hypnotising

Your boyfriend of two years was sitting right across from you as a peachy-red color creeped over his cheeks all the way to his ears. He diverted his gaze down, almost afraid you'd hear his thoughts out loud, teeth lightly grazing his own bottom lip as he bit down in embarrassment.

San’s hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing it in what he thought was a soothing motion; a deep sigh escaped his slightly parted lips, now with faint residual marks of his teeth on the lower lip from the sheer strength he’d used to bite down on it. You mentally noted that it was a little plumper, a little more red, than it had been a few seconds ago. But you let him take his time, not wanting to bother the man over something that so obviously affected him. You knew he’d tell you in the end, however long it took. There was no reason to pry.

The two of you were seated at the table in your apartment, enjoying the meal that San had practically begged to make for you—claiming it was a special recipe that Wooyoung had recently taught him back at their dorm. He was dressed in a black t-shirt with sleeves that wrapped comfortably around his biceps, revealing the years of hard work he had put in at the gym. The shirt was paired with a basic pair of washed-out blue jeans, hugging his absurdly—and unfairly—small waist perfectly.

Afraid you had stayed quiet for too long, you gave him an encouraging nod to keep going. The hand that previously occupied his neck had now made it to his eyes; his thumb and index finger simultaneously found their way to each eyebrow, circling their way to the bottom of his eyes in a furrow. It was weird seeing him this flustered. Especially when it came to something he was mentioning himself.

“Well, I've been thinking about our, uhm—" he started, the last sound coming out almost like a whisper as he used his hand to motion back and forth between the two of you.

“Well, our sex life," he finished hurriedly. The subtle blush on his cheeks had deepened into a vibrant crimson as he finally lifted his gaze to meet yours.

"O-okay," you let out, a small hint of an underlying question filling the air. The feeling of a familiar warmth spread across your cheeks. It was your time to avoid his gaze, not wanting him to see how easily a simple word could turn you into a blushing mess.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love what we have," he exclaimed, his hands displayed in front of him in an almost defensive position.

“It’s just that..." he trailed off. "I want you to try being the, uh, dominant one next time we do it," he said softly, averting his gaze from your now widened eyes and shocked expression.

Oh

"If it's not something you like or want to do—that's, you know, completely fine," the man said hastily, as if he were afraid of scaring you away.

Of all the things your boyfriend could have said, you did not expect for even a second that it would be…this. It's not like you had distinct roles of dominant and submissive in the bedroom. But San did lean towards being in control of your pleasure, his larger build allowing him to easily toss you around as he pleased. It was something that came naturally to the two of you and required little thought.

Not for San, apparently.

You adjusted yourself in your chair; heat blossomed through your body subconsciously as a shiver traveled from your spine to your core. You probably both looked a mess with tension so thick you could cut it and cheeks so red a poet could spend his life writing about it.

Where did this come from, though? You knew San was a very soft and naturally cute person, but he also liked the idea of having control. He loved having people listen to him as he oozed confidence and a sense of authority. Memories flooded your mind, trying to find a glimpse of something, anything that could have anticipated the words that left his lips mere seconds ago.

Your expression softened as you glanced at your boyfriend in front of you; he looked so disheveled and nervous. San's hands were placed on the table in front of you, fingers intertwined as he nervously played with his thumbs. The pout that came so naturally to him, almost as if it were the default shape of his lips, was obvious as his eyes quickly scanned yours for any indication of how you were feeling.

"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't surprised," you began with a soft smile as your hand came to touch his, giving it a light squeeze to indicate that you were fine. A mental image of San on his knees suddenly popped up, eyes lidded as he stared up at you in almost a plea. His naked chest was heaving up and down, lips slightly parted as if he were about to begin begging any moment. Fuck. Is that what you had been missing out on?

With your eyes fixed on Sans, you went on, "But I'd like to try." A comforting, gentle smile appeared on his lips as his eyes grew wide. You giggled as your boyfriend stood up, the chair he had sat on not even a second ago long forgotten as it fell behind him from the mere force of his excitement. You followed, walking over to the side of the table where San stood.

“I promise I’ll make you feel so good, baby—I’ll be so good." He breathed out. His eyes darted between yours and down to your lips as he cupped your cheeks, his gaze growing darker.

He said he’ll be good.

Fuck—

Before you can even think of what to say, soft lips are pressed against yours. You lean into the kiss as San showed a hunger you've never known before. He quickly found your bottom lip, teeth grazing the soft, wet flesh, making you gasp in return. All the idol saw this as was an invitation to slide his tongue in, exploring the familiar warmth of your mouth as his tongue meets yours. Your hand slowly traveled up his chest, applying a light pressure that caused San to let out the neediest of whines when you accidentally grazed his nipple.

So sensitive, you thought. Had he always been this sensitive?

San was now kissing you like his life depended on it. Like he grew needier for every graze of your tongue against his, only stopping the kiss to gasp for air and then back again to chase your lips. And it felt so good. It’s like San had gone completely pliant and was kissing you not just because he wanted to but because he needed it—like he couldn’t live without it. He needed to feel your warm, soft mouth against his. He needed to feel your hot, radiating body against his to prove that this is real. That you want him the way he’s wanted you for such a long time.

Your hand, which had just led to the man in front of you making the sweetest of sounds, now found its way to the back of his neck, right where his hair grows longer. To test the waters, you lightly grabbed whatever hair was long enough to welcome your grasp and gave it a solid tug. What you didn’t expect was a loud moan escaping San’s lips, his whole body going still as he submits to your touch.

“Nghm—” he whined as he furrowed his brows; the lips that had chased yours were now flushed red and so fucking swollen as he bit down on his bottom lip. The heavy weight of his cock was now evidently straining against the tight fabric of his jeans. Your non-occupied hand made its way to the outline, touching the tip with only enough force that San would know your touch is there, but not enough to give him any relief.

“Please baby—nngh, ah,” he gasped. And holy fuck he was so pretty like this. His eyes were locked shut, the furrow of his brows never faltering as he tried to rock against your hand, desperate to feel anything at this point. His swollen, perky lips opened oh so slightly to let the tiniest drop of saliva pool against the opening of his bottom lip. So needy, so pliant, and so fuckable. Just for you. You were going insane.

You used the leverage you had from pulling his hair to guide him back to your mouth, instantly grazing your tongue against his lips to know you were entering. San whined in response, giving you access to whatever you needed.

“Please what? Use your words, San-ah.” You broke free from the kiss to say, squeezing the tip of his cock through the jeans. A wet patch was already forming where the head of his cock lay against; he was already so wet. And all you did was tug his hair.

“I want to—ah, eat you out—Nngh, please… please, I need it.” San was a blabbering, hot mess. He looked at you; no, he begged you with glossy, half-lidded eyes. His breathing was ragged, and he looked so desperate like this. Like the smallest of touches would tip him over the edge. You gave him a quick nod along with an 'okay,' so quiet you could barely hear it yourself. You could barely hear anything over the loud sound of your beating heart.

You were nervous, you had to admit. This was a completely new experience to you. The few relationships you had before San were all the same: vanilla with an occasional doggy, and that was it. The thought of being in control of someone like this, of someone's pleasure, had never crossed your mind. But right now it was all you could think about. San whined at the loss of your warmth as you pulled away, but you quickly took his hand as you led him to your bedroom. Your nightlight was already on from earlier, as San had interrupted your reading session to tell you dinner was ready and served. Something about seeing San in the dim light of your bedroom just fueled your arousal even more.

San closed the door behind him as you sat down on the edge of the bed, the cool comforter a clear contrast to your hot, aching body. Since it was in the middle of June, you had decided to go for a short dark green skirt, lace covering the hem of it. It reached the middle of your thighs, not dangerously short but not long either. It simply gave you enough movement to feel comfortable and sexy; the lighter breeze it gave you in the hot weather was just an added bonus.

Your gaze never left San’s as you slowly spread your legs; the cold air that hit your aching heat made you realize just how aroused you were. You had been so focused on San and his pretty sounds, how he had just submitted to you the second he got manhandled. And oh my god, why did you not think of this sooner?

San looked at you like he was waiting for a command, for anything that would let him touch you right now. You lifted the hem of your skirt to reveal your panties, already soaked through, and motioned for San to sit down on the floor.

“F-fuck,” he growled, eyes now glued to your glistening cunt. He followed your order; of course he did. This man was so lost in his own arousal it looked like he didn’t know what to do. He licked his lips eagerly as he lowered himself enough to be at eye level with the thing he so desperately needed right now. You chuckled at his reaction.

“C-can I? Please, baby, you look so good—fuck, I know you taste so good.” And he was gone. There were no thoughts behind his fluttering eyes other than your throbbing cunt displayed so prettily in front of him. Like a full course meal he couldn’t wait to devour.

You took that as a cue to remove your panties—they were soaked anyway and served no purpose as of this moment. As you threw your panties aside, you put your hands on your thighs, making a show of spreading your legs. San looked up at you, waiting for permission to finally touch it, to devour it. You scooted a bit further towards the end of the bed to give San easier access as you leaned back on your forearms to stabilize for what was about to come.

“It’s all yours, baby, go ahead," you breathed out as your eyes carefully scanned the bigger boy in front of you. San whimpered just at the thought of it, wasting no time before devouring you.

The moment his tongue met your slick folds, he moaned like a man starved, lapping it with worshipful devotion, his whines vibrating against your clit as he lost himself in the task. Utterly devoted, utterly yours. You pulled your leg up to rest the sole of your foot on the bed, making your folds separate even further as San continued. A loud moan left your lips, throwing your head back as you reached down to thread your fingers through his hair—gripping firmly to guide the angle of his mouth exactly where you wanted it. San just moaned in content as he carried on working his tongue through your folds, a little whimper escaping here and there when you teasingly hardened the grip on his hair.

You lifted your head to see the filthy image in front of you. San was palming himself through his jeans, not hurriedly, but enough to make his own hips buck into the touch. His other arm was wrapped around the outside of your thigh as he leveraged himself. His nose, the area around his mouth, even parts of his cheeks were glistening with a growing sheen of saliva and your own arousal while his tongue worked in broad, flat strokes.

“Mhmn—’tastes so good,” he whined as he broke free to gather just enough air to allow him to keep going again. Your hips began a steady rhythm, rolling in time with the wet sounds filling the room: the soft, rhythmic lap of his tongue; the occasional choked gasp when you shifted to let him catch a full breath; and the low, continuous whine that built in his throat and traveled straight into your core.

You could feel every detail of his mouth—the rough drag of taste buds along your folds, the way his lips sealed around your clit and sucked with just enough pressure to make your thighs tense, and the slick push of his tongue curling inside as you tilted forward to grant him deeper access. Your free hand slid down your body, fingers tracing the curve of your breast, pinching a nipple lightly before traveling lower to spread yourself wider for him, holding your folds open so his tongue could lap directly at the sensitive inner skin.

Minutes stretched as you used him like this, chasing the building heat low in your belly with patient, unhurried movements. San had unbuckled his jeans without you noticing, his cock springing free against the tummy of his shirt, glistening with precum. So pretty, so wet for you.

“Such a good boy, baby—ah, just like that," you moaned and felt San’s whole body respond—hips rutting uselessly against the air, cock leaking steadily onto the floor beneath him, thighs flexing as he fought to stay still. The small, muted whimpers leaving his lips are sending vibrations deliciously through your core. He was eating you out like he was drunk—drunk on you.

But this wasn’t enough. You needed to feel him. Not just his magical tongue (cause holy fuck), but all of him. You groaned as you caught sight of his neglected cock, the tip flushed red while producing heaps of precum, begging to be touched. You sat up and used the grip on his hair to pull him away from your aching cunt. San straight up whined, his head frantically trying to find its way back to the beautiful sight in front of him.

“Up, baby, n-need you, please. Inside me, now,” you gritted out without any real power, just pure desperation to feel his throbbing cock inside you. And San growled; he growled. Fuck, you were so whipped for this man.

San yet again wasted no time as he stood up, shimming out of his jeans with a bit of resistance from the sweat sticking to his skin. Reaching back to the neck of his shirt, he quickly pulled it over his head and threw it across the room. You made your way back to the head of the bed, feeling the weight of San sink into the bed as he towered over you.

“Sit with your back against the headboard, baby. Wanna ride you.” San whimpered in response the second those words came out of your mouth. You pushed his chest and guided him to sit against the headboard of the bed, throwing your leg over his lap as you straddle him.

His cock lies heavy on his stomach as he breathes in heavy, ragged breaths. You scooted closer to where your leaking cunt was hovering just above his length.

“Mhmm—touch me, please, baby; I’ve been so good.” San whined, hips bucking up to give him any sense of relief. But his hands remained on each side of your thigh, not moving an inch despite the whimpering mess he was, desperate for any friction. The thought of teasing him flashed through your mind, but you decided it was for another time. You needed him, and you needed him now.

You shifted to make yourself more comfortable, taking San’s cock in your hand to guide it to your entrance. San’s eyes rolled back in pleasure as he moaned, finally giving his neglected cock attention. Still, he sat there without moving, panting as you lowered yourself onto him in one slow, relentless slide. The stretch pulled a broken sound from the both of you. You moved your hands to brace against his shoulders and began to move, rising until only the head remained inside before sinking down again, taking him to the hilt each time. His hands clenched hard where they rested on your thighs, veins appearing like they’d pop any minute, letting you set the pace you needed—deep grinding rolls.

You leaned forward to catch him in a kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, and, fuck, it was so dirty and so hot you couldn’t help but moan into the kiss. Pulling away, you watched San’s face as you rode him in earnest. His eyes were glassy, mouth open and glistening, cheeks flushed darker than before. Every few strokes you would pause, fully seated, and clench around him, savoring the way his cock twitched inside you and the desperate whimper that followed. You could feel the sweat gathered along your spine and between your breasts.

You could feel the familiar tightness forming in your core, but it wasn’t enough. Your pace was faltering as your thighs grew tired, not realizing the tear sliding down your cheek from the sheer desperation of needing to cum. It was like San could read your thoughts as his hands suddenly grabbed your hips, gaze meeting yours as if to ask if he could take over.

“Please—nngh,” you whined, and it was the only confirmation San needed before planting his feet and fucking into you with hard, fast thrusts.

And holy fuck was he fucking you good. You threw your head back as San nibbled on your neck, wrapping his arm around your lower back to get better leverage and actually fuck the shit out of you. A mix of ah’s and oh’s was filling up the room along with hard, wet skin slapping against each other.

San suddenly reached down to circle your clit with his thumb, and the position you were both in should've made it uncomfortable for him to do it, well, comfortably. The thought of him accepting slight discomfort just to please you, to make sure you feel good, elicits a loud, almost porn-like moan from your lips. San sees it as encouragement and uses the arm around your lower back to get a better grip as he picks up the pace and fucks you so hard you're seeing stars.

San is a moaning mess too, face flushed from arousal as sweat pools on the sides of his face, dripping down to where your bodies intertwine. You can tell he's just as affected as you are when you feel his cock twitch inside you. And, fuck, he feels so good inside you, cock grazing right where you need it the most.

You're so close, heat blossoming in your core as you grow more desperate for your release. Without much thought, you clench around San's cock because it feels so good, and he's hitting all the right spots with his thumb still abusing your clit, and fuck, your orgasm hits you hard and fast—inner walls fluttering, and the tight, rhythmic squeeze pulled his own release from him—hot cum pulsing deep as his whole body twitches, and a hoarse cry tore from his throat. You stayed seated through it, rocking gently to prolong the aftershocks for both of you, until the tremors subsided and the only sounds left were your slowing breaths and the faint creak of the mattress.

You eased off him carefully, resting the side of your face on the top of his head and drawing him into your arms. His face pressed into the curve of your neck, damp with sweat and arousal, and you stroked his hair in long, soothing passes while his breathing evened out.

Outside, the city hummed on, but here the world had narrowed to the shared warmth of skin, the slowing thud of heartbeats, and the quiet certainty that the night still held hours more for whatever the two of you did next.

You’ve barely got the door behind you before Wooyoung presses his lips to yours. Your brows lift high, hands reaching for his chest, back flat against the wooden door behind you, you were expecting at least a short conversation first. Maybe a small discussion on how this actually goes. You suppose he isn’t the type to need one, he already knows how this goes, he does it on a daily basis. 

“Wait, wait,” you push on his chest, but all it really does is push you farther into the door. “That’s it? You just bring me in here and start making out with me?” 

Panting, his brows furrow, hands lowering where they’d taken root on your hips. “Yes? What else is there to do?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug your shoulders, arms stretching on either side of you. “Talk about it? I don’t want anyone to know you went down on me.”

“I’m so gross and nasty that no one can know you hooked up with me?” he teases, amusement in his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone, Virgin. It’s just a favor, a one-time thing.” 

So close, you’ve never noticed his eyes are two different sizes, like the angel and devil on his shoulders control each half of him. His eyes that are usually a warm, glazed amber are deepened to a woody, husky brown, but still soft, not impatient, not brash. 

“Okay,” you blink, swallowing. “I’ve never hooked up with anyone before. Every guy I’ve ever fucked was my boyfriend, longterm.”

“If you don’t want to do this, then we don’t do it,” he says honestly. Then he grins like he just remembered, “I’ve got another appointment after this, anyway.” 

Your skin burns, cheeks flaming, the tips of your ears threatening to melt your skull. You should hate each word he just said, you should hate that he’s fucking someone after he hooks up with you, but part of you finds it reassuring. That this, whatever was about to happen, was casual. A one time thing. A favor. Something inside you enjoys that you’re taking precedence, though, that he was putting off his own pleasure to tend to yours first.

“No,” you shake your head, certain. Despite the slight discomfort, the newness of it all, you’ve already imagined how this goes, you’ve already pictured his head between your legs. “I want to do this.” 

He nods, eyes dancing over your features, you can only assume he’s checking to see if there’s any part of you that physically doesn’t want him. But he won’t find any proof in your quickly rising chest, the flush on your skin, your dilated eyes. 

“Good,” he whispers, leaning close to you again, so close his lips brush yours. “Because I really want to see how fast I can make you cum.” 

His lips meet yours again, hands heavier on your hips now, using his grip on your shorts to push you flat against the door. You gasp, hands finding purchase on his shoulders, balancing yourself on your tippy toes to reach his mouth. 

He uses your parted lips to push his tongue past, and his rhythm, not frantic, controlled in a way that makes you feel how badly he wants this, how badly he wants you. You don’t know if anyone has ever kissed you like this, with such purpose, intent behind it that wasn’t half-assed. If you have, it’s been a long, long time.

He explores your mouth like he could get lost in it, hands sliding up to your waist, tucking beneath your top, hands roaming your skin just to feel. He dips down below your chin, lips pressing along your jaw and your head falls backward, hitting the door with a thump. Neither of you pay any mind, especially not as he shifts his hips, slotting one of his legs between yours, trapping you between him and the door, lining you up with his thigh. 

You choke on a whimper, hips instinctively twitching against him. 

“Yes,” he encourages, his breath hot on your neck, one of his hands finding purchase in the hair at the back of your neck. “Do it again.”

You roll your hips again and heat spreads like wildfire, stimulation bubbling inside your gut, reaching each nerve ending. Even through your shorts, his pants, your clit catches mercifully against the fabric, forcing a staggered sound of pleasure from your throat.

One hand hits the door behind you, nails clawing at the wood while the other reaches for his hair, fingers tangling in his roots. His lips move softly, rhythmically down your neck, never once moving his strong thigh, never twitching, never shifting. 

“Use me,” he whispers into your neck, breath cooling the area where his mouth had just been. “Do whatever feels right.” 

Your hand that’s in his roots pulls. He groans, head tipping back, dark eyebrows knitting together, his face so blown out in pleasure it makes a sharp noise escape your chest. Your eyes widen, silencing yourself with your lips smacking shut and he’s quick to shake his head no.

“Let me hear you,” he leans in close again, teeth grazing your jawline, making your hips snap against his thigh. “Wanna hear all those pretty sounds you make.” 

“Wooyoung,” you arch into him, fingers tightening in his hair again. “Oh my god.” 

You get it now— he’s barely done anything and you get it now. There’s an air about him, or maybe his saliva is laced with heroin, but the moment his hands touched your body something inside you relaxed. He’s never been shy about how much he loves sex, and you personally know six women who have had nothing but good things to say about his skills, all of which you’ve ignored because it never pertained to you, you never cared. Now, experiencing it for yourself, with all of your clothes still on your fucking body, you understand.

He smiles into your skin, you can feel the stretch of his lips, his teeth against your neck. He reaches for the hem of your top, lifting it upward, folding it over your bra, and takes a second to explore the stretch of skin across your stomach, the indent of your spine with his hands. 

“So soft,” he murmurs, then pulls away, taking a good look at you, eyes zeroing in on your chest. “Damn, you’ve been hiding these.” 

Your cheeks burn, you ignore how badly you want to cross your arms over your chest. “Shut up.”

“What?” His eyes find yours again, a smirk on his lips. “I can’t appreciate?”

“If you’re gonna use your mouth, use it between my legs, not to speak,” your back arches again, impatience radiating off of you. 

“There she is,” he smiles all teeth, eyes flaring with amusement, thumbs tucking into your shorts. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me.”

“I’ve been here, just waiting for you to do something that actually feels good,” you quip, rolling your hips toward him. 

He chokes on a punched, disbelieving laugh. “Right. Sure.”

He doesn’t fumble with the laces of your shorts, quickly untying them, you arch your back off the door to help him get them down your thighs. He sinks to his knees, lifting one of your legs to shimmy your boot out of your shorts, leaving them hooked around the other one. 

Looking upward, his brows tie in, letting out a long, groaned, “Fuuck.” He meets your eye again to taunt, “You soaked through your panties, baby. Thought you said you were waiting for me to do something that actually feels good?”

“Shut up already, fuck,” you hiss, bending yourself toward him, itching for him to finally touch you where you need him. As much as he had to convince you to get you in here, the tables have turned too quickly for your liking. 

His fingers dance along your skin, up the backs of your thighs until he throws one of your legs over his shoulder. Looking down at him, he keeps your eye while he presses his mouth softly to your inner thigh, then another one, inching closer, then another one, so close you could feel his breath on your underwear. 

“Stop fucking teasing,” you nearly whine, voice raw with impatience, and the leg that’s over his shoulder begins to shake. The anticipation is eating you alive, it’s right where he wants you. 

He laughs to himself before planting his final kiss over your panties, at the apex of your thighs, directly above your clit. You whimper, the knee holding you steady threatening to buckle. His other hand softly lands over it, holding it straight. He smirks, “How am I gonna eat you out if you can’t even stand up straight?” 

Your chin tilts toward the ceiling, eyes closing, a harsh breath escaping your lungs, a whine wanting to crawl up your throat. “Please,” you mumble, without looking at him. 

His tone is taunting as he asks, “What was that?”

“Please,” you whine this time, back pushing off the door, rolling your hips toward him. You look down again and he’s wearing a shit-eating grin like he’s proud of his ability to get you in this state, begging for him. 

He presses another kiss over your panties, this one perfectly over your clit. A verbal breath escapes you, a soft noise of pleasure. Then his tongue pokes out from between his lips, and he licks a stripe over the fabric, along the seam of your center. 

“Fuck.” You twitch like a livewire, hands reaching for his hair, fingers tightening in his roots. “More, take them off, Wooyoung.”

His hand that was holding your knee reaches upward, tugging the thin fabric covering you to the side. He groans at the sight— a true, full-chested, shameless fucking groan. 

“So pretty,” he whispers, not even looking up at you, and it’s all he says before he leans forward, sticking his tongue out to collect every ounce of wetness from bottom to top. 

Your fingers curl in his hair, hips bucking toward his face, a moan just as shameless ripping from your lungs. Both of his hands go to your thighs, your panties tucked away, he flattens out his tongue to lick over your clit. 

“Yes,” you nod, jaw dropped, holding his eye as he softly but intentionally flicks at your clit with his tongue, slowly adding more pressure, circling it just right. “S-shit, Wooyoung.” 

He groans into you, fingers sinking into your thighs harder, burying his fucking face between your thighs. His tongue drops down to your entrance before licking his way back up, circling your clit, closing his lips around it, making noises that should be embarrassing. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chant, eyes squeezing shut. There’s no testing the waters, he doesn’t need to try to figure out what you like, he uses his tongue at a perfect pace with perfect rhythm like he already knows how your body works. 

He lifts your leg off his shoulder, stretching you wider, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking harshly. Your toes curl in your boots, a shrill sound piercing through the room, hands leaving his hair to find the door again, clawing at it, needing to find purchase in something, anything— it feels too fucking good, and it’s too fucking soon for your stomach to be filling with warmth. Your moans heighten in pitch, breath heavier, the leg hanging from his strong arm shaking like a fucking leaf, it would be mortifying how quickly he’s pulling you to the edge if you weren’t so focused on how good it feels. 

With your shoulderblades against the door you roll your hips into him and he meets your movement like he expects it. You watch with lips pried open, and then experimentally roll them again, and he follows your hips with his lips suctioned to your clit. Holding you steady, he watches you while your hips pick up speed, grinding yourself against his face like he was only there for you to use. His eyelids flutter, dilated pupils beneath them like he was enjoying every second of it, like the whole reason he kept you against the door was so you would ride his face. 

“You want me to fuck your face?” you ask, breathless, then you hiss a strangled moan when he nods his head, his nose bumping against your clit. “F-fuck, do that again, do that again.”

Shameless moans and staggered breaths pour from your lips in symphony, fingers back in his roots as he nods his head in rhythm with your hips, his nose hitting your clit perfectly with every stroke. The warmth in your stomach amplifies, abdomen clenching, both of your legs shaking now, your breath catching in your throat. 

He doesn’t stop, nor does he speed up, he keeps the same pace, the same rhythm, you think he can taste your fucking orgasm, it’s so close. You don’t want it to be over, you don’t want to finish but you have no choice with his hands on your body and his nose sliding over your clit. 

Euphoria looms, muscles growing taught, you swear your heart stills in your chest before your orgasm hits like a tidal wave. Your back launches off the wall, curses flying off your tongue, you ride his face like it’s yours and he eats you through it, never once faltering. 

You don’t know how you missed his hands leaving your thighs, the movement was lost somewhere in nirvana, but as one hand travels behind his tongue, two fingers slipping inside you, your body ignites all over again. 

“No,” you whisper, voice shaky beyond belief, eyes wider than saucers. The pleasure was too much, your orgasm hasn’t properly ended yet and his fingers curl perfectly, pressing, massaging against your walls. You’re shaking your head in panic as you stammer, “W-Wooyoung, I can’t– I’m not–”

He finally pulls back for air, his chin soaked in you, eyes hazy. “Give me one more, baby, you can do it again. One more.”

Your legs are shaking, knee threatening to buckle, wobbling where you stand. The rest of you is rigid, high off euphoria, stuck somewhere between foreplay and post-orgasm bliss. “I can’t!” you shriek, hips twitching beyond control, your breath staggered, body in fight or flight. “It’s too much.”

His fingers pump into you steadily, curling into your walls, he gives you only a moment of reprieve before his tongue is poking out between his lips again. 

“F-fuck you,” you grit out as his tongue flicks at your clit, and it makes him smile. The pleasure hurts, overstimulation bleeding into something hot. “You’re– you’re s-such a– fucking asshole– ah!”

The last word is broken by a sharp moan, stars blinding your vision, another orgasm creeping up too quickly for you to breathe. You could shift tectonic plates with how hard you’re shaking, nails surely leaving crescents in the door behind you, your eyes squeeze tight with your jaw pried open as he brings you close to the edge for the second time.

“I’m g-gonna, I’m gonna cum,” you manage to get out, and it’s the last reserve of air in your chest before another orgasm rocks through you. He must be able to tell that you’re legitimately about to cry, because lets you come down slowly, slipping his fingers out of you after pressing one last kiss to your swollen, buzzing clit. 

You deflate into the door, chest heaving, legs still shaking hard enough to shake the entire house. He takes time kissing your thighs after lowering your leg to the floor, your knees, hands roaming your skin, laughing under his breath when your legs don’t let up. 

“Why are you laughing?” you finally croak, running a hand through your hair.

“I think you should sit,” he looks up at you through his brows, pride in his grin, his chin still soaked. “I’m scared that if you try to walk, you’ll fall.”

“Don’t look so smug about it,” you mutter but reach for his shoulders anyway, lowering yourself down to the floor slowly. Around the mid-way point you feel the loss of strength, but you’d rather die than fall in front of him, so you let your nails sink into his shoulders instead.

He sucks in a sharp breath, but reaches for your hips, not touching but holding his hands out, just in case you tumble. You land softly with your knees spread, boots sprawled out behind you, and you quickly reach for your underwear, moving them back into place, then slide your top back over your bra.

Looking up at an uncharacteristically quiet Wooyoung, his eyes are glued between your legs as he sits back on his calves. Heat spreads, shame, need, you aren’t sure. “I’m not fucking you,” you remind him.

“I know,” he nods, eyes sliding back up to yours. He licks his bottom lip, his chin, “Just taking one last look so I can remember the time I ate virgin pussy.”

Your jaw drops as you reach forward to smack his arm, “I am not a fucking virgin!”

“Not anymore,” he smirks, wiping the rest of you off his chin with his thumb. “Everyone’s a virgin before me.”

“I can’t believe I just let you do that,” your palms find your face, shame spreading. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Disgusting, maybe, but skilled? Absolutely,” he teases, voice playful. He sucks on his thumb, and then the two fingers that were inside you before musing, “I just made you cum twice and you thank me with insults?”

“Why should I thank you?” You rip your hands from your face that’s scrunched up in revolted confusion. “You asked, and I let you. You should be thanking me.”

“Fair,” he nods, bottom lip folded over. “Thank you for letting me eat your pussy.” Oh, your ears fucking burn. His head tilts back like he’s daydreaming, “Taste so sweet, coulda eaten her for hours. Same time next week?”

This can’t be real. He can’t be real. You shake your head, pushing yourself up from the floor, “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

“Boring,” he frowns, uncurling his legs from beneath him, his arms stretching behind him. He watches as you try to shove your shaky leg through your pant leg, “You sure you don’t want another one as a parting gift?”

There’s a pang in your gut, arousal mixing with shame, an ugly cocktail prickling at your skin. “Please forget this ever happened,” you look at him earnestly while lacing up your shorts. “This never happened. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, Virgin,” his head falls to his shoulder, cocky amusement radiating off him. “Remember this the next time you have sex and he doesn’t play with you first. Remember how easy it was for me to get you begging.”

Right. He had a point to make, something to prove, and he did. With you. Easily. The words send butterflies swarming through your stomach, a firework show of sparks up your spine and you fucking hate it, how easy it was for him, how easy it was for you to let go. You don’t answer, you reach for the door handle behind you and rip it open instead, he has someone else to fuck tonight. Another name to scratch off his list.

You can’t believe your name is one of them.

Your heart is pounding against your chest as you walk down the hallway, thighs still trembling, you think adrenaline and shame might be the only things keeping you upright. Your ex boyfriend is upstairs, and you just came twice on another man’s face. Wooyoung’s fucking face. Reaching for the handle at the end of the hallway, you let out a verbal sound of frustration before pulling it open.

This should feel liberating. People your age do this every single day, casual sex is normal, but it’s not normal for you. You thought that you could step into Unscripted’s shoes for a night, you thought the two of you might be one person, but you were wrong. This doesn’t feel good. Maybe you chose the wrong person, maybe if you had hooked up with someone else you’d feel better, possibly even proud of yourself for letting go of the strict rules you made for yourself.

Doubtful. You’re a relationship girl for a reason, hooking up with someone you have no ties to just feels… hollow. But that’s how you felt every time you slept with Yeonjun, too.

When was the last time your blood boiled with so much arousal?

You can feel it in your fingertips, mixed with the anger, the shame, you can feel your body itching for more. His fingers inside you, they were enough to make you finish, but they weren’t enough to fill you.

You bee-line for the bar, you need something to take the edge off. Ignoring the naked people on the couch, you refuse to look to see what the fuck they’re doing now, you walk behind the bar and grab a bottle of vodka, pouring at least three shots into a crystal glass. Your fingers are trembling, breath short, body tight with stress. What if people find out? What if your friends find out, all of who have already fucked him? No, he promised not to tell anyone, and you most certainly won’t tell a soul. You take a long sip from the glass, almost choking on the taste, the burn, but it’s necessary. 

You need to stop the panic before it spreads. Is the feeling really anxiety about what you’ve done, or is it just terrifying that a man actually took care of you for maybe the first time in your life? He did exactly what he said he was going to, without expectation of more, and made you feel better than anyone has ever made you feel. Your thighs are still fucking trembling and you didn’t even have sex.

The way he looked up at you, the way he purred so pretty… you send the rest of the glass of vodka back and your body racks a full shiver. That wasn’t about you, that was about proving a point. It wasn’t about you. But is that even possible? Can someone really put that much effort into pleasing a partner if it isn’t about them?

You leave the glass on the bar, making your way through the basement, ignoring the smoke and the people and the laughter and the sound of ping-pong balls bouncing. You’re wearing your shame like a cloak, keeping your head down as you walk up the staircase, back into the screaming living room vibrating with bass. The music has since shifted to house, a bright beat, accompanied by lights and bodies and a maze you need to push through.

All you’ve had is long-term boyfriends, but none of them have made you feel a fraction of what you felt in that room. In that room, you felt wanted, needed, you felt so fucking sexy. Like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered, your body an instrument to be played, he was on his fucking knees to coax you to orgasm. You can’t remember the last time Yeonjun laid down on the bed to attempt to make you cum.

You need to get out of here before you go back down there.

Wooyoung hears your scoff of frustration at the end of the hallway, and he can’t help the way it makes him laugh. Head tipping back, he laughs from his chest, because that’s the only reaction he could have imagined you to have. You just came on his face twice, yet you’re still stuck in your eternal irritation.

He picks himself up, makes sure there’s nothing on his shirt, then leaves the room. He plays eeny-meeny-miny-moe on the doors, then pushes the one he lands on open. To his surprise, not only is he right, but she’s still there, sprawled out across the bed, playing on her phone. 

Her head whips toward the door, smiling, turning on her side when she sees him, “Finally. You’re lucky I didn’t leave.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” He shoots her an apologetic smile, closing the door behind him. “Had to take care of something real quick.”

“Take care of me,” she whines, throwing her phone across the bed, sinking deeper into the mattress, legs prying open. “You promised.”

If his dick wasn’t already rock fucking hard, then it would have jumped at the sight. It still jumps, pressing against his nylon briefs, begging to be let out of his jeans. His hands go to the neck of his tee, tugging it over his head, throwing it at the end of the bed as he walks toward her. “You know I will, baby.”

He can’t kiss her yet, he knows he can’t. So he pulls her by her ankles to the edge of the bed, unbuttons her denim shorts, and kneels.

He meant it, everything he said to you about this being for his pleasure, something he enjoys. You thought he was bluffing, lying, but this is where he loves to be. Of service, on his knees, hearing the sweet song of pleasure that’s like a hymnal in his honor, he adores it. Gets off on it.

Except he’s not hearing it, because he’s too busy thinking. He uses his hand, making her arch, her cries louder, borderline pornographic, he grinds his hips against his jeans, or tries to, he’s starved. He works harder, not in the mood to drag it out, he stills his mind, his body, working at the same pace, using the same pressure until she’s clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking on either side of his head.

“Wanna ride you.” She stops him with a hand on his chest as he crawls over her, and who would he be if he denied a woman of anything? So he lays down beside her, grabs his wallet from his pocket before he shimmies his jeans down his legs, and rolls the condom from his wallet onto his cock. 

She watches like she wasn’t expecting it. But Wooyoung’s had too many experiences, made too many mistakes to not at least put on a fucking rubber.

It’s routine, the dirty talk, his hands on her body. It’s a rhythm, the way she bounces, how his hips snap upward to meet her. It’s a dance, lips, tongues, hands, angles and stretches, the background music cries, moans, grunts, curse words filling the air. 

He wonders if you regret it. You didn’t stay– part of him thought, maybe part of him hoped you would ask for more. That you were curious if he could use his cock as well as he used his mouth. It wasn’t the plan to make you cum twice, but the first one was too quick, and the second was even quicker, he felt like he was in that room for ten minutes, tops. 

He isn’t finished after he fills up the first condom, and to his satisfaction, neither is she. On all fours, Wooyoung behind her, his hands on her hips, fingers sliding up her spine, taking root in her extensions, it was like he had an itch he couldn’t scratch. 

It really was like looking up with a virgin. How timid you were in the beginning before you finally gave in, losing yourself to the pleasure, the way you shook with relief, euphoria… he’ll see that in his dreams tonight. He thinks that’s what has him hooked; knowing what he could do, a physical proof of his own skills.

At a ninety-degree angle, he feels like he’s piercing her. She wails, nails clawing into the bedsheets, toes curling, legs lifting to kick at his thighs, he gets proof of his skills every other day. She clenches around his cock a second time, and he focuses on following, brows furrowed, hips angled.

After tying the second condom and throwing it in the trash, he’s beat. She throws her clothes back on and kisses him goodbye, and it dawns on him that he never got her name. Shame. She was a pretty good fuck. He stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, letting his chest rise and fall until it evens out. He still feels like the scratch isn’t itched, he doesn’t know if his balls have more to spill, or if it doesn’t have to do with sex at all. Did he turn in his assignment before he left the house?

He finds his jeans, pulling out his phone, and on top of the bed, butt-ass naked, he scrolls. He finds your profile after some digging, but he doesn’t follow you, and you’re private. He clicks follow, the button turning to requested, and then he wonders if you’re still at the party. Maybe you re-thought your decision, and were curious about what else he can do with his hands or his mouth. He could probably make you cum without even touching your cute little clit. 

He dresses himself, then passes the series of half-opened doors, those who didn’t mind people who took a step inside and watched the show. The same people who were on the couch, fully having sex now, those that Wooyoung can’t judge because he’s been one of those people his sophomore year. With his hands in his pockets, he makes his way upstairs, and it’s too cloudy, too loud, the multicolored lights too blinding for him to make out any faces at all. 

Oh, well. He’ll try to find at least one of the guys from his frat, instead.

His walk is pointless until he finds San, currently taking a body shot off of a new round of women in the kitchen. He’s shirtless now, and Wooyoung isn’t sure if the sheen on his skin is from sweat or liquor.

“Woo!” he yells, grinning wide. Definitely liquor. “You’re next!”

He looks at the island, the girl laying on her back, and his brows furrow before realization sinks in. “Yunjin?”

“Wooyoung!” she throws an arm out, manicured nails clasping around his wrist. Her top is over her bra, shorts rolled down beneath her belly button, splayed out for anyone who has eyes to see. “Pour him a shot, Sannie.”

“Is Virgin still here?” he finds himself asking, doing his best to sound curious without any ulterior motives. “I mean– your roommate.”

“Nooo.” Yunjin pouts, shaking her head. “She texted me that she wasn’t feeling well, so she went home. Why do you call her that? She’s not even a virgin.”

Wooyoung shrugs, “Close enough.”

Yunjin thins her eyes. “You’re rude.”

“And you’re drunk,” he argues back. “Enjoy Sannie tonight.”

“I will!” she calls after him, and he’s sure none of them watch as he turns, heading for the living room which is a fucking maze, but it’s the only way to the front door. He drank, he fucked, he’s over it. He’s ready to lay his head down and go to sleep– after making sure he turned his assignment in.

He slips through bodies, going through his usual motions. Winking, scouting for next time, making promises he may or may not keep, all of them pretty, all of them hammered. It skeeves him, the idea of hooking up with some piss-drunk girl who won’t remember his name tomorrow. When he fucks, he’s remembered, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

He finds Mingi lounging on a couch by the door. His hair is a little fucked up, most likely by the girl he’s sitting next to, pretty, olive-toned. Wooyoung recognizes her, and it’s for reasons Mingi wouldn’t enjoy hearing if he's planning on getting laid.

“Hey, baby.” He shoots a wink to the dark-haired woman, then looks at Mingi. “Yunho still here?”

“Oh my god, scandalous.” Mingi’s eyes flare with excitement. “Guess who he went home with?” Wooyoung shrugs, as if to say tell me, I guess. “Virgin.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops. Mingi laughs, “I know, scandalous, right? He’s had a thing for her since the cuff party.”

“Like, went home together, as in they’re fucking right now?” Wooyoung asks, head shaking in disbelief.

Mingi shrugs, “That’s what it seemed like, I don’t know.”

“Ain’t no way,” Wooyoung laughs under his breath. “Good for her. Didn’t think she had it in her.”

He doesn’t really believe it. There’s no way that you have four bodies in total, and you not only hooked up with Wooyoung tonight, but you’re also hooking up with Yunho. There’s just no way. It’s too out of character, too bold, too… un-virgin-like. He’s going to have to think up a new nickname.

“I’m heading out.” He dips his chin toward Mingi, reaching out a hand for the older man to clasp. “See you.”

He doesn’t wait for Mingi’s returning see you before he turns again, the area around the front door sparse, less bodies, more space to walk through. He doesn’t spot Yeosang’s SUV where he parked it along the street, and he wonders if you and Yunho took it back to the house with the rest of them. 

“Need a ride?” He hears from feet away, a woman’s voice, one he knows.

Minatozaki Sana. He grins, skipping toward the SUV her head was hanging out of, realizing too late that it’s filled with people he’s had sex with. “Ladies,” he announces, nodding his head, looking in through the windows. “Seems we all have something in common.”

“Not me,” the dark-haired one says from the backseat. “Get in or don’t, I’m tired.”

Wooyoung doesn’t think twice about climbing into the backseat, sitting on the end, next to Momo. The drive is quiet for the most part, Sana focused as she drove, Nayeon in her passenger seat. In the back was the dark-haired woman, Momo, Chaeyoung, and Tzuyu who was sitting on the dark-haired one’s lap. A tight squeeze, but Wooyoung has fit in tighter, like Chaeyoung, sitting beside Momo.

She pulls up at the curb of his frat, parking the car, and not a single head turns to Wooyoung. It doesn’t feel hostile, though; every woman in this car was well aware who Wooyoung is when he fucked them. 

“Goodnight, ladies,” he teases as he climbs out of the passenger seat. He winks before closing the door, pointing at the tattooed, dark-haired woman in the middle, “Chae, text me later.”

The car erupts as he jogs away, and he smirks to himself, kinda wishing he could listen. He opens the front door with purpose and the living room is empty, the kitchen empty. He wonders if they’re in Yunho’s room. He doesn’t know why he’s tip-toeing up the stairs, or why he feels like he’s doing something wrong. He’s just curious.

He passes his room, tip-toeing further, praying to fucking god he doesn’t step on one of the squeaky parts of the floor. He just wants to know. He presses his back to the wall beside Yunho’s room, craning his head closer to the crack, straining to hear anything. A moan, a grunt, a whimper. Anything. 

But there’s nothing.

“The fuck are you doing?” 

He jumps, clasping a hand over his mouth, eyes almost falling out of their sockets. Hongjoong eyes him from across the hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, completely confused.

“Nothing, fuck,” he mutters as he jumps away from Yunho’s door. “I wanted to see if he was still up.”

“No, he went back to that virgin girl’s house, the one you guys are always talking about.” He’s using his hand as he speaks, clearly annoyed like he’d just woken up. “I heard someone creeping, I thought we were getting robbed by one of your scorned hookups.”

“I don’t have any scorned hookups, asshole,” Wooyoung scoffs as he walks past him, towards his room. “They all know very well that I’m romantically unavailable.”

“Not all of them,” Hongjoong looks over his shoulder. “Trust me.”

“Virgin!”

Your brows furrow, head turning every which way in the midst of the maze, bodies surrounding you, none you recognize. It’s like a fucking nightclub and you’re in someone’s house. Can’t they get fined for this?

A hand on your wrist has you whipping around, ready to tell whoever it is to fuck off. Blonde hair greets you, sticking to his forehead, a loose tee leaving another sliver of skin before his baggy, wide-leg jeans. You yell over the music, “Do you have any shirts that fit you?”

“I like them this way!” Yunho yells back, his grin wide. “Are you okay?”

Your head tilts, brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Your blood that was boiling minutes ago seems to settle, slowing into something calmer. The heat shifts from arousal to the comfort of vodka, a warm blanket, like a hole was drilled into your head, setting the pressure free. 

He shakes his head, his shoulders relaxing. “Nothing. You look pretty.”

“Thanks, so do you,” you smile, head tilting, giddy all of the sudden. “I mean, not pretty, you look–”

“No, I’ll take it,” he cuts you off, still holding onto your wrist. “I like pretty. Yunjin was looking for you, but do you wanna dance?” You glance around to the crowd, it really is like a fucking nightclub. People are grinding, jumping to the music, like the beat was hypnotizing them all. You start to shake your head, but Yunho cuts you off, “Don’t say no.”

Your lips flatten, caught in the act. “I’m not a dancer!”

“Liar,” he yells back, his smile impossibly wider, brighter. He tugs on your wrist, dragging you further into the crowd and you giggle as if you weren’t just tweaking the fuck out. “Follow my lead.”

Finding an open spot between bodies, thighs still twitching and lacking their full strength, you follow his lead. His hips sway from side to side, and he watches as yours try to mimic his, focused. He pops a brow, “Follow my lead, don’t copy me.”

“What the fuck else does follow my lead mean?” you bark back, standing straight again, hands on your hips, unmoving.

“Your body is as stiff as your attitude,” he yells, shaking his head as he removes your hands from your hips, replacing them with his own. Your arms shoot upward, bent over your chest, eyes glued to where his hands swallow your hipbones, moving you closer to him, shifting you slightly to the side so your shoulders line up. “Now do it again.”

You bend your knees, arms lowering, eyes lifting to see him. He grins, “Try actually moving to the beat, Virgin.”

“Do you have to call me that, too?” you frown, but listen, waiting a beat to start swaying your hips again. “I’m suffering enough right now.”

“That’s what they all call you, San, Wooyoung.” Your cheeks feel hot at the sound of his name, that same burning kissing up your spine. Your back arches into the movement. Yunho grins, “There you go, you’re learning.”

Yunho’s leg between yours… if you lowered yourself just a little, you’d be transported to fifteen minutes ago, when you were grinding yourself against Wooyoung’s thigh. Is the mere mention of his name going to send you free diving into your memories for the rest of your life?

Yunho’s hands find your hips again, leaning close to your ear. “He’s here.”

“I know,” your brows furrow. I spent fifteen minutes with him in a sex room. “I saw him.”

“Is that why you stopped dancing on the counter?” Yunho pulls back, hands sliding up to your waist, keeping you moving. “Not a dancer, my ass. Who cares if he’s here? Let him see you.”

“Why would I stop because of Wooyoung?” you ask, running your hands through your hair, arching into Yunho’s touch, letting the music guide you instead.

Yunho’s brows furrow. “Wooyoung?”

Your smile is lazy, “Who else?”

“Your ex.” Yunho’s fully confused now. “Are you drunk?”

“Oh!” Your eyes blow wide, smile dropping. “Yes, yeah, I drank… I drank a lot.” Right right right, tonight started off with you worried about seeing Yeonjun. “I didn’t want to see him, it’s not that I didn’t want him to see me.”

“I saw him with another guy.” Yunho’s lips snag to one side. “Is that why you broke up?”

You nod. “Caught ‘em in bed together.”

Yunho’s jaw falls open, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say in a sigh, head tipping backward, and somewhere deep inside you, you mean it. “At least I don’t have to marry him anymore.”

Yunho laughs, his grip on your waist tighter with your head dipped backward. “You don’t want to get married?”

“When I’m old enough,” you’re smiling as you bring your head upright, reaching for Yunho’s biceps. You think the vodka might be hitting you now. “I’m not old enough yet, just wanna have fun.”

“Are you having fun now?” Yunho sounds playful, teasing. He pulls you closer to him, your abdomen against his. “Dancing?”

You bring one hand up to his neck, palm grazing his soft, sweaty skin, wondering if he’s anything like Wooyoung. Does he view sex the same way? Something casual, fun, like a hobby? If he found out that your boyfriend never cared enough to make you finish, would he get on his knees for you, too?

There’s still an ache in the pit of your stomach, space Wooyoung’s fingers had left, you want more. The thrum beneath your skin that you’re confused, maybe even disgusted by, has the wires of your brain tangled, like all the rules you made for yourself no longer exist, a wall broken down. 

You nod, eyelids heavier, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Yunho’s different from Wooyoung, softer, kinder. Like he’s capable of more than one night with a woman, he’s capable of feeling, he’s interested in knowing. He looks at you like he’s curious, like there’s more to you than the girl with a boyfriend, the girl who got cheated on, the Virgin. 

Wooyoung was just interested in seeing how fast he could make you finish, and Yeonjun was just interested in getting you out of his bed so Beomgyu could take your place. Yunho seems to be interested in you.

“Do you want something to… take your mind off the situation?” His cheeks turn a dusty rose color, clear under the lights that flicker white. His lips curl, “Or is dancing enough fun?”

“Is it bad if I do?” you find yourself asking. “Want a distraction?”

The distraction is for two completely separate purposes, you think.

He shakes his head, smile growing, leaning closer to you. “Is it bad that I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night of the cuff party?”

“I wish you had,” you whisper. “Trust me.”

He smiles before leaning in, pressing his lips to meet yours, and there’s a fraction of the haste Wooyoung used. It’s slow, a curious exploration, like he isn’t sure if you’re fully okay with this and he doesn’t want to push you too far. Your hand on his neck slides up into his hair, the other glued to his bicep following as his hands lead down to your hips, keeping you moving to the music. 

He tastes like beer, but there’s a sweetness to it, like he was chewing gum, or took a shot of something flavored. Your tongue slips between his lips, tasting him, bending toward him, you’re sure he can taste your desperation, your need. The part of you still left unsatisfied.

“You taste like vodka,” he whispers into your mouth, his lips still touching yours.

You smile, a breath of amusement tumbling off your lips, “Caught.”

He kisses you again, harder this time, using his height to tip you backward. Your hips tilt toward him, arms hooked around his shoulders, meeting his pace with a need of your own. His hands sneak around you, taking two fistfuls of your ass, grinding you into him and it forces a sharp gasp from your lips, a streak of red-hot warmth up your spine.

You’re too aware of the people around you. You need more, and you need it now, but you don’t need extra eyes watching it all unfold.

“Yunho,” you whisper through your panting.

“Mind all empty yet?” he muses, smiling.

Yes, this is about you. This is about you.

“No,” you bite your lip, pecking his lips again. “Gonna need more than that, I think.”

“Don’t worry,” he leans in close, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “I’m good at making pretty girls go dumb.”

“Let’s go,” you blurt, hands finding his wrists, holding onto them. “Jen will stay out late, I wanna go, let’s go to my apartment.”

“Are you sure?” His brows raise, raising his arms you were still holding onto. “You– are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” You’re nodding rapidly, and maybe you’re trying to convince yourself, too. “You said you wanted to be my distraction, right?”

“I do, but you’re–”

“I’m fine,” you drop his wrists. “I promise. Let’s go.”

He nods, hands finding your shoulders, turning you around before he guides you through the crowd. With his height, he can see where to move, where the small pockets of space are, and there’s a part of you that kinda enjoys not having to think, that likes just being guided in the right direction, without having to figure out for yourself what it is.

“Those are my friends,” he says in your ear, guiding you toward four guys standing together. All pretty small, there’s one with bright, orange hair, a blonde one, a taller one with dark hair, and one you recognize from the night at the Penny.

The blonde sees you and Yunho first. “Good timing, if you’re looking for a ride.”

You can hear Yunho’s grin behind you, “We are, but it’s to her place.”

The brunette stares you down, brows knitted together like there are many pieces floating around and not one of them is being put together. You keep a small smile on your cheeks, not in the mood to explain.

Yunho puts his elbow on your shoulder, pointing at each one of the men in front of you. “Hongjoong, Yeosang, Seonghwa, Jongho.”

You nod, storing the information for later, and introduce yourself. Jongho asks, “Don’t they call you Virgin?”

Your lips flatten. “Unfortunately.”

The three other heads look up to Yunho, confused, maybe concerned. Yunho quickly fixes the misconception, “She’s not a virgin, Wooyoung came up with it.”

Then there’s a chorus of ah’s like that just makes sense to them or something. And knowing Wooyoung, you guess it makes sense to you, too. Fuck. You don’t want to think about him right now.

“Guys!” Another man approaches, massively tall like Yunho, but thicker with muscle. His hair is dark, short, choppy, in a hot way. The sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose are really doing something for you. He asks, “Have you guys seen Sannie?”

“I heard there’s a stripper pole in one of the side rooms,” Seonghwa responds, his voice cool, calm. “Check there.”

The man pushes his sunglasses over his head, and you realize he’s noticed you, standing small in front of Yunho. His eyes thin out as he asks, “Is this Virgin?”

Your lips flatten again. Does everyone know now? Is this becoming a thing?

“In the flesh,” you respond, then ask, “Who are you?”

“Mingi,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re really cute.” He looks up at Yunho. “She’s really cute.”

“I know,” Yunho says from behind you, matching Mingi’s tone, filled with giddiness. They must be close. Yunho turns to the rest of the group, “Are we going? Can we go?”

“Please,” Hongjoong says, already making for the front door.

It’s like they’re split down the middle, the introverted ones and the extroverted ones. Although, you don’t really think Wooyoung is extroverted, you think he might just be a whore. Fuck. You did it again.

Yeosang’s SUV is parked at the end of the driveway, you give him your address for him to put into the GPS after squeezing into the backseat, knee bouncing. In the crowd, with his lips, his hands on you, you were certain you wanted this. A thousand percent certain. Now, it’s more like… five hundred percent.

The ride to your apartment is quiet, Jongho already asleep by the time Yeosang dropped you off, even if the drive was only seven minutes long. Hongjoong looked like he was drifting, too, his eyes half open. You thanked Yeosang and climbed out, Yunho following you up to the second floor.

Your kitchen still had remnants of your pregame scattered across it, and you can only imagine what your bedroom looks like. Then it dawns on you that you had another man’s mouth on you an hour ago. 

“I’m gonna go freshen up,” you tell Yunho, hoping your smile doesn’t look nervous. You point to your door, “My bedroom is right through there.”

You skip into your bathroom, immediately turning on the shower and undressing. The water may be hot, but it might as well be ice cold with how reality is pouring over your head, and there’s a man in your fucking bedroom. A man you barely know. 

And you made him come here.

You shower quickly, washing the remnants of Wooyoung off of you, and then swish some mouthwash around, removing him from you completely. You feel better after, but there’s still a level of uncertainty that you can’t shake. 

In your towel, you walk back to your bedroom, and he’s poking around on your shelf, looking at all of your figures, your trinkets, your music albums. “Hi,” you say from the doorway, and he jumps back like you scared him. 

“Fuck,” he clutches his heart with a laugh. He points to your figures, “You like Jujutsu Kaisen?”

“No, I just love Gojo,” you tease, stepping into your room. “Have you seen the new season?”

“Yes,” his smile spreads, excitement in his eyes. Like a puppy. “Still don’t understand the Culling Games, though.”

“Then you aren’t reading enough Reddit threads,” you respond, tone snarky. His eyes sink down to your towel, your bare feet. Your lips scrunch to one side, heartbeat picking up, “Will you be mad at me if I maybe changed my mind?”

His face immediately bends into concern, “No, fuck no, are you kidding? Do you want me to go? Yeosang is definitely still awake, I can ask him–”

“No,” you interject. “I don’t know if it’s weird, and I understand if not, but… you don’t have to go. I just don't want to… do anything until I know you a little better, if that’s okay.”

He walks toward you with a genuine smile, one so comforting that it makes the unease in your chest disappear. “Of course that’s okay, it’s not weird at all. You’re lucky I saw the Gojo figures, though, ‘cuz I might have left if I didn’t know I’d be sleeping beside them.”

“Don’t fucking rob me.” You raise a finger between your bodies in warning. “I paid, like, four hundred bucks for the prison realm one.”

“Let me take a picture and I won’t,” he argues, raising a finger back at you. “Do you want me to step out while you change?”

“Oh.” You look down at your towel then back up at him. “Sure, whatever, that’s fine.”

He does step out while you change into a pair of shorts and a tee, clean ones you got from the clean pile of laundry in the corner of your room. That pile was growing smaller by the day. You climb into your bed, calling him back in, and he joins you so comfortably it’s almost like he belongs here. He radiates comfort, kindness, nothing like the fuckboy energy Wooyoung gives off, or the detached energy Yeonjun has. 

“Wanna watch TV? We can order a pizza or something,” you wonder, looking over at Yunho lounged out next to you, his arms behind his head, jeans still on his body. “I might have an old pair of Yeonjun’s sweatpants or something.”

You crawl off the bed without waiting for an answer, digging through your drawers. Finally finding an old pair of dark green sweatpants that were absolutely Yeonjun’s, you throw them at him, and he catches them swiftly as he sits up. “Are these from Urban?”

You shrug from the floor, “I dunno. They look long enough, though.”

Yunho stands, unbuckling his belt, then unzips his jeans. You know you should give him privacy, but he’s in briefs, and even soft– even soft he would probably tear you apart. He hears your intake of breath, looking up, then a smirk tugs at his lips as he pulls the sweats up his legs. “Are you peeping, you fuckin’ pervert?”

“I’m sorry!” you squeak, cheeks flushing, quickly looking away. 

“You can look,” he says coolly, his voice a genuine threat to your wellbeing. “I don’t mind.”

You still ache. “I’m just happy I got a warning.”

He laughs at that, from his chest, genuine. “You think you need one?”

You still don’t turn your head. “I know I do. I need… preparation for that.”

“Why so shy?” You hear the bed squeak like he’s laying back down, and reluctantly, you turn your head. He’s on his side, head propped up on his hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “First time seeing a dick in real life? Don’t tell me you’re really a virgin.”

“No, asshole,” you scowl, standing up, even though you know he’s joking. You press a knee to the mattress, crawling toward him. “Yours is just terrifyingly large.”

“Terrifyingly?” He grins, laying on his back as you crawl closer to him, the upper half of your body leaning over him. “I think you’ll be able to take it, when you’re ready. I’ll prepare you.”

“We were supposed to be hooking up,” you frown, sitting back on your calves. “I feel bad making you wait.”

He shakes his head, “I’m patient, and I like you. I don’t mind waiting.” His face drops after he realizes what he just said. “I know you just got out of a relationship, please don’t get freaked out. I mean I like you in a friendly way, not in a serious way, I’m not trying–”

You laugh, head dipping forward. “You basically just met me, Yunho.”

“I had a lot of time to snoop in here,” he answers, looking around your room. “I can tell you’re cool.”

“You can tell from my four hundred dollar Gojo figure?” You pop a brow, still laughing a little.

“That, and your music taste, and your other anime figures,” he grins. “Great music taste, great taste in anime, terrible taste in men. Besides me, of course.”

You laugh again, then decide to shut him up by leaning down, pressing a kiss to his lips. His hands come up to your cheeks as you kiss him deeper, moving your hair out of the way, shifting so you can crawl over him easier. Your tongue splits his lips and his knees bend, hands moving to your hips, shifting you forward to what you presume is away from his length.

You stop kissing him before it gets any heavier, and press your forehead to his. “You’re cool, too. For waiting.”

“Wooyoung is the only asshole in our frat,” he looks at you, his eyes honest, warm. “He shouldn’t represent the rest of us.”

The evil part of you hopes he represents them in the one area it matters.

“Let’s order pizza,” you smile, crawling off his torso.

You’ve barely got the door behind you before Wooyoung presses his lips to yours. Your brows lift high, hands reaching for his chest, back flat against the wooden door behind you, you were expecting at least a short conversation first. Maybe a small discussion on how this actually goes. You suppose he isn’t the type to need one, he already knows how this goes, he does it on a daily basis. 

“Wait, wait,” you push on his chest, but all it really does is push you farther into the door. “That’s it? You just bring me in here and start making out with me?” 

Panting, his brows furrow, hands lowering where they’d taken root on your hips. “Yes? What else is there to do?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug your shoulders, arms stretching on either side of you. “Talk about it? I don’t want anyone to know you went down on me.”

“I’m so gross and nasty that no one can know you hooked up with me?” he teases, amusement in his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone, Virgin. It’s just a favor, a one-time thing.” 

So close, you’ve never noticed his eyes are two different sizes, like the angel and devil on his shoulders control each half of him. His eyes that are usually a warm, glazed amber are deepened to a woody, husky brown, but still soft, not impatient, not brash. 

“Okay,” you blink, swallowing. “I’ve never hooked up with anyone before. Every guy I’ve ever fucked was my boyfriend, longterm.”

“If you don’t want to do this, then we don’t do it,” he says honestly. Then he grins like he just remembered, “I’ve got another appointment after this, anyway.” 

Your skin burns, cheeks flaming, the tips of your ears threatening to melt your skull. You should hate each word he just said, you should hate that he’s fucking someone after he hooks up with you, but part of you finds it reassuring. That this, whatever was about to happen, was casual. A one time thing. A favor. Something inside you enjoys that you’re taking precedence, though, that he was putting off his own pleasure to tend to yours first.

“No,” you shake your head, certain. Despite the slight discomfort, the newness of it all, you’ve already imagined how this goes, you’ve already pictured his head between your legs. “I want to do this.” 

He nods, eyes dancing over your features, you can only assume he’s checking to see if there’s any part of you that physically doesn’t want him. But he won’t find any proof in your quickly rising chest, the flush on your skin, your dilated eyes. 

“Good,” he whispers, leaning close to you again, so close his lips brush yours. “Because I really want to see how fast I can make you cum.” 

His lips meet yours again, hands heavier on your hips now, using his grip on your shorts to push you flat against the door. You gasp, hands finding purchase on his shoulders, balancing yourself on your tippy toes to reach his mouth. 

He uses your parted lips to push his tongue past, and his rhythm, not frantic, controlled in a way that makes you feel how badly he wants this, how badly he wants you. You don’t know if anyone has ever kissed you like this, with such purpose, intent behind it that wasn’t half-assed. If you have, it’s been a long, long time.

He explores your mouth like he could get lost in it, hands sliding up to your waist, tucking beneath your top, hands roaming your skin just to feel. He dips down below your chin, lips pressing along your jaw and your head falls backward, hitting the door with a thump. Neither of you pay any mind, especially not as he shifts his hips, slotting one of his legs between yours, trapping you between him and the door, lining you up with his thigh. 

You choke on a whimper, hips instinctively twitching against him. 

“Yes,” he encourages, his breath hot on your neck, one of his hands finding purchase in the hair at the back of your neck. “Do it again.”

You roll your hips again and heat spreads like wildfire, stimulation bubbling inside your gut, reaching each nerve ending. Even through your shorts, his pants, your clit catches mercifully against the fabric, forcing a staggered sound of pleasure from your throat.

One hand hits the door behind you, nails clawing at the wood while the other reaches for his hair, fingers tangling in his roots. His lips move softly, rhythmically down your neck, never once moving his strong thigh, never twitching, never shifting. 

“Use me,” he whispers into your neck, breath cooling the area where his mouth had just been. “Do whatever feels right.” 

Your hand that’s in his roots pulls. He groans, head tipping back, dark eyebrows knitting together, his face so blown out in pleasure it makes a sharp noise escape your chest. Your eyes widen, silencing yourself with your lips smacking shut and he’s quick to shake his head no.

“Let me hear you,” he leans in close again, teeth grazing your jawline, making your hips snap against his thigh. “Wanna hear all those pretty sounds you make.” 

“Wooyoung,” you arch into him, fingers tightening in his hair again. “Oh my god.” 

You get it now— he’s barely done anything and you get it now. There’s an air about him, or maybe his saliva is laced with heroin, but the moment his hands touched your body something inside you relaxed. He’s never been shy about how much he loves sex, and you personally know six women who have had nothing but good things to say about his skills, all of which you’ve ignored because it never pertained to you, you never cared. Now, experiencing it for yourself, with all of your clothes still on your fucking body, you understand.

He smiles into your skin, you can feel the stretch of his lips, his teeth against your neck. He reaches for the hem of your top, lifting it upward, folding it over your bra, and takes a second to explore the stretch of skin across your stomach, the indent of your spine with his hands. 

“So soft,” he murmurs, then pulls away, taking a good look at you, eyes zeroing in on your chest. “Damn, you’ve been hiding these.” 

Your cheeks burn, you ignore how badly you want to cross your arms over your chest. “Shut up.”

“What?” His eyes find yours again, a smirk on his lips. “I can’t appreciate?”

“If you’re gonna use your mouth, use it between my legs, not to speak,” your back arches again, impatience radiating off of you. 

“There she is,” he smiles all teeth, eyes flaring with amusement, thumbs tucking into your shorts. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me.”

“I’ve been here, just waiting for you to do something that actually feels good,” you quip, rolling your hips toward him. 

He chokes on a punched, disbelieving laugh. “Right. Sure.”

He doesn’t fumble with the laces of your shorts, quickly untying them, you arch your back off the door to help him get them down your thighs. He sinks to his knees, lifting one of your legs to shimmy your boot out of your shorts, leaving them hooked around the other one. 

Looking upward, his brows tie in, letting out a long, groaned, “Fuuck.” He meets your eye again to taunt, “You soaked through your panties, baby. Thought you said you were waiting for me to do something that actually feels good?”

“Shut up already, fuck,” you hiss, bending yourself toward him, itching for him to finally touch you where you need him. As much as he had to convince you to get you in here, the tables have turned too quickly for your liking. 

His fingers dance along your skin, up the backs of your thighs until he throws one of your legs over his shoulder. Looking down at him, he keeps your eye while he presses his mouth softly to your inner thigh, then another one, inching closer, then another one, so close you could feel his breath on your underwear. 

“Stop fucking teasing,” you nearly whine, voice raw with impatience, and the leg that’s over his shoulder begins to shake. The anticipation is eating you alive, it’s right where he wants you. 

He laughs to himself before planting his final kiss over your panties, at the apex of your thighs, directly above your clit. You whimper, the knee holding you steady threatening to buckle. His other hand softly lands over it, holding it straight. He smirks, “How am I gonna eat you out if you can’t even stand up straight?” 

Your chin tilts toward the ceiling, eyes closing, a harsh breath escaping your lungs, a whine wanting to crawl up your throat. “Please,” you mumble, without looking at him. 

His tone is taunting as he asks, “What was that?”

“Please,” you whine this time, back pushing off the door, rolling your hips toward him. You look down again and he’s wearing a shit-eating grin like he’s proud of his ability to get you in this state, begging for him. 

He presses another kiss over your panties, this one perfectly over your clit. A verbal breath escapes you, a soft noise of pleasure. Then his tongue pokes out from between his lips, and he licks a stripe over the fabric, along the seam of your center. 

“Fuck.” You twitch like a livewire, hands reaching for his hair, fingers tightening in his roots. “More, take them off, Wooyoung.”

His hand that was holding your knee reaches upward, tugging the thin fabric covering you to the side. He groans at the sight— a true, full-chested, shameless fucking groan. 

“So pretty,” he whispers, not even looking up at you, and it’s all he says before he leans forward, sticking his tongue out to collect every ounce of wetness from bottom to top. 

Your fingers curl in his hair, hips bucking toward his face, a moan just as shameless ripping from your lungs. Both of his hands go to your thighs, your panties tucked away, he flattens out his tongue to lick over your clit. 

“Yes,” you nod, jaw dropped, holding his eye as he softly but intentionally flicks at your clit with his tongue, slowly adding more pressure, circling it just right. “S-shit, Wooyoung.” 

He groans into you, fingers sinking into your thighs harder, burying his fucking face between your thighs. His tongue drops down to your entrance before licking his way back up, circling your clit, closing his lips around it, making noises that should be embarrassing. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chant, eyes squeezing shut. There’s no testing the waters, he doesn’t need to try to figure out what you like, he uses his tongue at a perfect pace with perfect rhythm like he already knows how your body works. 

He lifts your leg off his shoulder, stretching you wider, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking harshly. Your toes curl in your boots, a shrill sound piercing through the room, hands leaving his hair to find the door again, clawing at it, needing to find purchase in something, anything— it feels too fucking good, and it’s too fucking soon for your stomach to be filling with warmth. Your moans heighten in pitch, breath heavier, the leg hanging from his strong arm shaking like a fucking leaf, it would be mortifying how quickly he’s pulling you to the edge if you weren’t so focused on how good it feels. 

With your shoulderblades against the door you roll your hips into him and he meets your movement like he expects it. You watch with lips pried open, and then experimentally roll them again, and he follows your hips with his lips suctioned to your clit. Holding you steady, he watches you while your hips pick up speed, grinding yourself against his face like he was only there for you to use. His eyelids flutter, dilated pupils beneath them like he was enjoying every second of it, like the whole reason he kept you against the door was so you would ride his face. 

“You want me to fuck your face?” you ask, breathless, then you hiss a strangled moan when he nods his head, his nose bumping against your clit. “F-fuck, do that again, do that again.”

Shameless moans and staggered breaths pour from your lips in symphony, fingers back in his roots as he nods his head in rhythm with your hips, his nose hitting your clit perfectly with every stroke. The warmth in your stomach amplifies, abdomen clenching, both of your legs shaking now, your breath catching in your throat. 

He doesn’t stop, nor does he speed up, he keeps the same pace, the same rhythm, you think he can taste your fucking orgasm, it’s so close. You don’t want it to be over, you don’t want to finish but you have no choice with his hands on your body and his nose sliding over your clit. 

Euphoria looms, muscles growing taught, you swear your heart stills in your chest before your orgasm hits like a tidal wave. Your back launches off the wall, curses flying off your tongue, you ride his face like it’s yours and he eats you through it, never once faltering. 

You don’t know how you missed his hands leaving your thighs, the movement was lost somewhere in nirvana, but as one hand travels behind his tongue, two fingers slipping inside you, your body ignites all over again. 

“No,” you whisper, voice shaky beyond belief, eyes wider than saucers. The pleasure was too much, your orgasm hasn’t properly ended yet and his fingers curl perfectly, pressing, massaging against your walls. You’re shaking your head in panic as you stammer, “W-Wooyoung, I can’t– I’m not–”

He finally pulls back for air, his chin soaked in you, eyes hazy. “Give me one more, baby, you can do it again. One more.”

Your legs are shaking, knee threatening to buckle, wobbling where you stand. The rest of you is rigid, high off euphoria, stuck somewhere between foreplay and post-orgasm bliss. “I can’t!” you shriek, hips twitching beyond control, your breath staggered, body in fight or flight. “It’s too much.”

His fingers pump into you steadily, curling into your walls, he gives you only a moment of reprieve before his tongue is poking out between his lips again. 

“F-fuck you,” you grit out as his tongue flicks at your clit, and it makes him smile. The pleasure hurts, overstimulation bleeding into something hot. “You’re– you’re s-such a– fucking asshole– ah!”

The last word is broken by a sharp moan, stars blinding your vision, another orgasm creeping up too quickly for you to breathe. You could shift tectonic plates with how hard you’re shaking, nails surely leaving crescents in the door behind you, your eyes squeeze tight with your jaw pried open as he brings you close to the edge for the second time.

“I’m g-gonna, I’m gonna cum,” you manage to get out, and it’s the last reserve of air in your chest before another orgasm rocks through you. He must be able to tell that you’re legitimately about to cry, because lets you come down slowly, slipping his fingers out of you after pressing one last kiss to your swollen, buzzing clit. 

You deflate into the door, chest heaving, legs still shaking hard enough to shake the entire house. He takes time kissing your thighs after lowering your leg to the floor, your knees, hands roaming your skin, laughing under his breath when your legs don’t let up. 

“Why are you laughing?” you finally croak, running a hand through your hair.

“I think you should sit,” he looks up at you through his brows, pride in his grin, his chin still soaked. “I’m scared that if you try to walk, you’ll fall.”

“Don’t look so smug about it,” you mutter but reach for his shoulders anyway, lowering yourself down to the floor slowly. Around the mid-way point you feel the loss of strength, but you’d rather die than fall in front of him, so you let your nails sink into his shoulders instead.

He sucks in a sharp breath, but reaches for your hips, not touching but holding his hands out, just in case you tumble. You land softly with your knees spread, boots sprawled out behind you, and you quickly reach for your underwear, moving them back into place, then slide your top back over your bra.

Looking up at an uncharacteristically quiet Wooyoung, his eyes are glued between your legs as he sits back on his calves. Heat spreads, shame, need, you aren’t sure. “I’m not fucking you,” you remind him.

“I know,” he nods, eyes sliding back up to yours. He licks his bottom lip, his chin, “Just taking one last look so I can remember the time I ate virgin pussy.”

Your jaw drops as you reach forward to smack his arm, “I am not a fucking virgin!”

“Not anymore,” he smirks, wiping the rest of you off his chin with his thumb. “Everyone’s a virgin before me.”

“I can’t believe I just let you do that,” your palms find your face, shame spreading. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Disgusting, maybe, but skilled? Absolutely,” he teases, voice playful. He sucks on his thumb, and then the two fingers that were inside you before musing, “I just made you cum twice and you thank me with insults?”

“Why should I thank you?” You rip your hands from your face that’s scrunched up in revolted confusion. “You asked, and I let you. You should be thanking me.”

“Fair,” he nods, bottom lip folded over. “Thank you for letting me eat your pussy.” Oh, your ears fucking burn. His head tilts back like he’s daydreaming, “Taste so sweet, coulda eaten her for hours. Same time next week?”

This can’t be real. He can’t be real. You shake your head, pushing yourself up from the floor, “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

“Boring,” he frowns, uncurling his legs from beneath him, his arms stretching behind him. He watches as you try to shove your shaky leg through your pant leg, “You sure you don’t want another one as a parting gift?”

There’s a pang in your gut, arousal mixing with shame, an ugly cocktail prickling at your skin. “Please forget this ever happened,” you look at him earnestly while lacing up your shorts. “This never happened. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, Virgin,” his head falls to his shoulder, cocky amusement radiating off him. “Remember this the next time you have sex and he doesn’t play with you first. Remember how easy it was for me to get you begging.”

Right. He had a point to make, something to prove, and he did. With you. Easily. The words send butterflies swarming through your stomach, a firework show of sparks up your spine and you fucking hate it, how easy it was for him, how easy it was for you to let go. You don’t answer, you reach for the door handle behind you and rip it open instead, he has someone else to fuck tonight. Another name to scratch off his list.

You can’t believe your name is one of them.

Your heart is pounding against your chest as you walk down the hallway, thighs still trembling, you think adrenaline and shame might be the only things keeping you upright. Your ex boyfriend is upstairs, and you just came twice on another man’s face. Wooyoung’s fucking face. Reaching for the handle at the end of the hallway, you let out a verbal sound of frustration before pulling it open.

This should feel liberating. People your age do this every single day, casual sex is normal, but it’s not normal for you. You thought that you could step into Unscripted’s shoes for a night, you thought the two of you might be one person, but you were wrong. This doesn’t feel good. Maybe you chose the wrong person, maybe if you had hooked up with someone else you’d feel better, possibly even proud of yourself for letting go of the strict rules you made for yourself.

Doubtful. You’re a relationship girl for a reason, hooking up with someone you have no ties to just feels… hollow. But that’s how you felt every time you slept with Yeonjun, too.

When was the last time your blood boiled with so much arousal?

You can feel it in your fingertips, mixed with the anger, the shame, you can feel your body itching for more. His fingers inside you, they were enough to make you finish, but they weren’t enough to fill you.

You bee-line for the bar, you need something to take the edge off. Ignoring the naked people on the couch, you refuse to look to see what the fuck they’re doing now, you walk behind the bar and grab a bottle of vodka, pouring at least three shots into a crystal glass. Your fingers are trembling, breath short, body tight with stress. What if people find out? What if your friends find out, all of who have already fucked him? No, he promised not to tell anyone, and you most certainly won’t tell a soul. You take a long sip from the glass, almost choking on the taste, the burn, but it’s necessary. 

You need to stop the panic before it spreads. Is the feeling really anxiety about what you’ve done, or is it just terrifying that a man actually took care of you for maybe the first time in your life? He did exactly what he said he was going to, without expectation of more, and made you feel better than anyone has ever made you feel. Your thighs are still fucking trembling and you didn’t even have sex.

The way he looked up at you, the way he purred so pretty… you send the rest of the glass of vodka back and your body racks a full shiver. That wasn’t about you, that was about proving a point. It wasn’t about you. But is that even possible? Can someone really put that much effort into pleasing a partner if it isn’t about them?

You leave the glass on the bar, making your way through the basement, ignoring the smoke and the people and the laughter and the sound of ping-pong balls bouncing. You’re wearing your shame like a cloak, keeping your head down as you walk up the staircase, back into the screaming living room vibrating with bass. The music has since shifted to house, a bright beat, accompanied by lights and bodies and a maze you need to push through.

All you’ve had is long-term boyfriends, but none of them have made you feel a fraction of what you felt in that room. In that room, you felt wanted, needed, you felt so fucking sexy. Like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered, your body an instrument to be played, he was on his fucking knees to coax you to orgasm. You can’t remember the last time Yeonjun laid down on the bed to attempt to make you cum.

You need to get out of here before you go back down there.

Wooyoung hears your scoff of frustration at the end of the hallway, and he can’t help the way it makes him laugh. Head tipping back, he laughs from his chest, because that’s the only reaction he could have imagined you to have. You just came on his face twice, yet you’re still stuck in your eternal irritation.

He picks himself up, makes sure there’s nothing on his shirt, then leaves the room. He plays eeny-meeny-miny-moe on the doors, then pushes the one he lands on open. To his surprise, not only is he right, but she’s still there, sprawled out across the bed, playing on her phone. 

Her head whips toward the door, smiling, turning on her side when she sees him, “Finally. You’re lucky I didn’t leave.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” He shoots her an apologetic smile, closing the door behind him. “Had to take care of something real quick.”

“Take care of me,” she whines, throwing her phone across the bed, sinking deeper into the mattress, legs prying open. “You promised.”

If his dick wasn’t already rock fucking hard, then it would have jumped at the sight. It still jumps, pressing against his nylon briefs, begging to be let out of his jeans. His hands go to the neck of his tee, tugging it over his head, throwing it at the end of the bed as he walks toward her. “You know I will, baby.”

He can’t kiss her yet, he knows he can’t. So he pulls her by her ankles to the edge of the bed, unbuttons her denim shorts, and kneels.

He meant it, everything he said to you about this being for his pleasure, something he enjoys. You thought he was bluffing, lying, but this is where he loves to be. Of service, on his knees, hearing the sweet song of pleasure that’s like a hymnal in his honor, he adores it. Gets off on it.

Except he’s not hearing it, because he’s too busy thinking. He uses his hand, making her arch, her cries louder, borderline pornographic, he grinds his hips against his jeans, or tries to, he’s starved. He works harder, not in the mood to drag it out, he stills his mind, his body, working at the same pace, using the same pressure until she’s clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking on either side of his head.

“Wanna ride you.” She stops him with a hand on his chest as he crawls over her, and who would he be if he denied a woman of anything? So he lays down beside her, grabs his wallet from his pocket before he shimmies his jeans down his legs, and rolls the condom from his wallet onto his cock. 

She watches like she wasn’t expecting it. But Wooyoung’s had too many experiences, made too many mistakes to not at least put on a fucking rubber.

It’s routine, the dirty talk, his hands on her body. It’s a rhythm, the way she bounces, how his hips snap upward to meet her. It’s a dance, lips, tongues, hands, angles and stretches, the background music cries, moans, grunts, curse words filling the air. 

He wonders if you regret it. You didn’t stay– part of him thought, maybe part of him hoped you would ask for more. That you were curious if he could use his cock as well as he used his mouth. It wasn’t the plan to make you cum twice, but the first one was too quick, and the second was even quicker, he felt like he was in that room for ten minutes, tops. 

He isn’t finished after he fills up the first condom, and to his satisfaction, neither is she. On all fours, Wooyoung behind her, his hands on her hips, fingers sliding up her spine, taking root in her extensions, it was like he had an itch he couldn’t scratch. 

It really was like looking up with a virgin. How timid you were in the beginning before you finally gave in, losing yourself to the pleasure, the way you shook with relief, euphoria… he’ll see that in his dreams tonight. He thinks that’s what has him hooked; knowing what he could do, a physical proof of his own skills.

At a ninety-degree angle, he feels like he’s piercing her. She wails, nails clawing into the bedsheets, toes curling, legs lifting to kick at his thighs, he gets proof of his skills every other day. She clenches around his cock a second time, and he focuses on following, brows furrowed, hips angled.

After tying the second condom and throwing it in the trash, he’s beat. She throws her clothes back on and kisses him goodbye, and it dawns on him that he never got her name. Shame. She was a pretty good fuck. He stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, letting his chest rise and fall until it evens out. He still feels like the scratch isn’t itched, he doesn’t know if his balls have more to spill, or if it doesn’t have to do with sex at all. Did he turn in his assignment before he left the house?

He finds his jeans, pulling out his phone, and on top of the bed, butt-ass naked, he scrolls. He finds your profile after some digging, but he doesn’t follow you, and you’re private. He clicks follow, the button turning to requested, and then he wonders if you’re still at the party. Maybe you re-thought your decision, and were curious about what else he can do with his hands or his mouth. He could probably make you cum without even touching your cute little clit. 

He dresses himself, then passes the series of half-opened doors, those who didn’t mind people who took a step inside and watched the show. The same people who were on the couch, fully having sex now, those that Wooyoung can’t judge because he’s been one of those people his sophomore year. With his hands in his pockets, he makes his way upstairs, and it’s too cloudy, too loud, the multicolored lights too blinding for him to make out any faces at all. 

Oh, well. He’ll try to find at least one of the guys from his frat, instead.

His walk is pointless until he finds San, currently taking a body shot off of a new round of women in the kitchen. He’s shirtless now, and Wooyoung isn’t sure if the sheen on his skin is from sweat or liquor.

“Woo!” he yells, grinning wide. Definitely liquor. “You’re next!”

He looks at the island, the girl laying on her back, and his brows furrow before realization sinks in. “Yunjin?”

“Wooyoung!” she throws an arm out, manicured nails clasping around his wrist. Her top is over her bra, shorts rolled down beneath her belly button, splayed out for anyone who has eyes to see. “Pour him a shot, Sannie.”

“Is Virgin still here?” he finds himself asking, doing his best to sound curious without any ulterior motives. “I mean– your roommate.”

“Nooo.” Yunjin pouts, shaking her head. “She texted me that she wasn’t feeling well, so she went home. Why do you call her that? She’s not even a virgin.”

Wooyoung shrugs, “Close enough.”

Yunjin thins her eyes. “You’re rude.”

“And you’re drunk,” he argues back. “Enjoy Sannie tonight.”

“I will!” she calls after him, and he’s sure none of them watch as he turns, heading for the living room which is a fucking maze, but it’s the only way to the front door. He drank, he fucked, he’s over it. He’s ready to lay his head down and go to sleep– after making sure he turned his assignment in.

He slips through bodies, going through his usual motions. Winking, scouting for next time, making promises he may or may not keep, all of them pretty, all of them hammered. It skeeves him, the idea of hooking up with some piss-drunk girl who won’t remember his name tomorrow. When he fucks, he’s remembered, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

He finds Mingi lounging on a couch by the door. His hair is a little fucked up, most likely by the girl he’s sitting next to, pretty, olive-toned. Wooyoung recognizes her, and it’s for reasons Mingi wouldn’t enjoy hearing if he's planning on getting laid.

“Hey, baby.” He shoots a wink to the dark-haired woman, then looks at Mingi. “Yunho still here?”

“Oh my god, scandalous.” Mingi’s eyes flare with excitement. “Guess who he went home with?” Wooyoung shrugs, as if to say tell me, I guess. “Virgin.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops. Mingi laughs, “I know, scandalous, right? He’s had a thing for her since the cuff party.”

“Like, went home together, as in they’re fucking right now?” Wooyoung asks, head shaking in disbelief.

Mingi shrugs, “That’s what it seemed like, I don’t know.”

“Ain’t no way,” Wooyoung laughs under his breath. “Good for her. Didn’t think she had it in her.”

He doesn’t really believe it. There’s no way that you have four bodies in total, and you not only hooked up with Wooyoung tonight, but you’re also hooking up with Yunho. There’s just no way. It’s too out of character, too bold, too… un-virgin-like. He’s going to have to think up a new nickname.

“I’m heading out.” He dips his chin toward Mingi, reaching out a hand for the older man to clasp. “See you.”

He doesn’t wait for Mingi’s returning see you before he turns again, the area around the front door sparse, less bodies, more space to walk through. He doesn’t spot Yeosang’s SUV where he parked it along the street, and he wonders if you and Yunho took it back to the house with the rest of them. 

“Need a ride?” He hears from feet away, a woman’s voice, one he knows.

Minatozaki Sana. He grins, skipping toward the SUV her head was hanging out of, realizing too late that it’s filled with people he’s had sex with. “Ladies,” he announces, nodding his head, looking in through the windows. “Seems we all have something in common.”

“Not me,” the dark-haired one says from the backseat. “Get in or don’t, I’m tired.”

Wooyoung doesn’t think twice about climbing into the backseat, sitting on the end, next to Momo. The drive is quiet for the most part, Sana focused as she drove, Nayeon in her passenger seat. In the back was the dark-haired woman, Momo, Chaeyoung, and Tzuyu who was sitting on the dark-haired one’s lap. A tight squeeze, but Wooyoung has fit in tighter, like Chaeyoung, sitting beside Momo.

She pulls up at the curb of his frat, parking the car, and not a single head turns to Wooyoung. It doesn’t feel hostile, though; every woman in this car was well aware who Wooyoung is when he fucked them. 

“Goodnight, ladies,” he teases as he climbs out of the passenger seat. He winks before closing the door, pointing at the tattooed, dark-haired woman in the middle, “Chae, text me later.”

The car erupts as he jogs away, and he smirks to himself, kinda wishing he could listen. He opens the front door with purpose and the living room is empty, the kitchen empty. He wonders if they’re in Yunho’s room. He doesn’t know why he’s tip-toeing up the stairs, or why he feels like he’s doing something wrong. He’s just curious.

He passes his room, tip-toeing further, praying to fucking god he doesn’t step on one of the squeaky parts of the floor. He just wants to know. He presses his back to the wall beside Yunho’s room, craning his head closer to the crack, straining to hear anything. A moan, a grunt, a whimper. Anything. 

But there’s nothing.

“The fuck are you doing?” 

He jumps, clasping a hand over his mouth, eyes almost falling out of their sockets. Hongjoong eyes him from across the hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, completely confused.

“Nothing, fuck,” he mutters as he jumps away from Yunho’s door. “I wanted to see if he was still up.”

“No, he went back to that virgin girl’s house, the one you guys are always talking about.” He’s using his hand as he speaks, clearly annoyed like he’d just woken up. “I heard someone creeping, I thought we were getting robbed by one of your scorned hookups.”

“I don’t have any scorned hookups, asshole,” Wooyoung scoffs as he walks past him, towards his room. “They all know very well that I’m romantically unavailable.”

“Not all of them,” Hongjoong looks over his shoulder. “Trust me.”

“Virgin!”

Your brows furrow, head turning every which way in the midst of the maze, bodies surrounding you, none you recognize. It’s like a fucking nightclub and you’re in someone’s house. Can’t they get fined for this?

A hand on your wrist has you whipping around, ready to tell whoever it is to fuck off. Blonde hair greets you, sticking to his forehead, a loose tee leaving another sliver of skin before his baggy, wide-leg jeans. You yell over the music, “Do you have any shirts that fit you?”

“I like them this way!” Yunho yells back, his grin wide. “Are you okay?”

Your head tilts, brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Your blood that was boiling minutes ago seems to settle, slowing into something calmer. The heat shifts from arousal to the comfort of vodka, a warm blanket, like a hole was drilled into your head, setting the pressure free. 

He shakes his head, his shoulders relaxing. “Nothing. You look pretty.”

“Thanks, so do you,” you smile, head tilting, giddy all of the sudden. “I mean, not pretty, you look–”

“No, I’ll take it,” he cuts you off, still holding onto your wrist. “I like pretty. Yunjin was looking for you, but do you wanna dance?” You glance around to the crowd, it really is like a fucking nightclub. People are grinding, jumping to the music, like the beat was hypnotizing them all. You start to shake your head, but Yunho cuts you off, “Don’t say no.”

Your lips flatten, caught in the act. “I’m not a dancer!”

“Liar,” he yells back, his smile impossibly wider, brighter. He tugs on your wrist, dragging you further into the crowd and you giggle as if you weren’t just tweaking the fuck out. “Follow my lead.”

Finding an open spot between bodies, thighs still twitching and lacking their full strength, you follow his lead. His hips sway from side to side, and he watches as yours try to mimic his, focused. He pops a brow, “Follow my lead, don’t copy me.”

“What the fuck else does follow my lead mean?” you bark back, standing straight again, hands on your hips, unmoving.

“Your body is as stiff as your attitude,” he yells, shaking his head as he removes your hands from your hips, replacing them with his own. Your arms shoot upward, bent over your chest, eyes glued to where his hands swallow your hipbones, moving you closer to him, shifting you slightly to the side so your shoulders line up. “Now do it again.”

You bend your knees, arms lowering, eyes lifting to see him. He grins, “Try actually moving to the beat, Virgin.”

“Do you have to call me that, too?” you frown, but listen, waiting a beat to start swaying your hips again. “I’m suffering enough right now.”

“That’s what they all call you, San, Wooyoung.” Your cheeks feel hot at the sound of his name, that same burning kissing up your spine. Your back arches into the movement. Yunho grins, “There you go, you’re learning.”

Yunho’s leg between yours… if you lowered yourself just a little, you’d be transported to fifteen minutes ago, when you were grinding yourself against Wooyoung’s thigh. Is the mere mention of his name going to send you free diving into your memories for the rest of your life?

Yunho’s hands find your hips again, leaning close to your ear. “He’s here.”

“I know,” your brows furrow. I spent fifteen minutes with him in a sex room. “I saw him.”

“Is that why you stopped dancing on the counter?” Yunho pulls back, hands sliding up to your waist, keeping you moving. “Not a dancer, my ass. Who cares if he’s here? Let him see you.”

“Why would I stop because of Wooyoung?” you ask, running your hands through your hair, arching into Yunho’s touch, letting the music guide you instead.

Yunho’s brows furrow. “Wooyoung?”

Your smile is lazy, “Who else?”

“Your ex.” Yunho’s fully confused now. “Are you drunk?”

“Oh!” Your eyes blow wide, smile dropping. “Yes, yeah, I drank… I drank a lot.” Right right right, tonight started off with you worried about seeing Yeonjun. “I didn’t want to see him, it’s not that I didn’t want him to see me.”

“I saw him with another guy.” Yunho’s lips snag to one side. “Is that why you broke up?”

You nod. “Caught ‘em in bed together.”

Yunho’s jaw falls open, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say in a sigh, head tipping backward, and somewhere deep inside you, you mean it. “At least I don’t have to marry him anymore.”

Yunho laughs, his grip on your waist tighter with your head dipped backward. “You don’t want to get married?”

“When I’m old enough,” you’re smiling as you bring your head upright, reaching for Yunho’s biceps. You think the vodka might be hitting you now. “I’m not old enough yet, just wanna have fun.”

“Are you having fun now?” Yunho sounds playful, teasing. He pulls you closer to him, your abdomen against his. “Dancing?”

You bring one hand up to his neck, palm grazing his soft, sweaty skin, wondering if he’s anything like Wooyoung. Does he view sex the same way? Something casual, fun, like a hobby? If he found out that your boyfriend never cared enough to make you finish, would he get on his knees for you, too?

There’s still an ache in the pit of your stomach, space Wooyoung’s fingers had left, you want more. The thrum beneath your skin that you’re confused, maybe even disgusted by, has the wires of your brain tangled, like all the rules you made for yourself no longer exist, a wall broken down. 

You nod, eyelids heavier, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Yunho’s different from Wooyoung, softer, kinder. Like he’s capable of more than one night with a woman, he’s capable of feeling, he’s interested in knowing. He looks at you like he’s curious, like there’s more to you than the girl with a boyfriend, the girl who got cheated on, the Virgin. 

Wooyoung was just interested in seeing how fast he could make you finish, and Yeonjun was just interested in getting you out of his bed so Beomgyu could take your place. Yunho seems to be interested in you.

“Do you want something to… take your mind off the situation?” His cheeks turn a dusty rose color, clear under the lights that flicker white. His lips curl, “Or is dancing enough fun?”

“Is it bad if I do?” you find yourself asking. “Want a distraction?”

The distraction is for two completely separate purposes, you think.

He shakes his head, smile growing, leaning closer to you. “Is it bad that I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night of the cuff party?”

“I wish you had,” you whisper. “Trust me.”

He smiles before leaning in, pressing his lips to meet yours, and there’s a fraction of the haste Wooyoung used. It’s slow, a curious exploration, like he isn’t sure if you’re fully okay with this and he doesn’t want to push you too far. Your hand on his neck slides up into his hair, the other glued to his bicep following as his hands lead down to your hips, keeping you moving to the music. 

He tastes like beer, but there’s a sweetness to it, like he was chewing gum, or took a shot of something flavored. Your tongue slips between his lips, tasting him, bending toward him, you’re sure he can taste your desperation, your need. The part of you still left unsatisfied.

“You taste like vodka,” he whispers into your mouth, his lips still touching yours.

You smile, a breath of amusement tumbling off your lips, “Caught.”

He kisses you again, harder this time, using his height to tip you backward. Your hips tilt toward him, arms hooked around his shoulders, meeting his pace with a need of your own. His hands sneak around you, taking two fistfuls of your ass, grinding you into him and it forces a sharp gasp from your lips, a streak of red-hot warmth up your spine.

You’re too aware of the people around you. You need more, and you need it now, but you don’t need extra eyes watching it all unfold.

“Yunho,” you whisper through your panting.

“Mind all empty yet?” he muses, smiling.

Yes, this is about you. This is about you.

“No,” you bite your lip, pecking his lips again. “Gonna need more than that, I think.”

“Don’t worry,” he leans in close, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “I’m good at making pretty girls go dumb.”

“Let’s go,” you blurt, hands finding his wrists, holding onto them. “Jen will stay out late, I wanna go, let’s go to my apartment.”

“Are you sure?” His brows raise, raising his arms you were still holding onto. “You– are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” You’re nodding rapidly, and maybe you’re trying to convince yourself, too. “You said you wanted to be my distraction, right?”

“I do, but you’re–”

“I’m fine,” you drop his wrists. “I promise. Let’s go.”

He nods, hands finding your shoulders, turning you around before he guides you through the crowd. With his height, he can see where to move, where the small pockets of space are, and there’s a part of you that kinda enjoys not having to think, that likes just being guided in the right direction, without having to figure out for yourself what it is.

“Those are my friends,” he says in your ear, guiding you toward four guys standing together. All pretty small, there’s one with bright, orange hair, a blonde one, a taller one with dark hair, and one you recognize from the night at the Penny.

The blonde sees you and Yunho first. “Good timing, if you’re looking for a ride.”

You can hear Yunho’s grin behind you, “We are, but it’s to her place.”

The brunette stares you down, brows knitted together like there are many pieces floating around and not one of them is being put together. You keep a small smile on your cheeks, not in the mood to explain.

Yunho puts his elbow on your shoulder, pointing at each one of the men in front of you. “Hongjoong, Yeosang, Seonghwa, Jongho.”

You nod, storing the information for later, and introduce yourself. Jongho asks, “Don’t they call you Virgin?”

Your lips flatten. “Unfortunately.”

The three other heads look up to Yunho, confused, maybe concerned. Yunho quickly fixes the misconception, “She’s not a virgin, Wooyoung came up with it.”

Then there’s a chorus of ah’s like that just makes sense to them or something. And knowing Wooyoung, you guess it makes sense to you, too. Fuck. You don’t want to think about him right now.

“Guys!” Another man approaches, massively tall like Yunho, but thicker with muscle. His hair is dark, short, choppy, in a hot way. The sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose are really doing something for you. He asks, “Have you guys seen Sannie?”

“I heard there’s a stripper pole in one of the side rooms,” Seonghwa responds, his voice cool, calm. “Check there.”

The man pushes his sunglasses over his head, and you realize he’s noticed you, standing small in front of Yunho. His eyes thin out as he asks, “Is this Virgin?”

Your lips flatten again. Does everyone know now? Is this becoming a thing?

“In the flesh,” you respond, then ask, “Who are you?”

“Mingi,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re really cute.” He looks up at Yunho. “She’s really cute.”

“I know,” Yunho says from behind you, matching Mingi’s tone, filled with giddiness. They must be close. Yunho turns to the rest of the group, “Are we going? Can we go?”

“Please,” Hongjoong says, already making for the front door.

It’s like they’re split down the middle, the introverted ones and the extroverted ones. Although, you don’t really think Wooyoung is extroverted, you think he might just be a whore. Fuck. You did it again.

Yeosang’s SUV is parked at the end of the driveway, you give him your address for him to put into the GPS after squeezing into the backseat, knee bouncing. In the crowd, with his lips, his hands on you, you were certain you wanted this. A thousand percent certain. Now, it’s more like… five hundred percent.

The ride to your apartment is quiet, Jongho already asleep by the time Yeosang dropped you off, even if the drive was only seven minutes long. Hongjoong looked like he was drifting, too, his eyes half open. You thanked Yeosang and climbed out, Yunho following you up to the second floor.

Your kitchen still had remnants of your pregame scattered across it, and you can only imagine what your bedroom looks like. Then it dawns on you that you had another man’s mouth on you an hour ago. 

“I’m gonna go freshen up,” you tell Yunho, hoping your smile doesn’t look nervous. You point to your door, “My bedroom is right through there.”

You skip into your bathroom, immediately turning on the shower and undressing. The water may be hot, but it might as well be ice cold with how reality is pouring over your head, and there’s a man in your fucking bedroom. A man you barely know. 

And you made him come here.

You shower quickly, washing the remnants of Wooyoung off of you, and then swish some mouthwash around, removing him from you completely. You feel better after, but there’s still a level of uncertainty that you can’t shake. 

In your towel, you walk back to your bedroom, and he’s poking around on your shelf, looking at all of your figures, your trinkets, your music albums. “Hi,” you say from the doorway, and he jumps back like you scared him. 

“Fuck,” he clutches his heart with a laugh. He points to your figures, “You like Jujutsu Kaisen?”

“No, I just love Gojo,” you tease, stepping into your room. “Have you seen the new season?”

“Yes,” his smile spreads, excitement in his eyes. Like a puppy. “Still don’t understand the Culling Games, though.”

“Then you aren’t reading enough Reddit threads,” you respond, tone snarky. His eyes sink down to your towel, your bare feet. Your lips scrunch to one side, heartbeat picking up, “Will you be mad at me if I maybe changed my mind?”

His face immediately bends into concern, “No, fuck no, are you kidding? Do you want me to go? Yeosang is definitely still awake, I can ask him–”

“No,” you interject. “I don’t know if it’s weird, and I understand if not, but… you don’t have to go. I just don't want to… do anything until I know you a little better, if that’s okay.”

He walks toward you with a genuine smile, one so comforting that it makes the unease in your chest disappear. “Of course that’s okay, it’s not weird at all. You’re lucky I saw the Gojo figures, though, ‘cuz I might have left if I didn’t know I’d be sleeping beside them.”

“Don’t fucking rob me.” You raise a finger between your bodies in warning. “I paid, like, four hundred bucks for the prison realm one.”

“Let me take a picture and I won’t,” he argues, raising a finger back at you. “Do you want me to step out while you change?”

“Oh.” You look down at your towel then back up at him. “Sure, whatever, that’s fine.”

He does step out while you change into a pair of shorts and a tee, clean ones you got from the clean pile of laundry in the corner of your room. That pile was growing smaller by the day. You climb into your bed, calling him back in, and he joins you so comfortably it’s almost like he belongs here. He radiates comfort, kindness, nothing like the fuckboy energy Wooyoung gives off, or the detached energy Yeonjun has. 

“Wanna watch TV? We can order a pizza or something,” you wonder, looking over at Yunho lounged out next to you, his arms behind his head, jeans still on his body. “I might have an old pair of Yeonjun’s sweatpants or something.”

You crawl off the bed without waiting for an answer, digging through your drawers. Finally finding an old pair of dark green sweatpants that were absolutely Yeonjun’s, you throw them at him, and he catches them swiftly as he sits up. “Are these from Urban?”

You shrug from the floor, “I dunno. They look long enough, though.”

Yunho stands, unbuckling his belt, then unzips his jeans. You know you should give him privacy, but he’s in briefs, and even soft– even soft he would probably tear you apart. He hears your intake of breath, looking up, then a smirk tugs at his lips as he pulls the sweats up his legs. “Are you peeping, you fuckin’ pervert?”

“I’m sorry!” you squeak, cheeks flushing, quickly looking away. 

“You can look,” he says coolly, his voice a genuine threat to your wellbeing. “I don’t mind.”

You still ache. “I’m just happy I got a warning.”

He laughs at that, from his chest, genuine. “You think you need one?”

You still don’t turn your head. “I know I do. I need… preparation for that.”

“Why so shy?” You hear the bed squeak like he’s laying back down, and reluctantly, you turn your head. He’s on his side, head propped up on his hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “First time seeing a dick in real life? Don’t tell me you’re really a virgin.”

“No, asshole,” you scowl, standing up, even though you know he’s joking. You press a knee to the mattress, crawling toward him. “Yours is just terrifyingly large.”

“Terrifyingly?” He grins, laying on his back as you crawl closer to him, the upper half of your body leaning over him. “I think you’ll be able to take it, when you’re ready. I’ll prepare you.”

“We were supposed to be hooking up,” you frown, sitting back on your calves. “I feel bad making you wait.”

He shakes his head, “I’m patient, and I like you. I don’t mind waiting.” His face drops after he realizes what he just said. “I know you just got out of a relationship, please don’t get freaked out. I mean I like you in a friendly way, not in a serious way, I’m not trying–”

You laugh, head dipping forward. “You basically just met me, Yunho.”

“I had a lot of time to snoop in here,” he answers, looking around your room. “I can tell you’re cool.”

“You can tell from my four hundred dollar Gojo figure?” You pop a brow, still laughing a little.

“That, and your music taste, and your other anime figures,” he grins. “Great music taste, great taste in anime, terrible taste in men. Besides me, of course.”

You laugh again, then decide to shut him up by leaning down, pressing a kiss to his lips. His hands come up to your cheeks as you kiss him deeper, moving your hair out of the way, shifting so you can crawl over him easier. Your tongue splits his lips and his knees bend, hands moving to your hips, shifting you forward to what you presume is away from his length.

You stop kissing him before it gets any heavier, and press your forehead to his. “You’re cool, too. For waiting.”

“Wooyoung is the only asshole in our frat,” he looks at you, his eyes honest, warm. “He shouldn’t represent the rest of us.”

The evil part of you hopes he represents them in the one area it matters.

“Let’s order pizza,” you smile, crawling off his torso.

It still smelled of that strange air freshener that always made you a bit nauseous when mixed with Hongjoong’s signature cologne, and the seatbelt still felt sharp and uncomfortable on your neck. For some reason you had almost expected the car to have changed somehow, just like with Hongjoong. Sitting there with everything above the surface apparently as it was felt like playing pretend. You had expected for him to drive you into one of the usual shops around town you were already acquainted with, so when he had taken that turn into the highway you had started to get suspicious.

“Can’t get it done anywhere here” he had said “Has to be a real professional”

You had raised an eyebrow at him. He answered, or more like avoided most of your questions without taking his eyes out of the road for even a second. Hongjoong was surprisingly a good driver when he wanted to, but the way his eyes stayed glued straight ahead seemed to be more of an excuse to not look at you. However it might have just been the awkwardness between you two, a conversation to be had that you both were avoiding. Is not like you didn’t want to have it, in fact you had already had the conversation in your mind multiple times after he had texted you “wanna come get a piercing?” after two months of silence. In the end you had just sent “sure” and all the things you had planned to say you had left outside when you had closed the car door.

“Damn” you kicked an empty Monster can that pilled among other things at your feet on the passenger seat “What are you getting?”

“You’ll see. Well...” he trailed off, a soft chuckle as result of a joke you weren’t a part of yet “Not really, I guess”

“...okay?” You could tell without even asking. The eyebags under his eyes, his unkempt hair, the bitterness of the laugh that had just escaped his lips. He wasn’t over it. He wasn’t over her. After all, it had only been a week “You are not doing like, anything crazy, right?”

“Define crazy”

“I don’t know, like... I don’t want you to get something you’ll regret when you forget about her in a month”

“I don’t regret any of these" You had known Hongjoong ever since his skin had been bare, watching as ink left its mark in him one tattoo at a time. You could recollect every single one by memory, even those fans would never get to see. Her name fell from his lips after a brief silence, catching you off guard "That was her name”

“I know”

Of course you did. How could you not when she had been the last thing Hongjoong had talked about before it all went down. She had been a “miracle” as Hongjoong had called her, a meeting brought by fate at some event. You had seen her on his finsta stories, never in person. Embarrassingly, you had stalked her profile a few times like a complete masochist. You didn’t know much about her though, as Hongjoong seemed too busy to keep you updated on the relationship once she had agreed to go out with him. It had lasted about two months, which was within the usual window of time that it took Hongjoong’s relationships to end. It was always like this. Passionately fall for a girl, crash and burn, and then this: new addition to Hongjoong’s body. Well, this time there had been a slight change, but neither of you would bring it up.

“She was okay”

“I wouldn’t know” it pissed you off how you were supposed to be walking on eggshells around him, a little biting wouldn’t hurt him. You could tell it had though. Still, the car drive would be a nightmare if the mood got completely sour, so you decided to liven it up with a joke "Just don't get a full black sleeve or something like that just because your manager isn't here”

Hongjoong seemed to appreciate the breather.

“I know, don't worry. But it is... special”

There it was again, that lower register in his voice. You knew him all too well to understand that there was something that was troubling him. The idea of him doing something absurd for a girl he’d dated for two months pissed you off. That she could be that important while you were the backup friend he'd use when he needed someone to tag along. It made you feel worse that you had actually come to him.

“You sure you are not doing anything weird?”

“Can you stop worrying?”

“Well can you stop fucking around for a second?” Hongjoong looked out of his window, hands gripping the wheel a bit tighter, rings reflecting the sunlight. It didn’t feel good to snap at him, especially not when he was in a vulnerable state like that. But how long could you indulge him? How long could you silently forgive him? “Actually I have no idea why you asked me to come” Hongjoong didn’t look at you, his eyes glued to the asphalt and body stiff under your gaze. You sighed and looked out of the window, giving up “I guess time out is over”

The direct sunlight blinded you for a moment before you closed your eyes. You crossed your arms over your chest as it rose up and down with a heavy sigh. Hongjoong eyed you through the corner of his eye, his tongue slowly wetting his lips as if getting ready to say something. Whatever it was it felt heavy on his chest.

“I need someone with me” he murmured loud enough for you to hear, a slight shakiness in his voice “Someone I trust”

You opened your eyes and turned to him, catching his a second before he set them back ahead. There was worry but also determination.

“Okay, you are really freaking me out now”

“I am making it sound worse than it is, trust me”

“Then why don’t you just tell me?”

“It’s... complicated. Listen, I just--” he shrugged, hands leaving the wheel for a second “I can’t ask anyone else. It has to be you”

Far from easing your worries, the bare rawness of his voice worried you even more.

“Okay, stop the car. You are acting crazy”

“I keep making it sound weird but it’s true, okay?” he cackled somehow genuinely at your reaction “And if we get there and you don’t want to hold my hand you can wait outside but...” his shoulders shook with a brief shrug, then a short pause “It’ll hurt less knowing you are there”

You hated how much his words affected you.

“You really are not going to tell me”

“I sort of, maybe... want to see the face you make when you find out”

You saw the smile tug at the corner of his lips, the first one you’d seen since getting in the car. The first one you’d seen in months that didn’t come from a picture with him and his ex on his instagram story.

“Oh... so you are fucking with me. Thank god, I was starting to get worried. Turns out you are just your usual asshole self”

“If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it”

You shook your head with a scoff “Idiot”

You felt his eyes on you, the silence still tense but somewhat lighter.

“Thank you for coming, though”

You bit your lip and your eyes wandered to the landscape across your window again.

“Had nothing better to do”

-

The tattoo shop was by far the most professional looking you had ever seen Hongjoong step into. The receptionist even smiled at the both of you as he saw you come in. You sat on the red velvet couch propped against the black wall, perfectly decorated with framed designs and art pieces in clean, minimalistic frames. Hongjoong walked towards you with the paperwork to sign in hand and sat next to you, closer than you had expected him to. You were still walking on eggshells around him, but he didn’t seem to be doing the same. He should have. He should be the one worried about making the wrong move, say the wrong thing, sit too close to you. And yet there he was, elbows propped on his knees that bruised against yours like it was okay to just do so. Like the last two months hadn’t happened. You both got taken into the room almost immediately where a man in his mid-thirties welcomed you two with a warm, formal smile The smell of sterilizer hit your nose almost as strongly as the white light had hurt your eyes. There was a black tattoo bed in the middle of the room where you assumed Hongjoong would sit, with two small stools resting nearby.

“We already went over all the details during your consultation and I trust you read the paperwork as well. I know you are familiar with all this but I just want to make sure you are ready”

“Yes sir, I am”

Whether it was anticipation or fear you couldn’t tell, but you knew him well enough to hear the nervousness behind the casualness of his voice.

“Okay! Get comfortable on the bed and pull down your underwear. You need to get erect for me to work the piece so I’ll give you guys a few minutes”

What?

You hadn’t said that aloud, and yet Hongjoong turned towards you like he had heard you. All color drained from his face as he saw the artist leave the room, the soft click of the door as it closed the last noise that room heard for a few seconds as you both stayed still.

“I did not think about that” Hongjoong finally said, pointing towards the door “Fuck, I should have told you earlier. I’m sorry” he passed both his hands through his hair, messy strands of freshly dyed black hair standing in all directions “This is fucking weird. I’m sorry, I--”

“What exactly is going on?”

“So... remember that idea I mentioned a year ago?” he asked hesitantly, forcing a smile

It took you a bit of effort to remember, and then your mouth fell open.

“You are out of your mind” your eyes unconsciously traveled down to his black sweats before you shut them tightly, attempting to compose yourself and ignore the heat creeping up your face “You brought me for this?”

“No! I didn’t-- shit, the plan was for you to just hold my hand” he held your gaze, and you saw the confidence leave him as his eyes moved somewhere else in the room as the reality of the situation seemed to hit him “Or you can wait outside, as I said--”

“What the fuck” you said, attempting to make sense of the situation. Of course. Only Hongjoong could get you both in a situation like this “Is that why you said I was the only one you could ask?”

“No, fuck. I’m sorry, seriously. I didn’t think of this. Shit” he laughed nervously “You can just leave and come back with him, close your eyes and all that” Hongjoong pondered for a moment, just how selfish he could get “Or you can just not come back. I just wanted you to hold my hand while it goes in but it’s okay, it’s stupid ”

No matter how amusing it had been seeing him panic in such a way, the sound of his voice, beaten and ashamed was not something you enjoyed. And yet.

“I should have known it was something crazy when you called me. I mean... after two months? You must have been desperate”

Hongjoong lowered his head, eyes fixed on his beaten black Converse. He blinked a few times and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a deep frown. He shifted his weight where he stood and you just waited.

“I’m sorry” he finally said, voice lower “I should have spoken to you”

You fell quiet, your soft smile and confidence disappearing.

“We already spoke about that”

“Not really. Not properly”

“It was nothing, Hongjoong”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you”

You sucked in your bottom lip, chest feeling tight.

“I said it was nothing”

You had said that. You both had.

Back in the same car you both had driven to the tattoo shop in. He had driven you home after one of your regular late night hang outs. Car drive, radio on and a “goodnight” that had stretched until early in the morning. You could still see him as he had been, head turned to you on the driver seat, smile wide as he laughed at something you couldn’t quite recall. The engine had been turned off a while ago when you both had realized the conversation would last longer than expected once again. That had been the night he had told you about the “miracle girl”, every detail he gave you about her making a bit more nauseous. There were years of practice to the way you could smile at Hongjoong as he spoke to you about other girls, but there was nothing you could do about the suffocating pressure of your chest whenever he did so. Your body had been turned to him, seatbelt unlocked, simply watching him under the dim light of a distant street lamp. It hurt every time you realized how much you loved him, and as you always did when the truth hit you, you became small and felt inadequate no matter what you said or did. You always tried to run away from him when that happened.

“I didn’t even have to ask for her number, she just gave it to me!”

“That’s bold” you matched his tone, hoping that would make lying easier. It usually did.

“Right? I don’t know. It was kind of hot”

“I bet. It’s your lucky day”

You wish you could have said the same thing. Your shift at work had been an absolute nightmare, the kind that made you want to lock yourself in the bathroom and angry cry for a few minutes. Your whole week had been like that, really. The only thing that had made it bearable was the plans you had made with Hongjoong on a rare spot where he was schedule-free, and now there you were: listening to him talk about how he had met the woman of his dreams that also happened to be really interested in him. You wished you could be an adult and be happy for him, but you were just a person, and the fact you couldn’t bring yourself to do so made you feel like a terrible one.

“You good?”

Hongjoong sounded worried, and when you finally rose your head to look at him he looked like it too. You hadn’t realized you had zoned out, lips wrapped around the straw of your empty drink and eyes fixed somewhere far away.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired”

Hongjoong shifted on his seat and fully turned to you.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Of course you couldn’t fool Hongjoong. He knew you too well. That’s why it scared you so much whenever your act slipped even if just a bit. He would know.

You forced a smile, your acting not as sharp under the scrutiny “I’m fine, sorry. I’m excited for you, really” you had said, with the type of casualness that took effort. He had stilled at that, as if you had said something wrong. You had noticed the look he’d give you sometimes when you did things like these, like he somehow knew something was wrong. His eyes would scan your face for something, and it worried you that one day he might find it. Maybe he had already. You felt the familiar overwhelming feeling creep up on you, and you knew you couldn’t bear it much longer “Is late and all we are doing is talking so...”

You were looking for a way to finish the sentence and excuse yourself when he interrupted. His voice was low and the words stuck together with a mix of heat and confidence.

“Got any other suggestions?”

The heat crept from your chest to your face so quickly you almost felt feverish. You let out a nervous giggle and Hongjoong’s lips stretched into a smile, his heavy lided eyes dragging from your avoiding eyes to your lips that were still toying with the straw. Hongjoong took the empty cup from your hands and dropped it somewhere at his feet. The sudden silence in the car had made your heart start racing, and you would have said another stupid thing to break the tension if he hadn’t leaned over and kissed you. His lips pressed against yours, shut tight and a bit dry, nothing like you had imagined a hundred times before. His fingers buried themselves on your hair, stiff at first, then loosened when you hummed in satisfaction. He pulled away just enough to let you say something, and when you didn’t he kissed you again, tongue briefly draging along your lips. The sound of your mixed jaded breathing felt loud and obscene in the dead quiet of the car, and the idea that someone could pass by and see you through the windows worried you and excited you all the same. The idea that someone could see you kissing Hongjoong is one you had fantasized about for so long it felt ridiculous by then, and yet there he was, moaning against your lips and hand gently dragging up and down your knee before making its way upwards to your tigh. His thumb brushed along your jeans before he pulled away enough to whisper:

“This okay?”

His voice made you giddy, so close and low and hot against your mouth. You got to nod only once before a bright light blinded you, making you both wince and turn to it. It’s was his phone that vibrated against the holder with an incoming call. Her name was displayed in bold black letters against the white background. There was a few seconds in which you had to make a choice, and as usual the one you took was the easy one that would cause you the most pain. You just laughed.

“Calling at two in the morning? You better pick that up”

The muscles pulling at your smile ached, and the strain to keep your voice steady hurt your throat. You pulled away from Hongjoong, in more ways than one. He could feel it immediately. The coldness, the distance.

“I mean... it’s just--”

“It’s okay Hongjoong” you had already opened the door, body turned away from him and your leg already on the ground “I'm cool on you”

That had been the last time you both had seen each other. There had been some awkward texting trying to emulate a casual conversation for a few days before he told you he was dating that girl, and then the conversation had died until he had asked you to come get the piercing with him.

“I’m sorry” he repeated, a bit louder, shakier. He looked at you from barely a few feet away, but the distance between you two felt bigger and way colder “You can wait in the car if you want. I’ll take you home later. Or I can call you an uber and you can leave now”

You didn’t want to leave, and despite everything, you didn’t want things to be like this.

“Hongjoong, I’d do this for you any time, but...” you hestitated, and you understood why he couldn’t look at you as you found yourself avoiding his eyes too. It was shame, fear “Getting a new girlfriend and shutting me off for months only to ask me to come here and do this? Like you knew I’d come back to you like a lap dog?” you felt your jaw quiver, cutting your speech short “It doesn’t feel great”

“That wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to see you” Hongjoong scoffed “That’s kind of w...” Hongjoong trailed off and silence settled once again “I kept talking about you” he finally said “That’s why we broke up”

You stared at him, and to your surpise he was looking at you. You saw his pupils shake, but he didn’t look away, no matter how much he wanted to.

“What a stupid reason” you whispered.

“Yeah”

Your arms unfolded and fell to your sides.

“Do you want me wait outside?”

A shrug.

“Do you want to leave?”

“I asked first”

“I asked second”

You both laughed softly, and for a moment it all felt like it’d all be alright. You pondered for a few seconds before you walked to the door and disappeared behind it. Hongjoong nodded, more to himself than to you.

“Fucking stupid” he muttered to himself as he pulled down his sweats, just as the door opened and you entered the room again “Shit! What--”

Hongjoong hurried to pull his pants up again, hitting the stools and making a crashing noise reverberate through the room as he fell forward on the bed. You would have laughed if you hand’t been fighting the dizziness that came with your eyes quickly snapping to the other side of the room. You had seen nothing, and you needed to keep telling yourself that so the heat wouldn’t turn your cheeks bright red.

“Sorry! I should have knocked. I asked him if he could give us a few more minutes”

“Wh--”

He looked completely lost and embarrassed as he straightened up. His hands were still tightly gripping the waistband of his pants as he saw you walk inside the room and towards him.

“You are all depressed now, there’s no way you are going to get hard so--”

“Wow, can you not say that?” he asked with almost a wince, his eyes closed tightly as if you were the one suddenly undressing in front of him with no warning.

You gave him a confused look.

“What? Get hard?” a crooked smile spread across your face as you saw the slight pink at the tip of his ears “I’m pretty sure you’ve heard worse things”

“Yeah, not from you. It feels... wrong”

“What happened to ‘it has to be you’” you mocked.

“I meant for you to hold my hand”

You pursed your lips, furrowing your brows in confusion.

“So you don’t need any help?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I sort of... thought that’s what you actually meant when you asked me if I wanted to stay”

You could see the gears turning in his head, painfully slowly.

“No! No, I’d never--” Hongjoong closed his mouth, then opened it again “I mean, not... never”

“Whatever, Hongjoong. I’m a woman. I’m your friend. It’s cool with me” you said, feigning aloofness “You can just... touch me or something, imagine I’m her or whoever. I don’t know”

Hongjoong stared at you for what felt like minutes before he spoke again.

“You are crazy”

“Actually, I am ‘the only one you could ask’”

“Stop it, I’m going to kill you” the threat was loud and genuine, but you could also see the way his eyes scanned your body in one swift look before falling silent again.

His eyes wandered around the room. You bit your lip, worried that this was it. Everything could break apart in an instant, the fate of your friendship at the tip of Hongjoong’s tongue.

“He’s going to charge you over time” you joked, trying to backtrack.

“Shut up”

Silence again.

“Hongjoong” you called for him in a soft voice, and he finally looked at you “I can leave, it’s okay. I’ll be on the other side when--”

“No” he instinctively took a step forward, as if you were going to walk away “It’s fine is just...”

You didn’t notice when Hongjoong had walked backwards towards the bed, bringing you with him as his hand still held your arm. He had sat down on the bed and as he rested his back against the back of it you knew he wouldn’t say anything else. There was no need for it. He let go of you and sat with his hands resting over his lap as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. He was looking at you, waiting for you to approach him. Under any circumstances you would have laughed, but you just crossed the distance and stood closer to him.

“Where did that big talk go?” he joked, the excitement and nervousness evident in his voice.

You panicked for a moment, the situation becoming real all too suddenly.

“Do you want to make out or...?”

“I don’t know what we are doing” he said and you laughed together “But it feels good”

“I haven’t even touched you yet”

“You are gonna touch me?” he said, halfway between a question and a plea.

You absentdmindedly reached for his hair, burying your fingers in the soft black locks while trying to ease your own heartbeat. The moment your fingertips had ran through the base of his scalp he stilled, a shiver running down his back. Hongjoong inhaled softly and deeply, eyes fluttering before fixating on your lips.

“Is that alright?”

Your voice was low, the question spoken like a secret. Hongjoong nodded lazily, face dangerously close to yours. 

“Feels good”

His voice dived an octave lower, which you took as an invitation to drag your nails a bit further through his scalp. Hongjoong shifted on his seat and he closed his eyes. You took in his features, still the same as you had remembered these last few months, and yet something had changed. Maybe it had been you.

“I missed you” you confessed with a shaky breath.

“Me too”

“Don’t do that again”

Your fingers grabbed onto his hair, softly pulling at the locks and earning a sharp inhale from him. Hongjoong opened his eyes, brown eyes piercing through yours, eyelids heavy.

“I won’t”

He brought his hand to your waist, taking a moment to gauge your reaction. You expected him to have reached higher, towards the thin lace of your bra. He could have felt the drumming of your heart against your chest, almost begging to be felt. Instead he drew his fingers across your waist, his hand hesitantly sneaking underneath your top and caressing your lower back. Goosebumps covered every inch of your skin, you were sure Hongjoong would be able to see it. His eyes darted around your body, seeing it stiffen as his fingers caressed further up your back with lazy moves. His head fell forward, almost resting against your shoulder, nested against your neck. You felt the hot fanning of a breathing against your neck, and Hongjoong saw your swallow before his eyes fluttered shut as he stirred on his seat. The motion made his nose bump against your neck, and your hand instinctively held his shoulder as if you thought he would fall, fingernails digging slightly into his skin when you felt the softeness of his lips brush against your ear for just a second. Then again, a bit bolder but hesitant chaste kiss to your neck with a soft noise.

You felt his shoulder muscles under his skin as he moved his arm, followed by the rustling of clothes. He struggled awkwardly for a few seconds in which his grip on your waist tightened. The side of his face felt burning hot against your neck, and you wondered if he was embarrassed.

“Do you need help?”

“No” he was “I’ve got it”

The hand on his shoulder ventured downwards, anticipation jolted through your body before you had time to feel ashamed of it. You felt the hard bits of the old band t-shirt Hongjoong wore, the name faded away and rough under your fingertips. You felt his chest rise up and still as your hand stayed there for a second, feeling the faint drumming of his fast heartbeat, before continuing your way down. The fanning of his breath against your neck stopped and his body froze when he felt you push his hand that was resting on his crotch to the side. His other hand that had been low on your back, pinky finger toying with the hem of your jeans stopped altogether. Saying he was half hard would have been an understatement. It felt hot as you palmed it softly over his sweats. A soft whine escaped his lips, so pathetic you felt it directly between your legs. You stilled for a moment, savoring and processing the sound of it. It must have been too long because with a hot sigh Hongjoong's hand rested on top of yours, squeezing himself with your hand in a silent, desperate and pathetic plea. You palmed him, a bit drunk on how desperate he felt, head limp on the crook of your neck, his body so hot you could feel it. His fingernails digged slightly on your lower back as he whined against your ear, holding onto you as if steadying himself. You could feel yourself getting wet. If this was the state you were both in by simply touching each other over clothes, just how much--

Hongjoong moaned against your neck when you passed your fingers under the waistband of his sweats. Of course he wasn't wearing underwear, it would be too uncomfortable after the piercing was done. His skin felt hot, sweat making it a bit sticky too. When you finally grabbed his cock his mouth opened in a silent moan. He was hard by now, heavy under your touch, gratefully twitching when you had started dragging your hand painfully slowly. He was dragging his tongue through your neck in open mouth kisses, lost in the way you pumped him slowly.

"Can I put it out?" you asked, sounding way hornier than you wanted him to know. He shook his head, but the way his hand gripped at the flesh of your waist told you the idea was somewhat to his liking "I want to see it"

He thrust himself into your hand, giving himself away almost like it had been an accident. He moaned weakly into your neck, and soon he found himself doing it again, and again, and again. The chair rocked slightly, the frantic screeching of its swaying filling the room and giving away the pathetic way Hongjoong was fucking himself into your hand, holding onto you for dear life. His hands gripped at your shoulders and waist, putting you at a very uncomfortable position, but the sound of his panting on your ears and the feeling of his now slick cock desperately thrusting onto your hand was too exhilarating for you to care. Then you heard his airy voice against the shell of your ear, loud and hot. It sent the most pleasant chills down your spine.

“You can tell him to come in”

You both could tell neither of you wanted to stop, but he knew he'd cum if he thrust into you even once more. You put your hand away, resting it against his chest to stabilize yourself. His clothes felt strangely warm, and the feeling of his fast heartbeat strangely flattering. You expected him to look away when you pulled away from him but he didn’t, his clouded eyes stuck to you like a madman. He fixated on the way your chest rose up and down, your exposed waist where he had lifted your top, the small wet patch on your neck where he had drooled. Your chest, where he seemed to regret not touching you. Your flushed face and hazy eyes staring down at him, mirroring his.

“Hurry, or I’ll finish” he moaned against your mouth.

You turned around and exited the room under Hongjoong’s burning gaze. It felt embarrassing to call for the artist in such a state, wondering if he'd know. When you entered the room your eyes stayed glued to the floor until you had been next to Hongjoong, his hand warm holding tightly onto yours. It felt so strange doing this after what had just happened. The metallic clanking behind you made you shiver and you tried not to think about what would be going down soon. Next to you, Hongjoong’s eyes were glued to the ceiling, the strong white light reflecting on his glassy blue eyes.

“It’ll be just a moment” his eyes fell onto you and despite the nervousness still evident in them, they softened “You are going to look so cool”

His grip on your hand tightened. It really was just a moment, but to Hongjoong it probably felt way longer than it had been. Your hand would hurt for a while after the way he had held onto it, but you wouldn’t tell him that. His jaw tensed as he held in a pained cry, and despite not being able to see what was going on, the implication made you wince. A single tear streamed down his cheek, softly wiped them away by you. His breathing seemed to steady as you heard the familiar sound of gloves being pulled out.

“All done. Bleeding for a few days will be normal, it’s nothing to worry about. Clean the wound twice a day, dry it gently, don’t touch the piece, the usual. No swimming. No oral or penetrative sex for a month" none of you said anything, but you both were obviously disappointed "Erections are okay but there might be some bleeding too... I think that’s it. I’ll let you fix yourself and I’ll be waiting outside, okay? See you in a minute, guys”

“Thanks” Hongjoong’s voice was raspy but he felt alright “Wait outside, I’ll be right there”

“Okay”

-

You had expected for Hongjoong to walk with a bit more difficulty than he did, but despite the slight hint of discomfort on his face there weren’t many tells. He might be able to hide it from the members after all. After Hongjoong had arranged for his follow up visit you both exited the place, the clear mid-day sky welcoming you despite the chill air. You expected things to get awkward, but it surprised you how much you both just seemed horny and frustrated.

“You hungry?” Hongjoong asked as he fished inside of his jacket for his car keys.

“I could go for a bite, yeah”

His hand grabbed onto the handle of the driver’s seat and you both sat down inside.

“Thank you. Really” he said.

“No need. And I am sorry”

Hongjoong frowned.

“Sorry for what?”

“For your girlfriend breaking up with you because of me”

His lips shaped into a crooked smile.

“Who said she’s the one who broke up?” You looked at each other for a moment before he leaned forward and he kissed you. It was soft, and slow. So slow that it was obvious it was far from innocent. His eyes trailed down your body with a sigh "What about we go back to your place, actually?"

You bit your lip and shook your head. Your thighs pressed together.

"Didn't you hear what he just said"

"He said no oral and no sex, on me" his eyes bored into yours, hungry "There are so many things I can do for you" his hand rested on your knee, lazily moving upwards "Please?" Your legs parted and his hand eagerly touched your through your jeans. Hongjoon let of a soft groan, even through the thick fabric he could feel the heat "How wet did you get?"

"It's your fault" you complained, aware of the way Hongjoong would soften up at your pouty demeanor from time to time.

"Is it?" he feigned innocently, his fingers uselessly pressing harder over your entrance through the jeans, as if your cunt was desperately calling out to him. It was nothing short of disgusting how horny you both were in plain daylight, parked on the street with people passing by "Should I fix it?"

-

You both tried to make the ride back to your apartment, but thirty minutes proved to be too much. Heat was blinding Hongjoong, eyes darting around like a crazy man, so impatient he'd hit the claxon at any car that took more than one second to floor it after the light turned green. He was trying hard not to touch you with his free hand, and you were busy ignoring how uncomfortably your panties stuck to your pussy. He had driven inside the parking lot of a mall, half empty, as you questioned him.

"I'm sorry" he had said, before finding the emptiest, most secluded part of it and parking against the wall "get in the back" he demanded, but there was desperation underneath it.

He winced like something hurt, and it was then you could see he was fully hard underneath his sweats. You wanted so badly to see the piercing. Touch it, suck around it, feel it deep inside. A moan escaped your mouth just thinking about it as you let yourself fall on the back seat, Hongjoong coming through the door and slamming it behind him. His hands went for your zipper right away, pulling at the waist of off your jeans with impatient hands. You stopped him.

"All the way?" you asked, your panic as strong as how feverishly horny you felt.

"No one will see" he said before he kissed you, mouth open and tongue dragging across it.

Hongjoon moaned at the difficulty he had when he tried to pull your pants down. He had become painfully aware of your plush thighs and pretty ass for a long time now. He had thought about humping you like a dog whenever he took notice of how well fitted your pants were, or when you'd sit down next to him in a playful minskirt. He didn't even think about fucking you, the simple idea of humping your ass, fully clothed and cumming in his boxers was enough for him. The jeans pilled in an awkward way at your ankles, but it was enough for Hongjoong to maneuver. He didn't waste time and pulled your panties to the side. Breath hitched on his throat when his fingers touched your pussy. You could see the blissful surprise in his eyes, locked on yours, before he had to look down to make sure he wasn't going crazy. He trailed his fingers across it, so wet they easily slid across it.

"Fuck" he said in a pained whine, like he couldn't believe his eyes. He closed them for a moment, trying to concentrate on the nasty, slick sounds that embarrassingly filled in the quiet of the car as his fingers spread your lips. It made his dick twitch painfully.

His eyes went back to yours again, as if asking you if this was real. You looked away, embarrassed. It drove him insane, your flushed face, shiny shy eyes and brows furrowed in shame. All while he felt his fingers wet and sticky against your cunt that seemed to be pleading for him to fuck you.

He didn't even try, his fingers seemed to slip inside your pussy with ease, getting sucked in in a way that had you both moaning into each other's mouths. He pulled them out, taking off the rings on his fingers and unceremoniously tossing them somewhere in the car. He put his fingers right back in as deep as he could, his other hand trying to push your knee as far away as the jeans at your feet allowed it. He groaned almost childishly, taking his fingers away again.

"Take the pants off"

He leaned forward to take your shoes off, but you stopped him again.

"What if someone sees"

"The windows are tinted"

It shouldn't have been enough to convince you, but it did the job. You let him take your shoes and jeans off, horny by just seeing how desperate he was to just finger you. He turned you slightly, your back now pressed against the car door, him sitting on the back seat with your pretty pussy in full display for him. Your back hurt, uncomfortable, but the way he was looking at you was worth it. You could see his fully hard dick pressing against his sweats and you knew it must hurt against the restrain. He pushed your knees apart, but you closed them. It almost made you feel bad, the way he looked at you like he had done something wrong. Before he had time to wonder if he had messed up, you said:

"Pull your pants down, friction is going to hurt you"

Hongjoong bit his lips, it did hurt.

"It's okay..." he started saying, until he saw how you pressed your legs together, hiding you from him. The simple act of losing sight of your leaking pussy for even a second seemed to do the trick, his hands quickly pulling the waistband of his sweats down and freeing his hard, red cock. You could faintly see the piercing, glistening faintly under the fluorescents of the parking lot. You pussy clenched around nothing, around the mere thought of fucking his pierced cock deep inside you.

"Do you like it?" he asked, a hint of shyness laced on his heated breath.

"When it gets better, can I fuck it?"

Hongjoong nodded slowly, as if taking in your request. He parted your legs, slightly pressing them against your chest, making you whimper at the nasty way he was eyeing you. With a whimper he went back to trace his fingers across your pussy, tantalizingly slow for someone who was so desperate to be knuckles deep inside you seconds ago.

"I want to spit on it but you don't need it"

You understood then why he had fallen so quiet, why he was toying with your entrance. He was savoring the sound of it. The slick, faint and nasty sound your pussy made whenever he graced his fingers across it. You pushed your hips, almost begging him, and he obeyed. His fingers slid right inside again, this time perfectly going all the way in until his knuckes pressed against the entrance. How he wished he could put more in, fuck you like a pathetic bitch in heat in the back of his car. The way you moaned brought him back to reality. You clenched around him, and he worried he might cum. Slowly he pulled his fingers out, savoring the slick coat of arousal around your fingers before pushing them back in. They filled you up again, your hips moving on their own again. He pumped them inside you slowly, lost in the small pants that left your mouth, your eyes glued to the way his hand got sucked inside your cunt over and over again. His thumb started to press at your clit whenever his fingers went all the way in, and the loud moans you were trying to suppress turned into pathetic cries whenever it did. The cries, the exposure, your hot pussy, the filthy sounds. He was going to cum. He needed to compose himself.

He pulled his fingers out, and you let out a whimper that sounded like a question. He dragged your legs towards him, until he had your back arching across the back seat. His hands grabbed at the neck of your tank top, pulling it down unceremoniously to expose your tits to him. The way he seemed so desperate to do so got you clenching around nothing. His hands moved to them, palming them with a satisfied groan, brows furrowed as he took the whole sight in. You, sprawled in the back seat of his car, chest exposed and your legs open just for him to see and touch, thighs wet with your own arousal. His hands dragged down, nails scratching at your stomach and thighs on their way back to hold the back of your knees against your chest.

"I want to fuck you" he said, as if it were a confession "I've always wanted to fuck you"

Maybe it had been a confession, an apology he felt he'd owe you soon. He winced, and you thought the piercing might hurt, but you understood once you saw and felt him cum on you and the leather seat. A thin string connected his cock to the cum that now covered your gaping pussy. It felt hot, but not as hot as the sight in front of you: Hongjoong hunched forward, head down in shame and panting slightly.

"I'm sorry" he breathed out, an you could tell he was embarrassed.

He heard you groan lowly, and for a second he worried he really had ruined everything, until you said:

"You are so hot"

His head shot up when he felt you grabbing his wrist, coating his fingers on his own cum before moving your hips to fuck yourself onto his hand. Hongjoong moaned loudly in surprise, which startled him so much that he turned around to make sure no one had heard. He brought his attention back to you quickly, not wanting to miss a single second of what was going on inside his car. Neither did you. The sight of his shiny eyes, fucked-out expression and parted lips making you squeeze his pretty fingers, dragging another whine from him.

"You are fucking me so well" you said, speaking for the first time. You voice was strained, dry "Can't you feel how much I love it?"

You clenched around him on purpose, and the way his face twisted anyone might think he was severely hurt.

"Does it feel good?" he breathed "Do my fingers feel good? Tell me they feel good"

His desperation made you clench again "It feels so fucking good, can't you hear it?"

He could hear it, that filthy sound now exacerbated by his cum getting pushed in and out of your cunt. He was getting hard again, watching you hold onto his hand and thrust into it, using it to abuse your own pussy with such a pleased, eager expression.

"You are so pretty. You have such a pretty pussy" the words left his mouth like a lost thought. He wasn't really thinking anymore.

"I want you to fuck it"

"Shut up" he groaned.

Hongjoon leaned in and kissed you, the drool that had formed at the sight of you now falling down your chin in a clash of teeth and tongue. He pressed his tongue against yours, forcing it deep inside your mouth just as he buried his fingers deep, deep inside you. The moan that rose from your throat choked on his tongue. He pulled it out of your mouth it with a nasty sound, a thread of saliva connecting your lips. Just by the way he looked, you knew he was hard again.

"I'm going to fuck you so good. I promise you"

He pulled his fingers back again, and proceeded to finger you at a speed that made it clear he was trying to get you to cum before he did again, and he was close.

"You sound so fucking good"

He patted at his sweats with his free hands, hand looking for something like a desperate puppy. He finally found it: his phone. When you realized what he was doing, both embarrassment and heat spread through your lower belly, making you whine in a way that made Hongjoong's hand shake, but his pace never faltered. He had opened the recording app and placed it close to your pussy, making sure every filthy little sound was saved for later.

You came with a loud cry, and Hongjoong savored every small clench, every small wet sound that came from your orgasm as he moaned himself, painfully hard and wishing he could use you like a fleshlight. He rode out your orgasm by recording every sound, fingers going inside and out, stretching you out and dragging them across your cunt to record as much as possible. When he was done, he pulled them out, and sat with a deep sigh, placing his hard cock insde his sweats with a wince. He took a look at you, then leaned forward and kissed you softly on the lips. It was soft, careful, like the first one you had shared in that same car. You were both riding the high, and you felt blissful enough to do him the favour of cleaning his fingers by bringing them to your mouth, tongue dragging across them in small licks.

"You are awful" Hongjoong said, voice strained and eyes going dark again.

It made you chuckle, and baring your teeth you bit them playfully before placing a chaste kiss on them.

He pulled your top back up, and helped you sit comfortably after lying in such a straining position for so long. The truth was, if he let you stay in that position for longer, he might be tempted to bury his fingers deep inside you again. God, he already missed the feeling of your pussy around them. He looked around to make sure there was no one around.

"You good?" he asked, lips pressed against your cheek in a soft kiss.

You humed in response.

"I'm sorry about your car" you said, guiding Hongjoong eyes to the part of the back seat between you two that was covered in cum. Hongjoong's chest rose and fell with a deep sigh.

"It's my fault. I was too impatient"

"How are you going to survive a whole month?"

Something flashed in Hongjoong's eyes. Something soft and unguarded.

"I think I'll manage, if you help me out"

You bit your lip. It was obvious he was still incredibly horny. So were you.

"Do you think you'll last until we reach my apartment?" you didn't miss the way Hongjoong's eyebrows rose, eyes shining, then it disappeared after he took a quick glance at the time on his phone.

"I have to go back to the dorm..."

You playfully shrugged.

"You could be very quiet" you whispered into his lips before kissing them so softly it made his dick twitch.

"I can't be, you just saw" he retorted, but you could tell he only needed a little push.

"It's easy if your mouth is busy" you kissed his neck, tongue dragging swiftly through te spot "Buried under my pretty pussy"

The first thing you learned about your husband was that he didn’t smile.

Not at the wedding. Not during the vows.

Not even when the officiant tried to lighten the atmosphere with a joke about “till death do you part” sounding a little too literal considering his line of work.

Kang Yeosang had simply stood there in his perfectly tailored suit, hands steady, expression unreadable—like he wasn’t marrying you, but signing a contract.

Which, to be fair, he kind of was.

You weren’t naive.

You knew exactly what this marriage was: a strategic alliance between your family and his. 

Stability. Protection. Power consolidation. 

All the very romantic things that made mafia deals go smoothly.

What you didn’t expect… was how quiet he would be. Not cold in the dramatic, cruel way.

Just… distant.

Like he existed slightly outside of your world.

He spoke when necessary. Ate with precision. Moved like someone always calculating three steps ahead. 

Even at home, where most people would relax, Yeosang remained composed—back straight, voice low, emotions tucked away behind a wall you couldn’t even see the edges of.

At first, you tried.

“Do you like tea or coffee?” you had asked on the third morning after moving in.

“Either.”

“…Okay, but which do you prefer?”

A pause.

“Tea.”

You beamed. “Great! I’ll remember that.”

He nodded once. That was it.

No “thank you.” No follow-up.

Just… Yeosang.

You refused to let that discourage you.

If he was a wall, you’d be ivy.

You talked about everything.

Your day. The neighbor’s weird cat. A random documentary you watched. A joke you found funny.

He listened, always. That was the strange part.

He never interrupted, never dismissed you, never told you to stop talking. He just… didn’t respond much.

Still, you noticed things.

Like how his gaze would linger just a fraction longer when you laughed.

Or how he’d subtly adjust the air conditioning because you once mentioned you got cold easily.

Or how your favorite snacks would magically appear in the pantry after you offhandedly said you liked them.

He didn’t show his affection with his words.

He… executed it.

Quietly. Efficiently.

Like everything else he did.

You shared a room.

A large one, elegant and impersonal at first, until you filled it with small touches—books on the nightstand, soft blankets, a ridiculous amount of pillows Yeosang never complained about.

The bed, however, remained a clear line of demarcation.

You on one side. Him on the other.

He never crossed it. Not even in his sleep. Not even once.

It wasn’t rejection, exactly. It just… felt like distance.

And sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and Yeosang’s breathing was steady beside you, you’d stare at the ceiling and wonder—

Does he even like me?

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

If there was one thing you didn’t share with him, it was your stash.

Hidden carefully in the bottom drawer of your desk, beneath neatly folded scarves and old notebooks, was your treasure trove:

Romance novels. Fanfiction printouts.

Dog-eared pages, highlighted lines, sticky notes marking your favorite scenes.

Soft love. Slow burns. Confessions whispered in the dark.

The kind of affection your marriage didn’t quite have.

It wasn’t that you expected Yeosang to suddenly turn into a dramatic romantic lead.

But sometimes—

Okay, a lot of times—

you wished he’d just… reach for you.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

It happened on a completely normal afternoon.

Which, in hindsight, was exactly how life liked to ruin you.

You had left in a hurry, rushing out to meet a friend, completely forgetting that you’d left your drawer slightly open.

And Yeosang… had come home early.

He wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

Just a document he thought might be on your desk.

He noticed the drawer because it wasn’t perfectly aligned.

And Yeosang was, unfortunately, a man who noticed everything.

So he opened it.

And found…books. A lot of books.

He frowned slightly, picking one up. The cover was… pink.

Suspiciously pink.

He flipped it open.

Read a line. Paused. Read another.

His expression didn’t change much. But his ears turned slightly red.

“His fingers traced her wrist, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of her skin—”

Yeosang closed the book.

Very calmly. Placed it back.

Opened another one.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, voice breaking, “I’ve loved you from the moment you walked into my life.”

Pause. Blink.

Yeosang sat down.

And, for reasons even he couldn’t quite explain…kept reading.

You didn’t think anything was wrong when you walked in.

“Yeosang, I’m back!” you called cheerfully, slipping off your shoes.

No response. That wasn’t unusual.

You wandered into the bedroom—and froze.

Because your husband was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Holding one of your books.

Your brain stopped functioning.

“…”

“…”

He looked up. You looked at him.

The book.

Him.

The book.

Him.

“I can explain,” you blurted.

“Explain what,” he asked calmly, holding up the book, “this?”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

“It’s—uh—it’s research.”

“Research.”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“…life.”

A pause.

Then—

“…I see.”

He looked back at the page and continued reading.

You stood there. Processing.

“…Wait.”

You stepped closer.

“You’re just going to keep reading it?”

“I was in the middle of a chapter.”

“That’s not the point!”

He glanced at you.

“Then what is?”

Your face burned.

“That’s private!”

“I didn’t know that,” he said, tone even. “It was not labeled.”

“You don’t need a label, it’s obvious—!”

Another pause.

He closed the book gently. Looked at you.

“…Do you like this kind of thing?”

Your soul left your body.

“Why are you asking that?” you said weakly.

“You read a lot of it.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

“It usually does.”

“That’s not—” you stopped. “Okay, yes, I like it, but that’s not the point!”

“What is the point?”

“The point is that you weren’t supposed to see it!”

“Why.”

“Because it’s embarrassing!”

“Why.”

“Because it just is!”

Yeosang studied you. Carefully.

“…It is about affection,” he said.

You froze.

“…What?”

“These stories,” he continued, flipping the book slightly, “they focus heavily on emotional and physical intimacy.”

You covered your face.

“I know what they’re about, Yeosang.”

“Do you want that?”

Your hands dropped. The room went quiet.

He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t even embarrassed.

He was just… asking.

Direct. Honest.

Like he always did.

And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.

“…I mean,” you started, quieter now, “I don’t expect… all that dramatic stuff.”

He waited.

“I just…” you hesitated. “Sometimes I wonder if you even like me.”

Silence.

“I do,” he said.

You blinked.

“…You do?”

“Yes.”

“…Oh.”

That was… not what you expected.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Something shifted after that.

Not dramatically. Not overnight.

But… noticeably. It started small.

One evening, you were reading on the couch when he sat beside you.

Closer than usual. Not touching.

Just… close.

You noticed. Said nothing.

Then—

His hand moved.

Slowly. Carefully.

And rested next to yours.

Not holding. Not quite touching.

Just… there.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He was looking straight ahead, completely composed.

But his fingers… twitched slightly. Like he wasn’t used to this either.

You smiled. And gently placed your hand over his.

He froze.

But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

Just… stayed.

But his grip tightened. Just a little.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Yeosang approached affection like he approached everything else:

Methodically.

Which led to… some very interesting moments.

“You look… acceptable.”

“Acceptable???”

He paused.

“…Good.”

You burst out laughing. He looked mildly offended.

Another time, you were in the kitchen when he suddenly hugged you.

From behind. Stiffly.

Like he had read instructions but didn’t quite understand them. 

You nearly dropped the spoon.

“…Yeosang?”

“…Yes.”

“…Are you okay?”

“I am attempting something.”

“…I can tell.”

Pause.

“…Is it working?”

You turned in his arms, smiling.

“Yeah. It is.”

The third time, you came home one day to find candles.

Everywhere. Way too many candles.

“Yeosang—why does it look like a ritual in here?”

“I read that this creates atmosphere.”

“…For what?”

He hesitated.

“…Romance.”

You stared at him.

Then laughed so hard you had to sit down.

He looked deeply confused.

Despite the awkwardness, the stiffness, the occasional complete misunderstanding of fictional tropes—

He was trying. For you.

And that mattered more than anything.

But the real moment—

The one that stayed with you came quietly. Like everything important did with him.

It was late.

You were half-asleep, curled up on your side of the bed.

When you felt it.

A shift. Warmth. Weight.

You blinked your eyes open.

And realized—

Yeosang had moved.

Closer. Not all the way.

But enough that his arm rested lightly over your waist.

Careful. Hesitant.

Like he was giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned back slightly. Into him.

He stiffened. But then relaxed.

And that meant a lot.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Yeosang didn’t become a completely different person.

He didn’t start making grand declarations or dramatic confessions.

But you started noticing more. A lot more.

The way he always made sure you ate. The way he’d stand just a little closer in public.

The way his hand would find yours without thinking.

The way he remembered everything you said.

Even the smallest things. Especially the smallest things.

And sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking… you’d catch it.

A soft expression. A quiet fondness.

Something warm.

Something yours.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

One night, you found something unexpected.

On your pillow. A book.

One of yours.

With… sticky notes. You picked it up slowly.

Opened it.

And saw annotations.

“This is unrealistic.”

“This is inefficient communication.”

“…This is acceptable.”

You laughed. Then flipped to the last page.

Where a single note waited.

“I am still learning. Be patient.”

Your chest tightened.

Soft. Full. Overwhelming.

You looked up.

And there he was. Standing by the door.

Watching you.

“You wrote this?” you asked.

“Yes.”

You smiled. Walked over.

“And what if I said you’re doing really well?”

He paused.

Then, very gently, he reached out.

Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“…That would be… good.” 

“Yeosang?”

“Yes.”

“…Do you love me?”

A rare question.

Direct. Vulnerable.

He didn’t answer immediately.

You waited.

Then—

he stepped closer.

Rested his forehead lightly against yours.

And said, quietly:

“I would not be doing all of this… if I didn’t.”

Not dramatic. Not poetic. Not straight out of your books.

But somehow better.

Because it was him.

And as his hand found yours—steady now, no hesitation— you realized something.

Maybe your story wasn’t like the ones you read. Maybe it didn’t have grand speeches or perfect moments.

Maybe it was slower. Quieter.

A little awkward. A little clumsy.

But it was real. And it was growing.

And most importantly, it was yours.

© lcvejjoong, 2026

You stood outside the reinforced glass door, clipboard pressed against your chest like a shield. The chart on top bore Hongjoong’s name in red ink, never a good sign. Red meant high-risk, aggression history, repeat escape attempts, and, most recently, euthanasia approved. The signature at the bottom belonged to Director Park, who had never once hesitated when signing off on a hybrid deemed irredeemable.

Inside the room, Hongjoong sat on the far edge of the metal cot, knees drawn up, tail wrapped tightly around his ankles. The snow leopard hybrid had always been striking, even in captivity. His hair fell in uneven silver-white strands past his shoulders, ears tufted and restless, constantly flicking toward every sound in the corridor. Those eyes: deep brown, never softened. They tracked movement the way a predator tracks prey that hasn’t yet realized it’s already been chosen.

He had been here four years and seven months. Longer than almost any other hybrid in the high-security wing. Most aggressive cases either improved enough to be rehomed or… didn’t. Hongjoong refused both paths. He didn’t improve. He didn’t die. He simply endured, growing sharper and quieter with each passing season.

You had first noticed him during intake. A midnight raid on an illegal fighting ring in Incheon; thirty-seven hybrids pulled from cages reeking of blood and fear. Hongjoong had been the only one who didn’t cower when the lights came on. He stood in the center of his pen, spine straight, lips peeled back just enough to show fang. When the rescue team breached the enclosure he didn’t run. He lunged, straight at the handler holding the capture pole. Three officers and a tranquilizer dart to the shoulder later, he was dragged unconscious into the transport van. The report noted: "Subject displays unusually high prey-drive response toward humans. Recommend permanent isolation."

That was the beginning.

Over the years you watched him from a distance. You weren’t assigned to his case: senior staff handled the dangerous ones, but you passed his room every shift. Sometimes he ignored you completely. Sometimes he tracked your footsteps with slow, deliberate turns of his head. Once, when a new volunteer dropped a metal tray outside his door, the crash echoed down the hall and Hongjoong exploded off his cot, slamming both palms against the glass so hard it spiderwebbed. He didn’t roar. He didn’t hiss. He simply stared through the fracture lines, pupils blown wide, chest heaving, until security arrived with the stun baton.

After that they tripled the thickness of the glass.

You weren’t supposed to talk to him. Policy forbade personal interaction with red-chart cases unless under direct supervision. But rules had always felt elastic to you. On slow nights you would linger just outside the range of the hallway camera, speaking in the soft monotone you used for frightened kittens and traumatized wolf pups.

"I know you can hear me" you’d murmur. "I’m not coming in. Just… letting you know someone’s here."

He never answered. Not once. But he listened. You could tell because his ears would stop flicking wildly and angle toward your voice. His tail would loosen its death grip on his own legs. Sometimes his eyes would slide sideways, catching yours through the reinforced barrier, and hold there for one long, unreadable second before he looked away.

It wasn’t friendship. It wasn’t trust. It was acknowledgment: You exist. I see you. I haven’t killed you yet.

That small ritual carried on for nearly three years.

Then the notice came down. Director Park called an all-staff meeting at 8:00 am on a Tuesday in March. The conference room smelled of burnt coffee and antiseptic. Twenty-three employees sat in folding chairs while the director paced in front of a projected spreadsheet titled "Capacity Reallocation Q1 20XX."

"We are currently twenty-eight percent over safe occupancy" Park said, tapping the screen. "The Ministry has threatened to pull funding unless we reduce high-maintenance cases by fifteen percent before the next audit. I’ve reviewed every file. Unfortunately, several long-term residents have not responded to rehabilitation protocols."

A murmur moved through the room. Park clicked to the next slide. Hongjoong’s intake photo filled the screen: younger, angrier, lip split and one ear torn. Below it ran the red banner: Subject HK-0047 – SNOW LEOPARD HYBRID – EUTHANASIA SCHEDULED XX SEP 20XX @ 15:00.

Your stomach dropped so violently you tasted bile.

Someone (Minji from intake) raised her hand. "Has he… shown any recent improvement?"

Park’s mouth thinned. "He mauled Handler Choi last month during routine health screening. Four-inch lacerations to the forearm. Choi needed thirty-two stitches and is still on medical leave. That was the third incident in six months."

Another click. Security footage began to play, silent and grainy.

Hongjoong crouched in the corner of an exam room. A handler approached with a syringe. The moment the needle glinted, Hongjoong moved faster than should have been possible in the small space. One second he was still; the next he had the handler pinned facedown, teeth buried in the meat of the man’s shoulder. Blood bloomed dark across the white tile.

The video cut off.

Park folded his arms. "We’ve exhausted every option. Behavioral enrichment, scent therapy, even pharmacological intervention. Nothing works. He’s not adoptable. He’s barely containable. The decision has been made."

The room stayed quiet after that. You didn’t speak during the rest of the meeting. You didn’t speak when everyone filed out. You walked straight to the east wing supply closet, locked yourself inside among shelves of bleach and kibble and cried so hard your throat felt raw.

Then you dried your face, straightened your uniform and went to find Director Park.

He was in his office, already filling out the final disposition form.

You didn’t knock.

"I’m taking him" you said.

Park looked up slowly, pen still poised above the paper. "Excuse me?"

"Hongjoong. HK-0047. I’m adopting him. Today."

For a moment the only sound was the wall clock ticking. Then Park laughed, short, disbelieving. "You’ve read his file."

"I’ve read it more times than you have."

"He nearly killed a handler last month."

"He didn’t kill him. He could have. He didn’t."

"That isn’t the point-"

"It is to me."

Park removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You understand what you’re asking? If he hurts you or anyone else in your building the liability falls entirely on you. No shelter insurance. No legal protection. You’ll be blacklisted from every hybrid-related job in the country. And if he kills someone…" He let the sentence hang.

"I know."

He studied you for a long minute. "Why him?"

You didn’t have a clean answer. Not one that would satisfy bureaucracy. So you gave him the truth you’d been carrying for years.

"Because no one else ever stayed outside his door and talked to him just because they wanted to. Because every time I walked past that room I felt like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. Because if we kill him tomorrow, I’ll spend the rest of my life knowing I could have tried."

Park exhaled through his nose. "You’re insane."

"Maybe."

He stared at the form another moment, then slid it into the shredder beside his desk. The machine whirred.

"Get the paperwork started with admin" he said quietly. "You have until 14:30 to sign everything and take possession. After that, he’s your responsibility. Completely."

You nodded once and left before he could change his mind.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of forms, liability waivers, emergency contact sheets and a mandatory psych evaluation you barely passed because the counselor kept asking if you understood the danger and you kept saying yes.

At 2:15 pm you stood outside Room 47 with a transport crate on wheels (protocol oblige), a heavy-duty collar-and-leash set no one expected you to actually use and a heart that felt too large for your ribcage.

A security officer unlocked the door.

Hongjoong was already on his feet. He didn’t growl. He didn’t bare teeth. He simply watched as you stepped inside alone, closing the door behind you.

The room smelled of metal, antiseptic and the faint musk of snow leopard: clean, cold, wild.

You set the crate down slowly.

"I’m not here to trick you" you said, keeping your voice low and even. "They were going to kill you today. I told them no. I’m taking you home instead."

His ears flattened slightly. Tail tip twitched once.

"I know you don’t trust me. I know you have no reason to. But I’m not leaving this room without you and I’m not dragging you out in chains. So you have two choices." You lifted your empty hands. "Walk out with me, or I sit here until they come in with the needle anyway."

Silence stretched thin and dangerous. Then Hongjoong moved. Not toward you, past you. He circled the small space once, twice, tail brushing the wall. His gaze never left your face.

When he finally stopped, he was close enough that you could see the faint scars running through his left eyebrow, the way his pupils flexed in the dim light. He spoke for the first time in four years and seven months. His voice was low, rough from disuse. "You’re going to regret this."

You swallowed once. "I know."

He studied you another long moment. Then he walked to the crate, crouched and climbed inside without being asked.

The latch clicked shut. You carried rolled him out of the east wing, past staring coworkers, past the security desk, past the front doors into late-afternoon sunlight he hadn’t felt in years.

He didn’t speak again during the drive. But when you reached your apartment and opened the crate door, he didn’t bolt. He stepped out slowly, tail low, ears swiveling, taking in the new space: the living room, the kitchen, the bedroom down the hall.

You stayed by the front door, giving him distance. He turned to look at you once, eyes unreadable. Then he padded silently to the farthest corner of the couch, curled into a tight ball and closed his eyes. Not trust. Not gratitude. Just… survival. For now.

You stood there a long time, watching the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the faint twitch of his tail even in sleep.

The first week felt like holding your breath underwater.

You came home from the shelter each evening expecting chaos: overturned furniture, shredded cushions, claw marks on the walls like territorial warnings. Instead the apartment was eerily still. Hongjoong claimed the far corner of the sectional sofa the moment you opened the crate that first afternoon and he hadn’t moved much since. He slept in tight coils, tail tucked over his nose, ears twitching at every street noise filtering through the single-paned windows. When he was awake he watched. Always watched.

You learned his patterns quickly because they were so rigidly consistent. He drank from the wide ceramic bowl you’d placed on the kitchen floor, never from the glass you left on the counter everyday, as though human containers carried contamination. He ate the high-protein hybrid kibble you poured at exactly 7:00 pm, picking through it with delicate precision, leaving anything that smelled faintly of vegetables or grain. And every night at 11:43 pm (you checked the clock the first three times) he padded silently to the balcony door, sat with his back to the glass, and stared out at the city lights until dawn.

You gave him space. Not because you were afraid but because every book, every training seminar, every whispered story from veteran handlers said the same thing: forced proximity with a long-term isolation case was the fastest way to trigger a defensive snap. So you moved carefully. You spoke in the same soft monotone you’d used outside his shelter room, never raising your voice, never making sudden gestures. You announced your intentions before you acted.

"I’m going to turn on the kitchen light now."

"I’m opening the fridge."

"I’m taking a shower, it’ll take twenty minutes."

He never answered, but his ears would flick in your direction, acknowledging receipt. That small reaction felt like victory.

You bought things for him in careful increments, never all at once so it wouldn’t feel like overwhelming charity. A thick wool blanket the color of fresh snow (he ignored it for three days, then dragged it behind the couch and slept on it). A scratching post taller than you were, he tested it once with slow, deliberate drags of his claws, left faint silvery streaks in the sisal, then never touched it again. A wide, water fountain because the shelter notes said snow leopards preferred moving water, he drank from it exclusively after the first night, tail tip curling in what might have been approval.

You didn’t try to touch him. Not even close. You didn’t try to make eye contact for longer than a second. You didn’t sit on the couch if he was already there. Instead you took the armchair across the room, or the floor cushion by the coffee table, or, when your legs ached from twelve-hour shifts, you sat at the kitchen island with your back to him, pretending to scroll through shelter reports on your tablet. You let him dictate the distance.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the apartment began to smell like him. Not overpoweringly, just enough that when you came home after a long day the familiar musk of clean fur, cold stone and faint cedar greeted you before the smell of last night’s takeout did. It wasn’t unpleasant. It was… grounding. Like the apartment had finally decided to belong to someone other than you.

You started talking to him again, the way you had through the glass. Not expecting answers. Just filling the quiet.

"The new kid in intake today cried the whole transport. Wolf-dog mix, maybe sixteen months old. Kept asking for his mom. Broke my heart."

Or: "Director Park asked if you’d torn the place apart yet. I told him you’re neater than I am."

Or, once, very quietly after a particularly bad day: "I’m glad you’re here. Even if you never speak to me."

He never responded, but he never left the room when you spoke either. It felt like progress.

Then came the evening that would change everything. You’d had a double shift: two emergency intakes, a fight in the large-cat wing that required sedation of three tigers, and a power outage that sent half the shelter into backup-generator panic. By the time you dragged yourself through the front door at 10:17 pm, every muscle ached and your scrubs smelled like fear-sweat and antiseptic.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, flicked on the entryway light.

Hongjoong was already sitting upright on the couch, ears pinned flat, pupils blown so wide the amber irises were thin rings.

You froze. "Hey" you said softly. "Long day. I’m just gonna-"

You took one step toward the kitchen. He moved. Not the slow, deliberate prowl you’d grown accustomed to. This was explosive, silent, liquid violence. One heartbeat he was on the cushion; the next he was across the room, claws out, slamming you back against the wall beside the coat rack. Your skull cracked against plaster. His forearm pressed across your throat, not choking, but pinning. His other hand braced beside your head, claws sunk into drywall. Hot breath fanned your cheek. His tail lashed hard enough to knock a framed photo to the floor; glass shattered somewhere unimportant.

You didn’t scream. Training kicked in: don’t scream, don’t struggle, don’t challenge. You went limp instead, eyes fixed on the middle distance past his shoulder, breathing shallow and even.

He snarled, low, guttural, more vibration than sound. "You reek" he rasped, voice shredded from disuse. "Other cats. Dogs. Fear. Blood."

His nose dragged along your jaw, inhaling sharply. "Mine" he hissed, the word torn out like it hurt him to say it. "This place. Mine."

You swallowed carefully around the pressure on your throat. "I’m sorry" you whispered. "I didn’t realize-"

His claws flexed. Pinpricks of pain bloomed along your collarbone where fabric tore. Then, abruptly, he released you. He stepped back three paces, tail whipping, chest heaving. His ears stayed flat. His pupils hadn’t shrunk.

You slid down the wall until your knees hit the floor, hands trembling so badly you clasped them between your thighs to hide it. Hongjoong stared at you for another endless second. Then he turned, padded back to the couch, leapt onto the highest backrest and disappeared over the top into the shadowed corner he’d claimed as his den.

You stayed on the floor until your heartbeat stopped thundering in your ears. The scratches weren’t deep: three shallow lines across your collarbone, already clotting but they stung like betrayal.

You cleaned them in the bathroom with shaking hands, applied antiseptic, taped gauze over the worst of them. Then you changed into clean clothes, threw the blood-scented scrubs into the washer on hot and quietly set his dinner bowl down in its usual place.

He didn’t come out to eat that night. Or the next morning. You left the food anyway. Fresh water. A new blanket folded beside his old one.

From that moment on, you stopped trying. No more soft announcements before moving through the apartment. No more casual one-sided conversation. No more lingering in shared spaces.

You fed him on schedule, 7:00 pm exactly, then retreated to your bedroom with the door closed. You showered with the fan on to drown out any sound he might make. You worked late at the shelter whenever possible, taking extra shifts just to delay coming home to the suffocating silence.

When you were home, you became a ghost in your own apartment. You used the armchair only when he was clearly asleep. You walked wide arcs around the couch. You kept your gaze lowered, never meeting those glacial eyes even by accident. You stopped buying things for him. No more blankets, no more toys, no more attempts to make the space feel welcoming. If he wanted comfort, he could use what was already there. If he wanted interaction, he could initiate it. He didn’t.

Days blurred into weeks. The apartment stayed clean, unnaturally so. He groomed obsessively, fur gleaming like fresh powder. He ate every bite of food you left. But he never once approached you.

Sometimes, late at night when you couldn’t sleep, you would sit on the floor of your bedroom with your back against the closed door and listen. You could hear him moving: soft footfalls, the faint drag of claws on hardwood when he stretched, the rhythmic thump of his tail against the couch frame when something outside startled him.

Once you thought you heard a low, rumbling sound that might have been a purr. You told yourself it was the refrigerator.

December arrived with rain that hammered the windows for days. Hongjoong took to sitting on the windowsill, nose almost touching the glass, watching water streak down in rivulets. You wondered if he missed snow. You wondered if he remembered mountains. You wondered if he hated you now, or if he’d simply gone back to the state he’d lived in for four years at the shelter: watchful, untouchable, alone.

You stopped wondering so loudly inside your own head. You stopped wondering at all. In January, you had settled into a routine that felt sustainable, if joyless. You woke at 5:45 am, showered, dressed, left his breakfast on the way out. You worked. You came home at whatever hour the shift ended, set dinner down without looking toward the living room, retreated to your room. You slept. You repeated.

The scratches healed into thin pale lines. You wore high-necked shirts to the shelter so no one would ask questions. No one did. You told yourself this was better. He was alive. He was safe. He wasn’t in a steel room waiting for a needle. That had to be enough. But sometimes, when you passed the couch and caught the faint scent of musk and fur, you felt the absence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

You had adopted him to save him. Instead you’d built a new cage. This one just had better lighting. And softer floors. And no cameras.

On one evening, you came home to find the food untouched. You paused in the doorway. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow of the city bleeding through the balcony glass. Hongjoong was on the windowsill again, back to you, tail curled tightly around his feet.

You set your bag down quietly, walked to the kitchen, poured fresh kibble anyway, set the bowl in its place. Then, because you couldn’t help it, you spoke for the first time in six weeks.

"I’m sorry I smell like the shelter" you said to the darkness. "I can’t help it. It’s on my skin now. Probably always will be."

Silence.

You exhaled. "I’ll sleep in the spare room tonight. Give you the whole place." (The spare room is the furthest from the living room)

You turned toward the hallway. Behind you, a low sound, barely audible. A single, rough word. "Wait."

You froze. He didn’t repeat it. He didn’t move. But the word hung between you like smoke. You waited another thirty seconds. Then you continued down the hall, closed the spare-room door behind you and sat on the edge of the bare mattress with your head in your hands.

He had spoken. After everything. One word. Wait. You didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t dare hope. But for the first time since you took him in, your heart beat fast enough to hurt.

The apartment had become a museum of careful distance. February slipped into March without fanfare. Snow gave way to rain that fell against the windows like a second skin. You kept the balcony door cracked at night for air, even though the city noise filtered in: sirens, distant laughter, the low rumble of delivery scooters. Hongjoong still perched on the windowsill most evenings, nose almost touching the glass, tail curled so tightly the tip trembled. You no longer spoke to announce your movements. You no longer spoke at all unless it was necessary: "Dinner’s down." "I’m heading out." "Good night."

He answered in monosyllables when he answered at all. "Yes." "No." "Fine."

That single "wait" from weeks ago had never been repeated. You told yourself it had been a fluke, a slip of the tongue after too many weeks of silence. You told yourself not to read meaning into it. You mostly succeeded.

Work became your anchor. The shelter was busier than ever. You started bringing home temporary cases: a pair of lynx kittens who needed bottle-feeding every three hours, a timid caracal recovering from a broken leg, a young clouded leopard hybrid who flinched at every sudden noise. They stayed in the spare bedroom you’d quietly converted into a nursery. You spent evenings there instead of the living room, rocking tiny bodies, murmuring lullabies, cleaning formula stains from your shirts.

Hongjoong noticed. At first it was subtle. His ears would flatten when you rolled a carrier past the couch. His tail would lash once, hard, against the cushion. He stopped sitting on the windowsill when the nursery door was open; instead he paced the hallway in slow, deliberate circuits, claws clicking faintly on hardwood. You pretended not to see.

One evening in late June you came home with a fox hybrid kit, barely weaned, red fur matted with street grime, trembling so violently his teeth chattered. You carried him straight to the bathroom for a warm bath. Hongjoong was already in the hallway when you stepped out of the elevator. He didn’t move aside. He stood in the center of the corridor, shoulders squared, pupils thin slits.

You paused. "I need to get him cleaned up" you said quietly. "He’s freezing."

Hongjoong’s gaze dropped to the bundle in your arms. The kit whimpered, pressing his face into your neck. A low growl rolled out of Hongjoong’s chest, slow, continuous, like distant thunder. You met his eyes for the first time in months.

"I’ll keep him in the spare room" you said. "He won’t be out here."

The growl cut off abruptly. Hongjoong stepped aside. You walked past without another word. That night the pacing started. Soft at first, footfalls up and down the hallway. Then faster. Then accompanied by the scrape of claws against baseboards. You lay awake in the spare room with the fox kit curled against your chest, listening to the restless rhythm on the other side of the door. At 3:17 am the pacing stopped.

You heard the soft thump of him jumping onto the couch. Then silence.

The next morning the food bowl was untouched again. You left it anyway.

Over the following weeks the pattern sharpened. Every time you brought home a new foster, every single time, Hongjoong’s behavior shifted. He would position himself between you and the nursery door when you rolled carriers inside. He would sit directly in your path when you left for work, forcing you to step around him. Once, when the clouded leopard hissed at you during a nail trim, Hongjoong appeared in the doorway so fast you didn’t see him move; he didn’t enter, just stood there, staring until the younger hybrid went quiet and hid under the bed.

You started leaving work earlier when possible, just to minimize the hours the fosters spent alone with him prowling the apartment. You told yourself it was protectiveness toward territory. You told yourself it wasn’t personal. You were lying.

May arrived with a heatwave that turned the city into a furnace. The air conditioner struggled; you kept it set to 24°C and still woke up damp with sweat. The fox kit had been adopted out. The lynx kittens too. Only the clouded leopard remained, still skittish, still healing, still sleeping in the crook of your arm every night because thunderstorms made him cry.

Hongjoong stopped eating on the days you came home smelling strongest of the nursery. You found half-finished bowls shoved under the couch. Water left untouched. Once you discovered the scratching post dragged into the hallway and shredded to ribbons, fibers scattered like snow. You stopped bringing fosters home after that.

Director Park raised an eyebrow when you requested to cut back on temporary placements. "Everything okay at home?" he asked.

You smiled tightly. "Just need a break."

He didn’t push.

The apartment felt bigger without the soft sounds of kittens or the patter of small paws. It also felt colder. Hongjoong returned to the windowsill. But now he watched you. Not the city. You.

When you moved through the kitchen he tracked every step. When you sat in the armchair with a book he stared until you looked up, then looked away. When you showered he waited outside the bathroom door; you could see the shadow of his tail under the gap.

You started locking your bedroom door at night. Not because you were afraid he would hurt you. Because you were afraid of what might happen if he didn’t.

One night, you came home late, overtime covering a staff shortage. The apartment was dark except for the blue glow from the balcony. Hongjoong sat on the back of the couch, tail hanging down, swaying slowly like a metronome counting something only he could hear.

You set your bag down. "I’m home" you said, habit more than expectation.

He didn’t answer. You walked past him toward the kitchen. His tail snapped out, curling around your wrist, not hard, but firm enough to stop you. You froze.

His voice came low, rough, barely above a whisper. "You smell like him again."

You looked down at the tail wrapped around your skin.

"The clouded leopard" he said. "His scent’s all over you. On your neck. Your arms. Your clothes."

You exhaled slowly. "He was scared tonight. Thunderstorm. I held him until he fell asleep."

Hongjoong’s grip tightened, just a fraction. "Then you came home to me smelling like him."

You met his eyes. Dark amber. Pupils blown wide in the dim light.

"Is that a problem?" you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. His tail uncoiled from your wrist, slid up your arm, brushed the side of your neck where the kitten had nuzzled.

"Yes" he said finally.

"Why?"

"Because I thought-" His voice cracked. He swallowed. Tried again. "I thought when you brought me here… you chose me."

The words landed like stones in still water. You felt them ripple outward, touching every careful wall you’d built for months.

"I did choose you" you said.

"Then why do you keep bringing them home?" His ears flattened. "Why do you let them sleep in your arms? Why do you come back smelling like someone else?"

You took one careful step closer. He didn’t retreat.

"I brought them home because it’s my job" you said. "Because they needed somewhere safe. The same reason I brought you."

His tail lashed once. "I’m not the same" he hissed.

"No" you agreed. "You’re not."

Silence stretched. Then he spoke again, so softly you almost missed it.

"I waited."

You blinked.

"I waited four years in that room. No one came close. No one stayed. Then you did. Every day. Talking through the glass like I was… someone." His gaze dropped to the floor. "I thought when you took me out of there, it meant something. Then you stopped. You stopped talking. Stopped looking. Started bringing others."

His claws flexed against the couch leather.

"I got scared" he admitted. "Scared you’d realize I wasn’t worth it. Scared you’d send me back. Or worse, keep me but never look at me again."

Your throat tightened. "Hongjoong…"

"I attacked you" he continued, voice raw. "I hurt you. And after that I didn’t know how to fix it. So I stayed quiet. Stayed away. Thought maybe if I didn’t bother you, you’d keep me anyway."

He lifted his eyes again. "I’m sorry."

The apology hung between you, simple, jagged, honest.

You stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see the faint tremble in his ears.

"I never stopped wanting you here" you whispered. "I just didn’t know how to reach you after… after that night."

He exhaled shakily. "I didn’t want to hurt you again."

"You didn’t."

"I could have."

"But you didn’t."

Another long silence. Then he moved, slowly, deliberately. He slid off the couch back, landed soundlessly in front of you. His hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. Careful. Reverent.

"I don’t want to smell anyone else on you" he murmured.

You swallowed. "Then don’t."

His pupils dilated fully. He leaned in, slow enough you could stop him if you wanted. You didn’t. His nose brushed your jaw first. Inhaling. A low rumble started in his chest, not a growl. A purr. Deep, continuous, vibrating through both of you. He licked once, slow, warm, deliberate, over the spot where the clouded leopard’s scent lingered strongest. Then again. And again. Until your skin tingled and your knees felt unsteady.

"Hongjoong…"

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. "Tell me to stop."

You shook your head. He kissed you. Not gentle. Desperate. Teeth and tongue and the faint scrape of fangs against your lower lip. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head, holding you exactly where he wanted. Tail wrapped around your thigh, possessive, anchoring. You gasped into his mouth. He growled approval.

Clothes came off in a frantic rush: your shirt over your head, his thin sleep pants shoved down, your jeans kicked somewhere unimportant. He lifted you effortlessly, carried you to the couch, laid you down on the blanket he’d claimed months ago. The one that smelled like clean fur and musk and him.

He hovered above you, breathing hard, eyes searching yours. "Last chance" he rasped. "Tell me no."

You reached up, cupped his face, pulled him down. "Yes."

He claimed your mouth again, deeper, hungrier. Then he moved lower. Teeth grazed your collarbone, over the faint silver scars he’d left. He paused there, licked them slowly, reverently, like an apology pressed into skin.

"I’ll never hurt you again" he whispered against the marks.

You believed him.

His hands mapped you: strong fingers, careful claws retracted, palms warm and rough from years of gripping bars and concrete. He kissed every inch he uncovered: the hollow of your throat, the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist. When he reached the inside of your thigh he nuzzled there, inhaling deeply, rumbling with satisfaction. "Mine" he growled softly.

Then he tasted you. Slow at first, exploring, learning. Then faster, hungrier, until your back arched and your fingers tangled in his hair and you were gasping his name like a prayer. He didn’t stop until you shattered: back bowed, thighs trembling, crying out into the dark apartment.

Only then did he crawl back up, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

He settled between your legs, hard length pressing against you, hot and insistent. "Look at me" he said. You did. He pushed in slowly, careful, watching your face for any sign of pain. There was stretch, pressure, fullness, but no pain. Only heat. Only him.

When he was seated fully he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. "You feel…" He swallowed. "Perfect."

You wrapped your legs around him. "Move."

He did. Slow rolls at first, deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. Then faster. Harder. The couch creaked beneath you. His tail curled around your calf, holding you open. His teeth found your shoulder, not breaking skin, just pressing, marking without drawing blood.

You raked your nails down his back. He snarled, pleased, primal. The rhythm built until it was frantic: skin slapping, breath mingling, growls and moans overlapping.

When you clenched around him he buried his face in your neck, fangs grazing, hips stuttering. "Come for me" he rasped. "Let me feel it."

You did, harder than before, crying his name, nails digging crescents into his shoulders. He followed seconds later, deep growl vibrating against your throat, hips grinding flush as he spilled inside you, marking you from the inside out.

He didn’t pull away. He stayed buried, arms wrapped around you, tail still curled around your leg, purring so loudly it rattled your bones. You stroked his hair, his ears, the base of his tail until the purr softened to a contented rumble.

He nuzzled your neck. "You're so mine" he whispered again, this time gentle.

You kissed the top of his head. "Of course, kitty"

He stayed inside you until he softened, then carefully pulled out, gathered you against his chest, and carried you to the bedroom, your bedroom.

He laid you down, crawled in beside you, pulled the covers over both of you. His tail draped across your hip. His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers lacing tight.

"I’m not letting you go" he murmured into your hair.

You squeezed his hand. "I’m not going anywhere."

He pressed a kiss to your temple. "Sleep."

You did, wrapped in fur and warmth and the steady thump of his heart against your back.