sip of your beer before he clears his throat, spreading his legs for comfort, his other hand finding his front pocket.
“...Seventeen-thirty-eight… Ay… I’m like hey, whatsup, hello…”
You burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth, the weight in your bladder growing excruciatingly heavy, “Fuck, I’m gonna piss my pants.”
Flipping the lid, you shove your shorts down, squatting over the gross toilet, Mingi keeps fucking singing. You’re laughing as you pee, snorting, holding onto the bathroom counter for dear life until tears cloud your vision, he’s purposely singing badly, sounding insane, he has no shame. You suppose neither do you, peeing in the same room as Song Mingi, for a second you forget who he is.
Starting quarterback for your university’s football team, he’s a known figure, important. The face of sports for your school, everyone knows his name, everyone wants him– and he’s with you, singing fucking Trap Queen in the LAX house bathroom so you can successfully empty your bladder.
Wiping, flushing, he turns around as you finish buttoning your shorts again, his voice filled with amusement. “How was that? Should I switch careers, or what?”
“Stick to football,” you mutter, then snort again as you side-step to the sink, turning the water on to wash your hands. “Also, love at first sight? We need to work on your lying skills, and your vocabulary.”
“I thought it was cute!” He defends himself, setting your beer down beside you on the countertop, “People ask too many questions, I wasn’t expecting to make up a full-fledged story every time I opened my mouth tonight.”
“You forget who you are,” you eye him through the mirror, “I wasn’t prepared, either. But enough people know now, word will spread on its own. When can we stop? Like, break up?”
“Damn, one night with me and you already want to break up?” He clutches his heart in hurt, then grins, the tip of his back leaning up against the wall, hips blocking the pole that holds the hand-towels. “Soon, though. Did you see how she was looking at me?”
You turn around, shaking your hands out on either side of you to air-dry since he’s unknowingly hiding the damn towels, clutching the countertop to haul your ass onto it, beside the sink. “Of course I saw, I also saw how you didn’t even spare her a glance.”
He smirks, wiggling his brows, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever the fuck.”
Your face morphs into confusion, “I don’t think you can use that saying here.”
“Whatever,” he scoffs, “you know what I mean. Jongho told me girls want what they can’t have, so I’m trying to make myself look very unavailable. It seemed to be working, right?”
“Yeah, she seemed into it,” you shrug, “you think Wooyoung looked pissed?”
“I don’t think he puffed that disgusting cigarette once,” Mingi gives you an impressed look, “his jaw was too busy mopping the floor.”
You giggle at that, legs swaying back and forth where they hung off the counter. Tilting your head, you wonder out loud, “I think three-ish weeks max should be enough, what do you think? If they’re showing interest now, it shouldn’t take much longer.”
He groans, “I have to endure you for three more weeks?”
“Don’t act like you aren’t having fun,” you bite back, “I’m the one who has to endure you.”
“You weren’t complaining when I was holding onto you, smushing your cheeks with my arms, girls would fight to be in your position. Your back was probably getting my shirt wet, you know, sweaty ass.”
Your jaw drops, offended, “It’s fucking hot!” Throwing yourself off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a smack, your hand flies for the doorknob, “I’ve had enough of you, actually. We’ve done plenty of damage for one night, the rest should fall in place.”
“I got it,” he turns off the bathroom light, closing the door behind him, his hand immediately going for your lower back.
“There’s no one in the hallway,” you reach back to shove his hand off you, “don’t touch me, pervert.”
“I just fucked you, and now I can’t put my hand on your sweaty ass back?”
“You didn’t even make me cum, so no.”
He laughs, a genuine belly laugh, straight from his gut, “Don’t talk shit when you have no fucking idea the things I can do.”
Under other circumstances, in another life, if he wasn’t Song Mingi, you’d love to find out. You don’t answer, cheeks flaming, ears tipping with heat, you’re forgetting yourself, a few days without consistent sex and now your stomach is dropping from words said by him? Out of all people?
You walk a little faster, aiming for your escape. At the end of the hallway, you turn your head halfway, “I’m leaving.”
He pauses in the archway, brows furrowed, voice clearly disappointed, “So soon?”
Swallowing, you nod, “I have class early tomorrow, I’ll let Jongho know what the next outing is, kay?”
SECOND OUTING: LUCENT, TWO DAYS LATER. 12:24 PM
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come to lucent
xxx-xxx-xxxx: they’re here
you: the fuck
you: who is this
xxx-xxx-xxxx: arent u the smart one bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: its mingi
you: lose my number
xxx-xxx-xxxx: bruh
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wooyoung and winter are here can u come
you: oh
you: i get out of class in 15
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i cant be here long
xxx-xxx-xxxx: theyll start to ask questions
you: mad ominous. who is they
you: ill leave early tho
The air is thick, humidity wrapping around your body like a blanket, so hot you tug your sweatshirt off your body upon leaving the lecture hall, leaving you in a thin-strapped tank, shorts on your legs, backpack slung over one shoulder. Headphones in your ears, the trek to Lucent is quick even if by the time you make it to the glass double-doors you’re sweating like a whore in church.
It’s air-conditioned, at least, battling the floor to ceiling windows that begged to let the heat inside, bright, white light invading the room, a perpetrator. It helped you find Mingi easy enough, not that you had to search, eight men squished into one booth had you snorting at the entrance.
Approaching the table, you put on your best girlfriend-smile before you even spotted Mingi. At the edge of the booth, dressed casually, much like how he looked the day you met him, he wore sweatpants and a cut-off tee, dark hair messy and sprawled across his face like he didn’t bother styling it. Heaving a breath from rushing over, you tucked your hair behind your ear, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”
He looked you up and down before meeting your eye, a smile spreading across his cheeks, “Hey, princess.”
Your nostrils flared, lips tightening in a fight to not morph into disgust, you guess that was the nickname that stuck. Searching the rest of the table, you find seven men smiling back at you, Jaemin, Taehyun, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Seungmin, Beomgyu and… Jongho. Your eyes widen, smile dropping, hands falling to your sides, words rushing from your lips, “I didn’t know you were here.”
The others turn to Jongho, who looks scared, eyes wide and lips pursed like he didn’t know what the fuck to do. He forces a smile, a nervous chuckle, “I didn’t know I’d be coming here.” His eyes cross the room, leading you to the back corner of the establishment, where Wooyoung sat on one of the comfy chairs, legs stretched out to rest on the small table in front of him, Winter perched on his lap.
You swallow, ice prickling at your scalp. You never went anywhere public with him, even at fucking Eonian, his favorite stupid dive bar, the only time you interacted was either in the bathroom, or if he was drunk enough to address you in front of other people. Your jaw clenches for a split second, fists forming at your sides before you remember where you are, who’s watching.
“Do you want anything to drink?” It’s Mingi who pulls you back up to earth, half your body already in the depths of hell from what you were mentally planning to do to Jung Wooyoung.
Plastering that same, stupid fake-smile back on your lips, you realize you’re still standing, and the booth is clearly full. The boys are nearly on top of each other, large bodies pressed together by their shoulders and thighs, you refuse his question, instead asking, “Should I pull up a chair?”
Mingi’s lips warp into a small smirk as he leans back in the booth, two hands sliding down his thighs before he slaps them twice, “Here’s your chair.”
Your smile tightens, lips flat, eyes scrunched to hide the twitch. “Of course,” there’s nothing but sarcasm in your tone, enough for Mingi to notice, more than enough for Jongho to notice, but hopefully not the others.
Pulling your backpack from your shoulder, you set it on the floor beside the booth, resting your headphones and hoodie on top. Carefully, slowly, hesitantly, you slide a leg between Mingi’s body and the table splitting the seats, trying not to cringe as you sit on the edge of his thigh. In the back of his throat he makes a strained, tight noise, one low enough for only you to hear, it makes your head snap to look at him, eyes pointed and lips thinned.
He’s just smiling, fully amused by your reaction. You wish you could speak telepathically, call him a fucking asshole for pretending you’re heavy when he lifts six days a fucking week.
His arms wrap around you, settling on your thighs, you’re too aware of the silence at the table as he shifts you farther back, in a more comfortable position– if a comfortable position actually exists on Song Mingi’s lap.
“Are you guys between classes?” You turn to the table, smile back on your cheeks, hands in your lap, “I never see you here.”
“Why are we here?” Taehyun leaned forward, dark brows that matched his hair furrowed, plump lips scrunched in question. He’s a DB, if your memory serves, on the smaller side but fucking strong.
Heeseung, from across the table, replies simply, “Mingi wanted to come.”
The table’s eyes lead to the six-foot moron behind you. You can feel him shrug, voice casual like he didn’t care that this is clearly weird, “Was feeling coffee.”
“We’ve never been here before,” Jaemin comments, or argues, you think. He sips his water bottle, no coffee on the table before him, lean build with a wide upper body, he’s fucking gorgeous. He catches your eye, flashing you a smile held in his eyes, you have to look down at the table to stop yourself from asking for his number.
“We come here all the time,” Jongho adds, your head picks up to see something playful in his eyes, lips upcurved slightly, “probably wanted to see your girlfriend’s hangout spot, right, Min?”
It’s then that you realize Jongho arranged this, Jongho knew Wooyoung was here, but why wasn’t Jongho the one to text you? Your eye twitches remembering Mingi now has your number.
He’s having too much fun chuckling from behind you, knees bouncing, making your whole body shift. His voice is coated in rock-hard candy, “Of course I wanted to see the coffee shop my girlfriend loves so much.”
Your lips tighten again, embarrassed. You’re embarrassed. He’s embarrassing you right now, and it’s on purpose.
“You’re so sweet,” you turn your head halfway, shoulders lifted into your cheeks, forcing a cheeriness to your voice that makes Jongho snort from across the table, “I’m so lucky.”
It renders Mingi’s face flat, unimpressed, he reaches forward and grabs the half-filled plastic cup filled with what looks like watered down shit, bringing it up to take a sip. Your brow pops, “Are you drinking espresso water?”
The table erupts in laughter and your head turns, brows fully furrowing at the commotion, “What?”
“Have you ever heard of an americano, du–” Mingi stops himself mid-insult, lips snapping shut.
Your top lip curls, but instead of reacting your head turns to the table again, seven fucking football players staring at you like you’re an alien, “What the fuck is an americano?”
They all laugh again, slapping each other’s chests like it was the funniest thing they’ve ever heard and unfortunately it makes you laugh with them, a nervous-confused combination of a breathy giggle, their laughter too contagious for you to not join.
Mingi holds the cup up to your mouth, making you flinch as the straw approaches your lips. He smacks his teeth, “It’s espresso diluted by water, try it, it’s good.”
Your eyes flicker up to his, and he’s not laughing, not smiling. His brows are lifted with the offer, lips slightly pouted, he looks genuine. Reluctantly you lean forward, lips wrapping around the straw, taking a sip– and it tastes exactly how it looks.
Face scrunching up in disgust, you shake your head twice, “This is why god created cream and sugar.”
That makes him laugh, a smile curving his lips, he takes another sip right after you. An indirect kiss, the immature part of your brain realizes, you wonder how many women on your campus would kill to have exactly that with Song Mingi. How many women would die to sit exactly where you sat; to feel the sheer strength of his thighs beneath them, arms brushing his chest with each movement, his biceps stretched out on either side of them.
The thought is fleeting as you hear the table laugh again, this time it startles you, jumping slightly on Mingi’s lap out of surprise. His other arm wraps around you a little tighter, your movement startling him, you quickly mumble, “My bad.”
“You’re funny,” Seungmin notes from across the booth, as you look at him you realize he’s talking to you. He’s cute, mousy face, maybe more like a hamster, or a puppy– his eyes are soft and his smile is kind, it takes the edge off his attention on you. His eyes slide to Mingi behind you, “How did you guys meet again?”
“We met here,” Mingi responds casually and your lips tighten again, the lie spins once more. He keeps going, completely theatric, “She bought me coffee because she tripped me outside the cafe.”
You gasp, brows furrowing, head twisting behind you to scold him, “That did not happen!”
His eyes are playful, smile menacing, “Oh, yes it did, we cannot have this argument again, princess.”
Your tongue pokes your cheek, following now. Fine, let’s play. Straightening your back, you respond, “It’s not my fault you tripped over your feet, I just happened to be there. You blamed it on me and threatened to call campus security if I didn’t buy you a coffee.”
Mingi shrugs, “It got me a free coffee and a girlfriend, didn’t it? Well-played, if you ask me.”
Your smile grows, shaking your head in disbelief, at the story he created, how smooth he’s playing it. Fuck him. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter with a small laugh, “I guess it did.”
Turning to the table, they all seem so locked in you almost forget you told five or six of his other teammates a completely different story. You suppose D1 football players won’t be gossiping about where you and Mingi met.
Catching Jongho’s eye in your scan, he looks surprised, almost. Maybe disbelief, how he was blinking at the two of you, his jaw dropped, lips slightly curved. You thin your eyes at him, “You know this story Ho, don’t look so surprised.”
His face quickly morphs to irritation as the table sings a chorus of laughter once more, all six of them adding the nickname to their arsenals upon it gracing their ears. You smile, proud of the work you’ve done, Jongho can do nothing but scowl.
“If any of you call me Ho I’m putting dog shit in the vents of your bedrooms,” he looks around the table, voice threatening, eyes cold.
The laughter dies down but humor dances in the air, Beomgyu is the only one still verbally giggling with his whole chest, “I don’t even care, that is so fucking funny, I’m calling you that forever.”
Jongho redirects his scowl to you, exasperated, “Look at what you did.”
“And I’d do it again,” you’re giggling too, cocky, feeling big-dicked that Jongho’s teammates find you so funny.
The feeling of being watched strikes alarm bells in your head, you turn your head to scan the room, landing on where Wooyoung sits, his lap now empty. He eyes you from across the room and you can’t read his expression, mostly boredom, but the more you look, the more the clench in jaw is visible. Elbow on the armrest, forearm bent upward, fist clenching and unclenching, he’s analyzing.
You sink further into Mingi which he accepts easily, hand lazily thrown over your thigh, you looked like a real, proper couple getting coffee between classes. The smell of cedar beckons your attention, warm and woodsy, a little spicy, it makes it easier to forget who’s beneath you, who’s body you’re so easily and openly and publicly attached to.
Two taps to your thigh grabs your attention, you pull your gaze back to the table, to the dark-headed fuck behind you, “Hm?”
“Park asked you a question, princess,” Mingi tips his chin in Sunghoon’s direction, his voice light but direct, it has your head turning to follow his motion in an instant.
“Is this your first time dating a D1 athlete?” He asks the question with innocence, expression curious, “It has to be different than dating someone who isn’t an athlete.”
You resist the urge to say first time dating, because you’ve certainly slept with a few. Instead you nod politely, humming your answer, “Definitely my first time dating someone as high-profile as Mingi.”
Sunghoon snorts, body leaning back in the booth, his build leaner than the others, strong all the same. Pretty face, structured, timeless features, you briefly wonder what he’s doing on the football team and not on a stage somewhere.
“Not gonna lie, we never thought Song would date,” Heeseung leans forward again, eyeing you from the other side of the booth, a smile playing on his lips, but there’s more truth to his words than humor.
“Not again,” Taehyun quips, “we always assumed he was too focused on his diet and his training program to actually put effort into another human.”
Mingi stiffens beneath you– a slight movement, one you can feel too easily while perched on his lap. There’s still laughter in the air, the comments read light-hearted, but you wonder if it feels that way to Mingi.
Jaemin cackles, “What the hell do you guys mean? He’s never alone.”
“Did you have him tested before you fucked him?” Seungmin wears a smirk, brows raised in your direction, “Because if you haven’t, I think you both probably should at this point.”
Mingi’s chest leans into your back, his chin popping over your shoulder, “Alright, enough.”
You can feel every single muscle pressed to your back, the plush of his broad pecs against your shoulderblades, his fucking washboard of an abdomen against your spine, you can’t even register the tension consuming the table, how everyone quiets down on Mingi’s command, holy shit. You need to get laid.
Your eyes find Wooyoung, too aware of his presence, his eyes that are still fucking on you. Dark clothes, boots crossed over one another, he held up his caseless phone like he wanted you to check yours. Blinking into focus, you reach between you and Mingi to your back pocket, pulling out your phone, clicking it on to look at your home screen.
wooyo: can we talk
wooyo: outside
You pick your head up to look at Jongho, heart picking up speed in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the men around you in another conversation. He meets your eye, furrowing his brows for a split second and fuck you wish you could speak out loud.
“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you say quietly to Mingi, barely turning your head to see his face.
His hand lifts from your thigh, “I have to leave soon.”
“That’s fine,” your voice is low, “wait until I get back so I can say goodbye.”
Don’t catch me outside talking to Wooyoung with half of your team in tow.
The restrooms are beside the exit, your escape is easy. On the far side of the building, you ignore how foul your heart feels in your chest, the pounding bass feeling like nerves instead of excitement.
It’s still putrid, hot, humid, disgusting outside, it only adds to the feeling of wrongness. It feels like an eternity before you hear the scrape of his boots against concrete, the smell of cigarette smoke circling where you stood.
“Hey,” his voice is low, casual, rough around the edges like that was his umpteenth cigarette of the day. His black tee is fitted, jeans baggy, one of his pantlegs tucked into a boot. He looked like danger personified but his skin still gleamed summer, bronzy and sparkling, pink dusting his cheeks.
“Why did you want to talk?” Your voice is sharp, no room for it to be taken any other way than rude.
Wooyoung chuckles a little, lips scrunching to blow smoke up into the air, above your bodies. He leaves room between you, enough for you to feel comfortable, but you’re sure there was a purpose. With him, there’s always a purpose.
He flicks the butt, ashing on the concrete below, eyes trained on his own movements before they slowly trail up your body to meet your gaze, making a show of checking you out, it makes you sick. Kind of.
“You’re really dating him?” It’s between a statement and a question, two of his fingers bringing the cigarette back up to his lips.
Your brows furrow, arms crossing tighter over your chest, “Yes?”
“We broke up a week ago, baby,” he chuckles, smoke escaping his mouth with each burst of breath, “that’s a little quick, don’t you think?”
“You’re one to talk,” your jaw clenches, standing straighter, “where’s your arm candy? Or did you cheat on her already?”
“She’s in there,” his voice is too light, so unbothered it genuinely pisses you off how fast your heart is beating. You wished you had a fraction of his nonchalance. “And I didn’t cheat on you, doll, we were never together in the first place.”
“Right,” you blow disbelief through your nose, rolling your eyes, body turning away from him, facing the parking lot that looked deserted even if it was packed with college kids inside. Turning your head only, you ask, “Why are you out here, Wooyoung? What do you want?”
“I still haven’t gotten my hoodie back,” his eyes are low, catching a honey bronze color in the sunlight, you hate how they steal your attention.
You crack a nasty grin, “I burned that ugly fucking hoodie.”
Inside the cafe, Mingi has caught on easily. He watched Wooyoung stand about forty-five seconds after you left for the bathroom, he doesn’t need to look to understand what’s going on, where you are. For such a shitty plan, he can’t believe it’s working so well, it’s as if Wooyoung and Winter were falling into Mingi’s palms without him having to lift a finger.
He doesn’t mind having you around, it doesn’t feel like work. You’re funny, quick-witted and smart, so smart he wonders what your major is. He wonders a lot about you, your relationship with Jongho, what you do in your free time, what the hell you were doing sleeping with Wooyoung, of all people. In the small amount of time he’s spent with you, he already knows you deserve better than a fucking asshole like him, you deserve someone who will meet you on your level.
Mingi wonders if there’s anyone on the team he can set you up with after the two of you break up. Looking around the table, there doesn’t seem to be any winners, maybe Seungmin could keep up with your banter, but Mingi thinks you might destroy him. Jaemin’s funny, but he’s stupid, he can't keep up with your smarts, he thinks Jaemin will irritate you before he entertains you. Maybe Chris, he’s smart, he’s a lot like Mingi, but he’s not one to date.
You don’t need another fuckboy asshole taking advantage of you.
It doesn’t matter, anyhow, maybe after your talk with Wooyoung the scheme will be cut short and everything will go back to normal. He won’t have to see you ever again, he’ll have Winter at his side and he can forget this ever happened, forget about you fully. Training, academics, practice, games. Playoffs are coming up– he hopes he’ll have Winter by then, cheering for him in the stands, wearing his jersey.
“Hi.”
Eyes flickering upward to a voice he recognizes, he sits a little straighter when he sees the dark-haired beauty standing at the head of the table, holding two coffee cups, wearing the prettiest, shy smile.
Winter. He could see his future like it was his past.
“Hey,” Mingi keeps his voice steady, only letting his lips curve ever so slightly. “You need something?”
She shakes her head, pink kissing her round cheeks, she looks down at her shoes, toes knocking together. “Just wanted to wish you luck with playoffs. I know your conference game is next weekend, you must be stressed.”
Mingi swallows down his giddiness, she knows who he is? She’s standing here, at the table, in front of a quarter of his team, talking to him? Wishing him luck?
“Thanks,” Mingi nods, smile growing, “no stress, we’ve got it in the bag. You’ll be there?”
She nods, “Definitely, wouldn’t miss it.” Finally looking at the rest of the table, her eyes land on each one of his teammates, and he’s loving the way each man looks like they want to devour her. Little do they know, she’s his. Her voice coy and soft, she says, “Good luck to you guys, too.”
She made it clear she was only here for Mingi.
He’d kiss her right now if he could.
She winks at Mingi as she walks away, long lashes fluttering as she makes her way back toward where she was sitting with Wooyoung before, setting the plastic coffee cups down on the table. Straight posture, dainty fingers, hair shiny and long, cascading down her back, fuck, she’s perfect.
“Your luck is crazy, Mingi,” Jaemin comments when she’s out of ear-shot, “Winter approaching when your girl goes to the bathroom? You’re one of God’s favorites.”
“Huh?” Mingi pops a brow before you pop into his mind again. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I really lucked out.”
“What are you gonna do?” Taehyun asks, “She wants you.”
Mingi scrunches his lips to one side, catching Jongho’s eye from across the table. Playing with the coffee cup on the table, spinning it in a circle between his fingers, he’s reminded who you are to Jongho. He can’t be openly disrespectful.
Mingi answers plainly, “Nothing, I have a girlfriend.”
They all snort, table erupting in laughter like that was the most stupid thing that could have left his mouth. And Mingi guesses it is, Jongho knows who he is, that this is all a plan, a ploy, for the sole purpose of Mingi dating Winter. It doesn’t matter how it all unfolds.
You startle him by barreling back to the table, barely sparing Mingi a glance as you grab your hoodie, your backpack, your headphones. Your eyes find Jongho across the table, flaring something panicked before looking back at Mingi, “I have to go.”
You don’t sound happy. Your jaw is clenched, your chest is flushed, your eyes seem glossy, Mingi finds himself concerned, internally questioning what the fuck happened outside.
“You okay?” He asks, body turning sideways, knees poking out from below the table.
Wooyoung walks by behind you, not even looking as he leisurely strolls past, the smell of cigarette smoke following him like he was purposely leaving a trail behind.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, chest rising and falling in quick succession, “but I gotta go.”
Mingi, apparently out of his fucking mind, stands abruptly, stepping toward you with furrowed brows, “I’ll come.”
“No,” you answer harshly, then lick your lips, mouth tightening like you wished you could reel the word back in. “I’m sorry, I– I’ll text you, ‘kay?”
Your eyes find the table behind Mingi, everyone staring up at you, some with furrowed brows, some acting like they didn’t hear anything at all. You reach up to put your hands on Mingi’s shoulders, standing on your tippy toes to plant a small kiss on his cheek, then whisper, “Bye.”
Mingi’s dumbfounded as you haul ass out of Lucent. Backpack bouncing behind you, you rip the door open and leave the place like an intruder had just told everyone to put their hands up. His fingers find his cheek, though, confused as he is, he turns back to the table, all of his boys already staring up at him.
“You’re fucked,” Seungmin says plainly, “she definitely saw Winter at the table, she’s pissed.”
Mingi sits back in the booth, eyes sliding to where Winter sits, meeting Wooyoung’s already-there stare. He’s smirking, eyes trained on Mingi while Winter is speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder, it makes Mingi’s top lip lift in distaste, he’s such a fucking asshole it makes him sick.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: next sunday
xxx-xxx-xxxx: four highest ranked teams get a first round bye for playoffs
you: so youre planning to be top 4 i assume
xxx-xxx-xxxx: im planning to be top 1 fym
you: hmmmm
xxx-xxx-xxxx: idk how much time ill have between now and then tho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: we might not be able to flex our fake relationship as hard
you: absence makes the heart grow fonder
you: winter will be at the game tho
you: think shell kiss you if you win???
xxx-xxx-xxxx: stop dont make me delusional bro
xxx-xxx-xxxx: and dont steal my line
you: acting like you made it up is crazy
you: saying been around for decades and here you go
you: claiming it as your own
You’re smiling at your phone, not realizing you’re giggling while Jongho and Yeosang stare at you with pointed eyes from across the living room, the two sitting comfortably on Yeosang’s couch, laptops on their laps. You came over to catch up on schoolwork after Jongho left practice, not wanting to do it at your own apartment, plus, you had to catch them up on the newest development in the Wooyoung saga.
Since you ended things, you haven’t really had time to process what happened. Quickly shoved into the fake dating scheme, you were focused on something shiny and new, you forgot to pay attention to the small part inside you that ached. Four months is a solid chunk of time, especially when most of it was over the summer where most of the campus wasn’t in attendance, the only thing on your agenda was your part-time job and Wooyoung.
Despite having something shiny and new to focus on, the loss of him still hurts. Sleeping alone, not having anyone to touch, to kiss, to tell your work drama and have them fuck it better, despite being an avoidant asshole, Wooyoung filled a gap for you the entire four months you were ‘together’.
He spoke to you the other day like you meant nothing to him. Which you knew, but to have further confirmation in such a setting, standing outside your favorite coffee shop where the other woman sat just inside, it hurt. By the end of the conversation all your pent-up, repressed feelings rose to the surface, you needed to get the fuck out of there before you sobbed all over Mingi’s americano.
Mingi. Fuck him, his pretty hair and strong body, fuck him for looking at you like he cared about your feelings. It’s all bullshit and it’s not what you need right now, you should be focused on doubling your pain and passing it straight back to Wooyoung. School should really be top priority, your weekly study group, your shifts on the weekend, your top priority should be your degree and making sure you’re stable. You didn’t think this plan would come with so much added shit.
“Who are you texting?” Yeosang asks, green and black hair straight, tucked behind his ears, showing his piercings. He wore a dark sweater, ripped at the collar bone, jeans painted onto his legs, his pink bunny socks tucked beneath his body completely ruining the bad boy vibe.
Yeosang’s never been a bad boy, he doesn’t have it in him. A soft lover boy, one that cares, one that sees what others don’t see, that’s who Yeosang is.
Mindlessly, eyes still glued to your screen, you mumble, “Mingi.”
Jongho and Yeosang share a look. Jongho, face flat, looks over his laptop screen to you, “I still can’t get over seeing you two together.”
You look up, popping a brow, “Why?”
“You look too comfortable,” a very physical shiver runs through Jongho, ruffling his fitted white tee, gray sweats a contrast to the black couch, “it’s weird.”
“Are they friendly?” Yeosang asks Jongho, the two once again acting like you’re not in the room. You roll your eyes.
“Very,” Jongho nods, then turns to look at you, “what’d I miss at that party?”
“What do you mean?” Your face morphs into confusion, small shakes of your head enforcing your bewilderment, “It’s weird because we aren’t ripping each other’s faces off? Can’t really do that in front of people who think we’re dating.”
Jongho’s face stays flat, eyes knowing, “How about the fake ass story of where you met? That was bullshit, you were bickering like you’ve known him as long as you’ve known us.”
You giggle again upon remembering, “Wait, that was funny because half his team thinks we met at the library, it’s like an ongoing bit–”
Jongho cuts you off, looking at Yeosang, “Do you see what I mean?”
Yeosang narrows his eyes, “Are you into him?”
“Do you think I’m a moron?”
“Yes,” they answer simultaneously.
You scoff, “I don’t know why I hang out with you just to get verbally degraded.”
Looking down at your phone, you notice three more messages from the number you still refuse to save.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: shut up who even are u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u coming to the game? if shes there wooyoung will be too
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill give u my jersey to wear lmfao
“Do football players do this?” You ask, brows furrowing, showing Jongho and Yeosang your phone screen. Holding it over the coffee table splitting where you sat on the floor and the couch they occupied, you sat up on your knees as they bent over their laptop screens, squinting to read.
“Give their jerseys out?” Jongho asks, still mid-read.
You snatch your phone away when he starts to scroll, “Yes, fucker, is that normal?”
“Girl,” Yeosang makes a disappointed face, sitting back on the couch, “that’s standard.”
Your repulsion is physical, “Do you think he washes it?”
“It gets washed for him,” Jongho responds, “I’m surprised the staff doesn’t do all his laundry for him. If it weren’t for them, it wouldn’t get washed.”
“Do the staff really do that much?”
“He doesn’t really have to think,” Jongho continues, “he’s the star, the prized possession, vital to the football team, to the school’s popularity and income. They’d do anything he asked.”
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, processing each word out of his mouth, “there’s really a whole world out there I don’t know shit about.”
The two men laugh, Jongo harder than Yeosang, the younger man’s giggles high-pitched and shameless, “Have you not paid attention my entire football career?”
“No,” your answer is short, plain, “why would I?”
“Because there was a time we both played football and you were glued to us,” Yeosang answers, “there are some things you should probably know already.”
“Neither of you have had a girlfriend during the season!” Your voice is high-pitched, defensive, you bring your attention back to your phone. “You’re riding me for what right now, all of this will be over in like, two weeks, anyway.”
you: whatever football boy
you: ya im coming
xxx-xxx-xxxx: cool
xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u actually gonna wear my jersey
you: do i have to
xxx-xxx-xxxx: kinda
you: man
you: whatever
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wow
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i can feel ur excitement through the phone
“Are you bringing him to my gig?” You look up from your phone to see Yeosang already looking at you, “It’s at Eonian, so Wooyoung will definitely be there.”
You groan, throwing your phone to the side, stretching your body out as you lay down on the rug, whining. “Your shows are our time, Yeo.”
Bass player for his band, Yeosang playing shows on and off campus was a frequent event. Always somewhere lowkey, somewhere fun, you always went with Jongho, Jia or Riyo. Bringing a man, especially Mingi, would debase the entire meaning of Yeosang’s shows. You go to support him, not to keep tabs on Wooyoung all night or feel uncomfortable with Mingi attached to your hip.
“All that shit just happened with Wooyoung, though,” Jongho says matter-of-factly, “it’s smart to show up with Mingi on your arm. Where Wooyoung goes, Winter follows.”
You pick only your head up, squinting at him over the table, “Yeosang’s shows are off limits. I need to be able to scream my excitement freely, Mingi’s presence will hinder my enjoyment.”
“Whatever,” Yeosang sings, “it’s just one show, but okay.”
You whine, head banging against the floor beneath the rug as you lay it back down, “He’s busy, anyways. He just told me he won’t have time to hang before the conference game.”
“Yet here I am,” Jongho argues, “and at that show, I will be.”
You mumble a curse, “Whatever.”
Picking up your phone again, a notification from Instagram sticks out on your home screen, a message request.
blondenbeautiful: Heard you’re dating Song Mingi?
blondenbeautiful: Biggest joke i’ve ever heard LMFAO
blondenbeautiful: Lying for attention is pathetic, I hope he sues you for defamation
You sit up abruptly, eyes wide as you stare at the screen, “What the fuck?!”
Seeing the fear in your eyes, hearing the shock in your voice, Jongho and Yeosang hop up from their spots, throwing their laptops to the side, racing around the coffee table to look at your phone screen.
“Ew,” Yeosang huffs, “no way this is happening already.”
“What do you mean already?” You look at your green haired friend, shocked and confused.
“Turn off your DM requests,” Jongho adds, “fuck that, dude, fuck no.”
“I’m not turning them off,” you scoff, “that’s pussy shit. Her username is blonde n’ beautiful, Ho.”
You click on her profile, scroll through her feed, watch her story, she lives across the fucking country. You think this is what Yeosang meant when he said Mingi had refined taste; barbie dolls, rich bitch attitude, this was his typical.
“Who cares about pussy shit?” Jongho’s brows are tied together, his eyes pleading, “That’s not the point. He has a fanbase of Warrior Barbies, have you even looked at his Instagram?”
Scrolling out of your requests and opening up the search bar, your eyes widen upon seeing his profile. You followed him already, probably from your freshman year, but he definitely didn’t have near fifty thousand followers back then, or so many posts professionally photographed.
For some reason it’s this that opens your eyes, a chill racking down your spine. You knew how detrimental he was to the university, his level of popularity, but you didn’t think it was outside of your campus, too. He was popular, known, and it spread wider than you ever thought was possible for a guy who sings Trap Queen in sports house bathrooms.
Voice shaky, you whisper, “I feel like I’m in a who the fuck did I marry subreddit.”
Yeosang can’t help the laugh that escapes him, head dipping down with an amused breath, he snaps back to deadpanning in a second’s time. “You should turn off your requests before it gets worse.”
“I’m not even dating him for realsies,” you argue, “the insults are empty. None of them are true, so they don’t count.”
Jongho sits beside you, flopping down on the rug from where he was crouched, “I just don’t want them to get to you. The whole Wooyoung thing upset you enough, you don’t need social media harassment to put the cherry on top.”
“I’ll be fine,” you lock your phone, tossing it to the floor beside you, “that shit won’t bother me. I’m strong.”
“Yeah, alright,” sarcasm swims in Yeosang’s voice, “is it a crime to listen to us every once in a while?”
You sneer, “Yes.”
you: btw yeosang is playing a show friday at 10
you: at eonian on 4th ave
you: woo and winter will be there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: just told u i dont have time
you: why are you acting like i want you there
xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill be there
THIRD OUTING: EONIAN, FRIDAY. 9:42 PM
“Did you hire a personal stylist or something?”
You scoff, standing in your doorway, looking down at your own outfit. You supposed it was different for you, more stylish than you’d normally shoot for when going anywhere, let alone the dinky dive bar you’ve gone to a thousand times. The doormen have seen you in sweatpants, chain-smoking cigarettes because you had too much to drink, the bartenders have seen you in stained overalls, making out with a random person in the corner because you had too much to drink, you don’t know why you chose today, of all days, to put in an effort when everyone there has seen you at your worst.
Looking at Mingi, he seemed to have the same idea. Although he always looked put together in a way, even if he was in sweats and a cutoff tank, it never looked necessarily bad. All black, leather jacket, boots, his hair styled away from his face, messily but purposeful, he looked good. Really good. It pissed you off.
“Did your staff pick out that outfit for you?” You sneer, “I’m not used to seeing you without sweatpants on.”
“Insulting the man who came all the way here to pick you up,” he nods, bottom lip folded over in the most attitude-stricken look he’s ever given you, “smart.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, heels clicking against the floor as you step through the threshold of your apartment. “Let’s just go.”
Mingi’s car is ridiculous. Ever since seeing his stupid Instagram page, there seems to be a constant reminder everywhere of who he is, what he has. It still smelled new inside, black leather interior, red detail, gear shift looking untouched, pristine. Not a spec of dust on the dash or in the backseat that held only one black duffel bag unzipped, your instincts told you it could hold a lot more.
“Have you been to Eonian?” You ask, turning your head to face him after he pulled out of your complex’s parking lot.
Pressure forces you back into your seat as he picks up speed, knees shifting below the steering wheel, palm wrapped around the gearstick, his face goes unchanged. He leans his head toward you but doesn’t turn it, “Maybe once, why?”
“Just wondering,” your voice is pitched, shaky, eyes widened while you swallow down your heart that shot up so high you could taste it. Your fingers curl into your jeans, thanking god seatbelts exist in your head, you turn your head to the window so you could close your eyes in peace without being caught as a wimp.
You hear him laugh after a second, a small, snarky giggle. The car slows and you can feel it in your chest, body sinking into leather, free to move as you please, your fingers uncurl from your pantlegs, shoulders slouching in relief.
“My bad, should have warned you.”
“I want to survive,” you don’t let him hear the shakiness in your voice, keeping it laced with clear irritation, “if I died beside you I’d have to resurrect myself just to walk ten feet away and die there instead.”
“You’re really sweet, y’know that?” Sarcasm evident, he continues, “I can’t understand why Wooyoung would cheat on such a nice, kind girl.”
Your neck twists to eye him, gaze harsh enough to cut. What the fuck? “We weren’t even together, he didn’t cheat.”
“Oh!” His laughter is punched, eyes condescending, lips half surprised and half amused, “Excuse me, he didn’t cheat, right. He didn’t want to date you at all.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you mumble, head turning to face the window again. It rained earlier, there’s still droplets of water sprinkled on the glass, the gloomy evening looking like the pit in your gut, soggy, heavy, dark. “That’s why Winter rejected you.”
“Well she wants me now,” he adds and you can hear the stupid smirk in his voice.
You snap your head toward him again, “Where did that even come from?”
“Did I strike a nerve?”
Your jaw clenches, facing the window again, mumbling, “This isn’t even worth it anymore.”
He turns the music up, letting it fill the cabin of the car, you can barely feel the road beneath you, his car drives so smoothly. You can hear him switch gears, the roar of the engine picking up, the feel of force in your chest as his speed increases, your hair moving when he slows again, it’s torture.
It’s worse when you step out to go inside the bar, the ground bendy beneath you, feet unsteady on pavement. Your stomach feels icky, your chest heavy and weird, and to top it off, the cigarette-smoking-stupid-fucking-asshole is standing right outside the front door, talking to the bouncer, doused in leather and silver. You suck in a deep breath, straightening your back, part of you forgetting Mingi’s there as you start for the door. Maybe you just wish he wasn’t with you at all.
Mingi calls your name, you don’t stop. A little firmer, a little louder, “Hey.” Jaw clenched, you stop in your tracks, the fur on your jacket whipping as you turn around. Lazily he strolls toward you, holding out a hand, to which you don’t grab.
“Hold my hand,” he wiggles his palm a little, voice edged with annoyance, “come on.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Is it what I said in the car?” He lowers his palm, head tilting, “I’m sorry if I went too far, I won’t do it again. Now please hold my hand so we can go inside together, they’ll be watching.”
Shooting daggers at him, your hand peeks out from your sleeve, reluctantly reaching forward; he spreads out his fingers with a satisfied grin, tangling them with yours, palms pressed together. There’s a certain intimacy to holding someone’s hand, not something you do often, not something you’ve done in a very long time; yet there’s no warmth that spreads through you at the contact, no electricity that stems in the tip of your spine. Strictly business.
Taking a step forward, he comments, “Your hand is clammy.”
“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes, “you have calluses, it’s gross, like sandpaper. Or cat tongue.”
Mingi smacks his lips together, walking in-step with you now, his head dipping down to hide how your words made him laugh. “You’re seriously deranged.”
It makes a smile claw at your lips, turning your head away so he can’t see the grin that fights its way to the surface. He squeezes your hand once like he can see through your wall of hair, snickering from beside you, by the time you get to the front door you’re both fighting to crack a smile like a pair of stubborn idiots.
Tall and buff, a head of light brown, curly hair hidden beneath a snapback, the bouncer eyes you over your ID, then looks at Mingi, deadpanning, “Make sure she doesn’t get near a pack of Marlboro Reds tonight.”
Wooyoung is behind him now, smiling as smoke pours from the corner of his mouth, losing its opacity as it melts into the humid air around him. He’s quiet, but he watches as your face falls, then makes it clear he’s inspecting every article of clothing on your body.
“I’m not even a smoker, Minho.”
“Minho?” Mingi questions, head bobbing in surprise and confusion. He looks at you with a dumbfounded face, “Marlboro Reds?”
“Can we just go inside?” You tug on Mingi’s hand, he takes your ID back from Minho before following you inside Eonian, his brows still furrowed.
“I thought you said you don’t really come here,” Mingi sounds lost as you pull him inside the door, the smell of humid air and alcohol meeting your nose upon entrance.
You do a quick scan of the bar, mindlessly answering, “I’ve been here a few times with Wooyoung.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with the bouncer,” he hisses his argument, standing close to you now, leaning down just enough to whisper-yell it into your ear.
Spotting Jongho in the far corner, just beside the stage at a table, your grin is finally real and takes over your entire face. “Yeah, well, he fucked my friend,” you pull him in Jongho’s direction, “I found Ho, come on.”
It takes longer than you thought it would to get across the crowded bar, you stopped three different times for Mingi to dap up strangers you’ve maybe seen before, all people who tucked Mingi into a quick hug with grins so bright it was as if they were meeting God. Antagonizing, remembering how many people love him, not that you showed your distaste as Mingi introduced you to every single person as his girlfriend, in which they all drank up your figure and complimented Mingi on how well he did scoring you.
It almost made up for what happened in the car. Almost.
Dick two inches bigger, you had more swag in your step as you dragged him to Jongho’s table, where he stood around the high-top wooden surface with two others beside him. Lee Minho, Lee Felix, tight-end, kicker. Felix, bright, blonde and bushy-tailed, stood a little shorter than Minho, who was everything dark and brooding, at least on the outside. Light seemed to return to his eyes when you approached the table, a small smile on your face, already in-character.
Jongho looked less wary as you approached this time, a pink hue to his cheeks, shoulders slightly slouched, a tall beer on the table before him. It looks appealing, even for a beer, at this point you think you’d take a swig of whiskey just to ease the lingering weight in your chest.
He notices your eyes lingering on his beer, he tugs it toward him, eyes pointed, “No.”
It makes a small laugh pass through your lips before you greet the table. Felix’s warm brown eyes seem brighter after Mingi introduces you, his freckled cheeks pink at the apples, “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”
“Me?” You’re still smiling, one brow popped, “Why?”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho is quick to answer as if that was now a title of sorts.
Your head tilts, confusion spreading, Mingi’s hand slides to the small of your back, his pinky lining the hem of your jeans. The girl who tamed Song Mingi, your initial reaction is to laugh through the confusion, it comes out staggered, airy, uneasy.
Felix is beaming, grin spread wide like excitement was oozing from his pores, “The whole team has been talking about you, they say you’re funny, and hot, which is clearly true.”
Now heat is spreading through you, smile shifting to something of a smirk, he’s pretty. Like a girl, in a way, blonde hair straight past his shoulders, you can tell there’s a lean, disciplined body beneath the oversized clothes on his body. Backwards hat, lips plump and rosy like he’d been kissing someone for hours, you wonder how hot he thinks you are.
“Is your jacket from Anthro? I’ve been looking at it online, waiting for it to go on sale,” his eyes are on the faux fur on your shoulders, the jacket you thrifted ages ago for ten bucks, you have no idea what brand is on the tag.
Gaydar going off, you ask, “No idea, wanna check?”
His eyes flare brighter, you don’t wait for his answer as you break away from Mingi’s heavy hand, walking around the table. You feel soft fingers moving your hair out of the way as your eyes lead to Jongho, “When does Yeo go on?”
“I think in twenty minutes or so,” he shrugs, bringing his beer up to his lips.
You shiver when you feel the warmth of Felix’s fingertips at the base of your neck, “They’re late?”
Head down to allow Felix access to your tag, your eyes slide to look at the stage, lights on and empty. You got here right before ten, he should be going on any minute now.
“Technical difficulties,” Minho comments in a sing-song tone, reminding you he’s also at the table. Taller than you, beefier than Felix, his elbows sit on the table, biceps straining the sleeves of his fitted tee. Dark hair, eyes feline, lips small and pouty, shit, he’s hot, too.
You hum, storing the info for later, “I hope they play soon.”
“This is Anthro,” Felix gasps, “so cute, I want one.”
“I thrifted it a long time ago, if you ever want to borrow it, ask Mingi for my number,” you offer as you turn around, hands grabbing the hem of it to pull it forward, fixing where it sank backward.
Felix’s head turns to Mingi across the table, feigning a pout, “I like this one, can I keep her?”
In-character, Mingi shakes his head, a smooth, proud chuckle tumbling from his lips. “Sorry to break it to you, Lix, but that one’s mine.”
Mine.
Hand holding didn’t get a reaction out of you, but a singular word makes your stomach curl. You barely remember the last time you were considered someone’s partner, significant other, girlfriend, you don’t know if you ever have been; you’ve been a fuck-buddy, a situationship, a friends with benefits, everything under the fucking sun besides owned. At least five, maybe six years it’s been since someone used the word mine to describe what you are to them, and back then it was purely adolescent, puppy-love at fifteen that made you feel lovesick instead of violently nauseous.
“I need a drink,” you blurt, “from the bar.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, “Where else would you get one, princess?”
That fucking nickname. Your nose crinkles with disgust, you don’t even care about forcing a smile on your face or putting on a show, your irritation returns tenfold. Giving him a long, blank stare, you turn and beeline for the bar.
Deep, shiny oak littered with splotches of wetness, signed receipts soaked, smudged and clinging to the surface, loose, skinny black straws thrown about the bar like some drunk idiot threw a handful in the air, it was a typical Friday night here. Elbows on the bar, you push yourself up by the ledge attached to the base, you keep your chest pressed above your folded arms so the sexy bartender would help you first.
“What’s wrong?”
You smack your lips again, but you don’t turn around. Just his voice is getting on your last nerve.
“Tell me what’s wrong, you’re acting bitchier than usual.”
You can feel the words in your spine. You snap your neck to the side, “Is that why it’s so understandable for me to get cheated on? Because I’m bitchy?”
“You’re still mad about that?” Mingi asks, sounding genuine. You hear him sigh before he forces himself between you and the guy standing beside you at the bar, someone shorter than him, smaller. “Do you want me to apologize again?”
“I don’t want anything from you,” you say quietly, voice laced with venom, keeping your eyes on the tall bartender juggling bottles like they’re toys, his movements fluid. You attempt to telepathize with him, maybe he’ll hear your calls of his name in his mind.
“I thought we moved past that already,” he sighs, “you’re not even gonna look at me? I’m trying–”
“Why do you give a fuck?” You finally look at him and his brows are upturned, lips pouty, but that arrogance that’s embedded in him is so fucking clear you regret looking. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. I’m here for Yeosang, you’re here to impress Winter, wherever the fuck she is. You should go find her.”
“Hey, baby,” you turn to find the bartender finally answering your calls, “he bothering you?”
“Yes,” you smile back, giddiness forming in the pit of your stomach. Slit through his eyebrow, buzz-cut bleached a sandy blonde color, he wears a mesh tank that sits loose on his skin, flowing with each movement. “But he’s paying, so I can’t escape him just yet. Wanna do a shot with me on his tab?”
You lean in closer, eyes low, smile playful. He chuckles, eyes sliding to Mingi and then back to you, “A shot with my favorite girl? Of course. Is he doing one too?”
You shrug, “Ask him, not me.”
You both look at Mingi whose brows are in his hairline, lips parted and slightly curled in a small sneer. It takes him a second to process Hyunjin’s staring at him with a question, he shakes his head slightly before reaching into his pocket, muttering, “Nah, I’m good.”
Hyunjin pours you your favorite drink before placing two plastic shot-cups on the bar, messily pouring liquor that spills onto the grated surface below, “Cheers, to Yeosangie.”
“To Yeosangie,” your grin spreads wide, clinking plastic before smacking them on the bar and shooting them back. “Thanks, Jinnie.”
“Anything for my favorite girl,” his voice is warm, almost as warm as his pretty brown eyes when he looks at you, it makes your insides feel fuzzy. He turns to Mingi who passes him his credit card with that same confused-annoyed look, but he stays quiet. Good.
When Hyunjin walks away, he speaks, and you groan upon the first word leaving his lips. “You’re such a liar, you lied to me.”
“Whatever,” you huff, bringing the straw up to your lips. Fruity, bitter, strong, necessary. “You don’t need to know the truth all the time.”
Mingi’s shaking his head, an annoyed chuckle falling past his lips, “Is there anyone else here you’ve slept with that your boyfriend should know about?”
You shrug as he gets his card back, signing the receipt. You eye it to make sure he left Hyunjin a nice tip, which he does without a word from you. “I’ll let you know if any more show up, if you’re really that curious.”
“I’m sorry for what I said in the car,” he tries again, voice sounding strained, “I’m exhausted, the coaches are working me to the fucking bone with playoffs so close, and I’m here for you.”
Mine.
“You are not here for me,” you bite back, “you meant what you said in the car, don’t go back on it now because it pissed me off. You’re here for Winter and that’s it, Mingi. Like I said earlier, go find her.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No!”
“Fine!” You huff, “Then leave! I didn’t want you here to begin with.”
“You invited me!” He argues back, eyes blowing wide, “I came because you invited me. I picked you up after a three-hour practice. I skipped the second half of studying with exams soon to be here.”
Mine. Your chest constricts.
“You shouldn’t skip studying,” you mutter, “you can’t afford to, moron.”
“Yet I did,” his arms raising on either side of him, defeated. You look at him, really look at him, and you don’t know how you didn’t notice the bags beneath his eyes earlier, he hasn’t had that energetic, snarky-spark since he picked you up.
The lights dim around the stage, music playing through the speakers silencing, the TouchTunes turned off. Mingi sighs, “Can we just watch the show? Wooyoung saw us, which means Winter's here somewhere. They’ll see us at some point.”
“Sorry for being a bitch,” you mumble, voice small, cheeks burning.
A smile tugs at his lips, “I’m sorry for being a bitch, too.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, “Come on, it’s time to pretend you like me again.”
There’s a smile on your face when you groan, body falling beneath his arm, he walks you up towards the table again, through the crowd that parts for him as if he’s a celebrity, standing beside Jongho like he knows it’s where you’d be most comfortable.
He pushes you in front of him as people start closing in, hands sliding down, hooking into your belt loops as Yeosang’s band walks out onstage. Excitement blooming, a grin breaks out across your face, head tipping back with a hand curled around your mouth to release a sharp, pitched whistle.
Mingi echoes the noise, leaning forward to cheer for Yeosang, the back of your head touching his chest. Your head follows his body as he stands straight again, leaning on him with a smile etched into your skin, holding the plastic cup between your hands as the band takes their positions.
Yeosang’s eyes scan the crowd, you follow where his gaze gets stuck, in the back corner, sitting at one of the high-top tables. She’s here, your eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight, warmth filling your chest, a semblance of pride. Good.
“Who’s that?” Mingi leans down to ask in your ear.
“Yeosang’s kind-of girlfriend,” you tear your eyes away from her to tilt your head up, looking at him. “Their relationship is weird.”
“Hm,” Mingi’s head tilts, “doesn’t look like Yeo’s type.”
“She’s exactly his type,” you giggle, “you should know that.”
A smile forms as he looks down at you, “I guess you’re right, don’t know why I assumed everything changed after he quit playing football.”
“Running-back-gone-stoner still likes his cheerleaders,” you sing, bringing your attention back to the stage, taking a sip from your drink. “He seems happier now that he doesn’t play anymore.”
“This is the most confident I’ve ever seen him and he hasn’t played a single chord yet,” Mingi adds, nodding his agreement.
“He’s good,” there’s pride in your voice, “you’ll like their music.”
As if they could hear you, Jay strums his guitar, a striking chord that pulls the attention of the entire room. You squeal, turning your head to see Jongho who’s looking at the stage with the same amount of fondness and pride in his eyes that you wore, the same feeling you have every time you see Yeosang on stage.
Their opening song is one original out of three, the rest covers. You know every word, singing along with Jay, their lead singer and guitarist, head bopping to the beat.
Mingi doesn’t know where to look. Yeosang, who was once his good friend, onstage, or you, smiling, giggling and dancing between his arms. It’s only the third time you’ve been out in public together, but with all the texting, the updates you send each other throughout the day, the constant banter, there’s a feeling in Mingi’s chest he can’t really explain.
He’s not into you. But there’s an urge in his consciousness somewhere, to keep you close, to protect you, it makes him fucking cringe every time the thoughts cross his mind. You’re not friends, you won’t stay in contact after your alignment fulfills its purpose, it’s something he reminds himself after he thinks about you for just a little too long.
He’s tired. His bones ache, his eyes feel heavy, there’s a slouch in his shoulders he doesn’t have the strength to straighten. Your energy bleeds into him, he’s found himself going along with you the entire time you’ve been associated, as if he’s a horse you’re leading to water. So he keeps his mindless grin, a hand steady on your hip since you jumped his fingers out of your belt loops, he holds your drink with the other, keeping his palm blanketed over the open top.
He’s never seen you so happy.
He’s seen you angry, irritated, maybe he’s made you laugh once or twice now, but it’s nothing compared to the joy on your face now, how your body moves out of excitement. It’s not the liquor, it’s Yeosang onstage, who plays so well and looks so fucking cool Mingi finds himself a little jealous, a feeling he pretends isn’t there as soon as he recognizes it. The way you care for him, for Jongho, it adds to the list of things he keeps learning about you, like layers of a fucking onion.
You come to Eonian. Often. You know the bouncer, the bartender, Mingi can’t figure out why you lied. He wonders what else you’ve lied about– what more he can learn about you just by sharing space. He wonders about Wooyoung, what he said to you outside of Lucent, what made you so nervous and eager to leave. He wonders why you wanted to fake-date in the first place, if Wooyoung has done worse than cheat, if that’s why you want revenge so deeply.
The way your eyes wander across the room, finding Wooyoung and Winter, his arms thrown over her shoulders, keeping her close. How they sway together, Winter’s fingers holding onto his forearms, a small smile on her face, cheeks pink. It makes your movements smaller, the bubble of excitement surrounding your being dwindles to a flicker, you turn around and ask Mingi for your drink.
“No,” Mingi shakes his head.
Your face contorts, “What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“You don’t need to drink because you’re upset,” he keeps his voice low, “liquor isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not upset,” you sound defensive, which only confirms what Mingi’s thinking is true. “I’m at a bar watching my best friend kill it onstage, why would I be upset?”
Your brows are furrowed, lips pouty, the gloss you wore faded by now, leaving a pinkish stain behind. There’s heat in your cheeks, a pretty flush, he hates the realization that determination in your features is kind of cute.
“Come here,” Mingi offers, placing your drink on the table behind him before twisting you back around by your hips, throwing his own arms over your shoulders, tucking you into him.
You squirm, making a whiney noise, shifting your shoulders and looking down to untuck your hair where it got trapped against Mingi’s body. “You’re fucking huge,” you mumble, soft fingers coming up to hook around his forearms, Mingi can’t tell if it’s a compliment, but it’s definitely not an insult.
“You have no idea,” he smirks to himself.
You groan, “Stop saying shit like that to me.”
“Why?” Smiling, his tone comes out playful, “Curious?”
Your head tilts back to look up at him, eyes pointed, lips bent in a frown. “No.”
“Liar,” Mingi smacks his teeth, “all you’ve done tonight is lie.”
“Like I said,” you bring your attention back to the stage, “you don’t always need to know the truth.”
“So you admit you’re curious.”
“No!”
Mingi chuckles, squeezing you with his arms clamped around your front. You stay there for the rest of the show, in Mingi’s hold, head pressed to his chest, your eyes don’t wander again. They stay locked on Yeosang onstage, singing along to each song. At one point you and Mingi started swaying together when he recognized one of the covers they performed, singing along with you.
“You two are so fucking cute,” Felix comments when Yeosang’s band runs off the stage after bowing to the crowd. Mingi finally let you go at that point, where you attached to your iced-down drink like a moth to a flame.
“Yeah?” Mingi smiles at Felix before jumping into action when you bring the straw to your lips. “Don’t drink that, I didn’t have eyes on it. I’ll get you another.”
You pout, but you let him pull the straw away from your lips, “Boo.”
“What’d you think of the show?” Jongho asks, a little drunk now, Mingi thinks, as he smacks a hand on his shoulder.
Mingi’s grinning again, nodding his head, “They’re good, Yeosang is really talented.”
You squeal again, stealing his attention, “Isn’t he? He’s so fucking talented, he makes me so jealous. I wish I could play an instrument.”
Cute. He doesn’t think before reaching up to ruffle your hair, “You’re talented at lots of stuff, princess.” He doesn’t know why he said it, he doesn’t even know what you do in your free time. He blames it on it feeling right. He’s tired.
You quickly fix your hair, mumbling, “Motherfucker.”
It makes Mingi’s grin spread wider. Weird, how your insults are starting to feel like compliments.
“Are you coming to the conference game?” Minho asks, and your brows perk up at the attention, that smooth smile appearing on your cheeks, the one you use when you look at any one of his teammates. Anyone you find attractive, actually, he’s noticed.
You nod, “I’ll be there, supporting Jongho.”
“Not your boyfriend?” Minho asks, popping a brow.
“Oh shit, yeah, Mingi too,” you nod, “duh.”
He has to fight his laugh, lips tying together. You meet his eye, the look of him biting back his laugh, and crack a stupid smile at the sight. “You ready to go?” You ask, brows lifted.
Mingi’s neck cranes in confusion, “You don’t wanna wait for Yeo?”
“He has people to see,” you say casually, but Mingi knows who. “Plus, you’re tired, and you need to study before bed.”
Hesitantly, seeing the honesty in your eyes, no disappointment evident, Mingi nods. “You’re right.”
“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho sing-songs, and Mingi’s neck snaps to glare. He hates that nickname, the way they use it in the house, in practice, how it rolls off his teammates tongues with a sneer. Minho’s smile is devilish, daring; he’s one of Mingi’s only teammates that doesn’t suck-up to him completely. It’s not the right time or place to berate him for it.
You say your goodbyes politely and grab Mingi by his hand, pulling him towards the crowd, in the direction of the exit. Mingi ignores everyone who tries to steal him for a chat, giving small smiles, nods, waves of acknowledgement, but he lets you drag him all the way to the exit, where you give the bouncer, Minho, a small wave goodbye.
A little colder now, enough to rack a chill down Mingi’s spine, you stop in your tracks when you open the exit door. Winter is pressed against the wall of the building, Wooyoung’s hand over her head, forehead touching hers. He plants his lips against hers once before realizing he has company.
“Leaving so soon?” He’s smirking as he tucks his arm back into himself, standing straight, turning to face the two of you. “Yeosang played a good show.”
Winter’s eyes locked on Mingi, widened, pupils dilated like she didn’t want to be caught where Mingi had indeed caught her. She swallows, licking her lips, fixing the baggy denim on her legs as she stands straighter, moving slightly behind Wooyoung as if it’d put her out of Mingi’s eyesight.
“He always does,” your voice is cold, venomous. No warmth at all.
Wooyoung’s eyes find Mingi, taking a second to look him up and down. “Nice outfit, different for you.”
Mingi pops a brow, “Because I’m not in a jersey?”
“Sure,” Wooyoung nods, then moves his eyes to you. “Same goes for you, doll. Find my hoodie yet?”
Your fingers flex at your side, fist clenching, “I told you I burned it.”
Wooyoung chuckles, arm lifting for Winter to tuck herself into his side, it makes Mingi grimace. Gross. He’s slimey, the energy he gives off, Mingi can’t understand what the fuck girls see in him in the first place.
“Did you see Hyunjin inside?” Wooyoung asks, “He asked me about you, said your little plaything was bothering you.” Wooyoung looks at Mingi again, “I take it that’s you? But you’re her boyfriend, right?”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you speak up before he can open his mouth. “Don’t speak to Hyunjin about me or Mingi. The only plaything you have to worry about is the one under your arm.”
Winter straightens, brows furrowing, “I’m the plaything? Me?”
“What do you think he’s gonna do with you when he’s bored?” You laugh a little, eyes so piercing it renders Mingi silent, all he can do is stare. “Toss you to the side, just like he did with me. There’s another one, you know, it’s never just you.”
Wooyoung tucks her closer, his features devoid of all amusement, back going rigid. “Lying, huh? Just ‘cus you’re butthurt? Always leads to lies, you haven’t changed one bit.”
“You’ll never change,” you whisper, but the chilly air is quiet enough that it hits its mark. “When she calls, you’ll run back to her, it doesn’t matter who’s occupying your boredom at the time.” Your eyes find Winter, “You’ll see. I feel bad for you.”
Mingi, confused, watches Winter’s face fall, the slow realization that there’s not a lick of jealousy in your voice, just sheer honesty. His head bobs back and forth between the two of you, but he grabs your wrist when steam starts pouring from your ears. “Time to go, baby. Come on.”
You pull your wrist away from him, tucking it into your chest, keeping your eyes steady on Wooyoung who doesn’t falter for a moment. A staring contest of sorts, it makes Mingi feel nervous, uncomfortable at the least.
“Time to go,” Mingi reiterates, voice heavier, hands on your waist now. “It’s not worth it. I’ll take you home, c’mon.”
It takes you a second to turn your head away from Wooyoung as Mingi starts pulling you away, but once you’re out of eyesight, in front of Mingi’s build that engulfs you whole, the shakes begin. Your fingertips, your shoulders, your teeth chatter in your fucking skull.
“In the car,” he’s whispering, encouraging, ushering you into his passenger seat. “There you go,” he closes it behind you, making sure you’re tucked inside.
When he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life, he takes a second to gather his bearings. He turns to you slowly, only his head, and you’re staring into nothing, body still shaking. It makes him swallow, nerves etching into his vision.
“Are you okay?” He asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of. He doesn’t know how to comfort you. You hum an agreement, a slight nod of your head, it does nothing to ease the discomfort in his chest. His lips tighten, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “What just happened?”
You shake your head, still staring into space. Voice small, battered and broken, you whisper, “I don’t know.”
Mingi feels something swirling in his gut, something foul. Like before a big game, when he isn’t positive he’s going to win. Voice low, he asks, “What actually happened between you?”
“He didn’t just cheat on me with Winter,” you finally look down at your lap, “there’s another girl. I don’t know who she is, what she looks like, I just know she exists. She’s like, the girl version of him, she made him like that.”
Mingi’s brows furrow, but you keep talking after a deep, shaky breath. “He called me a liar, I am a liar.” You shake your head, staring at your lap. “I lied to everyone when I was with him. I lied to him, I lied to myself, not to mention Jongho and Yeosang.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s easier that way,” you finally look at Mingi, eyes glassy, pupils dilated, “if I told the truth, I couldn’t be held accountable for my own actions.” When you notice his confusion, you laugh, a short, disbelieving chuckle. “I knew about her the whole fucking time, the nature of their relationship, I even tried competing with her at one point.”
When Mingi asks why again, you sigh. “I think because I knew I’d never win. Him and I would never be real no matter how hard I tried, and that was safety to me, in a way.”
“I don’t understand,” Mingi sinks into his seat, carefully peeling back another layer.
You shake your head again, silent for a moment. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that it terrifies you?”
“All the time.”
“This is gonna sound self-deprecating, don’t make fun of me or else I’ll fucking kill you,” you start, and Mingi’s lips curve at the corners, but he nods. “That’s how I feel about relationships, or being loved, I guess. I want it, but do I deserve it?”
Mingi’s brows furrow again, “Do you deserve it?” You blink at him, and he shakes his head in confusion, “Who cares? You want it, don’t you?”
Mingi swears your eyes get rounder, your lips plumper. He’s never seen you look so… delicate. Small, vulnerable, like your walls have crumbled away and left what’s at your core bare for him to see.
“I do,” you whisper, staring at him, into him, he feels just as bare as you. He feels the moonlight pouring into the cabin, he hears the light hum of his idling car, and he realizes he hasn’t been in this position in a long, long time.
His relationship with women has been strict since… her. Transactional, never more, never less. Give and take. He doesn’t make friends, he doesn’t form bonds, he does nothing more than fuck– when’s the last time he had a real fucking conversation with a woman? When’s the last time his chest has felt so twisted from emotion?
He stares back, eyes dropping to your lips for a millisecond. Glossy, from the spit you swiped over them with your tongue moments prior, plump and opaque with color. This is the longest you’ve gone without arguing since the moment you met. This is the first time he’s looking at you so clearly, seeing you as more than a means to an end. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.
“Take what you want,” Mingi whispers back, “who gives a fuck about being worthy of it?”
There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips, “That’s easy for you to say, you get whatever you want.”
“Not everything,” he shifts in his seat, sinking down, stretching out his legs as much as he can. “Not even a lot, actually.”
When your brows furrow, he makes a face like he doesn’t want to keep going, but he does anyway. “I don’t have control over anything in my life. What I eat, how I train, how much I sleep, what I do in my free time, that’s all coordinated by someone else. Dating you is the most freedom I’ve had in years.”
“They don’t do whatever you say?”
“I do whatever they say,” he corrects you, lips flattening. “I don’t have to think if I don’t want to, and I fucking hate it. I’m a twenty-one year old man that doesn’t do anything for myself, it’s suffocating. Like I’m a puppet.”
Your lips are tucked between your teeth, swept to the side, head tilted. “I thought it was the other way around. Are they mad you’re… dating me?”
Mingi laughs a little, “More than mad. Consequences-mad.”
You gasp, leaning forward, palm planted on the center console. “Then why are you still doing it?”
“Because I want to,” he’s looking at you now, “for once, I’m doing something I want, and I’m having fun.”
“You’re having fun with me?” Your smile makes Mingi feel like he’s just handed you a thousand dollars. “For realsies?”
Chuckling, nodding, Mingi nods, “For realsies, princess.”
You sit back in the passenger seat, body deflating dramatically, head sinking to the side, silly smile still on your lips. Looking up at him through your brows, you say, “I’m having fun with you, too.”
Mingi doesn’t understand why the sentence fills his stomach with… butterflies, like you’d just said the words he’s been waiting the whole night to hear. He pushes the feeling down, shifting himself upward, finally plugging his phone into the car’s speaker system. “You ready?”
“Yes,” you nod, sitting up, pulling the seatbelt over your torso. “Drive nicely though, please, or else I might throw up.”
FOURTH OUTING: CONFERENCE GAME, SUNDAY. 7:02 PM.
Bass pumps through the stadium, so deep and booming you can feel it in your heels that touch the concrete beneath you, it vibrates through the navy blue, plastic chair you sat on. Only in a mini-skirt, your thighs sat bare against the cool, hard chair, a relief in contrast to the humid air that rudely asks you to put your hair up.
In the tenth row, just above the fifty-yard line, your view was immaculate. Just above where the players stood on the field, you could see the field, the players clearer than you ever have, Jongho always gifted you and Yeosang nosebleeds. A routine, up in the stands, guzzling beers because what else was there to do if you couldn’t see? You’d trust the commentator with a tall-boy of Miller and pretend you were enjoying it until you got drunk enough to not care, and to you, that was the true college football experience.
But here, almost eye-level with Mingi who lines up directly under center to take the snap, this was different. Dark hair covered by his kelly-green helmet, the only reason you knew it was him was because of his last name and the number eighty-eight on his back.
It mirrored the one on your back, the kelly-green jersey that offset his white one, it hung more than oversized in your body, off one shoulder, tucked into your skirt. You haven’t seen Mingi in a week, and when Yeosang delivered it to you this morning the pang of disappointment in your chest was so uncomfortable you pretended you didn’t feel it.
“Mingi gave it to Jongho who gave it to me to give to you.”
Yeosang threw the jersey onto your couch, oversized and… green. So green you looked down at the jersey then back up to Yeosang’s head of hair, a smirk crawled onto your cheeks. Yeosang squinted, “Don’t.”
“Oh, you can make fun of me, but I can’t make fun of you?” A hand on your hip, one knee bent, you exuded nothing but attitude. You took a step forward to pick the jersey off your couch, held it up in the air in front of you by the shoulders, “Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh?”
The mini-skirt in your closet you haven’t been able to face since sometime last year popped into your brain, a tall pair of boots you already started mentally picturing with the outfit. It looked good enough in the mirror, his jersey hung off your shoulder, you did a little twirl in the mirror to see how it swayed with your movement.
A smile was stamped onto your cheeks when you glanced at your back in the mirror, reading a very clear Song written above the number 88. After noticing the grin, you forced your lips flat, arms straightening at your sides. You turned back around, lips tucked in as you ran your palms over the jersey, blowing a sharp breath through curved lips, then left your bedroom once more.
You kind of missed him, which was a strange pit-in-your-stomach feeling you didn’t let yourself think too much about. You haven’t seen him in a week, not since your explosion on Wooyoung at Eonian, he’s been too busy with this game approaching, strategizing, practicing, training. Not seeing him after sharing something vulnerable with him, something you haven’t even shared with the green-headed-motherfucker in the room just to get something vulnerable in return, you felt strangely closer to him. Like maybe you two could actually be friends.
Silly thought. Silly you.
He stands crouched on the field, your chest still heaves from cheering when his name was announced throughout the stadium, excitement vibrating through you as much as when bass bled through your skin. The stadium looks bigger from down here, more open, yet there was less air to fill your lungs, to ease the discomfort in your chest.
There were messages in your DMs, more messages now than when you entered the parking lot to tailgate. You read the first ones upon your first step through the wired, silver gates, not telling Yeosang who was already slurring his words because it didn’t matter. The messages have never grown too personal, nowhere close to a threat, until today.
Don’t go to the game today.
His minions, the army assembled of Mingi-lovers who haunted your requests folder, you wonder what they’d think if they knew you weren’t really together. If they knew Mingi only looked at you affectionately in public. You wondered what they’d think if they looked at your text thread, if they saw the slew of insults you threw at each other on a daily basis, between the updates with time stamps because Mingi said it’s proof he’s busy.
Now, there were more.
Thought we told you not to go
We saw you tailgating.
Should we expose you for cheating on him?
In his jersey too, you must be fucking stupid
Drinking beer, so trashy
Don’t you think you eat enough?
A tall-boy in the cupholder across from you, a cup of cheese fries split between you and Yeosang, a fucking hotdog in your hand. This was normal, this is what you always did, what you always fucking ate when you came to these games. You looked behind you, the crowd was busy talking to each other, laughing, drinking, eating, there were no eyes on you. You couldn’t figure out who was looking at you. Who was waiting.
Unsettling isn’t the word for how uncomfortable being seen was, when you didn’t want to be.
The game begins and you attempt to force yourself into focusing. Yeosang, drunk and belligerent beside you, luckily didn’t notice your discomfort, you don’t think he’d notice if you dropped a fucking brick on his head right now. You pull out your phone when focusing proves impossible, rereading your last text thread with Mingi again, the only thing keeping you from grabbing Yeosang by the scruff and dragging him out of the stadium.
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come down to the field when games over
xxx-xxx-xxxx: go down the stairs inside, tell security ur name. they should let u through
you: okay
you: play good or else ill cheer for jongho
xxx-xxx-xxxx: come on now
xxx-xxx-xxxx: whos name is on ur back
you: some guy
you: streets are calling me mrs. song
xxx-xxx-xxxx: wait that has a nice ring to it
xxx-xxx-xxxx: if u see winter let her know what her future looks like
you: i hate you
you: break a leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: i dont think u say that for football
you: no like i hope you break your leg
xxx-xxx-xxxx: oh bro fuck u
xxx-xxx-xxxx: dont say that before a game
xxx-xxx-xxxx: asshole
you: go stretch or something stop texting me
You haven’t seen Winter, you haven’t seen Wooyoung. You didn’t see them in the parking lot, either, where you tailgated with not only Jia and Riyo, but Mingyu, Seokmin, Hoshi, Dino and Seungkwan. Nine of you taking up two parking spots, drinking beside Mingyu’s ninety-six Ford pickup, playing pong with the table he brought in the truck bed, sitting in folding chairs, watching from the roof panel.
Riyo claims they’re the only people she could convince to tailgate. You think they’re the first and only people she tried convincing, especially since she’s hooking up with Seokmin on the DL, but you’d believe there’s some truth to it just because Mingyu’s the easiest person to convince of anything on the planet. You can remember convincing him chocolate milk comes from brown cows and strawberry milk comes from pink cows– he was elated to find out photoshop-generated pink cows exist in real life.
Tall, buff, bronzy and handsome, he was the first one to refer to you as Mrs. Song with a slippery smirk and a wiggle of his brows. For the entire two hours you tailgated, you don’t think you heard your name once; like parrots, once one of them says something, the rest follow.
It was nice to be friendly with him, even if you eyed him up with a smirk of your own two or twenty times, advances only understood by him, and each time you remembered whose name and number was painted on your back and forced your face to fall.
Boring.
“That pass was,” Yeosang hiccups, “disgusting.”
You lock your phone, picking your head up, “I missed it, what happened? Disgusting good, or disgusting bad?”
“Good,” Yeosang nods, watching the game with a different, analytical eye, “Mingi’s so fucking good.”
“Do you ever miss playing?” You ask, tucking your phone into your pocket, picking up your beer to take a sip. Cringing, you wish you’d drank more at the tailgate.
“Of course,” he says like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked, “but I don’t regret quitting. Everything is better now.”
You can hear the liquor in his voice, it makes you crack a smile. Taking advantage of the situation, you lean in a little closer, “Do you miss her cheering you on?”
With his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him, body lazily strewn in his own chair like it was deadweight, it might be, the way he only turns his head to look at you. “You don’t think she cheers for me anywhere else?”
Your top lip curls, leaning backward, putting space between you. “I don’t know if I should take that in a sexual way or not.”
Yeosang snorts loudly, head dipping back like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore, “You saw her at my show last week. She was cheering me on like she didn’t give a fuck who saw, it was awesome.”
“Good,” you nod, turning back to the field, eyes closing in on the pretty cheerleader dressed in little to nothing, green and white pompoms in her hands. Whispering, watching her, you nod again, “Good.”
Checking your phone again, you see more DMs, but you don’t open them. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself as you sit rigid up until halftime, where the cheers and boos from the crowd went right over your head the entire time. Twenty minutes to pee, buy another beer and more cheese fries because you should’ve eaten before you fucking came and you didn’t.
On edge, speed-walking through the crowds in the concourse, your eyes worked a mile-a-minute to scan every face you saw, to analyze if anyone was looking at you a certain way. It’s terrifying, knowing someone is watching, not knowing who, or from where. You stared above you, through the cracks in the stall doors while you peed, you kept an eye on your surroundings while you bought another beer, more cheese fries.
Maybe you should turn off your requests, you think as you sit back down in your seat, Yeosang leaned sideways with his head in his fist, eyes half-open.
“Are you alive?” You ask with a laugh as you sit down, handing him another tall-boy can, “Here, got you another beer.”
He resurrects like the second coming of Jesus, eyes wide and brows lifted like you’d woken him from hibernation. Back straightening, he grabs the can from your hand, sucking in a breath, “You’re my best friend.”
You laugh as you sit back in your seat, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs, the game had already begun again while you were up in the concourse. Peeking up at the scoreboard, seeing nine-zero clear as day, your head snaps to Yeosang, “When the fuck did that happen?”
“Mostly in the first quarter,” his voice is heavy with carbonation, he closes a fist over his mouth in an attempt to silently burp into it, a failed attempt.
You snicker at the sound, giggling through your words, “Who?”
“Haechan, Jaemin.”
“Jaemin’s a kicker?”
“Him and Felix.”
“Ah,” you nod, taking a sip of your own beer. Turning to him again, you ask, “Haechan’s the whiney one with the red hair?”
“Wide receiver,” Yeosang nods, “and a good one. Mingi’s passes are perfect, though, can’t give Hyuck all the credit.”
“Hyuck?”
“Haechan.”
“Oh,” you mumble, searching the field again. Mingi looks so much bigger with all the padding on, bulkier, you can see his chest heaving despite the layers, his run turning to a slowed drag of his legs as he walks towards the edge of the field.
Arms flexing as he pulls his helmet off his head, he shakes his hair back, running a gloved hand through the sweaty strands, away from his face. It’s like slow motion, his shoulders pushed back, lips parted, jaw clean and angular, teeth poking out from beneath his top lip.
“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, he looks hot. Fuck him.
That clean smirk lifting his lips on one side as he shakes hands with another one of his teammates, you don’t care to figure out which one, you can’t take your eyes off him. He tilts his chin up, keeping that same cocky smirk as he says something too far for your ears to catch, his eyebrows twitching upward. Shit.
Your stomach rumbles something unwelcome, a feeling of interest, sweat prickling at the back of your neck that isn’t from the humidity in the air. You know he’s hot, you knew he was hot before you started fake-dating him, you quickly remind yourself who he is. A narcissistic asshole, a misogynist, a lonely twenty-one year old that doesn’t have the freedom to make decisions for himself. One that likes spending his free time with you, one that laughs at your jokes, one that throws his arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like there’s no other place he’d want you.
Mine.
You shake your head, turning to Yeosang again, “You know how I said I got those DMs the other day?”
Yeosang blinks in half-focus, “Kinda, why?”
“Nevermind,” you shake your head, sighing. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Can I have a fry?” He asks, giving you puppy eyes, you hand him the cup of cheese fries without looking at him.
By the grace of God, as if you fucking summoned her with damning thoughts, walking into the row before yours, sitting in the seat directly in front of Yeosang, is Winter.
Where the fuck is Wooyoung?
Yeosang stiffens, a cheese fry halfway in his mouth, he pulls his feet back down to the concrete, mumbling apologies through his already-full mouth. Winter is everything polite, she gives him a warm smile, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sits into the seat. Slowly she drags her hair to one side as she relaxes in the plastic, body not hitting the backrest, giving you a full, front-seat view of Song and 88 on her back.
Your lips part, eyes widening as you read it, you blink once, twice, six fucking times and the name and number doesn’t change. It’s a jersey bought from the school store, not official like the one on your back, but she’s fucking here, in front of you, with your boyfriend’s name and number on her fucking back.
“Excuse me,” you lean forward, heart beating out of your chest, brain spewing words onto your tongue and not one of them is nice.
She turns like she’s surprised, brows lifted, “Hm?”
“Your jersey?” You tilt your chin, what the fuck else would you be asking about?
“Oh,” she grins, cheeks pink, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she’s fucking bashful. “I’m just a huge fan.”
“Right,” you say slowly, eyes thinned to shoot daggers, nodding like this shit does not add up.
Yeosang rests a heavy hand on your back, you turn your head to look at him still shooting missiles from your eyes and his face is twisted up to say what the fuck are you doing?!
Your face snaps back into reality, quickly straightening in your seat, pupils shaking beneath your lids and lips pursed hard enough to bruise, an embarrassing heat turns your body to lava. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing but the mortifying pulse of your own heartbeat, what are you doing? What the fuck was that? This is the whole point.
You’re going insane, that’s the only answer, the only reason for what you just did. The DMs, sitting in seats he got you because they’re the best view, having eyes on you somewhere in the crowd, remembering how he looked at you from the driver’s seat of his car, telling you to go get what you want just because you fucking want it. It's all going to your head.
You need to break up. Now.
You don’t see the rest of the game. You don’t hear the music, the sirens of triumph, the roars of the crowd, you don’t even process that they won until you’re standing up, clapping, staring out at the field with your face utterly blank. This is fear. This is real, genuine, raw fucking fear.
“Let’s go,” Yeosang is tugging on your arm and your gaze is elsewhere, confused, your mind somewhere along with it.
You tug your arm back, “Go where?”
“Down to the field?” Yeosang furrows his brows, “Are you okay?”
“Oh,” you give him a weak smile, “yeah, ‘m fine.”
You’re gliding up the stairs into the concourse, fuzzy finding the staircase to lead you back down, you’re shaking your head, trying to snap yourself out of it before you reach the bottom platform. There’s a man shuffling around like he was waiting for bodies to approach, earpiece connecting to a small black box clipped onto his slacks, a black polo to match, his face reading focus, professionalism. You mumble yours and Yeosang’s names and he lets you through with a stretch of his arm, you heave another breath when the LED lights come into view at the end of the tunnel.
The field is vast, it’s warmer down here, the air is wet. Bodies seem to cover every inch of sideline, cameras, lights, people with clipboards and hats on their head with your university’s logo, you’re too aware of your fingers at your sides.
You spot him and he’s smiling, laughing as he talks to an interviewer, already standing before a camera, it makes your heart drop to your asshole. You shuffle closer to Yeosang who’s already on the hunt for Jongho, you’re sure he doesn’t want to be caught down here by his old coach or any of the staff, if they’d even recognize his bright green hair.
“You’re down here?” Jongho finds you before you find him, brows furrowed, hair sweaty and chest heaving, he wears confused brows and a winded smile.
Chest puffed from padding, sweat dribbling down his forearms that aren’t covered by nylon, you actually feel a semblance of relief when you see him. “Mingi invited me, I wasn’t coming without Yeo.”
“Oh,” his smile spreads, “how was it?”
Yeosang claps his hand, throwing another on his shoulder, “You’re a fucking boulder, wish I was down here with you.”
Jongho looks confused, “Are you drunk?”
Your eyes travel, landing on Mingi, who catches you just as you look over. You see him brighten, smile widening, a sparkle in his eyes that makes your stomach do flips. Fuck.
You watch him mouth the words excuse me, nodding his head before escaping the press, running over to you with that stupid fucking smile you might have seen in your dream last night.
“You came!” He yells when he gets close enough to pull you into his chest, acting as if his sweat didn’t soak through his padding. Huge, massive, he swallows you, it makes your knees weak.
You verbally cringe, muttering a noise of disgust before pulling away, “I was right, you smell like wet dog.”
“Beautiful woman,” he corrects, face reading amusement, “like you in my jersey, green looks good on you, princess.”
Your eyes meet the turf beneath your boots, “You don’t have to say that, no one can hear you, Mingi.”
“Damn, no insulting rebuttal?” The more he looks at you the more his smile falters. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
You look up at him through your brows, surprise written on your face as you take in the concern on his. He can tell? You shake your head, plastering a fake smile on your cheeks, “I’m great, I’m fine, I’m good. Did you hear me cheering?”
“For me?” He’s cheesing, excited like a little kid.
You laugh a little, tucking your hair behind your ear, “Duh, you told me I had to since I’m wearing your jersey.”
“Let me see,” he pulls his arm from where it laid over your shoulder back to his side, “do a little twirl for me, smart girl.”
The heat on your cheeks is molten, you roll your eyes as you make a ponytail in your fist, twirling to give him full access of him on your back.
He cheers, woo-ing loud and shameless, his smile takes over his entire face. “Wow, look at you, like a real-life WAG.”
“What’s a WAG?”
He shakes his head, “Means you’re mine.”
Mine.
You panic, words spilling from your lips, “Guess who else is in your jersey.”
His smile falls, body going still with knowing disbelief, “No.”
You force a tight-lipped smile, nodding, “Yup.”
“Oh my god!” Yeosang cuts you off, loud and obnoxious. Now he chooses to get rowdy? “I almost forgot, you guys should take pictures.”
In boyfriend mode again, Mingi’s gloved palm finds the small of your back, coming to your side when you twist around to look at Yeosang, face screaming no. Yeosang giggles, a nasty little smirk on his lips that tells you he’s playing the game, too, maybe better than you are at this point.
He pulls his phone from his back pocket, “Come on, pose.”
You look at Mingi, uneasy. He shrugs, unbothered. Hand tighter around your waist, he leans into you, smiling. You try to force light into your eyes, doing your best to grin like a proud girlfriend, not that these pictures would ever see the light of day.
“Cute,” Yeosang crouches, “move over, the lighting is weird.”
You huff, but move in the direction Yeosang’s pointed palm is ushering you in, Mingi following, the both of you quiet. Too aware of where you are, eyes, cameras, lights— it’s overstimulating just having his fucking hand on you, his body pressed to yours.
Yeosang eyes you over the top of his phone screen, flashing something mischievous, “Now kiss.”
“What?” There’s barely a moment between his order and your reaction. Mingi stiffens beside you, you think you’ve gone cold, you think you might drop dead on the turf.
“Kiss!” Yeosang nearly whines, “Come on, what are you, children? One kiss for a picture, you’ll thank me for it later.”
Your jaw drops. Blinking at him, stuttering a rebuttal, head shaking and a hand moving to wave in front of you out of denial, Mingi speaks before you do.
“Okay.”
“Huh?!” You look at him like he’s insane.
He shoots daggers, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and Yeosang as if to say don’t blow our cover. Little does he know, Yeosang was present when the plan was fucking formed.
“No,” the shake of your head is final, “absolutely not.”
“One kiss,” Mingi argues, “it would be a cute picture.”
You whisper, “Why are you encouraging this?”
He shrugs, his smile effortlessly stupid, “It’s just one kiss.”
Your eyes lower to his lips for a split second. Round, plump, pink, wet with spit from his tongue that glides over them seamlessly, there’s an anxious pit in your stomach, your fight or flight kicks in.
He uses the angle in which you turned, one hand sliding to your waist, the other on your jaw, tilting your head upward. Warm, his touch delicate, you feel your heart in your throat as he leans in, kissing you with a softness no one has ever kissed you with.
You’ve been someone’s situationship, friends with benefits, fuckbuddy— all things that require a disconnection to function, a wall you were far too good at putting up, keeping stable. You’ve been kissed with haste, with fervor, just to add a touch of romanticism because the rest that followed lacked respect in its purest form.
This was different. It wasn’t a peck, your lips parted for him, your body melted into him, his hand on your jaw was guiding, grounding, his gloved thumb swiped along your skin like he fucking meant it. He tasted clean, like he just drank a gallon of water, still fresh on his plump lips that tucked yours in like they belonged there. It's not right, it’s not right but it’s working and you’re fucking terrified.
He pulls away just as softly as he leaned in, a dopey smile stretching his lips wide. Keeping himself close, he hums, “See? Just a kiss.”
You don’t realize your fingers wrapped around his forearm, or that your spine bent towards him. Breath shaky, grip iron, your eyes flicker upward and even the way he’s looking at you is different.
You swallow down your discombobulation just enough to utter, “We need to break up. Now.”
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