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It makes sense, waking up insecure, alone in a bed after hearing a story like that. You didn’t come up with an answer sitting on the toilet for twenty minutes, and you don’t really think you’ll get one unless you ask. Why does it feel so fucking mortifying to even consider asking him a question like that? Hey, so why did I wake up alone after you fucked the life out of me? Good morning, was I fucking snoring or something?

You should probably get out of his bed instead of staring at his ceiling, contemplating which direction you went wrong. You can hear the floorboards squeaking beneath the carpet as you cross his bedroom on sore legs, finding pieces of your outfit scattered across his otherwise clean floor. Picking up scattered bones from the night before might be more mortifying than asking why he left.

You roll everything in a ball and throw it beside his door, deciding to rummage through his drawers instead. Fuck him, he left you. Fuck him, you’re stealing his fucking clothes. You grab a pair of boxers from the top drawer, then an expensive looking tee from the drawer below it, overpriced cotton swallowing your upper half when you get it over your head. You hope it’s as expensive as it looks. 

You shove your feet in your boots, grab your ball of clothes and decide to head downstairs. Part of you hopes no one’s awake and that you can sneak out the door without anyone knowing you spent the night, but of course, nothing in your fucking life works out the way you want it to. The smell hits you first, then voices, then you’re creeping down the stairs like maybe you could avoid them all somehow. Maybe none of them will see you. When you hear Yunjin’s voice, then Yunho’s smooth cadence following, you know you’re not getting away with shit. 

“Good morning, sunshine!” you hear before you can even see him. You make a face before he can see you, lips tight, eyes screwed shut, you swear he has a fucking tracker on you. An ability to seek you out no matter when, no matter where. 

You slap a smile on your face when they all come into view, giving the kitchen a little wave. Yunjin and San are beside the stove, Yunho leaning over the island, Mingi at a barstool. Jongho sits beside him, and your heart skips a fucking beat when you notice Wooyoung beside Jongho. He’s shirtless– no, he’s only in boxers, leaning over the counter like that’s normal. He didn’t even want to come back to his room to put clothes on? 

The stairs creak behind you. You turn, and Seonghwa’s starting down the steps half-clothed, another half-clothed Hongjoong behind him. Cool. Everyone’s fucking down here. You give them a tight-lipped grin before walking down the rest of the stairs, mumbling, “Good morning.” 

“Do you two ever leave?” Hongjoong asks through a yawn, noticing Yunjin at the stove. There's amusement in his tone, and it’s the only reason your spine doesn’t go taut at the question. “I swear you’re just a part of the frat now. Should we make you pay your dues?” 

Jongho snorts, “Frat girlfriends.” 

Your brows furrow as you beeline to Yunho, who already has his arm open for you to disappear under. You hold your ball of clothes over the counter as you consider. You’ve had sex with two of them, kissed four of them, you’re not a frat girlfriend, but what the fuck are you? A frat fucker? A frat kisser?

San and Yunjin are whispering by the stove, your eyes narrow trying to read their lips. You can’t make out anything. 

“We haven’t had girls lingering around the frat since last year,” Mingi’s leaning on his elbow over the counter, watching Hongjoong and Seonghwa take stools at the counter. “Woo, do you remember that one girl who kept bouncing between all of us, trying to piss you off? I think she was always here, like, twenty-four-seven.” 

He looks tired, like he only got a wink of sleep. Maybe he left his own bed to go back downstairs and fuck someone else. “Yeah,” he muses, his voice airy with the memory. “You all still fucked her, so that’s what you get. Lingering.” 

He’s joking around like you aren’t turning into a ball of fire under Yunho’s arm. You guess you don’t have any reason to be upset, you know who he is, you know what he does, and you knew it way before he brought you to his bedroom. He told you his care stops when he ties up the condom, you guess you should have left afterward. But he stayed, he talked to you, he laughed with you. He told you a fucking story.

“You okay?” Yunho whispers in your ear, and you swear he must have some way to track your emotions, too. You don’t look at him, you don’t answer, but you lean into him more, and he holds his arm tighter around you. You don’t know if you can even tell him about this, if he’d want to hear it.

“Are we going tonight?” San asks everyone, looking over his shoulder, his body facing the stove. You meet Yunjin’s eye, and all she does is raise an eyebrow, a little smile playing on her lips, her arms crossed over her chest. You don’t smile back. 

Seonghwa groans from across the counter, “We just woke up and you’re already thinking about tonight?”

San giggles, flipping shit in a pan. You don’t even care what it is. You want to go home. You hear him telling Yunjin, “We met at Jungwon’s frat, isn’t that kinda romantic? Should we kiss under the front door or something?”

“Like the mistletoe thing during Christmas time?” Yunjin’s confused, you don’t have to see her eyebrows to know that they’re furrowed. “It’s September.”

San smacks his teeth, “I was trying to be romantic.”

“Romance in frat houses isn’t something that exists, babe.”

You fear she’s correct. Lifting your gaze from the countertop, you can feel Wooyoung looking at you. You look at Yunho instead, “Can you take me home?”

His blonde-ish brows tie together, “You don’t want breakfast?”

“No,” you answer, too quickly. “I’ll buy you breakfast. Please?” 

“I’ll eat when I come back,” he’s shaking his head as he says it. “Lemme go get my keys.”

You feel naked without his arm around you, but at least you already have your boots on. Your eyes find the countertop, your ball of clothes in your hands, phone buried somewhere inside it. His eyes are still on you, watching, analyzing. For a split second, your gaze lifts. It’s long enough to see his face scrunched in confusion, something else mixed with it, you didn’t look long enough to put your finger on it. 

You turn to Yunjin, “I’ll see you after class.”

Her head tilts, “You’re going?” You nod. “You okay?” You nod again. Her eyes narrow, then they slide to Wooyoung before landing back on you. Her voice is pitched like she knows you’re lying, “Alright.”

You don’t say goodbye to anyone else. You walk toward the front door and you can fucking feel him looking at you as you walk away, even if it means he had to turn his whole body to do so. You can’t face him, knowing that he was perfectly himself last night, this morning, and you’re just not strong enough to endure it. Maybe you never were.

Yunho meets you out by his car, you’re only standing there for a minute or two before he follows. “What happened?” he asks as soon as you’re in earshot, walking up to you at his passenger side door. “Something happened.”

“Nothing happened,” you shake your head, clutching your ball of clothes tighter. “I have class, I have to go home.”

“What did he do to you?” Yunho asks, his voice a little firmer now, there’s a shred of fear in it. You don’t know how he knows anything, but you don’t even question it at this point. “I know he slept in my bed–”

You cut him off, “He slept in your bed?” 

Out of all fucking people, Yunho’s bed? What the fuck does that mean? Why didn’t he just sleep on the fucking floor or something? It doesn’t make any sense.

Yunho nods, “Yeah.” He says it like that’s a normal thing that happens. You refuse to ask him what else he knows. “Are you okay, though? Did he do anything?”

“No– oh my god, no,” you say in a rush of syllables. You can’t tell him anything other than that, it doesn’t feel right to tell a guy you’re sleeping with about another guy that you slept with. “I’m just… I don’t know. He didn’t do anything, but I feel like this isn’t a story for your ears.”

Yunho nods, eternally understanding. “Okay,” he says in a soft voice. “But if he did and you just don’t want to tell me, I’m someone you can tell.”

You give him a small smile, and it feels genuine. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, and for some reason you don’t feel like you deserve it. As he walks around the front of his car, he sings, “I don’t mind listening, if you want to tell me.”

You’re shaking your head as he unlocks the doors, throwing your ball of clothes to the floor as you settle in his passenger seat. He’s too fucking nice for his own good. “I’m serious, I don’t think the story is for your ears. I think– I don’t know, I think I have to work through it on my own.”

He turns his key in the ignition, his car roaring to life. Music pours through the speakers, loud before he turns it down, speaking over it entirely, “Yunjin will be home eventually, you can tell her.” He brakes halfway down the driveway, turning to you, “You will tell her, right?”

You give him a silly smile, “Of course I’m gonna tell her.”

He smacks his teeth, pulling out of the driveway. “Now I have FOMO.”

A tiny laugh escapes you, “You’ll be fine.” Then you sit in silence for a beat before you turn your head again, remembering, “Did you spend the night with Mingi?”

Yunho’s lips tighten in a smile. “Yes. But don’t ask, because it’s not a story for your ears.”

That gets a bigger laugh out of you, and you reach over to steal his hand, tangling your fingers with his. You wish it felt more comforting than it does. You sigh, “At least you understand Mingi, there’s no second-guessing with him.”

“You don’t understand me?” His brows lift, taking his eyes off the road to glance at you. “Or is this about–”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, something unwelcome curling in your gut again. “You don’t confuse me, but everyone else does.”

One person does, but of course Yunho knows that already. “What you see is what you get with him,” Yunho answers, purposely short. “He doesn’t beat around the bush, sunshine. He fucks, that’s all he wants, that’s all he’s ever wanted.”

“I know,” you answer, tone flat. You look out the window. “I know that.”

Yunho squeezes your hand, exhaling. His words come out quieter, like he doesn’t know if he should say it, “I thought he was different with you, too, if it’s any consolation.”

Too. Is that really what you think? That he’s different with you? Does Yunho even know about the vermouth? He sure as hell doesn’t know how Wooyoung looked at you last night, how he kissed you, how he kept his body pressed to yours like he couldn’t bear being separated from you. You experienced it, you lived it– yet Yunho came to the conclusion before you. 

You turn to look at him again, and you don’t like the sour feeling building steadily in your gut, like everything you ingested last night might come right back up. Your mouth fills with saliva, stomach flipping like the alcohol in your stomach is fucking curdling or something. You reach for the door handle, panic in your tone, “Pull over.”

You threw up again after getting home and seeing the hickey on your neck. You think your anxiety might be sitting on some kind of pressure point to trigger nausea. There’s no way no one else at the frat saw it, you don’t know how no one said anything about it, you don’t think enough makeup in the fucking world will cover it. 

You tried, though, after a long, hot shower. After putting Wooyoung’s shirt back on. At least you have on your own pair of shorts in class, flip flops on your feet, probably looking as shitty as you feel. Hungover, emotionally beaten, you have no fucking idea what your professor is talking about, it’s background noise to you fucking around on your laptop, adding songs to your Spotify playlist instead of taking notes. 

You can’t stop replaying the day before. He bought you fucking vermouth, chilled glasses in the refrigerator for you, stocked up on olives. He played a drinking game, when the fuck has he ever played drinking games? You didn’t hear Virgin once yesterday. Part of you misses the nickname. 

At least you have time in between classes to run to the cafe where San thankfully isn’t working. The iced vanilla latte isn’t as good, but you’ll take it over having to act like you aren’t picking the day before apart piece by piece. You’re caffeinated enough to pay attention to the first half of your second class, something about AP Style, it’s a bunch of bullshit that you genuinely don’t give a fuck about right now.

You keep seeing his face from this morning, confusion written all over it. He deserves it. He deserves to be ignored after leaving you. Even fucking Yunho thought he was… different with you, whatever that means. You know exactly what it means. 

You think you kissed him for an hour straight. He made you cum three times. Three. And for the first two, he didn’t even touch your clit. Is he like that with everyone? Does he really care that much about making his partner feel good? Are you really just like every other woman he’s ever fucked? Does he kiss everyone else like he kissed you last night? Your bodies pressed together, his hand around your throat… Trust me… It’s such fucking bullshit you almost snap your plastic pen in half.

You need a lobotomy. You need something that will fuck with your short-term memory, you need to destroy your frontal lobe entirely. You need to forget it ever happened. You can’t fucking believe that you let yourself wonder for even a second that you might be different. That he might have actually wanted you for more than your fucking body. 

You shiver in the plastic chair, it feels too cold on your bare thighs. You wanted him for his body, too, you can’t blame him for that. You wanted to fuck him. You got what you asked for. But the more time passes, the more you dissect the entire fucking night, you think you got more than you bargained for. Then he left. 

By the time you get to your third class, you’ve bitten your pen cap into something unsalvageable, you don’t even try to focus on the topic. You stare at your dark laptop screen, thinking about everything that came after.

The laughter hurts the most, you think. Him telling you a story. Were you not supposed to lay down in his bed? Were you supposed to get dressed and leave? Why did he let you stay? You suppose he wasn’t going to say ‘get the fuck out’, but he never told you to stay, either. He kept talking. He laughed. He told you a story. He let you fall asleep in his bed. Has anyone he’s slept with ever fallen asleep in his bed before? Maybe you’re not the first woman he’s escaped. He probably has to escape them all the time.

He kissed you after he fucked you, and it wasn’t a peck, a simple action of pressing his lips to yours. He looked at you like he wanted to, like he wanted you. The same way he’d been looking at you all night. 

No. Absolutely fucking not. 

He could have told you to fucking leave. He didn’t have to kiss you after. He didn’t have to fucking look at you like that. He didn’t have to buy vermouth, he didn’t have to put in effort to fix your day, he didn’t have to laugh with you or tell you a story or let you sleep in his fucking bed. You’ve experienced Wooyoung’s casual before, in the basement of Jungwon’s frat. You’ve experienced the detached cockiness, the careless Wooyoung who had a girl right next door. Last night was nothing like that. 

You’re glad you stole his fucking shirt, you should have robbed him for more. Leaving you in the middle of the night is fucked up, and you’re not fucking crazy. He did treat you differently, he looked at you differently. Last night wasn’t casual. 

Yet he still fucking left. You need to kill him with your bare hands. 

You’re consumed by your own rage on your walk home, so hot the cool September breeze steams before it touches your skin. Yunjin can feel it, or maybe she hears it when you get home, slamming the front door behind you. She runs out of her room, fear and confusion written on her face, San right behind her, looking more scared than she does. 

Yunjin’s voice is uneasy, confused, “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” you answer simply, throwing your bag on the couch. “I’m fine.”

You turn toward the kitchen, missing how Yunjin and San slowly turn to look at each other, sharing a confused look. At least you can still feel hunger in your ball of rage, sorting through the fridge, trying to find something edible. You snap when you can’t find shit, “Do we have anything to eat in this fucking apartment?”

Yunjin approaches the counter slowly, leaving San in her bedroom. “Do you want me to make something?”

“I can do it,” you snap. Then you look at her, reading the concern in the bent lines of her face. “I’m not mad at you.”

“I know,” she nods once, still careful. “Can I ask who you’re mad at?”

“No,” you answer, short. You open the cabinet with force, sorting through everything inside, settling on a box of mac and cheese. “I’m fine, Jen, you don’t have to babysit me.”

“I’m kinda scared you’re gonna light the place on fire,” she says, humor lining her tone. You don’t even fucking smile, you can’t bring yourself to. You fill a pot with water instead of answering. She rounds the counter, taking the pot from you, putting it on the stove, turning it on. “I’ll do it.”

“I can do it–”

“I’ll do it,” she says, stern. When she looks at you, there’s no room for argument in her eyes. “You can go sit on the couch and calm the fuck down.”

“I can’t calm down,” you immediately argue. “If I sit down, I’ll think, and I’ve been thinking all fucking day. I need to do something with my hands.”

“Well, the water has to boil,” she says, shrugging as she crosses her arms over her chest. “Should we stare at the fucking pot together?” Her brows raise. “Talk to me or go sit in time-out.”

“I’m fine,” you snap. “I don’t need to talk.”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. She looks comfortable, hair tied up, pajamas on her body like she and San were laying in bed, about to take a nap. “You need to fucking talk.”

“I don’t need to do fucking anything!” you yell. “I need to eat and take a nap and reset before we go to Jungwon’s.”

Her brows raise even higher. “You want to go to Jungwon’s?”

“Is everyone going to Jungwon’s?”

“Yes–”

“Then yes, I’m fucking going,” you answer with an irritated laugh, like the answer is obvious. “I’m going and I’m having a good time and nothing is getting in the way of that.”

Her arms uncross, stretching out on either side of her, “What the fuck happened?”

Your jaw clenches. “I’ll tell you when I’m less pissed.”

“Tell me now,” she argues.

“I can’t tell you with him in the other room,” you say, dangerously loud. “Can you find some time for me? Pencil me into your schedule when he isn’t around?”

Her face blows out, shocked, confused, hurt, angry. Her laughter is coated in disbelief, “I’ll give you a pass because obviously something happened, but you’re not angry at me right now, so don’t take it out on me.”

Shame blooms before she finishes speaking. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, regret heating your cheeks. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“Go sit on the couch and fucking breathe,” she points to the living room. “I don’t know what the fuck happened, but you need to reel it in.”

Guilt and shame settle on top of your anger, pressing down on your chest, your shoulders. You walk over to the couch with your head down, feeling fucking stupid. Yes, you’re pissed, but not at Yunjin. Not at San. You want to talk to her, but you can’t with him in the other room, the chance of it getting back to Wooyoung is too high. 

You tuck your knees up to your chest, arms wrapping around your shins. You don’t even turn the TV on. You feel ridiculous, but you can’t shut it off, you can’t stop yourself from sinking to the bottom of your pit of rage. You think about the batting cages, the diner, when he gave you a ride home from work and stayed. You think about every conversation, every moment between you and Jung Wooyoung that you chalked up to friendship. 

When the fuck have we ever been friends?

He said the goddamn words, he meant them. At least you think he did. He seemed like he did. Maybe it was sometime in the last month, maybe it was sometime last night, but at some point you forgot his number one rule. He doesn’t entertain anything more than sex. Anything more than casual. 

You feel stupid. He is the reason, the pinnacle of why you changed so fucking much about your life, why you broke every rule you made for yourself.

But he broke his rules, too.

Maybe it’s your fault for mistaking a blurred line for a broken rule. You like living without your rules, without your walls, you like trusting your own fucking instincts. You’ve never felt more alive than when Jihyo pulled you into that closet, when Wooyoung tugged you upstairs by your wrist. 

Even if he pushed you toward breaking them, even if he’s the reason why, they were still your choices. If you woke up tomorrow and had redo the past month all over again, you wouldn’t fucking change anything. You still would have fucked Yunho, Jihyo, Wooyoung, you would do it all over again without an ounce of regret. You don’t fucking regret last night. 

Yunjin walks over with three bowls of mac and cheese, turns on the TV as San walks out of her bedroom, and with you in the middle, the three of you eat in silence. An episode passes, two, one of you breaking the quiet with a snort at something funny on the screen, little comments here and there about the show. You don’t know when you fell asleep, but when you wake up, the apartment is dark. 

The dishes are gone, clean and in the dishwasher. You turn the lights on, Yunjin's bedroom is empty, your phone tells you it’s after nine. You curse under your breath, checking your texts, there’s a few from Yunho, two from Yunjin that you click on. 

jen: pregaming at sannies  jen: wanted to let u sleep off ur attitude before jungwons

You smile at the screen, despite it all. You’ll make it up to her eventually. As you walk into your bedroom, you type out a response. 

you: be there in an hour

She responds almost immediately. 

jen: hurry jen: it’s me and a bunch of guys and im losing my fucking mind

You type something back about that being her choice before throwing your phone on your bed. You look in the mirror, fingers grazing the purple on your neck in the reflection, preparing yourself to waste half your concealer bottle. You look down at Wooyoung’s shirt, and it feels good to rip it over your head by the hem and let it fall into the pile of clothes in the corner. 

You wear a little grin as you stare at your closet, chest feeling a little lighter. You want to have a good time tonight, and you want to look fucking good, too. 

Yunjin’s here alone. 

She walks inside the house like she lives here, like she always fucking does, and she should because San barely acknowledges that she shows up. A quick peck to her lips and a drink handed to her like by his side is where she’s supposed to be. No one else asks where her other half is, so Wooyoung doesn’t, either. 

He catches Yunho checking his phone like he just had the same exact thought, but Yunho doesn’t type anything, just checks his lock screen and slips it back in his pocket. Wooyoung sips his drink, whiskey and something, he didn’t ask, nor does he care. Tonight he wants to catch a buzz and fuck, that’s it. Having two things on his itinerary doesn’t seem too far-fetched. 

“She hasn’t posted yet,” Mingi answers San, already bringing his beer up to his lips. “She just posted that one about body count, which was less than a week ago. She only posts once a week, right?”

San pouts, “Yeah, but I miss her fun episodes. That one wasn’t even fun, it was like, borderline political.”

Wooyoung and Yunjin retort at the same time, “Political?”

“Like, societal issues,” San explains, cheeks going pink. “Not a fun episode about a sexcapade.”

God, Wooyoung hasn’t listened to Unscripted in so fucking long. His hate-listening became more hatred than listening, and it didn’t feel good for his mental health, so he stopped listening altogether. It doesn’t stop anyone else from talking to him about it, though. 

“Can we go?” Wooyoung asks. “Or can we switch the subject?”

“People are probably just getting there,” Jongho says from across the counter. “If we go now, it won’t be packed yet.”

Wooyoung shrugs, antsy. “I don’t care.”

“You’ll be in that basement within five minutes and then you’ll be begging one of us to take you home,” Hongjoong adds, standing beside Jongho. “If we go a little later, you’ll have more options. It’ll take you longer to choose.”

Wooyoung’s brows raise. Is he that predictable? “So you’re waiting to leave based on how long it’ll take me to fuck someone?”

Seonghwa grins from beside Joong. “Last night it took you the longest it’s ever taken in the history of ever.”

Wooyoung’s chest twists. He sips his drink, and lets the subject change. He catches Yunjin pulling out her phone from the corner of his eye, typing something on her screen. Then she smiles at her phone, and types another response. Wooyoung shoots the rest of his drink back. 

He pours another, straight whiskey instead of mixing it, he decides he’ll stop drinking when he gets to Jungwon’s. He’ll catch his buzz here and then prove his friends right by going down to the basement within five minutes, since he’s so predictable. He’ll be the most predictable motherfucker in the world, then maybe his friends won’t have anything to say tomorrow. 

He only has to chug the last few ounces by the time the group is ready to pile into Yeosang’s SUV, another game of Tetris Wooyoung is too buzzed to complain about. He’s on Yunho’s lap sideways, his legs stretched over Hongjoong and Jongho, San on the other side with Yunjin on his lap, her legs stretched toward him. Mingi’s in the trunk, but he doesn’t care, he sits with his elbows propped up over the seats just to feel included in the conversation. 

Inside is hot, packed, there’s music blaring, typical party shit. Everything feels fucking routine. He loosens his jacket over his shoulders, runs a hand through his hair as his frat disperses, Wooyoung heads straight for the kitchen. For some reason he expects women on the counters, but then he quickly remembers that it was you up there last time, and Yunjin who’s somewhere behind him, he thinks. You were all up there, dancing to distract you from your breakup. It feels like months since then. 

He doesn’t say hi to anyone as he searches for a bottle of whiskey, ignores every stare or wink in his direction. He’ll take any scotch, bourbon, he doesn’t care what the fuck he’s drinking, as long as it gets him buzzed. He’s already buzzed. He doesn’t feel buzzed enough. 

“Hey,” he hears behind him. He turns just enough to see her face, tanned, beautiful, skin like glass. “You’re Jung Wooyoung, right?”

He gives her a flirty little half-smile as he opens the Maker’s lid. “Guilty.”

“Thought so,” she walks around him, leaning against the counter as he fills the cup too heavily. “I’ve heard about you.”

His brows raise as he raises his cup, “Yeah?”

He takes a sip as she smiles, head tilting, arms crossing just enough to push up her cleavage. “All good things, I promise.”

He pushes the sting through his lips in an exhale before answering, “There’s only good things about me to say, baby.” Her smile grows, eyes flaring excitement like he’s everything she’s dreamed of. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t give a fuck. He goes to turn, lifting his drink toward her in a farewell, “Find me later.”

He catches the tail end of her smile falling before he turns around fully, taking a long sip of his drink while he walks out into the crowd. He turns down a hallway and it’s winding, taking him deeper into the frat than he’s ever been before. Bass gets quieter before other music takes its place, smoke consuming the air the deeper he gets. He finds a side room with two chairs adjacent to a room that consists of a pool table and a few high-top chairs; he chooses the pool table room, but only because there’s women in it. He didn’t come here to play pool. 

He spots Jungwon who looks visibly excited when he catches Wooyoung walking inside. He ushers a woman off his lap, promising her he’d be back in a second, Wooyoung reads his lips as he crosses the room with a knowing smirk. Jungwon clasps his hand in Wooyoung’s, “My man.”

Wooyoung grins. “What’s up?”

“I was hoping you’d come,” Jungwon brings his beer up to his lips. “You bring your other boys, too?”

Wooyoung nods, “Around here somewhere.”

Jungwon catches him looking behind, one woman in particular, playing pool. Curly hair, dark clothes, tattoos covering her skin. Jungwon’s smirk grows, “Jai. Solid fuck.”

Wooyoung laughs a little. “Telling from experience?”

Jungwon gives him a look that says come on. He leans in, his voice quieter, “She’s a squirter.”

Wooyoung laughs harder at that, nodding, “Good to know.”

“Not interested?” Jungwon asks, confused, head tilting. “You?”

“I didn’t say that,” Wooyoung answers smoothly, sipping his whiskey. “Still scouting my options.”

“No one said you have to commit to one,” Jungwon teases, walking backward, most likely back to the girl who was on his lap. “The night is young, brother.”

Wooyoung lifts his drink in agreement. He looks at the curly-haired woman again, the ripped denim snug on her thighs, her low-cut top. He turns on his heel, then almost trips over it before walking down the hallway. He blinks himself back into focus, lowering his drink down to his side. 

He finds Hongjoong, Seonghwa and San all standing together, just off the entrance to the hallway. Wooyoung raises his brows when he gets close enough for San to see, “Where’s Jen-Jen?”

“Jen-Jen?” San retorts, brows pulled together. “She went to pee.”

Wooyoung takes a tiny sip of his drink as Hongjoong and Seonghwa look at each other. He raises a brow when they look back at him, then both his brows pop as Seonghwa asks, “Still up here, huh?”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, “Here we fucking go again.”

Hongjoong giggles, leaning into Seonghwa, “Do you have so many options that you can’t decide?”

Wooyoung holds up two fingers. “Two options. I’m tryna find out if they can be friends, and if they can, I’ll take ‘em both downstairs.”

Seonghwa grimaces. “How do you even come up with this shit?”

Wooyoung bares his teeth in a nasty grin, “I don’t come up with anything, shit just works out for me that way.” San stares at him in half-confusion, half-disgust. Wooyoung shrugs, “What? Before Jen, you were just like me.”

“Stop calling her Jen,” San narrows his eyes. “I’ve opened up my third eye.”

“Your third eye?” Hongjoong says through a laugh, his orange brows in his hairline. “You found a girl you like and now you’ve turned into that virgin?” Wooyoung’s neck snaps to Hongjoong. Joong looks around, curious, “Where is she, anyway? Wherever we are, she’s never far.”

“Do you not like her or something?” Wooyoung asks, the question so fucking instinctive he doesn’t recognize his own voice.

Hongjoong looks confused. “I never said that.”

His cheeks feel hot. He shakes his head, “Nevermind.” There’s a weird air between them now, or maybe Wooyoung just imagines it. He takes a long swig of his drink as Seonghwa says something to Hongjoong, and then the pair walks away.

San leans in closer, taking the spot at Wooyoung’s side. “What was– you’re back!”

Wooyoung turns, catching Yunjin bouncing back toward them wearing a grin. “There’s a fucking line– she’s here!”

Wooyoung has fucking whiplash from turning his head, watching as Yunjin bounces right past him and San, toward the front door. Time seems to fucking slow, he barely feels the color drain from his face as you come into view. It’s a three-sixty from when he saw you this morning, in his Chrome fucking tee, a pair of his boxers almost hidden beneath it, boots on your legs. He doesn’t know if he’s ever seen you so exposed. 

Kitten heels show off your legs, a long, delicious stretch of skin up to the shortest skirt he’s ever seen, like if you bent over the slightest degree your entire ass would be on display. A tight, black top on your upper half, showing off your shoulders, your collar bones, your hair tied back. There’s a line of skin between your top and your skirt, the silhouette of your outfit rendering the clothes useless, every shape and curve of your body exposed. The same body he saw last night, every goddamn fucking detail.

His eyes catch on the purple right beneath your jaw. Covered, he guesses, but underneath the layer of makeup he can see the bruise he left. He can’t remember the last time he gave someone a fucking hickey. His dick jumps in his jeans, stomach flipping. His mouth fills with saliva as you greet Yunjin with a bright smile, he watches as you wave at San, but he feels cold as you keep walking. Straight past him. You don’t even fucking glance in his direction, like you purposely skipped right over him. 

What the fuck? Did he fucking miss something?

He hears “Oh” from his side, and his neck whips to it. San’s brows are raised, amusement playing in the little grin he wears, dimples showing. Wooyoung’s eyes thin out as San laughs a little, “You’re in fucking trouble.”

Wooyoung’s face morphs into confusion, “Why the fuck would I be in trouble?”

San shakes his head, lips tight as his palm clasps over Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.” 

He leaves, following behind Yunjin before Wooyoung has a chance to respond. Why the fuck would he be in trouble? His stomach is in his boots. What the fuck did he do other than make you cum three fucking times last night? God, he wishes the confusion was enough to get his dick to calm down, but his eyes follow you, the way your ass sways in that fucking skirt as you walk away from him. Fuck. 

He chugs the rest of his whiskey down. Where did that first girl go? He regrets not catching her name. Trouble? What the fuck did he do?

He’s shaking his head as he splits from where he stands, walking toward the kitchen. He’ll have one more drink, just to wash this uneasy fucking feeling away. Unfortunately that’s where the other three are headed, he can see San’s head of black hair from a fucking mile away. 

“Trouble,” he retorts mindlessly under his breath as he walks into the kitchen. He catches a tall head of blonde hair, Yunho looking at you like you’re a piece of fucking meat he’d do anything to devour. Wooyoung wonders if Yunho knows he was devouring you last night. 

He pours another drink, keeping his back to everyone. Over the music, the layer of conversation hanging over the kitchen, he hears Yunho say something, you and Yunjin laughing in response. His top lip lifts, staring at the amber liquid in his cup. He takes a long swig of it, and he knows he should stop, he’s reaching his own limit to where he can’t fuck. He might already be past it. For some reason, he doesn’t care. 

Licking his top row of teeth, sucking down air in a sharp breath, he turns around. You’re smiling, holding a can of fucking beer, touching Yunho’s arm as he says something that can’t be as funny or entertaining as you seem to think it is. Mingi calls Yunho’s name, San drags Yunjin toward the dance floor, and Wooyoung doesn’t miss a beat to move his feet as you’re left standing in front of the refrigerator alone.

“Hey,” he hears himself, but the words seem far. Fuck, he’s fucked up, and you look so fucking pretty. Your makeup is done, hair styled, but your eyes are missing that same fucking sparkle they always have when they’re pointed on him. He hates that he can tell. 

You sip your beer, eyeing him over the can, “Hi.” 

“Beer?” Wooyoung asks after glancing at the label. “You aren’t a beer kind of girl.” 

“Maybe I’ve changed,” you say with a shrug, holding the can with both hands at the center of your abdomen. His heartbeat picks up in his chest reading your blank expression, like you don’t give a fuck whether he lives or dies. 

It’s instinct only that makes him ask, “Are you mad at me or something?” 

Your brows raise, eyes flaring intrigue. Then your lips pick up on one side as you ask, “Should I be?”

Wooyoung didn’t think it was possible for his stomach to drop any further. What the fuck kind of answer is that? He sputters over his response, head twitching in an attempt to shake it, “I– what– no? I don’t think so?” 

Your smile grows, but it’s devious, like that was the wrong fucking answer. What was the right answer? What the fuck did he do? He feels fucking weird, like he’s standing in the kitchen naked or something, but he’s the only person who doesn’t know it. This is weird. He feels weird. 

“Okay,” you say simply, tone sweet like candy. His eyes search every detail of your face, like maybe he’ll find a better answer in the lines of your smiling cheeks. “We’re straight, then.” 

“That’s it?” Wooyoung retorts, baffled. His lips part again, but you’re already turning, kitten heels moving one in front of the other. His eyes are glued to your ass as you walk away, the flexing muscles of your thighs, your calves, he’s so confused but now he’s horny and he’s fucking drunk and he doesn’t understand what the fuck just happened. 

He stands there for another second before his body can catch up to his mind, and with another fucking swig of whiskey, he makes for the crowd. He doesn’t care. But he can’t say he’s ever been in this situation before– fucking a woman and her wanting nothing to do with him the next day. That's how it should be. That’s how it always should fucking be. 

The music is too loud, even if it sounds kinda muffled in his ears. He can feel it in his warm chest, like a knife twisting with every beat of bass. His body feels loose but something inside him is wound tight, like the alcohol is battling his instincts and it’s still up for debate who the fuck is going to win. 

He hates this. He hates it enough that he skirts out of the crowd, searching for the hallway that led him to the smoky room where everything felt quieter. His feet feel heavy, and his boots keep scuffing against the hardwood, but the same curly-haired, tattooed woman is still leaning over the pool table, and it eases a fraction of the tension in his body. 

She notices him as he walks past the table, and keeps her eye on him as he slumps in one of the high-top chairs; he wishes it was a more graceful movement. He doesn’t have the coordination for his body to move the way he wants it to right now, apparently he doesn’t have the bandwidth for his mind to work how he wants it to, either. 

She leans up off the pool table, her hand wrapped around the cue holding it straight up beside her, she leans her ass into the side of the table, instead. She doesn’t take her eyes off Wooyoung. 

He settles into something practiced, an easy slouch of his shoulders, knees parted as his heels slide off the bar on the bottom of the chair. Fuck. He fixes them, swallowing down the saliva in his mouth that he didn’t realize had even gathered. 

She pushes off the table, using a slow stride, swaying her hips as she walks toward him. He lets his eyes drag up her body, her tattoos blending into a swirl of ink on her skin. She approaches him with a little smirk, curls bouncing with each step, “Did you come back for a round?” 

“Nah,” he smiles, head shaking a little. “Seems I left something behind.” 

“Yeah?” Her head tilts, a smile playing on her lips, showing off her unnervingly white teeth. “What’s that?” 

He makes a show of dragging his eyes down her body again, tongue poking out of the corner of his lips, the movement so deliberate that her smile grows. “I’m Jai,” she says, eyes sparkling. “And you are?” 

“Wooyoung,” he responds with a little nod. “Are you good at pool?” 

“I’ve been in here all night, winning over and over,” she looks back at the table as she says it, shoulders pushing back, cleavage in his line of sight. His dick jumps. She looks back at him with a smirk, “So I’d say yeah, probably.” 

There's something cocky on his tongue, but the words are stolen from him as he catches the sight of you over her shoulder. His smile falls, demeanor gone as you follow in behind Jungwon, a flirty little smile on your lips. Your head turns, gazing over the room, and there’s not even a glimpse of recognition in your eyes when you spot Wooyoung in the corner. It’s like you don’t even know who he fucking is. 

Her fingers lay over his forearm, and for a second he forgot she was there. “Wooyoung?” 

His head snaps back to the curly-haired beauty, reality crashing back into him. “My bad,” he laughs a little, he hopes she can’t tell that it’s forced. “Are you gonna stay here all night?”

“Maybe,” she leans in a little closer, the pool cue landing just beside his thigh, and he wishes it was thicker so it could act like a wall. He can still see you talking to Jungwon out of the corner of his eye. “Depends if there’s something better to do.”

“There’s something better to do,” he says it like he means it, parting his knees a little further, and she takes the open invitation by slipping right between them. She’s pretty, long lashes, a flush to her skin, lips a kissable shade of red. He wonders what she tastes like. He hopes it’s better than the whiskey he’s drinking. 

It doesn’t surprise him that it doesn’t take much more, he’s fucked women after less words, sometimes he doesn’t have to try at all. Her hand finds his chest, slides up to his neck before she presses her lips to kiss in a soft kiss, one he deepens immediately. He drops his cup to the table beside him before laying one hand on her waist, pulling her closer as her tongue meets his, he lets his brain shut off, muscle memory taking over. 

Until he hears you laugh. He stiffens for just a second, but her hand finds his hair, giving it a little tug as her chest presses against his. What the fuck is so funny? There’s no way you’re laughing at him, right? Damn, he gets a rhetorical fucking question and Jungwon gets your real laugh? Fuck. Fuck– who gives a fuck?

She pants into his mouth, “You’re a good kisser.” 

I know. He pulls away a fraction just to let his eyes open for a second, and there’s a weird relief when he sees your back turned toward him. “Yeah?” 

“Wanna know what else you’re good at,” she whispers before pressing her lips to his again. And for a minute, he lets himself ease into it, lets the taste of her burn a hole into him. He needs this. 

When she pulls away again, he can’t stop his head from turning. He looks over and Jungwon’s staring at him, tongue poking out between his bared teeth with his brows raised as if he’s saying nice, knew you’d like her. But then your hand reaches up to his cheek and pulls his lips back down to yours and Wooyoung’s jaw drops at the realization you were just kissing him. 

Fuck. Fuck. His stomach flips, alcohol leaden in his stomach. Fuck. He kisses Jai again, and she rolls herself into him, one leg lifting to press against his thigh like she might crawl into his fucking lap. Fuck. Did you see him kissing her? Of course you’d go back to Jungwon. Or did Jungwon find you first?

Fuck, it doesn’t matter. You wanted him the last time you were here, of course you’d want him again. Why didn’t he think of that before? Jai tightens her hands in his hair, and he realizes he’s been on auto-pilot. 

“We should go,” she whispers. “Wanna fuck you.” 

He dips down below her jaw just so she can’t see that his eyes are open. “Soon,” he says mindlessly against her neck, looking, watching. Jungwon’s hands are on your ass, he can see the fucking crease where it meets your thighs. He wonders if you can feel what he’s seeing, if you can, you must not care. That’s not you. 

Can he even fucking say that anymore?

“Wooyoung,” Jai says softly, somewhere between a gasp and a whisper of pleasure. He can’t tell if it’s because of his lips half moving on her neck or if it’s because she wants more. He doesn’t answer, but only because Jungwon pulls away, mumbles something that makes you nod furiously. 

There's no way. There’s no fucking way. 

He watches as you grab Jungwon’s hand, following behind him with a little bounce in your step like you’re happy as hell to be leaving the fucking room. There’s no way you’re going downstairs. There’s no way you’re fucking him. 

At the threshold of the door, you look back. Wooyoung’s lips part fully from the girl’s neck as a tiny, snarky fucking smile curves your lips when you catch his gaze. Then you leave. 

Jai pulls away, brows furrowed. “I’m confused.” 

He has to get downstairs. He shakes his head, tucking a curl behind her ear, “Why confused?” 

“I’ve heard about you,” she says plainly. “Are we going downstairs or not?” 

Wooyoung’s returning smile might be the first genuine one of the night. “Fuck yes, let’s go.”

He keeps his eyes trained on the ink swirling on the backs of her thighs as she drags him through the main floor of the house. He refuses to think, he focuses on pushing one foot in front of the other, how her dainty fingers feel around his wrist. He wants to feel, he doesn’t want to think, he doesn’t want to do anything else but fuck. His dick is growing steadily against the constraints of denim as he walks down the steps, through the hazy, smoke-filled room. He wants to look at the couch just to make sure you’re not on it, but he even refuses that. 

It’s mechanical, robotic, pressing his lips to hers behind the first open door she saw. He doesn’t even check to see if it’s closed. His palms feel far, but as they slope the curves of her chest, of her ass, her legs, pinning her to the mattress is anything but instinctual. He groans low, fumbling with his shirt, his zipper, she helps him where his fingers get sloppy. Control returns when he’s buried in her cunt, fingers, cock, the pleasure is so heavy he forgets why he doesn’t have drunk sex for the entire four or forty minutes it takes to make her cum.

He’s thanking her afterward, when she’s putting her clothes back on, he isn’t really sure why. She thanks him in return, he still isn’t sure why. Good sex is the standard, and drunk or sober, he wouldn’t deliver anything less. Weight creeps back in after she leaves, and Wooyoung’s surprised by it, like he forgot it was there prior to getting his nut off. He wonders if you’re still down here. If you ever came down here at all. 

And that thought is enough to get his clothes back on in record time, he doesn’t look back at the room once before leaving it, straining his ears just in case Jungwon’s pulling sounds out of you that he’d recognize. He doesn’t hear anything in the hallway, he doesn’t see you on the couch. He doesn’t find you downstairs at all, but he’s still fucking looking when he returns to the main floor, heart picking up in speed like there’s a finish line he isn’t going to meet. 

“Wooyoung,” he hears at his side, and his head whips just to see Yunho looking concerned. “Bro, your shirt is on backwards and it’s tucked halfway up your back.”

Wooyoung blinks at him, and Yunho tucks his beer can between his thighs to help him get his fucking shirt off. Wooyoung curses under his breath, the sticky air of the room barely even touching him, he’s fucked. The buzz of the party has died, he came, and now he’s stuck like this, drunk and fucking discombobulated. 

“I need to get the fuck out of here,” Wooyoung says in a hurried breath, fixing the elastic band of his briefs before Yunho hands him back his shirt. “I need to go home.”

“We’ll get you home,” Yunho says, confusion and comfort lining his tone. “Are you good?”

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung huffs, getting his shirt over his head. He pulls it down to meet his hips as you come up behind Yunho, and Wooyoung’s stomach flips like he might vomit all over Yunho’s shoes when you peek your head around the side of his arm. 

You give him a one over, and he watches the recognition form in your eyes. The understanding. Then your lips curve in a grin, and you laugh. It’s short, small, a huff of disbelieving air, but for some reason it feels fucking humiliating. Like you expected this. Wooyoung doesn’t know why he doesn’t fucking want you to expect it, why he feels like he’s been caught red-handed. His cheeks burn. His ears burn. He drank too much. He might throw up. 

He turns around and walks. He hopes it’s toward the front door, nothing in his body is working right. He expects relief when the cool, nighttime air hits his skin, but all it does is force the alcohol sitting heavy in his stomach upward. He trips over his feet on the last step of the porch, throwing himself sideways, landing on his knees before painting the lawn with whiskey and stomach acid. 

“Holy shit,” he hears from behind him, and Wooyoung can barely register Yunho’s voice. “How much did you fucking drink?” There’s legs on either side of his shoulders, hands pulling his hair away from his face. “I grabbed Yeosang’s keys, get it the fuck out. I’m taking you home.”

Wooyoung doesn’t recognize his own voice, “Is she with you?”

“No,” Yunho answers immediately. “She’s inside.”

Wooyoung retches again. He can hear voices, the bass from inside smaller now, muffled. His fingers curl in the grass as he groans, “This is humiliating.”

“No it’s not.” Wooyoung swears he can hear Yunho shaking his head. “Remember that time I threw up at SVT? On the kitchen floor? I was supposed to fuck Joshua that night, but he got grossed out and left the kitchen.”

Wooyoung laughs, but he can taste the bile on his tongue. He needs to get out of here. He starts to lean backward, and Yunho steps back above him, helping him up slowly. His stomach flips. He doesn’t know if he’ll survive the drive home. 

“You’re good,” Yunho reassures him, holding him by his fucking armpit, nodding. “You’re good, come on.”

Sitting in the passenger seat of Yeosang’s SUV, Wooyoung prays he doesn’t remember any of this tomorrow.

However. However. It might be a tiny bit your fault that it starts like this: A quiet Tuesday night in your apartment, you and your roommates sequestered in your own rooms. You’re failing to read a book your friend recommended, too busy thinking about something else.

Too busy remembering a handful of nights ago when yours and Jongho’s and Yeosang’s schedules had miraculously aligned, Yunho had evacuated the dorm, and you and Jongho had spent the next two hours edging Yeosang until he cried. Too busy remembering the flood of pleas sliding from his mouth, how after you finally relented, he had been boneless and brainless, his eyes hazed over as he struggled to recall his own name, let alone either of yours. Too busy remembering how Jongho had fucked you after, hard and relentless, too pent up to bother with grace or elegance, how you had scratched down his back with one hand and scrabbled for Yeosang’s arm with the other in a desperate search for purchase where there was none to be found.

Too busy recalling how, after you’d all had time to recover, Yeosang had rolled over, slid down the bed, and stroked Jongho back to hardness while you—too tired to be of much help—had settled for lazily tonguing at the swell of Jongho’s shoulder and the line of his collarbone, enjoying the audible unsteadiness of his breath. Too busy remembering the distinct sound of a cap popping open, how you’d looked down in confusion: Yeosang, his mouth bulging around Jongho’s cock, had picked up the bottle of lube you’d forgotten was still on the comforter.

Too busy replaying this exact moment:

Yeosang dragging a slick finger over Jongho’s rim, the lovely shiver-shake that rolled through him, and you holding your breath because you know Jongho has bottomed for Yeosang before but not in the two months that you’ve been together, and you want to see Jongho’s unfailing collectedness falter, want to see him fall apart, want, want, want—

“Hyung,” Jongho had said, almost in warning, and glanced unsubtly in your direction.

Yeosang had inexplicably winced, murmured, “Right, sorry,” then wrapped his lubey fingers around Jongho’s hip instead.

Though something was off, your brain hadn’t been alert enough to engage in proper detective work. You’d nudged Jongho’s bicep with your nose. “What was that about?”

“Nothing, noona,” he had said, like a fucking liar. “Just don’t want that right now.” 

And though you’d wanted to press—because while you’re not going to disrespect his boundaries, that look was downright weird—Yeosang did something with his tongue that had Jongho sucking in a stinging breath through his teeth, and you let it go in favor of listening for the pretty grunts he rarely lets escape.

So here you are, running through that moment over and over again, trying to come up with an explanation for what it meant. They’re fully aware you’re intrigued by the idea of them switching up their usual dynamic, ridiculously into it, in fact. And you know they know because of how often they bring it up mid-sex just to see how your body reacts, shivering and clenching and needy.

Part of why you’re so into it is due to how steadfast Jongho is in his unaffectedness. No matter what you or Yeosang do, he refuses to bend. He’ll let his eyes fall closed, he’ll let you hear the jagged stutter of his breath, he’ll let you think you have the upper hand, but he’ll never fully cede control and lose himself to the haze of pleasure.

That it won’t come easy only makes you want it more.

Huffily, you cast the book aside. You don’t bother to slot in the bookmark; it’s not like you’d retained the last ten pages you’d read. This sucks so bad. All this time thinking people in relationships needed to get a grip and not let themselves be consumed by their significant other(s), and here you are, definitively gripless and being consumed on what should be a peaceful night to yourself.

You’re a little turned on and a lot willing to ignore it as you head over to Yeosang’s room. The ajar door reveals him at his desk playing some game you’re certain he’s told you about but that you can’t name. He tilts his head to show he’s listening when he sees you haunting the doorway in his periphery. Not waiting for an invitation, you cross over to make yourself comfortable on his bed.

“I thought we were having alone time,” he says.

“I need to ask you something.”

“I’m not cleaning the hair out of your shower drain again,” Yeosang says, not tearing his attention from the computer. “Ask Yunho or one of the hyungs.”

The concept of Park Seonghwa on his hands and knees, wriggling a snake down the drain, is genuinely laughable. “It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“It’s about other night, when you were going down on Jongho.”

Yeosang bashes his knee against the desk with how fast he whirls around to stare at you, whisper-yelling through his pained wince, “____, the door is open.”

With a put-upon sigh, you go over to close it. “Happy?”

He gives you a wary once-over. On the screen, his abandoned character meets a violent end. “Now Yunho’s going to think we’re…doing something.”

“That’s a him problem,” you say cheerily. Instead of sitting back down on his bed, you step up close to him until your knees knock into each other. He’s still looking at you like he’s afraid you’re pulling some convoluted prank. But you push against his legs to spin his chair back around to face the ‘try again?’ menu on his monitor, then drape yourself over his back, your chin perched on his head. “So.”

Yeosang, trapped, sighs. “What about the other night?”

“You were going to finger Jongho, weren't you? He seemed into it, but then it was like…like he remembered something. Then he said no, and you said, ‘Right, sorry.’”

Yeosang has gone tense. “I know all this. I was there.”

“The way you said it, it sounded like you’d discussed something with him beforehand. Did you?”

Without seeing, you can picture his wide-eyed expression from the breathy, high-pitched skew his voice gets when he’s hiding something. “He said no. I was saying ‘right,’ as in ‘yes, okay.’ Did you want me to push? You know I wouldn’t do that.”

“That isn’t what I’m saying.” You squeeze your arms, wrapped around his upper chest, a little tighter. “Yeosangie,” you say, saccharine, “what aren’t you telling me?”

“N—nothing. You’ll have to ask Jongho. He’s the one who—” Yeosang doesn’t finish.

You lift up and look down at the top of his head. He’s gone very still. With the pads of your fingers, you tilt his head back so he’s looking up at you, upside down. “The one who what?”

“Nothing,” he repeats, firmer. “If you’re bothered about it, ask him. I don’t know why you two love putting me in the middle of your weird sex power struggle.”

“It’s not a power struggle,” you retort, thrown off by how quickly Yeosang wrangled his trepidation. “Besides, you like being caught in the middle, don’t pretend you don’t.”

Yeosang ducks away from your hands and spins the chair to face you, looking severely unimpressed. “It’s totally a power struggle, ____. You want to fuck him—or you want me to fuck him—so bad it makes you look stupid. You are not subtle about it.”

“Yeah, well, you think it’s hot.”

“We aren’t talking about me.”

You scuff your socked foot along the floor. “I just don’t get it. He was clearly interested the other day, until it was like a switch flipped. Obviously I’m not going to pressure him into something he doesn’t want to do, but why is it that as soon as I came into the picture he’s not interested in it anymore? And it’s not—I wouldn’t call it a power struggle. He’s just so smug all the time. Are you telling me it doesn’t piss you off? You don’t want him to go dumb and whiney like you do?”

Yeosang lifts one shoulder, a shrug he doesn’t quite commit to. “He isn’t me. Besides, even when he asked me to top, he wasn’t like that. He didn’t magically lose his…usual attitude.”

“He didn’t start whining and begging for it like you do, you mean.”

“Like we do,” he corrects.

“I don’t beg,” you say primly.

“Right,” he says, unconvinced, “then what was—” he pitches his voice ridiculously high “—oh, please, Jongho-ya, more, more?”

“Yah, I don’t sound like that!” You snatch up a pillow from his bed and get a few successful whacks in before he’s up out of the chair and gently tackling you onto his mattress. The pillow is stuck between you, but you can feel the hard lines of his body around it, caging you in with a pleasant pressure. You kick halfheartedly at him, and he shoves his thigh between your legs in retaliation. The blunt edges of his teeth flash when he feels the catch in your breath through the pillow.

Not for the first time, you curse that you’d been friends for years before you’d ever considered being with him. It means he can read you like a fucking billboard, all lit up in neon against a wash of black sky.

“Maybe you didn’t sound exactly like that,” he says lowly, “but that was a direct quote. Do you want me to see if I can get you to recreate it for me?”

If this were Jongho, you’d make a game of how long you could hold out, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he won. He would oblige, perfectly happy to keep you in suspense for as long as it took, possibly even sending you to bed unsatisfied.

But with Yeosang it’s easy to submit, because when he leans more dominant, he’s less arrogant and more eager to please. He still begs—not for you to make him feel good, but to show you what he can do to make you feel good. The only reward in denying him is his wet-eyed distress, and while sometimes that’s exactly what you want, tonight you discard artifice and lift your hips to grind shamelessly against his thigh.

You hadn’t come in here hoping for this, but in hindsight, you aren’t sure what you expected from showing up horny to talk about sex. Sorry, Yunho, you think of your roommate one wall away. With how often he and Mingi are audible over your noise-cancelling headphones, you deserve this revenge.

“Tell me something first,” you say unsteadily, trying to not get lost in the hot slide of Yeosang’s hands at your waist and the solidity of his chest against yours when he tosses the pillow aside.

“Yes?” When he’s in a specific mood in the bedroom, he’ll call you ‘noona’ despite being four months older. This is not one of those times. He has power over you in the form of the information you’re pretending you don’t want, and he is well aware, unexpectedly cocky with it.

“Nevermind. It’s not—mmh—important.”

Yeosang goes still, and you whine before you can think to swallow it back. “It is important. Ask me.”

You shift in search of friction, but he presses down against your hipbones to prevent you from moving. “It’s—I don’t know if he’d want us talking about him while he isn’t here.”

A blatant lie. All three of you have established that you think it’s hot when one of you is absent physically but still being talked about.

“It’s about Jongho again? Ask me. Ask me, or…I’m not touching you again until you do.” Uncertainty flashes in Yeosang’s gaze, probably because of how unlike him this is—and how distinctly Jongho-like it is. The irony is, unfortunately, not lost on you.

“You wouldn’t,” you challenge, and move your leg until it brushes against his erection.

Yeosang lets out a needy noise through his teeth before clamping his mouth shut and resuming his attempt at intimidation. “I would. I’ll take care of this myself or leave you here and go down the hall to our boyfriend.”

Shit. The part of you that wants to call his bluff is outweighed by the part of you that’s so fucking wet you can barely see straight. A month ago, you would’ve said, alright, fine, then go, if that’s what you really want and then watched him fumble into rescinding his threat. But Yeosang has clearly been taking his cues from Jongho, and one thing about Jongho is that he never, ever goes back on his word.

“Ugh. Fine,” you relent. “I was going to ask you to tell me about the last time you fucked Jongho. Like, who initiated, or what kind of mood he was in, what he wanted…”

Your voice dies at the end, embarrassed by the smirk curling across Yeosang’s lips.

“I knew you were going to ask that, you perv,” he says.

Some boyfriends use cute pet names for their girlfriends. You’re the lucky one who gets ‘perv’ instead of ‘jagi.’ “Then why did you make me say it?” you grumble.

“Because you’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“Shut up.”

“Not a very nice thing to say to the person who’s about to make you come,” he says, propping himself up with one hand to create room between your bodies. The other hand slips deftly under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers skim over the thin fabric of your underwear, right on your clit. “I don’t know what made him want to. I don’t think there was anything I did or said, at least that I can remember. We were kissing and he said, ‘Hyung, will you fuck me this time?’ and that was it. If you’re trying to see what will make him want to again, you’re out of luck.”

He presses against the wetness at your entrance through your panties. “As for what kind of mood he was in,” Yeosang goes on, “I guess he was a little more tired than usual? We’d had a long week. But then again, most of our weeks are, so I can’t say whether or not that had anything to do with it.” He drags his fingers up, infuriatingly slow. “Like I said, you’d have to ask him. Why haven’t you? Oh, right, the power struggle you claim isn’t happening.”

“Yeosang-ah,” you whine when his hand goes still, the heat of his palm over your clothed pussy but providing zero pressure.

“Yes, ____?”

“Touch me. For real, I mean.”

He kisses your nose. Try as he might to wear a facade of authority, at the end of the day he can never deny you. “Okay, jagi,” he murmurs, and you get approximately three seconds to appreciate that he’s decided to be sweet again (approximately three seconds to appreciate being called something affectionate over being (...correctly) accused of perversion) before he plunges his hand under the band of your underwear and through your folds.

Your head falls back as you fall into the feeling of him expertly stroking your clit. The angle is a little awkward, with how he’s navigating around your clothes and leaning so close to you that his hand can hardly move, but no less good. Eventually you want more than the position will allow. You push Yeosang away long enough to tug off your bottoms and shift further up the bed where your legs won’t hang off anymore.

You end up flat on your back, Yeosang sitting between your splayed legs, sinking two fingers inside you. The forearm you’ve thrown over your mouth muffles your moans but does nothing to quiet the lewd, wet sound of him fingering you. When he pushes in a third finger, you fight to trap the noise it wrenches from you.

Seeing this, Yeosang doesn’t relent. He circles your clit with his other hand and says, in a tone clearly intended to be thoughtful and nonchalant but that ends up edgy and winded, “We were like this when I fingered our Jongho open the first time. I thought it would be easier if he was on his stomach, but he wanted to see me.”

The words barely register within the fog of pleasure. “Wh—what?”

“I just remembered your third question.”

“My…Who?” you say, disoriented, because he’s curling the fingers inside of you and pressing down on your clit at the same time, and it feels for a delicious moment like he’s touching you everywhere all at once.

“You asked what Jongho wanted,” Yeosang clarifies, again attempting to be casual and instead sounding like he’s run a mile. “I never answered. He didn’t tell me if he’d ever, um, received before, but I took a long time getting him ready either way, to be safe. He’s always been good to me. I wanted to return the favor.”

Your head is spinning. You don’t know what’s going on, only that you don’t want it to stop. The first time you’d had sex, Yeosang had been riddled with embarrassment, earnest yet covering his blushing face at every turn. Over time, he’s gained confidence, but he’s never spoken to you quite so filthily. You didn’t know he had this vocabulary, much less the ability to use it while gazing unfalteringly at you without curling up into a tiny ball of shame, even if he is red all the way down to the collar of the shirt he hasn’t taken off yet.

“Fuck, I’m—” close, you’re about to say, your arm flopped to the side, forgetting you should be covering your mouth, but Yeosang stops before you can finish either your sentence or your orgasm. He removes his fingers, opting instead to rest them, glistening and sticky, on the soft inside of your thigh. You make a confused, displeased sound. He’s never done this before. Jongho has, but not him. “Sangie, why?”

“I didn’t let Jongho come before I fucked him, either,” Yeosang says. His eyes dart to the side, and he takes a deep breath as if to steel himself. “It was hard not to. He sounded so pretty, he was so wet, ____, but I didn’t want him to be too sensitive. And, well, you know he likes to drag things out with me sometimes. Maybe I did want a little payback.”

“How…” Your voice is barely there. You’re clenching around nothing, coming awake to the fact that, if there were any kind of power struggle between you and Yeosang, you’d be worshipping at his altar long before you realized there was a competition happening. “What position did you do?”

Yeosang kisses you, slow and filthy. “Would you like me to show you?”

You both make quick work of removing the rest of your clothes, since the only things that’d come off between both of you were your pants and your underwear. Yeosang raises an eyebrow at your lack of bra—“Was this your plan all along?” he says—to which you throw your bundled-up shirt at his face and say, “Who the fuck wears a bra to sit around at home?”

Plucking the shirt from his head and tossing it on the floor, Yeosang complains, “What is with you and hitting me with things tonight?”

“It’s fun, and you look hot when you’re pissed off.”

He rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply verbally, just taps at your leg and gestures for you to turn over. He helps maneuver you onto all fours with your head on the pillow you’d used to smack him. As with most everything he does, he’s gentle with how he touches you, running his hands up your thighs, over your ass. He shocks a whimper out of you when he licks a broad stripe up your pussy—only once, as if he couldn’t help himself. Through the shifting of his weight on the mattress, you try to figure out what he’s doing, but even with the forewarning of the heat of his body as he slots himself into place behind you, you still jolt, unprepared, when the slick head of his cock brushes your hole.

“Relax,” he murmurs, spreading you with his thumbs. A brief, tantalizing pause. “I had to tell our Jongho that, too. Even after I spent so long opening him up, he was so tense. Maybe it’s because he couldn’t see me? But it was so nice, hearing the way he sounded, feeling how he reacted, when I caught him off guard.”

He sinks into you in a singular, fluid motion. A punched-out groan slips from your mouth. Your chest sags against the sheets, but you manage to keep your hips up for him.

“Yeah, a little like that.” Yeosang rocks into you, taking it slow even though you feel like you’re going to die if he doesn’t pick up the fucking pace. To be fair, you might die if he does pick up the pace, given the way he’s speaking to you. “At first he tried not to let me hear him. You know how he is. Eventually, he either stopped being able to hold it in or he stopped caring—and he sounded lovely, ____, and he kept pushing back against me because I wasn’t going hard enough. But he felt so good, I couldn’t go any harder or I was going to come in about five seconds.”

Mostly unconsciously, you find you’re following the Jongho of the past’s lead and fucking yourself back on Yeosang, who is still taking his sweet time between thrusts. With an amused huff, he stops moving and lets you do the work, and while normally you don’t mind, now you’re annoyed he’d talked such a big game only to put himself on the bench.

“Yeosang-ah,” you complain.

“What is it, jagi?” He plays dumb, which is infuriating because that’s your fucking go-to move. No way is he beating you at your own game.

You have to remind yourself this isn’t Jongho. When given direct instruction, Yeosang is virtually incapable of disobeying. “Sang-ah, fuck me the way you fucked him, please, I need—”

You’re still in the middle of speaking when he moves in closer so he can press his chest to your back and start fucking you in earnest, the rest of your words dying a valiant death on your tongue. One arm snakes around to band across your stomach and keep you from crumpling against the bed. He’s shoved his face into the back of your neck, where you can equally hear and feel the whimpers that have become your favorite music in the entire world. He always sounds so desperate, as if he’s been starved of this his entire life.

For your part, you’re borderline incoherent; you think if you tried to say his name he wouldn’t even recognize it.

Yeosang presses a contradictorily soft kiss to your shoulder blade, pulls out, guides you to roll over, and plunges back into you so fast you barely have time to mourn the loss. Now you can see the gorgeous flush to his skin, the sweat glittering in the divot above his lips and around the sides of his nose.

“Pretty,” you say, reaching up to trace his bottom lip.

“Ah—” He fumbles, looking away, clearly pleased but unsure what to do when the complement is lobbed directly at him where he can’t dodge. He’s ridiculous—balls deep in you, dirty talking like a pro, and this is what flusters him. You won’t call him cute to his face right now, but god, are you thinking it hard enough for it to beam telepathically up to him. “You, too,” he finally gets out.

Your answering giggle cuts off into a cry when he worms a hand between your thighs. Even if he hadn’t worked you up only to deny you release before, you’re pretty sure you’d still be on the knife’s edge of your orgasm anyway. Yeosang doesn’t let up, murmuring down at you, “Jongho wanted to see me again, so he made us switch to this. He kept trying to touch himself, and I kept having to pull his hand away. I wanted to do that myself. I wanted to be the only reason he came.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe, and it’s so much all at once, and now your active imagination is mulling over what he meant by ‘pulling Jongho’s hand away’, because with how stubborn your other boyfriend is, it could easily mean Yeosang had to pin his wrists to the bed, and your orgasm washes over you like a summer thunderstorm, hot and sticky and unrelenting and electric.

Yeosang whines, “Fuck,” as you pulsate around him, his head dropping as his hips falter. He trembles; the rain is coming for him, too, and you dig your heel into his lower back in encouragement. It takes only two more thrusts before he’s there in the storm with you, breathing hotly on your collarbone while he rides it out.

“Holy shit,” you say against the top of his head. The entirety of your body is lightning-struck, zinging. Throbbing aftershocks ripple through you; you can feel them in your stomach, off-sync with your breathing, can tell Yeosang is feeling you twitching around him where he’s softening inside you.

“I knew you would like that,” he says, and his teeth are smooth on your skin when he smiles. “Perv.”

★☆★☆★

The next morning’s split schedules work not only in your favor but also in Yeosang’s. While everyone else had early call times, you’re both able to sleep in and show up for 11am dance practice well-rested and -caffeinated.

Everyone else is already inside the practice room, in various states of organizing their things along the back wall, stretching, and marking choreo steps. You cross the room to deliver coffees to Seonghwa and Jongho. Jongho is sitting on the floor with his legs in a V, leaning to one side, and after setting the to-go cup safely out of the way, you press one knee against his back to push him further into the stretch.

“Thank you, noona,” he says, of both the drink and the help.

Wooyoung points at you, accusatory. “What, no coffee for the rest of us? Rude. It’s like you don’t even love me.”

“Jongho has boyfriend privileges, and Seonghwa-oppa asked. You didn’t.”

“All I have to do is ask? In that case: pretty please, ____, next time you get coffee before work, will you bring me one too?”

You smile, sweeter than the coffee you got for Seonghwa, and say, “No.”

“Excuse me?!”

Removing your knee from Jongho’s back, you’re about to reply when your train of thought is completely derailed by Yunho. He’s sitting beside Jongho, kneading a tender spot in his calf and craning his head up to scrutinize you with unnervingly discerning eyes. You take an uneasy step back, all banter with Wooyoung forgotten, and nearly knock into Yeosang, on his way over to say hi to Jongho. Yunho immediately switches his attention to Yeosang in exactly the same manner.

“What is happening?” San finally asks into the room’s confused silence.

Yunho says, “I’m making sure neither of them have any visible hickeys, since we’re filming the episode later.”

Seonghwa chokes on his coffee. Wooyoung lights up like he won the lottery.

“We aren’t stupid,” you snap.

“No, but you sure were loud last night. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got a little carried—OW!”

You dart away before he can retaliate at you for kicking him in the leg right where he’d been massaging. “Shut your mouth, or I’m telling everyone what you’ve got hidden under your bed, you freak.”

On the other side of the room, Mingi makes a sound of protest—at the threat of exposure or the name, you can’t tell—but Yunho grins lazily, unashamed and unafraid. “I didn’t realize you were in the habit of snooping in my room, ____. You’re gonna have to be more specific, though. I’ve got a lot of shit. You’re welcome to borrow anything. I bet Sangie would be down to try one of the collars.”

Yeosang makes a strangled noise that he tries and fails to disguise as a cough. Jongho tips his head back to raise an eyebrow at him, looking like he’s mentally jotting something down.

“Yah, that is enough,” Hongjoong cuts in. “No talking about this at work. You all know that.”

You turn to face him, thankful that there are no staff in the room yet so you can say, “I don’t want to hear a thing from the guy who I’ve walked in on sucking dick in the studio on more than one occasion.”

“WHAT?” Wooyoung demands, utterly delighted, as if he went to cash in that winning lottery ticket to find that the prize had doubled.

“The studio WHERE I ALSO WORK, HONGJOONG-OPPA,” you add. “Seonghwa-oppa was IN MY CHAIR.”

“Hyung,” Mingi says, aghast.

“As if you and Yunho haven’t defiled that couch before,” Hongjoong shoots back, clearly unable to stop himself despite the disappointed look Seonghwa is sending him.

San raises a hand like he’s in class. “If we’re airing our grievances, the other day I heard the hyungs in our kitchen and—”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Seonghwa interrupts hastily. “Hongjoong said that’s enough. Let’s listen to him.”

“WooSan marked safe from grievances,” Wooyoung says, fist-bumping his boyfriend.

“You absolutely are not,” Jongho says. “In fact, I have so many grievances I don’t know where to begin.”

Hongjoong and Seonghwa exchange long-suffering looks. Personally, you’re fine with letting the others bicker if it means the attention has been diverted from your nonexistent hickeys and whatever Yunho was unfortunate enough to overhear last night. Before either of the eldest can trace the blame for this (“this” being Wooyoung, San, and Jongho talking over each other—“Hyung, you cannot leave your lube bottle between the couch cushions for ‘easy access.’ I don’t want to think about you two fucking in the living room when I’m trying to watch TV,” and “You’re welcome to use it, Hojongie, that’s why it’s there,” and “No, Young-ah, don’t tell him that! We leave the strawberry-flavored one out there, that’s mine.”) back to you, you sneak over to the computer hooked up to the stereo system, make sure the sound is up high, and click play on your upcoming title track.

Several surprised shouts. Yunho covers his ears. Yeosang looks up at the ceiling as if wondering if god themself had started the music. Hongjoong gives you an approving thumbs up even as he winces at the volume.

You hit the spacebar to pause the song. “Can we start practice now, please?”

“Nice try, young lady. You’re trying to distract me before I remember to ask why Jongho wasn’t with you and Yeosang last night!” Wooyoung stomps over to you. You’ll take to your grave that it takes considerable effort to quell your instinct to sprint in the opposite direction. Seeing your fear would only feed his nosiness and his ego. “And I know he was home ‘cause I heard him singing to himself in his room.”

Hongjoong, who had been so close to having his members wrangled, puts his head in his hands.

“And that’s your business, why, exactly?” you ask.

“God forbid I want to make sure our beloved maknae isn’t being excluded.”

Jongho audibly snorts.

“He’s not—ugh. You know what?” you say. “I’m not giving you any more information than you already have. Mind your business.”

What he doesn’t know is that it had felt like Jongho was there because of how much you were talking about him. Somehow he was simultaneously in his own bedroom, oblivious, and right there with you and Yeosang.

Wooyoung shrugs. “I’m just curious. Without Jongho there, I really can’t tell which one of you is in charge.”

Someone snickers. Someone else sighs. Someone—wait, no, that’s definitely Yeosang—says, offended, “Um?”

You love your members dearly. You love Wooyoung dearly. You have to remind yourself of these facts several times over before you’re calm enough to say, “We should know less about each other. We also should start dance practice before you say something stupid enough that I have no choice but to bash your face into the mirror wall so hard your children’s children are going to be pulling glass fragments out of their heads.”

“Awh, ____.” Wooyoung threads his hands together and bats his eyelashes at you. “I love when you get creative with your threats. Do it again, do it again!”

★☆★☆★

“Noona. Noona. Noooonaaaa.”

In the dark cavern of sleep, you can’t place the voice, only the resounding instinct that this person is safe. You were having a dream about the beach, the details of which are slipping away as you push closer to the surface of wakefulness, but you can still feel the phantom heat of sunlight spilling down your back like warm honey. Or—no, that’s not part of the dream. There’s a hand flat on your back, drawing a slow, wide circle.

You could stay here forever, caught in the purgatory between dream and reality, so long as it’s suffused with this soft, rolling ease.

“Noona,” he says, and your brain comes awake to more details. The thin band of his team ring pressing through your shirt, the chug of the AC unit. The awful cramp in your neck, the ache in your lower back that his hand is doing absolutely nothing to mitigate.

Peeling your eyes open proves difficult, less because of the lingering tiredness and more because being awake means you have to deal with the bodily consequences of falling asleep slumped over your desk. And also the consequences of having to be retrieved from work after hours.

Jongho is squatting down beside you, watching you register where you are and who he is.

You let your eyes fall closed again. “My back hurts.”

He laughs. The hand on your back stops rubbing in favor of giving you a series of bracing pats. “That’s what happens when you don’t know when to stop. Even Hongjoong-hyung is home by now.”

Grumbling under your breath, you sit up, shaking the TV-static prickles out of the arm you’d been using as a pillow. “Did we have plans I forgot about?”

“No, but I tried calling you an hour ago to see if you wanted to make some. You make it difficult to be spontaneous.” His gaze flicks to the monitor on the desk, gone dark from inactivity. “Hyung said you haven’t been working on anything together.”

You lean back until your spine pops. “Correct.”

“He said he doesn’t know what you’ve been working on but that you’ve been here almost as much as him.”

“Okay.”

“So….”

“So I didn’t hear a question in there, Jongho-ya.”

He looks at you for a long moment, unimpressed, then says, “Will you tell me what you’ve been doing?”

“No, but thank you for asking.”

You jiggle the mouse to wake the computer and save your files—Jongho is scanning for clues as to what you’re doing but all he finds are meaningless sound waves and keysmash working titles—and shut it off. “What time is it? Do you want to get food or something?”

“How long is this going to be a secret for?” he asks, ignoring you.

Ignoring him right back, you tug his left arm toward you so you can read his watch. 9:05. “Oh, perfect, the sushi place down the street is still open.”

Jongho snatches his arm back. “I’m not buying food for someone keeping secrets from me.”

“I’ll pay, drama queen.” When he keeps glaring at you—his version of pouting—you roll your eyes. “If it makes you feel better, you aren’t special. No one knows. Not Hongjoong-oppa, not Mingi, not Yeosang.”

“What about the producers?”

“Nope.”

His eyes narrow, scrutinizing. You try to keep your face clear even as your stomach flips. You thought you’d been successfully pretending what you’re working on isn’t a big deal, that it’s for reasons fun and lighthearted, but the suspicion in his expression is putting you on edge. As always, it’s like he has a magnifying glass that can see right down into your heart.

You don’t want him poking and prodding into this. Not yet. That’s why you’ve told no one, not even Hongjoong, always the first to hear your stupidest throwing-shit-at-the-wall ideas. Because if you have to get into what you’re doing, you’ll end up staring down the long road you have no choice but to walk alone, and it curves on and on into the distance where you can’t see. And you can’t even look at the first part of it yet without feeling sick.

For a multitude of reasons, you cannot say any of this to Jongho. Instead, you drop the nonchalant act and say, quietly, “I’ll show it to you when it’s ready. When I’m ready.”

“Okay,” he agrees, going dangerously soft-eyed, because of course he can tell there’s something going on. He pushes to his feet and scoops up your bag from where it’s leaning against the desk. “You’re still paying for the sushi, though.”

It’s a nice evening, if a bit humid, so you walk first to get the food and then home, the paper takeout bag bumping against your leg. Jongho had tried to take that, too, but he’d never surrendered your bag when you tried to take it from him on the way out of the building, and you aren’t going to give him the opportunity to brag about how much of a gentleman he’s being by carrying everything.

When you’re a handful of blocks from home, both of you hoods-up and masked, Jongho says, “I hear you’ve been asking Yeosang-hyung about me,” in such a knowing tone that it can’t be about anything else than the other night, and you seriously debate booking it to the nearest subway station, escaping to literally anywhere but here, and changing your identity.

With effort, you manage to keep any of this from bleeding into your voice. You think. You hope. “You really want to discuss this in the middle of the street?”

“We aren’t in the middle of the street, we’re on a sidewalk, and it’s empty. Would you prefer we discuss it at home where someone could overhear?”

“I’d prefer we don’t discuss it at all.” You pause at a crosswalk and wait for the light to change. There’s a subway station three blocks west, calling to you like a siren song. You’ve never tested if you can outrun Jongho—it’s not implausible: you’re only a few centimeters shorter, you’re lighter on your feet, plus he’s wearing slides that don’t look conducive to speed—but now’s as good a time as any to find out.

As if he can sense your thoughts, Jongho puts a hand on your back to guide you across the street. You hadn’t noticed the ‘walk’ signal flash on, but he’d certainly noticed your staredown with the station sign. Whether to keep you from running or perhaps out of worry that the sleep-deprivation is finally turning you insane, he keeps his hand where it is as you keep walking.

“Too bad,” he says. “We’re discussing it.”

“I can’t believe Yeosang told you. I’m throwing him out the window as soon as he gets back,” you mutter. Of course he’d blabbed to Jongho immediately before he went to visit home for a couple days, strategically avoiding your wrath. As if he doesn’t know you’re more than willing play the long game when it comes to vengeance. “What did he tell you, exactly?”

“He told me how much you liked hearing about me getting fucked,” he says, blunt as the spine of a knife. “Or maybe ‘hearing’ isn’t the right word. Reenacting might be a better choice.”

“I’m going to throw myself out of the window after Yeosang,” you decide.

“Are you embarrassed, noona?” Jongho teases. “Don’t be.”

You resist the urge to tug your hood further over your forehead to hide more of your face. “No,” you say, obstinate. “If you already know everything anyway, what do I have to be embarrassed about?”

He passes you a sly grin, sidelong. “You tell me.”

“Seems like I don’t need to tell you anything if Yeosang will do it for me,” you fire back. “Why don’t we call him up and he can tell you all of my secrets?”

“So it was a secret, hm? It sure sounds like you’re ashamed to me.”

Having reached your building, you march up to the front door and slam in the pincode, yanking the door open before Jongho can get it for you. You swing it wide and step aside to hold it, motioning for him to go first with an expansive, exaggerated wave of your hand. He pauses in the doorway to fix you with a long, flat, discerning stare. You glare right back, trying to project that you have nothing to hide even as you’re standing in front of the shit you don’t want him to see and hoping the shadow of your body is big enough to block it from sight.

This standoff goes on for long enough that the keypad beeps in protest at the door being kept open for too long.

Recalling that Jongho had gotten the last word before your (Seonghwa would call it a tantrum but like hell will you use that word) moment to regroup, you finally respond, “I’m not ashamed, it’s just—weird that you know when I wasn’t the one to tell you. I didn’t expect you to bring it up.”

Jongho moves further into the lobby, giving you room to follow in behind him. The door slams behind you and the security pinging shuts off. “If hyung hadn’t told me, would you have?”

The answer is so obvious that saying it aloud feels redundant. You huff an aggrieved sigh and step around him to call the elevator.

He trails behind you, a smile in his voice. “You’re sure acting like you’re ashamed.” When you don’t respond, he nudges you with his elbow. “Ah, noona, it’s okay. You can just tell me what you like. It doesn’t need to be a big deal.”

 The elevator doors open. “You’re the one making a big deal of it,” you grumble, stepping inside.

“Am I? Go on, then, say it, if you aren’t ashamed and it isn’t a big deal.”

“I’m not—Not in here. They have…” You gesture vaguely at the ceiling. There are security cameras, but you don’t know if they record sound. It’s never been relevant until right this second.

He makes a considering noise and keeps quiet until you’re behind the locked front door of his dorm. Then he says, “Okay. No cameras in here.”

You try to step around him—you haven’t taken off your shoes but you could not be paid to care right now—holding up the takeout bag and saying, “We need to eat this before it gets icky,” but Jongho sidesteps into your path. With his brick wall build and fast reflexes on one side and the closed door on the other, you’re effectively pinned. Rock and a hard place and all that.

“Noona,” he says.

Somewhere in Incheon, Yeosang is laughing. He won’t be laughing when you’re shoving him out the fucking window, that’s for sure.

You throw your arms wide in exasperated surrender. “Obviously I liked hearing about you and Yeosang like that! Obviously I think it’s hot! I’ve known that, Yeosang has known that, and so have you, for as long as we’ve been together. Why do you need me to admit it out loud? Do you enjoy deliberately putting me through humiliation rituals?”

Jongho is about to respond, the first part of a laugh edging onto his mouth, when someone further into the apartment clears their throat. The blood rushes out of your face, and you push Jongho aside to see Hongjoong, in the living room, disentangling himself from a throw blanket and rising with his laptop in hand. “Please don’t continue this conversation until I’m out of the room,” he says, grimacing, “and I will pretend I heard nothing. Is that sushi?”

You let him steal a couple pieces. While he chews, you peer around him to make sure Wooyoung isn’t hiding between the couch cushions. Buying his silence would be far more expensive than a few bites of sushi. 

“Sorry, oppa,” you mumble when he turns to leave.

Hongjoong won’t meet your eyes. “Sorry for what? I didn’t hear anything.”

After his bedroom door closes, you squeeze your eyes shut. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Jongho, very clearly trying not to laugh, tugs you into a hug and kisses your temple.

Into the side of his neck, you say, “Let go of me. I need to go throw myself out the window.”

“But ____-noona, you can’t. Then who’s going to throw Yeosang-hyung out of it once he’s back?”

★☆★☆★

This time when you wake, it’s not because anyone is calling your name. In fact, this might be the first day in several weeks that you haven’t had to set an alarm and/or get dragged out of bed. It takes you a few seconds to remember your day off, a couple more to register you’d stayed over at Jongho’s, yet more to realize he isn’t on the other side of the bed where he should be, and even more to recall that’s because he’d said he was going to the gym first thing.

He had threatened to make you come with, but when you fell asleep sitting up last night, he’d let the matter drop.

You drag yourself out of bed to use the bathroom and brush your teeth. From what you can tell, no one else is home—fortunate, since you’re walking around in nothing but underwear and a threadbare t-shirt that you’re pretty sure Jongho stole from Mingi years ago.

With nothing better to do, you crawl back into bed and reply to a few texts, scroll social media on your private accounts, rethink one of the lyrics you wrote yesterday, listen to a new release by a girl group you’re friends with. By the time Jongho returns, you’re swiping through your camera roll, deleting old screenshots and duplicate photos, bored but unwilling to do much about it.

He climbs in next to you, head on your shoulder to watch what you’re doing. His wet hair tickles your neck—he must have showered there, because he smells like the chemically soap in the gym showers instead of his own pine-scented stuff.

“Sorry I woke you up when I left.”

You blink, thumb hovering over the delete button on a blurry, month-old selfie. “You did?”

“Do you not remember? You asked where I was going and when I checked if you’d changed your mind about coming with me, you told me to fuck off.”

You snort. “That does sound like me.”

“It’s okay, noona, I forgive you for being rude to me.”

“Where in there did you hear an apology, Jongho-ya?”

He leans back to show you the exaggerated frown he’s painted on. “My mistake. Here I was, thinking we could take advantage of having the place to ourselves for the next couple hours, but no, you insist on being mean to me.”

“Fine, you big baby. I’m sorry for being rude, even if I didn’t know I was doing it and you deserved it.”

“See? It wasn’t that hard. I’ll even let you half-assing it slide.”

“You’re so annoying,” you complain, jerking your leg to the side in a lazy attempt at kicking him.

Somehow he anticipates it, catching your calf between his legs and holding it prisoner. When you turn to throw him a scowl, he just grins, a haughty shine in his dark eyes.

“You like it,” he counters, all easy confidence, and swallows whatever your retort would have been in a kiss.

Often, Jongho will start slow and soft and chaste, drawing it out before he goes in for the kill. But this is filthy and messy from the jump. His hands sneak under your borrowed shirt to skim over your breasts, your nipples. Everything about how he’s touching you is merciless, designed to catch you off guard, make you surrender.

As usual, you aren’t going down without a fight. Making you admit what you want last night has given him the upper hand—as if he didn’t already have it; he’s such a perceptive little shit it’s not like you have to tell him anything for him to figure it out—but as he moves over you, settling astride your hips without detaching from your lips, there’s something especially cocksure in his movements that makes you pull away before he turns you completely stupid.

He takes it in stride, switching to kiss your jaw.

“Jongho-ya.”

“Mhm?”

“Before, when we were talking about—ah.”

He’s moved down your body and rucked up your shirt so he can nip at your stomach. Either he’s decided you aren’t going to finish your sentence or he doesn’t care what the rest of it was going to be. “Want to eat you out,” he says against your skin. “Can I?”

Okay, change of plans. He can do whatever the hell he wants. You don’t even remember what you were going to say.

Yeosang enjoys going down on you so frequently and so relentlessly that Jongho just doesn’t do it as often. It means you aren’t used to his methods—where Yeosang is fast and unyielding with the goal of making you come rapidfire as many times as possible, Jongho takes his time. You wouldn’t call it edging, necessarily. He goes slow and steady but never steady enough. It could go on for ten minutes or thirty or an hour, you wouldn’t know. Time goes gooey when his tongue is on you.

He also, unlike Yeosang, likes to talk. Probably enjoys using it as an excuse to keep you from getting too close, because he has to pull away enough to be audible. At first he’s saying what he usually does during sex, murmured praise and low promises. But then:

“You know, we never finished our conversation from last night.”

“What’s there to continue?” you say, breathless, swallowing an undignified squeak when he brings his tongue back to your clit. Instinctively, you twitch away, but his strong hands grip the sides of your thighs to lock you in place. “You—you got me to admit what I like, what I want, and you don’t want the same, so it isn’t…fuck, happening. End of story. I’ll live.”

“I don’t think that’s the end of the story, actually.” He doesn’t sound affected at all, the bastard. “What’s with your obsession with me getting fucked, anyway?”

“It’s not an obsession!” You immediately wince at how defensive it sounds. “I just…want you to feel good.”

“I always feel good with you, and with Yeosang-hyung, and with you and Yeosang-hyung.”

“I know, but. I don’t know how to explain it.” He dives back in while he waits for you to figure out how to phrase it. The rhythmic swipe of his tongue is not exactly conducive to producing intelligent thought. All you manage to string together is, “It’s nice, sometimes, to let go. To trust someone else to take care of you like that.” Something else occurs to you. “Would you let me fuck you sometime?”

Jongho freezes. He does not pull away. He remains exactly where he is, with his tongue most of the way in you and his nose against your clit. The only indication that he hasn’t fucking drowned down there is the hot puff of his breath against your pussy.

You genuinely cannot tell what kind of reaction this is. Did you overstep? Is this when he finally cracks and says he’s had enough, you need to let this go, you need to stop being an insistent freak—

Before you backtrack, you glance down to find him gazing up at you, his eyes wide, his expression one of uncharacteristically unchecked hunger. Oh.

“Did I break you? Was that all it took?” you say, trying not to sound too triumphant too soon.

“No,” he says, lying, and doubles down on his efforts until your vision goes hazy at the edges like a photograph in vignette.

It’s a fight to keep your voice level, but you don’t do all that training to keep your vocals steady while dancing your ass off for nothing. “It’s okay, Jongho-ya, you can admit it. I know for a fact Sangie would like it, but with you I wasn’t certain until now. You’d look so nice, I bet you’d be a good boy for me, even better than Sang-ah. Ah, Jongho, I would make you feel so good.”

He’s trying so hard to act like he doesn’t care, but you can feel the uptick in his breathing against you and how his fingers are digging into your thighs hard enough to bruise. You keep talking, still in the battle to not sound affected, but it’s a losing one. Jongho seems to have taken personal offense to not only your continued ability to speak but also what you’re saying. When you come, it’s to the combination of the pretty images spinning around in your head, how obviously Jongho is trying to not be obvious about how into it he is, and the unforgiving slide of his mouth.

“Oh my god,” you pant at the ceiling, buzzing all over. “I need to buy a strap immediately.”

It’s been on your to-do list, but the one time you’d had both the time and the courage to go looking, you’d been overwhelmed by the options. You’d closed out of the tab and put it off for later; before you knew it, weeks had gone by and ‘later’ had never arrived.

In light of this, though, it’s skyrocketed to the top of your priorities.

Jongho crawls up to kiss you with sticky, wet lips. You can feel him hard against your leg, and you’ll take care of it soon, but first….

“Now I know something about you, too,” you tease.

He studies you for a handful of seconds. Drags his tongue over his bottom lip. Reaches out to untuck the necklace you rarely take off out from under the collar of your shirt—which had never come off, just been shoved up near your belly button. Plays with the silver pendant, running his thumb over it. Says, “You know why I don’t think that’s the end of the story, noona? Because I never said I didn’t want the same thing as you.”

“What.”

“I’ve wanted hyung—or you, whichever—to fuck me since we’ve been together. A few times, actually.”

“What? Then why haven’t you asked?”

Jongho’s grin turns predatory. He’s still clutching your necklace, and when he tugs on it, you sit up straighter to move with it. “Because it’s fun to deny you.”

“Because it’s…huh?”

He leans in closer. The necklace digging into your nape and his solid weight on your lap should feel restraining. Instead you’re transfixed, caught in the ripcurrent of his dark gaze. “Because you want it so bad. You’ve been thinking about it for so long. You pretend you don’t want it as if that’s going to make me give it to you, when we both know you can’t lie to me. You never tell me what you want, not outright—but this, you handed directly to me, gift-wrapped and tied with a pretty little bow. And it is so fun to hold it out to you and make you think I’m going to let you have it that easily.”

You gape at him. “You’re evil.”

“Yes, and you love it. It’s only going to make it better when I finally give in, right?”

He has one of the strongest wills of anyone you’ve met. It’s not out of the question for him to keep this going indefinitely, if only to watch you lose your mind over it.

You make your eyes big and wide and sad, tipping your head up even when it pulls the necklace chain tighter against your skin. “You’ll deny yourself something you want just because I want it, too?”

“My pretty noona,” he murmurs, honey-soaked. He captures your lips again, says against them, “Of course I would.”

★☆★☆★

You’re out to dinner, the three of you, the first time your schedules have lined up in what feels like ages. Since that morning with Jongho, you’ve been feigning nonchalance, doing your best to not just pretend you don’t want what he knows you want, but to actually not want it. If he can tell when you’re lying, the only workaround is mind-over-mattering your way into not lying about it. And you don’t want it. As a matter of fact, you don’t want anything, and you never have, and you totally are not bullying that ‘truth’ into your own brain every .5 seconds.

Then Yeosang feeds Jongho a chunk of meat, and Jongho looks up at Yeosang through his eyelashes. Yeosang blushes and is purposely slow to remove the chopsticks from Jongho’s mouth, drawing them over Jongho’s lower lip to pull it into a pout. Jongho, one cheek puffed from the meat he hasn’t started chewing, darts out his tongue to chase the chopsticks, wetting his lips in the process. Somehow, even over the ambient noise of chatter and sizzling food and clinking cutlery, the stutter in Yeosang’s breath is audible from across the table.

Without warning, Jongho turns to the left and catches you, red-handed, staring at them, well before you can check your expression. His eyebrows flick up as if to say, Gotcha.

God fucking damn it.

★☆★☆★

If you can’t let it go, the next best thing is to avoid it, and that turns out to be pretty easy with the impending comeback, discussions of next year’s tour, and your self-imposed top-secret project to busy you.

In the time that you do spend with your boyfriends, you don’t bring up what you and Jongho had talked about. And if either he or Yeosang seem like they’re going to, you redirect as best you can. Jongho is unconvinced by your sudden ambivalence, but Yeosang (who maintains that he doesn’t want to be collateral damage in your ‘power struggle’ (and he’s a liar, he’d love that)) is happy to not push the matter. 

And the time that you don’t spend with your boyfriends—or the rest of the members—is filled wall-to-wall with your own work, in the tiny studio you call yours. The room’s only flaws are the lack of lock and that the desk faces away from the door, so if someone were to come in, you wouldn’t know they were there if you were, say, in the zone with your headphones up loud.

Which is exactly what you’re doing when a hand comes down on your shoulder while you’re playing back the almost-final version of a song and trying to figure out if you need another layer of guitar over the last chorus.

You yelp, knees knocking into the desk hard enough to jostle the equipment and upset your metal water bottle. It clangs noisily to the floor and rolls into the intruder’s sneaker, the sound muted through your noise-canceling headphones. You shuck them down to your neck—“Oh god, shit, I’m sorry,” Yeosang’s voice is saying—and rush to hide what’s on the monitor by pulling up an empty browser tab.

“Holy shit, Yeosang.” You lift a hand to your heart where it’s jackhammering against your ribcage.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, bent down to retrieve your bottle. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You accept the bottle and replace it on the desk as he pushes to his feet. “I don’t think I’ve ever been jumpscared so bad in my life. Including the time Jongho made us watch The Exorcist.”

Yeosang winces at the memory and apologizes again. An awkward pause follows, during which he glances at the tab on the screen that you both know hadn’t been there when he barged in.

“Um, hi,” you say, before he can ask about it. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, because it’s nice to see you, but what are you doing here? Did I miss a text?”

“No,” Yeosang says, and you pause mid-reach for your phone. “I thought I’d surprise you. In a nice way, I mean, not in the make-you-shit-yourself way. I had to stay late to get some of my outfits re-fitted and wanted to check if you were still here so we could get dinner.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’d like that. Give me ten minutes to finish up?”

He agrees but doesn’t leave. You tip an expectant look at him over your shoulder, and you watch him acknowledge the social cue and deliberately discard it in real time. He leans against the wall and settles in to wait there. You don’t reach for the keyboard even when he turns an expectant look of his own on you.

“Jongho says there’s a secret thing you’re working on that you’ve been weird about. Is this that?”

Well, it’s not like the fact that there is a project is much of a secret anymore, not with the hours you’re putting in in this room. But the contents have remained mysterious.

“I’m not being weird about it. I’m just not ready for anyone to hear them yet—”

“‘Them’? It’s more than one song?”

“—and I’m doing the production myself, or trying to, and you know I only started learning how to do anything other than write lyrics kind of recently, so everything’s taking a while and it’s not the best.”

You’re rambling, but you aren’t giving away anything precious. The secret isn’t truly in what you’re doing, but in why. Keeping the what secret protects the why, because no one thinks to ask why until what is answered.

What you’re working on is a self-written solo album. Nine songs, uniquely yours, in a hard rock sound the group hasn’t done before.

Part of why you started the project was because you’ve always wanted to make your own music, in your own individual artistic voice, entirely by and for yourself.

The other part of why you started the project is because you are afraid.

Afraid of what happens when the others have to enlist and leave you behind. Afraid of what the company will do with you in their absence, whether they’ll see you as useful or lock you in the basement until the others return. Afraid the fans won’t give a shit what you’re doing if you’re doing it alone. Afraid whatever you create won’t be good enough, won’t be what anyone wants.

It’s a secret for two reasons.

The first is that if you tell someone, that makes it real. Real means expectations, means you open yourself to vulnerability and the possibility of failure. Your alt-rock solo song has been well-received, but the album is far more experimental, a whole lot messier, and a thousand times more personal.

The second is that the guys don’t want to think or talk about their conscription. If you explain the why of this project, that you’re giving the company proof you don’t need to be sidelined while your members are on hiatus, not only do you point directly at the very ugly elephant in the room, you also paint your name all over the elephant. You make it all about you, which is incredibly selfish since you aren’t the one who has to go. You’re merely the one getting left behind. It’s the better end of the deal, but that makes it no less frightening.

Blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil, Yeosang is smiling. Gently, with pride. “____, you’re so talented. I’m sure it’s really good. Whenever you’re ready to show it to someone, can I be one of the first? Please?”

You aren’t lying, you’re just letting him assume insecurity is the only reason you aren’t sharing. He’s not incorrect. Then why do you feel so guilty?

“Of course, Sang-ah. Of course I’ll let you listen first.”

★☆★☆★

Two weeks into your attempt to let your Jongho-bottoming obsession (Jongho’s word, not yours) go, what little control you have over the situation dissolves in your hands like cotton candy in water.

It starts with the corset.

One of many photoshoots for the comeback has the nine of you separated into units of three and dressed in varying shades of red and black, everything styled sleek and sexy. They’ve put Yeosang in a loose maroon shirt cinched by a charcoal corset, the colors mirroring Seonghwa’s lazily looped black tie and unbuttoned burgundy shirt and your deep red tank top under a leather jacket you’ve been instructed to let hang off one shoulder. Sweating under the harsh studio lights, you’re glad for an excuse to not wear the jacket properly. The other two are in heavier layers than you and keep needing to pause for the makeup staff to blot their oily noses.

The posing for this shoot involves a lot of leaning on each other and looking dangerous, aloof, and slightly pissed off. It’s nothing unordinary, but Yeosang being in your space is distracting, as is the tight cinch of his waist in the corset. Between the temperature and the heavy blush you have on, you’re grateful to have an excuse for being a bit redder than you should be. But you’re a professional—you have practice in controlling your facial expressions and focusing when your mind wants to wander.

One of the final poses for this round has Yeosang and Seonghwa facing each other, Yeosang gripping Seonghwa’s tie as if reeling him in, you beside Yeosang with a casual elbow propped on his shoulder as if watching their interaction play out. You’re so focused on projecting the requested ‘sexy indifference’ that you don’t understand why Seonghwa keeps stealing glances at the side of the room until the photographer has you shift to face Yeosang too.

The new vantage point puts Jongho in your direct line of vision. He’s statuesque among the staff’s hustle and bustle to get makeup touched up and outfits changed before the solo shots. He’s already in his next set of clothes: a v-neck that exposes the shadows of his collarbone, layered gold chain necklaces, and a dark expression that screams to anyone who knows him well that he wants to devour Yeosang, and he wants Yeosang to keep the corset on when he does it.

You can relate.

“Tell him to cut that out,” Seonghwa says under his breath while the photographer is directing Yeosang.

“Cut what out? He’s not doing anything, and no one’s noticed him looking,” you counter, matching his tone. Jongho has the best poker face of the nine of you, which means the intensity is subtle to most everyone in the room. To you and Seonghwa, though—and Yeosang, were he looking—he might as well be announcing I WANT TO FUCK KANG YEOSANG over a loudspeaker.

The photographer steals your attention back to give you posing instructions. When she resumes shooting, your gaze drifts back to Jongho. Yeosang is gripping Seonghwa’s tie, and if you aren’t mistaken, Jongho is staring intently at Yeosang’s knuckles bleeding white around it.

Interesting.

The staff dismiss you three. The other two head off to change, but you, scheduled last for solo photos, have plenty of time to sidle up next to Jongho and say, innocently, “What’d you think?”

“Hm?”

“You were watching us pretty closely. Do you think the photos will turn out well?” you ask, playing oblivious. Not the way you play oblivious when you’re doing a bit, fluttering your eyelashes and laying the cluelessness on thick, but the most genuine acting you can pull off. Like what you do when you’re cheating in a game during Wanteez filming, not to be funny but because you’ll do whatever it takes to emerge victorious.

Jongho’s mouth puckers as he searches you for evidence of deception. You blink back at him, perfectly neutral, and watch something in his resolve buckle.

“Yeah, only I wish it had been me there instead of Seonghwa-hyung.” He makes a thoughtful noise. “Although maybe it’s for the best. If Yeosang-hyung had been pulling me in like that, I don’t know what I would’ve done. Probably scar the staff for life, for one. Let him do whatever he wanted to me, for another.”

You make a mental revision. His expression was, in actuality, the equivalent of announcing I WANT KANG YEOSANG TO FUCK ME over a loudspeaker.

It takes remarkable effort to remain placid. After all, there’s the second half of the shoot, and then probably someone will suggest getting dinner, and it would be very on brand for Jongho to get your hopes up only to dash them the second he and you and Yeosang are finally alone.

“Oh,” you say, noncommittal. “Well, that’s…um.” You need to get the fuck out of there before you say something stupidly transparent. “Good that it was Seonghwa-oppa and not you, I guess. I should go get changed.”

Jongho catches your arm when you try to leave. “____-noona,” he says, his pupils wide black holes, “can you make sure Yunho-hyung isn’t going to be home tonight?”

★☆★☆★

Turns out Yunho doesn’t need to be told to make himself scarce. A version of you less on the edge of your seat in anticipation might be humiliated by how obvious you and your boyfriends are. Not like that’s your fault—Jongho spent the entirety of dinner switching off between staring down you and staring down Yeosang from his place at the opposite end of the table.

Yeosang, chatting happily with the manager who’d joined, never noticed. At least he kept the manager distracted in the process. You feigned ignorance to the weight of Jongho’s attention on you and dragged San into a debate over what color to dye your hair for the comeback. Only Wooyoung had verbally wondered what the hell was going on, a sick glee in the half of the question he got out before Hongjoong shoved a hunk of noodles into his mouth to silence him.

You refused to acknowledge any of this. It was completely Jongho’s fault for being openly horny in front of all your friends when he could easily remain inscrutable if he wanted.

Yeosang clues into Jongho’s strange mood somewhere between the apartment lobby, when Jongho makes you three take the stairs while everyone else piles into the elevator (“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Wooyoung singsongs after you), and the first floor landing, when Yeosang registers the hand Jongho has on his lower back is not only guiding, but also possessive.

Walking behind them, you catch the confused frown Yeosang gives him, but Jongho merely encourages him forward. Somehow, he misses the charge to the air; Jongho is radiating a simmering tension, and where it buzzes restlessly under your skin, it bounces harmlessly off of Yeosang.

It’s making you itch for a fight. The moment you’re in the dorm, you round on Jongho. “What is your problem?”

Jongho, last inside, lets the front door fall closed behind him. When you step closer, he leans against it. Infuriatingly, he looks pleased to be cornered. “What, noona? I thought you wanted this?”

“Stupid looks bad on you,” you tell him, lying. “I’m talking about you fucking—undressing us with your eyes all through dinner. Literally everyone noticed.”

“I don’t care what they think.”

“You’re gonna care when Wooyoung is pestering the hell out of us about it tomorrow.”

Yeosang holds up a hand. “Sorry, what is going on? What happened during dinner? You two are so—agh. I feel like I’m separating angry cats, constantly.”

“Our Jongho really liked the poses they had us doing for the unit shoot,” you say. “He…actually, he didn’t say what he wanted, but I can take a guess.”

An insouciant flash of teeth from Jongho. “Can you?”

“I can’t put words in your mouth, no. Go on, Jongho-ya. Tell us what you want.”

“I want hyung to fuck me,” he says immediately, not taking his eyes off you. You reel back in shock at his unexpected directness. “See how easy it is to ask for the things you want, noona?”

Your teeth come down hard on your tongue. Easy for him, maybe. For you, it feels like ripping out your own teeth one by one with rusty pliers. At your lack of response, there’s the slightest flash of disappointment that you didn’t rise to the challenge.

“Go on, ____-noona. Tell us what you want,” he mimics you.

You shift uneasily, accidentally nudging Yeosang in the process. Before you can move away, his hand locks around your wrist. It’s not a tight grip, but the message is clear: don’t run. “This isn’t about me.”

“Sure it is. And if you can’t say it, you’re welcome to take refuge in someone else’s dorm, or listen to us through the wall.”

Yeosang stage whispers, “She’d like that, though.”

“Excuse me?” you say.

He grins and taps the back of your wrist twice. “Perv,” he says fondly.

You speedrun all five stages of grief, where ‘acceptance’ involves making reluctant peace with the fact that you’re going to have to rip out your own teeth with rusty pliers. “I want to be there when you fuck Jongho. I want to wat—see,” you say. It’s slightly less painful to direct the words at Yeosang—even if you are neglecting looking at either of them in favor of making one-sided eye contact with the door beside Jongho’s head—but Jongho is the one who replies,

“Okay. Do you want anything? Or is it enough for you to watch?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” you say at once, sincere. “And I’m not…That isn’t meant to be a cop-out answer. I know you don’t do this very often and I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

It’s because you aren’t looking at either of them that you don’t expect Jongho to push off from the door and kiss you hard enough to bruise. “I want you to overwhelm me,” he whispers and thunks his head back against the door. “Do you want to know what I’ve been imagining, this whole time?”

Yeosang releases your wrist in favor of resting his elbow on your shoulder, leaning into you the way you’d done to him during the photoshoot that’d had Jongho enraptured.

Jongho visibly shudders. Like you had, he directs his next words to Yeosang. “You fucking me while I fuck her. That’s what I imagined. Until—hyung, the other day, do you know what she said to me? She said she wants to fuck me. It was all I could think about today. It’s a miracle I didn’t get hard in the middle of that studio.”

He certainly is now, you realize, your gaze falling before you can think better of it. The gray sweats he’d changed into after the shoot aren’t doing much to disguise it.

“I can’t—I mean, I want to. I don’t have a strap,” you say, stupidly, helplessly.

“No? You said you were going to get one. Did you chicken out, noona?”

“No!” you echo, in an entirely different tone than he’d used. Yeosang snickers softly.

All the extra hours in the studio have been distracting you from returning to the website you’d glanced over. Also, you had a weird feeling that Jongho would somehow find out that you’d purchased one, and it would make him want to hold out even longer. Also also, you had a very real fear that Yunho would be the one to bring the mail in and he’d figure out what the package was and then you’d never hear the end of it.

“...I haven’t had a chance,” you mutter.

“Next time,” Jongho says—more promise than plea, yet with an imploring undertone that threatens to take you out at the knees.

Yeosang’s breath is shallow in you ear. “Why are we still in the fucking entryway?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, taking you by the wrist where he’d been holding you before and tugging you down the hall. There’s no need for him to reach for Jongho; Jongho is so close on your heels that you can feel his breath against your neck.

Yeosang chooses to go into your room, and swallows your budding complaint with a kiss as soon as you’re through the door. Selfishly, you prefer using his room, where the cleanup ceases to be your problem. Your comforter has been victim to many a questionable stain, and you hate having to wrangle it into your tiny washing machine.

“I’ll deal with it,” he says, then licks into your mouth to steal the breath you were about to use to call him a liar.

From there, everything goes pleasantly hazy around the edges. Kisses are traded, clothes are piled on the floor, lube is retrieved from Yeosang’s room when it becomes apparent you’ve misplaced the bottle you’d thought was in your drawer.

In the brief moment that Yeosang is gone, Jongho asks softly, “Will you get me ready?” and smirks when you let out a tremulous breath and nod fervently. Remaining bashful feels like a moot point now that you’re both naked on your bed and he’s so obviously painfully hard and you’re wet enough that it’s sticky on your thighs. Still, your face heats. You’re flushed enough already that you hope it gets lost in the mix.

You have enough practice from fingering Yeosang to know what to do. That does little to prepare you for exactly how good it feels for Jongho to trust you with this. How intoxicating it feels when you push in a finger and watch his dick and stomach pulse in tandem, how dizzying it feels to look up at the pair of them—Yeosang leaned up against your pillows with Jongho in his lap, his chin hooked over the top of Jongho’s head—watching you intently where you’re knelt between their spread legs.

“Can you not stare at me?” you protest. “I’m getting stage fright.”

A laugh startles out of Yeosang. He obligingly tips his head back to direct his gaze at the ceiling and brings a hand up to cover Jongho’s eyes.

Jongho smacks the hand away and twists to glare up at Yeosang. “Don’t enable her. She hasn’t gotten stage fright in at least four years.”

You use the lack of attention on you to your advantage, curling your finger up in search of his prostate, and are rewarded when Jongho jolts in equal parts pleasure and surprise. No moaning yet, but the night is young.

Jongho’s head whips around to glare at you, too. “Stage fright, my ass. As if all three of us aren’t into watching and being watched. Add another finger, noona, I can take it.”

You smile meanly, lazily pushing just the one finger in and out of him, lube dripping down your hand. “Ask nicely.”

“Please, my beloved, beautiful, wonderful girlfriend, finger me like you fucking mean it.”

“What part of ‘nice’ involves swearing at me?” you say, making no move to do as asked.

Jongho bends his leg at the knee and bumps it into your side in gentle admonishment. “I’m not Yeosang-hyung. You know I don’t ask nicely, and I certainly won’t beg.”

“I know you aren’t Yeosang,” you reply, slow, as if speaking to a child. “Nor do I want you to be.”

Some of Jongho’s bravado falters. “Oh. I thought—Okay.”

“You thought? Oh, wow. Should I call the news?”

He heaves a dramatic sigh and nudges you with his knee again. “I thought part of why you wanted this so much was because you wanted to see me get the way he does. All pathetic.”

“Yah, I’m not pathetic,” Yeosang huffs.

“Sure, Sangie,” you placate indulgently, patting his thigh with your clean hand. To Jongho, you say, “Obviously I don’t expect you to stop being yourself just because we’re switching things around a little. Let me put it like this: I’d tell Yeosang-ah to ask nicely because I know he’d listen, and he’d sound so pretty when he does.” The man in question ducks his head, neither confirming nor denying, which is a response in itself. “I told you to ask nicely, Jongho-ya, to deliberately give you a hard time.”

“Nothing new there, then—ah.”

You’d finally pushed in the second finger he’d asked for. Jongho clenches around you, his right hand coming around to grip at Yeosang’s thigh as if in need of grounding. Whatever he was going to say in response dissolves as you finger him like you fucking mean it. It’s gratifying, how readily he sinks into the feeling. Yeosang is murmuring into his ear, nothing loud enough for you to discern. You have to assume he’s using the same dirty talking skills he seemingly pulled from thin air with you a couple weeks ago.

Jongho’s body turns liquid, his head lolling against Yeosang’s chest. His left hand keeps twitching, clearly wanting to reach for his untouched cock, but seems to realize without being told that he shouldn’t. Yeosang takes mercy and does it for him, and finally Jongho lets out a strained moan.

You’re up to three fingers now and are pressing your fingertips against the sweet spot just inside him. Lube pools on the sheets beneath him. You can feel your heartbeat in your clit. The dampness on your thighs has dripped down to your calves with how you’re sitting on your knees.

“Wait, wait,” Jongho pants, “hold on, I’m going to—fuck, I’m—”

Yeosang doesn’t cease his rhythm, but glances at you with eyebrows lifted in silent question.

In response to them both, you coax, “Shh, it’s okay, Jongho-ya. You can come. We want you to,” and speed up your pace to match the slide of Yeosang’s hand on his dick.

He squirms, and Yeosang whimpers when Jongho’s ass grinds against his cock, and Jongho digs his nails into Yeosang’s thigh as he comes, and his mouth drops open in a silent cry, and you and Yeosang work him through it until he’s shuddering, sensitive, trying to jerk away from both of you. He barely makes a sound aside from heavy breathing. You can’t prove it, but you bet he kept quiet on purpose to spite you.

“Why…” He winces as you carefully remove your fingers and wipe the excess lube on his leg. His nose scrunches in distaste. “Why’d you let me come already?”

“Because if I didn’t, you would’ve come in about three seconds from getting double-teamed.”

Jongho seems ready to object for all of a second before he says, “Yeah, probably.” He glances down at himself, the mess of lube and cum on his bare skin, and frowns. “Now we have to wait, though.”

“Oh no,” Yeosang says drily, wiping the mess on his hand off on Jongho’s arm. Jongho sighs and resigns himself to being the communal tissue. Better him than your poor comforter. “However will we entertain ourselves in the meantime?”

Yeosang attempts to shift so he can reach you, but Jongho is dead weight in his lap. You watch in amusement as he tries to dislodge Jongho and Jongho goes completely limp in response.

“Jongho-ya,” Yeosang says, exasperated.

“Yeosang-hyung,” Jongho whines, “you don’t get to complain when you made me like this. Let me rest. You’re so comfortable.”

Rolling your eyes with fond amusement, you move up to give Jongho a gentle kiss. The orgasm has softened him, turned him languid and unguarded, and his fingers skim gently over your stomach as you tilt your head up to give Yeosang one as well. He takes what he’s given, though he doesn’t let it stay gentle for long. He reaches around Jongho to yank you closer, pressing your chest against Jongho’s (and the cum crying there, ick), and moaning into your mouth as Jongho intentionally ruts back against his erection.

Ever the multitasker, Jongho takes it upon himself to sneak a hand between your legs. His gasp of pleased surprise is audible even over the mewl that slips out of you.

“Hyung,” he says weakly into your neck, “hyung, oh my god, she’s so fucking wet. She’s never—I’ve never seen her like this before.”

“If you call me a pervert, Kang Yeosang, I’m biting off your tongue,” you separate from him long enough to say.

Yeosang looks too dazed to remember what words mean, thankfully. “Huh?”

“...Nothing, jagi.”

In an unspoken consensus, Jongho sets the pace. It’s slow, just enough to tide you and Yeosang over without tipping either of you over the edge. Sweat beads on your hairline, your neck, the insides of your elbows. Your knees burn from how you’re knelt over Jongho’s lap. Minutes drift by unhurriedly.

Then time collapses when Jongho stirs beneath you and you feel the unmistakable hardness of him against your thigh.

“Had enough rest?” you ask. “Also, I know we didn’t discuss a position, but I’m not getting on top. I’ll fuck up my knees forever and the PT-unnie will murder me.” Purposely dramatic, you extricate yourself from them and flop down on the bed beside them.

“That’s fine,” Jongho says, moving off of Yeosang. Yeosang is red all over, the flush on his pale chest matching the one on his unsated cock. Getting him to come before he fucks Jongho probably would’ve been a good idea for stamina reasons, but he tends to get sleepy enough to tap out after one. “Are you okay like that or do you want to turn over?”

“You mean Mr. Eye Contact Kink is letting me choose?”

Jongho smiles, indulgent. “You’re welcome to start however you want, but you’re going to look me in the eyes when you come.”

Moving sounds like too much of a hassle and, okay, you do want to see Jongho’s face. Want to see it screw up in pleasure, want to see how his mouth drops open, want to watch redness spread across his round cheeks.

Yeosang directs him to get on all fours over you, then kneels behind him. You can’t see Yeosang very well, but you feel the mattress dip between your calves, and can make an educated guess as to what’s he’s doing based on how Jongho’s expression goes slack, a heavy breath pushed from the back of his throat as you assume Yeosang inches into him. Clearly Yeosang is taking it slow, because Jongho paws blindly behind himself and demands, “Get on with it.”

Over Jongho’s shoulder, Yeosang raises a brow. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t, just—please. I need you.”

It’s as close as he’ll get to begging, and that is not lost on Yeosang. Yeosang starts moving for real, evident in the slap of skin against skin and his shaky whimpering. Jongho’s lips part, his face uncontrolled in a way he rarely lets happen. Clumsily, he tries to get a hand around his dick so he can get inside of you, but he seems to need both hands planted on the mattress to remain upright, because he all but collapses onto you in the process. You share an amused grin with Yeosang when Jongho gives up in favor of burying his face in your neck. You reach between your bodies to do it yourself, a little graceless because you can’t see what you’re doing.

Jongho makes a delightful, unfamiliar noise when you get him inside you, a strangled grunt that pitches into a high whine at the end. He’s not moving, overwhelmed if you had to guess, just letting Yeosang fuck into him. It’s a strange sensation for you to feel the secondhand echo of Yeosang’s thrusts. It’s nice but it’s definitely not enough. You plant your feet on the bed and start moving your hips, and Jongho moans, and you think—or maybe say, you can’t separate thought from speech right now—yesyesyes as Yeosang drives in harder.

Jongho pulls back, delightfully wrecked, that ever-present composure well on its way to shattering. A bit of leftover eyeliner he hadn’t removed well after the photoshoot is smudged under his eyes with sweat. “Noona, noona, do you like it? Do you—is it good? Is it what you wanted?”

If you’re being honest, it’s messy and artless and out of sync and it shouldn’t feel as good as it does. You like it so much.

“Who gives a shit if I like it, Jongho-ya, do you?”

“Mhm,” he says immediately, lacking the wherewithal to be coy. “You’re both so good—ah, fuck, hyung, yes—” He reaches back for Yeosang to pull Yeosang closer against him.

Yeosang goes obediently as always, unfaltering, leaving wet kisses to the top of Jongho’s spine. “No one’s going to ask me if I like it?” he wonders, affecting offense. “Yah, you two are so selfish.”

“We know you like it, you’re whimpering like a little puppy,” you reply.

He sticks out his bottom lip—cutie, you think fondly, completely at odds with just about everything happening at the moment—and says, “I can hear you thinking I’m cute. Stop that.”

Busted. You’re rescued from having to lie by Jongho impatiently gripping your hips, stopping your sloppy efforts at fucking yourself onto him, so that he can take over. Then it’s like something clicks. Jongho doesn’t match his cadence to Yeosang’s, but complements it, and everything turns smooth and molten.

“Hyung, noona,” keeps spilling from him in wrecked whines. There’s a specific loveliness in knowing how well-earned the sounds are, in how they are only for you.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, and you soothe, “I know,” running a tender hand down his side.

Over his ducked head, Yeosang meets your eyes. He presses in closer against Jongho to lace your fingers together and push your hand into the mattress. You come like that—to your shock, without touching your clit—and when they both slow, aware that you typically need a minute’s break after an orgasm, you shake your head frantically and dig your fingertips into Jongho’s biceps.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp.

Something in the air breaks. Jongho had been holding himself up over you to keep his weight off your body, but now he drops down, the sturdy muscles of his chest flat against the softer give of yours. Above, Yeosang follows suit, their combined weight pushing you further into the bed. Still trembling from your orgasm, no room for you to move, it’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Jongho tucks his face into your neck and bites down. His speech, his usual series of praises and curses, is becoming increasingly slurred. His body doesn’t seem to know if it should move forward into you or backward into Yeosang. Yeosang’s face is beautifully red, his lip between his teeth, the hand not holding yours wrapped around Jongho’s waist the same way he’d held you when he told you about the first time they did this. You feel crazy—greedy, insatiable, delirious, consumed.

You don’t care that you’re still too sensitive. You shove a hand into the scant space between you and Jongho to start circling your clit. Your second orgasm sneaks up on you much like the first, but lasts an eternity. Jongho moans as you pulse around him, then Yeosang too as Jongho reflexively squeezes around him. Chain reaction.

Jongho lifts his head from the crook of your neck, your skin going cool where his mouth, now tilted smugly, had been. “Again? That—hah—that was fast.”

“I’m close, too,” Yeosang warns.

There’s a bit of a shuffle to reconfigure. Another chain reaction: Yeosang exhales shakily as he pulls out of Jongho, who winces at the loss; Jongho does the same as he pulls out of you. Then Yeosang maneuvers Jongho to lay down next to you and sinks back into him. This time they’re facing each other. If you weren’t so exhausted, you’d make fun of Jongho’s incessant need for eye contact. Putting that in your back pocket for later, you instead draw in close and leave lazy kisses on Jongho’s shoulder while Yeosang plunges back into him, shoving one of Jongho’s legs up toward his own shoulder.

You can tell from sound alone that neither of them will last much longer—Yeosang’s attempts at saying Jongho’s name have devolved into heavy puffs of breath vaguely starting the with J sound; Jongho is moaning loudly, shamelessly, which you’ve come to learn he only does when he’s right on the edge.

Jongho claws in your direction without looking, ungracefully gripping at you until he lands on your arm. He drags it over by the wrist and guides you to wrap your hand around his cock. Because of the way you’re positioned, it’s your nondominant hand, but Jongho keeps his hand locked around yours, guiding you to jerk him in time with Yeosang.

One last chain reaction—Jongho comes, spilling over his hand and yours and his own stomach, and Yeosang withstands it for all of four seconds before he’s coming, too, the steady cadence of his hips faltering. He pitches forward onto Jongho, boneless. Jongho takes his weight easily and kisses his forehead.

“You did so well, hyung.”

“My legs hurt,” Yeosang murmurs. “Ah, ah, Jongho-ya, stop squeezing, I’m too sensitive.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound it at all. “You can pull out now.”

“Don’t wanna move.”

Your arm is still trapped between their bodies, tacky with cum and sweat and whatever else. You extract it, wiping what you can on the clean-ish part of Jongho’s stomach as you go, while Jongho gently lifts Yeosang by the waist to slip him out of his hole.

Yeosang lets out a tiny whine, and Jongho shushes him. You tip your head against Jongho’s shoulder and feel him press the side of his head against the top of yours. For several long, taffy-sticky and -sweet moments, it’s peaceful.

“Hey. Hey, noona, you never answered my question,” Jongho says. “Did you like it? Was it what you wanted?”

“Clearly she liked it, she came twice in like two minutes,” Yeosang says.

You keep silent, mortification plunging cold fingers into your chest. He’s right, and while it hadn’t felt anything but good in the moment, in the aftermath you feel like a specimen under a microscope.

Soft and earnest, Jongho says to you, “I like that you like it.”

Into his shoulder, you grumble, “You like that you have something to make fun of, you mean.”

“We aren’t making fun of you,” Jongho says. “You’re just—It’s like you’re afraid of wanting things, or you’re afraid of us knowing that you want things. You never tell us what you like. I can usually tell, but it’s rare that you say it, and when you do, you act like the Shame Police are going to come lock you up. Sangie-hyung, you sort of have the same problem. You’re better about it, but sometimes you get embarrassed so easily. Neither of you have to be embarrassed. Not with me. We’ve known each other too long for that.”

“Okay,” Yeosang answers quietly.

You hum an affirmative sound. Knowing Jongho, he’ll call you out for not responding verbally. Before he can, you start to shuffle off the bed, biting back a grimace at the various wet patches on the sheets. Lightning-fast, Yeosang shoots his arm out to clamp around you and keep you in place.

“Stay.”

“I need to pee, and you need to change my sheets.”

He grunts, displeased.

“You promised,” you remind him.

“I will, I will. Just stay a little longer.”

“I’m not letting you sweet-talk me into getting a UTI. Get off.”

You can’t see him with how he’s smushed against Jongho’s chest, but you’d bet everything you own that he’s pouting. “But I love you.”

“Love me while you start the washing machine.”

You pinch him until he releases you. He starts to make fake crying noises, which he does often enough that the manipulation tactic has lost its power.

Jongho taps your wrist when you’ve broken loose from their orbit and are sitting on the edge of the mattress, debating whose shirt to pick up off the floor and put on. You glance over your shoulder. They’re so pretty, the two of them, curled into each other like that, Jongho’s solemn bright eyes and Yeosang’s delicate pout.

“Noona. I like that you like it,” he says again.

“Okay,” you answer, finally.

 ★☆★☆★

The next morning, you’re waiting for a ride to the company with the other early-schedule-havers when Yunho points at you and gasps. “__ ____, IS THAT A HICKEY ON YOUR NECK?”

His shout ping-pongs from one end of the underground parking garage to the other. Everyone present spins to stare at you, members and staff alike. You keep your eyes straight ahead as if that will make them disappear, while the echo of his accusation rings on.

“It’s more of a bite mark, actually,” Wooyoung, leaning down to inspect, muses.

You really wish you weren’t underground. There aren’t any windows to shove either of them out of down here.

h64: hello babies

permies:

you unlock the door, push it open,

and immediately wish you hadn’t.

seungcheol. on the couch. fisting his cock.

your brain short-circuits. like, full shutdown, blue screen, cease all functioning mode.

the man is spread out—legs wide, head tipped back, theres a drop of sweat that drips from his neck aand land in the middle of his chest. hes exposing his toned abs that clench with every up and down of his hand. and his cock is huge. thick from the base to the top and flushed deep red at the tip, veins prominent as his fist works over it.

he’s so lost in it that he doesn’t even register your presence at first, not until he finally cracks his eyes open and sees you standing there, frozen stunned into silence.

the next few seconds happen in slow motion.

his eyes widen. his entire body stiffens. his hand stops.

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

seungcheol scrambles to cover himself, reaching for the nearest thing—which, unfortunately for him, is a shirt that does nothing to hide the absolute tent he’s pitching. his face goes red, splotchy from the neck up, and he looks so flustered that for a split second, you almost feel bad.

“why the fuck are you here?!” he practically barks at you, voice ragged from whatever the fuck he was doing before you ruined his life.

you blink, still processing the image that’s now burned into your brain for eternity. “uh. joshua?”

“what about joshua?!”

“he… he needed a document.”

seungcheol lets out a sound that is so frustrated, so exasperated, that it almost doesn’t register as human. “and you didn’t think to knock?!”

“why would i knock?! i didn’t think anyone would be jerking off in the living room like a fucking pervert—”

“IT’S MY APARTMENT.”

“IT’S JOSHUA’S TOO.”

“HE’S NOT HERE.”

“WELL, NEITHER AM I, NOW.” you turn on your heel, hand reaching for the doorknob. “i’ll just get the doc later—”

but before you can escape, he rasps, “don’t you dare tell joshua about this.”

you pause. smirk. oh, this is fun.

back still facing him, fingers still wrapped around the doorknob. you should leave. should pretend none of this ever happened. but something—some sick, wrong part of you—doesn’t want to.

so you turn. lean back against the door. cross your arms.

“what?” he snaps, shifting on the couch, the shirt still pitifully draped over his lap.

you tilt your head, dragging your gaze slowly down his body—his hard nipples, the taut muscles in his arms, the way his thighs tense like he’s fighting the urge to close them. you can see the way he twitches under the shirt.

“you’re still hard,” you note, your voice syrupy sweet, but your eyes gleam meanly.

seungcheol tenses. “so?”

“so… you’re mad at me for walking in,” you say, cocking a brow, “but you’re still hard as fuck.”

he grits his teeth, but his silence is loud as hell.

so you take a step forward. just one.

his breath hitches.

“cheol.” you coo at him. “you sure you hate me?”

he glares, but it’s weaker now, faltering under your scrutiny. you can see it—the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way he’s not telling you to stop.

so you take another step.

and another.

until you’re standing right in front of him, the shirt the only barrier between his cock and your eyes.

his jaw tightens. “don’t.”

“don’t what?” you murmur, reaching forward to trace your fingers over his wrist—the one that was just wrapped around his cock. “don’t call you out? don’t get closer? don’t—”

in a flash, he grabs your wrist, yanking you down.

you gasp as you land on his lap, his hands firm on your hips, his cock pressing against your ass through the thin barrier of the shirt and your clothes.

his lips are right by your ear when he growls, “don’t fucking test me.”

you shiver, but you’re not scared, you’re thrilled.

so you shift, pressing back against him, and smirk when he lets out a sharp breath through his nose.

“or what?” you whisper.

his grip tightens. “you really wanna find out?”

your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss.

“yeah,” you breathe, lips brushing his jaw. “i do.”

he snaps.

the shirt under you is gone.

his mouth crashes into yours, hot and angry, his hands gripping your waist like he’s trying to burn the shape of you into his palms. his teeth nip at your bottom lip, his tongue prying your mouth open, swallowing the gasp you let out when his fingers dig into your hips.

you grind down, moaning into his mouth when you feel just how fucking thick he is, leaking against your skirt. 

his hands are rough when he yanks your skirt up, bunching the fabric around your waist with no intention of letting it fall back down. you barely have a second to breathe before his fingers push past your thighs, finding the front of your panties hooking his thumb into the damp fabric and pulling it to the side.

the rush of cold air makes you gasp, thighs trying to snap shut, but his thighs pins them open. and maybe, he has a shred of decency in him, because he lets out a low breath and murmurs, “this is gonna be rough.”

no warning. just that.

you should stop him. you should tell him to go slow, to prep you, to at least spit on it—but you don’t, you need to feel this big cock stretching you until every single thought inside your head gets completely erased.

there’s no lube, no prep besides the mess between your thighs, just the torturous process of sinking down.

seungcheol watches all of it. watches the way your lips part, how your lashes flutter, how your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders the lower you go. he’s leaning back against the couch, one hand gripping the plush of your ass, the other wrapped around his base, guiding you onto him like you’re something delicate. like he’s trying to help.

but he’s not.

because he knows what he’s doing when he taps his cockhead against your clit first, dragging the tip through your slick, coaxing out little whimpers that make him smirk. he knows what he’s doing when he presses up, just the tip slipping inside, barely enough to be satisfying but more than enough to make your thighs twitch.

your breath catches in your throat, your whole body twitching up as you take the next inch too fast. your brain is empty, your body is working on instinct, thighs shaking as you brace yourself against him, trying—failing—to push down further.

and he sees it. sees how you’re struggling, sees how your muscles twitch like you’re about to give out, sees how you want to take it but your body is fighting the stretch.

so he helps.

his hands clamp down on your waist.

and then he slams you down.

the sound that leaves your throat is so ruined that he cant help but feel a bit of compassion.

because suddenly you’re full. suddenly you’re sitting completely in his lap, completely engulfed in him, your thighs flush against his, his cock buried so fucking deep that you can feel it pressing up against every nerve inside you.

but when you try to move, try to lift yourself even an inch—nothing.

your thighs won’t cooperate. your muscles won’t listen.

you can’t move.

“oh?” seungcheol tilts his head, smug grin curling at his lips as he grinds up, watching the way your mouth falls open at the sensation.

“too big for you, baby?”

you whimper.

“thought so.”

and then he takes control, because you can’t move—so he does it for you. his hands lift you effortlessly, dragging your hips up before slamming you back down, setting the pace, forcing your body to take what it’s given.

and you can’t think straight anymore. every thrust knocks the air from your lungs, every time he slams you down it punches little whimpers from your throat that only make him hungrier.

“awww… thought you were so tough. but you can’t even fuck yourself on my cock, huh?”

you cry out, body giving up, melting against his chest as you desperately try to follow his rhythm, hips twitching with little, pathetic attempts to keep up. your body isn’t even yours anymore—just a toy, something for seungcheol to use, something he’s breaking in with every brutal roll of his hips. 

his fingers dig into your waist, gripping you so tight it hurts, but the pleasure drowns it out. you’re so deep into it, into him, that every ounce of shame has left your body, every shred of dignity gone. because you can’t do anything but take it, can’t do anything but let him use you like you were made for this.

he tilts his head, watching you fall apart, watching how your thighs tremble with every slap of his hips against yours.

“damn,” he laughs, licking his lips, voice mocking. “you’re making such a fucking mess of yourself.”

you whimper, forehead pressing against his collarbone.

and then he grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him.

“mm-mm, don’t hide now,” he says, smirking. “be a good girl and let me see that dumb little face while i ruin you.”

a sob rips from your throat, high-pitched and wrecked.

he groans, grinding up into you.

“fuck. bet the neighbors can hear you, huh? joshua’s gonna be so fucking embarrassed when he gets a noise complaint for his dumb little best friend getting dicked down like a whore.”

your whole body jerks, a whimper escaping your lips at the humiliation, the filth dripping from his tongue.

and he sees it.

his grin turns cruel.

“oh, you like that?” he taunts, thrusting up so deep your back arches. “you like knowing that you’re loud enough to make it everyone’s fucking problem? that you’re such a good little fucktoy for me that i can’t even keep you quiet?”

you nod, because you can’t lie. his fingers tighten around your jaw, his lips brushing against yours as he coos.

“poor little thing.”

he thrusts up again, so hard, so deep that your whole body bounces, hands scrambling against his chest, voice cracking in a choked-out sob.

and he moans, deep and satisfied, because you’re so fucking perfect for him. because your body is his to use, to mold, to ruin.

“joshua’s gonna kill me c-cheol.”

his hips snap up again, knocking the breath from your lungs.

“but you’ll tell him it was worth it, won’t you, baby?”

he smooths one over your back, pressing down so your tits rub against his burning skin, while the other stays firm on your hip, keeping you still. your body jerks with every pulse of his cock inside you, twitching as you flutter around him, so overstimulated you can’t tell where the pleasure starts or ends.

“s-seungcheol—” his name is nothing but a broken cry, muffled against his neck, but he’s relentless. he doesn’t even let you finish, just shifts his knees slightly and thrusts up into you with all the power in his core.

“fuck,” he hisses when you clamp down, crying out into his skin, and he wraps an arm fully around you to hold you up. “shh, baby, you’re being so loud.”

his hand snakes up your back, fingers tangling into your hair, forcing you to lift your head. you meet his gaze, and it knocks the breath from your lungs. he looks fucked, mouth parted, sweat dripping from his hairline, chest heaving, but he still manages to look at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“c’mon,” he coos, tilting his head, his grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “tell me it was worth it. tell me how good my cock is.”

he punctuates it with a sharp snap of his hips and you keen, trying to lift yourself, trying to relieve some of the intensity, but your thighs betray you. seungcheol laughs, breathless but smug, and his fingers press bruises into your skin as he maneuvers you like you weigh nothing.

“see? can’t even move, huh? my poor baby,” he murmurs, voice syrupy sweet, his free hand cupping your cheek now. “you’re just gonna sit here and take it like the perfect fucktoy you are.”

heat prickles at your skin at the words, your brain too fogged up to be embarrassed, too fucked out to do anything but let him guide you. he rocks you against him, making sure you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, rubbing at all the right places, pressing into you deeper than you thought was even possible.

“you take me so well, baby,” he praises, leaning in to press his lips against yours, just enough to tease. “so fuckin’ tight, so warm—fucking heaven.”

his hand slides between your bodies, two fingers finding your swollen, neglected clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over it. the sensation makes your thighs twitch, your nails dig into his back, a fresh wave of tears pooling at the corners of your eyes.

“shhh, i got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing your jaw now, your temple. his fingers on your clit work in time with the slow, torturous grind of his hips. “i got you, yeah? you gonna cum for me? hm?”

he kisses you full on the mouth when you sob, swallowing the sound like he wants to keep it forever. and then he speeds up just a little, rolling your clit with more pressure, meeting every rut of your hips with a firm thrust up.

you shatter.

your whole body seizes, a strangled moan tearing from your throat as you clamp down so tight on him that it sends him tumbling over the edge with you. he groans, long and low, holding you so tight against him that you can feel every pulse of his cum inside you, hot and deep. his hips jerk once, twice more before he stills, forehead pressed against yours as you both gasp for air.

it’s quiet for a moment, the only sounds are the distant hum of the city outside the window, and the soft squelch when he finally shifts, making you both moan.

your body trembles like a leaf caught in the wind, and seungcheol drinks it in, the heat of your overstimulated form twitching against his chest as he presses slow, lingering kisses into the curve of your neck. his lips move down, sucking at the pulse point that hammers beneath your skin. your breath stutters. his fingers, nails just barely grazing, trail down the arch of your spine, featherlight but enough to make you shiver. you barely even realize you’re moving, the last bit of strength in your boneless limbs used to weakly push yourself up, to let his cock slip free from where it’s buried inside you. 

the second it leaves you, your body gives out. you collapse right into his chest, heavier than before, spent and trembling, the exhaustion hitting all at once. you can’t even pretend to be embarrassed about it. you just sigh, your lips brushing the base of his throat as you settle against him, body limp.

seungcheol holds you steady with both hands, like he’s afraid you might melt right into the couch and disappear. his broad palm cradles the back of your head, fingers splaying across your scalp, scratching at your roots. he keeps the other hand wrapped around your waist, thumb stroking absentmindedly against your ribs. the tension in his body hasn’t left yet. his shoulders are still tight. you know him well enough to know what’s coming before he even says it.

“you good?” 

you hum in response, nuzzling into his chest as your fingers curl weakly against his pecs. “just a little sore.”

he exhales through his nose. shifts beneath you. you can feel his fingers flex where they rest on your waist, like he wants to squeeze but holds himself back. then, with zero effort, he grips the back of your neck and lifts you up, just enough to force you to look at him. your lids are heavy, half-lidded, dazed, and fuck, that shouldn’t make him feel so possessive, but it does.

his thumb sweeps across your cheek, his jaw tensing. “shit. i’m sorry,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over your features like he’s searching for anything more than just exhaustion. “lemme take care of you, hm?”

you don’t have it in you to resist, don’t even want to. you let him move you, let him handle you like you weigh nothing as he lifts you from his lap and shifts you onto the couch, laying you down as if you’re something delicate. and maybe you are, now, after the way he ruined you. maybe that’s why you don’t fight him when he presses your thighs apart, watching as they just fall open on their own, spread wide like a doll.

you don’t have the strength to do much else than whimper softly as his thumbs spread you further, gaze locked onto your swollen cunt, still so slick from where he fucked you. his jaw clenches.

you don’t even get a warning before he moves in, before his hands grip your thighs to keep them open as he dives between them, mouth sealing over your clit in one slow stroke of his tongue.

you jolt, a weak little gasp punching from your lungs. your fingers barely find the energy to tangle into his hair, and the grip is nowhere near as firm as it usually is, but he groans anyway. whether it’s from the feeling of your grip or from the way you instantly react to him, you don’t know. but he doesn’t stop.

his tongue moves slow, warm and so fucking wet as he licks broad, flat strokes over your sensitive flesh, working you open again with patience. he isn’t trying to overstimulate, isn’t trying to get you off again—though you can already tell it wouldn’t take much. his focus is entirely on easing the ache, on massaging every tender inch of you with his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

“feels good?” his voice is muffled against you, but it vibrates in just the right way.

you nod, breath hitching when he sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue rolling it in slow circles. your body twitches, heat curling at the base of your spine. “cheol…”

he moans against you, and presses you down harder against his face. your hips jump, an embarrassing whimper breaking free as his tongue dips lower, tracing around your entrance before dragging back up, collecting every bit of slick along the way.

you whine, fingers curling tighter in his hair. he doesn’t tease. doesn’t prolong it. just keeps his pace slow and steady, gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to keep you on the edge of something, even if you’re too sensitive to chase it. and if the way he’s grinding his hips into the couch tells you anything—it’s that he’s just as affected as you are.

he’s not eating you out to get himself off, but fuck if it isn’t working.

the obscene sounds of his mouth working between your thighs filling the entire apartment, mixing in with your breathless moans and the way he groans right into your cunt. you don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed about the way your cum is smeared all over his chin, his jaw, his cheeks—how it drips down onto the couch below with every intentional roll of his tongue against your entrance.

his tongue works in circles, pressing flat to your hole before dragging up again, tasting every bit of your arousal as it gushes out onto his lips. his mouth is open the entire time, tongue rolling and flicking, nose nudging against your clit as he angles his head lower. he flattens his tongue, groaning as he drags it up through your folds before plunging it into you, so messy that you swear you see white behind your eyelids.

your back arches, chest rising in sharp, hiccupped gasps, every single nerve in your body on flames. your thighs twitch in his grasp, and he squeezes them tighter, keeping you spread open just for him. his hands slide up, one wrapping firmly around your waist, keeping you pinned in place, while the other travels up, up—his fingers finding the stiff peaks of your nipples.

your eyes snap open, a gasp catching in your throat as he rolls one between his fingertips, twisting just enough to make your eyes roll. you swear you hear him chuckle against you, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“breathe,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your clit before sucking it between his teeth, tongue rolling in lazy, teasing circles on the swollen bud. “breathe for me, baby.”

you try. you really do. but the way his mouth moves, the way his fingers tweak and pull, it’s too much. you’re spiraling. you feel another orgasm creeping up so fast it steals the air right out of your lungs.

he sees it. he knows.

his grip tightens on your thigh, his tongue flicking faster, working you open as his free hand continues to play with your tits, kneading the soft flesh, fingers rolling your nipples in rhythm with the lazy grind of his tongue against your clit.

your moans turn high-pitched, desperate. your body twists beneath him, unable to keep still as the pleasure builds, climbing higher and higher.

but then—a whimper.

not from you.

from him.

you force your heavy lids open, head lolling to the side as you try to focus on him. and fuck, the sight that greets you is almost enough to make you cum then and there.

seungcheol is rutting against the couch. grinding, fucking humping it like a damn dog, his hips rolling in slow thrusts, his rock-hard cock straining against his stomach, smearing precum all over his abs and the fabric beneath him.

he whimpers again, this time louder, his brows furrowed, his breath coming in short, uneven pants.

“fuck,” he groans, mouth still pressed against you, voice muffled by the way his tongue keeps working you over. he pulls back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his chin soaked. his eyes are dark, glassy, pupils blown wide as he looks up at you. “can’t—fuck, i can’t stop. you taste too good.”

your chest tightens, a desperate, aching cry slipping from your lips as you clutch at his hair, thighs twitching in his grasp. “cheol—gonna—gonna cum, oh my god—”

he moans, actually fucking moans, his hips grinding down harder against the couch as he redoubles his efforts, tongue circling your clit in precise, teasing flicks, his fingers pinching your nipples just hard enough to send you over the edge.

your body locks up. your back arches. your mouth falls open, a silent scream tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, all-consuming.

seungcheol doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow down. he works you through it like it’s his mission, licking you clean, his tongue rolling over your entrance, collecting every last drop as your body trembles violently beneath him.

your chest heaves, your vision blurring, but even through the haze, you can feel him still grinding against the couch, still so fucking hard and desperate, all because of you.

your brain is slow. dial-up connection slow. everything feels like it’s underwater, your body floating somewhere between consciousness and the best orgasm-induced coma of your life. it’s warm, so warm, like your body is still riding out the fever of your high, tongue pressed against the roof of your mouth, throat dry, muscles heavy like they’re full of sand.

you don’t even remember when it happened—when you blacked out, when you got moved. just flashes of cool wipes dragging over your skin, a damp cloth pressed between your thighs, seungcheol’s hands gentle, careful, murmuring something you were too gone to comprehend. like déjà vu, like something out of a dream.

but you’re awake now. sort of. and you’re in his bed.

the sheets are soft, cool against your fevered skin, and it feels so good that you can’t help the tired, pleased moan that slips past your lips, involuntary, barely conscious.

but it’s enough to make him look at you.

you blink, vision still a little hazy, but yeah, that’s definitely seungcheol, sitting at his desk, dressed in a loose shirt and sweats, hair damp, probably from a shower. there’s a slight smirk on his lips, but his eyes are soft as they sweep over you, taking in the way you’re still half-buried in his sheets, limbs heavy, body relaxed.

then it hits you.

the documents.

joshua.

fuck.

your eyes widen, and you jolt up too fast, regretting it immediately when the soreness between your thighs protests, a sharp ache shooting up your spine. “fuck—”

seungcheol’s already up, one hand pressing to your shoulder, guiding you back down before you can do any more damage. “hey, hey, relax. you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“the—documents,” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut again as the exhaustion creeps back in. “joshua.”

he chuckles, and you open your eyes just in time to see him shaking a small stack of papers in his hand. “yeah, yeah. i got it. sent them over while you were passed out.”

you frown, groggy. “i was supposed to send them.”

“and joshua needs to get used to me handling shit for you,” he says, grinning as he sets the papers down. “besides, he’d probably prefer not to get another noise complaint under his name.”

your face heats up instantly. “oh my god.”

“mhmm,” seungcheol hums, tilting his head. “wanna know how loud you were?”

“no.”

he laughs, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek. “then go back to sleep, baby.”

you glare at him. or, at least, you try to. it’s weak, and he knows it, because all it takes is one more stroke of his thumb before your eyes flutter shut again, body sinking further into his bed.

“Don’t be so rough!” You squeal. You try to squirm your way out of Jay’s lap, but the very moment you manage to even so much as get an inch away, his hands are clamping down on your waist and dragging you back onto him. You let out a gasp as your skirt is pushed up and his fingers go back to tugging and pulling at the thin material of your fishnets, the unmistakable sound of the strings snapping filling your ears.

“Don’t be so rough?” Jay repeats your words with just the slightest tilt of fake shock. “Look at you playing dumb after acting up all day. Prancing around me in something so skimpy? Bending over constantly to flash me? Acting like a bratty slut? You’re practically begging to be put in place.”

You huff, “That doesn’t give you the right to act like a brute!”

“I have more than the right.” A calloused palm grips at your ass under the remnants of your tights. His voice comes in low waves, strict in a way that makes you go weak in the knees. “I’ve been more than patient with you, but right now, you need some discipline.”

How beguiling.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ JAKE!

How distracting.

The moment Jake laid eyes on the fishnets on your legs, they imprinted inside of his brain like a core memory. He can’t think of anything else as he goes through the motions of his day. He wants to run his hands all over your legs, fingertips drinking up the sensation of soft skin contrasted by the ridges of the netting. He can’t concentrate, guilt and desire muddling his rationale as he’s overwhelmed by the sheer need to be by you. He wants to lay his head in your lap until the pattern of crisscrossing fishnets are pressed into his cheeks.

How distracting.

RIII—IIIP—

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry- I couldn’t help it!” The apology flies out like a drawn out whine before you can even register that he’s ripped your tights. Jake should feel ashamed of the depraved state you’ve driven him to: he’s a world-famous idol with a reputation to uphold, but instead he’s desperately humping at your thighs like a dog in heat. 

“I couldn’t stop thinking about your legs all day… You looked so good in those fishnets, I couldn’t think about anything else-,” he chokes out, words slurring over. His cock drools inside of his pants every time he rubs his crotch over your thighs, fishnets continuing to snag and snap whenever they get caught on the buttons and the rough fabric of his pants. He looks up at you with such a pitiful look, truly on the brink of madness. “‘M so hard, it hurts- Please… Make me feel better- You don’t even have to let me fuck your pussy- I can just fuck your legs instead… Please?”

He might cum just from the thought of rutting his dick all over your fishnets and thighs. So pretty, so tempting, so ruinous.

How distracting. 

⋆.𐙚 ̊ SUNGHOON!

How delicate. 

Sunghoon’s fingers twitch as you gingerly yank the fishnets up. You’re moving with so much caution to make sure the tantalizing netting sits right over the plush of your legs, and you’re being so careful to make sure you don’t accidentally rip by pulling too suddenly or too hard. Sunghoon’s been building his strength to an almost stupid extent, but he likes how much bigger and taller and more dependable it makes him. Where you might struggle to open heavy doors or unscrew tight jars, he does all of it without batting an eye—an antithesis to the airy material blanketing your legs.

How delicate.

RIII—IIIP—

He doesn’t mean to do it on purpose. But you’re so small in his arms, and just by grabbing a handful of your thighs, the fishnets come undone like they’re made of cobwebs and gossamer. You give a squeal and smack him on his biceps (“Don’t rip them! I’ll have to buy new ones!”), unaware that you’re nothing more than a tiny kitten yowling at a big tiger.

“It’s not my fault they’re so weak.” He tosses you down on his bed effortlessly, and he crawls on top of you. Your breathing pitches up when he cages you in between his mattress and his chest. It’s a wordless reminder that right now, when you’re in his arms, he gets to call the shots. You can scold him all you want, but all the bravado will melt away into nothing once he folds you into one of his favorite, unforgiving positions, leaving you with no choice but to cry out in pleasure as he fucks you stupid over and over again. 

You shouldn’t pick a battle you can’t win. You shouldn’t wear something so frail around him if you wanted them intact.

How delicate. 

⋆.𐙚 ̊ SUNOO!

How cheap.

Sunoo thinks you deserve better than some mass-made polyester draped over your legs. They’re cute because they’re on you, but if Sunoo got his way, he’d drape you with nothing but the finest lace his money could buy. Because in his eyes, you deserve nothing but the best—and then you have to drop the bomb that you bought the fishnets on a whim after wanting to match with a friend. A friend. It’s stupid to get jealous, but Sunoo can’t deny how worked up he feels at the thought of you matching with someone that isn’t him.

How cheap.

RIII—IIIP—

“Oh?” A finger tiptoes up your thighs and hooks around the waistband of your fishnets. Your breath catches, and Sunoo tugs slightly at the elastic before letting it go. It snaps against your stomach. The initial sting isn’t too bad, but heat still riots inside of your brains. “I’m soooooo sorry. I didn’t think it would rip so easily.”

His palm cups your cunt. He smiles down at you: sweetly, seductively, snidely. He’s not sorry at all, not when he’s starting to grind his wrist against your swollen clit and his eyes are crinkling up in sheer delight. “I thought you’d have a little bit more… taste than wearing something that’s so weak. How about I buy you something to replace these? I think I can pick out something that suits you so much better than your friend can.”

Your pussy clenches around nothing, and Sunoo continues to coo down at you. You need more. You want him to rip a hole in your panties as well and fuck you out on his fingers. But Sunoo isn’t so easily convinced, and he wants you to put your work in to prove that you deserve his attention.

How cheap.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ JUNGWON!

How cute.

That’s what Jungwon thinks when he sees you wearing a pair of pristine fishnets over your legs. And they really are cute—a nice touch to make your outfit a bit more special. He likes imagining you going through the trouble of picking them out. After all, that’s a part of the reason why he adores you so much. He likes that you go over all the little details, that you actually stop to smell the roses and leave no stone unturned. You’re someone who understands the fastidious aspects of his personality rather well.

How cute.

RIII—IIIP—

“Jungwon!” You gasp. You writhe in his arms, limbs thrashing out helplessly against his sheets, and Jungwon laughs almost mockingly at you. His greedy knuckles are hooked all over your fishnets. They were perfectly untouched this morning, but he’s now eagerly ripping a hole in the crotch. 

“You really should have known better than to wear something like this around me. You know how impatient I get.” He kisses the side of your face and neck gently, and the monstrously possessive streak inside him purrs when you shudder in anticipation. 

His fingers crawl up the dainty netting and past your trembling thighs, and heat swirls inside your ribcage and stomach. His voice is low and dangerous, each firm syllable enough to make your insides clench painfully around nothing. “I bet you wanted me to rip them, didn’t you? Yeah, I bet you wanted me to rip a hole in them, so I could fuck you out on my cock while you’re still wearing them.”

He stares down at you with glee as arousal clouds your eyes, your body keening over for his touch. Those fishnets will be in tatters by the end of the night, that much he’s sure of. 

How cute. 

⋆.𐙚 ̊ NI-KI!

How infuriating.

It’s unreasonable to hide you away in a tower like a princess and keep you all to himself, but when Riki’s eyes gloss over the fishnets stretching over your legs, the roiling waves of jealousy that overtake him make reason fly out the window. Whenever you doll yourself up or do anything, really, he’s overwhelmed by his admiration of you. It doesn’t show easily on his cool façade, but underneath the calm is a storm that’s waiting to be unleashed. His piercing gaze never leaves you, your legs, or everyone else that he’s so convinced is watching you as well—all of them wolves drawn to the prancing lamb that he adores more than anyone else ever could.

How infuriating.

RIII—IIIP—

“You don’t get it,” he mutters, dripping with jealousy. Your breath catches in your throat when his grip jerks at the crotch of your fishnets. His long, bony knuckles make quick work of them, and all that’s left in between your drooling cunt and his hungry countenance is your flimsy panties. “Do you think everyone in the world is your friend? So fucking clueless.”

“You’re crazy-,” you stutter out. You’re caught between a nervous laugh and a moan. You know this will end up with you being railed through his mattress until you can’t think. Brainless, boneless, pliant and all his.

“Men are wolves,” he hisses, lowering his face right in front of your eyes. “You might not see it, but I do. The way they look at you. The way their eyes follow you. The way their dirty thoughts crawl all over you. You’re mine. I have to make sure they know you’re off limits. See how they react when you come hobbling out in ripped fishnets with my cum dripping out of your pussy.”

How infuriating.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ HEESEUNG!

How bewitching.

Heeseung wants to be a good boyfriend. The kind of boyfriend you can be proud of. The kind of man you want to bring home to your parents. The kind of person you see your future with. But all sensibility is gone when your fishnets are in the picture. And you’re none the wiser—bending over to lace your shoes up, giving him a flash of your thighs and ass that has his cock jumping, the netting shifting sensually with your moving skin.

How bewitching.

RIII—IIIP—

He’s done it before he catches himself. Just how weak are those things? All he did was reach forward and drag a finger across your tights. It wasn’t his fault that they caught, that they ripped to give him a now-perfect view of your cute panties. And your ass. And the print of your cute pussy against the fabric of your undies.

“Heeseung! What the fuck?” You’re about to launch into a tirade about keeping his hands to himself, but it’s too late. His eyes are glazed wide open, lips parted slightly, lust consuming his features. He’s not even bothering to hide the fact that he’s hard. Any scolding you do is going to go in one ear and out the other.

“Shit- Sorry.” There’s no sincerity to his voice. You suck in an inhale as he gropes you. He’s so shameless, but knowing that you have this effect on him is flattering, if not downright arousing.

“I mean- if they’re already ripped now, we might as well go all the way?” There’s the smallest amused lilt in his voice. His cock throbs with need, wanting to bury itself in your warm cunt, wanting to see your fishnets strain against your curves when he bends you over right here, right now. 

How bewitching.