Can't Stop or Won't Stop?

their usual goaltender glances upwards as he handles the puck rebounding off the boards. his jaw tightens and with a practised flick of his wrist, san chips the puck over an incoming stick’s attempt to block the pass. there’s a burst of explosive power as yunho speeds up along the opposite boards to receive the landing puck, hoping to break away from the opposing team’s offensive players before he passes it off.

the flash of a blue jersey appears in yunho’s vision with alarming momentum. they lower and widen their stance, shoulder positioned in front ready to knock him directly into the boards in an attempt to steal the puck, leaving yunho with no choice but to mirror their actions. he braces himself as the opponent rams into him with more force than a usual play, and in combination with their own towering height, yunho finds himself being pushed into the plexiglass panels as he loses possession of the puck.

involuntarily, he lets out a threatening growl of vexation. there is a teasing chuckle from the other player that still has him pinned against the wall despite the continuing game, which clearly tells him that the excessive body check was deliberate. yunho has half a mind to flip their positions, knowing he could easily overpower the other. but before he can adjust his stick out of the way to make good use of his hands, the opponent playfully knocks their helmets together.

“you’re hot when you get all competitive and riled up.”

all of the tension escapes yunho’s body, because he will never not find mingi’s attempts to flirt mid-game–with his mouthguard and resultant bumbling pronunciation–to be amusing. he endearingly rolls his eyes and sighs, “have you not heard of, ‘don’t poke the bear’?”

“you’re not a bear, though,” mingi squirms cheekily on the spot, still up in yunho’s personal space because he knows the older will never be truly annoyed by his antics. “you’re just a cute, harmless puppy.”

before mingi can blink, yunho grabs him by the shoulders and pins him against the wall. yunho smirks, “and they also say, ‘let sleeping dogs lie’.”

wooyoung tongues his cheek with mischief at the sight of the two, nice and cosy against the walls of the rink. he hands his stick off to seonghwa, who is starting to remove his helmet, and skates in their direction, ignoring the dull throb in his left ankle. wooyoung only bothers to slow himself down slightly, instead letting his trajectory be cushioned by something else.

mingi lets out a pathetic noise as the air is squeezed out of his chest from the impact of wooyoung and yunho’s added weight. the latter grunts out, a little breathless, “woo, please, you’re going to knock somebody out like this one day.”

it goes in one ear and out the other as wooyoung grins up at him to state, “seonghwa scored so we lost ‘cause you were too busy making out with mister mingles here.”

yunho pushes off the wall to free himself from the sandwich of bodies and pivots on his skates to jab wooyoung’s padded chest. “you and san were doing the exact same thing just five minutes ago.”

“we’re on the same team,” wooyoung shrugs, “whereas mingi is not, so you’re fraternising with the enemy. now come on losers, captain’s wrapping up practice.”

the three of them glide along the ice to rejoin the rest of the team, where they are stepping out of the rink to sit on the benches. they remove their helmets and start unlacing their skates as hongjoong gathers the attention of the team.

“great work from everybody today, especially you, jongho. your backhand wrist shots are improving–keep it up. now just a reminder to everyone that our regular games start next week so i want you all to make sure you are stretching and cooling down properly,” he emphasises. he pointedly looks at yeosang, who has already begun to wander his way off to the changerooms, at the same time that seonghwa scruffs him by the back of his jersey and gently tugs him back to the team.

jongho peels off his blue practice jersey as he scans the arena and absentmindedly asks, “is coach still not here? it’s already the end of practice.”

“he said he had something to sort out today, but would come round if everything went well,” seonghwa answers, also craning his neck to look for signs of their coach.

from where you and coach cho are watching from the designated scouting area in the arena, the team is unable to spot you two. you had come from the final negotiations of your contract with coach cho and had watched their team, the red devils, play the last period of their game. despite it only being a friendly match amongst the team’s players, you have already grasped a sense of their playing style–it is heavy on the offensive at the expense of defence, just like how you used to play. it is fast-paced, aggressive and…prone to injury.

“let’s go meet the team,” coach cho voices, making his way out of the viewing area as you follow beside him. all the players look up from their skates that they are still unlacing or from their stretches on the floor when you two near the arrangement of benches surrounding the rink. they greet coach cho enthusiastically and you can see why from the way the older man smiles at them like they are his own sons.

“y/n, this is the team, the red devils–my pride and joy. boys, this is y/n,” he introduces. “i had to miss practice to meet up with y/n and make sure she was happy to sign on as part of the red devils.”

said team gives you disinterested glances, a complete change from the receptivity with which they respond to coach cho. one of the red-jerseyed boys, who you recognise as wooyoung, utters sarcastically, “cute, but we don’t need a mascot or cheerleader.”

coach cho chuckles lightly, “she’s your new coach.”

“hold on, you were serious about–” “–are you coaching a different team–” “–you don’t want us anymore?”

some of the boys erupt into a barrage of questions, trying to make sense of the sudden announcement, whereas the others stay quiet, flickers of flashbacks stirring up from within the depths of their memories. their coach raises his hands to settle them as he apologises, “i didn’t want to say anything before i was one hundred percent sure that things would go ahead, and i wasn’t sure whether y/n would accept the offer.”

“is it because your wife is due soon?” san interrupts.

coach cho nods, “with twins, and i want to be present to help–as a husband and a father. but that just isn’t feasible as your coach, as much as i love you boys.”

training as professional athletes takes incredible perseverance, discipline and commitment. there are early mornings, late nights, weekends and public holidays. it takes sacrifices in the form of time and relationships, especially when they must travel away from home for up to weeks on end to compete in matches. and with the start of the regular season, the intensity is only going to ramp up. as hard as the athletes train, the coach works twice as hard to make it all possible.

the team needs somebody to be there for them to ensure they make it into the playoffs, and it just won’t be fair for anybody–the players and his own family–if coach cho were to keep his position. and the team gets it, they really do, but–

“she’s the new coach?” yunho frowns in confusion. “no offence, but we’re not a bunch of kids for her to practise being a soccer mum to.”

“she was the assistant coach for the grey eagles,” coach cho discloses.

“the grey eagles? the under-21 men’s championship team?” yeosang looks incredulous.

mingi sceptically comments, “the fact that we’ve never seen or heard of her before probably tells us enough.”

hongjoong’s lips purse sourly as he tries his hardest to analyse the situation with the professionalism of the team’s captain. but with the sudden change in coaches and the same critiquing doubts as mingi, hongjoong cannot help but feel his personal judgement webbing over his mind. over the team’s entire career as an elite ice hockey team thus far–five years, now well into their sixth–the red devils have only ever had two coaches. coach cho has been with them for the longest and whilst it took the team a while to eventually warm up to him, he has been with them for almost quadruple the amount of time it took to trust him.

the team’s alternate captain, seonghwa, speaks to you directly, “if you don’t mind me asking, why are you not playing as an athlete yourself? you’re clearly our age–nowhere near retiring.”

you knew from the very start that your age would make your credibility as a coach much lower, and your answer to seonghwa will not help your case either. “i stopped playing.”

“how come?”

the trigger of memories fills your nose with a sharp stinging smell. you blankly reveal, “i chose to stop playing.” you know exactly how it sounds like to somebody else, even more so to professional athletes. coach cho has also told you of the team’s hardheadedness and strong will when it comes to the passions of their career, so you are expecting the cold receptiveness that you are met with.

your response strikes the wrong chord within wooyoung. there was a point in his career not too long ago when the choice of continuing to play or not was at risk of becoming a forced decision. the way you answer so callously with those very words that had threatened to tear his world apart has his jaw grinding and eyes darkening, and he is not the only athlete in the arena who feels similarly.

“i would rather choose to die before i choose to stop playing. ice hockey is my entire life and without it, i am not living either,” hongjoong jabs and you cannot help but clench your fists because you know exactly what he means. still, you stay quiet as he continues, “sorry, but i can’t respect a ‘coach’ who chose to stop playing.”

at the captain’s words and subsequent move to leave for the changerooms, the rest of the team also gather their equipment and follow his steps. san’s feet falter in front of you, expression hesitant until he decides to voice, “our team needs a bit of time. it’s hard for us to warm up to…outsiders, and i know it might not mean much to say this but we have our reasons. don’t expect us to blindly trust you just because you’re a coach.”

the use of the word ‘outsider’ does not go unnoticed as you nod, “of course.”

san jogs off to rejoin the others and coach cho hums, “guess some things haven’t changed. they were just as prickly to me when i first became their coach.”

you raise an eyebrow, “prickly? to you?”

“yes, believe it or not,” he chuckles nostalgically. “we’ve come a long way because i’ve been their coach for years now. but it took me a while before i was able to break down their walls.”

you briefly mull over the information, then ask out of curiosity, “what would you have done if i didn’t sign the contract?”

“begged you to rethink your decision,” he jokes with a pleased chortle. “i would have to start looking for a different coach, i suppose. you were my only pick.”

“but why me, of all people? there are so many other experienced coaches that you can choose from.”

he looks at you, eyes glinting with intuition and confidence as he simply says, “you’re familiar with their playing style. they play just like you used to.” at your silent processing, coach cho probes, “why didn’t you tell them the real reason?”

you smile wistfully, “i didn't tell them because i’m not here to gain their pity.”

some of the boys’ voices grow louder as they emerge from the changerooms, changed into fresh clothes and their kit bags slung over their shoulders. you hear one of them ask, “captain, is she really going to be our new coach?”

they step out from the facility’s corridor and you accidentally make eye contact with hongjoong, yet neither of you look away. maintaining a steady gaze directly at you, he responds with a slight glower, “maybe, but she’s only the coach by title. i’m still the captain of the team, so let’s see who everyone listens to.”

as they exit the rink’s arena, you feel a fire of determination growing inside of you. you have won over your own demons and you have won the championships before–this is nothing in comparison. whether your next words are for coach cho or for yourself to hear, it does not matter.

“i may not play anymore but i was still once an athlete, and no athlete has ever, in their career, wanted pity. i’m here to earn the team’s respect and i will win over them, especially their captain.”

you watch the swing of the glass door as it shuts behind the players, catching a brief glimpse of the trees lining the arena’s perimeter. it is the first day of autumn when you meet the red devils for the first time and outside, the leaves are beginning to change their colours.

autumn, 2018: pre-season

hongjoong believes all coaches are to be respected. it does not matter what kind of team they coach, how many years of experience they have, or whether they have built up a reputation for themselves. to hongjoong, respect for coaches is not something earned nor negotiable–it is something well-deserved and expected, as is for anybody in a position that is higher in the chain of command.

he may be the captain of their unofficial team, but hongjoong knows that the way a team can place their blind trust in the coach is irreplaceable, regardless of how much the other players rely on him too.

hongjoong watches as his boys carry out the practice drill he has set up for them. yeosang handles the puck around the cones before passing it to wooyoung, primed offensively near the goal to make a quick shot, who groans when his shot rebounds off the post. as he retrieves the disc, yeosang takes over wooyoung’s position near the goal ready to receive yunho’s pass as he starts to work his way through the cones next.

they are limited in the type of drills they can practise because hongjoong was only able to rent half of the community rink for a measly two hours. the boys are not even in proper uniform, wearing only their shin guards under their sweatpants and gloves on their hands to prevent any injuries when the centre had stated very firmly they would not be allowed in with their bulky equipment.

and yet, none of this has dampened the boys’ spirits. san teasingly brags that it is his chance to show off his skills other than goaltending, and jongho thanks hongjoong quietly for renting the rink in the first place. their understanding nods and comforting hugs make hongjoong’s heart clench, even more so as the team eagerly and diligently practise the drills in mediocre conditions but with fiery determination to prove their worth as newly-signed athletes under the kq blue birds.

this is exactly why hongjoong is driven to find them a coach–any coach: to give his boys a solid pillar they can rely on, because he himself lacks the resources and strings to pull in order to fulfil their shared dreams. he needs to keep his boys as one team, instead of scattered into other teams as extra players like a gracious opportunity for the leftovers, since kq does not yet have a coach available for the eight of them.

“captain!”

the excitement in seonghwa’s voice startles hongjoong more than the speed at which the alternate captain skates towards him. seonghwa digs his skates into the ice at the last second, stopping himself just shy of knocking the other over as he exclaims, “he emailed back!”

“the coach you reached out to?” hongjoong clarifies, eyes growing wide.

having caught wind of his signed contract as a professional athlete, an acquaintance of seonghwa’s had reached out offering to pass on the contact of their acquaintance, who apparently knew somebody with coaching experience. it was rare for a coach to take on a rookie team unless there were incredible benefits, so he and hongjoong had drafted and sent an email with little to no expectations for a reply. but seonghwa’s furious nodding is telling otherwise, and his eyes sparkle as he shoves his phone in hongjoong’s face to show him the email.

dear mr park, thank you for your interest and for reaching out with your proposal. i have looked at your athlete profiles and it appears that you all have big dreams and extremely promising futures. it would be my utmost pleasure to help you all reach your true potential by coaching your team. if you would like to arrange a meeting in person to discuss expectations and conditions regarding training, competitions and future championships prior to finalising the contracts with your company, please let me know what times and dates best suit yourself and your team captain, mr kim. i look forward to working with you all. kind regards, coach yeon

“holy shit,” hongjoong steadies seonghwa’s giddy hand to read the email again. when he reaches the last line, he starts once more from the beginning to make sure his eyes are not lying to him. then he breathes out with finality, “holy shit. am i reading this right?”

“yeah, joong. you’re reading it right.”

hongjoong is not often one to be affectionate with the others, but yanking seonghwa into a bone-crushing hug as he repeats holy shit like a mantra is the only response he is able to muster. the older laughs wetly, throat constricting with overwhelming joy and he holds onto his captain until the other pulls back.

“you tell them, okay?” seonghwa does not wait for a response before he is raising his voice to gather the others, “boys! hongjoong has good news for us!”

like puppies responding to the call of food, their heads immediately perk up and they abandon the puck and the drill to speed towards their two captains. there is a clamour of questions as they enthusiastically predict what is going to be said.

“are they letting us use the rink for longer?”

wooyoung squeezes himself in between yunho and mingi to ask, “are we getting the whole rink?!”

“no way,” san gasps, “or did our practice jerseys arrive?”

hongjoong’s eyes soften at their guesses. his boys demand so little from him when he wants to give them everything they could never even think of asking for. he glances at seonghwa, who looks just about ready to burst from his own excitement, then reveals, “we’ve found a coach willing to take on our team.”

dead silence. yeosang blinks and wooyoung’s jaw drops. jongho, who had been lazily circling around the group, comically slows to a stop, joining the rest of the boys in frozen stupor. it is only broken when yunho dares to confirm, “does this mean we won’t be rostered as extras for other teams?”

everyone’s hopeful eyes look at hongjoong. he nods, “we’re staying together and playing as our own team.”

it is obvious the moment the information registers in their minds and the implications of what it means for the team’s future starts to sink in. they explode into a flurry of movement and hongjoong and seonghwa find themselves swept up into the middle of a clumsy group huddle as shouts are exchanged, uncaring of who is listening or talking.

“are we finally playing in championships with the big dogs?”

“we’re going to play interstate?”

“oh my god, what if we get into nationals?”

“nah, fuck that boys, let’s go international! we’re going to represent korea one day and become the best team in the world.”

the amount of voices overlapping one another are overwhelming, but it is overwhelming in the way that it makes hongjoong soar up into the clouds, wings stretched to their full span and carried by the hollers and cheers surrounding him in every direction. his cheeks hurt from smiling because these are the boys that he knows and loves.

they may only be a small team of eight, but they have dreams that are big enough to fill the entire universe.

“what’s the coaches name–” “–know if they’re a good coach–” “–teams have they coached before–”

seonghwa chuckles as the boys hound them with question after question and hongjoong appeases their curiosity dotingly, “we’ll find out when we meet him–coach yeon.”

but it does not matter what qualifications coach yeon has or does not have, and it does not matter what teams he has coached or has not coached before. what matters is that he is a coach and he is willing to be their coach, because it means that hongjoong and his boys are finally taking the next step towards their big dreams. 

and most importantly, they will be in this together…as the red devils.

autumn, present: regular season

“again.”

hongjoong grits his teeth, taking up his position as centre again in the marked circle for the practice drill. even during defensive faceoff plays, he and the team are accustomed to taking on an aggressive approach. when he wins possession of the puck, the wingers–usually yeosang and wooyoung, or jongho when substituted on–quickly breakaway and move forward with him into the offensive zone.

obviously, they have other strategic plays too to switch up the predictability of their tactics, such as moving the puck towards the board whilst yeosang covers him, or by passing the puck back to the mingi in defence. but overall, their team is capable of rapidly flipping from defensive to offensive play using the aggressive setup.

the practice drill you are currently running emphasises heavily on the defence–the reverse setup play. hongjoong is to pass backwards but in the direction of the boards whilst yeosang supports and wooyoung covers the area directly between the circle and san. mingi moves towards the boards to receive the puck, and their other defenceman, yunho, assists with covering the goal.

hongjoong does admit that this play is much safer and stabler, but it is also much slower and…cowardly. his team is called the red devils for a reason and their reputation as demons on ice is not something that he is going to throw away–not following years of blood, sweat and tears to stand back up after falling during their rookie year.

when he assumes his stance once again inside the faceoff circle opposite seonghwa, who is playing the centre position as the mock opponent, you drop the puck onto the centre dot. the moment it hits the ice, hongjoong clears it with his stick towards the right boards. it doesn’t go back far enough for mingi to receive though, so yeosang makes the split decision to burst sideways to retrieve the puck, all three forwards moving aggressively in synchronisation to advance offensively once he gains possession.

you stop them, shaking your head. “again.”

it has been a week since your first meeting with the team, and with the start of the regular season, training has focused on refining their strategies. the red devils are playing in the korean ice hockey league for the second time, an annual national championship with a singular men’s division.

teams from all over korea gather in seoul to compete in regular-season games at the gangneung ice arena against the other teams in rotation. depending on the number of participants, the red devils will need to play an average of three games a week for the next five to six months. then based on the outcome of the games, if your team scores within the top thirty two, they will be able to enter the playoffs.

last year, the red devils were only able to make it to the quarterfinals before they were knocked out. but considering it was their first time competing in a proper championship–as opposed to the rookie leagues and interstate competitions they competed in during the first four years of their career–making it into the top eight teams out of over a hundred or so teams was already impressive enough.

your team’s first regular-season game starts tomorrow, so it does not matter that this is the sixth time in a row that you have stopped them during this drill. you will make them restart until they perfect the play. with that in mind, you release the puck onto the centre dot of the circle once more, but this time seonghwa wins the faceoff, clearing it to the side where jongho is waiting as his left wing. seonghwa looks at you guiltily and anticipates the word that will come out of your mouth.

you bite your tongue, having sensed the rising tension amongst the team an hour ago, but now they are almost at their boiling point. closing your eyes briefly, you try reminding yourself to think about the situation from your players’ perspectives.

their career progression rides on this championship, and with their grit and determination, they will not settle for simply beating their own record in ranking. no, they vie for first place. only the top team secures a position in the international ice hockey league, the most coveted opportunity to represent korea in the championship between the world’s best teams.

and it is during this vital time–when the stress levels and stakes are as high as they can get–that the boys have suddenly had to change coaches. not only have they lost their most trusted support and guide, they have only had one week to adjust to their new one–you. in the grand scheme of things, one week is nowhere near enough time to develop any sort of meaningful relationship where they are able to listen to and rely on you.

taking a breath, you explain, “being so focused on offence leaves your team vulnerable if the opposing team also has aggressive forwards that you can’t break through. the faceoff play needs to be adjusted for those situations, otherwise it’ll be too difficult to control the puck and it will more than likely end up in chaos. it won’t be a game of professional skill anymore, but a circus of dirty play.”

your defence-focused coaching style has worked well for all the past teams you have taught, both men’s and women’s teams. you know that the boys play an offence-focused style; you are reminded too closely of your past self every time they rush head-on into every situation. and it is exactly because of that–because you know the dangers that come with their aggressive style–that you are making them adjust their play. their career comes first and if they suffer an injury, there may not be a career left.

so you will play the bad cop if you have to. they will come to understand you one day.

san bites down on his mouthguard as he listens from his position in the goal. he is able to see each and every play unfold, better than any other of his teammates, so he knows where you are coming from. whilst he has become used to the pressures that come with goaltending, no amount of training or competitions will ever fully eliminate the sudden spike in fear and anticipation the moment the opposing team’s forwards break past yunho and mingi.

san is the team’s last line of defence and the best outcome is that a game never comes down to just him, the opponent’s stick, and his goal. it is true that his team needs to work on their defensive plays, so when the others huff in defiance and reluctantly reset their positions, san simply lowers his centre of gravity in wait for your cue to restart the drill.

“again.”

outside the arena, the echo of sticks and scraping of skates sound faintly as the first leaf of autumn begins to fall to the ground. as time passes, the rest of the leaves will also succumb to a similar fate, only differing in how. some will fall in a slow and graceful descent, whilst others…

…a rapid and spiralling whirlwind downwards.

counting the heads and finding all eight of your players seated in the bus, you nod to the driver to close the door and start driving. most of the boys have chosen to sit on a two-seater by themselves, only yunho and mingi choosing to sit together. they share a set of wired earphones, eyebrows furrowed in concentration at one of their phones, likely monitoring one of their own matches or one of another team’s.

the rest of the boys sit alone, faces grim and tight as they stare out the window. they look exactly like you used to and it hits you with a wave of bittersweet nostalgia.

the ride to the competition venue–much less for the very first game of the season–is always the quietest, air strung tight with nerves as everyone prepares themselves psychologically for the inevitable pressures that the game will bring. being able to compose and centre one’s mindset is already half the battle won, and whilst nobody says it out loud, you all know that today’s results, despite it only being day one, will set the tone for the next four to five months as they fight to qualify for the playoffs.

as you make one final sweep from the back of the bus to the front whilst it pulls away from the curb, you accidentally make eye contact with yeosang. you give him a polite smile and he opens his mouth, closes it on second thought, then decides to ask anyway, “do you want to sit here?”

it is a lie to say that you are not surprised by the question, so you stumble over your response as you stammer, “oh, okay. thanks.”

yeosang reciprocates your noise of disorientation and when he fumbles to move his bag aside that had been occupying the space beside him, you belatedly realise he was only asking out of courtesy. but backtracking now and rejecting his offer would be a million times worse and you can only try to hide the flaming heat behind your cheeks as best as you can as you sit down in the seat.

he fiddles with the straps of his bag and you can feel his discomfort reeking off his hands. in an attempt to break the ice, you glance at him, “are you nervous for the game?”

he nods, “don’t think it gets any less nerve-wracking no matter how many games you play.”

“well this is a pretty big championship. you have every reason to feel nervous,” you hum.

yeosang levels you with a look. “are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”

you do not know him well enough to be able to discern whether he is joking with you or not. opting to clear your throat instead, you point out, “you have your teammates who you can trust.”

“yeah…teammates.”

and you have me, too, as your coach, you want to say.

the hopeful glimpse in the dark of your eyes is enough for yeosang to pick up on your thoughts. he swallows uncomfortably and looks away.

we don’t know that yet.

you bite the inside of your cheek, trying once more to extend the conversation after a pregnant pause. “did you guys have a coach before cho?” either you have a shitty sense of appropriate conversation starters or yeosang wants absolutely nothing to do with you (it is likely both, but one can be optimistic), because his shoulders tense almost immediately.

“we did…just one,” he starts off carefully. you think that that is going to be the end of it, but then he adds on, “we don’t really talk about him though.”

and there it is–the end of the conversation. it is his nice way of telling you that there is no more to be said, so you sit the rest of the ride in silence next to yeosang, pretending not to let the sheer awkwardness suffocate you.

when the bus arrives at the gangneung ice arena, you hurry to alight and only then do you feel like you are able to breathe again. you plaster on a smile and notify the boys, “your first game is in two hours against the panthers. you’ve been allocated locker room 3B.”

they make their way into the centre and you trail behind in wait as they find their designated space. warm-ups will be first so they will not be needing their full gear just yet, which means it should not take long for them to change.

inside the locker room, the red devils shrug off their bulky duffle bags and change into their game jerseys, lacing and relacing their skates to ensure the snuggest fits. hongjoong alerts, “boys, time to go out and start warming up,” receiving a chorus of acknowledgement as everyone grabs the rest of the gear that they need.

before jongho places his phone into his assigned locker, he habitually taps on the screen one last time to check for any notifications and finds a single text from his younger brother, jonghyuk. he knows he should not read it, much less right before his first game, but the smaller part inside him that yearns for his family’s recognition dares to hope for something. dragging the preview down to avoid opening it, jongho reads the text.

are you just going to keep pretending you haven’t read our messages?

jongho clenches his jaw and swipes the notification away as if that will also erase it from his mind. tossing his phone into the locker, he shuts it with a harsh swing, resting his forehead against the cool metal as he closes his eyes and breathes out shakily. this game–this championship–jongho has to win; he cannot afford to lose.

“captain.”

hongjoong turns around to see jongho striding up towards him, brows furrowed and voice troubled as he questions, “are we really not going to tell coach what our game plan is? shouldn’t we work together with her?”

“jongho,” the captain sighs, “we got lucky with coach cho, but we know better than anyone else that not all coaches are like him.”

from where he has been listening in on the conversation at the doors leading out of the locker room, seonghwa’s shoulders stiffen. there is a moment of silence; the rest of the team have already made their way to the ice rink.

“what if we lose?”

it is the way that his voice grows small and timid that hongjoong realises it is not his captain that jongho needs right now. hongjoong’s gaze softens as he searches the younger’s eyes, “did your family say something again?”

he receives no answer but it tells him more than enough. “you trust me?”

jongho’s almost imperceptible nod does not escape hongjoong’s observations, so he continues to reassure, “we’ll win. my boys are the best players, you included, and we already have experience playing in this competition.” he ducks down slightly to meet jongho’s gaze, “and even if we do lose? we lose because of our own skills–not because of anybody else.”

his words tug a small smile out of the corner of the youngest’s lips, and hongjoong returns it with a relieved smile. with a nudge, he sends jongho in the direction of the door, where seonghwa pretends to ruffle his hair affectionately knowing that it will be dodged. seonghwa chuckles lightly and watches him walk off, unbeknownst to his captain watching him.

“hey,” hongjoong calls out gently, “i know what you’re thinking, but that wasn’t what i meant.”

seonghwa looks back and winces, “i can’t help it.”

“and that’s why i will keep telling you no matter how many times you need to hear it. it is not your fault–never was, and never will be,” hongjoong cocks his head playfully as he raises an eyebrow.

“same goes to you then, captain,” seonghwa returns the banter, shoulders relaxing and head shaking, “not your fault either.”

“you’re right, so let’s get the fuck out there and smash our game, yeah?” hongjoong slings his arm around the other and leads them both out of the locker room to join the rest of the boys.

what he does not say, though, is that seonghwa is wrong. seonghwa may have been the one to reach out to coach yeon, but hongjoong was the one who made the executive decision to accept and trust coach yeon.

he is not going to make the same mistake twice this time, because it is not just about protecting his dreams, his career, or those of his teammates–it is about protecting the people he loves.

hongjoong will not let them fall…not again.

winter, 2018: regular season

jongho twirls his phone in his hand, intermittently turning the screen on and off. he sits in the corner of the locker room, away from the rest of the boys as they wait for coach yeon to return from checking in and filling out their required paperwork. only several competitions later will they realise that their locker room is small, cramped and dim, but to their fresh, bright-eyed excitement at competing in a professional league for the first time, they hardly have time to critique the assigned space.

the phone comes to a stop. making up his mind, jongho taps on the screen and navigates to the keypad. dialling his mother’s number, he brings the phone up to his ear and waits with bated breath as it is left to ring.

“what do you want,” comes her curt response when she finally picks up.

jongho’s words falter, “oh, nothing…i just wanted to tell you that we’re playing our first game today.”

“game? your little team doesn’t even have a coach,” his mother patronises.

shoulders curling in on themselves, jongho hesitantly voices, “i told you last month that we got a coach.”

“i forgot,” she brushes him off, “and it must not be a very important competition then, seeing as it isn’t worth remembering.”

“there’s prize money,” he reveals. maybe if he can bring some of it home for his parents, they will recognise his efforts.

she sceptically probes, “is it national? international?”

“no…regionals.”

“is it ranked at least?”

“it’s just an entry-level competition for rookie teams,” jongho trails off, discouraged and confidence in shambles.

his mother scoffs at his answers, none of which are the ones she wants to hear. “you have no excuse not to win this competition, then. this is child’s play. just look at jonghyuk. he’s two years younger than you, yet already has his eyes on the olympics. if you lose, i don’t want to hear about it–don’t bring shame to our family.”

“okay,” jongho mumbles, but his answer is only heard by the beeping dial of the ended call…and the rest of the boys it seems, if not apparent by the sombre hush that has settled over the room and the worried lips that he sees when he looks up.

yeosang’s mouth parts, the younger’s name on the tip of his tongue, but then coach yeon enters the locker room and calls for their attention. jongho gives them a reassuring smile before setting his phone beside him on the bench and directing his gaze to their coach, grateful for the distraction. it leaves yeosang and the others with no choice but to drop it for now.

coach yeon erases the old scribbles on the room’s whiteboard and replaces it with rough markings of the hockey rink. he drags the magnets into the different zones, each one representative of a player, as he goes over the final lineup and their respective positions based on the opposing team they have been pooled against.

“stay strong on the offensive and maintain a 2-1-2 formation where possible–yeosang, i want you up there with hongjoong and put pressure on the other team. if they gain puck possession, both of you fall back to where wooyoung is and maintain 3-2.”

the three forwards nod and coach yeon touches one of the magnets positioned on the player’s bench. “jongho, you’ll come on for your shift during the second period. whoever you replace will come back in later to sub the other wing. yeosang and wooyoung, you should both be playing again during the third period.”

“yes, coach,” jongho acknowledges.

coach yeon continues on to review their game plan and hongjoong steps up to assist with detailing their different strategic plays. to jongho though, their words sound like he is listening from underwater as his mind involuntary drifts off. it is a small saving grace that his parents do not care for his match, because it means that they will not see that he is not part of the starting lineup.

for seven of the people in the locker room, winning the competition is an aspiration, but for one of them it is an expectation. and for the remaining individual, the competition in itself is an opportunity, but for an entirely different reason.

winter, present: regular season

inevitably, you find out. when discrepancies start to occur between training, pre-game meetings and the actual games, it is only a matter of time before you start to notice them.

it starts off with the uncommon plays that are simply a response to the game situation–ones that are dire and not often brought up prior to them actually occurring. during their fourth regular game of the season, the red devils are behind by two goals. the last period is almost over when they miraculously gain the power advantage after two of the opposing players are sent to the penalty box in quick succession.

before you realise what is happening, hongjoong gives his team a signal and both yunho and mingi on defence and san in the goal all rush forward to attack with the wings. you can only watch with wide eyes as they risk an empty net in the hopes of scoring two much-needed goals to even the playing field.

wooyoung manages to score one with a quick shot, but with the release of the opponents from the penalty box, their advantage is put to an end and they ultimately finish the match with a loss. you do not dwell too much on their sudden change in tactics despite the lack of communication with you, because you understand that every single game requires a different approach. sometimes, there is no time to strategise, only time to act.

but one occurrence turns into two, and two turns into several. and when, during one of their matches the week prior, jongho and wooyoung swap positions on the left and right sides of the rink as soon as the youngest replaces yeosang’s shift, it becomes quite conclusive that they are deliberately withholding information from you.

the boys are not brainless. it is not a coincidence for you and the team to discuss one game plan in the locker room only for it to completely change the moment they step onto the hockey rink.

you silently watch as the boys prepare for a faceoff in their defensive zone. they are currently playing against the incheon bears and the timing of the penalty puts you all on edge; the score is currently tied four to four and only twelve seconds are left on the clock. you had requested a time-out right as the referee made the call in hopes of stopping the momentum of the opposing team and to tell the boys to play defensively for this faceoff.

“play it safe. stall for the last twelve seconds and drag the game into overtime,” you had ordered.

the incheon bears have made a shift change with their player number four coming on for the faceoff, their right wing who has low stamina but terrifyingly accurate shots. he is responsible for most of his team’s goals and several other scoring attempts that san had only just managed to block. you are also almost certain that they will be aggressively body checking your players to make this faceoff count for them. your forwards have to play safely–not just for the sake of the game’s score.

at your defensive suggestion, san had nodded in agreement with you, “forwards need to make passes with sure lanes–nothing that can risk getting intercepted. go for the reverse setup play if you guys can.”

“we don’t need to take this into overtime,” hongjoong had started to argue, “other than number four, the rest of their offence is weak. as long as we break past him, we have an opportunity to score.”

“captain–”

the whistle blows before mingi can give his two cents, the mere thirty seconds for the time-out far too short, and the boys hurry to enter the rink again. hongjoong leans in quickly to say something to them before they disperse into their positions and mingi glances at you, almost guiltily.

you do not have the confidence that your team will listen. san may have seen the advantages in favouring a defensive play, but he is not the one who will decide which direction the puck will go when the referee drops it onto the ice. hongjoong is.

the hand of the referee raises to signal the start of the faceoff and both team’s centre forwards lower their stance. then the puck hits the ice. hongjoong’s nimble reflexes help him to snap his wrist and twist the puck away from the incheon bear’s player, wooyoung already surging ahead with explosive strides towards the other end of the rink. but just as you fear, the opponent’s left wing thunders at hongjoong with horrifying speed, intention solely to bowl him over onto the ice–not to steal the puck.

“fuck, captain!” you yell, heart leaping up into your throat as it cuts off your breath.

hongjoong’s eyes snap upwards and darken, jaws aching from the force with which he grinds his teeth together despite his mouthguard. he suddenly pivots on the edges of his skates and shifts his weight to only just narrowly miss the body check, then flicks the puck away before another player can knock him down.

he does not need to look before passing to where he knows wooyoung will be, years of synergy allowing their plays to connect seamlessly. except incheon bear’s number four has predicted their exact play, having been watching from the benches and noting your forwards’ preference for aggressive attacks.

“shit,” yunho curses under his breath, ice shaving under his skates from the accelerating force of his strides towards the puck. he is not going to make it in time. “mingi!”

seonghwa jolts up to his feet from the player’s bench, chest mid-inhale with apprehension at the captain’s pass. the puck is intercepted within the blink of an eye and with a well-timed punch turn around yunho’s attempt to regain possession, the rival team’s number four makes a shot for the goal.

it is too fast for mingi’s stick to block–arm still stretching out with desperation–and although san drops down to his knees in hopes of barricading the goal with his leg pads, the trajectory of the puck arcs higher than he had predicted.

as the puck soars past san and hits the netting of the goal, the buzzer sounds in tandem with the eruption of cheers around the rink. all around, the incheon bears swarm towards their number four in joyous celebration. mingi leans over to rest his hands on his knees from both exhaustion and defeat, and the other boys stand in similar stances as the outcome of the game registers in their tired minds.

in an attempt to cheer them up despite his own disappointment, seonghwa half-heartedly smiles at his boys as they slowly start to trudge their way off the rink. “we played well, boys. it was unlucky that our pass got intercepted, but we can do better next time.”

“good thing it isn’t the playoffs yet,” yunho tries to joke, “so we’re still in the competition.”

nobody cracks a smile and wooyoung’s face is dark, hand grabbing the walls in support to favour his left foot whilst lifting his skates over the slight ledge of the bench door. noting his slight limp, san quietly murmurs in worry, “did you tape your ankle?”

wooyoung shakes his head. “i ran out. forgot to buy some yesterday.”

“make sure you ice it tonight then, okay?” san gently supports him by the elbow to the benches so they can loosen the laces of their skates and grab their things before heading to the locker room.

you look away to flip through the notebook in your hand instead, trying to calm the shaking of your hands. ice hockey is a contact sport and you cannot protect the players from every single collision, but that last body check that hongjoong had been unprepared for still has acid pooling into your mouth. you scratch the score ‘4-5’ onto a page filled with their scores from this season thus far. a quick calculation tells you that the red devils have just as many losses as they have wins, which in all honesty, is not looking good.

this…conflict needs to be cleared with the team–with hongjoong. you cannot let this concealment of tactics and blatant changing of strategies right in your face continue any longer, because at the rate they are going, they may not even make it into the playoffs. and as you make eye contact with san, who has been staring despondently at the puck that still lies in his goal, you know that you must clear the air for the team, too. the last thing you need is for their own teamwork to fall apart because their differing opinions on your coaching starts to drive a wedge between them.

san stills when you break your gaze and glance away to pivot on your heels in the direction of the changerooms. from the way your mouth thins and neck becomes rigid, he is quite certain you are not happy—and rightfully so, san must admit. he stalls time by slipping off his bulky gloves and freeing his hands up to remove his helmet and mouthguard too.

noting that the other boys have grabbed most of their belongings, san heads off first to meet you, knowing that they will follow him soon after. he walks down the corridor easily balancing on his skates and rounds the corner to their locker room. except the sight that greets him has his feet halting and taking a step back behind the doorway.

your hand is deep in one of their bags. san is unsure whose bag it is, but the brief glimpse of the black canvas bag he caught is enough to tell him that it is one of theirs. although he is not making any accusations, he also cannot think of a reason as to why you would be rummaging through their bags.

“why are you just standing there?”

jongho’s voice startles him and he mumbles, “nothing,” before stepping through the door with the rest of his team. you are sitting on a bench in front of an empty locker now and if he did not know better, san would think that he had imagined the last minute. he glances discreetly at the bag you had been poking through and recognises it as wooyoung’s.

gingerly seating himself in front of his own locker, san waits on edge as mingi also grasps the atmosphere and sits too. gradually, the boys read the room with tactful glances and linger on their feet or on the benches. all except for one.

“what was that?” you cut through the silence with a directed question at hongjoong.

the captain continues to toss his gloves into his unzipped bag at the bottom of his locker before proceeding to unlace his skates, not once turning to look at you.

“what was what?”

you know fully well that he is aware of what you are talking about but you decide to humour him as you elaborate, “that last faceoff. i clearly told you to play defensively, but you went against it to try for a goal. and let me guess, you told the others to ignore what i said.”

“and so what if i did?” hongjoong challenges. yeosang’s wide eyes dart from side to side and yunho watches on uneasily as his captain finally turns to glare at you. “in that moment–as a player on the rink–i saw the opportunity and took it. if there is a chance to attack, then my team takes it. we don’t run away like cowards.”

the successive jabs at your athletic retirement cause a lick of phantom heat to wrap around your shoulder. your jaw grinds as you hold yourself back from biting the bait. “then i’m curious as to what opportunity you saw every time you decided to withhold game tactics from me, or every time you changed the strategy the moment you and your team stepped foot onto the rink.”

“maybe we would respect and listen to your coaching if it actually suited the playing style of our team. heavy defence may have worked for the grey eagles, but i think you need to reevaluate your abilities as a coach because it seems like you are forgetting that we are not them. forcing us to play defensively like your past team is not going to work for shit, coach,” hongjoong mocks.

you scoff to the side, questioning your own ears. it borders on a laugh, because that is his reason? you have been adjusting their playing style not only based on the situation that arises each game, but in general for their own good. earning his respect be damned, you will not stand for this.

you return the same scornful tone, “well then, captain, considering you just lost the fucking match because you were too arrogant to defend for twelve fucking seconds, i think you should also reevaluate yourself. are you acting in the best interest of your team, or are you acting in the way that best strokes your own ego? and let me remind you–if you suffer an injury, your whole team suffers with you.

“if you do not have the decency to at least tell me what you have discussed with the boys so that i can adjust the plays accordingly, then i think the shit results of your games so far speak for themselves. teams have a coach for a reason whether you like it or not…or maybe i should say, whether you trust them or not,” you snap.

running your stressed fingers through your hair, you tear your eyes away from hongjoong’s defiant eyes. the two youngest avoid your gaze, whereas yunho and yeosang simply stare at you with their jaws slack at a loss for words. the fire within you almost quenches when your eyes skim over san, mingi and even seonghwa, who are fiddling with their jerseys with guilt.

the room suddenly feels too small and too stuffy. “change. the bus will be waiting outside,” you mumble, then you leave without a further word.

nobody in the room moves in the wake of the argument, not even hongjoong, who continues to bore holes in the doorway that you have just disappeared through. yunho’s eyes awkwardly dart back and forth between hongjoong and the other boys before they land on the bench you had been sitting on.

the notebook you are always holding is still there, left behind in your haste to leave. he stands up to grab it, turning on his heels to chase after you when the open pages catch his eye. “woah,” yunho breathes out, double-taking and bringing the notebook closer towards him to read the contents. “this is insane.”

you have marked down not only their score for every single game they have played this season, but you have also tracked the statistics of who has scored, assisted, or successfully defended a shot. yunho flips back through the pages as the other boys come to crowd around him. there are logs of their major games from the past five years, diagrams of their faceoff plays and formations, analyses of their strengths in games won and similarly, analyses of their weaknesses in games they have lost.

“oh, fuck,” mingi curses when yunho flips to the more recent pages and they see that you have compiled the same details and information, only more concisely, for every single opponent team the red devils have played against this season. there is no way of seeing this–hours upon hours of hard work–and still questioning your intentions as their coach. “i think we owe coach a huge fuckin’ apology.”

hongjoong immediately furrows his eyebrows with displeasure. “are you taking her side, mingi?”

“captain,” mingi deliberately calls. it is at times like this where being the only logical thinker in the team has its merits. it may be harsh, but mingi must draw the line between their professional and personal life. this dispute must stay strictly within the bounds of their career without blurring the lines over into their romantic involvement with one another, otherwise things could get messy real fast.

mingi stares at the captain as he reasons, “this isn’t about taking sides. from a solely rational point of view, i think it may have been better for us to play safe and defend like coach had suggested.”

from beside him, san nods in agreement. mingi continues, “and i’m not just talking about today–there were a lot of times when coach’s plays might have worked out better than bulldozing ahead with offence. yeah, we’ve won a few games but we’ve also lost just as many. how many of those could we have won if we had trusted coach?”

yunho backs him up whilst gesturing vaguely between the both of them and san, “it’s easier for the three of us to see from defence, but their forwards were already close to intercepting our faceoffs quite a few times that game.”

hongjoong’s immediate thought is to defend himself, because he is their captain and their centre forward; the one who leads them into opportunities to score and win. he knows that every single time he chooses an aggressive play, it is at the risk of weaker defence. the odds have never deterred him, though, because he has always been confident in his abilities–in his team’s abilities.

but if, even now with the palpable experience of losing because of his own decision, it still does not deter him from taking risks in a situation where offence may be his downfall, then is he confident…or overconfident?

it is quiet for a moment. hongjoong swallows the urge to justify against their opinions–against your opinions–instead looking around at his team. he meets jongho’s round eyes and he remembers one of the very reasons why he is so committed to leading the red devils to the gold trophy. why, if he is becoming a hurdle instead to their victory, then he needs to change. “what does everybody else think? seonghwa?”

“we’ve been wary of y/n all this time, but the more games we play and especially after…” the alternate captain vaguely gestures in the air, “...today, we should really work with her instead of relying on ourselves. we’ve seen her notebook, too, and i think that’s more than enough for us to see that the effort and resolve she places in our team is genuine. we need to acknowledge that and apologise.”

“not even coach cho went to these lengths, and most definitely not coach yeon,” yeosang shrugs as he offhandedly comments.

spurred on by everybody else, san carefully voices the thought that has been lingering on his mind, “i think it’s time to tell her the truth. we owe her that much.”

the truth. the wounds that not even coach cho knows of.

hongjoong’s distrust in you may have initially been true to his desire to protect his boys from something like that from happening again. but he is now realising that you may have seen right through him. perhaps at some point in time, it became unwillingness to trust you, blinded by his prideful title as the demon king of the ice rink but at the expense of his team under the guise of wanting to safeguard them.

exhaling shakily, voice thick with regret, hongjoong accepts, “i’ve let you all down, haven’t i?”

“no,” yunho gently rebukes. “letting us down would be refusing to listen to us. we trust you for a reason, hongjoong.”

not just as a captain, but as everything else too.

seonghwa wraps an arm comfortingly around him. with hongjoong’s demonic presence on the ice once he is in the zone, it is easy to forget that he actually has a shorter stature than all of them. “that’s right, we trust you,” seonghwa affirms. “the next step is for us to trust our coach as well. we’re a team, but it isn’t complete without our coach.”

“and this apology isn’t yours alone to bear,” yunho reminds. “like seonghwa said, we’re a team and we all have fault in our behaviour towards y/n. if i’m honest, i had a shitty attitude and gave her a hard time at the start too,” he admits, wincing at the memory.

yunho is not the only one who grimaces as they reflect on their own actions–whether they happened when you were first introduced to the team, during your first training together, or even up until today’s game. but wooyoung, who has been quiet throughout the entire ordeal, still has a niggling doubt: one that is most personal to him in comparison to the rest of the team.

wooyoung reveals his thoughts, “but what about her choice to stop playing? i still can’t think of a good reason that i can respect her for having retired.”

“then we ask her,” mingi proposes.

jongho nods, also curious to know whether there is more to your decision than you have let on. “today, though? we don’t really want to come off as accusatory or anything. it might be good to give her some space today.”

“what’s our schedule looking like tomorrow? training?”

everyone looks at seonghwa, the most likely person to know their schedule off by heart. he does, and he scratches his head as he recalls, “no, recovery day. low-intensity cardio in the morning and…a team meeting with coach in the afternoon.”

“tomorrow it is, then,” hongjoong concludes. there are hums of agreement and the decision appears to appease wooyoung enough for the boys to start dispersing, heading to their lockers to finally start changing out of their gear.

wooyoung tosses his helmet and gloves onto the bench in front of his locker before sitting with a sharp but discreet inhale. he carefully loosens the laces on his skates, easing the left one off his foot slowly. the relief is immediate and his fingertips gingerly touch the throbbing area around his ankle. it is not too swollen, but he will need to ice it when they get back to their apartment and he will definitely need to buy more tape.

he sheds off the rest of his gear and uniform, leaving them on the bench too to air out while he takes a quick shower. as he roughly towels his wet hair afterwards, he drags his kit bag further out to make it easier to toss everything in.

“huh?” wooyoung makes a noise of confusion when he unzips the bag, hand immediately reaching in to grab the item that has caught his eye. it is partially covered by his hoodie but he would be able to recognise the packaging anywhere.

“what’s wrong?” san asks, glancing over.

the younger brandishes the brand new roll of strapping tape he has found in his bag, the frown etched across his face slowly relaxing into amused exasperation as he reasons, “i must not have seen this in my bag all along.”

san is about to snort and make fun of his inattentiveness, but a sudden thought stuns the smile off his face. it was not that wooyoung had managed to miss the spare roll in his bag. it was–

“y/n,” he quietly exhales with realisation.

at wooyoung’s questioning what?, san looks at him with upturned eyebrows. “the tape–coach was the one who put it in your bag, right before we all walked in here.”

“this…she gave it to me?” wooyoung’s face drops, remorse evident in the thickness of his voice. “but why?”

san gently squeezes his shoulder with a smile, simply answering, “because she’s our coach.” he turns to zip up his own kit bag and leaves wooyoung to digest the revelation. the boy is quiet for the rest of the time, teeth gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he stares ahead and absentmindedly follows the rest of his team out of the locker room.

when they exit the ice arena, they do not expect to see you. and yet, there you stand beside their bus waiting stonily with your jacket zipped up and hands in your pockets. you mentally count them off without acknowledging them as they start to store their kit bags under the bus and board. yeosang gets on first, taking a seat near the front of the bus as usual. he watches from the window as you wait for the rest of the boys.

you follow jongho up the stairs, the last to load his kit bag, and tell the driver that you are all good to leave. yeosang sits a little straighter as he tucks his small backpack further under the seat in front of him with his feet, having left the seat beside him empty. but before he can open his mouth with an offer of a seat, you have already sat right behind the driver. yeosang leans back into the cushions of his seat, unfamiliar with the sense of disappointment he feels.

the ride back from the competition venue–much less after a lost game–is always quiet, players both physically and mentally exhausted from the strain. this time, though, it is strikingly silent, but you appreciate it–need it.

you stare out of the window as the trees flicker past like a repetitive motion film. most of their leaves have already fallen off, littering the ground in a blur of tragic glory. and with the beginning of winter, the trees will soon become completely bare, bringing about the period of time when there is nothing but bleak emptiness.

winter, 2019: regular season

‘2019 ice hockey rookie stars tournament: team standings’

hongjoong stares at the printed piece of paper with seonghwa at his side, where the results of all the team’s round-robin games have been taped up onto the walls of the stadium. hongjoong does not even bother reading from the top, eyes going straight down to the bottom of the page instead.

the red devils are dead last, having lost every single one of their matches. even the korean penguins, who had nil wins either, had managed to beat them earlier today, ranking them at the lowest of all teams. it is fucking humiliating and hongjoong hates that the sport that had brought him and his boys all together, that they had immeasurable love for, is now one that fills them with shame and indignity.

nobody else but the two captains of the team have decided to look at the rankings. they had all already known towards the end of the regular season that they would not stand a chance at making it into the playoffs. and yet, hongjoong and seonghwa need to see the results for themselves. it is almost masochistic, forcing themselves to look at the fruitless results of their hard work in their first competition that has so devastatingly crushed their morality.

seonghwa picks at his cuticles fretfully and wonders whether he made the wrong decision to give up his education in pursuit of becoming an athlete. he thinks of his parents, who had encouraged him with supportive smiles and offers of financial support the moment he brought up the idea–was it all in vain?

“are you two done looking?”

both of the boys turn at the question to find a captain with his team waiting to look at the standings.

“yeah, sorry,” hongjoong mumbles before stepping aside to yield his spot. the players swarm forwards and he is pushed further back away from the list like a physical representation of his distance from the playoffs.

somebody from the other team yells, “we made it! we’re in the playoffs!” and they simultaneously break out into cries and cheers as they celebrate together.

hongjoong watches on bitterly, wishing with every cell in his body that that was him and his boys. how is he going to walk back into the locker room as their captain when all of his boys have eyes that are rimmed red and cheeks that are blotchy from despair–when there are captains like that who have successfully led their team to at least a chance at winning the competition.

the feeling of a pinky slowly hooking around his own draws hongjoong out of his pain. “let’s go back,” seonghwa murmurs, tugging him away from the still-celebrating team. together, both of them start to walk back through the hallways to their locker room. 

“aren’t we down here?” seonghwa questions, standing at the t-intersection that hongjoong has absentmindedly walked straight past.

“oh, yeah. sorry,” hongjoong apologises and begins to backtrack. his ears suddenly perk up at the sound of a voice. “wait, doesn’t that sound like coach?”

before seonghwa can respond, hongjoong has turned around yet again towards the voice in search of their coach. seonghwa hurries to catch up and that is when he hears it too.

“have you transferred the money?”

“yes, i wired you the remaining amount the moment we won,” a deeper, unrecognisable voice reassures.

hongjoong’s footsteps falter, brows knitting together and head cocking to one side. he gestures for seonghwa to slow down, pressing a finger on his other hand to his lips. both of them creep forward silently.

the unfamiliar voice probes, “your team–you’re sure they don’t suspect anything?”

hongjoong and seonghwa do not need to see him to confirm their suspicions when they hear the unmistakable laughter of coach yeon. through the gravelly sound, he mocks, “they have no fucking clue even though they’ve lost every single one of their games. they’re dumber than fucking sheep. their captain tells me everything about their plays and strategies and they never question it when i change things around.”

seonghwa clutches the back of hongjoong’s jersey with a death grip, knowing that without it, his captain will punch coach yeon’s face into a bloody mess. but as much as their coach deserves it, it is not worth the disciplinary action that will inevitably follow, likely suspension, because–

“plus, even if they do somehow find out, what can they do about it? bullshit, that’s what. they have no evidence and they’re not going to risk blowing this up and ruining their own careers instead,” coach yeon boasts smugly. “losing like that as a rookie group in their first year out is completely normal. no one will believe them, and no coach is going to want their team after that because of their ‘shitty sportsmanship’ or out of fear of being accused in the same way if they lose again.”

at coach yeon’s words, seonghwa scrambles to put them into context with his dread-riddled mind. the echoing pounding in his ears tells him that he has just heard something that was never meant to be known. he does not even notice that the voices start to grow distant as the two men begin to walk off, but hongjoong does.

the trembling grip that is still on the back of his jersey grounds hongjoong enough not to throw everything away and sprint up to coach yeon with vile words and heated fists, but he also cannot do nothing. hongjoong peers around the corner before seonghwa can counteract his movement, desperate to identify who exactly coach yeon is talking to. except the revelation has him reeling, hands white from how hard his fingers dig into his palm–a stark contrast to the deep scarlet of flames that leap forth from his murderous eyes.

because the person who is walking beside coach yeon is the coach of the korean penguins. hongjoong and his boys have not been losing because of their skills they believed to be fucking shit–coach yeon has been fucking ensuring they lose.

for money.

winter, present: regular season

you stand on the balcony of your apartment. the sliding glass doors are shut behind you to keep the heat trapped inside, but for now you welcome the refreshing cold of the winter chill as you simply observe.

below on the streets, the miniature specks of people and cars mill around as if you are watching a game simulation. it is strangely humbling to think that each and every one of the people you see are living their own lives, completely distinct to yours with different yet very real problems of their own, but in the grand scheme of the cosmos, you are all insignificant.

you wonder what concern the people holding their coffee are plagued with right now; what problem the people crossing the street are facing. you wonder, if you were to tell them of your worries and they were to tell you of theirs, would you curse or thank the heavens?

the phone in your hand buzzes. you look to see if it is from coach cho and manage a small smile of relief when the notification is indeed from him.

apologies y/n, i was busy earlier. i can call now if you still need me?

you send an affirmative reply, then slide to answer the call that comes through. “hi coach, sorry to bother you.”

“no, you’re alright. is everything okay?”

you hesitate before revealing, “...i messed things up with the boys.”

“the team?” his voice goes gentle, fatherly nature extending to you too. “what happened?”

“hongjoong and i had an argument today after the game because he keeps changing the team’s plays without letting me know, or even after we’ve agreed on something else. it was only meant to be a talk, but then things escalated and we ended up fighting. i just–i don’t know what you saw in me, coach, because i don’t think i’m fit for the boys,” you ramble. “they’re not listening to me, they probably don’t even like me, and we’re going terribly with the season.”

you take a breath as you timidly admit, “i don’t think we’re going to make it into the playoffs and it’s going to be my fault.”

“hey,” coach cho grounds you, “making the playoffs would be great, yes, but the reality is that most teams don’t. and you’re still very young yourself–this is your, what…fifth year of coaching?”

throat too sticky to formulate a response, you simply hum.

“when i first started coaching, i was older than you and it was still a steep learning curve during my first ten years. i believed that coaches deserved the utmost respect and that my opinion was final. they’re my players, so of course i should be the one laying down the laws,” he chuckles. “but growing up was realising that whilst the respect is still there, it needs to be mutual. coaching a team is not a hierarchy of ‘i command, you listen’, but a show of leadership with the captain at the front of the team–not on top of them.”

his words strike a chord within you. coaching the boys was frustrating because they were not listening to you. but it should never have been a case of who listens to who–it should always have been a reciprocated relationship of everyone listening to one other.

as if he can physically feel the guilt that is starting to settle in the pit of your stomach, coach cho draws your attention to something else. “remember what i told you when we met the team for the first time? why i chose you specifically?”

“because of our similar playing styles?” you recall.

“exactly,” he confirms, “you know best the strategies and plays that work, and what their strengths and weaknesses are, because they were also your own. you need to be a coach to their playing style, not the other way around–they shouldn’t be a player to your coaching style.”

you cannot help but worry, “what if they get injured?”

“y/n, this is where your similarities can either be your biggest flaw or your greatest asset as a coach. no matter how safely they play, there will always be a risk of injury. that is just how the sport works and you know that the best. you can teach them to assess the risk and pull back if they really need to, but ultimately, there is no way of eliminating the risk completely.” coach cho pauses, then asks, “if you could meet your younger self, would you make yourself change your playing style?”

would you? as you imagine what you would tell your past self if you had the chance to, you find that you do not have an answer. perhaps for the sake of a prolonged career, you would. but then would it be your passion and skills that are playing the game, or your fears and worries?

if you cannot come to a decision even for yourself, then it is completely unfair for you to restrain the boys within the cages of what you view as safety for their own good. harnessing the defensive skills may have been functional for the grey eagles, but like hongjoong said, you are coaching the red devils now and it is not working for them. you must come to terms that you cannot protect the boys at every opportunity–consciously or unconsciously–you need to be a coach to them.

coach cho, aware that you have come to a conclusion, asks you one final question, “have you told the boys why you retired?”

“no, not yet,” you shake your head. you already have an idea of what he is going to say to you next.

“i think it’s time for you to tell them,” he advises. “remember, y/n, sometimes you need to be vulnerable with them first before you can make things right.”

after coach cho ends the call, you do not make a move to go back inside the apartment. you stay standing on your balcony, arms folded as you lean against the handrail listening to the faint rumble of traffic and hustle of busy activity. life goes on, and so will yours; you just have to make it count.

the trees on the streets may be stripped bare and lonely throughout winter, but eventually you learn to appreciate its nothingness. it is a necessity in order to start afresh.

mingi stares at the blinking cursor that sits in the open search bar. it has been empty for the last twenty minutes since he started up his laptop, wondering whether it would be an invasion of privacy for him to look you up on the internet.

he makes up his mind. he knows that he was the one to tell wooyoung only mere hours ago that they would ask you about your decision to retire tomorrow at the meeting, but mingi supposes it would not hurt to simply see what sort of athlete you were like before.

typing your full name into the search engine, mingi hits ‘enter’ and waits for the results to appear. he combs through the first several links quickly. they all have the same information; ice hockey databases and websites that detail your age, nationality, physical stats and position, but the sections that usually list your team and agency are now blank.

mingi is surprised to learn you were also a centre forward. he scrolls down to your game logs and match statistics that span from 2014 to 2019. you have won an impressive number of championships, most notably the under-18 and under-21 women’s ice hockey league. they are both international competitions and mingi is not sure how your reputation has flown under all of their radars.

frowning, he goes back to the search engine and clicks on the next page in an attempt to find more information. it is not until he clicks yet again to the next page that he finds a low-reputed news article from almost eight years ago where you are the main subject.

‘y/n l/n, youngest player of ‘black cats’, wins ice hockey championship at the age of sixteen’ the headline reads. there is not much to the article, but it outlines your admirable achievement at your young age as a rising prodigy in the ice hockey scene. mingi agrees, since he knows that you also go on to win another international competition a few years after that. just as he is about to close the tab, there is a recommended link that catches his eye.

he hovers his cursor over it. the hyperlinked headline does not explicitly say your name, but the phrasing really only alludes to one athlete considering it is a recommended link on your article. mingi does not know whether he wants to click on it, though, because he is afraid of confirming it is you.

and if it is…then the others will also need to see this too.

“hongjoong, guys, come look at this,” mingi calls out, balancing his laptop on his forearm as he walks out into the open living room. the others look up from where they are sitting or emerge from out of their rooms at his summon.

“what’s this?” hongjoong reaches out to receive the laptop and places it on the table. his eyes skim the screen, trying to make sense of what mingi is showing them.

mingi points to the hyperlink he had been mulling over. “i think we need to look at this.”

solemnity washes over the boys as their curious gazes dull and darken, realisation of what exactly they are reading dawning upon them. all at once, their hearts clench in solidarity. hongjoong clicks on the link. the only sound that permeates the silence is the rhythmic tick of the clock on the wall. nobody talks. nobody moves.

ice hockey star announces retirement following shoulder injury june 18, 2019 star player y/n l/n, centre forward of the ‘black cats’, has announced her retirement from professional ice hockey today. her decision follows lingering issues after suffering from a rotator cuff tear during the grand finals of this year’s under-21 women’s ice hockey league. l/n has been under the ice hockey spotlight ever since her win in the under-18’s league as the youngest player on her team. she is well-known for her offensive threat to the opponents, bold playing style and unparalleled skill breaking through the lines of defence.  during the grand finals in april, l/n was body checked from the side by ‘polar bears’’ kim hyejin. although full-body checking is illegal in women’s hockey, it is not uncommon during the heat of competitions. l/n suffered a severe right rotator cuff tear and is reported to have received open surgery last month. l/n did not provide further details about her recovery, however stated that she plans to focus on her physical rehabilitation in the meantime.

the glare of the screen stares back at the boys as they finally understand exactly why you had retired and why you had come back as a coach–you were unable to fully step away from the sport you so loved with your entire life.

“coach wasn’t telling us to play defensively at all the crucial times just for the sake of the game strategy…” seonghwa grasps.

“...but because she didn’t want the same thing to happen to us,” hongjoong finishes. one of your heated remarks during your argument with him suddenly resounds in his mind: and let me remind you–if you suffer an injury, your whole team suffers with you. you had been reliving your own demons every single time hongjoong and his boys were playing aggressively on the ice. “fuck,” he mutters.

mingi leans down a little. “wait, see if there are any other articles about this.”

fingers dancing across the keyboard, hongjoong opens up a new tab. another quick search of your name with the keywords ‘injury’ and ‘retirement’ yields no further articles. mingi is certain you would have had more media coverage considering you had suffered an injury at the rising peak of your prodigious career, so he finds it strange that there is close to no information about this.

“it almost looks as if somebody had the articles purged from the internet,” mingi observes.

jongho nods with furrowed brows, “maybe y/n? but why would she go to the length to remove them?”

“i mean, wooyoung didn’t exactly go around flaunting off his injury to the media. maybe she didn’t want the attention anymore,” yeosang guesses.

yunho nudges wooyoung playfully as he comments, “no offence to you, but none of us are exactly famous enough for the media to take interest in our injuries.”

“i think the real question is why coach didn’t tell us that her injury was the reason why she stopped playing,” seonghwa wonders, “it was never really a choice like she made it out to be.”

none of them know the answer. hongjoong slowly closes the laptop, exhaling deeply, “we’ve got a lot of things to clear up tomorrow…and a lot of apologising. i’m going to sleep early. you all should too.”

with that, he gets out of his seat and disappears into his bedroom. hongjoong’s mind is heavy and crowded and he knows he is going to be awake for a while.

nobody sleeps well that night. especially wooyoung.

spring, 2023: playoffs

“what do you mean i can’t compete in the playoffs?”

“you have a fractured ankle, wooyoung. the playoffs are honestly the least of your concerns and if you keep straining yourself like this, it won’t just be the playoffs that you can’t compete in–it’ll be the rest of your life,” coach cho admonishes.

“but this is our first proper championship, coach,” wooyoung begs, “you have to let me play.”

coach cho hates that he has to say no and if he could swap ankles with his player, he would do so in a heartbeat. “this isn’t a choice. you physically cannot play. what are you going to do out there on the ice? crawl?”

“fuck, coach, you don’t understand. it was so hard for us to get to this point. this means everything to me, fuck, please,” wooyoung pleads between heaving breaths.

“i’m sorry, wooyoung,” coach cho apologises, leaving no further room for argument as the other boys divert their gazes to the floor.

hongjoong gently squeezes wooyoung’s shoulder. “the doctor said that your cast can come off in about eight weeks and if it’s looking good, you can gradually join in on any light training when it’s off-season.”

wooyoung does not care because in eight week’s time the playoffs will already be over. he knows he is being unreasonable and that there is no chance he will be able to set foot in an ice rink within the next two months. but his heart and mind are operating separately and the only thing his heart can see is the opportunity of playing in the championships slipping right out of his grasp.

he is already angry at himself for getting injured in the first place but it is not enough to quell wooyoung’s raging inferno. so he does the only thing he can think of in the moment–he spits out his anger with a venomous, “i hate you all.”

it hurts the boys more to see wooyoung hurting and coach cho speaks up on their behalf, “i would rather you hate us now than for you to hate yourself in the future because you traded decades of your career for this one playoff.”

wooyoung jerks his head away defiantly, but they know he is only trying to hide his tears. unable to watch any longer, san moves in closer and pulls the younger into his arms.

“fuck off, san. i don’t need you.”

san swallows the hurt in his chest because he knows there is no truth behind wooyoung’s words. “i know you don’t,” he offers, “but i need you. so just let me stay.”

wooyoung’s body sags as all of the fight slips out of him in the form of shuddering sobs. san embraces him tightly, as if he has picked up all the pieces of the other and only a hug can make him whole again.

“i’m sorry,” wooyoung chokes out.

san shakes his head with reassuring hushes, “don’t be. you focus on recovering and we’ll take it from here.”

like that, wooyoung’s anger is quenched and the team goes on to compete in the playoffs without him. but in the absence of anger comes other emotions, jealousy and insecurity the ugliest of them all. wooyoung despises the bitter taste in his mouth as he sits on the player’s bench outside of the rink each game, only able to helplessly watch his team advance further in the playoffs without him.

and as much as wooyoung wants them to win, he also does not want them to win, because if they can win the championships without him playing as their left wing, then do they really need him at all? he never gets to find out the answer though. they lose in the quarter finals.

wooyoung does not tell anybody about the ill relief he feels…and he vows to take that secret with him to the grave.

winter, present: regular season

the moment you walk into kq’s meeting room, a rehearsed apology for the team on the tip of your tongue, you realise that something is off. not necessarily wrong, per se; just off.

all the boys are sitting around the table as usual, though the overhead projector that is routinely already set up with video footage of their recent games has been put on standby mode. but the thing that unconsciously makes your hackles rise is the expression they all nurse on their faces, strangely familiar yet foreign at the same time. it is familiar in the sense that people have looked at you this way in the past, but it is foreign in the sense that it has never come from the boys before.

“hi, coach,” hongjoong clears his throat awkwardly, opting to look at the wall behind you instead of your eyes as if even he knows this is the first time he has ever addressed you as such. “we had a…talk last night and thought we should probably clear up a few things before we discuss the actual games.”

although you share the same sentiment as they do, hongjoong’s words put you on guard. gingerly, you lower yourself into an empty seat across from him. “i also have a couple of things to say, but you guys start,” you cue.

hongjoong glances at seonghwa beside him, who in turn gives him a miniscule shrug. neither of them know how to bring it up with you as they are afraid of saying the wrong thing. thankfully, mingi steps in, not one to beat around the bush.

“why didn’t you tell us about your injury?” he asks directly.

with mingi’s question, you are suddenly able to place their expression. the boys look at you warily as if you are a wounded animal they are afraid will run away. you loathed the expression years ago when it was from your coach, your teammates and your family–the constant treading on eggshells around you with pitying eyes–and you still loathe it just as much as you do now.

your prickles emerge and your instinctive reaction is to deny it. you have kept your injury a secret up until now for a reason and the unexpected confrontation has all of your sirens blaring to keep it a secret. but then you remember coach cho’s advice–you remember the apology you had mulled over all night–and you force your prickles to retract.

you take a breath. coach cho would not have told them about your injury, so there is only one way the boys could have found out about it. “you read the articles, didn’t you?”

mingi at least has the decency to look sheepish as he admits, “one…but there weren’t any others.”

“i thought as much,” you mumble to yourself, smiling tightly. you choose not to think about how they came across the article. “i wanted them all removed and my agency managed to pull enough connections to sweep the articles under the rug, but i should have known that in this day and age it would be impossible to get rid of any media completely.”

the question remains as to why you have chosen to keep this hidden and also–

“why did you want them removed, though?” hongjoong furrows his brows.

you have faced countless demons in the last six years. the injury itself, the abrupt end to your golden days, and the forced reconciliation with the fact that you will never be able to play again. and yet, the demon that continues to haunt you to this day is the media spotlight that chases after you as if you are a circus animal.

you are unable to look at any of them in the eye as you finally bare yourself open to the boys. “the articles felt belittling and shameful–they still do. they made me feel less as an athlete then and they make me feel less as a coach now. i worked my heart and soul to get to where i was with the skills that i had, but you don’t understand just how crippling it is for all of that to be overshadowed by an injury. it was no longer a celebration of my achievements, simply because nobody cared anymore. it just became a fucking broken record of, ‘how does it feel to have fallen at the peak of your career?’

“then when i became a coach, it didn’t matter how well my team performed or how hard they worked to win the championships. the question became, ‘how does it feel to coach after being forced to retire because of your injury?’ no matter how hard i tried, i just could not escape the hellhole of my injury.”

guilt settles in the pit of mingi’s stomach as it also does for the others. they may not have written the article, but by consuming it and searching for more, they had unknowingly joined the faceless masses of those who had hurt you.

you dig your thumbs into the flesh of your thighs to stop your voice from shaking as you continue, “the media will not care for the achievements that myself or my players accomplish when there is something even better–a sob story. but i do not need that kind of pity. not from athletes, not from other coaches, and most definitely not from strangers silently pitying my life from behind their newspaper or screen when i did not ask for any of it. i made people forget and i kept this all hidden because my career, be it as a coach or a former athlete, does not deserve to be reduced to that kind of shit.”

the raw honesty behind your words strikes the boys silent. what they thought they had started to understand about you, they are now realising was barely the tip of the iceberg. seonghwa wonders for just how long you have left this wound bleeding and untreated. he calls out for you sadly, “coach, you should’ve told us.”

when you look up, you are surprised to find wetness brimming his eyes. you feel the hot rush of emotions build up behind your own eyes but from anger, because why is he upset? what reason does he have to cry when you are the one who has suffered all this time?

your voice is biting when you respond, “and have you look down on me like everybody else? i just said, i do not need your pity–”

“it’s not pity,” a voice interrupts firmly. of all people, you least expected it to come from wooyoung. his tone stays unyielding as he holds your gaze. “we’re athletes too, y/n.”

the way he includes you in the collective–as an athlete–has your glare softening immediately, replaced by the dangerous quivering of your bottom lip while he elaborates, albeit voice gentler now, “we are hurting for you–with you. it is not pity; it is standing by your side in hopes that we can help you up if you ever fall again.”

because it is okay to fall, and you will fall; wooyoung knows that the best.

you tilt your head upwards as you desperately blink back the tears that suddenly threaten to spill. the swell of emotions that had churned in your chest had not been anger but fatigue, you realise. wooyoung’s words give you sudden clarity that you are tired–of suffering alone and in silence. you want help.

“i’m tired of hurting,” you confess quietly.

“then let us share the hurt with you.”

the dam breaks and your tears fall freely down your cheeks. it starts off with a nod so miniscule that the boys think they have imagined it, but then slowly and surely, your head moves up and down with more conviction. “okay,” you whisper.

you had always thought that you had come to terms with your injury and the end of your career, but perhaps you are still mourning your loss…and perhaps that is okay. like looking into a time-warped mirror, wooyoung sees the fight slip out of your body with a sob as you apologise, “i’m sorry.”

san wants to cross the room and wrap his arms around you if it can take away even just a fraction of your hurt. but he knows that he cannot cross the boundaries of professionalism despite the intimate nature of the conversation right now, especially when you and the team are only just starting to patch things up. so instead, he opts to rub his thumb over the knuckles of wooyoung’s hand from under the table, which has slipped into his, hoping that one day he will be able to do the same for you.

“we understand,” hongjoong answers on their behalf, “you were doing what you needed to do in order to protect yourself.”

and if you do not realise that he says those words for himself and his team to hear too, then you will by the end of the conversation as you walk away with a newfound understanding of them.

“no, not just for that,” you shake your head, roughly swiping at your tears with the back of your hand. “it ended up negatively influencing the way i coached you guys, even if it was subconscious. i let my own trauma dictate how i wanted you to play: defensively all the time whether it was needed or not. hongjoong, you were right about me not coaching your team as your team.”

you try your damned hardest to keep your voice steady so that you can look at them properly to apologise, “i’m sorry i made it so hard to trust me as your coach.”

“okay, let me stop you right there,” yunho smiles gently, sliding a tissue box in your direction. “we were pricks too, so half the apology is ours.”

“don’t call her a prick,” seonghwa whispers. his horrified expression relaxes when you break out into a wet chuckle.

hongjoong is glad that you are able to find something to laugh about even with your cheeks still damp and blotchy, and he finds his mouth curling into a bittersweet smile. you have been honest and vulnerable with them and now it is their turn.

“we have something to tell you about our past coach,” he starts, drawing your gaze to him. “not coach cho–our very first coach. we’re not trying to justify that what we did as a result was okay, but…”

“but hopefully i can understand,” you finish when hongjoong hesitates. he nods and you mirror his action with a reassuring smile to encourage him to talk.

but irregardless of what they tell you, you already know that you want to understand them, because understanding is the first step to forgiving, and you want that too.

so with intermittent comments from the other boys, hongjoong reveals to you the hidden wounds they have been nursing. and as they tell you about coach yeon, how their trust in him had been misplaced, how he had betrayed it for money at the expense of their championship, and how they had then let that become mistrust in you and your reason for retiring, wooyoung finds himself quiet so that he can steal glances at you.

he can see it now. the untameable beast within you of passion for ice hockey that has been forcibly chained down to the ground with the weight of the earth. the devastating torment that must incessantly surge through you in the most debilitating waves, tenfold any anguish he felt when he was unable to compete in the playoffs. the blemished canvas of dark and ghastly emotions that you do not let see the light of day, yet continue to coexist in hidden silence.

it is there and then that wooyoung realises you and him may be more similar than he thought–that you may actually understand him better than any of his seven boys.

you stop the drill.

yeosang gracefully turns in an arc whilst keeping the puck close to his stick as hongjoong and seonghwa dig their skates into the ice to brake before their momentum takes out the younger.

“let’s have jongho try using the perimeter of the rink instead of passing to yeosang this time. start the faceoff again,” you instruct.

the chorus of responses that you receive are zealous, even slightly teasing as the boys lower their voices with a, “yes, coach!” and give you small salutes with their gloved hands. you cannot help but snort and shake your head, waving at them to retake their positions.

practice is short today, since your team has a game tomorrow. the first half an hour consisted of running through offensive formations for power plays and you are now focusing on defensive penalty kills. your two captains and wooyoung are playing as the mock opponents, preparing your remaining wings and defenseman for a situation where they are down a player.

hongjoong seems to mull over a thought as he looks at the formation of his boys. “you mentioned the team we’re playing against has a tendency to position their forwards higher up, didn’t you?” he asks and  when you nod, he suggests, “what do you think about trying the diamond formation instead? might help close some of their shooting lanes.”

with the captain’s input, you reposition yeosang further up to form the tip of the diamond, and yunho too to cover the right point whilst jongho covers the left. mingi moves in a little closer to the goal to cover the bottom of the diamond and you make sure to point out the importance of his position.

“if the opportunity arises, we can transition into a counterattack instead with 3-1. but we’ll need to make sure we still cover the goal in case they turn it back over again–mingi, this will probably be you. support whoever has the puck from behind, but make sure you don’t go too far forward.”

mingi answers with an affirmative and yeosang passes the puck to hongjoong for him to commence the penalty kill. at your whistle, the rink explodes into action. wooyoung and seonghwa immediately split down the perimeters to open up shooting lanes for their captain, who passes the puck off to wooyoung the moment he has cleared half the rink. with a brief adjustment of the puck’s angle, he attempts a cross-ice pass to where seonghwa is free on the other side.

with astonishing speed, jongho intercepts the puck and yells, “3-1!” he continues to barrel forward with the momentum of his explosive acceleration towards the goal as yeosang anticipates a pass and yunho joins the counterattack rush to his right. the three of your players charge forwards with adrenaline as mingi covers them from behind. jongho chips the puck over hongjoong’s stick, which is immediately taken up by yeosang. without a goaltender, he finishes it off with an easy shot into the net.

the tempo and execution of the rush surprises not just you, but the boys themselves too, who are tapping their sticks together with elated excitement at the success of the play. it may only be a simulated practice drill, but you still share in the same pride and contentment that hongjoong’s face glows at you with.

he cocks his head to the side with a paired smile and you return the same nonverbal acknowledgement. corners of your lips still lifted up, you gather the boys, “let’s have a drink break.”

as the boys make their way over to the benches, removing their gloves and helmets, you eye the water bottles and make sure you have enough–five in the cooler and three on the bench beside it. san bounds up to you after grabbing one from the cooler, bragging, “coach! did you see the way jongho intercepted that puck?”

from beside him, wooyoung reenacts the moment with wild flails of his limbs and airy whooshes from his mouth, jongho watching with bashful giggles. you indulge in their animated recount and listen intently. “he was amazingly fast,” you agree.

yeosang passes an opened bottle to wooyoung before untwisting the lid to his own, commenting, “the ankle weights on top of all the training must be working.”

the boys are not currently wearing any, but you had slowly implemented the use of vests, ankle or wrist weights during specific drills. now that they have taken them off and are playing without the burden of the additional mass, you are all starting to see the gains of their hard work.

you smirk with satisfaction, “of course. if my players are going to bulldoze across the ice, may as well make them fast enough to avoid all the opponents.”

“don’t encourage her,” wooyoung elbows yeosang scandalously. “she’s going to make us wear heavier weights next practice.”

“you don’t get to complain if you don’t even wear the weights,” you quip.

he knows his injury means that he cannot wear the weights in case it places stress on his ankle, so he curses at you with no real heat just for the sake of cursing, “fuck you.”

you wink, “love you too.”

wooyoung shuts his mouth and scrunches the bridge of his nose with faux displeasure, and jongho laughs at his inability to faze you. you glance down and open your notebook to mention, “on that note, though, how do we feel about going up a few hundred grams next week?”

“i’m fine with that,” yeosang says at the same time jongho confirms, “sounds good.” most of the other boys also nod that they are fine with increasing their weights, save for seonghwa who notifies you that he is still adjusting so he will keep his as it is for now.

you jot down ticks and crosses next to their names corresponding to their answers whilst suggesting, “yunho and mingi, you can both probably try half a kilogram since your body masses are higher.”

said boys peer over your shoulder to see what their new weights would be, then yunho makes a noise of intriguement. “coach, did you write these?”

you look to where his finger is pointing to–sticky notes upon sticky notes of unorganised observations and reminders to yourself. starting to feel self-conscious, you deny, “...no,” only for yunho to swipe the notebook from out of your grasp. “hey!”

he holds it up and open above him, voice gleeful as he reads one out, “‘jongho, wooyoung and yeosang prefer water at room temperature when training–take bottles out of cooler!’”

“aw, coach,” wooyoung coos, “did you deliberately leave three bottles in room temperature for us on the bench?”

feeling your ears heat up from being exposed, you swipe at the notebook. your skates give you added height, but so do yunho’s skates, so your attempts to jump for it are futile.

“‘boys want to eat abura soba after their win’,” he continues to read, pausing to let out a dramatic gasp, “are you going to treat us, coach?” his question is met with enthusiasm.

when another wild swipe sends a sharp sting down your shoulder from the movement, reminding you of the pain that had flared up a few days ago, you decide to change tactics. you grab the back and front of his jersey with your hands, completely ready to commit to scaling him like a literal tree. but then a different set of hands easily takes the notebook out of yunho’s and of course it would be mingi. you insult, “give it back, you tall buffoon!”

mingi is hardly fazed as you switch targets to him, your fingertips nowhere near reaching the notebook as he snickers and reads, “‘trial jongho as starting forward–wait.” he lowers his hands with sobriety and you are finally able to snatch the notebook back, shutting it before they can read any more of your sticky notes. it is not like there is anything they cannot know, but it is sort of embarrassing for them to see how much attention you pay to them.

“you want jongho on the starting lineup?” mingi confirms that he has not read it wrong, eyes as wide as all the other boys as they look at you.

jongho is almost certain that you must have meant somebody else, or something else, because there is no way that he would be given the opportunity to start for the team–not when they have yeosang and wooyoung as their wings, and the choice of hongjoong or seonghwa as their centres. he is used to being the player who momentarily relieves others of their shift on the ice, or as his parents so like to remind him, option b.

“why do you all look so surprised?” you frown. beckoning at jongho with your chin, you ask, “you’ve been practising hard to make your right hand just as good as your left hand, haven’t you? so let’s take advantage of your versatility and unpredictability on ice and throw the opponents off. what do you think?”

jongho’s mouth opens and shuts, struggling to formulate an answer through his wide beam other than, “i–of course, if you’d let me–if everyone else is happy.”

the pleased smile on hongjoong’s face is enough to make his cheeks sore and he wraps his arm around the youngest’s shoulders. he praises, “look at you, our wild card and our hidden ace,” as seonghwa declares, “i know he’ll do us so proud.”

both yeosang and wooyoung simultaneously offer their positions in the starting lineup and the rest of the boys watch on with fond expressions. they are grateful that you have recognised the talents and hard work of their youngest. although you are not aware, this opportunity holds significance not just in regards to his career.

you conclude, “we’ve been on a good streak with our games. let’s ride the momentum and show the other teams what jongho is capable of–what we’re all capable of.”

“yes, coach!” they shout, the loud echo of their voices reverberating and filling the rink with buzzing energy for the remainder of the training session.

spirits still high by the time you call it a wrap, you let them change as you grab your own belongings. there is a team meeting in the afternoon so you and the boys will be going back to kq to eat at the cafeteria and use the booked room. you pause when you see wooyoung loitering by your bag. he still has not changed out of his practice clothes.

“i’m not letting you on the bus if you’re planning on staying in those clothes,” you joke.

“i’m going to change!” he scowls indignantly, then avoids eye contact as he thrusts something out in your direction. he mumbles, “had some spares. didn’t want them. just dumping them with you so you can stash them or use them or whatever, i don’t care.”

you grab the small bag, brows creased with confusion, but wooyoung dashes away to change before you can ask what it is. you peer inside and to your pleasant surprise, there are two packs of pain relief patches. your shoulder protests at the lack of attention you have given it in the last few days. the pain is chronic and never really goes away, but it has been bothering you more than usual recently, so it is all in good timing that you now have some patches.

you make a mental note to stick one on when you get to the company and grab your bag after ensuring your notebook is stored inside. as you head towards the change rooms to wait for the boys, you spot a piece of paper on the floor. it looks like rubbish that you must have missed on your way in earlier so you pick it up to throw away. but when your fingertips touch the familiar sheen of the wax-like paper, you realise wooyoung must have dropped it.

it is confirmed when you unfold it to read the text and see that it is from yesterday evening, at the pharmacy that is just across the street from the company; in your hands you hold wooyoung’s receipt for two packs of pain relief patches.

spring marks the start of the playoffs. in synchronisation with the burst of life that blooms with the season, your boys, too, flourish in the league.

the unpredictability of your team’s strategies that entail a mix of both yours and hongjoong’s prowess helps to secure wins over the remainder of the regular season. despite the unsteady start to the season, it allows your team to scrape into the round of sixteen near the bottom of the standings.

the red devils are seeded against the team that is third in the rankings, and then against the sixth-standing team in the quarterfinals. in upsets that knock out two of the most anticipated teams in the league, your boys advance into the semifinals, their reputation as the demons of the ice rink that had laid low now rapidly spreading.

where none of the other competitors had paid you and your players any mind before, barely even noticing your presence, the opponents now glance and watch your team walk past with an air of confidence through the arena. their tense jaws and hard gazes size up your athletes–formidable rivals who have suddenly barrelled up the ranks from out of nowhere and now pose perhaps the biggest threat as a team that has somehow slipped under their radars.

you know; your team may be small in numbers. but with yunho and mingi flanking the sides of the boys, and even with hongjoong’s charismatic aura alone leading the front, which extends around him like a dark cloud of terror and envelops the rest of the group too, your team is a pack of predators at the tip of the apex.

other players part to make a path for your boys, whose heads are held high and eyes are set only on their captain and you, their coach, as you all walk to your assigned changeroom. the nerves have long dissipated because the ice rink is your territory and the other teams are your prey.

the moment you shut the door behind the last of them into the room though, the icy stare in wooyoung’s eyes melt and he exclaims, “holy shit, did you see the way everybody was looking at us? we must have looked so fucking hot, i wish i could ask for my own signature.”

from their glowing faces alone, you can tell that they are all basking in the feeling of finally being recognised and reckoned with. yunho bats his eyelids and pinches his voice higher into a falsetto, “oh wooyoung! you’re so handsome and cool, could i please have your signature?”

mingi imitates him and pounces on wooyoung, begging for a photo together as he clings onto his elbow. it sets off the rest of the boys to crowd around like mock fans with faux exhilaration. you snort at their antics, leaving wooyoung to sign imaginary sheets of paper with his imaginary pen in favour of ensuring all of their backup equipment and gear is correctly located outside or in the storage area.

you allow the boys adequate time to change into their full gear for their warm-up prior to the actual semifinal game before you walk back into the locker room. your ears perk up when you catch the end of san’s question, “that’s good for us, isn’t it?”

“what is?” you ask out of curiosity, flipping open the provided cooler and adding several sports drinks into the ice.

“i overheard someone on the white tigers team say that their head coach happened to fall sick, so they have their assistant coach today,” jongho mentions.

the surge of brazen smiles and reassured glints in their eyes at the reveal of information makes you falter to a degree. you lightly chastise, “don’t let that get to your heads and start being cocky–play as you usually do and do not underestimate them just because their head coach is off.”

you pull your notebook out of your bag, the familiar cover and weight of the book providing you with a sense of security as you remind the boys, “the white tigers have a very similar playing style as us. we may have worked hard on our defensive strategies, but with similar strengths and weaknesses overall, it won’t hurt for us to still be cautious.”

“yes, coach,” they chorus.

hongjoong nods, “let’s go warm up, then finalise our starting lineup for the game.”

your team’s allocated time on the rink passes by quickly and it is followed by the last adjustments to the discussed strategies and game plan, thorough checks of their gear, and the remaining boys who are still wearing their practice jerseys change out of the blue into their red game uniform. in full gear, there your boys stand, presence intimidating and demoniac. the boys do not live up to their team name; their team name lives up to them.

they stride through the hallway for their semifinal game against the white tigers. right at the end before it leads to the ice rink, yunho yells, “pep talk, captain!”

hongjoong groans, rolling his eyes, but places the blade of his stick onto the rubber flooring nonetheless. the rest of the boys huddle around, their sticks meeting in the centre of the circle and standing close together so that their helmets and shoulders knock against one another. you are also swept into the circle with yeosang and san by your sides.

“boys…and girl,” hongjoong snickers to himself before recollecting his very inspirational train of thought, “we’ve fought hard to make it this far–this is the first time we’ve made it into the semis, so let’s keep running until the very end, yeah?”

to the team’s increasingly loud cheers, hongjoong yells, “let’s fuck it up out there!”

their sticks hit the ground in unison and despite the muted sound of the cushioned flooring, their shouts of fighting resolve and unwavering determination drown out everything else. together, you emerge from the hallway and your starting players take their positions on the ice, ready to fuck it up.

only, it happens literally.

the moment the puck hits the ice and the white tigers’ centre forward, byun, wrestles it away with his blade, hongjoong immediately knows it is going to be one of those games. the ones where his competitive grit is fueling his mind ablaze but his body is leaden-footed as if he is wading through quicksand; where his body is just unable to keep up and move the way he wants it to. it is one of those days where his condition is just inexplicably off and there is nothing he can do about it except hope that his years of training and sheer aptitude for the sport will be enough.

“fuck,” you curse under your breath at hongjoong’s slip as jongho and yeosang rush to fall back and support those in defence. “he wasn’t like that during the warm-ups.”

byun is not only agile and swift, but is almost an identical reflection of hongjoong’s own bold and assertive offence. the centre forward powers through with evasive turns around yunho’s attempt to body check him, unafraid and confident. passing the blue line into your team’s defensive zone, byun flicks the puck at the goal.

the point shot is an unexceptional attempt to score, nothing that san’s reflexive goaltending cannot take care of. he extends his left foot and blocks the low shot with his leg pad, where the puck then slides in yunho’s direction. you did not doubt for a moment that san would not be able to save the shot, but it is still a close call that is far too early in the game to be a good sign.

your team’s greatest strength is their unspoken synergy and seamless unity, but it is also their greatest weakness. when one player stumbles, particularly when it is their captain–the very roots of the team–their bond runs so deeply that it throws their teamwork out of harmony and ultimately impacts the entire team.

with san’s save, yunho regains possession and handles the puck around the back of their net to shake off the pressure that the white tigers’ forwards are placing on him, as well as to buy his own team some time to reassemble in their formation.

you know that this is not going to work for long; you have to change the momentum of the game, and fast. “seonghwa, get ready,” you alert. “you’re going on for hongjoong.”

the alternate captain stands, alarmed at the unexpected line change so early into the game. he grips his stick with white knuckles and watches his team as he waits for your cue. yunho hits the puck against the boards where yeosang successfully receives the rebound.

“breakout!” yeosang yells and rushes forward with the chasing skates of the opponents nipping at his heels. jongho clears the centre line into the offensive zone at the same time hongjoong screens and blocks the view of the white tigers’ goaltender, setting up for an opportunity to score.

when the opponent’s left defence and wing advance on yeosang rapidly, he fakes a deceptive pass towards the boards before twisting the blade of his stick and flicking the puck between their skates instead in hongjoong’s direction. but like an eagle honing in on a small rodent, byun swoops in to snatch the puck, flipping the possession again.

the tides turn and all the athletes on the rink race towards your team’s net, a cutthroat competition between triumph and desperation to chase the puck. byun passes to the player on his left as they both dash closer, the left forward immediately returning the puck the moment he receives it to break past mingi’s defence.

you are able to see the white tigers’ right wing following closely behind ready for a drop pass, but in your team’s frenzied minds, they are unable to read the play. yunho approaches byun, who is expecting the defence and leaves the puck behind whilst skating on, knowing that it will be received by his trailing teammate. with the momentary confusion that is enough to disrupt both yunho and san’s gaze on the puck, the opponent’s right wing winds his stick back just enough to build power without sacrificing speed, then slaps the puck into the corner of the goal–

–and scores. within the first three minutes of the game.

“seonghwa,” you call out again with urgency as the whistle blows. you turn to look at him, “you’re up. you have to break the flow of the team. not just the white tigers, but ours too–the boys are panicking and you need to help anchor them.”

he nods, steadying his hand on the board in preparation to hop over it, and you yell out for the captain, “change!”

hongjoong sees the gesture of your hand pointing at the bench, and although his chest tightens with frustration at himself, he speeds towards the edge of the rink to change. once the captain is close enough, seonghwa pushes his skate off the benches to launch himself over the top of the boards onto the ice then propels himself forward to take the centre faceoff.

the captain sits down heavily on the bench, defeat already broiling off of his slumped body in smothering swells. you really cannot afford to take your eyes off the game; it waits for nobody and the whistle has already blown, the rink erupting into commotion. but whilst you need to watch the game unfold, you need hongjoong just as much, and his team needs him.

you turn him slightly to face you so that he can see your face of resolution. “you are the captain, so be the captain–for the team…and for yourself,” you invigorate, voice raised so that he can hear you over the noise of the stadium. 

you give his shoulder a hard squeeze, certain he will not be able to even feel it from under the pads of his uniform. regardless, he understands your intentions and nods grimly, the fog in his eyes clearing. wooyoung taps the back of his helmet in a show of encouragement and hongjoong returns the gesture with appreciation. 

a particularly loud thump draws the attention of all three of you back to the game. from the grimace on yeosang’s face and his hand steadying himself on the boards, it is obvious he has just been body checked into the wall. seonghwa pursues the puck with graceful yet powerful speed before he digs both skates perpendicular into the ice to suddenly change direction. pushing off, he accelerates back towards the white tigers’ defensive zone when mingi manages to disrupt the opponent’s stickhandling enough for yunho to sweep the puck and skate it up the perimeter of the rink away from their net.

wooyoung also goes on for yeosang but as the left wing, so jongho switches position to play as the right forward. he skates past the benches when an opportunity arises and he hands off his stick whilst grabbing his right-handed stick from you with practised ease.

with the line change of forwards and with seonghwa on as your centre, your team stabilises to an extent. the red devils are no longer being pushed back but they are also unable to push forward. the game is at a stalemate, although the tides remain in favour of the white tigers with both their positional and psychological advantage of the first goal.

you can see the pressure weighing down on your boys; passes that yunho and mingi would be capable of executing blindfolded are miscalculated; predictable manoeuvres still mislead wooyoung in the wrong direction; seonghwa and jongho fail to notice the opportunities for clear passing and shooting lanes; and the openings appear far too wide and innumerable for san to cover the goal from. the relentless offensive pressure that the white tigers places on your team, strikingly similar to how the boys played when you first started coaching them, does not give any breathing room either.

so that is how the first period comes to an end–losing zero to one with none of your players performing at their best condition. their steps are heavy and burdened as they walk back to the locker room for the intermission, helmets removed the moment they come off the ice to reveal hardened expressions. in the privacy of your assigned room, most of the boys adjust the pads in their gear and yunho peels off his shin guards to let them air out.

you pass around their iced bottles and as exhausted as they are, they make sure to voice their gratitude. san grabs wooyoung’s bottle for him, since the younger is bent over loosening the laces of his left skate. “here,” san murmurs, twisting open the cap and passing it to wooyoung once he straightens his back.

similarly, seonghwa hands over an opened bottle to yeosang before taking a swig of his own. “you’re okay?” he checks, the particularly rough body check that yeosang had copped earlier in the game still at the forefront of his mind.

yeosang gives the alternate captain a reassuring smile, “i’m okay.”

appeased by the answer, seonghwa turns to look at hongjoong, who is re-taping the blade of his stick. “what about you?” seonghwa softly asks, “you’re feeling okay?”

hongjoong glances up briefly at the back of your figure. you are busy shifting the red magnets around on the whiteboard and erasing the markings you had made prior to the start of the semifinals. when you turn around to gather their attention, you accidentally make eye contact with him and break out into a small smile.

“yeah,” hongjoong replies, “i’m feeling okay.”

“alright, listen up boys, that was just the first period. we’re not even halfway into this game and we’ve started to even up the playing field now that we’ve found our footing,” you encourage. “we just have to make sure we keep our heads cool and read their plays instead of simply reacting to their movements.”

you look at each of them as you direct, “their centre forward, byun, has been on for almost all of first period, so there’s probably going to be a shift change, if not a complete line change of forwards. they have the leniency to swap out their top players since they’re in the lead, which means if we want to break their momentum, we need to break it then.”

shifting yourself slightly out of the way, the boys are able to see the new arrangement of positions you have marked out on the whiteboard. “we’re starting the second period by sharpening our offence in the 2-2-1 formation,” you explain. you beckon your head at the captain, “hongjoong, you’re back on. you and wooyoung are to position yourselves up high between the neutral and offensive zones–try to screen their goaltender when our boys have possession. yunho, i want you to move up to our blue line with jongho and open up as many passing lanes as you two can. mingi will stay in defence and help cover the goal with san in case the white tigers makes a counterattack.

“use this opportunity to make as many scoring chances as you can. if there isn’t a clear shot but there’s a chance it can be continued on by another one of us, then go for it anyway–any sort of pressure we can put on their team is better than none.”

your forwards nod with understanding, so you continue to the most important point, “but the moment byun and the wings–kim and song, i think they are–come back on, we’re reversing the formation.” you reposition half of the magnets into a 1-2-2 formation. “only hongjoong will stay up high; wooyoung will fall back and join jongho in the neutral zone; put pressure on their forwards from there. yunho and mingi, you’ll play left and right defence as usual.”

san listens intently when you start moving the black magnets that represent the opposing players and call out to him directly. you warn, “san, be careful of their drop passes. kim and song have been skating forward but leaving the puck behind for byun to score multiple times throughout the first period. they have you primed to predict it now, so they’re probably going to change their tactic and pass directly in front of the goal instead.”

“yes, coach,” san acknowledges.

a glance at the screen on the wall of the locker room tells you that there are only a few minutes left of the intermission. “gear up and get ready to go back on,” you instruct the boys.

they make final adjustments to their pads and yunho tapes his shin guards back into place under his socks. you make sure they all have their helmets and sticks when they start to file out of the locker room once they are ready and you grab wooyoung’s gloves for him while he ties the laces of his skates again.

“thanks,” he reaches out for them as he stands up. except he stumbles slightly when he puts weight on his left ankle and your hand instinctively grabs his to steady him.

your eyes grow wide with concern. you know that wooyoung is the type to keep quiet about his pain, even if you ask, “does your ankle hurt?”

“no, my legs just fell asleep on me from sitting,” he reassures, conscious of your hand that still holds his. he smiles through his lie and hopes that you are unable to pick up on it. the buzzer sounds before you can, though, warning you both that there is only one minute remaining until the game resumes.

hurriedly you tell him, “let me know if you need to come off.”

somebody yells out your names, forcing you both to rush off to join the rest of the team in the hallway. wooyoung knows that he should admit to you right there and then that his ankle does hurt, but he will not–he cannot…because he owes it to his team.

they do not know and they will never know, but there is not a day that goes past where wooyoung does not feel guilty for having desired for their loss last year. he has to play and win this championship for his team because only then can he start to forgive himself. but until he wins, he deserves to suffer.

those in the lineup rapidly glide across the ice to take their positions, wooyoung included. a short buzzer sounds, the puck is dropped, and the second period starts. immediately you can see that your boys have the advantage. the white tigers had not expected you to take such an aggressive approach of offence considering that you are losing.

and sure enough, just as you had predicted, their coach has changed their entire line of forwards. the players are still undeniably skilled, but they visibly struggle to match the pace at which hongjoong and wooyoung are now leading your team to attack.

the rink is under the boys’ control; the neutral zone has become a stronghold with the resistance of both jongho and yunho’s combined strength and mingi’s reinforcement from behind. wooyoung weaves through the players with polished agility as he creates passing opportunities around the offensive zone, whilst hongjoong makes his own path with imposing might, his devilish wings spread. and even if the white tigers somehow manage to gain possession of the puck and break past your defence, san looks impossibly larger than the goal itself, leaving no openings for their forwards to score.

it is well into the second period when the perfect play sets itself up. with mingi blocking any possible rebounds off the boards, yunho’s attempt to body check the white tigers’ right wing forces the player to pass the puck across the ice. before their centre forward is able to receive it, jongho has already intercepted and is thundering ahead with his stick controlling the puck.

“high!” he shouts, ploughing through the neutral zone as wooyoung and hongjoong immediately respond to his call and skate up towards the goal.

jongho deliberately looks at his captain but flicks the puck with a forehand pass in the other direction, too fast for the defenders to react to. wooyoung easily receives the anticipated pass, thighs burning and his left ankle stinging as he rushes towards the goal from the left with powerful acceleration. the white tigers’ goaltender immediately lowers his stance and raises his arms in preparation to block his shot.

in the corner of his eye, wooyoung sees hongjoong matching his lightning pace on his right, the captain’s eyes narrowed with concentration and body weight tilted forward as he hurtles past the defenders. wooyoung pretends to wind up his stick for a slap shot into the net, only to twist the angle of his arms at the last second to send the puck skittering across the ice directly parallel to the goal. the goaltender drops down to his knees, having anticipated a scoring attempt, except the puck is now nearing hongjoong.

hongjoong sees it clearly–the trajectory that the puck is taking and the perfect point where it needs to meet his stick. without breaking its momentum, his arms contract to swing his stick and the blade collides with the puck with forceful precision, sending it hurtling through the air. the goaltender desperately scrabbles back onto his skates to defend the other side of the goal, but it is too late.

the puck flies past the posts and hits the netting.

the horn blares and echoing cheers erupt throughout the stadium as the lights flick on to shine across the net and your forward players. hongjoong yells with fierce triumph, stick raised into the air as wooyoung excitedly collides into him. the duo disappear amongst the bodies of your boys as they swarm around them feverish exuberance.

“that’s our fucking captain–” “–woo’s assist was insane!”

hongjoong cannot even tell who is who as he is jostled around in overjoyed laughter and beaming smiles, numerous hands reaching out to tap his and wooyoung’s helmets and shoulders. from outside the rink, you, seonghwa and yeosang have long stopped sitting on the benches, bodies too strung tight with hopeful tension to stay seated, so you are immediately swept up into a hug as the three of you celebrate the goal with identical exhilaration.

the game is still far from over but the morale has just skyrocketed through the roof as if the red devils have scored the winning goal. combined with the team’s fans electrifying the atmosphere of the stadium, it definitely feels like it, and you are starting to see hope that the ones advancing to the finals after today will be your boys.

“line change!” you faintly hear, so you still to watch all three of the white tigers’ forwards skate towards the boards. byun, kim and song jump onto the rink, back on offence in the wake of your goal.

hongjoong makes eye contact with you when you search for him amongst the team huddle and in unison, you both nod, pride and determination unspoken in your gazes–the real game is about to start now. the boys start to disperse and take up their positions around the marked circle for the centre faceoff, and hongjoong and byun meet head-to-head once again in the middle of the rink.

the white tigers’ centre forward smirks condescendingly, “cute goal.”

hongjoong’s face thunders over but he will not let himself resort to dirty sportsmanship. he bites his tongue and lowers his stance, focusing his attention on the game instead.

“ready,” the referee signals, then the puck is released.

byun manages to steal it and sends it backwards to his defensemen to open up more passing lanes, but as discussed, your boys mutually move into the 1-2-2 formation to fortify against their offensive plays. despite the pressure of the white tigers’ top forwards back in play, your team is riding on the momentum of your goal; although you had been treading to keep your heads above the water during the first period, there is now an air of confidence that permeates the ambience of the rink in favour of your boys. 

an angled pass from their defence rebounds off the boards and kim receives it high in the neutral zone. he attempts an immediate pass across the ice to song, except the safety net of your player’s defensive formation allows mingi to thrust out with his stick to intercept the pass. he signals, “breakout!” before deflecting it to wooyoung.

the turnover of possession immediately triggers a switch in defence to offence as wooyoung handles the puck back the other way. his wrists twist the stick with measured coordination, controlling the blade and puck as an extension of his own hands while approaching the offensive zone. wooyoung sees the white tigers’ defensemen racing towards him so he abruptly pivots towards the left to drag the black disc around their extended sticks.

suddenly, a sharp pain engulfs his ankle that has his legs crumbling as he staggers off balance. wooyoung manages to stay upright, using his stick to steady himself, but the momentary stumble is more than enough of an opening for byun to steal possession from behind him.

the rival centre forward swerves around jongho then stays close to the perimeter to avoid mingi’s resistant defence. behind mingi, san splays his legs out as he prepares to block the left side of the goal, but byun continues blazing on and wraps around the back of the net. san follows his movement and swiftly shifts over to the right instead while byun cradles the puck with his blade to lift it into the air the moment he approaches.

yunho cannot risk a penalty by raising his own stick to block its trajectory, so he shifts his body in hopes of deflecting the shot before it reaches san. but byun’s wrists snap and tuck the airborne puck at a sharp angle right past the red goalpost…and the horn blows to mark the scoring of a goal.

your jaw plummets at the same time that your heart does. not even your lungs work, your body frozen stock-still. once more, the white tigers are back in the lead only mere minutes after the score had been painstakingly tied by your team.

“fuck!” wooyoung curses and slams his gloved fist against the ice, having dropped to his knees in enraged denial.

seonghwa looks on with despondence from beside you as hongjoong drags wooyoung back up to his feet. the captain’s jaws are clenched in frustration but only because of the score itself–never because of his boys. when mingi and yunho try to comfort san with firm squeezes and uttered reassurances, he can only return a tight smile, all three of their breaths heavy and irregular from exertion and dismay.

for the boys to have climbed so arduously and persistently to even the scores, only to be knocked off and their momentum obliterated so mercilessly soon, it is even more demoralising than the white tigers’ first goal. after all, the higher the climb, the harder the fall.

through the deep ache in your heart, you mutedly say to yeosang, “go on for wooyoung, and tell jongho to change sticks and play as left wing.”

“yes, coach,” he replies, voice delicate. yeosang waits as you gesture for wooyoung to come off before he hops over the boards and skates in jongho’s direction.

“woo,” you murmur as your left wing makes his way back to the benches, but he avoids your gaze and keeps his head down. you bite your lips and decide not to push it for now. instead, you press an opened bottle into his gloved hand.

wooyoung is thankful that the bottle is half empty, because his hand unconsciously clenches around it with quivering shame and he would have spilled the water were it full. he makes no move to bring the bottle up to his lips; he doubts the water would go down his constricted throat anyway. the penetrative guilt of his tears hurts immeasurably more than the piercing throb of his ankle because he may have just cost his team the win…again.

even when the buzzer signals the end of the second period, wooyoung dares not to look up. the score is one to two and it is his fault. the intermission passes by in a haze of dissociation, his body robotically moving on autopilot into the locker room and back to the ice rink. wooyoung does not even know whether there are line changes to the positions or whether the game strategy has been altered.

but it does not matter because it does not concern him–as if any coach would put him on after his grave mistake. what wooyoung fails to notice though is the glances of worry in his direction, and they do not come solely from his boys.

the stakes run at their highest in the third and final period. tension suffocates the entire stadium, invisible hands that snake around your throats with a hangman’s loose and make you break out into cold sweats. all the players on the ice rink put everything that they have on the line because by the end of the next twenty minutes, only one team will be advancing to the finals.

from the moment the puck is dropped into play and the timer resumes, the rink is a torrential battlefield of contesting skates and grappling sticks. dramatic passes and unforeseen interceptions lead to rapid turnovers that force both teams to hastily switch back and forth between offence and defence.

but everyone learns of the juxtapositions of the world early on in life. there is no light without dark, there is no happiness without sadness, there is no spring without autumn…and there is no victory without defeat. for every scoring attempt that the red devils make, the white tigers make three, steadily and gradually pushing your boys back in the final stretch of the game. and while most of your forwards’ goals are blocked in the nick of time, most of theirs are not.

as a last resort in the face of the crisis, you calculate the risks then add seonghwa onto the field. “yunho, change!” you yell, pulling him off defence.

“behind you,” byun alerts song as seonghwa powers across the ice right into the cutthroat action, before cursing when the white tigers nearly lose possession of the puck.

your two captains unrelentingly pursue the black disc at the forefront of your team, their complementary synergy and unity a whirlwind of prowess to be reckoned with as they try not to let the burden of scoring weigh them down. despite the overwhelming pressure as the team’s last line of defence, even more so now that you have sacrificed stability to capitalise on having two centre forwards, san’s cat-like eyes do not cloud over, only intensely scanning the field and the opponent’s plays.

you glance at the clock. there are only two minutes left and even the combined efforts of your forwards is not working. you never thought that you would ever have to do this as a coach, but now you are afraid there is no choice. “yunho,” you urge.

his head turns to you and you see the ashen pallor of your own face reflected on his as the very probable outcome of the game dawns across your minds. you make your decision. “you’re going back on. for san.”

yunho’s eyes widen. “for san? i can’t play as goaltender–”

“no,” you shake your head, “we’re playing without a goaltender.”

sixty seconds.

save for wooyoung, all of your defenders, wings and centre forwards make a last-minute spurt to attack, not letting their bodies recover for even a split second as they strain their burning legs and gasping lungs.

thirty seconds.

they desperately break past the physical boundaries of their own stamina into their last reserves of pure grit and will, draining every last drop that their mental resilience has to offer.

ten seconds.

they do not give up. they try again and again to score. but against all of your prayers, all of your tears and sweat and against all of your hopes, the gap does not close. the final buzzer blares throughout the entire stadium, marking the red devil’s loss.

two to six.

your players stand motionless, ghosts of denial and despair amongst the crazed jumps and bounds of celebration as the white tigers flock across the rink towards one another. hongjoong tilts his head upwards to stop the rush of tears from falling down his face, both yunho and seonghwa mirrors of his pain as sweat and tears drip down in salty trails. san grasps the edge of the board in front of him, his head hung low and shoulders quaking from how hard he tries to stifle his sobs so that wooyoung does not hear him.

not one of your boys are able to accept the results of the match. not even you can bring yourself to utter a single word of consolation, be it for yourself or for them. and as you watch the wretched image of your heartbroken boys, choking back tears of your own that you are unaware still manage to escape the corners of your eyes, the only sounds in your ears their stricken cries, you are reminded that the path of an athlete and coach is nothing like its portrayal in movies and stories; where hard work triumphs and leads to sure success.

the harsh reality is that there is no dramatic comeback. there is no underdog victory. there is no miracle and there is no final to advance to. you and your boys lose by triple the amount of your own goals and just like that, the journey has come to an end at the semifinals.

it is an anticlimactic defeat, the gap so far that your team could not even see the light at the end of the tunnel. and somehow…that feels far worse than losing by just a marginal difference.

the locker room is mostly quiet, the silence punctuated only by the closing of zippers and rustling of canvas as the boys who have finished showering and changing pack the rest of their gear for the final time. there are no more intermittent sniffles, leaving behind a miserable hush of emptiness instead. even the dying flicker of the light in the far corner of the ceiling thrums with more energy than the boys combined.

you sit on one of the benches and absentmindedly thumb through your notebook. seonghwa sits to your right, his kit bag already long organised and tidied to preoccupy his mind. the warmth from the close proximity of your thighs and elbows is a gracious comfort to the both of you. it no longer makes your backs straighten with uptightness, conscious of the boundaries between coach and athlete–not after your hearts and bodies melded together in hugs of solace after the final buzzer of the semifinals and melted away those lines.

seonghwa places his hand soothingly on your knee and murmurs, “stop looking at that. we’ll think about it later all together.”

none of the words or diagrams had been registering in your head, but you nod and close your notebook anyway. he probably does not want to see it either. you rest your head back against the wall behind you with a small exhale, blankly watching your team instead until your eyes travel around the room. 

you count, then count again, before calling out, “captain, is wooyoung still showering?”

hongjoong cranes his neck around at the same time that everybody else does as well. “don’t think so,” he frowns, “i’m pretty sure he was one of the first ones out.”

wooyoung’s kit bag is still unpacked in his locker, so he is definitely not already waiting for the bus outside. before his absence can raise any alarms–the last thing the boys need on their plate right now–you stand and announce, “i’ll go find him. he probably just lost track of time.”

“do you need me to come with you?” yeosang rises to his feet.

you shake your head and reassure, “keep packing your bag.” then you turn to make your way out of the locker room when somebody calls out for you.

“coach, wait.”

it’s san, who skitters in front of you to press something into your hands. “give this to him when you see him?”

the item crinkles and a glance downwards reveals that it is an instant ice pack. you smile softly, stuffing it into the pocket of your jacket and hoping that nobody notices the ice pack that is already in there. “of course,” you gently touch his forearm. “i’ll be back.”

this time you make it out to the corridor but you do not get further than four steps before another voice stops you.

“coach!”

when you turn around, hongjoong emerges from the doorway. he slows down as he catches up to stand in front of you. “i…” his voice falters. “i’m sorry.”

i’m sorry i didn’t realise wooyoung was gone. i’m sorry i didn’t do my job as captain…and i’m sorry for losing. 

“no,” you shake your head. “don’t be.” because you tried your best…and you did not give up. beckoning in the direction of the locker room, you tell him, “take care of the boys, okay? i’ll be back with wooyoung.”

the rigidity in hongjoong’s shoulders dissipates. “thank you…y/n.”

you smile, “anytime, hongjoong.” you wait for him to walk back inside before you finally turn to find wooyoung.

the arena is massive but apart from the locker room–which you already know wooyoung is not in–there are limited places that offer privacy from the multitude of people who mill around, be it other athletes, staff or spectators. you know from personal experience, so you head to the one place that is usually guaranteed to be somewhat out of the public eye.

“oh, fuck me,” wooyoung startles when you sit yourself down heavily on the same step as him, his curse echoing around the both of you. “how the fuck did you know i would be here?”

you snort, bumping his shoulder with yours. “i hate to burst your bubble, but this isn’t exactly an original experience. i’m pretty sure every athlete has hidden here to cry at one point in their career.”

the slight spark of light that had ignited within wooyoung at your appearance suddenly flickers out, reminded of why exactly he is hiding in the emergency stairwell in the first place. shame tears his eyes away from you, unable to meet your gaze any longer.

“i want to be left alone,” he murmurs.

although you respect his request, that is the opposite of what he needs. left to his own thoughts and devices, you know that wooyoung will spiral dangerously in guilt and self-reproach, even if the red devil’s loss is not his fault–is not anybody’s fault.

the two of you sit in silence, wooyoung intermittently swiping at a lone tear that threatens to drip off his chin, and you mulling over the words that you hold close to your heart. eventually, you break the quietude with a soft chuckle.

“the first game i ever played i was actually on left defence. our team was losing by two goals and i suddenly had the puck. i still remember seeing an opening in the goal and feeling the surge of confidence that i did when i hit the puck…but you know what?”

wooyoung does not answer, does not look up from where he is picking at his cuticles, but you can feel his curiosity so you continue, “it was an own goal. i scored into my own team’s net and it wasn’t until i scored another goal before i finally realised which way i was meant to go. obviously, my team wasn’t very happy with me, but then i ended up winning the game for them anyway and that’s how i started playing as centre forward.

“there was also a time during internationals where i argued against the ref’s call and got myself put into the penalty box. it cost our team a goal–the tiebreaker, too. i learnt my lesson and never did that again. and then there was the first couple of years i started to coached. i thought i had enough experience as a player to be a perfect coach. it wasn’t until one of my teams told me to pull my head out of my ass that i realised i was anything but.”

that gets a small snicker from out of him. you deliberate, “i’d like to think that we make the best team now, though.”

he scowls disgruntledly, “we’re your only team.”

“and my favourite team, too,” you laugh softly, gauging his expression. “my point is, wooyoung, we all make mistakes. but the reason why we make them in the first place is because we love playing. we do what our heart wants to in the moment and we play for ourselves because otherwise, there would be nothing left of us without ice hockey. what matters is that we stand up again and learn from the experience.”

wooyoung feels the weight of your words settling heavily in his chest because they are only half true to him. his passion and love for the sport indeed burns eternally as a blazing inferno inside of him, but his persistence to play today was due to ulterior motives. to acknowledge that aloud is a different story, though.

your voice takes on a lighter tone, “although i guess in this case, you should be sitting down with that ankle of yours. you know you should not be gambling with your injuries.”

he finally looks at you; a former athlete who did not even have the luxury to gamble your injury. it suddenly scares him to imagine just an ounce of the conflicting anguish that must course through you at his continuous decisions to endanger his own career–the anguish that you have made sure to never show, lest it affect them.

“do you ever feel angry?” wooyoung abruptly asks, voice laced with hesitation.

it is your turn to look away. you know that the question is not directed at himself but your entire career. with a bittersweet chuckle, you allow yourself to admit, “every day. i still get angry and i still get upset. i wake up in the morning wondering why it had to be me and i go to bed at night wondering why i didn’t deserve a second chance.

“but i’m okay; it gets easier to be okay. coaching means that i still get to go on the ice, i still get to experience the adrenaline of games and i still get to play through you guys. and most of all…i still have a team. i don’t know if i will ever stop feeling angry, but it’s better than it used to be.”

at your admission, wooyoung is reminded of how you are possibly the only one who would be able to truly understand him. he musters his courage and confesses, “i wanted us to lose last year…and we did end up losing.”

it catches you off guard, the direction of the conversation not what you had expected, but you neutralise your expression and tone so as to not make him feel defensive. “how come?”

he swallows. “my ankle–i fractured it last year just before we made it into the playoffs, so i wasn’t able to compete. i had been so angry at first; angry at myself for getting injured, angry at my coach for not letting me play, angry at my team because they could play. then when it became clear that i wasn’t going to be able to compete regardless of how angry i was, i became jealous, insecure and…afraid. jongho and i share the same position, and i mean, look at him now–he’s able to play both left and right wing. if they had won the playoffs without me, then would the team really need me?

“they did end up losing, just like i had wanted them to, but that made me feel so much worse–made me realise just how terrible i am of a person. the guilt eats me alive every single day and i tell myself that i will make it up to them this time, that i will risk everything to win for them…” wooyoung scoffs pathetically at himself, “only for me to fuck things up because of my fucking ankle again.”

you get it. the slow gnawing of yourself from the endless feelings that you ‘should not have’ until you become no more than an empty husk. ever since your own injury, you have spent nights on end trying to reconcile with your emotions in your own confusing and formidable journey, but for the first time ever, you are grateful that you did–because you can keep wooyoung company on his. 

you carefully voice, “i think it was okay for you to have felt the way that you did. they’re your feelings and nobody can invalidate them nor your experience. what i came to realise was that all of those ‘ugly’ feelings do not make us ugly for having them–they simply make us human. it is only a problem when those feelings end up hurting other people, but i think the person you hurt the most…was yourself, wooyoung.”

at your words, he looks at you with wide eyes, a fresh swell of wetness gathering in them. wooyoung is kind and loving to everybody, yet has never once thought about deserving that kindness and love for himself. you smile gently, trying to hide the slight quiver in your own lips as your heart clenches with a desire to be loved in his stead.

“you know, woo, i’ve watched basically all of your past games including the quarterfinals from last year. but if i were to compare it to today’s game, it was as if two completely different teams were playing. your team was alive today–a truly united team where every member is the driving force behind each other’s passion for the game. i am pretty confident when i say that a huge part of it was because you were playing with them–because the team was finally whole again.

“yes, the trophy and the championship title is coveted but it is not what truly matters to them and neither to you. it wasn’t the actual win itself that you wanted today, but being able to win for them. and if your boys were to pick between winning without you and losing with you, i’m pretty sure you know better than i do what their immediate choice would be.”

should the other boys be here right now, they would instantly berate your ears off for even suggesting the first option. the thought flickers through wooyoung’s mind too and the corners of his lips tug upwards slightly.

still, he apprehensively confirms, “...no one is angry at me?”

“no,” you reply, voice soft, “not at all. but we are worried.”

you are reminded of the weight in the pocket of your jacket. pulling it out, you present the ice pack to wooyoung. “look, san told me to give this to you.”

his fingertips brush against your palm when he reaches out, hand hovering over the ice pack as if he does not dare to touch it. “san did?” he whispers.

when you nod, the final confirmation that he needs that nobody–you included–harbours ill feelings for him and his actions, he allows himself to take the ice pack. allows himself to love himself.

“you need to take care of your body,” you fondly chastise, lightening the atmosphere. “did coach cho not drill into you that as an athlete, your body is your most valuable asset? if you thought he was bad, he’s going to seem like an angel when i’m through with you. you won’t just be banned from playing, i’ll tie you to the bed to make sure you don’t walk on that ankle.”

wooyoung laughs through the few tears that are left, mood lifted enough to suggestively lift his eyebrows and quip, “kinky.” his laughter grows when you punch his arm in response.

no longer does he have to carry this burden alone because you are there for him now. but you know that you are not the only one who can be there for wooyoung. the dynamic between the boys runs past mere teammates and from what you have noticed, quite possibly even friends.

tentatively, you suggest, “maybe this is something you should tell the others about. that way you can truly let things go.”

his gaze wavers at the idea as he looks at you. yet, the miniscule smile and encouraging nod you give him fills him with tranquillity. perhaps it is time to let go, but the only way he can truly do that is if he is honest to the boys about his feelings–if he is honest to himself.

“okay,” he breathes out softly.

you grace him with another beat of silence before you stand up, extending your hand out to him. “let’s go.”

wooyoung takes your offered hand and lets you pull him up to his feet. he does not know if it is intentional, but the slight squeeze you give him right before your hand lets go of his fills him with warmth. the feeling stays with him even when he activates the ice pack as you two walk back to the locker room.

right at the doorway where the rest of the team is behind, you stop. you place your hand on wooyoung’s back, whose brows are starting to furrow in confusion. “i’ll be waiting out here. take your time,” you tell him.

“thank you, coach,” wooyoung returns your soft smile.

before you can think better of it, you reply, “i wasn’t talking to you as your coach…but as your friend.” then you nudge him towards the doorway with tender encouragement, waiting for him to walk through the threshold before you close the door behind him.

the first few months you had coached the red devils, mistrust had been in the shape of private conversations that deliberately excluded you. but now, trust is in the conversations that you know you do not need to be a part of. so you simply lean against the wall and wait.

and when they emerge from the locker room half an hour later, you know you have made the right decision upon seeing their eased expressions and relaxed shoulders. the air is still sombre, their defeat in the semifinals still fresh at the forefront of everybody’s minds, but what matters now is that they will face the loss together–the eight of them and you.

“here you go.”

hongjoong hands you your bag so that you do not have to go back in to grab it. you take it graciously from him, then with him by your side, you two lead the group through the arena–past the gazes and whispers that follow your group–and out to the team’s bus.

first to load his kit bag, yeosang takes his usual seat towards the front and waits. he has long developed the habit of placing his backpack under the seat in front of him instead of beside him. as the bus starts to pull away once all the bags are properly stored, you wordlessly take the seat next to him. your knees intermittently brush up against each other with the slight sway of the bus, but neither one of you make a move to shift your legs away.

you and yeosang watch the outside world whirl by the window, just like you always do. except the flowers that have bloomed among the trees–that had been bursts of positivity and vibrancy only just this morning–are now bittersweet reminders of the fall that you and the boys have just experienced.

a brief movement below your line of vision causes you to glance down. it is yeosang’s hand, palm upturned with a silent invitation of solace. you slide your fingers into his, an extension of the comfort you wish to give to them, and them to you.

what you and the boys do not realise, though, is that your flowers have simply bloomed elsewhere.

your jaw drops in sync with the last of the heavy suitcases that seonghwa rests on the floor outside their apartment complex. the amount of his luggage is easily equivalent to at least half the team’s.

“these are all yours?” you confirm.

seonghwa looks at you strangely, “of course. why?”

you look at him strangely. “are you planning on moving? why did you pack enough for a trip around the world?”

“well somebody didn’t want to tell us where we were going, so i had to make sure i was prepared for wherever our destination would be.”

“it’s called a surprise for a reason,” you shake your head, “and i did tell you to pack for cold weather, didn’t i?”

seonghwa fakes offence, scoffing, “can i remind you that it is still spring here, so my apologies for assuming that it might potentially mean we are travelling overseas.”

“you’re such a worrywart, you old fart,” wooyoung teases, circling around the older on his rideable suitcase.

seonghwa yelps when the wheels nearly run over his toes and he threatens, “next time you wet through your entire pack of underwear, don’t come crawling and begging for my spares.”

the suitcase halts indignantly to a stop with its rider. “that was one time,” wooyoung complains, “and it wasn’t even my fault!”

“it wasn’t even my fault,” seonghwa mocks. “i told you not to put your shampoo in a ziplock bag but no, you said that it would be fine.”

wooyoung sticks his index finger up. “correction, hongjoong said that it would be fine.”

“what the fuck, wooyoung,” hongjoong blanches at the sudden disclosure.

“and that’s exactly where you are at fault,” seonghwa cocks his eyebrow at wooyoung. “why would you listen to him?”

“what the fuck, seonghwa. i’m your captain,” hongjoong scowls.

“only during games.”

when you make eye contact with san, the two of you can only sigh with amused resignation. the rest of the boys shake their heads and proceed to load their luggage onto the bus, leaving the trio to feud it out in the background.

as mingi stacks his luggage beside yunho’s, he turns to ask, “are you sure we don’t need our kits?”

“you all brought your skates and sticks with you?” you question in return. when mingi and yunho nod, you reassure them, “then that’s all you need.”

jongho pipes up from beside you, “but what about training?”

“mental training,” you simply grin before hopping up the stairs to sit beside yeosang.

the boys gradually take their seats, even wooyoung and the two oldest despite their continued bickering. somebody yells out over the commotion, “coach! are you going to tell us where we’re going now?”

you peer backwards over the top of your seat to find everyone’s eager eyes on you. “nope,” you snicker, “you’ll find out when we get there. we are going on a holiday though, i’ll tell you that much.”

there is a surge of excitement at your confirmation and a similar fluttering eagerness flits through you, except yours is because you cannot wait to see their reactions. you really hope that the next two weeks will help to reset the team’s morale and give them a much-needed break.

“kq let us go on holiday?” yeosang asks with an impressed look as you settle back in your seat.

you give him a proud smirk. “i’m pretty convincing when i want to be. plus, we just had playoffs and we would all benefit from the rest. what better time to do that than at the start of the off-season?”

“there is no better time.”

“exactly.”

and so the bus starts the four-hour drive towards what the boys will soon come to realise is a team retreat. mingi connects his phone to the bluetooth, in charge of shuffling the music that blasts through the speakers, turning the atmosphere of the bus into a lively concert once it becomes obvious that it is going to be a long trip.

you have to yell over their deafening singing–which you have to admit actually sounds quite impressive–numerous times for them to sit their asses down, their enthusiasm uncontainable by the seat belts and law regulations. but they look their age, free and untroubled; just a group of boys up to their silly antics with one another, so you cannot bring yourself to truly regulate them.

the bus drives on, making a rest stop at one of the service areas along the highway so that you can stretch your legs in fresh air, use the restrooms and most importantly–

“food!”

their hollers resound before the doors of the bus even open. the second that the gap is large enough to fit one of them through, most of the boys go sprinting off like a stampede of toddlers in the direction of the food court.

wooyoung stays back and slips his arm through the crook of your elbow when you step off the bus too. he grins mischievously, “i’m sticking with you so you can pay for my food.”

“oh, stop it,” yunho tugs him away, pulling even harder when it only serves to make wooyoung’s grasp tighten around your arm. “i’ll pay for your food. leave her wallet alone.”

you laugh brightly as you are jostled around and you pull a card out of your back pocket, holding it up like a golden ticket. you waggle your brows playfully, “it’s on the company card.”

both wooyoung and yunho freeze. their eyes instantaneously start to glimmer, faces radiating when they slowly look at each other. then before you can react, they pounce on you, linking their arm through yours on either side of you and dragging you along to catch up with the rest of the team.

“buy whatever you want!” wooyoung brags and waves the card that he has seized off of you, “it’s on me!”

the service area itself is a field trip as the eight boys cause carnage throughout, except the destruction is in the number of times they swipe the company card. their hands quickly fill with rice cakes and fish skewers, corn dogs and grilled squid, more bags of walnut pastries and roasted potatoes tucked safely under their elbows. they demolish the snacks at the same rate it takes for the next ones to be prepared and the card is tossed around to keep up with their purchases.

they do not forget about the drinks either, getting iced americanos and barley tea to go along with their snacks, and banana milk and soda for the next leg of the trip. whatever catches their eyes–basically everything they lay their eyes upon–they buy. you do have to draw the line at daytime drinking though, narrowing your eyes at the cases of beer jongho and yunho try to pick up until they sheepishly put them back.

(you also end up having to purchase motion sickness tablets because seonghwa and mingi gorge themselves so full on snacks that they are queasy before they even make it back on the bus. kq’s president sends you a text too, asking just what exactly you and the boys have bought to rack up almost forty consecutive purchases at a service area. but the subsequent message asking if they are enjoying themselves tells you that his question is all in good fun.)

their energy mellows out during the last hour of the trip, both from tiring themselves out and from the gradual change in the scenery outside the windows. no longer can you see an endless mirage of highway road and open fields.

as the miles build up the further you travel, it leads deeper into a mountainous woodland with the trees growing denser and thicker around you. the narrower road winds around the base of hills and the bus driver carefully navigates the undisturbed peace of the forest. it starts to get colder and when the branches of the trees gradually dress themselves in dappled layers of snow, more of you shoulder on the thick coats and puffer jackets you had told them to bring.

the bus eventually arrives at a clearing amongst the pine trees, revealing a large but welcoming cottage pension. its wooden exterior and sloped roof gives it a distinctly cosy and rustic look, with large glass doors spanning the entire height of the walls that will let you admire the surrounding mountainous beauty from inside. off to the side of the cottage, there is a sizeable lake that has frozen over and immediately, you know that this was the perfect place to choose.

the boys press their faces against the window to get a better look as the bus pulls up beside the accommodation. “woah,” they breathe out, their exhales fogging up the glass.

they follow you off the bus in a trance, mouths open and unable to peel their eyes away lest they waste even a second to drink up the sight before them. here, in the heart of the taebaek mountains, it is still a winter wonderland despite the spring blossoms that cover the rest of seoul.

you turn to face them, walking backwards slowly and spreading your arms out with fond tenderness. “welcome to your home for the next two weeks, boys.”

even though it is simply an illusion created by taebaek’s geographical location and mountainous terrain, this time you find yourself appreciating the coldness and bareness of the winter-like ambience that cocoons you and your boys. it is as if time has stopped and there are no worries…only time to heal and start afresh.

living together, even if just for a holiday, is different.

you are used to only seeing the team in their training clothes, practice jerseys or bulked up in their padded gear and uniform. but here, the boys wear lounging sweatpants and worn hoodies, hair soft and poking into their eyes, bodies and expressions unguarded as they laze around. and where you are used to only seeing them at training, meetings and games, all rigorously scheduled and planned, there are no expectations to follow and no limits as to when you see them here.

the boys have their own organised chaoticness to their daily routines, having been living together for almost seven years now, and it seamlessly integrates into the space of the cottage too. but what truly surprises you and them is how you naturally blend into it.

when you rented the pension, you had ensured there were at least three bathrooms to accommodate all nine of you. however, you quickly discover that numbers mean nothing because the boys are incapable of staggering their morning and nightly bathroom routines one by one like you had assumed they would. you also realise that it is not that they are incapable, but that they like and want to do everything together.

space within a room holds no meaning to them and they are perfectly content to stand pressed up against each other’s sides, expertly dodging elbows and leaning over one another to reach for their toothbrushes or skincare. after that first night, you wake up in the morning and patter off in search for the least cramped bathroom to wriggle yourself into, up to three of you sharing the large sink and mirror that now looks comparatively tiny as you brush your teeth together.

more often than not, you find yourself sandwiched between yunho and mingi. it is moreso a matter of neither boy letting you escape from their clutches if you happen to peer into whichever bathroom they have crammed themselves into.

“we make the perfect ratio as the two tallest plus you as the shortest,” mingi likes to rationalise, “so it averages out perfectly with three boys in each of the other bathrooms.”

“but san’s shoulders are basically the equivalent of two grown men, so your point is invalid no matter how we divide ourselves up,” you like to argue back.

except they refuse to see reason. instead, yunho raises the volume of the speaker he has set on the sink’s counter that blasts out music to playfully drown you out. you relent every time and it turns into goofy dancing from the three of you as you pull silly expressions at one another in the mirror. when you rinse your mouth, mingi will start a gargling competition without fail, but none of you have lasted for more than three seconds before you begin to choke with laughter.

(when you are with people you like, everything is funny.)

seonghwa shakes his head whenever he passes the bathroom, insisting, “the only thing you guys are missing is a disco ball.” he is definitely not jealous of the fun you three are having. not at all.

the eldest has his own routine though, visible in the way he prepares everybody’s cups of coffee in the morning. they are all made differently according to individual preferences; no sugar, double shots, a dash of milk, brown sugar, matcha powder or decaf. and despite the fact that yeosang is usually up the earliest, seonghwa does not allow him to make his own coffee.

seonghwa claims it is because nobody knows how to properly use the drip brewer, but yeosang sits next to you and murmurs into your ear, “he just won’t admit that he likes to make them for us.” it must be the chill of the morning, but yeosang’s warm, whispery voice always sends goosebumps over your arms.

by the second morning, seonghwa finds himself naturally grabbing an extra cup and the hot surprise greets you with one and a half teaspoons of sugar in it, just how you like it. hongjoong emerges from the bathroom moments later to grab his cup and as he takes a careful sip, his eyes flit over the remaining cups on the table. seonghwa can practically hear the numbers ticking up in his head.

“y/n already took hers,” he verbalises, beckoning with his chin.

hongjoong turns around in the same direction to see you curled up on the sofa next to jongho and yeosang, your feet tucked comfortably underneath you as you lean forward out of curiosity to take a sip of jongho’s americano. when your expression scrunches up from the shock of bitterness, jongho giggles brightly and steadies your hand that is holding your own cup of sweetened coffee. his eyes melt at your reaction.

“oh, i know that expression,” hongjoong chortles. “he’s a goner.”

seonghwa sees the honey in hongjoong’s own eyes and he smiles knowingly, “i don’t think he’s the only one.”

hongjoong does not peel his gaze away from the three of you all cosied up on the couch. “you’re right, they’re both goners,” he hums absentmindedly, not at all registering who exactly it is who is being referred to.

(the true answer is that there are more than three of them.)

you discover that wooyoung is usually in charge of cooking, but in return, everybody else gets up to clear and wash the dishes the moment the last pair of chopsticks is placed down on the table. that is the only time they are allowed into the kitchen because they are apparently all walking hazards.

but when wooyoung realises you can actually handle a knife without giving him grey hairs from watching, the two of you easily divide the roles and tasks between yourselves. like a waltzing dance, you move together in the kitchen to prepare the meals. he passes you the spices in the overhead cabinets before you ask and you close the fridge when he takes out a pack of meat or vegetables.

cooking with wooyoung is never without bickering. he does not let you hear the end of the time you bump your head on the edge of the counter when you try to grab a saucepan from underneath, or the time you squeal after the oil starts to splatter from the onions. but if that is the reason why he starts to subtly move his hand to cushion the edges of the counters when you bend down to find something, or why he chooses to do the stirring and frying while you slice, then he pretends it is merely coincidence.

san never strays far away from the kitchen whenever you and wooyoung are cooking. you have noticed that they do not really ever stray apart–none of the boys do, though. wooyoung talks as you and san listen and the latter does not stop smiling as he watches wooyoung multitask. what you do not realise is the countless times you have forgotten to keep cooking because you are watching him too with the same expression that san wears.

(the rest of the boys realise and they also see the way san and wooyoung will pause to gaze at you.)

when you two have mostly finished cooking and it is simply a matter of waiting for the sauce to simmer or the soup to boil, you find that wooyoung will take his seat next to san on the barstools at the island, knees and thighs touching as he continues the conversation. you gravitate towards them the first time before catching yourself, cautious that you may be intruding, but then san gives you a dimpled smile and beckons for you to come and sit by his other side.

san likes to keep a gentle hand resting on wooyoung’s knee as he talks. when he does the same thing to you without even looking, your lungs stop working for a minute. the only thought that consumes your mind is the warm sensation of san’s thumb soothingly running back and forth across your skin. you do not want him to stop, so you stay still in hopes that he continues. you are pretty sure san does not even consciously realise he is doing it.

(san does, and he is glad you do not move away.)

in the hours after dinner and before you all head off to sleep, you pile the thick blankets into the open living room and squish yourselves on the least number of couches as possible. again, space holds no meaning when you are with the boys and you find the press of yeosang and hongjoong’s skin against your own more natural there than not.

sometimes you watch movies together, other times talking with low voices as the hours tick by, and other times where you are all doing your own things but in the presence of one another. regardless, the nine of you stay cuddled in front of the fireplace with the warm glow of the fire and the light dreamy flutter of snow outside the windows.

yeosang tenderly tucks the blankets up around mingi’s shoulders when he falls asleep before turning to you on his other side. “are you warm enough?” he softly asks. and even though you say you are, he still tucks the edges of your blanket under your chin, nestling you safely within the blanket, hongjoong’s side and his own body.

the boys are naturally affectionate with one another and seeing the close dynamic of their…friendship so intimately in the environment of the retreat reminds you once more of the possibility that their relationship may run deeper than they let on.

(but when that affection extends to you, you wonder what exactly that may mean for your own relationship with the boys.)

and so living together, even if just for a holiday, is different. it is different when they are the first sight to greet you when you wake up, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and voice still husky from fatigue as they murmur good mornings to you, and your cheeks start to glow with rosiness.

it is different when the decisions you make together are not about a change in formation or a defensive power play, but what to make for dinner and what movie you want to watch afterwards, and it makes you begin to wonder what other mundane decisions you want to make with them. it is different when they wrap you in their embrace–eight consecutive hugs–to bid you goodnight, and it takes you longer to fall asleep because you toss restlessly in your bed as their smiles replay in your head.

being on the retreat together is strangely domestic and homelike. but it has been almost nine months since you have started coaching the boys and thus seeing them every day for countless hours on end. so really, this trip should not change anything.

and yet, it feels like everything is changing.

jongho pays no mind to the conversation that is happening around him. last he heard, half of you are wanting to go out to skate on the lake before the sun sets and the other half are wanting to finish the halli galli championship you had started the night prior.

he is happy to do either but his mind is distracted by something else. as the screen of his phone lights up, jongho’s eyes flicker down and he puts his hand over the glowing display before anybody can see the caller id. you glance at him when you catch the movement in the corner of your peripheral vision, only to look away when yunho calls out your name to see which of the two options you would prefer.

the screen goes black as the call goes unanswered. seconds later, it lights up briefly with a notification.

pick up.

then the caller id shows up again. jongho grabs his phone and mumbles to nobody in particular, “going to grab something from my room.”

closing the door to the room that he is sharing with hongjoong in the pension, jongho sits down heavily on the edge of his bed, phone clutched tightly in his hand. whilst he has no qualms ignoring their messages now, he still finds it difficult to do the same to their phone calls. he finds his resolve weakening as he watches his phone ring for the third time within minutes.

so jongho picks up. “mother,” he greets stiffly.

she scoffs scathingly, “you finally decided to pick up.”

“i’ve been busy with the playoffs.” a half lie.

“busy? busy losing, you mean,” his mother ridicules. jongho is taken aback by the fact that she is aware, since he did not tell his family. it makes sense when she berates, “do you know how embarrassing it was for me to find out from your aunt? she told me to congratulate you for making it into the semifinals–the semifinals, jongho.”

he feels a heat of shame at what she is insinuating. jongho defends, “that’s still the top four out of seventy six teams.”

“nobody cares,” she turns her nose up. “it does not matter if you came fourth, second or last–unless you win first place, the result is not worth anything. our entire family has a legacy of achievements and your younger brother even has an olympic gold medal now. but what have you done? this is a mere national competition and yet you are incapable of making it into the finals.”

“jong–” his name dies on the tip of your tongue and your hand stops before you can knock on the door when you hear jongho’s muffled voice.

the boys had finally decided to grab their skates so you had come to get jongho to join everybody outside. realising he is talking to somebody, you are about to turn away and give him some privacy, but the words you hear make you freeze. 

it is not the conversation itself that you overhear; it is the wounded tone of jongho’s voice that makes it impossible for you to walk away. your feet stay rooted to the spot, in fact, wanting to enter the room. you have not heard jongho in such great affliction before, not even when he was consoling the boys with tears in his own eyes after their crushing defeat in the playoffs. 

“when are you going to celebrate my achievements for what they are, instead of telling me to do better?” jongho appeals.

he has lived his entire life being told that he is not good enough–constantly compared to the accomplishments of his family, particularly those of his younger brother. what he does not understand is why he cannot just be recognised for the athlete that he is, void of any other person.

his mother is silent and for a brief moment, jongho thinks that she may finally see some sense in his words…only for her to unfeelingly state, “when they are worth celebrating.” with a simple, “do better,” she hangs up on him.

jongho’s hand falls limply into his lap, phone slipping out of his lax fingers with a dull thud to the ground. he wants to swear. he wants to cry. he wants to throw his phone against the wall until the screen shatters. but jongho simply leans forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, the crushing weight of dejection forcing his lungs to exhale shakily.

there is a faint, timid knock on the door. he knows who it is immediately–only one person would knock so softly. “come in,” he answers listlessly, because he could never bring himself to ignore you no matter his own feelings.

the door cracks open to reveal your tentative figure and you slip through the opening. from the way your lips are pulled down, eyes rounded with concern, jongho knows that you have connected enough dots to understand the context of the phone call.

you approach the bed and try to ignore how small the boy in front of you looks with his shoulders hunched inwards on themselves. jongho has always appeared as the most collected and composed, even more so than the captain, and it makes your chest tight to realise he has simply been hiding this whole time.

jongho is not a man of many words so you do the next best thing that feels right in the moment. you simply open your arms. when his hands slowly come up in silent acceptance, you step forward to engulf him in your embrace.

he presses his face into the soft warmth of your stomach. the darkness welcomes him with safety and comfort and he lets out a stuttering breath that racks his entire body. you wrap one arm around his shoulders and cradle the back of his head with your other, your fingers tenderly caressing his hair in soothing motions.

although silence is what he needs, you allow yourself to say one thing to him. you murmur, “i’m proud of you, jongho…so, so proud of you.”

and they are the words he has been wanting to hear his entire life. unable to keep it together any longer, jongho breaks down in your arms with tearful sobs and allows himself to grieve for the acknowledgement he has yearned his entire life and never received. however, it will only be for tonight because he has realised that it is futile to chase after recognition from a person who refuses to see his worth, even if that person is his own family.

there will always be other people who can see his actual worth; the same people who will still love him even if he does not have a gold trophy to call his. for him, those people are his seven boys and you.

so he stays in your arms with you wrapped around him, time lost to the two of you. he cries until he has no tears left and you tilt your head upwards to stop the flow of your own tears before they can drip down onto the crown of his head. and outside the bedroom, hongjoong quietly eases the door shut to give you both some privacy.

you do not know how much time has passed when you finally step out. jongho has fallen asleep after you tucked him under his covers, exhausted. heading towards your room to change out of your shirt, you are startled by the sight of hongjoong lingering near the door.

“you didn’t go out with the boys?

he shakes his head, then conscious of where you two are standing, he gestures inside your room and follows you in. “is jongho okay?” hongjoong asks.

“i think so…he’s sleeping now but probably just needs a bit more time,” you sigh, “i just wish i could do more for him.”

hongjoong reassures, “you are already doing so much more than you realise.”

for jongho. for wooyoung. for all of them. comfort has never been about the words or actions, but the person who is by their side, and for the boys, having you there is already enough.

“really?” you worry.

“yes, really.”

before he realises what he is doing, hongjoong reaches out to gingerly cup the side of your face to thumb away the worry in your brows. “y/n, you take care of us all the time…but who takes care of you?” he whispers.

“i’m your coach, of course i–”

“no,” he interrupts. “you aren’t just our coach and from what i have seen, you aren’t just our friend either. unless…” hongjoong hesitates, “unless i’ve been reading everything wrong, then in which case, tell me and i’ll move away.”

you do not reply. your eyes flicker back and forth between his, your heart racing and mind blank. it is true–they are not just your players and they are not just your friends either, but you are unsure about taking such a huge leap of faith and acting upon the feelings you have only just started to understand.

hongjoong takes your silence as encouragement to step even closer until he is right in front of you. he keeps his hand on your cheek, his other coming up to delicately cradle your waist. you are standing intimately enough for his warm breath to span across your cheeks as he tenderly pleads, “let us take care of you as more than what we are right now.

“if you do not want to put a label on it then that’s fine, we won’t. we’ll still be your team and you’ll still be our coach. but please, let us take care of you when you are hurt, when you’re upset or angry, and when you are happy, too. let us love you as one of ours.”

as one of theirs.

you swallow and confirm, “are you all together?”

“yes, we’re dating each other,” hongjoong nods.

“but then why…” your voice trials off. why me, too?

hongjoong taps the tip of your nose and jokes lightly, “is there a capped limit as to how many people we are allowed to love?”

it pulls a giggle out of you and he smiles fondly as he reiterates, “we don’t need to put a label on this and we can go entirely at your pace. just let us into your heart, please?”

for a moment you wonder what will happen to your professional relationship with the boys–what will happen if things do not work out or worse, if other people find out and report you all for it. but when you really think about it, you realise that the professionalism between you and the boys has long since blurred. 

you do not know if you can go back to seoul after this retreat and act like you do not want to continue living with them. most importantly, you do not want to know if you can. so you take the leap of faith and nod–you want to be theirs.

when you first met the red devils in autumn last year, you were resolved to win over them. never would you have expected that you would win them over in more ways than one…and be won over yourself.

“hi, girlfriend.”

seonghwa smacks the back of wooyoung’s head. “stop pressuring her,” he hisses as the younger cackles delightfully and strides away through the snow impressively fast considering he is wearing his skates.

“ignore him,” seonghwa turns to you, where you are sitting on the porch steps to the cottage. he squats down and takes the laces out of your hands to start doing up your own skates.

“i can do it myself,” you start.

“i know you can,” seonghwa hums, gazing up lovingly, “but i want to do it for you.”

you press your lips together in an attempt to hide the shy smile that blooms across your face and when that fails, you duck your head down instead. ever since your talk with hongjoong the other day, the boys have been significantly more obvious and proactive with their displays of affection for you. however, you are pretty sure they had their own conversation when you were asleep or in the shower, because not one of them pressures you into something you are not ready for, even if that includes making your relationship official.

“there you go. is it too tight? too loose?” seonghwa taps your skates and you tell him they are perfect. taking his offered hand with an appreciative smile, he pulls you up to your feet and you go to join the rest of the boys on the frozen lake.

you are sure it feels the same for every single one of your boys–nothing can compare to that moment when you first step onto the ice. it is where you become a completely different person; a fish back in water, in control and at home.

it had been a gamble renting the cottage pension as you were unable to know whether the lake would be frozen over enough to allow for skating. but it is as if the heavens know not to separate you and your boys from the love and passion that your entire lives revolve around, because you are blessed to see them scrambling out to play on the frozen lake almost every single day, just like they are right now.

san spots you and seonghwa and beckons for you two to join. “hongjoong’s the tagger,” he calls out.

the captain stands at the other end of the lake, back facing everybody as he drawls, “green light…”

before hongjoong even starts to enunciate the first word, yunho, wooyoung and jongho have already pushed off their skates to advance. it sets off an immediate chorus of indignant shouts and desperate acceleration amongst everybody else to catch up. you laugh and seonghwa drags you along with him urgently, unable to stand your apparent nonchalance and uncompetitiveness.

but oh, how wrong he is. very quickly, you join the majority of the boys in a game of who can be the most sneaky with dirty play. wooyoung and mingi tussle with one another right as hongjoong turns around with his yell of ‘red light!’, trying to topple the other over so they get caught. jongho yanks on the back of seonghwa’s jacket whilst yeosang giggles and joins in to yank on jongho’s, effectively preventing all three of them from advancing forward.

“let go of me, you brats!” seonghwa flails forward against the combined weight of the two boys but to no avail.

you use yunho’s height to your advantage and hide behind him, steadily creeping forward even when hongjoong has turned around to face you all. yunho quickly catches on and extends his hands backwards for you to latch onto. you are more than happy to let him do all the hard work skating you both towards the captain and you grin cheekily at the trio–still caught up in their self-induced tug-of-war–as you overtake them easily.

“y/n’s cheating!” san hollers, the only one who is actually playing by the rules.

“life’s not fair!” you holler back gleefully at the same time that hongjoong sniggers, “san, you moved your mouth! go back.”

san gives an indignant cry, “favouritism, i say!” but, bless his heart, moves back to the starting line regardless. 

when yunho is almost towering over hongjoong, he cues you to get ready to escape by letting go of your hands. you pivot around and without waiting for anything else, you start to run away.

“gree–”

yunho tags hongjoong’s right shoulder before pushing off to the left so that he escapes the other’s immediate line of vision. except it means that the first person that hongjoong sees when he turns around is you.

an involuntary squeal escapes you when you hear the terrifying crispness of skates on ice right behind you followed by the captain’s arms snaking around your waist. “caught you, babe” he beams. hongjoong lifts you up with shit-eating smugness at your reaction–both at his close proximity and the pet name–spins you around for good measure, then sets you back down to chase after the others.

wooyoung skates in a wide arc to dodge the captain’s frenzied rampage, only to suddenly appear right beside you with the most telling glint in his sparkling eyes that he is up to mischief. he grins.

“wooyoung, no,” you warn.

he grabs you by the waist. “wooyoung, yes.”

wooyoung pushes off his skates with you in front of him at breakneck speed across the ice, bellowing at the top of his voice, “make way for the cripples!”

you scream the entire way to the end of the lake, hands clutching onto his like a lifeline as a colourful string of words flies out of your mouth. you think you black out for a second because when you open your eyes again, you are in a heaving tangle of arms and legs on the cushiony surface of powdery snow.

“oh, shit,” hongjoong winces.

the boys speed towards you and wooyoung, and yunho peers down at you on the ground with panicked concern in his eyes. “are you two okay?” he asks but when he sees that you are laughing, unrestrained and radiating joy, yunho relaxes and joins in with relief.

they–mainly seonghwa–fuss over you both enough to reassure themselves that there is not so much as a scratch or bruise, before mingi suggests playing a casual hockey game of five versus four. there are to be no goaltenders and san fashions makeshift goalposts by poking sticks into the snow on either ends of the lake.

the team splits into their usual arrangement when they are required to be in two groups; hongjoong, yunho, san and wooyoung; seonghwa, yeosang, mingi and jongho. normally, you would offer to be the honorary referee…but the boys have never been rough with you and you have confidence that you will not get hurt. so for the first time in years, you play.

it is far from a proper league game and it will never be enough to quench your thirst as a former athlete, but for now, gripping your stick on the ice in tandem with the others, you are content–you are alive.

like red light, green light, the game starts off fair and proper for a grand total of two minutes. then it becomes a circus of foul plays and increasingly creative methods of cheating as all sense of order is tossed out the window. yunho and san stand in front of you, leaving just enough space for you to handle the puck, whilst hongjoong and wooyoung flank your sides and use their sticks to block any attempts to steal the puck. as a shielded group of five, you all move up towards the goalposts like a formidable army tank.

in retaliation, jongho physically manhandles hongjoong out of the way, hugging him from behind with a vice grip that he swears not to let go. seonghwa, mingi and yeosang imitate him with similar displays of strength, turning the entire match into a childish scuffle of chaos and hysterics.

there are no proper rules, no proper gear and no proper stadium–only the bare minimum, yourselves and uncontainable laughter. it feels like you are kids again, little souls harbouring colossal dreams, running around on the fields with long branches and a pine cone you had found when you could not afford to go to a real rink.

it is like you have gone back in time to when all you knew about ice hockey from watching it on your television screen was that you had to get the puck into the goal. you and the boys are fresh, blank slates without a care in the world for the countless strategies and tactical plays that you have learned over the length of your careers.

without the pressures and routines of strict training regimes, you all reignite the very roots of your ardour and fervour for ice hockey. no longer is it about the scores and making it into the playoffs. no longer is it about winning the championships to gain the acknowledgement of other people. no longer is it about the trauma of betrayal, injury and defeat you have experienced.

playing is simply the thrill of skating liberally with no burdens across the ice. it is the feeling of thriving when your blade connects with the puck and sends vibrations up your arms. it is the rush of adrenaline as everyone moves in tandem with the same singular thought in your hearts–that you love ice hockey with your entire lives. and that in itself is already more than enough, even without a gold trophy and championship title to prove it to yourselves.

for the last five years, the boys have had the leaves of their trees forcibly plucked and removed–by family, by coaches, and by injuries…but now?

it is time for their flowers to bloom.

spring, 2025: playoffs

standing off to the side, you watch your boys listening attentively to the reporter who is conducting an interview with them. you have continued to stay out of the media spotlight where possible, not yet entirely comfortable standing in front of the cameras again, but your boys have quickly grown accustomed to media coverage ever since their popularity gained traction thanks to their undefeated streak in the regular season.

the interviewer glances down at her prompt card before asking, “so tell me, what has been a major contribution to your success this season? your team has made a name for yourselves as the undefeated champions so far–quite a contrast to how you started off last season.”

seonghwa laughs cordially with her. “we were getting used to a lot of changes last year so our teamwork and mentality wasn’t the best,” he admits. “our agency gave us some time off to recalibrate, which really helped us to focus on building ourselves–as individuals and as a team. i think we learnt to place our unconditional trust in one another and our coach. we still play with a dominantly offensive approach, but we’ve been adopting different playing styles and experimenting with them, so this relies heavily on believing in each other.”

yunho nods, gesturing for the microphone to add, “as cliche as it may sound, a huge part of our growth was also learning how to accept loss. this wasn’t just in the context of being defeated in the semifinals but in the wider lens of our past mistakes, relationships, and even situations that we could not change.

“it has been a tough journey for a lot of us over the last year, but we were lucky enough to have each other’s support,” yunho’s nostalgic smile reflects your own as you realise just how far both you and all of your boys have come. “once we were able to let go, it meant that we could enjoy our career for what it truly is–playing the sport of our dreams together, every day.”

the reporter’s ears perk up in interest at the segway to probe and she jumps on the opportunity to ask, “i am sure many of your fans have been curious for a long time. is there a special somebody who has supported you–or any of you–throughout your journey?”

yunho passes the microphone to the hand that has extended out to reach for it. it’s san this time, who has a charmingly confident persona that he takes on whenever he answers questions during interviews. good thing too, because their fans are going to need something to distract them from understanding the confession he is about to make.

“there is. we all do, actually,” his deep voice rolls off his tongue like butter. the way he smoothly talks with a flirtatious smirk never fails to make you swoon. “funnily enough, we all met our girlfriend at about the same time.”

off to the side, wooyoung sends a wink in your direction and you have to muffle a snort with your hand and divert your glance away. the structural framework of the stadium ceiling suddenly looks very interesting. san stands there incredibly smug at his joke that he knows nobody but you and the boys will pick up on.

by the time you tune back into the conversation, the reporter has moved onto the next question. “last year, you lost to the white tigers in the semifinals. how do you feel about facing them again later today?”

due to a spike in popularity, the korean ice hockey league had to divide its teams into two separate groups for the regular season matches this year. both the red devils and the white tigers had been placed in different groups and by some twist of fate, had ranked at the top and then seeded accordingly on either ends of the tournament brackets. now, your team faces theirs in the very last game of the season.

the finals.

“we’re quite excited, actually,” jongho responds. “we have been wanting to play against the white tigers again some day and i don’t think it gets any more fitting than meeting them in the finals. they have some incredible players but like seonghwa mentioned before, we’ve been working hard to adjust our playing style to suit the situation. our coach has put in a lot of effort to hone in on our strengths and weaknesses, so no matter what today’s outcome is, we’re confident that it won’t be an easy win for either team.”

“i am sure the finals is going to be a thrilling match. now, speaking of coaches,” the interviewer starts and you can see hongjoong’s hand twitching subtly at his side, ready to step in and deflect the question need be should it pertain to you.

she continues, “how does it feel to play against your former coach?”

yeosang and mingi frown, unable to neutralise the confusion on their faces. hongjoong smiles calmly, ultimately taking over the microphone as he apologises, “sorry, could you please elaborate your question?”

it is the interviewer’s turn to fluster slightly but she nods quickly, “you must not be aware, then.”

your eyes dart back and forth as you try to recall whether there is a crucial piece of information you have somehow missed or forgotten to tell the boys. the tone of her voice foreshadows something that makes the pit of your stomach churn.

“last year, the white tigers had a stand-in coach, so you probably did not know.” she says her next words carefully and despite the bustling movement that fills the entire stadium, you can hear the exact moment all of your hearts drop.

“the coach of the white tigers is coach yeon, your team’s former coach in 2018…and he’s here today.”

you are the first to rush back into their locker room. frantically, you grab the official guide that had been given to you by the ice hockey league prior to the start of the regular season from out of your bag. you flip through it, team profiles upon team profiles blending into a hazy blur of faces as you find the one you are trying to look for.

“y/n,” somebody gently murmurs from behind you but you do not register their call. you continue to flick through the pages and when you find the profile for the white tigers, you scan the top of the page for a certain name with a shaky finger.

head coach: yeon ha joon

“oh my god,” you breathe out, hands lowering to your sides and gaze wavering. how the fuck had you managed to miss it this entire time?

you are not the only one affected by the revelation. the change room is pervaded by unease and restlessness, and wooyoung paces back and forth despite hongjoong’s attempts to get him to sit down. hongjoong himself cannot even remember how he answered the question about coach yeon, only that he had somehow excused themselves not long after to cut the interview short.

“how is he still a coach?” seonghwa furrows his brows.

wooyoung stops pacing and your eyes are drawn to him when he suddenly blanches, “what if coach yeon is doing the opposite now and paying other teams to let his own team win?”

“no way–” “–i wouldn’t put it past him–” “–surely not?” the boys’ voices overlap at the speculation.

it is a valid speculation based on what they have told you in the past about coach yeon. however, you stay quiet, suddenly aware of the fact that it is not something that would favour you should it be true. you gnaw the inside of your cheek because as much as you know that your boys would not suspect you, you still worry that doubt may cross their minds at one point, even if only briefly.

“unless the money he offered every single time was equivalent to the prize money, it’s highly unlikely the teams would have all accepted, right?” jongho points out.

yunho shrugs nonchalantly, “but even if they did, we all know that coach yeon would never be able to bribe our girl.”

the way everybody immediately agrees expels some of the anxiety within you, filling you with reassurance and security that starts to relax your chest instead. wooyoung chooses that moment to finally sit down on the bench beside you. he adds, “we’re too whipped for you, so even if you were bribed, we would probably ask whether the money was enough and if you wanted more.”

san chucks a water bottle at him. despite yourself, you laugh and admit, “that is…strangely comforting.”

“see,” wooyoung triumphantly boots the bottle back at the older. “she gets it.”

seonghwa intercepts the pitiful bottle before it becomes weaponised and sets it down next to him. “she wouldn’t accept the money in the first place.”

“exactly, so why does any of this matter?” mingi suddenly questions.

yeosang knits his brows together as he states the obvious, “it’s coach yeon.”

“and?” mingi mirrors his expression with genuine confusion.

it is quiet in the locker room. the coach of the white tigers is indeed coach yeon…and so what? what exactly about the revelation has pushed you all to the edge of the cliff?

mingi cocks his head. “what i’m trying to say is, does it make any difference whether he is their coach or not? think about it–regardless of how he got his team to the finals, he has no unfair advantage over us. there’s no way that he has bribed a fixed win in the finals, and he has no access to any insider knowledge that could jeopardise our tactics and plays.

“the only leverage that he ‘has’ is a psychological advantage–if we can even call it that. but we’re not the same boys who were too naive and powerless to do anything about it six years ago. if anything, we can easily turn this to work in our favour because i don’t know about you guys, but i’m ready to drag his ass through the mud. what we said earlier about not caring for today’s outcome? nah, fuck that. we’re going to fuck him up and show him that he messed with the wrong people.”

he takes everybody’s silence as misunderstanding of his last statement and he hurriedly clarifies there is no violent intent, “by winning. fairly.”

“damn,” jongho whistles. “you’re onto something for once.”

mingi clambers over seonghwa’s legs to grab the forgotten bottle and it goes flying across the room with violent intent. “dude, what the fuck,” mingi grouses.

the dull thud that resounds when jongho holds san’s leg pad up to block the projectile is enough to shift the mood in the room entirely. you finally relax into hongjoong’s side and he moulds you closer to him with the arm that he snakes around your waist as you both watch the locker room erupt into familiar pre-game mayhem.

yunho immediately scoops up the bottle and pitches it again. san stands to the side worrying over his poor leg pads as jongho uses them to bat the makeshift ball. his impressive accuracy makes you wonder whether they would have made it just as big as they are now had they formed a baseball team instead, but then yeosang narrowly dodges the bottle before it gives him a black eye, wooyoung cackles in the background, and you think better of it.

seonghwa joins you both on the bench and amongst all of the mischievous chaos and raucous laughter, you feel at peace, your hands clasped tenderly in the hands of your two captains–in unity, trust and love. you affectionately squeeze their hands with unspoken conviction.

you know your boys are going to play well; you just have a good feeling.

the energy in the room spikes exponentially as you huddle together one final time before you walk out of the locker room, through the hallways and to the arena–one final time before you step out to the ice rink as the red devils, playing in the final match.

you and your boys stand in a circle as close as it is physically possible with their bulky pads and game jerseys that they wear so proudly. it is indiscernible where one of you starts and where another ends from how intimately you all press together. your huddle is a woven nexus of arms and your hearts pound as one entity.

everyone learns of the juxtapositions of the world early on in life. there is no light without dark, there is no happiness without sadness, there is no spring without autumn…and there is no victory without defeat. not a single one of your boys has made it this far without falling at least once, and the conscious thought makes your heart swell and your throat constrict with overwhelming emotion.

somehow, you manage to choke out, “i am so, so proud of all of you.”

yunho and seonghwa’s own eyes start to heat up with wetness. from your side, san kisses your temple with feather-like tenderness, “and we’re so proud of you. y/n, you have grown just as much as we have.”

“thank you for being our coach,” hongjoong murmurs into your ear from your other side, the tip of his nose softly nuzzling you.

wooyoung reaches out to thumb the round of your cheek, “and thank you for loving us when we found it difficult to love ourselves.”

you had always viewed your injury and career with anger, bitterness and anguish…but you have finally come to terms with it. in the process of healing, you have learnt to love yourself, love eight other people, and to be loved. you have had your golden days as an athlete and you are now living your golden days as a coach–

–the very coach of the red devils, your team of boys who are living through their golden days as athletes, and you are going to lead them to victory in the finals.

swiping at a tear that slips down your cheeks, you grin. “boys, let’s win this match and then,” you pause as you meet their determined gazes, their smiles wide with uncontainable excitement, the tension in the room electrifying and palpable.

“let’s go international.”

you may have all fallen before–as athletes, as coaches, as a team–but you will always stand back up together, because at the end of the day your dream is theirs and their dream is yours. and like autumn, the leaves fall for a reason; they must fall before the spring flowers can bloom to their full beauty.

and bloom your flowers have.

However, there was only one man who got to get your help in full, and that was the managing partner: Attorney Song Mingi. It didn’t matter if you were helping another lawyer on a case; if Attorney Song needed you, you were there in an instant. To use a juvenile term, he had eternal dibs on you.

And you didn’t mind. You liked worked with the attorney, but the one thing you hated the most when working with him was how late he would work you sometimes. The life of a lawyer wasn’t easy, but you should be allowed to sleep at least whether it’s at home or at least one of the couches in his room, but no. If Song Mingi wanted to get something done, he was going to get it done before letting himself rest, let alone sleep.

The craziest part about working these insane hours was that Attorney Song refused to dress comfortably if he was working. You weren’t talking about changing into jammies or anything like that; he refused to let himself look “improper” and was always keeping every single garment of his three piece suit on his body. He wouldn’t even loosen the tie or anything— he was prim and proper ’til the very end.

That is until one particular day.

It was just you and the managing in the partner that day. Everyone else had gone home, but you two were scouring through mountains of papers and files and everything under the sun trying to find a specific, singular piece of evidence; and, as per usual, Attorney Song refused to let you take any sort of break.

The worst part about day was that the building’s AC was shot to hell. You had no idea how or why it happened, but it just did. You thought that the attorney would just take the damn files and go home— as if he was ever going to do that.

“Y/N, focus,” he snapped his fingers in front of you and pointed to a stack on the ground. “Go through all of these.”

“I already did—”

“Do it again. We need to fucking find this piece of evidence.”

Attorney Song rarely swore, so when he did, you felt goosebumps erupt on your skin. With a soft sigh, you did as he said. He watched as you got up from your chair and bent down slowly to get all of the files that you had set on the ground, the stack teetering dangerously as you moved them back to the table. Then, you felt his eyes leave you the second he confirmed you doing the task he assigned you. You went through all the files once again, your fingers combing through each page slowly, being more meticulous than you were during the first pass.

You went through one file and didn’t find it. As you set the file aside, you briefly glanced at the managing partner only to freeze. You had never seen him without his glasses on, and when he took them off in that moment, he whipped them off his face, a heavy, frustrated sigh leaving his lungs.

You always knew that Attorney Song was attractive, but you never really looked at him properly until that day. You wanted to appreciate his hair line, his perfect eyebrows, the lovely beauty mark on his cheek, and his beautifully shaped nose, but you could only focus on his lips. God, his rosy lips, his rosy, plump lips. His lips that only got fuller as he let out yet another sigh.

When he tossed his glasses to the side on the table, you felt saliva pool in your mouth and your pussy quiver. Plus, thanks to the AC being broken as fuck, your body temperature only got hotter and hotter to the point that you wanted to start stripping just to cool off.

Right as Attorney Song was about to look up, you quickly opened the second folder and went through the files in there. You tried to focus, but you were sweating so much that you could feel it roll down your back. So, eyes still on the papers, you unbuttoned one more button on your blouse. You couldn’t go further than that without exposing your bra, so you left it there and started fanning yourself knowing that fanning yourself would only make you hotter, but you seriously had no choice.

Little did you know that Mingi was entranced by you at that moment. He couldn’t help but stare at the new part of your chest that you exposed, blood rushing to his ears and crotch. He watched as a little bead of sweat rolled right down your neck, down your chest, and through your cleavage. He felt like his brain was on fire the longer he stared at you, and his own body started heating up like crazy.

Truth be told, Mingi was dying under all of those layers. He was sweating like anything, and he badly wanted to take off at least his jacket, but he couldn’t, for he had a secret he didn’t want to tell anyone about, and it was a pretty big secret.

There was nothing wrong with his secret, but he had yet to show anyone in the firm, and he wasn’t prepared at all to deal with the questions and the comments and side eyes from people. He wanted to remain as professional as possible, which meant he would rather sweat to death than expose it.

He couldn’t do that for long, though. He felt like he was risking having heat stroke, and there was no way he could afford that right now, not in the middle of an important case. As casually as possible, Mingi shed his jacket and vest and draped both over the chair discreetly, and he prayed that you wouldn’t notice.

Oh, but you did. You were so hyperaware of everything that you looked up slyly and saw him take the jacket off while focusing on the papers in front of him. His shirt— his white button up— was drenched in sweat. The poor guy was probably suffering under his jacket for so long based off of how soaked he was. But forget about how the shirt was clinging to the muscles on his body and displaying his muscles for a second. His shirt was so transparent at that point that it revealed his secret: a chest tattoo that connected to a massive sleeve.

By that point, the damage had been done. You’d seen the tattoo, Mingi knew you saw the tattoo, so there was no point to trying to be inconspicuous about it. Keeping his eyes on the files, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first couple of buttons of his shirt, giving you a slightly better look at the black ink on his fair skin. You could see it a little more, but you for the life of you still could not figure out exactly what it was he had tattooed on him. It was when he rolled up his sleeves did you figure it out: it was a biomechanical tattoo that seemed to rip through his skin and show the mechanics in his body. And then, when he leaned towards you to grab more files from your side, you were able to glance down his chest and see a mechanical heart on his chest.

And that’s when you realized after Mingi took his jacket off, every single one of his actions was done very purposefully; because when he leaned towards you for a stack of files, you got a faint whiff of his ridiculously expensive cologne and you felt his hot breath go past your ear, and he definitely heard your bated one. To make matters worse, he was still acting like the attorney you knew him to be.

“Hey,” he said, his low voice barely snapping you back to reality. “Focus.”

The tension in the room got so thick that it practically made the room even hotter. You were losing your mind, and you desperately needed to do something about it.

“A-Attorney Song, I just need to step out for a second,” you told him while squirming in your chair.

“We’re in the middle of figuring out this fucking case. What do you mean you’re going to step out for a second?” The attorney snapped, his attitude returning to normal.

“B-Bathroom…”

Mingi smirked— God fucking dammit, that made it so much worse— before he responded, “You can pee when we’re done. Sit your ass back down and find me this fucking piece of evidence.”

His authoritative tone made all the cells in your body scream for him. You didn’t need to pee, and he knew it. What you really needed was for him to rail you and fuck you until your brain went numb, but he wouldn’t do any of those things until you fucking found this fucking piece of evidence.

That’s when you saw it— the holy grail. It was almost cliché in a way. The two of you lunged for the piece of paper that would win the case and caught it at the same time. The tips of his long fingers brushed against yours, and the two of you looked from the sheet to each other at the same time. You were frozen, your eyes darting left and right as you observed his face in that close proximity. Mingi, however, still seemed to be in work mode (he most certainly was not at that point). Not moving from his position at all, he plucked the paper from your hand and placed it inside his portfolio folder before grabbing the back of your head and kissing you hungrily.

You were definitely surprised to say the least, but you didn’t want to spend any time pondering how the attorney also got to the same state of mind as you. The point was that you wanted him bad and he wanted you just as badly, and you could tell when his grip on your hair tightened and when he subtly wrapped his fingers around your neck and pressed into the pressure points with just enough strength to make blood rush to your head but allow you to breathe as his kisses got rougher.

Trying to cling to some sense of sanity, you ran your own fingers through his hair and held his hair and forearm tightly. Your exhales in between kiss mingled with his, soft moans and sighs adding to the mix every so often. You felt like you were burning up the longer he made out with you, and the sweat collecting on your body definitely made you aware of that. Sweat dripped down his and your face and mixed with your dribbling saliva, both falling and staining the documents on the table.

“W-Wait, attorney,” you managed to say. “The documents.”

You heard him curse under his breath as he momentarily let go of you to rid every single piece of paper on the table with one fell swoop. Then, he quickly made his way around the table and grabbed your arms roughly to pull you into him, his plush lips barely cushioning the blow of his animalistic kisses.

“Tell me something,” Mingi muttered against your lips, his body pressing into yours, his hands running down your arms and resting on your waist as he kept kissing you. “Do you still wanna go to the bathroom?”

“Depends,” you replied breathlessly, your hands roaming up his chest and grabbing the collar of his shirt. “Are you going to help me take care of it?”

“What, you were going to go to the bathroom to touch yourself?” Mingi chuckled.

“I blame you,” you pushed him away and prodded his chest— the one with the tattoo. Then, you added, “I think you should take full accountability for getting me to this point.”

“I could say the same to you,” Mingi’s voice lowered and nearly growled. He suddenly grabbed your ass and pulled upwards as he said, “You and this damn pencil skirt.”

You bit back a moan when you felt his hands grip your ass harder. You wanted to tease him more, but he interrupted you to continue his previous sentiment.

“And this fucking shirt.”

With one finger, he slid it down the middle of your shirt, ripping the rest of the buttons off. Before he took the shirt off you, he lifted you and sat you down on the table, then his antsy hands working on stripping you down completely.

You didn’t get to ask him what he meant because the second he got you fully naked, he gripped your breast with one hand and gripped your ass with the other. He started sucking hard on your breast as he groped and squeezed your body with insatiability. You let out a sweet moan and clung to the man’s shoulders when you felt him bite down gently on your tit. It was when he brought his hand from your ass to your crotch and rubbed your folds did that last string of sanity of yours snapped.

“Attorney— Ah! Mingi!” you whined as you grabbed his hair and pulled him back to look at you. “I want you in me, please just fuck me already!”

“I want to,” Mingi rasped as he looked at you hungrily. “But I don’t have any condoms.”

“I don’t care— I need you to fuck me,” you whimpered— you were so close to crying because of how sexually frustrated you were.

“As long as you’re clean…” he uttered with a smirk before leaving you with a sloppy kiss.

You helped him out of the rest of his sweaty clothes, your hands unveiling the massive chest tattoo. You trailed your fingers up from his wrist to his shoulder, following the lines of the artwork before arriving at his chest.

“Your tattoos are so sexy, attorney,” you whispered as you outlined the intricate details of the tattoo with your fingernail.

You laid your hand flat over the mechanical heart tattoo and looked into his darkened eyes, the man biting his lower lip to keep himself the slightest bit together, his chest swelling under your palm.

“Y/N,” Mingi said roughly as he took your hand in his. He brought your hand down to his clothed crotch to feel his massive, hardened cock, your eyes widening as you it slowly dawned on you that Mingi may have more than just one big surprise. “I’m warning you. I’m not going to hold back.”

“Don’t.”

Mingi visibly shivered. He quickly rid himself of the rest of his clothes and stood before you in all of his glory, his immense, veiny, raging red cock twitching the closer he got to you. Pinning you down to the table, Mingi  placed one hand alongside your waist, the other stroking his cock and rubbing the tip against your folds. You desperately wanted to tell him to just hurry up, but if he came at you with his full force from the get go, you felt like you would definitely tear into two pieces. So, you let him go at his own pace.

He only pushed the tip in first, and once he had his hands on either side of you, he sank a good majority of his cock into you gingerly before suddenly thrusting the rest of himself into you. Your hands went to his hair and neck, and you dug your nails into him while letting out a wail, his cock somehow getting bigger as it throbbed inside you.

Honestly, you were in a little pain, but that didn’t change the fact that the rest of your body desperately wanted him to move, and you wanted him to move fast. Heck, you wanted him to fuck you to the point that you wouldn’t be able to think straight. And Mingi understood that when you looked at him with teary eyes and parted lips. He grasped your waist and began to fuck you fast and hard, your back pressing so hard into the table that you thought you were going to leave an imprint of your ass on it— in the most literal sense, Mingi fucked you into the table exactly as you expected him to.

The table creaked under you as Mingi lowered himself so that his chest was pressing against yours. He moved his hand from your waist to the back of your head and clenched your hair in his tight grasp, his sloppy kisses and tongue violating your mouth. He moved up slightly, allowing his cock to delve deeper into to, and with a very specific intense rut, he hit your cervix. You clenched immediately, and you broke off the kiss as you let out a loud, crying moan, your arousal spraying out of you and onto the table; and you clenched so hard that Mingi could barely pull out— the feeling of your walls squeezing his penis tightly made him orgasm immediately. He pulled out and came hard all over your chest and stomach, ropes of cum trailing along your body.

You thought that would be it, that he would clean you up and call it a day. But no, he was far from over, especially after seeing his white stickiness dripping down your skin. He quickly shoved his cock back in you, making you choke out a moan. He wrapped his arms around you and lifted you off the table, your own arms and legs wrapping around him as you clung to him in fear of him dropping you to the ground.

He did drop you, but that was only when he walked you into his office and slammed your back into the shelves of document boxes, the fixture wobbling and nearly dropping some of the boxes. He brought one of your legs up and fucking you relentlessly, the shelves squeaking and creaking with every one of his insane thrusts. Little profanities would slip under his breath occasionally when he felt his waist slam into yours at just the right angle. Stars started filling your vision when he grabbed your breast and massaged it, your nipple rubbing in between his squeezed fingers.

“M-Minngh-gi,” you moaned as you felt your climax nearing. “C-Cumm—”

He cut you off by grabbing your cheeks and kissing you passionately. He didn’t have to say it, but you knew what he was telling you. Wait.

Quickly pulling out, Mingi spun you around so that your chest was pressing into the shelves, and he quickly re-entered you, his waist ramming into your ass with so much force that your knees nearly buckled. You wanted to scream and cry, but your mouth was stuffed with his fingers, so the only thing you could do was moan and suck on his fingers to keep your moans to a minimum. And despite him silently wanting you to hold out, you couldn’t last much longer— his hand moved from your waist down to your crotch, and his fingers rubbed your clit at the same pace as his thrusts, your eyes rolling to the back of your head because of the stimulation.

You came fully when Mingi pulled out of you, making you squirt all over the carpeted flooring beneath you. Had your mind not been swirling with hormones and lust, you would’ve been mortified that you soiled the managing partner’s carpet, but instead, you sighed loudly, letting the pleasure wash all over you.

The man didn’t give you a break. He turned you around and carried you once more to his couch. He sat down, making you straddle his waist. Hurriedly, he rubbed his cock against your folds and forcibly sat you on his lap, his cock shooting through you. Your vision went white as you came yet again, the man underneath you chuckling at the sight of you flinging your head back and gripping his shoulders so hard that your nails left imprints in his skin.

You thought he was going to say something dirty, something to make you slightly embarrassed but more horny. Instead, he grabbed the back of your head and kissed you again, his other hand guiding your waist and making you bounce on his dick. He kept pulling you into him to the point where your hands were pinned on either side of him on the cushions of the couch.

His cock was moving through you at an angle that made him rub against your G-spot repeatedly, and it took everything in you to not cum again because, dear God, if you came again, you would just fucking collapse. Luckily, Mingi seemed to notice your struggle, because he flipped you so that you were laying on the couch and he was thrusting into you from above, his sweat dripping down his face and body at a steady pace, his couch completely coated in his and your sweat.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Mingi’s voice rumbled as he looked at you with the devilish look in his eyes. “How are you still so fucking tight? You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Cum inside,” you panted out, another orgasm rapidly approaching you. “Fill me up, Attorney Song.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice. He rammed his waist into yours and came inside, his cock throbbing and twitching as his seed filled you up. You came again as well, your walls squeezing more cum out of him.

When he pulled out, his cum nearly spilled out of you, but he quickly moved his head down to your crotch and collected whatever wouldn’t stay inside you on his tongue. You watched as he brought himself back up to you, his tongue coated with his and your cum. Before you knew it, he was kissing you, his tongue tangling with yours to give you a taste and transfer his cum into your mouth.

A line of cum and spit connected your tongues when Mingi moved away to see your fucked out face and the mix of cum now in your mouth.

“Swallow,” he demanded in a low voice; you obeyed immediately. “Good girl.”

Dammit. He shouldn’t have said that because now you were turned on all over again. You wiggled below him slightly as you tried to calm yourself down, but the lawyer knew you weren’t done with him yet. He rubbed his hand against your cunt and traced light circles around your clit while you reached for his half-hard cock and rubbed him until he was fully erect again.

“You just can’t get enough, can you?” he whispered teasingly.

“No, sir.”

“You want more, don’t you?”

“I need more.”

"You know what you are applying for, right?" Mr Choi asked you, his voice resonating within the office. His eyes, a deep dark shade of red, watched you intensely and you wondered if he could read your mind.

You nodded, fixing your posture to be even straighter. "You need a personal assistant, someone to take care of your business while you take care of, well, your business" you chuckled lowly at your choice of words.

He nodded slowly, eyes still glued to yours and you tried to focus on the crease between his brows so you didn't have to look directly at his orbs, the intense gaze making you want to fold yourself into a cocoon.

Choi Jongho was a known man in your town. Not just for his business, but also for his philanthropy.

Living for so long in the same town has granted him some vision of past, present and future. What worked and what didn't. So he, along with a group of other vampires of the town, formed a board to help the city hall into best develop the place decades ago.

The idea not only worked but also turned your city into a model for your state and country, that exported the model for many places.

Through the years, Mr Choi also helped build hospitals, schools, take different types of business and factories to the city which led to the creation of many new jobs for the population.

He did all of that to help the town that welcomed him, and the others of his kind, and allowed them to grow there over the centuries.

Well, grow in the figurative sense of the word.

He hummed lowly as he finally moved his attention away from your eyes and all the air you were holding without knowing left your lungs. "I do have some more interviews to do, miss yn, even thought I am impressed by your resume" you smiled genuinely and nodded. "Mind me if I ask you why are you applying for this job when you have such a impressive resume?" You chuckled and lowered your head.

"Turns out companies don't seem to be looking at resumes or competence anymore" your voice was a little tired, remembering all the interviews and admission processes you've been through in the past two or three years. "If you don't have anyone to push you a little further, to talk with their friends about you, there's not much you can do. And to be very honest with you, Mr Choi, my current job doesn't pay me well, and your salary offer is quite attractive" the man chuckled, a tiny smile forming in the corner of his mouth.

"I like your honesty, miss yn, that is a virtue I admire and look for in an assistant" you bowed thanking for his compliment. "As I said prior, I have other candidates to interview, but I'll let you know your results as soon as I finish the process" he got up from his chair and you mimicked him.

"Thank you for your time, sir. I'm looking forward to hear more of you" you bowed profoundly to show respect and left the office.

As soon as you arrived home, that was conveniently close to the man's office, you threw yourself on the bed, clothes and all, utterly tired and drained from anxiety. Soon, your eyes fluttered closed and you drifted asleep.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The clicking of your heels echoed on the hardwood floors as you followed the man. He wasn't much taller than you but his aura was enough to make you fell much smaller.

He was always dressed impeccably, his tailored suits fitting perfectly on his body and giving him this clean and elegant cut. His shoes always dark and polished as if they just left the box and it wouldn't shock you if they actually did. His hair always perfectly gelled in place, a few strands on top of his forehead, his red eyes always deep and observant.

When you received the email that you were the chosen one to be his personal assistant you beamed in happiness. Not only to leave your terrible job but to earn a good amount of money to be able to take care of yourself properly.

Right now, you were following your soon-to-be new boss inside his house, the place smaller and cozier than you expected. Your curious eyes wandered quickly from side to side looking at what they could as you walked behind the man.

Jongho led you to his office, the place much cozier than the one where you had your interview. This one resembled more of a library than a office, his desk made out of a dark polished wood, the heartwood marks being visible. Behind it laid a beautiful chair made out purple-dyed leather. And on the wall behind it there were shelves stacked with dozens, hundreds of books. You wondered how many of those were from other century.

The man noticed your admired face and smiled, he was certain he did the right choice picking you. Ever since the first time you step feet inside his office the day of the interview with your posture held high and the willingness and eagerness of someone wanting to do something of their life he knew you were the one.

Of course he did a background check on you, as well as every other candidate, and your life story made his dead heart shrink. He was the one called a beast yet it was the humans that made you hurt. No wonder you were stuck in this small town hid on the map looking for simple jobs when you had such an impressive resume in your hands. Anywhere bigger and you could be in danger.

He sat on his chair and motioned for you to take a sit in front of him. You did so.

"So, miss yn, thank you for accepting to being my PA" you bowed slightly holding a gentle and professional smile. He pulled out a folder with a few papers on it "this is the employment contract, feel free to read and even take to a lawyer if you feel like" he slid the folder to you. "If something is not to your liking we can always discuss and see how we can adjust to best fit both of us".

You grabbed the contract and started to read. It was a lot, really, many pages of words you honestly didn't understand. But you were smarter than just sign something without reading.

"You can take home if you want, miss yn" Jongho spoke as he watched your eyes run from side to side trying to read the words fast. "As you will read, that are a few clauses that are very important for the functioning and progress of our partnership" you nodded, motioning to him that you were listening while still reading the contract. "First thing is that you'll have a trial period of a month to see how well we will work together" you nodded again, this time turning your full attention to the man. He smiled and hummed lowly. "Next is that you will be moving in with me to this house, we need to be together from the moment I wake up to when I go to bed, I know it sounds a little bit too much "he added when he saw your widened eyes, "but when you start working you'll understand what I'm talking about" you nodded once again, this time slower, the news getting you by surprise. "Another thing you need to know that is that even if I don't eat everyday, every once in a while a voluntary blood doll will come for me to feed. I know everything is very new to you since my kind don't tend to be in big cities, but now that you'll work for me you will have to deal with my feeding appointments" he explained as if it was the most common thing in the world, as if you were going to hire a professional chef to make his meals.

A small yet heavy silence fell on the room. As he expected. Jongho knew it was a lot for you to take and he decided to just dump all the most important clauses to you right in the beginning. It was better this way, not only he could access your facial expressions and read you but also to avoid further bigger shocks at home.

Your gaze switched from him to the books behind him, still too afraid to look too deeply and for too long into his red ones. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you applied for this job, yet reality was different than imagination. It always was.

"Do you have any further questions, miss yn?" He broke the silence and the trance you put yourself into.

You shook your head and cleared your throat "Not for now, sir. I'll read the contract and let you know if anything by tomorrow max" you replied and he hummed, back relaxing on the backrest of his chair, hands folded in his lap.

"Well, that's all for today, miss yn, if there's nothing else, you're dismissed" you lifted from the chair and bowed.

"Thank you one more time for the trust, Mr. Choi" you said and with his dismissive nod you left the room.

Before going home, you decided to pass in your favorite bakery and grab some pastries and baked goodies for you to eat while reading the contract.

"Oh wow yn" the old lady that ran the place chimed as you entered, "I've never seen you so dressed up. What's the occasion?"

You smiled and told her about your probable new job. You two engaged in small talk about it and how she was happy that you were finally looking for better jobs and moving on.

Truth was that you grew in an orphanage until you reached legal age and had to leave. You started working so you could afford college and somewhere to live. Life was never easy on you but you managed through it even when sticks and stones were thrown.

During your college years you met a boy, he was sweet, caring, kind. Until he wasn't. He started to make your life a living nightmare. Manipulating you, making you distance yourself from your friends until you were isolated and depended on him for basically anything. He became violent whenever you confronted him.

You feared for your life everyday.

The only way you managed to get rid of him was to leave the town you used to live as soon as you finished your graduation. You left your phone somewhere random because you knew he had a gps on it, grabbed what you could, got on the first bus you could afford with the little money you had and went to wherever the destiny led you.

That's how you ended in this small town filled with ancient creatures that you only heard tales of but never seen in front of you. Genevieve, the owner of the bakery, was the first one to take you in after you told her your story. You slept on the back of the bakery for a couple of months until you found a job and had enough money to rent a small place.

It's been three years since you left everything behind and started it all again. And you didn't regret a single bit.

You left your shoes at the door and sighed at the feeling of finally come down of the heels and put on your soft bear shaped slippers. You moved to the kitchen to serve yourself a cup of wine before diving into reading the pile of papers.

The pastries on the right, wine on the left and the folder in the center. Your body now comfortably hugged by your pajamas.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The moving came the week after you signed your contract. Suitcases and boxes of your stuff being moved into the room designated to you in his house. The one on the far left at the second - and last - floor.

You learned that, besides you, his butler Jinho also lived in the house but on the room beside Jongho's one in case he needed anything.

As stated in the contract, he was going to still pay for your rent and bills for the trial month in case it didn't work out and you had to go back home. You promised yourself to do your best and spent the whole week studying about the job and what people on the internet that had that job talked about.

The room you were given was almost as big as your whole apartment, the walls were painted in a light beige color except for the wall behind the bed that was a deep burgundy color that matched the sheets and pillowcases. The furniture was from the same dark polished wood you saw at his office and you couldn't help but run the tip of your fingers through the vanity that was a bit farther from the bed.

You walked to the big window that was covered by a curtain in the same burgundy shade and opened to find that that it was in fact a door that led to a small balcony. You smiled as you opened the glass doors and walked to the railing and watched the beautiful view of the city countryside. Your eyes instinctively closed as you smelled the sweet scent of flowers from the fields ahead of you.

Someone cleared their throat behind you, making your turn to find the perfectly suited butler at the entrance of your room. Your bags and boxes already inside. When had they put it there?

"Welcome to the property, miss yn" his gravely voice rumbled through the room as he bowed. You repeated the gesture as you walked towards the man. "I can see you already discovered your view"

You nodded smiling "it's really pretty looking at the flowers fields from up here, it also feels like I'm smelling into a fabric softener" you chuckled.

"I'm glad is to your liking" he showed no expression. "All your things are here as far as I am aware" you nodded confirming as you recognized everything that you packed. It wasn't much since you didn't have much. "You'll find that Mr Choi already filled your wardrobe with clothes that he felt appropriate for your new work position" you opened the doors as soon as he finished speaking to find many shirts, dress pants, skirts and even heels inside the furniture. "I hope they are to your liking"

"They are, thank you" you closed the wooden doors. "He didn't have to".

"Mr Choi told me you would answer along those lines and asked me to simply say that now you are working for him and you should dress as such, and since it's a requirement that you wear certain clothes it wouldn't be fair for you having to spend from your income to renew your wardrobe"

"So I dressed badly, huh?" You teased yet the man was like a marble statue.

"If that's all, will you excuse me" he said and before he could leave you stopped him.

"I have a question" he nodded once. "Since, well, Mr Choi doesn't eat regular food, will you have to… adapt because of me?" For a fraction of a second you could see what was a hint of a twitch in Jinho's lip, almost as if he held himself from smiling and breaking his character.

"Me and other employees here are still humans, miss yn" your mouth formed an O shape. "Don't worry about such frivolous things, we will provide you everything you need as long as you do your job properly" you nodded.

"I'll do my best, sir" you gave a salute to him and he just sighed before leaving the room.

Opening the wardrobe again, you grabbed some of the clothing pieces and analyzed them, their fabric, their stitching, their quality. You wondered how much the vampire had spent on all of those clothes and shoes for you and smiled at the thought of him thinking about what you should wear and sending someone to buy it. Who bought it though? Because the person had a great taste and sense of style.

You started to unpack your things and put them into place. Makeup, brushes, perfume bottles and accessories at the vanity. Books, albums and vinyls at the shelves, as well as some of your favorite decorations that you brought along. You put your old clothes separated from the new ones just in case. Same thing with the shoes. The last thing was deciding where to hang your posters, artworks and pictures but you decided to leave that for later, you still didn't know how much you could decorate the place.

It was already dark outside when you finished organizing everything and putting away the boxes and bags. You were satisfied for now.

You decided to take a shower after finishing, glad that you had your own bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. You grabbed your towel and the clothes you were going to put on and entered the bathroom, not bothering to close the door.

The warm water hit your body like it was dark hot black coffee entering your system in the early morning: soothing, rejuvenating and reliving. Without much thought, you started to hum a song as you washed yourself.

Jongho was coming to personally call you for dinner when he heard you singing in the shower. He chuckled at the way you sang it, the voice cracking often at the high notes. He hoped you were a better assistant that you were as a singer.

"Holy shit!" You cursed as you left the bathroom to find a very casual looking Choi Jongho with his hands in his pockets and an amused smirk on his face. "I'm so sorry, Mr Choi. I didn't know you were there" you bowed deeply as you felt your cheeks burn in embarrassment.

"I came to invite you for the dinner and was met with a rather… unique voice" he teased you and, if possible, your face burned even more. If you were a cartoon you were sure there would be steam coming out of your head. He decided to save you from further embarrassment and stopped the teasing. "Dinner is served at the dining room, you're welcomed to come"

"Thank you, Mr Choi" he nodded and left, but not before singing the same song you were singing before with a voice that you were sure belonged to angels.

You facepalmed from already making a fool out of yourself in front of your boss on the first day.

Putting the shame aside, you quickly brushed your hair and put on your bear slippers before leaving your room to find the dining room.

It wasn't hard to find the place since as soon as you started to approach the first floor you heard clacking of cutlery, talking and some eventual laughs. You walked towards the sound and found the room, that was simple and warming. Just like almost everything in his house. The table was large and had a bunch of people, some of which you recognized as fellow employees, and Jongho was sitting on the end, a glass of what looked like wine in his hand.

Everyone turned their attention to you when you stopped at the door. Silence suddenly hovering the air.

"Welcome miss yn" Taeyang, one of his security guards broke the silence with a gleaming smile.

Everyone followed after him and started to welcome you with words and smiles. You felt shy at the attention at you but thanked everyone's hospitality with bows and smiles, walking to the empty seat between two of the employees you recognized from the day you did your interview.

Soon enough the maids started to bring the food. To say it smelled delicious was just the tip. Your mouth was watering at the smell and the sight of so much food in front of you. Just then, at the view and smell of food, that your stomach rumbled and you realized that it had been since morning that you didn't eat anything significant.

Just when Jongho motioned that everyone started to serve themselves, you following suit.

You didn't know what to grab first, the lamb or the risotto? The salad or the soup? there were so many options that your eyes moved from side to side looking at everything and deciding on what to choose.

After finally deciding on grabbing a little of everything, you settled into eating. The flavors and textures melting on your tongue, an explosion of taste on your tastebuds, something you have never tried before. You closed your eyes and hummed lowly at it, enjoying the dinner.

In his sit at the very end of the table, the man watched everyone but mostly you. Looking to see if you'd get along with everyone, if the food was to your taste, how you'd react to the food he asked to prepare extra special for your welcome dinner. Your smile at every forkful told him everything he needed to know about the subject.

He noticed how you looked cozy and comfortable on the little pajama set you wore, the light green short-sleeved button up had little black cat paws prints all over it, the fabric looked soft even though it looked like you had worn it for quite a while. The short shorts, with matching color and print, rode up on your plush thighs, leaving almost no room for imagination. He caught himself wondering if it they would feel as soft in his hands as they look all spilled on top of the chair where you sat.

He cleared his throat lowly and turned his head around, trying not to stare at you. Not too much at least. But it was especially hard with you laughing so sweetly at something one of his drivers said.

Jongho would be lying to you and himself if he ever told anyone that he didn't find you attractive. Quite the contrary, from the moment he looked at you he knew you were one of the prettiest people he ever laid eyes on. No matter the century. He wished in his dead heart that he'd find someone better than you for the job but no one ever came close to your skill and knowledge.

And he needed someone good, someone to actually help him. So there was no other choice.

During the dinner, every once in a while, you'd notice your boss looking at you but you'd brush away the thought, maybe he was looking at someone else. Or maybe he was just being a good host and making sure his new guest was well adjusted and served.

That was definitely it.

You also noticed that, while you were eating, he had a glass of a liquid that looked like wine. You wondered if it was blood. And if it was, from whom?

You shook the thoughts away as you kept your talk to one of his drivers, Malik, that was sitting next to you. He was a nice and sweet sixty-something years old man, his hair and beard already white from the time. He told you about how he owned his life to the vampire because he helped save his wife and daughter a long time ago. "I had nothing back then" he had told you, "the women of my life dying of a disease that I had never heard of until then, but Mr Choi helped us and I promised I'd pay him back. Even though I already paid my debt, I like working for this thing, he's better than any human I've met" the old man chuckled and you just nodded.

You turned to look at the creature and found him already looking at you, his lips tugging slightly at the corner as he lifted his cup to you.

A shiver ran down your spine. You don't know why.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The first two weeks at work were absolute hell. Not because you hated, but because Choi Jongho proved to be one of the busiest man you've ever met. It took you a long time to fall into his rhythm and be able to follow him along.

Now, almost two months into this position you proved not only for yourself, but to Jongho as well, that you were made for this job.

"I made sure to pack all of the essential things you might need for the trip" you spoke as you followed behind your boss at his building. "I made a list of the things I've packed and another for the personal items you might want to get for yourself" you gave him the paper and checked the little box of the task. "Your hotel room, as well as your staff's, are already booked at for four days and three nights at the hotel. The booking is on your name, so you just need to do the check in on time" you sent the man an email that quickly ringed on his phone. "Just sent you your plane tickets for both the going and return" you continued to walk, your head down, until you hit it against a relatively hard wall.

You looked up to see that it was Mr Choi's back since he stopped walking and was now turning to face you.

You'd never get used to this man's beauty, even behind his pale cold skin, dark deep red eyes that were supposed to scare you away, there was still a small sparkle of life.

"You're not coming?" His voice was deep, assertive, yet held a curiosity almost childish. You shook your head no. "How am I supposed to endure this trip without you?"

You chuckled at him. "You'll be fine, Mr Choi, it's not the first business trip you do without me, besides, you can contact me at any time you need" you smiled and held the tablet against your chest.

He shook his head. "This time is different, it's a longer trip and to another country. I need you with me to make sure I make no mistakes, I'm too used to being babysat by you as Jinho says" you laughed a little, he did look like a lost child sometimes. "Please, yn, I need you" the way those words came out of his mouth held something more than just work-related need but you decided to ignore. For your own mental health.

You sighed. Defeated. And nodded. "I'll book another flight and hotel room for me then if that's what you want, sir" he nodded proudly, smiling. He learned how to smile more to you ever since you started working for him. Which you hated to admit that you loved because he had the cutest little gummy smile you had ever seen.

Sometimes you get yourself wondering how was Jongho's life before turning into a vampire. What was he? What did he do? How did he handle the transformation and the hunger at the beginning? The idea of the man hunting and killing people for his survival scared you. Yet, the same idea made you feel almost pitiful of him and his… condition. How did he managed to evolve with the world and be able to adapt into the new centuries? The new generations?

Also, you get yourself wondering if he ever had someone. Loved someone. Being immortal comes with the curse of seeing your loved ones get old and die while you're stuck with the same face, the same eternal age that never goes up and never ends.

Sure, you already saw him receiving guests at his house outside the feeding schedule, so he wasn't lonely. But being accompanied doesn't mean being loved.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

The hotel was way more luxurious than anything you had ever seen. You knew your boss liked comfort and quiet when traveling, but it exceeded your expectations. Also the meeting was happening at the same hotel, so it would be more convenient if you stayed there.

After the check in was done and the cards that opened the doors were distributed, everyone went to their designated ones to rest a little before the first dinner with the investors at night.

Besides you and Mr Choi, there was also three bodyguards along with you. You and your boss had your own separated rooms, while the other men shared another one.

You dropped yourself down the soft bed as soon as you closed the bedroom door. Body and head tired from the travel, you hated to fly. The low hum outside the window of the room slowly matched your heartbeat and soon you were drifting asleep.

You woke up with knocks on your door, not really sure for how long you had slept but from the small pool of drool on the pillow you could tell it was for a while.

Behind the door stood a very casually dressed Jongho, hair down and unstyled, making look even younger with the bangs on his eyes, a set of matching dark blue sweatpants and hoodie and a small box in his hands.

"Hm.. hi, sir, can I help you with anything?" You asked, head still a bit dizzy from the sleep and the flight. "Am I late? I am sorry, I fell asleep as soon as I laid down and I-"

"Don't worry, yn, you're not late" he smiled and you copied his gesture. You motioned for him to enter the room and so he did. "I came because I have a favor to ask" you nodded for him to keep talking. "This dinner tonight is less of a business one and more of a show-off" you tilted your head confused and he sighed, sitting on the bed. "The men I'm making business are not… nice. They like to show off their money, their businesses, whatever they can flaunt, they will. But I need their cooperation for this next move, they have real political power, and I need that" you nodded slowly.

"And where do I fit into this?" You asked still not getting what he was trying to tell.

"You see, I'd love to have a beautiful woman by my side since they value this kind of traditional structures like marriage like they value their money"

"And you want me to be your… wife?"

"Just for the night. I know it's a lot to ask and I'll understand if you don't want to, I was going to hire someone anyways" he chuckled and looked at the box on his lap before looking at you again. "But I figured that who better to help me on this than someone that not only understands my business but it's an essential part for it to work?"

"Are you trying to flatter me and my work into accepting this?" You joked, crossing your arms over your chest and pulling a soft smile out of the man.

"A little. But only with the truth though!" He rushed to add before you could get it wrong. "Please, I'll even pay extra hours"

"No need to, I'll help because I know how stressed you've been with this trip for the past week, I know how this deal is important for you" he smiled, genuinely. You thought that you had never seen him smile so big before.

"Thank you, yn. Thank you so much" he raised from the bed and handed you the box. "Wear this tonight, please. And be ready at seven"

"You knew that I was gonna accept?" You grabbed the box already knowing what was inside and he smirked at you from the door.

"I had a guess you would" he answered before leaving the room.

You chuckled and shook your head in disbelief. The more you knew about your boss, more he seemed to surprise you.

The velvety box was soft to the touch but sturdy, a sign that it was from some high-end brand you probably never heard of. Opening it you found one of the most beautiful dresses you ever laid your eyes on. The fabric was from a deep purple color and was a soft and cool satin. The bodice was strapless and from a sheer lace that would leave your torso peeking underneath the delicate pattern. The skirt started draping at the height of the hips and fell down until it reached the ground.

You admired the piece, the softness of the silk, the delicate floral pattern of the lace, the almost invisible stitching proving even further that it was a quality and high-end product.

You left the box and the dress on the bed and moved to take a shower, you had to be the most perfect you've ever been to impress the investors and help your boss.

The warm water and the smell of your jasmine body wash helping you relax your nerves. It was an important dinner for Jongho and his business, and as far as you knew, for the city as well. After the shower, you wrapped yourself in the fluffy bathrobe and started to do your hair and makeup. Since the dress was already eye-catching enough, you decided to do a simple soft look, using a bit of shiny eyeshadow to mark your eyes, a light warm blush that matched your complexion and a nude brown lip gloss that made your lips look even plumper. You decided to leave your hair natural and just apply some volume and definition to it.

You admired your reflection on the floor length mirror, the dress was not only gorgeous but it looked like it was made for your body, the fabric hugging your body on all the right places, your curves looking even more enhanced by the shape. The color complemented your complexion so well and it matched perfectly with the heels you were wearing as well as the jewelry you chose to further the look even more.

It was was exactly seven pm when you heard knocks on your door. You opened it to meet a very fancy and well dressed Choi Jongho. He wore a fitted black suit, the pants were plain black, as well as the shirt underneath, the blazer had a golden stitching with a squared pattern and gold buttons. Instead of a tie, the first button of the shirt was open and a gold chain with some details on it hung from under the collar. His perfume invaded your senses, the deep floral and earthy smell enveloping you and dizzying you with his smile.

The man was doing his best to keep his jaw closed. He knew you were pretty, but seeing you all dressed up made his stomach twist and his mouth dry. He was in trouble.

Jongho can't remember the last time he liked someone. That he allowed himself to like someone. Being immortal always made things related to the heart hard for him. He saw so many people he loved to born, to grow and to die. He knows that to love someone is to let them go, but not when he had to see it so many times.

He wasn't always like this, he wasn't born like this, which always made everything worse. He turned on a fateful night hundreds of years ago after leaving a tavern he went to celebrate the crop of the year with his friends. His sister told him not to go, warning about strange and dangerous creatures that lurked in the dark. He shooed her away saying that he was a strong man, he knew how to take care of himself.

Only if he had listened.

That night, after leaving the warm interior of the tavern, a little too drunk of soju and rice wine, he stumbled along the streets of the village until he met a man, a seemingly unsuspecting man. He asked for directions and when Jongho let his guard down and turned to the side to point to the other side that was when he felt, the painful piercing through his skin.

He woke up a few hours later, the sun already rising, the light hitting his skin and the brightness making him stir awake. His body hurt yet felt stronger and he had this hunger that wasn't normal. The young man moved to his house, the few villagers he encountered looked at him startled when he passed by.

When he arrived home his sister was ready to welcome him with slaps and screams of irresponsibility but she stopped on her track when she saw him. Her widened eyes only proved further to Jongho that something had happened. "What's wrong?" He asked, voice hoarse, low, dry, thirsty. He tried to move closer but she took steps back. "Don't come near me!" The woman squeaked. Scared. Why was her scared of him?

He took more steps forward and she took more steps back until she hit her back on the table, her hand landing on a sharp fish knife and cutting her palm. Instantly the metallic smell of blood flew to Jongho's nose and made his stomach rumble and mouth water. The sister started to shake uncontrollably, that's how she'd die.

And then it hit him. Like a hammer on a toe. He had only heard stories about beings half dead half alive that needed human blood to survive. Beings so evil that held no remorse or empathy for the human race, seeing them as nothing but a feast for them to enjoy. The man last night was one of those. And he had become one.

With all the strength he could muster, he turned around and left. He grabbed his horse and ran away to the forest, somewhere where he couldn't be a danger to anyone he loved.

Jongho became pretty good at keeping his promise. For years he only ate criminals, people so evil that he judged that didn't deserve to live. He avoided becoming closer to other people, even other vampires, he was a lone wolf and he preferred like that, this way his heart wouldn't hurt.

But he couldn't live always like this, not when years started to pass slower and even seemed to stop. After a while he met the men that would become his friends, other beings like him. Together, they formed something of a society, a book of rules for the vampires to follow and be incorporated into the society.

It worked, over the years that passed, the living-dead and the humans started more and more to live in peace together. But even then, the man never truly allowed himself to like someone, to fall in love, not even for someone like him. It was easier, more comfortable to be alone. He was used to it after centuries of living.

So the moment he saw you standing in front of him looking like a goddess on earth and he felt something twist inside of his dead body he knew. He knew he was doomed.

"Shall we go?" You asked, smiling shyly, the tiny clutch bag you had being held tightly under your fingers.

Jongho managed to get out of his daydreaming and stepped aside to let you get out and close the door. He offered you his arm and you held it so you could walk to the dinner party.

The said party was being held at the bar in the hotel you were staying at. The place was already full of fancy and well dressed people. Most of them looked way older than you, and at all honesty, than Jongho too even though he was technically hundreds of years old.

As soon as you walked in, a few men came to welcome Jongho and talk about business. You were offered a cup of champagne while your companion was talking to a couple of men something about improvement laws and some things that you couldn't understand.

You were glad that for the most part those people barely acknowledged you by his side, even the other partners that stood quietly by those men's side, except to compliment him on being with someone as pretty as you.

When your boss briefly told you about the nature of those men and how they treated their partners, besides calling themselves traditional and caring about family, they couldn't care less about their wives, seeing them as just an accessory. But you didn't expected it to be like this.

You were standing by your boss' side, champagne now warm on the cup in your hand when a chill ran down your spine as if something sinister passed by you.

"You thought that you could get away from me?" You froze in place, body stiff and shoulders tight. You could recognize that voice anywhere.

You didn't move, as if he was a wild animal that could sense fear and if you stood still he would go away. But unfortunately, to your dismay, he did the exact opposite and stopped right in front of you. Jongho sensed your discomfort and came closer to you.

"Of all the places I've imagined I'd see you again, I've never imagined it would be at a business dinner" his smirk was devilish, you could feel his dark aura emanating from him as if a dark cloud hovered over him. "Why did you ran, dear? We were so happy and I did all my best for you" he touched your face with the back of his hand, sinister smile on his lips.

You shrank into yourself and closed your eyes, hoping that the next time you opened them he would be gone. Jongho saw your discomfort and circled your waist, bringing you closer to his body and moving your ex's hand away from you.

The taller man laughed, that deep, almost evil laugh. "I see that you got yourself a protector. Who is he? Your sugar daddy?" The wicked smile never left his lips as he watched you two. He crossed his arms over his chest "you know that yn left me behind? After all I did for her, after all the love I gave, she still left me with no explanation, no clue. That sweet dear of yours is nothing but a bitch!"

"You're the only bitch in here" You fumed, fear now gone and anger taking over you. People around turned to look at what was happening but you didn't care. "You abused me! You manipulated me into a mess, into your little doll. You made me alone, without anyone else. The only friends I had was the pain and the bruises you've left on my skin!" The whispers around you increased, those people were probably thinking you were a hooligan but you couldn't care less.

You could feel the tears start to run down your face. Your lips quivering in anger. Hands balled up into a fist by your sides, ready to punch him but still afraid.

"You're so ungrateful, yn. Can't you see? All I did was because I loved you" the man snarled back, body towering over you, trying to intimidate.

"What kind of love was that that hurt the person you said to love? What kind of love beats you to the point of leaving you breathless and bruised? Tell me! After all you did to me you have the nerve to say it was because you loved me?" You snorted.

"Of course I loved you! I turned my entire life about you, you were my main priority. We had such a bright future ahead of ourselves, I couldn't let those people you had the guts of calling friends ruin what he had"

"Then you went and ruined yourself?" You shook your head and looked to the ground before looking back at him. "Do you know how hard it was for me? I had nothing left, no friends, no prospect, only fear for my life" he tried to touch your arm but Jongho finally intervened.

The man pulled you back to him and pushed the other's hand away, his fangs making an appearance and hissing at your ex. You never saw your boss angry or feed, so you never had seen him with fangs until that moment. It took you by surprise because sometimes you forget he is the being that he is, only remembering when you look at his eyes and see their red color.

"Are you okay?" He whispered to you and you denied with your head. To be honest you didn't know how you were feeling but you didn't want to stay there any longer. He turned to look at the taller man still in front of him, "if I ever find out you touched your dirty unworthy hands on yn or anyone else I'll make sure you won't touch anything at all" he pulled you to start walking with him back to your room.

"The… the partnership" you stuttered between your sobs.

"I don't care about that. If those people had the courage to do that to someone like you, what other things can they do, don't you think?"

You stood quiet while you walked back to your room, his embrace never leaving your waist. Even though he was a cold dead being, the touch still felt warm. Calming. You let yourself be guided by him while your mind was stuck at the feeling of being protected, taken care of.

The last time you felt something similar was when you first moved to town, Genevieve taking care and helping you. It was the first time someone had done something to you. And now, Mr Choi, risked his business to defend you against your ex. What could that cost to him? Maybe nothing. Maybe a lot. You didn't know.

You barely registered when you entered the room and the man guided you to sit on the bed. He knelt and gently took your heels off, caressing softly the skin there, especially where the straps touched and left indents. He proceeded to grab some cotton pads and makeup remover and started to take off the painting from your face. His touch gentle. Caring. Feather-like.

Jongho eyes were fixed on you, watching intently every twitch, every breath, every spot and mark. How your lips, partially open, looked so plump and inviting while you exhaled with shallow breaths.

He, more than never, wanted to protect you. To take care of you. He knew he was crossing a line. But for the first time in decades he felt alive again.

Jongho finished taking off your makeup and, while your eyes were still closed, he brought his hand to your cheek and caressed the soft skin there. You hummed at the touch and smiled slightly, almost invisible, but he could see. He could see everything.

You opened your eyes and locked gazes with him. He swore that, if he still breathed, his would have hitched right then and there. You leaned into his touch and smiled a bit bigger, enjoying his care toward you.

Silence fell and for a while no one said a thing. Just your breath being heard. His hand still on your cheek.

The bed creaked as you lifted yourself up, staying face to face with the man. You looked to his eyes, then to his lips and to his eyes again. Your lips twitched a small smirk before leaning into his.

The kiss was short. Just a touch of lips. Quick. Scared. Afraid.

He looked at your eyes looking for any sign of regret or fear or anything that could stop him from doing what he wanted to do. When he found none, his lips smashed against yours, tightly.

Jongho grabbed your waist with one of his hands and pushed you flush against his chest all while the other one held your face. You were fisting the collar of his suit.

Your mouths kissed as if made for each other, lips opening and closing in a mad dance of passion and need. You whined softly when you felt the hand that was on your waist slide down to your ass and move to your leg. He took advantage of your parted lips to slip his tongue inside your mouth. He tasted like fancy champagne and remnants of his minty toothpaste.

The kiss was broken just when you could no longer breathe because you, unlike him, needed oxygen to survive. He touched your foreheads together and intently watched you. His eyes, once red, now looked almost black.

Neither of you said anything. Just watched each other reactions and tried to understand what was happening inside your own heads. You both knew that you had crossed a very defined limit. Boss and employee. Human and vampire. The lines were blurring in your eyes and neither of you wanted to go back to see it clearly.

You finally let go of all your worries, inhibitions, fears and everything else and circled your hands around his neck and kissed him again. He instantly responded to the kiss and brought you back close to him by your waist, arms circling your frame.

The kiss was feverish, quick and desperate. Too many things being said in a clash of tongues.

You wanted each other. Desperately.

His hand on your back moved up until he found the zipper of your dress and slowly pulling it down, opening the garment. The cold air hit your now exposed back making shivers appear on your skin, hairs standing. Jongho moved his kisses to your jaw and neck, licking and sucking the soft skin he met on his way down.

He started to slowly pull your dress down your body, hands caressing wherever they touched and making you suck a breath at the roughness of his skin on you. The fabric pooled at your feet at the same time he knelt in front of you and helped you get away from the piece of clothing.

Jongho looked up at you, eyes dark and hooded with lust and something more. He started to caress and squeeze your supple thighs, leaving soft kisses on the skin.

And them he hummed when he nosed at your clothed core and inhaled your aroused scent, fingers squeezing your hips.

"Lay on the bed for me, darling" he spoke, low, deep, hoarse. You almost moaned at the way he spoke and how he was looking at you. You never felt more desired. "And spread your pretty legs for me. Mhm… that's it, pretty" he mused as you did as told, the visible wet patch on your simple cotton panties making the heat crawl up your face. You didn't expect to end up like this so you just wore your regular underwear.

But Jongho couldn't care less about what type of panties you were wearing, either way, he was going to take them off of you. He moved his way from the ground while kissing your thighs, his cold lips a stark contrast against your burning skin. The anticipation making you shiver and wriggle in place.

When he finally arrived at your core, he left a small kiss bellow your navel and just above the waistband of your underwear before pulling them off. You shivered again at the sudden cold wind hitting your wet and warm vulva, exposed for the man to enjoy. Oh and he would enjoy it.

He moved back to between your legs and put your left one on top of his shoulder, making you spread wider and be more exposed for him. He scented you one last time before licking at your core with a flat tongue. You arched from the bed at the contact but also for being so long since someone touched you like that. You bit your lip as he moved his tongue up and down between your folds, lapping at your juices with low hums coming from his throat.

"Don't hold back, let me hear your sweet noises" he murmured between your legs at seeing you were holding yourself from moaning. "I don't care who'll hear us, I want'em to know who's making you feel good" you nodded and moved your hand to hold at his hair.

He went back to his task, now paying attention to your clit. The tip of his tongue drawing circles and the entire alphabet before giving a harsh suck that made you roll your eyes and moan. He smiled and sucked again and again at your nub, his chin glistening with your wetness. You tugged harder at his hair when he gave you an especially hard suck, back arching from the mattress.

"You taste divine, yn" he groaned. "I think I won't be able to get over your taste now that I know how it feels against my tongue" he replaced his mouth on your clit with his thumb, circling the bud with it while his tongue started to prod at your entrance. You don't know if it was you that was sensitive after so long without being touched by someone else or if he really was that good, probably both, but you could feel your high approaching, the knot in your stomach tightening.

"Sir…" you moaned as you pulled his hair again. "I'm… I'm close" you managed to stutter, low, worn.

"Go on, dear. I have you" he encouraged you, fingers moving faster and harsher against your clit. "Let yourself go for me, let me taste you" you moaned at both his words and his tongue fucking into you.

He was moving faster, harsher, with more intent. You felt it, the wave rising high until it crashed at the shore. You couldn't care if you moaned loud or not, you needed to get that delicious feeling out of your system. Jongho smiled against your core as he drank everything you gave to him. Your taste intoxicating, addictive.

He helped you through your high until it bordered overstimulation. You pushed his head away from you, legs quivering at the intensity. He smiled widely at you, nose, lips and chin shining with your essences. He was on cloud nine.

The man quickly wiped your remains from his face before lowering himself to kiss you again. A clash of tongues and teeth. Need even higher now. His pants incredibly tight in his front.

"Can you take your clothes off now?" You asked sweetly, almost shy, while trying to open the buttons of his suit. He smiled and nodded.

He purposefully took the pieces of clothing slowly, teasing as he watched your blown eyes eat him alive and press your thighs together, low whines leaving past your lips. The man smirked when he took it all off, leaving him in only his gold chain and underwear.

You only ever saw him all dressed up in full suits and thick clothing, the most you saw were his arms when he'd walk around the house in his soft and fancy t-shirts. But he was hiding his gold. His body was absolute perfection, a sculpture you'd see in museums and books. His shoulders wide, big, strong, his arms looking even bigger now with the assembly of the whole view of his body. His chest was as large as his back and his tummy was toned, not like full abs, just little indents of the muscle adorning his soft belly. And his skin, tanned and dripping gold like honey you wanted to taste on your tongue.

You moved from your laid position to kneel on the bed. You were not thinking straight, lust and desire clouding your brain, the only thing visible in the fog was Jongho. He moved closer to you and leaned down to capture your lips in a heated kiss again. You used the proximity to gently rub his hard on through the soft fabric of his underwear, earning a low growl between the kiss, before you finally pulled the piece down.

If the view of his naked body had impressed you, you weren't expecting for his dick to do it even more. The member sprung free, bouncing up and down slightly and making your mouth water. He wasn't big, but the girth. That was impressive. He was thick and veiny, angry red at the tip that was already leaking precum from only eating you out.

You bit your lower lip and started to gently stroke the appendage, eyes looking up at him, lashes fluttering. He groaned at the sight under him. You, his ever so caring, competent and professional assistant, were stroking his cock while looking at him with the most dirty yet delicate look.

Jongho caressed your hair, your cheeks, until he reached your mouth. His thumb gently rubbed your lower lip until you opened your mouth and let him slide it inside, putting pressure on your tongue with the digit and making you suck it. The whine that left your lips at the act was borderline pornographic.

You kept rubbing his cock up and down, squeezing the base whenever your brain cleared a little and you could remember what you were doing.

It was a symphony of moans and whines between you two but your hands weren't enough, he needed to feel your insides.

The man took his finger from your mouth, making you whine, and turned you around and pushed your chest against the mattress. Your ass sticking in the air while your back arched perfectly. He grabbed his member and started to rub against your core, coating it in your juices, tip hitting your clit at every forward movement.

"Sir… please" your moan came stifled from your face being flush against the sheets.

"Since you asked so nicely" he smirked and teased your entrance with his tip.

You opened your mouth in a silent gasp as he started to enter you. Even slowly, you could feel your walls burning to stretch and accommodate his impressive girth inside. Your hands fisted the sheets as he kept pushing the intrusion even further.

"Fuck, yn, you're so tight" he almost whispered the words as he finished bottoming out, his size fully seated inside you.

You could feel all the muscles in your pussy tighten and relax, as if they were blinking against Jongho's dick. He allowed you to get used to his size, caressing the skin in the expanse of your back and sides.

He knew he could move the moment you started to roll your hips against his own. Hands grabbing your hips in a bruising grip before he took a bit of himself out of you before slamming back in, fucking a breath out of you.

Slowly, Jongho found a rhythm until he could pull everything out and put it in again. His thrusts were deep, taking it out slowly before slamming back in with force, each time leaving you more breathless.

The grip in your hips were strong, you were sure he'd leave purple marks from holding them with his inhumane force but, at that moment, you couldn't care less. All you could think about was his tip hitting all the right spots inside of you and his girth stretching you and probably ruining you for anyone else.

You could feel the coil in your stomach starting to build again, making your moans louder and more desperate. He also sensed by the way your walls were gripping him even tighter. He leaned down so he could circle his arm around you and his fingers play with your abused and puffy clit.

"Ngh-sir!" You almost screamed at the overwhelming sensation, legs shaking against his ones.

"Go on, dear. Cum on me" he moaned against your ear, index and middle finger never stopping their movements on your clit. "Let me feel around me how good I'm making you feel" you moaned again, back arching even further down the mattress before you came. Your gummy inside gripping the man like a vice, juices dripping down your thigh as a white-ish ring formed around his base. "Good girl" he moaned against your ear and you fluttered around his cock again, sensitivity making you dumb but you wouldn't ask him to stop. You couldn't.

He kept fucking you even after your orgasm, not calming nor slowing down, he actually started to move faster, plunging into your pussy with renewed focus and strength.

Your body fell limp on the bed, you couldn't hold your own weight anymore, the only thing keeping you up was his bruising grip on your hips. He noticed the change in your body and stopped his movements. He removed himself from you, earning a soft and needy whine, before laying your back on the bed.

Now you could see him, his blown and glassy eyes that once were red, now black with a hint of gold. His sweaty torso looking even more delicious than before and if you weren't already so spent you'd lift yourself to lick the sweat out of his chest. His lips red and swollen and his vampire fangs out and visible. You couldn't help but clench around nothing at the view in front of you.

He lined his member to your entrance again and fully bottomed out again, your walls now used to his size, but not stopping you from choking on a moan at the act. The man resumed into fucking you again at an even faster pace, the new angle hitting new spots that you didn't even know you had inside of you.

You were clouded in pleasure, mouth open, tongue lolling out, eye rolling to the back of your skull. You were light as a cloud and all you could think about was your boss. The man that gave you a job and trusted a big part of his business to you was now balls deep inside of you. His grunts and groans leaving with no shame to make a noise. He wanted you to know you were the one making him feel this way.

Your mind was so clouded that you didn't even register what you said. "What?" Jongho's movements faltered at your confession and request.

"Bite me" you repeated, eyes opening so you could watch his intense ones. "I want you to mark me" your whinny voice and the clench of your walls were enough to make him dizzy and clouded with you.

He didn't even think properly of the request, just wanting to fulfill your wishes. He leaned against your chest, a trail of kisses and gentle rubs of the tip of his fangs on his way up to your neck, that now smelled faintly of your perfume and more of your natural scent and sweat. He was addicted. You moved your head to the side, giving him more access to your neck.

He never stopped his thrusts, his hips pistoning at a slow and deep pace again.

He left sweet little kisses down your neck and throat until he reached the junction of your neck and shoulder. He gave a few licks on the spot before ripping the skin open with his sharp teeth. You screamed at both the pain and pleasure and the way they mixed all together. You didn't know which one was which.

He sucked your red elixir slowly, trying not to get overwhelmed at the taste but also not to make you faint. You started to get even lighter in the head at the same time the wetness in your core increased. You were starting to get close again.

"You taste divine, my darling" the man said after detaching from your neck and licking the holes clean. "I'm so close now, can you cum again for me? Hm? Be a good girl and cum around me again" he cooed at you, body pressed tightly against yours as he moved.

You nodded rapidly, mouth hanging open but no sound leaving anymore. You were happily spent.

Jongho lifted himself a little so he could rub your clit again. A few quick circles and you came undone underneath him, body tensing before falling limp.

He kissed your lips again and then your forehead "so good, darling, you did so well for me" he stroke a few strands of hair away from your face and peppered kisses all over it. "I'm close too, yn, where do you want me to cum?" He asked, restraining himself from coming before you answered him.

"Inside, please, sir" you both whined together.

He nodded with a smirk in his lips and, with a few more thrusts, he came, ropes of white coating and filling your walls as he slowly stopped his movements.

Jongho removed himself from you, both hissing at the feeling of loss. His cum dripping down your hole as your walls pulsated from the sensitivity and use.

He laid by your side. Quiet. Just the sound of your breaths slowly coming back to normal filling the hotel room. The man slowly moved his hand until he grabbed yours and intertwined your fingers together. His cold skin always a crude contrast to your warmth.

You two laid quietly together for a while, hands intertwined. Million thoughts started to run through your head as you started to go back to your normal state.

Sensing your overthinking, Jongho pulled you by your waist closer to his chest and kissed the top of your head. "I want you to know that I don't regret anything we did tonight. Very much the opposite of it"

You sighed against his arm where you laid. "But we still crossed a line" you looked over to him and found him already looking at you, his eyes slowly coming back to his normal red and fangs gone from his pearly white teeth. "And I don't know how to react" you confessed.

"Do you… like me? I mean, as do you want me?" He asked shyly but certain. You looked at him for a few seconds before slowly nodding, almost ashamed to be admitting this. "Well, I want you too, so there's no need to fuss or be nervous" he smiled and kissed your lips. Gentle, slow. You could taste the tangy taste of your blood on his lips.

"Thank you for protecting me today by the way" you met his gaze and he nodded with a smile.

"If you're going to be mine, you'll have to get used to get taken care of" a kiss on the tip of your nose. "And get marked everywhere on your body" you shivered at the thought, heat crawling up to your body back again.

"I can live with that" you mused before kissing him one more time before you both fell soundly asleep in each other's arms.

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⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a lot of graphic wet dreams it’s the whole plot, so much dirty talk bc i headcanon he’s a talker, daddy kink (sorry), but freak4freak like mingi’s technically dom but they’re both dirty freaky, pervy reader pervy mg, dry humping, so much praise, oral (f rec), vaginal fingering, size kink he’s big, big dick!mingi (he knows it), fingering (f rec), unprotected sex, oral (f rec), unprotected p in v including creampie

It starts off like any other dream. 

You’re lying on your bed, comfortably spread out with the same old pyjamas you had on when you fell asleep - a t-shirt stained with hair dye and shorts that have worn elastic, sagging down over your hips. The air’s a little dense at first when you try to move, like you’ve been doing some heavy lifting and your limbs haven’t quite started to work again, and it takes you a moment to come into yourself, fighting through the haze.

Immediately, it feels more real than your dreams normally would. Smoking weed before bed means that you don’t often get any dreams at all, really, and your two best friends-turned-housemates are loud enough at all points of the day that your sleep can be interrupted at regular intervals. However, you can feel the softness of your sheets, the lilac floral set you put on when you got home from class, and you rub your feet against it. It’s nice, comforting, and so normal that you quickly forget what it is - a dream.

A soft brush against your side, and you feel like a fish out of water. There’s someone here with you. On your bed. It’s rare for San and Wooyoung to sit there, and this person definitely isn’t either of them. 

It’s blurry initially, so hazy that you can’t quite focus on his face, but his long limbs are splayed across your bed like he’s been here a million times before. The touch was his fingers, and his hands are big too, dexterous and clad in bulky silver rings and drumming a beat you can’t recognise against your skin. It’s too comfortable, familiar in a way that feels almost too vulnerable - it’s almost like you’ve dreamed about this before.

He speaks, and you can’t make out what he’s saying. His voice is a deep, gravelly tone, making you feel like you’re drifting asleep all over again. With insane willpower you blink rapidly, forcing yourself to look at his face. 

You finally see him. He’s staring at you like you’ve done something silly, plump lips curled up with the hint of a smile, and his hair is messy and dark and cascading over his forehead. You can just about make out two beauty spots on his honey toned face. He’s not wearing much, not really, clad in a tank top and baggy, below knee shorts for ultimate comfort, lensless glasses sitting on a sharp nose. 

He blinks at you rapidly, scrunching his nose into a silly face to get your attention, lips forming a line, and all you can think is pretty, pretty, pretty. 

“Are you listening to me, baby?” He says again, and you hear him this time, loud and clear. Baby. It makes a chill run through your body. He’s your type - steady, cool, teasing and big and… he’s so handsome, soothing your skin with his fingertips as if he knows you, has known you for a while and-

“Mingi,” You croak, unable to help yourself. It’s Song Mingi from your economics class, that tall, cool kid who’s always late to class but still really fucking smart, gets amazing grades; unlike you. He dresses really nice, chic, lots of bulky rings and these big chains, like the one he’s wearing now. You think you’ve heard San and Wooyoung say they were friends before, and if you think harder it’s like you’ve seen him drive San home before, but have you ever really paid attention? 

Song Mingi from your economics class who is your mutual friend and also… your boyfriend? Right, yeah. That feels right. “Sorry, honey. What were you saying?”

“I was saying,” He sing-songs, but it’s raspy, like he smoked just before he came over. “It’s always nice being here with you. You’re beautiful, you know that? But it makes me…”

His eyes move to your lips. You think you know what he’s going to say, and maybe it’s a little cliche, straight out of a show you’ve seen, but the butterflies still flitter in your tummy. 

You rub your feet against the blanket again - it’s exciting, sue you. “Makes you what?” 

Mingi’s leaning in before he speaks again, shuffling across your blanket until his breath is tumbling across your face. He’s closer now, but it’s not intimidating, it’s exciting. If you focus you swear you can smell him, something like cedar and vanilla, sweet but enriching and you want more of it, now.

His hand moves to your hip, just barely dipping underneath your sleep shorts. Is he going to kiss you? Even better, is he going to touch you? Your mouth feels dry, and his hands are a little calloused on your skin. He goes to the gym, you remember through the fog. San goes with him sometimes - it’s from the weights. You feel dizzy, head spinning, inching even closer.

“It makes me want more,” he breathes tentatively, “I want to do more with you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’ll let you.” You blurt, and he smiles. He wriggles his way on top of you, your arms closing around those broad shoulders - he is big. While your cunt starts to slick up dumbly at the first sign of a big, strong man, he finally kisses you, a sweet peck to the corner of your lips before a deeper, proper one, tangling his tongue with yours, and it feels so fucking real. Letting out a keen, you squirm underneath him, managing to pull away from his lips to speak. “I’ll let you, please,” you whimper against his lips, messy, “more, Mingi-”

He groans in disbelief, kissing you sloppy again, again, again, finally moving his hand down, cupping your pussy through your sleep shorts and balancing on one forearm. His lips slide against yours a little messily but it’s still amazing, making you whimper when his tongue moves against yours, more than igniting that fire in your belly. You can feel the pressure of his fingertips against your core, sure that nothing’s ever felt like this in your life. “So pretty. You sound so fuckin’ pretty, baby, saying my name like that, shit-”

His fingers slide underneath your shorts, and of course you haven’t got panties on. He meets your pussy bare, slick and sensitive under his touch, and he starts to rock against your fucking leg before he can even get a finger in.

He feels big, from what you can make out, pressing into your thigh. Big, hard, and god - does he leak too? Is he getting so worked up that he can’t help but soak a pool in his boxers? You try to reach down to them, but he pins your hands back to the pillow with one big palm.

You can feel the cold metal of his rings biting against your hole when he adds a second finger. He finds your g-spot effortlessly, curling his long digits upwards, and tap tap taps until your eyes cross. 

“Like this,” He murmurs, cheeks flushing. His lips part and his eyebrows knit in admiration when he looks back to your face and sees the way your own expression can’t be controlled in your haze of lust, mouth falling open, letting out a wrecked whimper. “Can you cum like this? Drench your fucking shorts and let me suck ‘em clean after?”

He talks frantically, viciously almost, fucking into your pussy faster, trying to give you more stimulation. It’s filthy and you can’t believe it’s happening to you, hurtling into an orgasm that you know is going to be unsatisfying because he hasn’t even brushed your clit but fuck, you want to be good. Is he doing this deliberately? His spare hand cups your breasts, palm jiggling the flesh with a noise of disbelief.

“I can! F-fuck, I can,” You hiccup, and he pushes your thighs back, uses his thumb and finger of his other hand to pinch your clit in such a way that you think you might cry. It would normally be not enough but it’s the sight of him, the way he pants on top of you from just humping your leg and wants you to cum so badly - you’re done for. 

Digging your nails into his shoulders, you seize, crying out - and you wake up in a pool of your own sweat. 

Your pyjamas are sticking to you, shorts drenched between your legs and you’re not sure where you are. For a second you think you’re still high, or even still dreaming, but now this is definitely real. 

Alone in your room, your chest heaves as if you’ve run a marathon, and when you slide your feet against your blanket it doesn’t feel as good as it did before. What the fuck was that? You just had a sex dream about a guy that you’ve spoken to maybe twice, and it was so real. The surroundings of your room feel like an entirely different dimension, even though you were just there, with him, with his scent and his large presence, almost too overwhelming.

Are you going crazy? Are you smoking too much weed? Probably the latter, but that doesn’t change how that felt. You groan, rolling over to reach blindly for your phone. Knocking over a few things on your bedside table, you finally find it, and the time reassures you. 

7:02. Still two hours until class, two hours to sort yourself out. 

It would be great if it wasn’t a Wednesday. Your first class is economics, where you normally sit just a few seats over from the main character of your all consuming dream. Can you ignore him for the whole class? Shit, could you just skip it? Did it really matter?

No, you’re close to failing that stupid class already. It’s too complicated, it just doesn’t go into your brain. It would be hard to get a tutor when everything costs money, too, and you’re committed to spending a large part of your student loan on getting high and ordering pizza with Wooyoung and San.

With yet another loud groan, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and bring yourself to go to the bathroom to wash up. In the mirror, your hair is sticking multiple different directions and you have that recently fucked look, eyes half lidded, t-shirt hanging off of one shoulder. 

Is this rock bottom?

“What’s up with you today?”

Wooyoung’s gaze feels like the sharpest daggers shooting into your face. Considering you walked from your house together and managed to converse quite well until you got to class, you’re not really sure what you did wrong. You even complimented him on his bleached hair that he did himself at midnight because it really did look good. Despite that he still doesn’t look happy, plump lips pursed in a scowl and fingers tapping on the table.

He sits to your left, and only three seats to your right is his seat. He hasn’t shown up yet, he’s always late, but you already feel like the class is getting a little too hot. You’re determined to persevere, despite the fact that your jeans feel too tight and even though you’re wearing them, it still feels like your legs are sticking to the plastic chair. 

Clutching the signature banana milk you always get from the vending machine outside, you grumble - even the delicious taste isn’t helping.

“Nothing. Nothing’s up,” You mumble, licking sugary milk and banana flavouring from your lips, “Woo, should we just go?”

“Baby, you’re nearly failing,” He coos, rubbing his thumb over your shoulder. You don’t know why he’s talking, because he hasn’t even got a bag with him, only a single sheet of paper from your notebook and one of your sparkly pens. Looking at the big clock on the wall, you sigh deeply - he’s going to be here soon - and your friend nudges you under the table with his knee. The movement jostles your milk and you scowl. “What’s the matter? Seriously.”

“I’ll tell you later, but it’s fucking stupid and you’ll laugh.”

Wooyoung seems satisfied with this, grinning and ruffling your hair, but it’s then through messy strands that you see him. Well, the professor walks in first, but Mingi trails in behind her as if he’s got all the time in the world, and you frantically smooth your hair down. 

His chains jingle with his movement, and his bag hangs off one shoulder. He looks confident, prepared, probably with books and his laptop in the bag. He’s smart, you know he is, he’s top of the class, probably going to have a really stable analytical job after college that you’d never be able to comprehend. Thinking about it makes you want to giggle like a schoolgirl, and you wish Wooyoung knew what was going on so he could slap you awake.

You drink your banana milk diligently.

The professor begins the lesson while Mingi’s walking to his seat, taking no notice of him as she arranges her things on the stand, and when he sits down you realise no one’s sat between you this time. Low attendance, you suppose, looking around the entire room to see that not many seats are filled at all. He doesn’t even look at you when he sits down and throws his bag to the floor. You’re not sure why you expect him to, but you take the time to analyse him fully.

He never dresses casually. Shrugging off his leather jacket and letting it drape over the chair, the cheap plastic creaks with his movement, and the light glints off the bulky silver rings adorning his long fingers. 

It’s suddenly getting really hot now, and your banana milk is doing nothing to cool you. Your eyes scan over his hands and up his arms to his chest. His black turtleneck is tight on firm muscles and such a contrast to his silver chains, so pleasing to your eye. Mingi’s dark hair drapes over his eyes, but you can still see them, chocolate brown and striking and narrowing at you. 

At you? You blink, and no, really, he is looking at you, and you’re not sure what to do. He doesn’t give you a chance, thankfully, because he gives you a small smile and a little wave and turns to listen to the lecture. 

Wooyoung practically chases you out of class by the end of it, even launching your carton in the bin for you. You manage to get him to a bench outside and once he’s situated, you clear your throat. He has his head in his hands, waiting, foot tapping against the floor. He’s never been good with patience; San always teases him about the time you told him you’d tell them something in class the next day and he didn’t sleep all night.

“I had a wet dream last night.”

Wooyoung groans loudly, kicking you in the shin. You squeal, falling onto the bench with an affronted stare, and he scowls at you. “Is that it? I probably have a wet dream every other night!”

“Woo, listen- listen to me. It was about Mingi. Your friend, Song Mingi. Be honest, is it over for me?”

His eyes light up. His face straightens, and then he leans forward, and you know you’re done before he even starts laughing, but the noise is still so loud that it makes your ears ring when he’s off. Multiple people in the quad turn towards you both, making you scowl at your housemate. He claps a few times in joy before he’s done.

“That’s- that’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, baby,” He giggles, hitting your shoulder playfully. “Have you spoken to him? At all? You never come to our friends’ parties. Not one, actually, now that I think about it.”

The birds in the campus trees tweet a rhythm mockingly. Your eye twitches. Wooyoung’s lips curl again.

“Maybe once or twice, in passing,” You frown, voice soft and timid, “Woo, it’s not my fault. We don’t choose our dreams, it’s your subconscious or something. Y’know scientists have literally said that?”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about, do you?” He’s still smiling, and you shake your head. He’s right, you don’t, but you’re still sure you read that somewhere. “I guess you’re right though. Maybe- oh my god, maybe you do have a crush on him or something, a repressed one, and now it’s coming to the surface because it’s time. Like fate or something.”

You hum, thinking, deciding that Wooyoung’s insane. “Still, it felt real. Like, insanely real, Woo. It was better than anything I’ve had in person, and now I feel like I’m seeing him differently.”

Wooyoung raises his eyebrows, but still rubs your knee comfortingly. You’re thankful that he’s still being nice despite finding it very amusing. “It’s just a dream anyway. I don’t think you have to worry about it that much, baby, you’ll forget about him in a few days. I’ve had dreams that have given me crushes before too.”

“What if I don’t? You don’t get how intense it was.”

“Well, then we can talk to him,” He nods confidently, nudging you. “I can put a good word in, get you your dream boyfriend-”

“That is literally the worst idea you’ve ever had,” You deadpan, shaking your head, “I have a solid two friends for a reason, I’m not a people person, I am just trying to get through college with zero problems. And he’s- Woo, he’s… cool. Like you two. I don’t get cool guys.”

“You got us, didn’t you?” He pulls you into his side, kissing your forehead, then adds, “and we love you. You’re our best friend,” It comforts you enough to quell your insecurities for a moment. He checks the time on his phone and whoops triumphantly, “let’s go home. San will be back from the gym and we can smoke and order food. My treat. Oh also, can I tell him?”

“... I don’t think I have a choice.”

“No, you don’t. There's three of us in this relationship.”

Despite the fact that you fall asleep in some form of a puppy pile with Wooyoung and San in the latter’s bed, it happens again. 

This time, you’re on the sofa in your living room. Mingi’s positioned underneath you, in a black compression shirt and grey sweatpants like an anime character you’d fantasise over, and you’re on his lap. 

What are these fantasies? 

Has your brain taken note of outfits he’s worn before?

You know it’s him from the size of his body and the way it feels, intense and all consuming, although you haven’t managed to see everything yet, still fuzzy at the edges with sleep. The sweat drips down your collarbone already, and he seems just as wrecked from the squirming he’s doing, moving upwards into your body while he pulls you down against him by your hips. His hands move up your oversized t-shirt, settling on your flushed skin.

“Feels so fuckin’ g-good,” He huffs, “even just- just like this,”

His deep voice makes your head spin, and when you see his face it feels like a relief. His cheeks are flushed, lips kiss bitten, and you place another few pecks on his lips for good measure. He’s yours, after all, your boyfriend. “Is your little hole wet? Can you feel it, b-baby, drenching these cute little panties?” He whines, nosing into the crook of your neck, licking over the skin, “Is it begging for me? F-fuck, talk to me, please.”

He babbles incoherently but you can make out that it’s filthy, and you can’t fucking believe it. Is he like this, really? Your hips grind down against him sharply, needing more, because he’s right. Panties drenched, too delirious to even think about it, your hands scramble against his shoulders. You can see everything in that t-shirt, the way his biceps bulge against the fabric and the way his chest clenches as he ruts himself against you, nipples poking through, tempting. He’s got that expression again - eyebrows furrowed, lips parted, but this time he’s looking directly down at where you’re connected, bottom lip slick with spit. The pressure of his cock against your core in his sweatpants is so much, and you can’t help it, eyes rolling back to your head.

“Want you, want you so bad,” You pant. It feels like the most honest thing you’ve ever said. He nods, thrusting harder. He wants more, wants you to say more, his hands pulling you down against him. It’s a dirty rhythm, a sinuous grind. “I want it so fucking bad, Mingi, you don’t even-“ you buck, whining, “-don’t even know how bad, please, please-”

“Yeah? Did you touch your little clit thinking about me?” He pushes you upwards, still letting you move against him but slipping his hand underneath his waistband to rub over his cockhead. He’s desperate too, teeth biting into his lower lip. He wants it just as bad. You feel wet, and you look down to see you’ve leaked right through your panties onto his sweatpants. Have you ever been this fucking wet before? “Did you think about my cock stretching you open, ruining you until you can’t even remember your own- own fucking name?”

“I d-did, fuck,” You can’t move, eyes fixated on where his hands move under the wet fabric. “Fuck, Mingi, baby, please show me, I’ll do anything, please.”

His hand pauses, and your gaze flits back up to his face. His eyes narrow at you, just like they did in class, and his teeth have released his lower lip so that he can smirk at you, teeth white as snow. It’s promising, but it’s like a threat, and your hands feel a little sweaty against his broad shoulders. 

“Really, pretty thing?” His voice is hopeful, and his other hand begins to move his waistband down. You see the beginnings of his dark smattering of pubic hair and almost shaking, you whimper, nodding eagerly. “You’ll do anything for me?”

“Anything, I promise, please, fuck.”

Your eyes shoot open on a particularly loud snore from San. His leg and his arm are both slung over you, head resting on your shoulder with a steady stream of drool pooling on your t-shirt. When you glance at him, he sniffles out a snore, nose scrunching up and thick eyebrows knitting together. He’s lucky you love him. 

Once you’ve spluttered yourself awake enough, the warm light of the desk lamp bathing the room catches your attention, and you see Wooyoung sitting on the chair by San’s desk. He’s eating something, and the smell of bacon is the next thing that you register, slowly unwrapping yourself from the older man to crawl towards the younger at the desk. 

He’s already clocked you, a smile pulling at his lips as he loads the fork. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You snatch the fork from his fingers, munching before you can even talk. Eggs and bacon, and you wonder who Wooyoung learned to cook from. You make a mental note to ask, because it’s delicious. After you swallow, you mumble, “time?”

“Nine in the morning,” Relaxed as ever, he stretches out on the chair with an overpronounced yawn. He’s still scrutinising you, and you know for sure that you haven’t gotten away with it. “Two nights in a row, huh?”

“How’d you know?” You raise an eyebrow. Wooyoung looks pleased with himself and takes the fork back from you, continuing to eat his meal. Is it your hair? Were you… God, were you making noise?! He still hasn’t said anything! “Oh my fucking- Wooyoung?!”

“All I’m saying is I’m surprised Sannie didn’t wake up with all that squirming,” He finally responds, and the mentioned man grunts in his sleep at being mentioned, always alert, but goes back to snoring almost immediately after. “Don’t worry, it was cute. I think you do have a crush. Subconsciously and all that.”

“I hate you,” You grumble, and he sighs, patting his lap. You still climb onto him, and he hums until you start to doze, stroking your hair in rhythm to San’s snores. It would make you laugh if you weren’t nearly falling asleep again, but every time your eyes flutter shut you see big hands and a sharp nose and those beautiful dark eyes. Sighing, you stretch your legs out to wake yourself back up, “Wooyoungie, I think I’m going crazy. I don’t even know the guy.”

“It’s okay,” He coos, and you can hear how amused he is. Still, he entertains it. “He’s kind, very loyal. Smart, as you know. Sometimes he’s a little unsettling, but it’s endearing, in a way. A little like you.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“Well, I love you both dearly, if that counts for anything.”

Still, this doesn’t solve your problem, “Wooyoung, what do I do?”

“I think it’ll surprise you how easy this is going to be.”

It is a surprise to find yourself done up in a cute dress at a party not ten hours later, San and Wooyoung on each arm. You knew they knew people, sure, but they’d been such good friends to you that they’d sworn to be by your side through college, so you’d never bothered to ask to be introduced to their other friends. 

From what you can gather, they’re not frat boys but normal college students, too - Wooyoung told you that the two guys that live here are some of their good friends, and that makes you feel a bit better about arriving uninvited. It’s quaint but well decorated, with music memorabilia on the walls, but you don’t get a chance to take it all in because the house is absolutely packed. 

San waves and hugs a few people as he walks through, and you see Wooyoung smiling at a group of people that you think must be in his dance classes, because they look as cool and sculpted as him. Still, they pull you through the throes of people into the kitchen, tipsy and stoned and honestly, a content smile on Wooyoung’s face that he finally got you in this position.

You’re not even sure who’s party this is, but the boys help themselves to drinks and San keeps a comforting hand on your lower back, leaning in close so that you can hear him while your other friend pours you a drink. 

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Sannie, I have been to parties before, I’m not a total shrew,” You tease. He pulls you into a sort of half-hug and you smell him, something earthy with a hint of jasmine, comfortable and grounding, familiar. Different to… you’re trying not to think about that.

The younger man hands you both the finished drinks, a concoction of something purple, and well, liquid confidence you suppose. You knock half of it down before you can think. He seems satisfied with this, but you hiss at the aftertaste, sticking your tongue out. “I’m definitely a smoker, not a drinker. This is fucking nasty. You guys drink this stuff all the time?”

“He does, I kinda hate it too,” San huffs, swirling his cup in his hand and watching the liquid move. 

Wooyoung scoffs, “that and you can’t handle your drink. You pass out after a few.”

San’s already flushed, but you swear he gets redder, shooting Wooyoung a dirty look with a too-cute pout before turning back to you. “Refresh me on the situation again by the way. You had a dream about Mingi? Song Mingi?”

Right, Wooyoung had caught him up over the course of the day while you napped and attempted to study. You lick your lips, trying to somehow clean yourself of the drink’s bitter aftertaste but only getting a mouthful of sticky lipgloss. 

“Two dreams,” Wooyoung corrects, pointing at San, smiling so wide you can see his teeth in the dim light of the kitchen. They’re practically shouting over the music, and you want to tell them to be quiet but you are in a quieter area.  No one can hear you, you hope, groups having filtered into the back garden, bedrooms and the living room. “And I think she liked him before. Fate, science - look, you had to be there. Anyway, we should go talk to him.”

“Wooyoung, I do not know this man.”

“We know him,” San smiles. He’s too easy. “Hey, this is cute! Is this your first crush? He’s a good guy.”

You swat him away when he tries to pinch your cheeks. “Not my first crush or my first party. You have literally met some of my exes. I also don’t think this is a good idea.”

“First, all of your exes were assholes so I didn’t like them and therefore they don’t exist. Second, you have to think it’s a somewhat good idea because you did come - to the party, I mean,” Wooyoung grabs your hand, pulling you to the back door. “I think they’ll probably be out here.”

Wooyoung’s right, about both things. All of your exes were assholes, men that only cared about getting their dick wet and their own feelings and not at all about yours. You’ve always thought it would be nice to have a man who takes notice of the things you like, the way you feel; the longer life dwindles on it seems to become less attainable. 

He’s also right that you came to this party with the idea that your friends were setting you up. You don’t expect them to be subtle about it though - a fact that daunts on you as they lead you through the kitchen.

As soon as the back door opens, you’re hit with the sight of what seems to be a much cooler, more private party. The smell of weed and the sound of softer, less overwhelming music are the first things you can process and yeah, okay, this might be more your type of scene. There’s a cute, shorter guy wearing flared jeans and a shiny tiara, chatting with a group of people enthusiastically; surely it must be his party. 

You’re pulled over to a section of outdoor seating where there’s a few people sitting down. There’s a small fire going, contained in a silver pit, and the warmth is welcomed on your skin, cold from the outside air biting at your skin in the cute dress you’re wearing. Really, you don’t clock him at first, but Wooyoung and San are eager to take you over to that area and there can only be one reason why.

“Yunho!” Wooyoung’s way too chipper, but Yunho falls for it, springing up from one of the chairs to wrap his arms around the shorter male. San’s hugging someone too, and from the corner of your eye you see it’s fucking Mingi, and you’ve never felt so betrayed in your life. 

“Fancy seeing you here, huh?” San says, way too exaggerated, and you hover in confusion as he continues, “we finally brought our cute friend, look.”

Cute friend? Suddenly all of the attention is on you. Yunho and Mingi are both peering at you, and Mingi is - he has to be assessing you, eyes scanning your frame. You can’t see them properly due to the sunglasses. Does he recognise you? You’ve only spoken once or twice before, in passing. He probably doesn’t even know your name. 

Yunho seems to know who you are, grinning from ear to ear and pulling you into a hug before you can even introduce yourself. You can’t help but laugh, throwing your arms around him while avoiding spilling your purple drink on his white satin shirt.

“It’s so good to meet you!” He shakes you happily. Mingi still hasn’t said anything, but he’s clutching a bottle of jagermeister and a cup with a different drink, looking at you as if he’s waiting for the moment. You try not to be uncool right in front of his eyes, smiling at Yunho politely. “Wooyoungie kept talking about you, all nice things, I promise. You have some good friends here.”

“I can’t really get rid of them, kinda like the plague,” You smile, and you’re glad Yunho detects your sarcasm and lets out a loud laugh, a bit too loud to be normal. He ushers you all to sit down, and when everyone’s situated the only available spot left is next to Mingi. 

How convenient. 

In your peripheral vision, you can see your best friends have already roped Yunho into a conversation, leaving the subject of your fantasies free and still fucking looking at you. 

Hesitantly, you sit down. The fire is nice you suppose, warming up your legs quite quickly, and you keep your knees firmly planted together and far away from him. The other three chatter away, preoccupied in such an intentional way that it makes your blood boil. It’s time to consider rooting through your bag in a way that looks like you’re doing something.

He says your name, and it feels like time stops. He’s speaking to you. This is the worst possible situation, how are you even meant to talk to him? Slowly, you turn to look at him. He’s in a black zip up jacket, bottle of Jagermeister in hand, sunglasses pushed down to the end of his nose. Those chains glint in the light again, and he leans forward, saying your name again, pushing the sunglasses onto his head. They push his hair back in the most delicious way that you shiver. No. Not right now. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re in my economics class too, right? You sit with Wooyoung.”

He knows you. “R-right,” You blurt, smiling nervously. “I am. Mingi, right?”

“You sit just a few seats over from me, with Wooyoung. I wanted to say hi to you, but to be honest, I never knew how,” He scratches the back of his neck. He’s cute, a little shy despite how big and scary he looks. Just like Wooyoung said. It feels like that makes it all even worse - he really is a dream, delightful traits rolled all into one. “It’s good to all get together though, right? I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before.”

“Oh, no. I don’t really get out much, to be honest. I’m a homebird,” You say, and cringe inside. What the fuck are you saying? You need to be cool. 

But Mingi only smiles, letting out an ‘ah’. “Me too, to be honest. I’m an anime in bed guy, but I live here, so I have to leave my room. It’s really sad.”

Not only is he actually so easy to talk to, but he reassured you quickly - he’s the same. Wooyoung was right again.

He lives here, though, which means… Wooyoung and San brought you to a party at Mingi’s house? This is some sort of next level interfering that you never even considered, but you have to act normal, so you clear your throat.

“You live with that guy wearing the tiara, then?”

“His name is Hongjoong,” Mingi laughs. “You don’t know who’s house you’re at?”

Fiddling with the clasp of your bag, you look down at your lap. “I told you, I don’t normally go to parties. I got dragged to this.” White lie. 

“It’s fine, I’m only kidding. Anyway, you know me,” He grins playfully. You flush, suddenly too warm from the fire, a little too awkward but also with such deep desperation in your belly. His zip-up slips from his shoulder and you see a bit of tanned skin that makes you inhale. “So you drink. You smoke too?”

You laugh. “Oh yeah, I smoke.”

Mingi’s eyes narrow at you again, perceiving you. Is he impressed? Flustered? He’s still smiling, like he knows something about you, but you’re not sure what. 

The conversation is interrupted by Yunho, who’s pulling a bong out from by the side of the table with a loud cheer. Wooyoung’s already dragging the bong from his lap. San has fallen asleep next to him, cheeks flushed and shoulders slouched over. Wooyoung doesn’t take any notice, giggling as he readies the pipe. He spills some weed on his lap but doesn’t look bothered. 

You point at San. “Is he okay?”

Everyone chimes in at once - “He does this”.

Mingi leans closer to you, and you manage not to tense up when he speaks easily, “What are you drinking?”

You motion at the plastic cup of Purple Concoction on the floor, and he sucks his teeth, shaking his head. While the others carry on, Mingi leans down and you immediately seize up.

“I’m not drinking jager,” you panic, “that’s way too-“

He chuckles and hands you his plastic cup, with a liquid not dissimilar in appearance to coke, and you want to laugh in his face. 

Is this like… inadvertently sharing spit? 

Reaching for the cup, you take a sip of the drink, and he watches you, waiting for your reaction.

It’s surprisingly nice. A lot better than whatever the fuck the guys gave you in the kitchen, and definitely not jager. It’s some sort of rum with coke and you hum at the taste, handing the cup back to him. He’s still watching you, keeping eye contact as you swallow the liquid down. 

When he lets you get this close, you notice the two beauty spots on his face from your dream, one by his eye and one on his cheek, and it makes your heart soar. He’s so cute, despite the way he dresses, rough and raw on the exterior and kind and gentle inside.

“Much better, right?” 

“Much better,” You agree. For a second, the ugly, rearing insecurity appears in your head again - what are you doing? He’s so out of your league. 

Before it can fester, Mingi clicks his tongue, taking a sip himself. “See, you should stick with me tonight,” he leans back, then smiles, “I’ve got the good stuff, and I’m cooler than San. He’s fallen asleep already.”

Stick with him tonight. Just as you think there might be something there, a little flickering of intrigue in his eyes as well as yours, the guy with the flared jeans rushes over out of nowhere.

“Mingi-ah, I’m so sorry, but someone’s throwing up in the living room and I need your help.”

The gentle voice brings you both out of your trance, and he immediately spins his head to the other man. Hongjoong, you think you remember him saying. Mingi all but rolls his eyes - does he look disappointed? - but swings his legs over the edge of the seat, leaving you with the nice tasting drink.

“Sorry, I better go,” He says, and Hongjoong gives him a look full of something that you can’t work out. Mingi looks awkward, eyebrows raising in expectation for you to say something, so you nod politely and he shoots you a grin. You think you’ll replay that grin forever, late at night when you’re trying to remember all of the angles of his face. “I’ll see you in class, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, licking over your lips. “it was really nice talking to you, Mingi.”

He shoots you a smile that looks a little too upset, but he’s off then, housemate in tow; Wooyoung wordlessly passes you the bong, eyes pink and limbs stretched over the sleeping San. It’s hard not to go over the events with the sudden silence and your clammy fingers wrap around the cup he left you, taking another gulp of the alcohol as it pops into your head.

Apologetic.

Hongjoong looked apologetic that he was interrupting you both, and you want to tell your friends and deepen that and make it more than it is; but you’re reminded that in reality, you’re just another girl Mingi was talking to at a party.

It’s been a couple days with no dreams now, which feels good, because you only saw him in passing again during the party. You have thought about him, in fleeting thoughts where you’ve gone over the events of the party, but it’s good not to let it linger. Just two dreams, that’s all it was, and you sit in economics class the following Wednesday with a relatively clear head and a nice skirt on, determined that you definitely do not have a crush.

Additionally, another decision - you will not fail this class. Two simple resolutions; last week was just a minor setback.

He walks in, and sits in his seat, and there’s actually people sitting between you this time. This is reassuring because you can’t focus on how his thighs fit in those jeans, or how nice his hands look when he types, or how his hair falls over his forehead in such a mysterious way-

No. You stare at your notes, flicking over the pages. It’s good to refresh before the professor starts, you think, and you really think it works when she begins her lesson and does a brief recap… before she starts talking about a test a few weeks after break. Huh?

“Since it’s the last week before fall break, I thought I’d give some of you a chance to study and get your grades up,” She explains, and you think you see her glance towards you and Wooyoung. Everyone groans, and she tuts, laughing. “This test isn’t that hard, I’m being really nice to you guys!”

You zone out again. Now you’re going to have to do a stupid test on something you don’t care about, and you’re either going to let yourself down or just not show up to do it at all, to be honest. You sigh and huff and puff, scribbling a doodle on your page.

To everyone, you included, the bell ringing after the rest of the boring lesson is a welcome sound. You huff when you put your books into your bag, you huff when you sling your bag over your shoulder, and you’re still huffing at Wooyoung as you both walk out of the door. 

That is, until a firm hand stops your path and a very clear, deep voice says your name.

Looking up, you see Mingi, lensless glasses on his nose again and that little shy smile on his lips, and the last few days of progression are forgotten. 

How could you ever forget how pretty he is? Love songs start playing in your head, intricate violins and piano, and it’s jarring how nervous you feel all of a sudden, uncertain of yourself. He’s so beautiful and he dresses well and he’s smart and kind and easygoing, but you still have that looming feeling of it’s never gonna happen, hopping from foot to foot in your boots.

Wooyoung keeps walking, pretending to be occupied on his phone, and you realise you’re staring at Mingi and not saying anything. “Mingi. Hi!”

“Hi, it’s good to see you again,” He seems a little flustered himself, fingers pulling at the collar of his t-shirt and you can’t help but smile. He’s so endearing. “How have you been since the party?”

“Good,” You shrug easily, like it hasn’t been destroying your nerves for the past few days, “I’ve been good. I- you’re good too, I hope?”

Inwardly cringing, you flush, but Mingi seems to find it amusing, lips curling up. “I’m great. Hey, listen, couldn’t help but overhear you’re not doing too well in economics, and well, I’m not too bad at it myself,” he snaps his fingers, and your eyes widen. No. “I can study with you for the test, if you want.”

“Is that a good idea?” You’re straight to the point, and Mingi offers a pout, confused, and you want to cry. “I mean, Mingi, I would just take up your time-”

“I want to study with you,” He seems to straighten up then, and you remember how big he is, towering over you. “No offence, but I know you’re not doing too well, and I want to help you,” He seems determined, and you can’t work out why, but he continues, “We could bump your grade up a little if you do well on the test.”

You let out a strangled noise, tapping your foot. “… Fine.”

“I- I could come to yours later on today? If you’re free, that is.”

You stare. That’s the second worst fucking idea you’ve ever heard, next to Wooyoung’s that got you talking to this tall, beautiful man in the first place. Why not the library? But you’re going to have to, aren’t you, because you can’t deny that face anything, and what other choice have you got? 

The idea of being in close proximity to him like that and being able to trace every single line and dot on his face with your eyes is anxiety and arousal inducing and he’s staring at you hopefully, waiting for an answer-

“Mingi, I’m bad at this class,” You blurt. He only tilts his head in question. “I could bring your grade down, distract you so badly by asking so many questions that you end up at the bottom just like me.”

He’s quick to respond, as if he can’t miss this opportunity. “That’s a bit extreme,” he breathes out a laugh, “very unlikely. Anyway, call it helping a friend out.”

A friend. Of course.

“Right, well…” You rub the back of your neck. 

It would be stupid to pass this up. If studying with him could really help your grade, and stop you retaking this dumb class, you’re sure you can reign in the horny demons inside of you for a few nights a week. You look down at the floor, but get caught at his legs. 

In the rips of his black jeans, you see a slither of muscled thigh. Your eye twitches.

Shit, can you reign it in? Fuck, you’re gonna have to. “Okay. I’ll work really hard. I’ll be a really good study partner, like, the best.”

“I know you’ll be good,” He grins, and god, did he mean the way that came out? He’s already pushing his phone into your hands for you to put your number in, and you send an emoji to yourself so that you have his too. “Cool. I’ll text you, let you know when I’m on my way.”

By the time he’s walked away, somehow Wooyoung is right behind you again, giggling in your ear about fate. 

But that’s how you find yourself in your room not five hours later, unfortunately not high and staring at Mingi, sitting contently in front of you. San and Wooyoung had greeted him in the hallway, mumbling too quietly for you to hear - to your dismay - and now you’re in your room. Your plushies and girly things would be embarrassing if he didn’t immediately pick up a fuzzy teddy bear and place it on his lap, cooing and pulling softly at his droopy ear. 

He’s so cute, and the more you think about it the more it’s got you scowling in your loungewear. A matching set, in the hopes that he’d think you look nice.

He’s talking about something, you think, but god you feel like you’re in those dreams you have again with how he’s on your bed and you’re dizzy with it - except you’re not. It’s real, he’s there, perched on your mattress next to you in a zip-up jacket and joggers for comfort with textbooks set beside his lap. He kicked off his shoes in your hallway, and he’s in a spare pair of San’s slippers, two sizes too small. 

You focus back in when he waves his fingers in front of your face teasingly, and all you can do is mumble sorry there’s no desk in my room.

“What? That’s fine, it’s better to be comfortable anyway,” He laughs, finally placing the teddy bear back in its spot. He pats his head. You want to scream. “Do you have any idea what you want to start with? We can keep it pretty basic at first and work our way up. She said the test won’t be too bad - if you actually listen to me, you’ll be fine.”

It’s said pointedly, with a little grin like he knows you’re not going to listen.

“Cool, cool,” You smile with way more confidence than you feel. Your entire body hums like a live wire at the proximity. “So I’ll be top of the class when the grades come out, right?”

He narrows his eyes at you playfully, grabbing a textbook from the pile. “Relax. I’m top of the class.”

Oh.

You stare at him, smirking like you’re not the slightest bit affected, even though you really are. He often rides on the line between confident and cocky, like he’s daring you to call him out. Like he knows something you don’t, always one step ahead.

Scooting a little closer, you scoff, accepting the challenge. You can play ball. “Top of the class doesn’t mean you’re good at tutoring. What if you can’t make me any better?”

Mingi glances up at you, playfulness in his eyes, that slow smile forming like it has all the time in the world. His jaw clicks when he speaks, “You’re being cheeky, y’know that? I guess I’ll have to show you what I can do.”

“That-?” You swat him, and he catches your wrist easily, making you gasp and pull back sharply. Heat crawls up your neck. “Let’s- okay, let’s just start.”

He chuckles, low and easy, satisfied at how flustered you’ve gotten. You wonder for a moment if he can feel it between you too, but he leans closer, resting his elbow on his knee as he opens the textbook between the two of you. There’s a decent amount of distance, but you swear you can feel the heat radiating from his thighs - you have to squeeze yours together to calm down. Not now. 

“You’re already not paying attention, are you?”

It’s hard to because he smells like warm cologne and something familiar, vanilla and cedar and you’ve smelled this before, you swear, in your dreams. His leg brushes yours like it’s no big deal, like you’re not looking at how much bigger than you he is, like he doesn’t notice how you shiver every time he gets this close. Does he?

He taps a paragraph on the page, saying something about how this part is important, and we should go over this too, but his voice is softer now, almost tender. “You’re not even looking at the book. What’s up? Have you really just got a mental block for this?”

No, you’re just too attractive and it’s overwhelming. “Yup, think so,” you exhale, rubbing your sweaty palms on your leggings, “hey, what if we smoke before we study? I think I might focus better.”

Mingi seems to consider it. He scratches a nail down the page in thought - you notice he’s got some letters painted on his nails, and you want to ask. Eventually he shrugs, shutting the book and throwing it to the side. Your jaw drops that he gave up that easily, but he’s rummaging through his bag all of a sudden with ring-clad hands before he pulls out a little plastic bag. 

“I planned for this.”

It’s your turn to grin. 

“I mean, if you insist,” You tease, nudging him with your foot, and Mingi chuckles, low and sexy. The thought pops into your head again - you and him. It’s so easy, bantering back and forth, the nerves only electrifying you more. You remind yourself very quickly that this is nothing more than a study session, or preparing for one at least. 

Passing him the rolling tray from your bedside table, because you’d be damned if you were rolling with his stuff, you settle back on your pillows leisurely. He immediately begins to roll, pulling papers out of his zip-up pocket, and you want to ask him things rather than stare at his hands. Get to know him. Sue you, he’s pretty. “What do you major in?”

“Music production. So does Hongjoong, that’s how we know each other,” He answers easily, and you’re shocked initially, but actually… It makes sense. He’s relaxed and sometimes shy, but he can ride the line between confident and cocky - like he has two personas, the Mingi you see and the Mingi you actually get. It’s fun. “What about you?”

“English, believe it or not,” You say, and Mingi hums. “So you make music?”

He licks the paper, sealing the joint. “I’m not surprised. You seem smart like that,” He seems confused on where to smoke it, but you pass him an ashtray and he throws you a thumbs up as he lights it, inhaling deep and filling your room with the funky-smelling smoke, “but yeah, I make music. I’m a rapper.”

A rapper? So he’s good with his tongue. You shiver, “Right.”

“Oh, do you? Write, I mean?” He smiles at his own joke, eyes already half lidded and a little pink, handing you the joint; you’ll never admit you giggled at it too.

You take a few diligent tokes, ashing in the tray when necessary. “I do, sometimes, but I don’t get much free time anymore.”

“Mm, I bet,” You’re already a little giggly, and you hand the joint back with a warm feeling on your cheeks and limbs feeling a little slower, less in control. “I could… maybe show you a song I made. Only if you show me something you wrote. That would be cool, I think.”

You can’t believe you’re in here smoking with him, and he’s telling you things about himself, too. You can build on this. 

No - you’re getting ahead of yourself again.

“I’d be down,” You smile softly. He hands you the joint again, another quarter smoked, his lips now with a permanent curve of bliss. He’s high, and he looks so pretty when he’s high, fixing his dark shaggy hair with long, ring clad fingers. He lays on his side in front of you, grabbing your teddy bear to hold at his chest while he leans on his hand, comfortable. There’s one burning question in your mind as you examine him, his zip-up slipping off his shoulder, “honestly, I’m surprised you don’t major in fashion. You dress really cool.”

That slow, lazy smirk forms again, ear to ear. You almost choke as you inhale, but you manage to keep it in. “You think I dress cool?”

You shrug, suddenly aware of how hot it is in your room. “I mean… yeah.”

“Thanks,” He says, then adds, almost too casually, “I think you’re really pretty.”

It lands harder than he expected. Your breath stutters, and he licks his lips, eyes widening like he thinks he’s gone too far. “Is that-“ he hesitates, “-okay? Can I say that?”

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah, you- yeah, you can say that.”

Now it’s his turn to look nervous, teeth worrying at his lip but this time like he’s trying not to smile too wide. He thinks you’re pretty? Really pretty? The compliment loops around in your head. You hand him the joint back, meaning to follow it up with a question but he simply puts it out in your ashtray, the finality causing you to pause. 

He moves into a sitting position with a quiet sigh, and rifles through his bag a little. Just as you’re about to speak, he pulls out his laptop - the screensaver is one of him, Hongjoong and Yunho from a holiday, you judge by the background of the shot, but he clicks away and types his password in too fast for you to examine it fully.

“Anyway,” He says, too deliberately normal, clicking on a file, “I’ve got some material from the professor. It should help clear things up.”

Just like that, he moves on like the compliment was nothing, like it didn’t linger between you. You assume you should too. 

Friends compliment each other, right? He’s already pulling the file up, dexterous fingers quick and practiced clicking on the pages he needs and your head spins pleasantly from the weed, rubbing your clammy hands on your legs again.

A few clicks of his cursor, and he motions you closer, utterly unaware of how intoxicating he smells this close - you’re pooling in your panties again. Your knees touch and this time it sends a shock through you, but you catch the gasp in your throat before it leaves. 

“Alright,” he says softly, voice deep, “take a look at this…”

Focusing on anything else feels impossible, but you push through it, determined - for him.

It’s only gotten worse.

Rather than the dreams just being sexual, now they’re something more homely and serious than your heart can handle. You’ve had no more study sessions, although you’re due one today, and you’ve had these godforsaken dreams almost every night. 

Mingi cooking you dinner in your kitchen, smelling of oil and something delicious. Mingi holding your hand, safe and sure, as you walk through the city at night. Restaurants with Mingi, him pouring you another glass of wine and giggling when your nose scrunches up at the taste.

It’s getting domestic rather than primal, and you’re not sure how to deal with it. It’s made you want him more, while the times you actually see him only remind you that he doesn’t see you like that. At least, not in real life.

To make matters worse, Mingi insisted you continue your study sessions - along with now sending you some motivational GIFs over text during the week to make sure you’re on top form, like that was meant to help your sick little crush - and now you find yourself sitting waiting for him in the library, heart already fluttering something stupid.

A carton of banana milk slides across the desk. 

You squeak and barely manage to catch it before it tips over, glad that the campus library is pretty much empty due to fall break and you can make however much noise as you like. The librarian would typically tell you off for saying one word, but she’s got her own nose in an old, weathered book, her eyes fluttering shut from sleep.

A big body drops into the seat across from yours, the weight of him making the table feel smaller. Mingi looks entirely too pleased with himself, nodding pointedly at the carton.

“That’s it, right?” He snaps his fingers, “that’s the one you like.”

You stare. It's the same exact one you get from the vending machine in the building where your economics class is every week, but given that you’re now on break you haven’t had a reason to go there. It had been hard, trying to do any form of studying without your banana milk, but… how could Mingi have noticed that you get this one? 

“How…” You shake your head. “How did you know?”

His eyebrow raises, looking confused, opening his laptop. 

“I always see you with one,” He says, as if it explains everything. Your gut clenches, and you feel something tingle in between your legs too, like all it takes is a carton of milk, making you feel nothing but desperate - it’s more than that, though. He noticed. 

A few clicks, and then he digs in his bag again, setting a carton of strawberry milk down for himself and a set of papers next to you both. Your heart flutters. “I brought worksheets too. I know, not really fun, but at least I can see what you know since you know… we weren’t exactly productive last time,” he tuts at you playfully, “bad influence.”

You gasp dramatically. “Excuse you. We studied after, and it was your weed.”

He nudges your ankle softly with his shoe. “And I brought you a banana milk,” he slides the papers over, “now do the sheets for me, you’re wasting time again.”

For him, you’d do anything. Your pencil scribbles across the paper as you write your name with a heart next to it, as if you’re not his only student. Mingi doesn’t notice - he takes the time to do something on his laptop. You wonder what, because he pulls his headphones over his head and starts working dutifully. It’s hard not to simply watch him at work and ignore what he asked you to do; he clocks in so quickly, eyes narrowing at the screen and lips mouthing words you can’t decipher. He’s comfortable in baggy jeans and a hoodie, chains and rings catching your attention but he looks amazing, like everything he wears is straight from a fashion show.

Shaking your head, you turn to the paper - but you read a total of one question before realising that you really have no idea what the fuck is going on in this class.

“Mingi,” You say finally, tapping your pencil on the page, “I need help.”

To your surprise, he pulls his headphones off his dark hair quickly and leans over to you, eyes flickering to your sheet. It takes everything in you not to kiss him then and there. 

“… That’s the first question,” He looks at you, taking in your blank expression, then exhales a laugh. “Okay, I’ve seen you in every class - do you just not focus at all?”

Flailing your limbs around dramatically, you groan, “it’s boring as hell. The lecturer is also boring as hell.”

He snorts, but instead of teasing you more like you expect him to, he pulls his chair around properly, close enough that your knees touch. A shiver wracks through your spine. 

“Alright,” he says gently, voice calmer, more soothing, “forget how she explained it. I’ll do it my way.”

He takes your pencil, fingers brushing against yours, sketching quick boxes and arrows across the page. 

“Okay,” he begins, “economics is just people making decisions but with maths.”

You blink. “I don’t think that’s correct.”

He grins, sharp nose scrunching, clearly pleased that you’re actually interested for once. “No, seriously. It’s people making choices because they want something and don’t have enough money or time for it. All we have to do is sound smart when we talk about it.”

He sketches two simple lines with your pencil, next to the questions on the sheet, a curve sloping upwards and another sloping down right next to it. You recognize it immediately, which makes you a little proud.

“Supply and demand,” You mumble, pointing at the page. His eyes brighten.

“See? You do know things,” He says softly, like it’s a secret. His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer, and you remember the party, how close he was then, and you forget everything you’ve ever learned. Fuck.

“So this,” He taps the downward curve, your cat-shaped eraser bobbing comically on the edge of the pencil, “is demand. People want less of something when it’s expensive, more when it’s cheap - dramatic, but predictable, right? Of course we do.”

“And supply,” He continues, tapping the other line, “that’s the opposite. Producers are greedy. They’re willing to sell more when prices are higher.”

He freezes, glancing sideways at you. “You still with me? That’s like, basic basic.”

You nod a little too fast. It makes sense, but fuck, are you allowed to kiss him yet? He’s so patient, so kind, and so cute that even his fucking teeth are cute. “Yeah. I’m here.”

His mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite believe you, but he lets it slide and draws a small dot where the lines intersect.

“Equilibrium,” You say, and he nods.

“The sweet spot,” He murmurs, and you shiver. This has to be some sort of fucked up joke. “Everyone’s equally unhappy here. Price equals quantity demanded equals quantity supplied. No shortages. No surplus.”

He leans back just enough to look at you properly. You’re not confused, rather determined, staring at the sheet. 

He fiddles with the eraser, rings glinting in the light. “So what part loses you?”

“All of it,” you admit, “but especially those shifts…? Why do things move?”

His expression softens. You wonder if he’s finally realised you’re hopeless, but he starts speaking again, more determined.

“Okay, so,” He flips to a clean section of the page and starts again, slower this time, drawing the same silly diagrams and the same silly dots and scribbles. His plump lips curl in focus, making him look so handsome that your hands unclench and clench in your lap. “Think of demand shifting like your banana milk.”

Your heart flutters.

“You don’t always want it, right?” He says casually, like he hasn’t just seen you so viscerally. “Like if it’s hot outside, or you’re stressed, or the lecture was particularly boring, then you want it more. I bet you’d even pay more.”

He’s right, you think, but why does this all make sense now, with him? He rubs at the page with your cat-shaped eraser and shifts the curve, oblivious to your internal plight. “That’s a demand increase. Same price, more quantity demanded.”

You stare at the page, then at him. “You’re using me as an example.”

“Well,” he shrugs, too nonchalantly for how you feel looking at him. “You’re the first thing I thought of.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the paper. He’s still got your pencil so you can’t fidget, but you can smell his cologne, mixing with the scent of books in the library. It feels way too intimate and the furthest you’ve gone is your knees touching. You want more, but you have to focus.

“And supply, then… if things get cheaper, or easier to produce, you can make more so supply increases,” You try, quieter and uncertain, but he nods encouragingly. “I think this actually makes some sense when you explain it.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face - pride, perhaps. “Good,” he says, softer, “I want you to get it.”

You smile, taking a sip of your banana milk that has you humming with glee. Tasty. He mirrors you and takes a sip of his, sliding the worksheet back towards you, his fingers lingering just a second too long to tap on the words printed. He’s got the same letters written across his fingernails again. 

“Try the next question,” He nudges you. “I’ll stay here.”

It takes you a second to decode, but you start to scribble down things here and there, trying to make heads or tails of the question. Mingi is silent the whole time but you feel him watching what you’re doing, and you feel the weight of his arm when he lays it on the back of the chair behind you.

Within a few minutes you seem to have written something of note, and you slide the paper back to him silently. 

He clicks his tongue without saying a word and leans forward closer to the desk. Dark eyes narrow at the page and read over the few lines you’ve written, before he side eyes you with a satisfied smirk.

“Good girl,” It’s said teasingly, and he smooths your hair, too casual. Your tummy flips but his grin is content, unknowing, his eyes forming crescents, “see, I told you you’d get it. Try the next one.”

Somehow, it starts to seem easier with him around, and over time, he has to help you less and less. It doesn’t quell the burning in your gut, only igniting it to the point it starts to get unsufferable, and all you can do is try to ignore the flames. 

The next time he’s between your legs in your dreams is in your room again, and it feels so much more vivid now that you know more about him, about the way he speaks to you, the way he acts. 

“What a pretty fucking pussy,” He muses, eyes fixated directly on your core. He uses his thumbs to pull your lower lips apart, and you can see those letters on his nails. He watches your folds stick together with arousal once he lets go, groaning, running his fingertip up your slit - the contact makes you gasp, hips bucking tentatively for more. “Does she always get this wet?” he spits down on your mound, watching it drip, “fuck- fucking creamy, baby, shit.”

He lets out a little moan before he’s diving in. You can’t get any relief, trying to squirm away - his broad shoulders are spreading your thighs apart as well as pinning them, and his hands are still playing with your pussy while he tongues over your slit.

“Tasty too, good girl, mmf-“ he whines, moving to pull you closer by your ass instead, his rings biting into your skin. He says it the way he did in the library, and your cunt gushes so wet his lips click against it; the moan you let out is like you’re in distress, hand gripping onto the headboard. 

How does he know you like this? His lips suck over your clit and you wail, reaching down with your spare hand to push his head in. 

“Fuck, Mingi,” you gasp, writhing, “so fucking good, please-“ 

Yanking at his hair, you can’t help but grind your hips into his face. He doesn’t stop you, hands gripping you and pulling you in rhythm against his tongue, and you think he’s gonna make you cum already. It’s too quick, debilitating as you hump his fat tongue to your orgasm and you pull at dark strands, looking down your body to see dark, narrowed eyes staring right up at you and he groans deep against your folds, you’re so close, almost there-

This time you wake up horny but beyond fed up, almost ignorant to the throbbing between your legs. It’s quick and easy to make yourself cum with your fingers, sticking your hands down your pants to rub one out while thinking of soft lips and rapid rapper tongues, and after that it’s just another day of being haunted by him, you suppose. 

Except this time you have a study session at Mingi’s house, and you haven’t been there since the party. 

It may have been the excitement and nerves surrounding the plans that caused the dream, but you’re too tired to care about it, yawning over exaggeratedly and stretching the sleep away from your limbs. You’ve studied hard, had a few more sessions with him that weren’t romantically charged and watched countless videos online. You’ve even read some books, some that he gave you and some that you found yourself - you’re ready to impress him, glancing over at the many papers and folders in your bag.

However, despite the attempts to gain his praise, you’re beginning to accept that you’re doomed to a life without Mingi, or worse, a life with Mingi just as your friend. 

Every single time something appears to click between you, or you have what Wooyoung would call A Moment, something interrupts or distracts one of you. Then, the moment evaporates, and nothing happens. While you’ve been sitting on pins for days, waiting for something to happen - you’re also unsure something will happen.

You’re unsure if you’ve read the entire situation the wrong way, and he really is just a good, kind friend, and your insatiability has just driven you to blur the line between fantasy and reality.

When you finally get ready and go downstairs after doomscrolling on your phone, Wooyoung and San are both looking at you like the cats who got the cream. They’re standing in the kitchen, heads fully spun towards you while you hover in the doorway in your nice jeans with a tote bag on your shoulder. If it surprises either of them that you actually have books in your bag, they don’t say anything, only smiling wider when you bounce from foot to foot. 

You crumble first. “Okay, why are you guys staring at me?”

San answers your question with a question, sipping at his mug of coffee, “Where are you going?”

“You know where I’m going,” You scoff, crossing the kitchen to fill your water bottle up. Wooyoung parts from the sink to let you get there, but his smile doesn’t fall, so pleased your blood starts to boil. “It is not a big deal. We’re just friends.”

“Sure,” Wooyoung says finally, and you groan, stomping your feet. “He’s wasting his time helping you study for a test you’re gonna fail anyway because he’s a good friend.”

You scrunch your nose up, “Wouldn’t you guys do that for me?”

“No,” they reply at the same time, and you screw your water bottle lid on, scowling.

“Wooyoung, you said he was kind. This is him being kind.”

“He’s trying to get in your pants, like, romantically,” San says, and you want to launch your water bottle at him. “Have you tried asking him? Kissing him, maybe?”

“He is tutoring me, Choi San.”

“You need to be tutored in more than economics if you’re this stupid.”

You gasp, affronted, “Since when could boys and girls not be friends?”

Wooyoung snorts, “Since the boy and girl in question both like each other and are being stupid about it.”

It pisses you off even more. They don’t know the situation you’re in, the moments the two of you have had where you think something might break through and every single time, nothing happens, and you’re reminded that it will never happen. It feels like they’re mocking you, and you mumble a “Whatever, goodbye,” that seems to be enough to placate them.

They wave you goodbye, and you choose not to tell them the extent of your hangout to avoid teasing - you’re going to his house. If they caught wind of this, they’d be buying wedding outfits and booking venues.

However, this could really prove catastrophic for you. The dreams were realistic already, but now if you have the information of what his bedroom looks like stored inside your brain, they’re only going to get worse - more variety, more realistic.

You think pathetic horny thoughts the entire walk there, nervous and excited at the same time, hands smoothing down your hair over and over as if the gentle fall breeze was going to make you look effortlessly cool. Not only are you going to his house - his room - you’re hyperaware of your body, of every movement you make, the ache between your legs that’s been lingering since you woke up; it all feels a little too much. 

When you knock on the front door, it swings open almost immediately.

“Mmm- hey, girl,” Mingi says, tall and looming, hair a little messy and curling at the ends, glasses on. His oversized tee is loose on his frame like he just woke up and threw it over his massive shoulders. He looks domestic, like he could be your real boyfriend - it’s exactly the version of him your dreams have been conjuring, and it’s getting to you before you’ve even walked through the door. “You’re right on time, look at that!”

“Hey,” Your voice is small, knees feeling weak.

He steps aside to let you in, and his place smells faintly like weed and, well, that scent of Mingi that you’ve been focused on since you met him. You can smell what must be someone cooking something delicious too, faintly, and when you focus you can hear his housemate tinkering around in the kitchen. 

His house looks different in the daytime. The sofas look lived in and comfortable and you can see the music memorabilia properly, rap album records and posters donning the walls. It seems they’re both very serious about this kind of stuff, and your brain betrays you instantly, noting everything for future dreams.

“Room’s this way,” he says, already turning down the hallway like he doesn’t see you taking everything in. You almost trip over a half-dead potted plant on your way.

His bedroom is smaller than you expect - you wonder if Hongjoong got the bigger room - and it’s neat but not too neat. His bed is made but the pillows are a little smushed, desk cluttered with papers with scribbled lines of writing, packs of rolling papers on his bedside table and empty baggies in the bin. A guitar sits in the corner, obviously well loved and with a large sticker on the corner of the body. He seems content with you looking around, trying to shuffle some papers into a neat pile until he flops down on the floor by his bed, patting the space next to him.

“We can spread out here,” he motions, brushing his hair out of his face, “I don’t have another chair for the desk, I’m sorry.”

You hesitate for a half second too long before joining him, back against the bed, knees bent. You’re so close that your legs touch again, and you shiver despite being used to it by now. He doesn’t move away.

“So,” he says, nodding towards your tote bag, “ready to actually pass this test? This is our last session.”

You grin, reaching into your bag. “I may surprise you.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow, smiling. “Now I’m excited. Don’t tell me you actually-“

You lay out your notes. You’ve not done a lot, but whether he was expecting something amazing or not it doesn’t matter, because the noise of awe he makes is all you need. Your colour coded, annotated tabs stick out from the textbook he gave you before, and his teasing expression drops, replaced with genuine surprise.

“You did.” He murmurs. “You actually studied.”

“Wow,” you say dryly, “you sound full of confidence in me.”

He laughs, shaking his head, flipping through a few pages, “no, not at all. This is good. I’m so impressed, y’know, you didn’t even care a few weeks ago?” his eyes scan your writing quickly, “you did elasticity? On your own? You didn’t even text me!”

You nod. “A demon came to me in a dream and taught it to me.”

Mingi pales, fingers paused on the tabs. “Please don’t joke like that.”

You laugh, shaking your head, “No, I actually just read the books you gave me and watched some videos online. It’s not too hard when someone explains it to you the way you need.”

Despite your last statement, a warm expression creeps over his face, pride softening his features. “I’m so proud of you.”

The words hit harder than they should. Your throat tightens, and you have to look back down at your notes so he doesn’t see the emotion spread across your face. 

“Okay,” he says, scooting a little closer, “let’s test you. Walk me through this one.”

He points to a practice question. You explain, a little slow at first because you haven’t talked about these things out loud before, but once you find your words it gets smoother. He listens intently, eyes on you, not the page; when you finish with a satisfied smile, he nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says, “that’s it. Well done.”

“Oh,” you smile. “Really? That’s it?”

“You nailed it,” He confirms, and you swat at him again. Surely not. “I’m serious! See, it was always there. You just needed it explained in a way that made sense to you.”

Your knee nudges his when he shifts to point at another question, neither of you moving away. The room feels quieter, heavier, like the air has thickened. You keep going, question after question, and each time he needs to prompt you less and less. Sometimes he just watches you scribble away or think, stumbling over your words, his chin resting on his hand in a way that has to make the rings dig into him, expression soft and unreasonable.

At one point, you get stuck, frowning at a graph.

“Okay, wait,” you mutter, but he’s already there.

“Remember what we said about equilibrium?” He says gently, leaning over your shoulder. His arm comes up and behind you, on the mattress. He doesn’t seem to realise it, but it’s just like at the library, and you want to scowl at the effect he has on you. 

Your heart pounds, but you focus, staring at the page. “Equilibrium…”

“You already know this,” he points at the graph, finger dangerously close to yours, “you do, I promise. You’re just second-guessing yourself. Go with your gut.”

It feels like it means a million things at once. You glance up, and he’s closer than you expect - your breath stutters, and he continues looking at the page. His thumb flicks over a few of your tabs, considering.

“You know, it’s really cute that you put in this much effort,” he says absently, and your brain short circuits, stumbling out a few words that seem to make him snap awake. He finally looks at you, realises how it sounded and for a moment, neither of you move, looking at each other.

He laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think,” he says after a moment, “you’re gonna do way better than you think you are.”

The praise sits between you. He’s been giving you a lot of it, you think, and it feels like something unspoken is there. Neither of you reach for it, something that doesn’t surprise you. 

Instead, you sit shoulder to shoulder again, letting him show you how to understand economics as the sun dips lower and the room grows dimmer. Nothing happens again, and somehow that makes it worse, causing the knot in your tummy to tighten to an excruciating point. 

You’re really not sure what’s happening anymore. 

Dealing with vivid sex dreams about a man who doesn’t like you back is one thing, but dealing with them while said man is forcing you to study for a test is another thing. Still, if it hadn't been Song Mingi helping you you think you never would’ve studied, never would’ve bothered turning up for the test, and you would’ve been sitting on the same exact cheap plastic chair next semester resitting the entire thing.

You get to class a few minutes before the test starts, a mere few days after your last study session, Wooyoung in tow groaning about how ‘messed up the last minute test is’ - you don’t have the heart to tell him it was mentioned weeks ago and he just wasn’t listening so it can’t be considered last minute. You’re more focused on the crippling fear of you failing this test after all of the work you’ve done, the colour coded tabs and annotations that Mingi checked over to make sure you were on the right track, and you know that Mingi is never on time and so won’t be present to look over your notes with you. 

However, you walk into the room and see a carton of banana milk settled on your desk.

There’s only a few other people in here, you, Wooyoung and a few others, but a quick scan shows you Mingi is sitting in his seat and is doing very well at pretending to be occupied. He flips through a folder of notes, and you hover in the doorway, Wooyoung elbowing you frantically. 

“That’s-“ he gasps, “he- that’s-“

Your mind is racing yourself. Bringing one for you before when you studied was one thing, but he’s brought you one before the test that could determine your fate with this class, and he’s acting like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t shattered your heart into a million pieces that he actually fucking thought of you, unprompted.

Wooyoung continues spluttering behind you as you continue to your desk, waving at Mingi on his way, and you shoot him a look filled with nerves and want. He’s even put the straw in ready for you, so when you sit down, you take a grateful sip instantly. Mid-sip, Wooyoung snatches it from your hand to see a scribbled good luck note stuck on the other side, complete with a drawing of a chicken holding his own carton of milk.

“This is ridiculous,” He mumbles, running a hand through his newly cherry red hair, grabbing the paper between two fingers, “you two are playing a game that does not need to be played.”

“Whatever that means,” you sigh, snatching it back.

Avoiding staring at the side of your crush’s head, you look back down at the milk, contemplating while the class fills up. It’s not long until the professor comes in, and lays down the paper tests on everyone’s desks. Everyone looks nervous apart from Wooyoung, who just generally does not care, and Mingi, who you know is more than prepared. 

A few minutes go by while she talks, and when the class is allowed to start you look down at the questions and hang on… you actually know what this test is talking about. You shoot Mingi a look and he’s already staring at you, smiling with his teeth like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. It hurts your heart, but you smile back, shooting him a nod filled with everything he needs to know.

The test goes by like a breeze, banana milk aiding you along the way. You’re not convinced you’ve done amazing, per se, but you think you’ve done well enough to pass. The entire class pours out at the end of the hour before you have the chance to tell Mingi that you think you’ve done alright. Still, the professor tells you that she’ll upload everyone’s grades online later today, and you hope that you have the chance to talk to him later, for him to tell you how well you’ve done. 

Your mind runs with thoughts as Wooyoung yaps the entire way home. He talks about how hard the test was, how annoying the professor is, how you’ve probably done just fine with the star student’s help, and then he pauses in his tracks on the way home. 

“Speaking of,” he says, pointing a finger at you, “are you going to Mingi’s party tonight?”

You freeze. Your heart skips a beat, and you lick your lips, swallowing hard, mouth suddenly feeling insanely dry.

He hasn’t invited you. If he hasn’t invited you to his party, then that definitely means that there’s nothing between you, that you really have just overanalysed things in your head. It feels like life couldn’t be any crueler to you right now.

You swallow again. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, and Wooyoung’s brow rises, red hair flicking around his jaw due to the wind. He sees right through you. “Okay, fine. I wasn’t invited.”

He scowls, “That’s fucked up, especially with how much time you spend together.” He mumbles, contemplating. The two of you start to walk again before he continues, his hands shoved in his pockets, “whatever, you’re coming with us anyway.”

“I can’t turn up there after he didn’t invite me. You’re deranged.”

“That is exactly what you did last time.”

He leaves no room to argue, and when you cross the threshold to your front door, San is perched on the sofa waiting for your arrival. He’s shoving food into his face, cheeks puffed out beyond belief but he perks up upon your return, eyes forming crescents and hands quickly moving to the TV remote to pause whatever he’s got on. Another soppy drama show, you think, since he looks flushed like he’s just been emotional over it.

“How did the test go?!” He shrieks, stumbling over bare-foot in shorts that show too much thigh. Wooyoung’s eyes linger on his bare skin and you scoff. 

“It went fine,” you say, walking in to collapse on the sofa next to the San-shaped dip, “I think I may have scraped a pass. Grades are out later.”

Unfortunately, despite you wanting anything but, you press play on the show that San’s watching and it engrosses you. The boys take themselves out to the kitchen, you assume to fix you all something to eat. From what you can gather, the show is an old one about some kids in school trying to become K-Pop idols. It does seem pretty emotional, but the only thing you can cry over right now is a tall rapper that doesn’t want you. 

It only takes a few minutes, but a loud, hysterical laugh from Wooyoung from the other room makes you sigh. Something’s happened, and you hear the telltale sound of feet clambering down the hallway to thrust his phone in your face, all bright smiles and too-red hair.

“Grades are out already,” He’s still laughing, motioning to the block letters, a number sixty on his screen, “how the fuck did I pass?”

San walks in laughing behind him, hands clapping on your other friend’s shoulders in glee, “I have no idea how you did it but I’m so proud.”

Your chest clenches. Shit. They’re out already? Either that’s a good sign for the class or a very, very bad sign, but you dig in your pocket and pull your phone out to unlock it. No texts from Mingi, not that you expected any, but you quickly open up your student portal and sign in, clicking through the pages you need to get to the class overview. 

It takes too long to load. Wooyoung drops into the San-shaped dip and San leans over him, two sets of peering eyes focused on your phone screen, and they’re both completely silent as they wait. You think San’s stopped breathing. The loading circle spins mockingly, over and over, and then the page loads.

Sixty-two.

Wait.

“Oh my god, I fucking-”

“You passed!” Wooyoung screams, shaking you by the shoulders. “Do you know what this means? Shit, baby, I’m so proud!”

You know what this means. You don’t have to resit that class, you don’t have to ever bother with a stupid economics class at all ever again, you never have to see that professor again, and you have Song Mingi to thank for it all. It feels like a joint achievement, if anything, and you want to text him and tell him and thank him but - should you? Is that okay?

San and Wooyoung bounce around the living room screaming and shouting so loud that you get brought back to reality.

“I fucking passed,” you breathe in disbelief, and San cheers again.

“Hell yeah, you did!” He hugs you, warm and grounding and so nice but not what you want at all. “We’re so proud. We’re gonna get drunk, and high, and go have fun at your boyfriend’s party-”

“San,” Wooyoung pauses, face suddenly straight, shaking his head solemnly, “not her boyfriend. In fact, he didn’t even invite her.”

San’s jaw drops. “He… what? But I thought you-”

“Yeah, I know.” Wooyoung grumbles. You want them to talk more, eyebrow raising, tossing your phone to the floor haphazardly. It’s already smashed enough, you don’t even think it could smash anymore.

“You know what?” You narrow your eyes, and both boys shake their heads too quickly. That’s weird. “Tell me what you know. Now.”

San waves his hand in your face, trying to calm you down, “Just that you two were getting close. I promise, that’s all I’ve been told.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Wooyoung shrugs, too easy. It makes you want to scream. “You’re coming with us anyway, baby. I couldn’t care less what Song Mingi thinks his guestlist is.”

“Hey.” San says, weak. “He is actually a really nice guy.”

You groan, flailing your limbs, and they finally shut up - or at least they start talking about something else.

By the time you get to the party, your head spins, more drunk than you ever have been, feeling nice in your pretty dress and your best boots. The boys had insisted that a strong pregame was essential to celebrate yours and Wooyoung’s results, and Wooyoung fixes your makeup for you at the front door, too sober for your liking, thumbs smudging your eyeliner perfectly.

It’s a little like you’re entering the lion’s den, preparing to be eaten, but your brain hasn’t let you fully understand who’s house you’re entering and the fact that you weren’t even originally invited, too tipsy to care. 

San swings the front door open like he lives there, cheering with a happy, intoxicated flush on his face at whoever he sees first, and you let him introduce you to a few people while you giggle along and smile politely. It turns out a few of these people already know who you are, from the boys mentioning you you presume, so it’s easy to mingle and drink a little more when they offer it.

Your head spins. A little embarrassed, you remind yourself it’s a damn celebration. You never thought you would’ve passed that class.

Wooyoung drags you along to the kitchen, forcing another drink in your hand, and you get an immense sense of deja vu. This time, he’s learned and it’s a rum and coke he places into your grip, while you feel present physically and not mentally. San catches up to you after a while, joining in on whatever conversation the other man is leading seamlessly, and you nod and hum along like you know what’s happening, swaying in your spot.

Two big, firm hands land on your shoulders, and Wooyoong’s eyes widen comically at the figure behind you. 

“You came!” It’s slurred, but you’d know that voice anywhere - Mingi, in front of you when you turn around, black tank top tight and cargo trousers baggy. You feel lightheaded for a different reason all of a sudden, eyes scraping down big shoulders, big arms and even bigger thighs, the way his body tightens at his waist, the way he slings an arm around you like it belongs there. He smells of tequila and bad mistakes, and in any other situation you’d question his behaviour but now, inebriated, you’re leaning in, inhaling deeply for more, letting him ramble on in that deep, soothing voice. “I’m so happy you came! I didn’t- I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to come, I wasn’t sure-“ he hiccups, “I wasn’t sure you’d want to, y’know? It’s not your type of-“

“You’re right, she probably would’ve said no,” San manages for you, and you nod along. 

“They dragged me here again, ‘cause of my test results,” you laugh airily, and Mingi’s eyes widen, round and dark, his hands way too present on your body. He moves down to grip your waist, pulling you into him, and you clock that he’s as drunk as you are - you know that he’d never do this sober, but the warmth of his torso against yours is so nice that you can’t complain. You see Wooyoung trying to drag San away from the corner of your eye.

Mingi huffs out an impatient breath, staring directly into your eyes. It makes your thighs tremble and he raises an eyebrow as if to prompt you, “Your test. How did you do? Why didn’t you-“ he swallows hard, trying to catch his breath, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you invite me, for real?” You blurt, a bit bolder now that you’re alone - perhaps it’s knowing that Wooyoung can’t see you now, but definitely due to the liquid confidence flowing through you. He at least has the decency to look guilty at your words, one hand coming to the back of his neck.

“I- I’m sorry,” He says earnestly, bouncing from one foot to another, too full of energy and the tequila, “I should have. There was no other- no other reason, I just really didn’t think it’d be your scene.”

You frown. He’s probably right, but he doesn’t know that you’d do anything, go anywhere for him. “I- uhm,” you sip your drink, eyes flickering to the back door. It’s ajar, people milling in and out past you both but like before, the kitchen is quieter than everywhere else. You manage to look back at him, voice quiet when you speak, “I passed, Mingi. I managed to- well, I barely passed the class, but I passed. Thank you for-“

You’re cut off by his arms wrapping around you. He shouts with glee, shaking you around in his grip and causing your drink to splash a bit. If he’s bothered by the liquid leaking on his skin he doesn’t show it, pulling back from you with a huge grin that you can’t help but mirror, issues forgotten. He’s jostled your bag off your shoulder, and you scoop it back up as he gets noticeably more excited, smile growing wider. 

“Do you know how proud of you I am?” He gushes, eyes honest, and you melt. Your heart soars, and you smile so wide it hurts your cheeks - this is all you had wanted. Mingi pulls you back into another hug. 

This time, it lasts longer and he holds you close, letting you feel his warmth and you wrap your arms around his middle, content. It’s nice, his dark hair tickling your neck as he nuzzles into the crook there - you hear him take a deep breath, holding you closer, and it makes you feel satisfied, somewhat. If this is all you can get, this is okay, you’re sure you can deal with this.

But Mingi pulls away, and something in his eyes tells you despite the alcohol, he knows what’s going on, knows what he wants, knows that you’re feeling it too.

“I’m so proud of you, so fucking proud,” His chest heaves. He smells of tequila but beneath it, you can smell him, and it makes you lean in closer, head dizzy. “Can I just…?”

“Just what?” You ask, fingers curling around his forearms in the hopes it grounds you - it makes you worse, letting out a whimper at the feeling of his skin on yours that you can’t quite hide, “Mingi, t-tell me.”

He licks his lips, shaking his head as if to get rid of some of his thoughts, dark hair tousling and he looks so handsome, looking down at you over his sunglasses with uncertainty. It looks like he wants to say too many things at once, with no clue on where to start.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, and your breath hitches. What? “I- I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

Nodding before you can question why, when, what or how, Mingi leans forward, nose nudging yours, finally pressing his lips against you. It’s as satisfying as you always thought it would be, and he’s nothing but enthusiastic - he’s immediately letting his tongue push between your lips and into your mouth so far it pushes against your teeth, like he’s trying to swallow you whole. His fists grip into the fabric of your dress and pull you into him, moving down to grip onto your waist and keep you close, afraid you may try to run away now that he’s finally gotten you.

You kiss him back with just as much enthusiasm, placing wet, open mouthed kisses on his lips when he tries to pull away because you can’t help yourself - is this really happening, for real? He tastes of tequila, jager and Mingi, and you open your mouth in a jagged moan for more. 

When he sees how impatient you are, he cracks. He pushes you against the wall and forces his tongue back into your mouth, moaning, gravelly and deep from his chest; your legs start to tremble, and he reaches down with a strong arm and hooks one of your legs around his waist.

“Oh,” You moan at the way he moves you around easily, his heavy breaths spilling into your mouth. He’s impatient, fingers scrambling at the bare skin of your leg, touching you as much as he can in a split second like he’s still scared it’ll be over soon. He rocks forward with his hips and meets your core, clothed but you’re sure he can feel how wet you are just from being in his presence, finally feeling his lips against yours for real and not in a dream. “Oh, shit-“

“So pretty,” He murmurs, kissing you again, accidentally rutting against your cunt once, twice, before he forces himself to stop. You can barely focus, unbelieving that he’s real, right in front of you, touching you and kissing you like this - but you’ll be damned if you’re not getting answers. “So gorgeous, lovely girl,” he breathes, urgent, eager, “so smart, so proud, mm-“

He moves away again, sucking over your neck, and you take the moment to speak hoarsely, “Mingi, what- what is this? What’s… what’s going on here?”

“I-“ He freezes. His lips hover at your skin before he pulls away just enough to look at you, palms unclenching and clenching at your waist like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “… Isn’t it obvious?” He asks quietly. “Do I have to say it?”

There’s no smugness or cockiness in his tone anymore, only hesitation, like he’s standing on the edge of something and afraid he’ll fall if he says it out loud. You read his face for something, anything that tells you how he feels, but all you see is need, his eyebrows knitting together in pure desire - it just confuses you more. 

“No,” You say, even though it’s a lie and you wish you did know, kissing the corner of his mouth once again - hoping it channels the gentleness and encouragement that you need to show, not the nerves of wanting something so seriously that it feels like it may shatter your insides. It seems to work, because he kisses you again, rings biting into your thigh when he grips you firmer.

Hands moving to Mingi’s hair, you pull lightly at the strands, bringing him as close to you as possible. He groans at the slight pain, nose nudging yours as he devours your mouth, lips so plump and overwhelming that you try your best to kiss back but are left whimpering into his mouth. He controls it, just as you imagined he would, moving you this way and that; he nips at your bottom lip, prompting you to open your mouth and let him massage his tongue over yours, almost useless while he consumes you. 

You think your dreams are going to be way too vivid from here on out, overwhelmed with the knowledge of what he actually tastes like and how he actually holds you - unsure but desperate. He’s good at this too, and you curse yourself; he’s perfect, he’s everything, and this is probably going to be all you’ll get, a drunken kiss in his kitchen.

“We can set up the beer pong in here-” 

Mingi springs from you like he’s been burned. His cheeks are flushed, lips slick with a mixture of your spit and he spins around to see Hongjoong, looking just as guilty as he did in the last party when he interrupted you but without his tiara, jaw slack, shocked, round eyes flitting between the two of you.

“Or not.” He offers. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you two had finally-“

Mingi starts to babble loudly, drowning out the shorter man, hands waving and mouth making some incoherent high pitched noises that have your eyebrows knitted in confusion. Your chest is still heaving against his damn kitchen wall as you try to catch your breath, yanking down the hem of your dress and he continues babbling - you just about catch the end, when he says, clear as day, “There is nothing going on here.”

Your heart starts to race. Right. You knew that, really, but - well, for a second, you’d hoped that it really was going to be something, forgetting that you’re drunk and so is he and you’re still standing in his kitchen ramrod straight like you’ve been electrocuted. He didn’t even have the decency to take you away to his room - why would he bother, you think, damning yourself for letting your brain run away with hope and excitement. He could have hidden you away from prying eyes and Hongjoong, who seems to interrupt anything good you’ve ever been given by the world, but he didn’t. 

It was nothing. An accident, even. Something you shouldn’t have ever dreamed of.

Speaking of Hongjoong, he huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “It didn’t look like-“

“It was nothing,” You cut him off this time, voice a lot more stable than you feel. You don’t look at Mingi, but from the corner of your eye you see something written on his face, something guilty and upset and like he’s at war with himself, and you can’t be bothered to spend any more time trying to figure him out tonight. “It wasn’t anything. Hey, have you seen San and Wooyoung?”

Hongjoong nods, a small pout on his lips. “Living room. Seriously, sorry about that, I-“

“It was nothing,” You repeat, and he nods again, accepting it - finally. You hear some commotion as you turn your back, hushed whispers that again, you don’t have the energy to try to decipher.

Beelining towards the living room, you’re pleased that San and Wooyoung can tell just by the look on your face that you’re ready to leave. They spring up from the sofa, drinks discarded, arms coming to your frame to usher you to a quieter place - it ends up being outside, in their front lawn, and it happens before you even process it’s coming.

Gagging, your body folds, and you vomit right on your crush’s front lawn, just about avoiding your nice boots. Wooyoung stifles his laugh - not very well - and San elbows him behind you, unamused, hand rubbing up your back. 

“That’s alright, get it up,” He soothes. “Jeez, we shouldn’t have let you drink this much. Let’s get you home, yeah?”

“I wanna know what the hell happened,” Wooyoung argues, and the other man sighs loudly in response, making him groan. “Fine. We’ll talk when we get home.”

The walk home is longer than you remember, made even worse by how your tummy still flips. You’re not sure if it’s from the alcohol or the kiss or Hongjoong interrupting or it being nothing or some fucked up combination of all of it but you hold back sobs the whole way home, arms enveloping your middle until you finally cross the threshold into your house.

The boys move quickly into the kitchen. Wooyoung still eyes you, unimpressed that he’s left in the dark but he starts to fill up three plain glasses of water, hopefully to calm all of you down but San simply waits, arms folded over a broad chest, eyebrow raised until you finally decide to speak.

“He didn’t…” You breathe. Your handbag drops to the floor unceremoniously, lipgloss and compact clattering out of the bag, and San moves to pick them up before you can even ask him to. Wooyoung moves to you, quick across the kitchen to put his arms around your frame. “I don’t think it’s like that between us. He- Mingi didn’t say he liked me, or anything, we just… Well, we kissed, but…”

Tears are starting to form in your eyes. San and Wooyoung share a look, and San appears bewildered, “What do you mean?” He shoves your things back into your bag, pushing it onto the table, eyes soft when he turns to you, “honey, I can’t put this any simpler. You are awful at economics, and the man offered to tutor you. Even Woo wouldn’t waste his time like that just for some sex.”

“It’s true,” Wooyoung says, hands gentle where they soothe over your shoulders, “I feel it in my gut that he likes you back. Really.”

“Then,” you sniffle, “why didn’t he-“

“Tomorrow, no alcohol, you and Mingi are having a conversation,” he urges, “all the cards on the table. I’m sick and tired of seeing you pining.”

You sigh, “It won’t solve anything. He doesn’t like me like that. He can’t like me like that, I know it.”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Wooyoung laughs, “he had his tongue in your mouth less than an hour ago. You’re drunk and sad, he was drunk and Mingi. You both need to get some sleep and talk tomorrow.”

Turning to San, you expect a different response, but he gives you the same look - slightly amused at your unneccessary plight, but very firm. Tomorrow, you’ll be embarrassed that you got so drunk over passing a test that you made out with your crush and cried in your kitchen to your friends, but right now you’re too tired and sad to care. He hands you your bag, items back in safely, and the other man ushers you to your bedroom, not minding at all that you’re sniffling and whining the entire way there. 

The pretty boots you chose for tonight are pulled off by Wooyoung while you sniffle and drizzle on the end of your bed. He doesn’t seem to mind, letting you mess up your mascara and your eyeliner in dark tracks down your cheeks until he sighs so loudly, seriously that it shocks you. He throws your boots on the floor by the door. 

“Promise me,” he says, and then storms over to place his hands on your shoulder. You think he’s still a little drunk too, but he says it with so much conviction that your tears stop in their tracks, eyes round and vulnerable as you look up at him. “Promise me that once you wake up in the morning, you will talk to the man.”

You sniffle, folding your arms over your chest like a child, “Don’t want to anymore.”

“Barefaced lie,” San snorts, and you blink through wetness to see him standing at the door. Was he always there? “Sweetheart, you’ve been making this entirely more complicated than it needs to be.”

Wooyoung pulls your dress over your head and slides a big, oversized t-shirt straight back over you - you think it’s one of his, the hem too stretched and the print a little stained with hair dye. “Tomorrow, full honesty,” He points a finger in your face that makes you go cross-eyed. “Promise me. No more lies. No more beating around the bush. Everything gets said.”

“I promise, Wooyo,” you garble, although now that you’ve stopped crying, all you can feel is exhaustion taking over your body. 

Your body hits your mattress before you recognise you’re falling, and Wooyoung tuts, covering you with your blanket. Everything’s so comfortable all of a sudden, and you feel a hand move a pillow underneath your head to support it - it feels like a damn cloud.

The last thing you register is San’s laugh and the sound of a camera shutter before you pass out.

It’s almost annoying this time, after the almost-confession. 

Mingi heaves deep, staggered breaths into your neck, wearing the same outfit from the party last night - baggy cargos, too many chains, a tight tank top. A bead of sweat drips from already damp, long, dark hair, down the tempting curve of his neck and you’re already won over, too desperate for him to care, reaching up to drag your tongue up his skin. 

“Fu-uck, that’s it,” He moans, deep, gravelly, hands determined where they pull down your shorts. You’re left in your panties, edges of your vision fuzzy with your dream and he’s quick to crowd into your space again, thick thighs forcing yours apart. He makes quick work of his trousers, undoing the button and forcing them past his ass just enough to rut his boxer clad erection against your pussy. “There, there you go honey, fuck, move against me-“

You do, writhing and bucking your hips to grind your swollen clit against his bulge over and over, letting him move from your neck to your lips. He kisses your mouth finally, and fuck you know what he’s like now, enthusiastic and all consuming. His tongue forces into your mouth just like it did earlier, when this was real. His lips are slick against yours because he’s so messy with it, desperate and bucking against you like he can’t get enough. 

You can’t, either, and with desperate fingers moving to his boxers frantically you beg, “Mingi, please, inside, wan’it-“

He groans, long and broken, rings biting into your skin when he grips your hips and pulls you down hard against him, “Yeah, want it inside, my girl? Can you take it for me?”

My girl. Your head spins, your hands scrambling for purchase against the sheets, his arms, anything, finally gripping wet strands and tugging. Mingi whines this time, too high pitched to be normal, and you struggle to direct his attention to you until his fingertips curl around the waistband of your panties and pull down. He yanks them off your ankle, your leg hanging in the air when he moves back over you and thrusts down again, into your newly exposed cunt, wet and wanting.

“Answer me,” He’s determined, rocking against you so steadily you’re worried you might cum from just this, “can you? Tell me you want me to fuck you, baby, please, tell me- tell me you can take it.”

“I can t-take it,” you cry out without a beat, and he nods, meeting your lips again, “inside, inside-“

It seems to work to convince him, and he leans back on muscled thighs. You take him in, the broad expanse of his shoulders and the way he tapers in at the waist, down to the beginning of his Calvin boxers. 

He pulls up the fabric of his tank top just enough to let you see it, the beginning of his happy trail, and it’s never gone this far before. You pull yourself up onto your elbows, excited but nerves going haywire, spread eagle and naked from the waist down, and he finally starts to pull at the waistband. 

Down, down, and the smattering of hair at his base has you gasping, toes curling where your legs lay relaxed over his, and you see the base, and then-

You wake up with shorts so wet that you know you’ve orgasmed in your sleep, and now you’re certain it’s gone too far.

Without needing to make yourself cum like every other morning one of these vivid dreams occurred, you have a clear head and can only think that something has got to give. Looking back on what your friends said last night, it feels right that you and Mingi should talk today, completely sober and with clear judgement. It’s probably the best move. 

You’d be embarrassed of your behaviour if you didn’t know that Wooyoung and San loved you no matter what, and also they know better than anyone that Song Mingi has been giving you a tough fucking time.

Although the idea has your stomach twisting a little with anxiety, it’s time to be brave, and you roll over to grab your phone… only to see that Mingi has had the exact same idea. 

[9:13am] mingi: hey, we should talk. should i come over?

You blink at the text. Sighing, groaning, and sighing again, it’s obvious you have to reply - it was only sent a half hour ago - so you send a quick okay and crawl out of bed. You’re hungover, sure, with a soft pain in the back of your head but the determination takes over anything else you feel. 

Everything feels a little melancholic as you walk around, back hunched over, but you have to know even if it hurts you. You do not want to go another day with any uncertainty. 

It only takes fifteen minutes for a knock at your door to sound. It’s given you time to get yourself ready, in another cute loungewear set with simple makeup and hair just barely brushed, and when you open the door Mingi looks worse than you feel. 

He’s dressed a lot more casually than normal, beanie pulled over his head tight and jumper oversized and hanging off of his frame. A fleeting thought asks you how big it’d be on you, and you shake your head, forcing it out of your brain. When you don’t say anything, he awkwardly tugs at his tote bag on his shoulder, pulling at the bottom of his beanie like he’s got too much energy in his body and doesn’t know what to do with it.

He looks so cosy and domestic that you think that you might just burst into tears in his face.

“It’s nice to see you,” your voice warbles, and Mingi scratches his neck awkwardly, pre-roll in his other hand. That tells you all you need to know. “Should we go to my room?”

“Yeah, I think that’s best,” He sighs, looking more nervous than you’ve ever seen him and you groan internally. He’s normally the picture of confidence, save for the few times you two have… well, you still don’t know. 

This is going to end worse than you thought it would, you think, perhaps even getting to the point where you can’t even be friends anymore. Still, Wooyoung made you swear you’d be honest to the man, and you try not to break promises, especially not when it’s one of your best friends.

Leading him up the stairs, you take him to your room, and he falls on the bed like it’s his own, pulling that same teddy he likes onto his lap, running a hand over his face in exasperation. When he pulls his beanie off, his hair springs up fluffy and brown and cute, and all you can do is hand him the ashtray wordlessly so that you don’t scream. 

He pulls out the same pink lighter you saw him have last time, burning the end of the joint’s paper off and waiting for it to level. You’re not expecting him to speak yet, settling on your bed across from him with your knees pulled up, picking at a loose thread to avoid staring at him, but he swallows hard and sighs.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you yesterday,” he says, and your heart drops. “I’m sorry. I should’ve- I should’ve talked to you first, explained how I feel. It’s been killing me. I especially shouldn’t have kissed you when we were both so drunk, but I-”

“I clearly enjoyed it as much as you,” Honesty, and you try to smile, but it doesn’t reach your ears. Mingi eyes you like he knows, taking the first drag of the joint. “It’s okay. I understand, it was just a drunken kiss and it’s not-”

“What?” Mingi laughs incredulously, “is that really what you think? Do you think I kiss people like that normally?”

You falter. Well, no, you’d hope not, but you hadn’t really had anything to go by.

A longer drag, and he eyes you again, before it seems to dawn on him and his lips curl up in amusement. His tongue drags over his teeth, eyes looking you up and down. Fuck. “You really have no idea, do you?” He hands it to you, leaning back on his hands on the bed, “I’m obsessed with you. Why do you think I asked to tutor you? I mean, no offence, but you were kind of a-”

“A lost cause, yeah, I know,” you inhale. Then, it clicks in your brain, and you blink at him. “Sorry, you’re obsessed with me?”

“For as long as I can remember,” honest, frank, straight. Your head spins, but you inhale a little more, trying to formulate your thoughts better. “Since before we even spoke. I thought that’s why the guys brought you to my party in the first place.”

Hold on. You ash the joint, handing the ashtray and the smoking stick back to Mingi, “Wooyoung and San knew?”

He shrugs. His cheeks are pink, from nerves or the weed you don’t know, but he carries on speaking like he needs to get it all out in one go or he never will. His eyes avert from you, fiddling with the long drawstrings of his sweatpants, “I don’t know about them. Hongjoong and Yunho knew, that’s why they were acting so fuckin’ weird.” He chuckles breathlessly. “Trying to sell me out, honestly, and this whole thing has been so embarrassing. I tried so hard to get close to you and then- then I fucked it up by not being able to tell you how I feel. I’m not very good at that.”

It makes you pause. Mingi, all along, has been going through somewhat of a similar dilemma as you - and suddenly everything makes sense. The banana milk, the studying, the way he spoke to you at the first party, the way he’s been speaking to you - you’re talking before you even realise you are. 

Honesty, Wooyoung said. You’ll stick to that.

“Mingi, this is going to sound crazy, but I’ve had a lot of these really frequent, vivid dreams about you in the past month or so,” you say, breathless, “some before we even started talking to each other."

As soon as it comes out of your mouth, you feel like dying. Mingi doesn’t stop smoking though. He even smokes more, inhaling longer, nodding with every word you say before he finally seems to process it. The flush seems to extend down to his neck, and he yanks at his jumper, pulling at the collar to get air - once the joint’s in your hold, he clears his throat, gulps a few mouthfuls of water down from a bottle he pulls from his tote bag. “I- That’s good to know. Normal dreams, or dirty?”

He’s… okay with it? He’s actually being way more casual about this than you thought he would be. This is the same guy that gets freaked out when he thinks about the concept of demons. You finish the joint and snuff it out, discarding the ashtray to your bedside table.

“A bit of both. Mostly dirty, but like, we were together in them. A little domestic,” You admit. He cracks a grin, showing those teeth that you fell for, and you can’t help but smile back. It is a little funny. A little crazy too, though. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

Mingi shrugs. “Not really, it’s not your fault. You must’ve just had a crush on me too. You know we don’t choose our dreams? Scientists say it’s just stuff from our subconscious, I read about it online.”

No way. You blink. You blink again, and he’s still there in your room sitting with you, the guy from your dreams, grinning crookedly and looking ever so delighted with himself. 

“Or,” He coughs. “It could have been the lines I was writing trying to manifest you in my life. Maybe it worked.”

“Mingi… that’s fucking crazy.”

He swallows hard. His eyes are a little red from the weed, but the flush on his cheeks is from solely nerves now, you know. “Well, I had to do something from a distance. You’re hard to approach - y’know, you seem shy - but you’re really cool. And so fuckin’ pretty, you must know that, right?” He huffs out a quiet laugh, embarrassed, “I’ve definitely had dreams about you, too.”

“It’s not shy,” You say softly. “I’m just awkward.”

There’s something fragile in the way he’s positioned now, something you haven’t seen in Mingi yet - something hopeful but hesitant, like he’s worried he’ll scare you off any second - it’s different to last night with no confidence from his rum. When his brows lift, eyes flickering with uncertainty because you haven’t said enough yet, you realise that you never ever want to be the reason he doubts himself again. 

“Mingi,” you say, steady even though your heart is racing, “I think I’ve been obsessed with you for a long time. Like, a long time. After this, you never have to doubt that.” You inhale, “Not having you was killing me. The dreams felt so real, and I fell for you so quickly but the way you acted around me… It was so up and down. I didn’t know if you felt anything at all, or if it was-“

He’s moving mid sentence to meet your lips with his, decisive and a little desperate. He tastes like weed and Mingi, enticing, and you melt into it, following his mouth without thinking - how did you hold yourself back from jumping him last night, when he’s real, here, in front of you? 

His lips are buttery, grounding against yours, and when you reach out to touch his arms he finally exhales and pulls you closer, yanking you onto his lap on your bed with his hands at your waist.

He mumbles against your mouth, words stumbling out between breaths, “I tried- I did try to tell you how I felt, I just- fuck, I don’t know how to-“

“I know,” You manage, and this time you really do. Two people circling each other, both too excited, too unsure, mistaking intensity for indifference. “I thought… I thought you just wanted something physical after last night, maybe, I didn’t know.”

“God, no,” He chuckles, throwing his head back for a second with closed eyes. “I just get so excited I don’t shut up, and none of what I say ever comes out right.“

“I understand,” Your hand strokes over his hair. It’s said with purpose this time - you really mean it. With Mingi, it was never fear; it’s excitement, pure and unfiltered, knocking everything else out of order, and now that he has permission to show it he can’t stop himself.

The kisses he lays on your neck prove it to you that this is possible, you and him. It’s possible and it’s happening right now, your thighs clenching around his and hands moving to roam down his body, over his broad shoulders and firm chest as he sucks on your neck. 

“Fuck,” Mingi breathes. “I feel like I’m dreaming. You’re unreal, baby.”

“I’m right here,” You laugh, because it’s insane he would say that to you, knowing that his mere presence has you feeling like you’re away with the fairies and has been for a while now. “I’m right here, Min, fuck, do you wanna- get this off, please-“

He pulls back and tugs his oversized jumper off by the back of the neck, launching it somewhere in the room and leaning back for you to follow his body - you do, chasing his heat, but with your eyes down. The removal exposed planes of tan skin, muscles that rival the ones you’d fantasised about. It’s soft to touch too, satin under your fingers as you slide your fingers down the muscles of his tummy.

“Pretty,” You murmur, and he shivers under your touch, breath hitching. “You are. I’ve- I’ve thought about how you look, but this is even better, Min.”

“Oh, baby,” He moans at your words, hands sliding under your shirt and onto your skin. He gives you a hesitant look, and you nod, before he’s sliding them upwards and cupping your breasts over your bra. He lets them sit in his hands for a bit, kissing over your jaw again before he slides his fingers underneath the lace. They’re a little cold, and when his fingertips hit your nipples you shiver, further collapsing into his hold, but he takes your weight easily. “So good, fuck, they feel so- can I- can you take your shirt off? I want to see.”

You pull it off over your head quickly, baring your bralette and Mingi’s palms situated under the fabric, and he moans, quickly sliding his hands out to look at them. He exhales, eyes fixated as he starts to pull at your nipples, and you don’t know if you’re just sensitive or if it’s because it’s him, but your spine arches into him with a gentle noise. 

“Fuck, so pretty, so pretty. Like that, that’s okay?” He murmurs, and you nod eagerly, making him pinch them again, on the line between pleasure and pain, “tell me more about your dreams. What was I like?”

His fingers flick over the nubs until they yank at the lace, hard and swollen, and he pulls your bralette over your head, leaving you naked from the waist up. You gasp when his head ducks down, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, your hand going to dark strands to keep him there - but you remember he asked you something.

“You… talked a lot,” you admit, embarrassed but he hums around your nipple, encouraging. You whimper and continue, writhing, “You were nice, but- dirty. Pervy. Am I- was I right?”

Mingi pops off your bud. “Well, your dreams sound a lot more innocent than mine,” he grins easily, lips slick and cheeks pink, “I had you bent over my desk with one of my songs playing. So yeah, I guess I am a pervert.”

It shocks you so bad that you don’t make a noise when he moves you, pushing you back on his dark bedsheets and moving over your body. He’s so big above you, just like you imagined, using one strong arm for support and leaning down to kiss you filthy again. 

He tangles his tongue with yours again as he fiddles with the button of your jeans, eventually managing to flick it open and tug the zipper down. You wrestle out of the denim underneath him, giggling when it gets caught at your knees; Mingi lets out an amused huff, smoothing your hair down like he did in the library, fond. 

Eventually, you’re left in your underwear wanting him to strip, too, but he pushes your legs apart. “This- this is okay?” He asks again, against your lips, and moans when you nod, “I didn’t want to last night, when we’d been drinking. I wanted it to be special, baby, I-“

“I know,” you say, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, landing on his lips when his skin begins to heat in embarrassment, “but I think if you don’t fuck me soon I might die.”

“We’re not drunk now,” his breath is impatient, heavy, and his spare hand moves down to brush against your panties, where the cotton is slick between your legs, “I’m high as hell though, and this pussy feels wet. G’na let me touch it?”

Fuck. Your head spins, like the high is returning but stronger because it’s Mingi; you’re finally here, beneath him, his to touch, his to hold. “You can touch it,” you heave, “I wanna touch you too. Please, I think about it so much, I wanna- wanna see it.”

Mingi’s face crumbles in a desperate noise, but he doesn’t move from his position, kissing you again like he can’t get enough of it.

When he speaks, you can hear him holding back, voice strained, “Not yet, baby. Let me taste it first, yeah? Then you can, I promise.”

“Okay,” you breathe against him, squirming when he rubs his fingertips over your panties, right where your clit is. He feels the pudge and brings his thumb down over it a few times, firm, and you let out a strangled whine. You hope San and Wooyoung are out, but you didn’t even bother checking the house before you let your man in. Your man - your breath stutters, and all of a sudden you’ve stopped caring. “Okay, fuck, please Mingi, want you, touch me properly-”

His fingers hook into your panties and yank them down your legs. Your legs rest over his, relaxed, toes curling into his thighs when you’re finally exposed to him. Despite the insecurity biting at your gut again from being so bare and vulnerable in front of him, he quells it quickly, wiggling down the bed onto his chest to examine you closely.

“Look at that, doll, so fucking wet,” He murmurs, thumbs coming up to spread your folds. They stick together with your arousal, something you’d be embarrassed about if he didn’t moan so loud at the sight, plush lips parting and eyebrows knitting together. “Fuck. G’na eat it now, ‘kay? If you need me to stop just-”

You force him into your pussy by his hair, and he moans at the first taste. His fat tongue swipes through your folds, impatient, and he licks up to flick it over the pudge of your clit, spreading your arousal everywhere. It’s so sensitive that you whimper and writhe underneath him, but he doesn’t seem swayed, burying his face into your cunt and making out with it viscerally, messy, claiming.

It’s just like your dream - except better. He’s pulling you down by your hips, rings biting into your skin, whining into your folds but he’s messier - he sucks all of your arousal into his mouth and spits it back on your pussy just to lick it up again. Your pussy is clinging to his lips by strings of sticky arousal and he flicks his tongue over your clit to hear you moan loudly, incomprehensible. 

“You’re- how are you so fucking good at this, fuck, please, more-”

“Told you, I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he states matter of factly, lips brushing against you, and you can see your slick has spread all over his chin, up to his nose. He doesn’t look bothered - he looks like he enjoys it, voice slurred, eyes half lidded, tongue licking over his lips, down to his chin. “This pussy’s fucking pretty. Tasty, too. I’m gonna have to eat her all the time, okay?”

He rubs over your clit, looking up at you expectantly. He’s waiting for a response, but you can’t focus, legs twitching at the stimulation. “F-uck, Mingi-“

“Mm, what do you say, baby?” He says, voice lower, and you keen. He chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head, rubbing a little faster, your pussy making an embarrassing wet noise with his movements. “Are you gonna let daddy come and eat her whenever he wants?”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you babble, squirming, desperate for him to eat you again and he’s still fucking laughing at you, eyes full of admiration. “Yes, pleasepleaseplease daddy, you can eat it whenever- whenever you want!”

“Good giiiirl,” He hums, diving back in again. He’s just as vigorous and you’re panting, making way too much noise, gripping and tugging at his hair and bucking into his mouth when he groans in delight at the pain. 

“Haa, fuck, Mingi- baby, baby, ‘s so good-“

He slides his fingers inside, past the resistance of your hole, curling them up instantly. It’s a stretch so quickly but feels so good, you squeal, humping your hips down onto him. He’s trying to find your g-spot, and it only takes a moment of prodding and pressing for you to make an incoherent noise, hips bucking. He taps a few times, teasing it, and you can’t shut up, gripping the pillow, eyes crossing in pleasure. “Noisy girl. Cunt’s fucking noisy too, talkin’ to me. Can you hear that? She’s telling me I own her now.”

“Mingi- f-fuck, you can’t say-“

“What? Don’t you like daddy talking to you?” He’s suddenly over you again, wet mouth forming a lazy grin. His fingers still pump into you and you reach to grab at his wrist, silver bracelets jingling with his movements. Your eyes water, hips grinding a rhythm into him. “I think you do, ‘cause you’re made for me, aren’t you? Fuckin’ unreal,” he hisses, looking down at where your cunt leaks down his skin, “this hole clenches around me when I talk, askin’ me for more. My hole, yeah?”

“Can’t- can’t be yours if you haven’t fucked it-“

“Shush, pretty, don’t be cheeky,” His tone is firm, but he kisses against your lips with affection. “Gonna fuck it. Gonna fuck it so many times it remembers the shape of my cock and can’t cum on anything else, but I want you to cum like this for me first. Can you?”

You’re nodding before he finishes, riding his fingers, and his thick thumb reaches up to flick over your clit. “I can, fuck, daddy, I can!”

“Yeah, moan my fucking name as you cum, there’s a good girl,” He kisses you again, dirtier this time, swallowing your moans with wet lips. You can taste yourself, and it’s that which does you in, Mingi pulling away just quick enough to hear the broken whine of his name that falls from your mouth. He groans back at you, rubbing your clit slower through your orgasm to drag it out, fingers curling to let you feel the shocks from your special spot just once more. 

He’s too good. It’s like he knows your body already and you can’t understand it, but you let yourself cream and gush on his fingers with many babbled words and strangled noises until you’re eventually done. You think you see his fingers stick together when he pulls them out but he sucks them clean quick enough, offering you a crooked, toothy smile as if he just couldn’t help himself when you let out a shaky breath at the sight. He rolls off of you onto his side, leaning his head on his hand all satisfied.

“How was that?” He asks, cute as ever, and you think you see him fucking blushing. He’s so good, and fuck, he’s yours now. “Was it like your dreams?” 

Your chest is still heaving, but you lean over to give him a kiss in response. His hand smooths over your lower tummy and you swoon, too happy, too desperate all over again despite the fact his fingers have just been all over and inside your pussy. “Mm, it looked intense, I liked doing that to you,” He’s getting excited again too - you think you can tell now, when his voice starts to pick up, airy, “you’re so fucking pretty, look so sexy when you cum, I just wanna-”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you glance down to his sweatpants. Mingi is definitely still hard, although there’s a small wet patch on his clothed bulge that you think he’s created without realising and fuck, your pussy is throbbing again. You can see how big he is through the clothes, much bigger than you ever thought, ever dreamed of, and it must be aching. “Let’s do more. I wanna do more with you.”

Mingi definitely blushes now, but he’s climbing on top of you again with that look in his eyes again. “Yeah? I want to do more too, you’re so gorgeous when you cum. Do you think you can you do that on my cock?”

He’s a little impatient, pushing his sweatpants down with one hand and leaning above you with his other. You try to look down but he tuts at you, making you look back at his face straight away, and you link your arms over his shoulders. “Um- maybe? I’ll try, shit.”

“Think you will,” He kicks his bottoms off and wriggles out of his boxers, too, and when you look again he doesn’t stop you. He even leans back to make sure your view isn’t obscured. Desperate, you assume, but shit it is big. 

His muscled arm swings as he jerks it back to full hardness leisurely, and you were right, it leaks heavily in his palm. The lubrication adds to the sensation and he lets out a sigh. His cock is long but thick too, and there’s a smattering of dark hair at his base that makes you want to press your nose into it and inhale as you deepthroat him. You’re quickly distracted, though, because he shuffles forward and positions his cockhead at your hole. It tries to suck him in already, gummy and wet and pliant after your orgasm. 

He pecks your lips again, addicted, nuzzling you with his sharp nose. He looks so pretty on top of you, plush lips pillowing over your cheeks and your chin and your nose, his black hair tickling your forehead. Your belly burns - you don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything this bad, and you’ve known that a while, but it’s real now, happening, not a dream although it still feels like one.

His tip catches in your folds again, and you feel him shiver on top of you but he doesn’t stop looking at you, kissing you again, over and over before he speaks hoarsely, “Condom?” 

You shake your head. No fucking way. You’re on the pill for health reasons, and you’ll be damned if you’re having anything between you and this man when you’ve finally gotten hold of him. “Raw, please, I’m on the pill, wanna- wanna feel you, all of it.”

“Shit, you are a fucking dream, baby,” he groans, finally, finally swiping his cock through your folds. You think he’s finally going to put it in but he uses your arousal to slick his cock, letting you feel the pressure of it against you. “Think it’ll fit? You’re- baby, you’re so fucking tiny down here, could barely get my fingers in- oh shit, trying to suck me in.”

You try to squirm, but he’s so overpowering you can barely move underneath him. There’s a burning feeling in your tummy like you need it or you’ll die, and he’s still playing with you. He swipes his cock through your folds over and over, watching the way his tip disappears a little into the slick mess. You can’t help it - “Mingi, please put it in!”

“Fuck, ‘m so sorry, baby,” He grunts, sounding like he isn’t the least bit sorry, repositioning himself on his knees so that he’s more comfortable. You see him pull at his cock, moving the foreskin down to expose the tip, leaking pearly precum that makes your mouth water, “‘s too fucking pretty, all creamy like that, hadta play a bit. Gonna take it all for me now? It’s not gonna be too big?”

“Mingi, please- please, I’ve thought about this for so long, just- please, oh my god- oh, oh-“

You’re cut off by the deep, gravelly groan he lets out as he finally pushes inside. It slides in easily from how soaked you are, but it’s still a stretch, so thick and hard that your pussy throbs and tries to gush around him, begging for more.

“Please,” you gasp wetly, and he gives you the first inch. It’s barely anything, not compared to the whole size of him, but you moan and he grins in satisfaction. His tongue licks over his teeth as he slowly starts to fuck the first inch in and out, over and over until you start to shake, hands scrabbling for his hips to push him further inside. “Please, Mingi, daddy, I want more, all of it, give it to me-“

He grunts, sliding all of his length home as he pushes your thighs further apart, letting the pits of your knees rest on his elbows. It’s then that he begins a sinuous grind, hips steadily rolling against your ass, jiggling the flesh upon impact. Your bed is creaking with his steady movements, a thud every second that has you worried your housemates can hear you but well, you decided a while ago that you were over that.

“That’s w-what you needed, yeah?” He coos, voice shaky from the way your pussy is clenching around him. Every time his hips roll backwards, your hole grips and clings as if you can’t bear to have him pull out, so Mingi shortens his thrusts - quick, deep bursts that almost pain your cervix when he hits it. It feels too good to hurt though, and you can’t help but push against his tummy, overwhelmed with sensation. He catches your hands, pinning them above your head and grinding his pubic bone against your clit. “I know, ‘s so good, just- baby, f-feel it, feel it. Gonna feel it for the rest of your life. Yours now.”

You feel dizzy. It’s so good, and he’s right - this is all yours now, finally, after everything. 

Mingi quickens his thrusts, hitting right where you need him to. His shoulders catch your attention, broad and rippling with exertion as he holds himself above you, wet, hot pants spilling from his lips with every movement and you can’t help yourself, you feel so full your eyes start to water. He’s throbbing inside of you, desperate to split you open with his teeth biting into his lower lip as he gazes down at where you’re connected. Your pussy drools, slicking up to your mound and over his pubes, up to his happy trail.

“S-so fuckin’ tight, so wet, so warm,” His voice breaks, palm moving to your lower stomach to keep you steady. It quivers under his touch, but he doesn’t notice, thinking solely with his dick. “Wanted to fuck you so bad. Fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long, feels too good, p-please, baby, I gotta fuck you harder-”

“You can, please, please,” You gasp when he does, shifting his knees to balance himself. His hips start move against you steadier, harder, cock pistoning into your pussy, abs rippling as he grinds himself inside of you. It’s everything you dreamed of and more, and it’s almost too much, too full, too big - you can’t help but whimper and scramble at his shoulders, squealing when he starts to rub over your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s so swollen, so sensitive that you squeal as he makes contact, cheeks burning as your back arches into him - you’ve been waiting so long for this, and it’s ruining you, every thrust taking you apart and putting you back together again. 

Mingi’s just as affected. He drools wetly onto your bare shoulder, wrapping one arm around the small of your back and letting the other hand move to cup your breast. He’s flushed, warm and rutting into you like a mindless animal, but the whines falling from his lips are nothing but grateful. “H-How does it feel, baby, is it as good as you imagined?”

“Better,” you hiccup, because it is, “fu-uck, Mingi, so much better, s-so deep!”

“Yeah, pussy’s t-too fucking good,” He cups your head with his hand, pulling your body upright so he’s essentially holding you off the bed to fuck you. He can go harder like this, and you feel his balls slapping against your ass, lips drooling messily on your shoulder while he talks. You don’t think he could be quiet if he tried, and you can’t believe your brain got this so right. “So fuckin- warm, tighttighttight, I could fuckin’ bust now,” he babbles, “feels so good to fuck you open finally, thought about it- s-so much-“

“Baby, oh my god, ‘s so good,” you mewl, hands moving to his chest, cupping the ample flesh and scratching down further, leaving red lines in their wake. It only makes Mingi fuck you harder, thighs trembling as he drives into you over and over, and you realise he’s right - you are gonna cum around his cock, too soon to be acceptable. “Feels- you’re perfect, I can’t, I’ll- it’s so good I’ll cum, I-”

“Oh, honey,” Mingi groans, long and drawn out, “i-it’s okay, you can cum for me. I want you to cum as m-much as you can, okay?” he kisses you, messy and wet against your cheek, “as much as that little pussy lets you, soak my dick over ‘n over, please, baby.”

You hump yourself onto him, managing to push yourself over his shaft and he lets you, lets you fuck your hole on his thick length until you feel it starting to build, too fast, too sudden, too perfect. He holds you close, ruts into you just enough to abuse his cockhead against that spot inside of you and it doesn’t take much, only a few grinds over him until you’re shaking apart.

“That’s it, oh, good girl, my girl, all mine, so pretty,” Mingi babbles through it, and at the crest of your orgasm your lips part in a sharp noise. Your moan is strangled, almost pained, and he moans right back at you, moving one thumb down to your clit to rub over it and extend your orgasm as long as he can. Your walls flutter around him, gummy and soft and gushing so wet down to his balls that he can’t help the way he rocks forward, chasing the wetness - he only causes you to leak more, cumming so long that your pussy starts to force him out; he presses his hips hard against yours to keep himself inside.

“A-Ah, I,” you cry, unsure, still stuttering with the remnants of it, “so good, I- thank you, daddy.”

Mingi gasps, plush lips parting, cock throbbing inside you. “don’t fucking- don’t say that, I almost came,” all of a sudden, he pulls out, gripping his cock at the base to stave off his own orgasm. You see how slick his shaft is, drenched with your arousal and it looks so dirty, white cream moistening his tan skin and contouring the veins with wet mess. As if it catches his attention, he looks down too, groaning at the sight of your release before his eyes move to your body, raking down you unabashedly. You can’t fucking believe this. Was he always this obvious? “Fuck, I… baby, can I have you on your hands and knees? Always wanted-”

You’re moving before he can finish, shaky limbs pushing your body up to your hands and knees. Your back forms an arch that he runs his hand down with a noise of appreciation, and then you hear the sheets rustle where he walks on his knees towards you, impatient. 

“Good girl,” he mumbles, smoothing down the curve of your spine and down to your ass, where he seems to hesitate before he lands one firm slap. The flesh ripples as you cry out, but you don’t run from him - instead, you’re bucking back for more, and Mingi pushes his dick back through your folds once again. “Thought of this s-so much. Your ass, you grinding back on me, tellin’ me- tellin’ me how it feels. Thought of you too fucking much to be normal, baby, thought I was going insane.”

“Mm, Mingi,” you shake your hips, distracted, trying to entice him, and it works. His noise is almost pained, eyes fixated down on where your ass perks up in the air, and he’s sliding back in in one quick thrust. It’s deeper like this, and he hits your cervix almost immediately - this time he doesn’t wait, hips hitting your ass consistently. The headboard thuds against the wall again, too loud and steady to be anything else, incriminating.

Mingi hisses and pulls out right to the tip, “P-please, baby. Shake it on me, like I said, shake it for daddy, good girl.”

Perhaps you’re too obedient but he’s engrossed by it, cock throbbing inside you. You start to grind your hips before you can be embarrassed, moving yourself up and down on his shaft in such a slick slide your chest hits the mattress, hands forming fists on your sheets. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you gasp, scrambling for dear life - has anything ever felt this good outside of those damn dreams? You knew it, knew it had to be him, knew it was always gonna be him - “feels so good, please, please-”

Mingi gasps, hand coming to grip your hips, moving you against him, “You’re unreal. Fucking- oh my god, that’s it, just like that. My girl, my f-fucking dream, god, let me-“

He takes over. You’re thankful for it, because you’ve never felt anything so thick and long and veiny and so fucking perfect inside you - it’s like he’s made for you, carving his ridges and curves into your walls until you couldn’t possibly think of anything else. You’re glad you’re his now, because it’d be impossible to be anyone else’s, to even try to be after he’s given you a taste of what you could have. 

Mingi’s ravenous. Hands come to push you down, like he’s realised he can be rougher, and you’re forced fully onto your front before his teeth bite at your neck. His hips slap into you, sloppy, uneven, size forcing the cream you’ve created to form a ring around his base, and he whines at the wetness. 

“G’na cum, can’t hold it,” He murmurs, hands wrapping around your shoulders for purchase, pulling you back into him. “Can you- f’me, another- fuckin’ give it to me, girl, all for your man.”

His finger and thumb come to roll your clit, and you’re done for. Combined with the feeling of him aching so heavily inside of you you can do nothing more but babble nonsensically, eyes crossing and cunt clenching around him so deliciously that he roars, pressing deep. Bites turn into kisses, softer as he gets closer and he tries to keep the pace the best he can but it’s unnecessary; just feeling his weight on you, his skin, his chest against your front triggers your orgasm, and one hand shoots down to hold Mingi’s wrist right over your bud.

“That’s it, f-fuck, I can feel it,” He gasps, knees scrambling on the bed to get closer to you. He pushes deep once, twice more and then with a sharp whine you feel him too, the head of his fat cock erupting and filling you with more than enough proof that he likes you back.

“Mngh- it’s- fucking deep, I-“ You choke, and Mingi shushes you, voice shaky, pulling your hips back to get it even deeper as he pumps you full, breaths stuttering. Something awful flashes through your brain, something domestic and too serious but it makes your cunt throb, gummy and soothing around his shaft as he empties himself. 

Mingi chuckles, kissing the slope of your shoulder. “Maybe it’ll take, h-huh? Claim you properly. Will you believe it’s real then?”

“J-Jesus,” you stutter, squirming - how did he read your mind like that? - and he laughs again, finally coaxing his softening cock out of your hole. It feels stretched, and you know it is when he groans, elongated, thumb rubbing over the slick opening.

“Could fuck you again looking at that,” He muses, and you wriggle your hips, tempted - he huffs and gives you another smack, this time on your thigh, admonishing you. “Behave. We’ll have a spliff and we’ll go again.”

You roll over on your back, deflated, finally seeing him. He sits next to you on the bed, skin flushed, eyes half lidded. He’s just as fucked out as you but somehow more composed, eyeing you like he wants to laugh but he knows he can’t as he’s not much better.

“Weed and then more sex,” Your hand reaches up to smooth over his cheek, and his eyes flutter shut, a smile pulling at his lips until he falls into you again. Limbs intertwined, you peck at his nose again. “Where have you been all my life?”

“Buying you banana milk and trying to be normal around you, actually.”

“Right, yeah,” You giggle, and he plasters himself to you closer. You’re both sticky and exhausted but it’s comfortable, the heat satiating rather than stifling. Nails trailing up his arm, he shivers, and you watch the goosebumps form - real. It’s real. “We have a lot of making up to do. We could’ve been doing this a while ago.”

Mingi’s eyes open, glinting. “You’re not leaving this room until it stinks, baby.”

“Okay, disgusting,” You shove at him, and he’s amused, finally rolling away to put some clothes on with a shake to his shoulders. Watching him as he moves, sitting on the edge of your bed, you’re unashamed this time - he’s yours to look at - and you hum as his back muscles flex, reaching down to pull his discarded boxers back up. When he stands, you see his thighs tense, and well, that ass… your eyes want to water. How lucky can one girl be?

Mingi stretches his arms above his head and turns to you, making you avert your eyes promptly to the blanket beneath you. “Pervert, I saw that. But, hey, are Wooyoung and San still in?”

You yawn, shrugging, finally reaching over for your own clothes. “Honestly, no idea. Stopped caring.”

“They can thank us for the show, and the many more to come,” Mingi grins, cocky, and you roll your eyes like you aren’t obsessed with him. With that, your phone starts to ping on your bedside table, three tones one after another, and you furrow your eyebrows. It’s quick throwing your clothes on before you check - a fresh pair of panties and a tee as your last pair of panties were ruined - and when you pick your phone up, he sidles in behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle and kissing over your neck.

Nosy ass, you think, but you open your phone with a satisfied little smile, before it promptly falls at seeing that it’s your house group chat.

[2:13pm] wooyo: definitely still in baby

[2:14pm] sannie: Told you he’s a nice guy

[2:14pm] sannie: Do u guys want anything btw we’re ordering food

You splutter. “Oh my god-“

“How kind of him,” Mingi coos. “I think San’s nice too.”

“Mingi,” You scowl, but he doesn’t flinch, and when he plants a sloppy kiss on your cheek you can’t help but smile. “You know that’s not the point!”

“Oh, right. Ask him to get me some chicken. He knows what I like.”

“That’s still-”

“Baaaaby. Chicken, please.”

“Fine.”

“You didn’t answer your phone,” you finally say. Your voice comes out steadier than you expected, a calm that doesn’t match the storm inside.

Wooyoung blinks, processing your words through the alcohol fog. “Sorry, we were out at the bar. The project…” He waves his hand vaguely. “It went really well. Everyone was—”

“Celebrating,” you finish for him. Your eyes drift to the table behind you, the two plates still set with the meal you spent three hours preparing. The anniversary cake you ordered sits untouched in its box, the words “One Year” now barely visible through the condensation that’s gathered on the lid.

It hits you then, with a clarity that makes your stomach drop. He doesn’t remember.

“Look, I know I’m sorry that I’m late again,” Wooyoung says, finally noticing your expression. “Things got crazy at the office. You know babe, the promotion, it’s—”

“Do you know what day it is?” you ask quietly.

He frowns, clearly trying to think through his drunken haze. “Uhh Tuesday?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You watch the realization slowly dawn on his face, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his mouth opens then closes without sound.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Oh fuck…”

“You forgot our anniversary.” It’s not a question.

“I didn’t—”Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair, his movements still uncoordinated. “The project deadline was today. We’ve been working toward this for weeks, you know that. And then everyone wanted to go out, and I couldn’t just—”

“Couldn’t just text me? Couldn’t just call to say you’d be late?” Your voice rises slightly, despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I sat here for hours, Wooyoung. I thought something happened to you. I called your friends, hell I even called your office phone.”

“I’m fine,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, defensive. “I’m right here. Everything’s fine.”

“Everything is not fine.” You stand up, needing the distance between you. “You’ve been working non-stop for weeks. You come home exhausted, barely speaking to me, and now you can’t even remember our anniversary?”

Wooyoung sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion and frustration. “I’m doing this for us, you know that—”

“Stop,” you cut him off. “Stop saying that. I’m not asking you to quit your job, Wooyoung. I’m asking you to be present. To remember that I exist when you’re not at work.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment you see the man you fell in love with—the one who used to notice when you changed your hair, who used to call just to hear your voice. But then his expression hardens again.

“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under,” he says, his voice tight. “This isn’t just about me. It’s about our future.”

“Our future?” You let out a humourless laugh. “What fucking future? I barely see you anymore. When was the last time we had an actual conversation that wasn’t about how tired you are?”

“I’m trying to build something for us.”

“No, you’re building something for yourself and calling it ‘us’ to make yourself feel better.” The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and honest in a way that makes your chest ache. “I feel like you only love me when it’s convenient for you. When you have the time and energy.”

Wooyoung’s face darkens. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You step closer, needing him to see, to understand. “When was the last time you asked how I was doing? When was the last time you noticed anything about my life that wasn’t directly related to yours?”

“I’m under a lot of stress right now, baby.”

“We’re all under stress, Wooyoung. That’s not an excuse to disappear on your girlfriend.”

The room falls silent. Wooyoung’s shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched. You can see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, the dark circles under his eyes that have been there for weeks. Part of you wants to reach out, to comfort him, but the hurt is too fresh, too deep.

“I’m doing my best,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’m trying to balance everything.”

“Your best isn’t good enough.” The words hang in the air between you, sharp and painful. “Not when your best means I spend our anniversary wondering if you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere because you couldn’t be bothered to send a text.”

Wooyoung flinches. “That’s not—”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” Your voice breaks. “To sit here, watching the clock, imagining all the worst possible scenarios because the man I love can’t remember I exist?”

“I do remember you exist,” he says, and there’s frustration in his voice now. “I think about you all the time. I’m doing all of this for you.”

“For me?” You laugh, the sound hollow. “This isn’t for me, Wooyoung. I never asked for any of this. I asked for you. Not this stressed-out stranger who comes home at midnight and falls asleep on the couch.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and you can see him struggling, the alcohol and exhaustion making it hard for him to find the right words. When he finally speaks, his voice is strained.

“Maybe this is the real me,” he says. “Maybe this is who I am now and you just don’t like what you see.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. You take a step back, your breath catching in your throat. You shake your head, denying the words that came out of his mouth.

“That’s not true,” you whisper.

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice rises, matching your earlier statement, fuelled by frustration and alcohol. “Because it seems like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. I’m either working too much or not making enough money or not paying enough attention—”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face every time I come home late. Every time I’m too tired to talk.” He runs his hand through his hair again, the gesture agitated. “Maybe you should just find someone who can give you what you want, since apparently I can’t.”

The silence that follows is absolute. You stare at him, unable to believe the words that just came out of his mouth. Wooyoung looks just as shocked as you feel, his eyes widening as he realizes what he’s said.

“Wait… shit no that’s not what I meant…” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You want me to leave?” Your voice is barely audible.

“No, I didn’t mean…“ Wooyoung takes a step toward you, but you back away. “I’m sorry, I’m drunk and exhausted and I didn’t—”

“You meant it,” you say. There’s no anger in your voice now, just a deep, bone-weary sadness. “Maybe not all of it, but part of it.”

He doesn’t deny it. The silence stretches between you, filled with everything that’s been left unsaid for weeks.

“I need to be alone,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between you, a barrier neither of you has the strength to cross. “I can’t do this right now.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already moving, already turning away from the wreckage of your anniversary night. You don’t look back as you walk down the hallway to your bedroom—the bedroom that was supposed to be shared, not a place of retreat. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes your chest ache.

In the darkness of your room, you press your back against the door and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. Your shoulders shake with silent sobs you refuse to let him hear. The anniversary card you’d written him earlier sits on your nightstand, the words inside now feeling hollow and foolish.

Time passes. You don’t know how long you sit there, but eventually, you stand on trembling legs and change into your sleep clothes. The bed feels too big, too empty. You lie on your side, staring at the empty space where Wooyoung should be, and wait for sleep that doesn’t come. An hour passes. Maybe two. Your anger has cooled to a dull ache in your chest, but sleep still eludes you. Finally, you slip out of bed, needing water, needing to move.

The living room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. And there he is—Wooyoung, slumped on the couch, still in his work clothes, one arm thrown over his eyes. Even in the dim light, you can see the tear tracks on his face, the dark stain on the cushion beneath his cheek.

Your heart constricts. Despite everything—despite the anger, despite the hurt—you still love him. You still care.

You move silently to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and grabbing the bottle of aspirin from the cabinet. Your movements are careful, deliberate, as you place them on the coffee table beside him. You don’t wake him. You don’t say a word.

Instead, you stand there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Even in sleep, his face is troubled, his brow furrowed. You want to smooth the lines away, to tell him everything will be okay. But you can’t. Not yet.

So you do the only thing you can. You take care of him, silently, the way you’ve always done. Because even when he forgets, even when he’s lost in his own world of stress and ambition, you remember. You remember the man you fell in love with, the one who’s still in there somewhere, buried under exhaustion and pressure.

You pull the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it carefully over him. Your fingers brush against his hair, just once, so lightly he doesn’t stir. Then you turn and walk away, back to the bedroom that feels emptier than it should. You climb into bed alone, the space beside you cold and untouched. You wonder if this is how relationships begin to break—not through lack of love, but through all the ways people fail to hold onto each other when life becomes too heavy. Sleep comes eventually, but it’s fitful, troubled by dreams of a future that feels increasingly uncertain.

══════════════════ Wooyoung wakes slowly to the dull throb of a splitting headache and a sharp ache running down his neck. The couch digs painfully into his back, one arm numb from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in. For a few disoriented seconds, he just stares at the ceiling, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the apartment. Then last night hits him all at once. The argument. Your tears. The look on your face when he realized what day it was.

With a quiet groan, he pushes himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. That’s when he notices the blanket draped carefully over him. The glass of water sitting on the coffee table beside two aspirin. His chest tightens. You took care of him anyway. Even after everything.

Wooyoung stares at the medicine for a long moment before letting out a weak, humourless laugh under his breath. “Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely, guilt crawling up his throat. 

He swallows the aspirin dry before forcing himself to stand, exhaustion still heavy in his limbs. The apartment is quiet as he makes his way toward the bedroom, each step slower than the last, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of the door. He eases it open carefully. You’re asleep, curled toward his side of the bed even though it stayed empty all night. In the soft morning light, he notices the tear tracks dried against your cheeks immediately, and something inside him caves in at the sight. His own eyes still burn from last night, raw and swollen in a way he knows mirrors yours. For a moment, he just stands there in silence, looking at you. At the woman who still tucked a blanket around him after he forgot about your anniversary. After he hurt you. Wooyoung closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

He closes the door to your shared bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen. He quietly reaches for his phone and silences the alarm for work before typing out a lengthy message to his boss with determined fingers. Nothing at work feels more important than this anymore.

He had to fix this.

══════════════════

Your eyes open to the empty space beside you, the pillow still perfectly fluffed, untouched. Of course he’s already gone. The realization settles in your chest like a stone. You lie there for a moment, the events of last night crashing back with brutal clarity. The forgotten anniversary. The heartbreak that ensued. The fight. The words that can’t be unsaid. You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, forcing the tears to remain at bay.

Then you hear it—the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen.

Your heart stutters. You freeze, listening. There it is again—the unmistakable sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. The one that should be empty right now. Panic rises in your throat. He’s still here. Wooyoung is still here, and you have no idea what to say to him after everything that happened. After everything you both said.

You sit up slowly, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you pad toward the bedroom door. Your hand hesitates on the doorknob. What will you see when you open it? Will he be packing his things? Will he be waiting to tell you it’s over?

The door creaks as you pull it open. The hallway seems longer than usual as you make your way toward the kitchen. With each step, your anxiety grows, a tight knot in your chest that makes it hard to breathe.

And then you see him.

Wooyoung stands at the counter, his back to you. He’s still wearing the same clothes from last night, rumpled and wrinkled. His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles. He moves slowly, methodically, as if each action requires immense concentration.

“Aren’t you going to work?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice hoarse from crying.

Wooyoung turns, and the sight of him makes your breath catch. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, like he’s been carrying the weight of your argument with him through the long night.

“I told them I wasn’t coming in today or for the rest of the week,” he says simply.

The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, trying to process what this means. Wooyoung never calls in. He’s the type who goes to work with a fever of 102, who works through weekends and holidays without complaint.

“What? Why?” you ask, the question barely audible.

Wooyoung sets down the cup he’s been holding. His knuckles turned white as he gripped onto the glass tighter. “I already lost enough time with you yesterday. I’m not about to just leave you here alone, again.”

The simplicity of his words hits you like a physical blow. You lean against the doorframe, suddenly weak. The kitchen table is set—two plates, two mugs, the breakfast you used to make together on weekend mornings. The silence that follows is thick with everything left unsaid. You watch as he turns back to the counter, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. There’s a vulnerability in his posture you haven’t seen in months—the confident, ambitious man you’ve been watching slip away replaced by someone unsure, someone hurting.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, still facing away from you. “For everything I said last night. For making you feel like you don’t matter to me.” He turns to face you, and the raw emotion in his eyes makes your chest ache. “You matter more than anything, and I’ve been acting like you don’t.” You want to go to him, to bridge the distance between you, but your feet feel rooted to the spot. “And the rest?” you ask. “What you said about me finding someone else?”

Wooyoung’s face crumples. “I didn’t mean any of that stupid shit. I was an idiot and said the most hurtful thing I could think of because I was angry at myself, not at you. What I said to you was inexcusable.” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “I was so terrified of failing you that I ended up failing you anyway.”

The truth of his words settles over you. You step into the kitchen, moving toward him slowly, giving him the chance to retreat if he wants to. He doesn’t. “I don’t want someone else,” you say quietly. “I want you. Not the version of you that’s so caught up in work he forgets we exist. That I exist.”

Wooyoung’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been so focused on building a future for us that I forgot to be present in our now.” He takes a step toward you. “I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away or ever but—God, I fucked up so bad.”

You look at the breakfast he’s prepared—eggs perfectly set, toast golden, the smell of coffee already doing something to the tension in your shoulders. He’s always been a better cook than you. You’d forgotten that, somehow, in the wreckage of last night.

“Come here,” you say softly.

He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, and then his arms are around you, holding you so tightly it’s almost painful. You can feel him trembling, feel the way his heart hammers against your cheek. Your face tucks just under his chin, and you feel the warm wetness of tears landing soft in your hair.

“I love you,” he whispers, the words muffled against your hair. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.” You hold him just as tightly, your own tears spilling over. “I love you too,” you mumble against his chest. “Don’t shut me out like that again, You know I’m always here for you.”

Wooyoung pulls back, his hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush away your tears with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. “I know,” he says. “I’ll do better for you. For us. Today, tomorrow, and however long as it takes.”

He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. “Can I show you something?” You nod. “I got you something,” he says. “I remembered that I had a whole elaborate plan to give this to you.” He exhales, something between a laugh and a sob. “Then I got the promotion news and I just—I let that take over everything. Your gift has been sitting in my bag for two weeks while I was out celebrating myself.” He shakes his head. “I made our anniversary about me. I’m such an idiot.” “Yeah, the biggest idiot of all time.” He lets out a small chuckle, a hint of guilt and sadness follow the hollow laugh. A flicker of something hopeful crosses his exhausted face. “Can I still give it to you?” You look up at him. “Of course.”

Wooyoung’s face lights up with a small, tentative smile. He takes your hand and leads you to the living room. You both sink into the couch where he spent the night, your shoulders touching. His work bag sits on the floor beside it. He reaches down and pulls out a small velvet box.

Your breath catches.

“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, seeing your expression. “Not yet, anyway.” He opens the box to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, with a small charm hanging from it—a tiny compass.

“It’s so you always find your way back to me,” he explains, his voice soft. “Even when I’m being a complete dumbass.” You look from the bracelet to his face, seeing the hope and fear mingled in his eyes. This is what you fell in love with—not the ambitious, driven man who works too much, but this man who’s vulnerable enough to admit when he’s wrong, who’s brave enough to try to fix what he’s broken.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, holding out your wrist.

As Wooyoung fastens the bracelet with trembling fingers, you realize that healing won’t happen overnight. There will be more conversations, more difficult moments as you both learn to balance his career with your relationship. But as his hand finds yours, the bracelet cool against your skin, you know you’re willing to try.

Because some things are worth fighting for. Some people are worth the struggle. And this man—flawed and imperfect but trying, always trying—is one of them.

“I should have called,” he says finally, his voice quiet in the morning stillness. “I should have texted. I kept thinking about it, but then someone would pull me into another conversation, and I’d get distracted, and then...” He trails off, shaking his head. “That’s no excuse.”

“No, it’s not,” you agree, but there’s no anger in your voice now. Just bone-deep weariness.

Wooyoung’s shoulders slump. He looks smaller somehow, diminished by his own guilt. “I’ve been so focused on proving myself at work that I forgot to be present here. With you.” His eyes find yours, red-rimmed and sincere. “I’m drowning, and instead of asking for help, I’ve been pulling you under with me.”

Your chest tightens at his words. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own hurt that you haven’t fully considered his perspective. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling?” you ask softly.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Because I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who had it all figured out.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want you to see how overwhelmed I was. How scared I am that I won’t be enough.”

The admission hangs in the air between you. You reach for his hand, your fingers hesitantly brushing against his. He turns his palm up, letting you take it.

“I’m sorry too,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “For being so accusatory last night. For making you doubt that your best wasn’t enough. And for dismissing the fact that you work so immensely hard to provide for us.”

Wooyoung looks up, surprise evident in his eyes.

“I was angry,” you continue, “but I was also terrified. Every time you came home late without calling, I imagined the worst. And then I’d feel so stupid when you finally texted, like I was being dramatic or clingy.”

“You’re not,” he says firmly. “You were right to be worried. I’ve been a completely inconsiderate asshole.”

You squeeze his hand. “And I said things I didn’t mean. About you not loving me.” The words are hard to say, hard to admit. “I know that’s not true. I just... I missed you. I missed us.”

A tear slips down Wooyoung’s cheek. “I’ve missed us too,” he admits. “I’ve been so caught up in work that I forgot how to be a person. How to be your person.”

You shift closer to him on the couch, the gap between you narrowing. Your free hand reaches up to brush away his tear, your touch tentative, questioning. He leans into it, his eyes closing briefly.

“I’m going to do better,” he promises. “I’ve already talked to my boss about setting better boundaries. About leaving work at a reasonable hour, about not checking emails at home.” He opens his eyes, looking at you with such intensity it makes your breath catch. “You deserve more than the scraps of time and attention I’ve been giving you.”

“What if you can’t?” you ask, voicing the fear that’s been haunting you. “What if work pulls you back in?”

Wooyoung’s expression turns determined. “Then I’ll walk away. Find something else. Because nothing is worth losing you over.” He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Nothing.”

Your vision blurs with fresh tears. “I don’t want you to give up your career for me.”

“I’m not,” he assures you. “I’m choosing our relationship. Choosing you. The career is just a job. I can be replaced at any given moment but you? You’re my whole life. You’re irreplaceable.”

The words wash over you, healing some of the hurt that’s been festering. You move closer still, until your knees are touching, until you can feel the warmth of him beside you.

“I love you,” you say simply. “Even when you’re being an idiot and forgetting our anniversary.”

A watery laugh escapes him. “I love you too. I’m your idiot, though.”

Your hand finds its way to his face, cupping his cheek. His stubble is rough against your palm, grounding you in this moment. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice raw with emotion.

You nod, unable to form words around the lump in your throat.

Wooyoung leans forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. When his lips meet yours, it’s like coming home after a long journey. There’s relief in the touch, and longing, and a deep, abiding affection that transcends the hurt of the past weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips. “I’m so sorry.”

His kisses move to your cheek, to the corner of your eye where tears still linger. “I’ll do better,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You tilt your head, giving him access to your neck, where he presses soft, apologetic kisses. “I know you will,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his hair. 

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he says. “But I’m going to spend every day trying to be worthy of you.”

You shake your head. “You already are. You just got lost for a while.”

He pulls you into his arms, holding you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear. His hand strokes your hair, gentle and soothing.

“I was so scared,” you admit, the words muffled against his shirt. “That we were falling apart, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”

His arms tighten around you. “We’re not falling apart,” he promises. “We’re just... learning how to be together in a new way. With new challenges.”

You look up at him, seeing the determination in his eyes. “Together,” you repeat. “That’s the important part.”

Wooyoung nods, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Together. Always.”

The breakfast he made sits forgotten on the table, growing cold. But you don’t mind. There will be other breakfasts, other mornings. Right now, all that matters is this—the two of you, holding onto each other, finding your way back to what matters most.

“I think,” Wooyoung says after a while, his voice soft with sleepiness and emotion, “that since i took a few days off we could spend more time together. Just us. No work, no distractions.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Taking time off? Who are you and what have you done with my workaholic boyfriend?”

He laughs, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I’ve been replaced by someone with better priorities.” His expression turns serious. “I mean it, though. We need this. I need this. To remember that I have a lot of making up to do.”

The idea is tempting. “And how would you do that, hm?”

“I could think of one way right now,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can respond, Wooyoung stands and scoops you into his arms, his movements surprisingly fluid despite his exhaustion. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you toward your bedroom—your shared bedroom that’s been missing his presence for far too long.

“Wooyoung,” you breathe, your heart racing as he pushes the door open with his foot. “Put me down! I could’ve walked to the bedroom too, idiot.”

“Sorry princess. I couldn't help myself,” he says, his eyes dark with desire as he lays you gently on the bed.

He climbs onto the bed beside you, his weight making the mattress dip. For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression a mixture of reverence and hunger that makes your breath catch.

“Missed you,” he whispers, his hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw. “So much.”

You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss that’s deeper than before, more urgent. His lips move against yours with a desperation that speaks volumes about the distance that’s grown between you. You can taste the salt of dried tears on his skin, feel the slight tremble in his hands as they slide down to your waist.

You fist your hands in the crisp fabric of his shirt. The buttons press sharp and insistent against your chest, and you tug at them, desperate, fumbling until the first one gives. He groans, shifting so he can help, pulling away just enough to make quick work of the rest. The shirt falls open, exposing him to the morning light, the edges of his collarbone flushed and vulnerable.

Your breath hitches—you’d forgotten, somehow, how beautiful he is like this. His body is lean but not slight, muscle hugging bone and sinew in all the right places. You drag your hand along the inside of his forearm, tracing the thick black lines of the rose inked from his wrist to the curve before his elbow. You glide over the leaves and thorns, half-expecting the tattoo to prickle beneath your touch. He shudders, eyes hooded, drinking in the sight of you devouring him.

You slide your palm up, across his biceps, his shoulder—mapping every inch, reacquainting yourself with the geography of him. His chest heaves, the faint dusting of hair there rising as you scrape your nails down to his abs. You can’t help but smile a little at how his stomach tenses, how he jerks when you reach the sensitive dip above his hips. He grabs your hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in apology and in thanks. He’s trembling with wanting, with relief, and you want to swallow it whole.

You pull him closer, reaching up to slide the shirt off his shoulders. It pools at his elbows, then falls away, leaving him naked from the waist up. He presses you into the mattress, his lips everywhere at once—your jaw, your neck, the hollow at your collarbone. His hands are greedy, slipping under your shirt, seeking skin, worshipping you as if you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

Wooyoung’s fingers curl into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt as though he’s gathering every ounce of courage in his body to peel away not only the fabric but the distance he’s put between you. The morning light filters through gauzy curtains, illuminating the swirl of dust motes in the air and casting a gentle glow over your skin. He pauses, breath catching as he drinks you in—every freckle on your shoulder, every rise and fall of your chest—before tugging the shirt up and over your head in one smooth, practiced motion. The cool air of the room grazes your bare skin, sending a shiver through you as the light catches the gentle pebbling of your nipples and the subtle flex of your stomach muscles.

He chases away the chill, warm palms gliding up your sides, fingertips tracing the lines of your ribs, thumbs circling the soft shadows beneath your breasts as if to reassure himself that you are real—solid and here. “W-Wooyoung,” you breathe out, barely more than a tremor in the air, but it hits him like a bullet: his gaze snaps up, blown wide and hungry, jaw tensing so hard you can see the cords in his neck stand out. “Hmm?” He sounds dazed, already gone for you. He searches your face for a clue, a hint of what you want, even as his hands keep moving—roaming your waist, palming the flare of your hips, stroking reverent up and down your spine. You shudder, skin prickling everywhere he touches. Then, with a slow, deliberate shift, you arch your back and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear—your last layer—and drag them down, inch by inch, teasing yourself as much as him. You kick them off, letting them flutter to the floor, and stretch out on your stomach, arms reaching above your head, pressing your cheek into the pillow. You tilt your hips up, highlighting the bare swell of your ass, lush and expectant, every inch of you primed for him. The effect is instantaneous. He groans, low and feral in the back of his throat, his cock straining visibly against the thin grey of his sweats.

“What are you doing, baby?” he chokes, voice ragged, eyes glued to the sight of you so shamelessly presenting for him. 

You glance back lazily over your shoulder, lips parted, smile hazy and filthy. “Lay on top of me.” Your voice drips with need, teasing, coaxing, as your ass shifts again, the jiggle intentional, sinful.

His adam's apple bobs, eyes glued to the way you’re presenting yourself to him, pussy glistening and waiting. He sits frozen for a second, maybe trying to get his breath back, maybe just marvelling at how good you look, spread out and waiting.

“Bet."

Then he’s on you, crawling up the bed with a focused intent that sends another thrill through you. “Up,” he murmurs, tapping your hip. You lift obediently and he slides a pillow beneath you, angling your hips up off the mattress before he kneels behind you, pushes your thighs apart with strong hands, trapping your legs beneath his as he blankets your body. His heat, heavy and suffocating in the best way, seeps into your skin. Your cheek sinks into the sheets; you can smell your own slick in the air, feel the pulse of anticipation between your thighs. He leans in, lips skimming up your spine, worshipping every vertebrae, every goosebump and dimple, before he settles his weight against your back, pinning you down and making you feel tiny beneath him. You can’t help it: you reach back, grab at the waistband of his slacks, desperate to feel more of him. Your fingers brush the rigid outline of his cock and he shudders, hips jerking, the tip already wetting a dark stain into the fabric. He lets you tug down his pants, lifting his hips just enough to help you get them over his ass, down his thighs, clumsy and urgent. As soon as they’re off, he kicks them away, a brief chill racing up your legs before he covers you again, hotter and needier than before. You’re both trembling—maybe from nerves, maybe from how badly you need each other. 

“Please,” he moans, the word nearly a whimper, as you wrap your hand around the bulge beneath his boxers, feeling him throb in your grip. He’s so hard it almost hurts, and when you pull the waistband down and finally set him free, he gasps, forehead dropping onto your shoulder. His cock springs out, thick and flushed, the head angry red and already leaking.

“Jesus,” you hear yourself say, voice thick with awe. “Someone’s a little eager.” He laughs, shaky, like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.

“You have no fucking idea.”

His hand traces your thigh, kneading your flesh, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to bruise. You feel how much he needs you in every trembling touch. He cups your ass, squeezing and spreading, and then lets his hand drift lower, fingers ghosting along your slit. You’re soaked—embarrassingly so—and he groans when he feels it, slicking his fingers through you, teasing your entrance with featherlight touches. Your hips buck back, desperate for more, but he holds you firmly in place, taking his time, savoring the way you writhe under him.

“Are you gonna make me beg?” you pant, rutting against his hand.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, voice thick and broken. “I want to hear you say you need me.”

“You already know I do.” 

“Say it anyway.” His tongue flicks your earlobe, his words vibrating in your chest. “I need you, Wooyoung. Please.” The words tumble out, more desperate than you mean them to, but you don’t care. You want him—need him—so bad it’s physically painful. He lines himself up at your entrance, the heat of his cock a brand against your skin. But he doesn’t push in—not yet. He grinds the tip against your folds, smearing his precum through your wetness, teasing you with shallow thrusts that never quite give you what you want. You sob into the pillow, body arching, entirely at his mercy. “God, look at you,” he whispers. “You’re so perfect. Fuck, I don’t deserve you.” “Yes you do.” The words are a gasp, but you mean them. Even after everything, you want to give him this. You want to give him everything. He’s shaking, whole body vibrating with the effort of holding back, not just rutting into you like an animal. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice so weighted with emotion it almost makes you cry. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.” “I want you,” you say, “I always want you. I want you right now, more than anything.” He lets out a choked breath, as if you’ve released him from a terrible spell. “Fuck, yes.” He buries his face in the curve of your neck, breath hot and ragged. You feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance, stretching you slowly, inch by inch as he slides in. The stretch is sweet, burning, perfect. You moan, the sound loud and raw, echoing off the walls of your shared bedroom. He fills you up, deeper than you remember, and it feels like coming home after a long, cold exile. You clench around him, savouring the drag, the friction, the pulse of his heartbeat through the thickness of his cock. He starts to move, slow at first, drawing out each withdrawal and thrust so you feel every centimetre, every ridge and vein. His hands on your waist are trembling, sometimes gripping too hard and then letting go, as if he’s afraid to hurt you, afraid to let go of this moment. You arch your back, pushing yourself up into him, greedy for more. “Harder,” you urge. “Fuck me harder."

He whimpers, hips stuttering, and then sets a punishing pace, hips snapping forward to drive into you with every ounce of pent up longing he’s been carrying. The mattress creaks, the headboard smacks the wall. He’s so big, so deep, so desperate, and you love it.

“Don’t… fuck– say that shit,” he whines, his voice cracking. “Y’feel so good, so fucking tight.”

You arch back, meeting his thrusts, loving the way he loses control. His need for you is unfiltered, all-consuming, and you drink it like oxygen. He sets a rhythm, fast and merciless, hips slamming into you so hard it feels like a punishment, but you crave it, need it, want him to fuck you so hard you forget the argument and only memorise the feeling of him inside you. The slapping sound of skin on skin is obscene, even over the creaking of the bed and your shared moans, but you don’t care, don’t care if the whole apartment building hears you. Wooyoung is not gentle, not now; he’s desperate, driven by weeks of withheld affection, of loneliness and longing. He covers you, bites your shoulder, fucks you like it’s the last time, every thrust a plea for forgiveness and a pledge of eternity.

He leans more of his weight into you, his hand snaking around to your front, fingers seeking your clit. The first touch is electric—you jerk, stars bursting behind your eyes. He circles your clit with the pad of his finger, fast and hard, no finesse, just pure need to make you cum.

In a cruel twist of fate, his hips slow suddenly—the rhythm of his hips bullying yours breaking. You whimper at the loss, your body clenching around him, so desperate for more. But he pulls out completely, leaving you empty, aching.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice rough with need.

You crane your neck back over your shoulder, cheek still pressed into the sheets, and find him watching you with that dark intensity that makes your breath catch. His cock glistens with your combined wetness, the head swollen and flushed as he drags it slowly up and down your entrance, the angle making you feel every torturous inch of the tease—just enough pressure to feel but not enough to satisfy.

“Please,” you gasp, hips tipping higher. His lips curl into a wicked smile from somewhere above and behind you. “Not yet.” He circles your clit with his slick tip before sliding back down. Your thighs tremble against the pillow he placed under your hips. “Spit,” he commands, reaching his palm around to your mouth.

You obey without hesitation, gathering saliva that he uses to coat himself again, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. He returns to his maddening teasing, the new slickness making his cock glide effortlessly against your swollen flesh.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, the words punched out between ragged breaths. “Look at you—taking everything I give you.” You’re beyond words now, reduced to desperate sounds as he continues his exquisite torture. When you can’t stand it anymore, you reach behind your body, guiding him back to where you need him most. He lets you, but only for a moment. With a growl that vibrates through your chest, he pushes your hand away and positions himself again, his eyes locked on to the way your body is so responsive to his. Then he leans down, lips pressing soft and slow into your shoulder, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck “Princess” he whispers, voice cracking open at the edges, his cock still dragging slowly and torturous against your entrance. “You can forgive me right? Shit…You can forgive your Wooyo right?” “Yes,” you gasp, hips rolling back into him helplessly. “Yes, yess—fuck, I f-forgive you… Wooyoung, I need you so bad, please!" Something breaks in his expression—all restraint shattering. He thrusts forward in one powerful motion, burying himself to the hilt with a sound that borders on a sob, hands clutching your hips—his grip bruising but full of desperate love. “God, you feel so good,” he croaks. “I missed this. I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”

The force of it knocks the wind out of you, the fullness so shocking you can only moan, the sound muffled by the pillow but loud enough for him to hear—maybe for the neighbours to hear too. He doesn’t care. Neither do you. The words degenerate into a string of curses and pleas, all dignity and composure long abandoned. You’re reduced to this: the shudder of your hips, the filthy slickness on your thighs, the way you beg for him with every inch of your body.

He’s lost to it now, rutting into you with a violence born of weeks—months—of wanting, of regret, of all the shit he’s made you both suffer through in his absence. Every motion is a contradiction, a punishment and an apology, as he fucks you harder than he ever has, hips snapping so fast you barely have time to catch your breath between thrusts. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, yanking you back onto him, fisting in your hair, ghosting along your ribs and then down to your clit. His fingers rub you with the same desperate rhythm as his cock, no finesse, just pure, animal drive to make you cum first, to make you remember what you are together.

He doesn’t say a word at first, just grunts and breathes your name into your hair like a prayer. But when you look back at him, head turned over your shoulder, you see his face twisted in something rawer than lust. Love. His eyes are wet. He thrusts in, deeper, grinding the head of his cock against the spot inside you that makes your vision white out at the edges.

“God, I missed you,” he whines, the words hitching on the upstroke. “I missed you, princess, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—” He laces his apology into every movement, every thrust, trying to convince you with the force of his body how much he means it. “No one else can have you, fuck, never anyone else, not ever, you hear me?” His hips stutter, losing rhythm, and you know he’s close, so close, but he won’t let himself finish until you do.

He snakes his hand around your throat, the gentlest squeeze, just enough to remind you who’s in control. The pressure is perfect; you arch into it, into him, hips rocking back greedily to milk every inch of his cock. He bends over you, mouth against your ear, breath hot and frantic: “Cum for me, princess. Wanna feel you cum all over me.” And you do, splintering apart around him, pleasure ripping through you so hard it borders on pain. You scream, you swear, you claw at the sheets, and he fucks you through it, pace relentless, never slowing, never breaking.

He’s shaking above you, groaning your name, his hand still tangled in your hair as he thrusts a few more desperate times and then comes, deep inside you, with a guttural wail. The heat of his release is almost shocking, the way he fills you leaving no doubt that he’s yours, utterly and absolutely. He stays pressed to you, sweat-slicked and trembling, for long, silent seconds, his cock twitching with aftershocks, his breath turning softer, steadier. You can feel his heart thumping against your back, the wild rhythm slowly synchronizing with yours.

He never lets you go, not even as he softens inside you. He just wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck. You can’t move, can barely breathe, but the only thing you want is to stay like this forever—his weight, his warmth, his love, every bit of him pressed into you until you forget where you end and he begins. He’s the apology and the forgiveness, the punishment and the reward, and you take every last bit of him, all over again, until neither of you has anything left to give.

You’re both gasping, boneless, ruined, but it’s the best kind of ruined—like you’ve been put back together again, better than you were before. He kisses your neck, soft now, lazy, like he can’t help himself, and when he finally pulls out, both of you whimper at the loss.

You shift, rolling onto your side, facing him. His face is damp—sweat, tears, who even knows—but his eyes are clear and bright as he looks at you. He traces your jaw with a shaking finger. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “and I’m never letting you go, you got that?”

You laugh, delirious, and pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that’s slow and deep, the kind that says I forgive you, I want you, I’ll never be done with you. He sighs into it, like he’s waited a lifetime for this, like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.

And then his hand is between your legs again, gentle now, and you realize he’s not done with you yet. Not even close.

But you weren’t done with him either. “Wait,” you mumble against his lips, pulling back just enough to see his eyes. “Let me watch you.”

Wooyoung’s brow furrows, a question forming in his gaze. You slide your hand down his chest, over the damp skin, until your fingers wrap around his still-sensitive cock. He hisses, body tensing at your touch.

“Wanna see you touch yourself,” you clarify, your voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Understanding dawns across his face, followed by a slow, wicked smile that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah?” he asks, already shifting position. “You want to watch me jerk off, baby? Naughty girl.”

You nod, your own hand moving between your legs as you settle back against the pillows. Wooyoung sits up, kneeling between your spread thighs, his eyes never leaving yours as he wraps his hand around his length. He’s already hardening again, his cock responding eagerly to your gaze. You watch, transfixed, as his fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip that makes his breath catch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head falling back slightly. “Play with yourself too, princess.”

You’re touching yourself now, circling your clit with teasing pressure, your other hand squeezing your breast. The sight of him pleasuring himself while watching you is intoxicating—his muscles flexing, his lips parted, his eyes dark with desire.

“Show me…shit," you urge, your voice barely audible. “Show me what you think about when I’m not around to suck you dry.”

He moans, his pace quickening. “I’m always thinking about you, ” he admits, his voice rough. “About your pretty mouth, your perfect tits, the way you feel when I’m inside you.” His hand moves faster now, his breathing growing ragged. “I think about making you cum—fuck, l-love thinking about watching you fall apart because of me.”

Your fingers move faster, matching his rhythm, the sight of him pleasuring himself pushing you closer to the edge. The room fills with the wet sounds of your mutual pleasure, your soft gasps mingling with his deeper groans.

“I’m c–close,” you pant, your hips rising off the bed. “Baby, I’m so fucking close.”

“Me too,” he gasps, his hand moving furiously over his cock. “God, the way you’re touching yourself—fuck, I can’t—"

“So fucking good… haah—” you whimper. “Cum with me.”

His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same desperation, the same need reflected back at you. Your fingers move faster, your thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure as you watch his hand fly over his length, his body tense with impending release.

“Wooyoung,” you cry out as the first wave hits you, your body arching off the bed.

“Oh god, yes you’re so hot fuuuck,” he groans, his release spurting hot across your stomach as he watches you come undone.

You’re both panting, chests heaving as sweat trickles down your bodies and Wooyoung’s cum glistens wet and hot across your stomach—but even as you come down, the air between you only grows thicker. His eyes linger on your face, hungry and soft all at once, and you know before he says a word that he isn’t finished with you yet. He swipes his thumb through his mess, smearing it across your skin, and then lifts his hand to your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, voice already roughening around the edges, and you open obediently, tongue laving over his skin, savouring the salt and the faint sweetness of him.

He watches you, transfixed, and then the hunger snaps back into focus. With a sudden, fluid motion, he grabs you by the hips and guides you onto your back, landing you with a gasp and a bounce that sends aftershocks through your spent body. For a second you just lie there, limp and loose-limbed, but Wooyoung is on you before you have time to recover—his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and desperate, greedy possession. He devours you, biting your lower lip so hard you nearly yelp, but then he’s soothing the sting with a velvet-soft lick, fingers already roaming, cupping your jaw, winding into your hair, squeezing the back of your neck until you’re gasping into his mouth.

“Last one baby,” he rasps, voice vibrating right against your teeth. “Need to breed your pretty pussy one last time.” He’s already sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin—your throat, your collarbones, the peak of your tits. He bites down gently on your nipple, then flicks it with his tongue, the sensation sharp and electric and so fucking precise. He lavishes both breasts with attention, sucking bruises in places only he will see, then lets his tongue trace a hot, wet path down your torso.

He stops at your belly, swiping a finger through the sticky mess on your skin. “Look at you,” he says, voice thick with pride and awe, and you feel your cheeks flame even as you spread your legs wider for him. He dips his head, lapping at where his cum has pooled in your navel, and you shiver at the lewdness of it, the way he worships every part of you. When his mouth finally moves lower, you’re already shaking with anticipation, your core clenching tight, desperate for more even though you should be wrung out.

He dives between your thighs, licks a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you nearly come off the bed from the shock of it. He laughs, low and dark, and buries his face in your cunt, eating you like a man starved. His tongue is everywhere. Circling your clit, plunging inside you, mixing slick and spit and the faint metallic taste of his own release. You fist your hands in his hair, grinding your hips against his mouth, shameless in the way you beg, “More, more... please, fuck, don’t stop—” and he doesn’t.

He works you with ruthless precision, two fingers thrusting deep while his tongue flicks rapid-fire at your clit. You feel the pressure build, so much faster than before, your legs trembling, your thighs clamping tight around his head. He holds you open, arms braced under your knees, keeping you spread and helpless as he brings you right to the brink and then eases off, just enough to drive you insane. He does it again, and again, pulling you apart, making you plead for it.

“Woo—” you whimper, your voice thin and shaky. “Please, please—”

He lifts his head, lips glistening, and you see the wild satisfaction in his eyes. “You’re so fucking pretty when you beg,” he says, and the praise sends another rush of heat through your veins.

“Please,” you say again, and this time he relents, sucking your clit into his mouth and moaning around it. The vibration hits you like a lightning strike and you come hard, arching your back, crying out his name so loud you know it will echo in your ears for days. He keeps going, licking you through it, not stopping until you’re sobbing with oversensitivity and shoving at his head to make it end.

He crawls up your body, cock already hard again as he rubs it against your thigh, your stomach, the sticky aftermath on your skin. He lines himself up at your entrance, and you’re so wet, so open for him, that he slides in with barely any resistance. The stretch still hurts—just a little—and he winces with you, kissing your cheek, your ear, whispering, “Shh, you can take it. You’re so good for me.”

You rake your nails down his back, desperate to pull him deeper, and he obliges, ramming into you with a force that makes the whole bed frame rattle. This time, he doesn’t pace himself—he fucks you with abandon, every thrust a fierce apology, a vow, a plea for forgiveness. “Pretty cunt was made for me, wasn't it baby?" he growls, the words muffled against your skin, and you believe him, every time.

He shifts your legs, bends you almost in half putting you into a mean mating press, and the new angle has him thrusting right against your g-spot. You claw helplessly at his arms, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps, and he just grins, sweat beading at his hairline, loving every second of your unravelling.

"'M not going to last... I'm g'na cum holy fuck Wooyoung," you moan out, feeling yourself edging closer to your own climax.

You feel him getting close—his rhythm falters, his hips jerk, his breath comes in ragged gasps. He slides a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit, determined to take you with him. “Oh fuck—Cum f’me princess, make me proud.” And you do, the orgasm ripping through you so violently that black spots dance at the edge of your vision. You scream, you sob, you babble his name like a prayer, and he follows, spilling inside you with a strangled cry. He shoves in deep, holds you there, and then collapses, pinning you to the mattress with the full weight of his body.

You lie like that for a long, breathless moment, your bodies trembling and tangled, sweat sticking you together, his cock still throbbing inside you as he pants in your ear. For a second you think he’s fallen asleep, but then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, eyes shining, lips parted as if he might start crying all over again.

He rolls you onto your side, still joined, and wraps an arm around your waist, spooning you so tight you can barely move. You reach back and stroke his hair, feeling the way his whole body melts into your touch—the tension draining from his muscles, the way his breath evens out. The world feels impossibly far away, like it’s just the two of you floating in a bed-shaped universe, nothing but heartbeats and skin and the mess you’ve made of each other.

The room falls quiet, your breathing gradually slowing in tandem. Wooyoung’s arm tightens around you, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. “Don’t move,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from use. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulls out gently, and you whimper at the loss, feeling suddenly empty. But he’s already sliding from the bed, his naked body glistening with sweat as he pads to the bathroom. You hear water running, and then he returns with a warm washcloth in his hand.

“Let's get you cleaned up yeah?” he says, his eyes soft as he kneels beside you.

His touch is reverent as he cleans between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of your passion with gentle, circular motions. The warm cloth feels heavenly against your sensitive skin, and you sigh, your body relaxing into his care.

“Better?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, too blissed-out to form words. He disappears again, returning with a glass of water that he holds to your lips. You drink greedily, not realizing how parched you were until the cool liquid slides down your throat.

“More?” he asks, and you shake your head.

Wooyoung sets the glass aside and moves to his dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. He rummages through it for a moment before pulling out a faded blue t-shirt that you recognize immediately. It’s one of his oldest, the fabric soft from countless washes, the university logo barely visible anymore.

“Arms up,” he murmurs, and you comply, letting him slip the oversized shirt over your head. It falls to mid-thigh, enveloping you in his scent—that familiar mix of his cologne and something uniquely him that makes your chest ache with tenderness. He adjusts the collar, his fingers lingering at your neck, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Perfect,” he whispers, his eyes warm as they take you in.

You watch as he pulls on a pair of boxers and a simple white t-shirt, his movements languid, unhurried. There’s something intimate about watching him dress—the way his muscles flex beneath his skin, the casual grace of his movements. He catches you looking and says nothing, just gives you a small, tired smile before he climbs back into bed, pulling you against him. His fingers begin to trace lazy patterns on your arm, up and down, the touch so light it makes you shiver.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hope you know that I adore you so much.”

You turn in his arms to face him, finding his eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. There’s something raw and vulnerable in his gaze that makes your heart ache.

“I know,” you say, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. “I love you too.”

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I’m going to do better. I promise.”

“I believe you, I know you will,” you whisper, and you do.

He pulls you closer, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. The bracelet he gave you catches the light, the tiny compass charm glinting. He brings your wrist up to his lips and places a kiss on the charm, a silent reminder for you that’ll he’ll always be your north. No matter where you are, he’ll always be there for you.

“I’ve got you,” he coos, his voice dropping to that impossibly soft register he only uses in these moments. “I’m here, I'm not going anywhere.”

You hum in acknowledgment, too far gone for words. He softly chuckles at your sleepiness. His hand resumes its journey down your spine, each vertebra a landmark he maps with infinite patience. Another yawn overtakes you, your eyes watering at the corners. Wooyoung brushes away the tears with his thumb, his touch reverent.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers. “My whole heart.”

A melody begins to form beneath his breath—something soft and wordless that you recognize from nights when sleep wouldn’t come, when anxiety gripped your throat. His chest vibrates with the sound, a lullaby composed of nothing but his love for you. Your consciousness begins to drift, the edges of your thoughts blurring like watercolours on wet paper. The scent of him—clean sweat and that cologne he’s worn since the day you met—wraps around you like a second blanket.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple. “Happy anniversary, my love. I promise to make every one from now on better than the last.”

The words follow you down into darkness, a tether to the world you’re leaving behind. The future for the both of you still holds challenges—his career won’t become less demanding overnight, and you’ll both need to work to maintain the balance you’re rebuilding. But as Wooyoung’s arms tighten around you, as you feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, you know you’ll face those challenges together. Because love isn’t about never making mistakes. It’s about having the courage to admit when you’re wrong, and the strength to keep trying, even when it’s hard. And as the morning light spills across the tangled sheets and your intertwined bodies, you know that’s exactly what you have—not a perfect love, but a real one.

She almost laughs, but he looks too serious to be joking. She lets out a silent shaky breath, she knows he’s waiting. “My… my makeup.” She takes an easy option. Something she is proud of.

“Good.” He smirks, “What do you like about it?”

She shrugs. He raises his eyebrows. “Not an acceptable answer. Try again.”

“It makes me feel pretty…” She whispers, shifting again, taking a deep breath in before exhaling.

“Perfect answer.” He hums, “My pretty girl. I like it too. I like the way you take your time and perfect every step.” Her body warms at his words, her heart skipping and her stomach starting to erupt with butterflies. “You look beautiful without it, but you look beautiful with it on too.” She can’t hide the smile on her lips as she looks down, “Uh uh.” He sighs, “Keep looking.” She flashes her eyes back up, “Now pick out your favorite feature.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. She hadn’t thought much about that. She spent a lot of time avoiding the mirror. Avoiding looking at herself for too long. Doing her makeup, that was different. For her that was like doing art. It wasn’t to focus on her face, on her features. This time the wave of heat that sweeps over her is something different. Embarrassment or maybe shame. “Don’t do that.” He whispers, “Don’t overthink it. Don’t get in your head.” He kneels down beside her, still towering, “Close your eyes, take a deep breath…”

She does just that. Swallows, opens her eyes. “Now pick something.”

“I like… my eyes.” She breathes.

“Perfect.” He smiles, “You have beautiful eyes.” He smirks, and she turns her head to look up at him. “You’re doing so well.” He praises, he takes his hand, using his knuckles to sweep gently down her cheek, under her chin. His thumb sweeps over her skin, his lips move in and he kisses her. “What else?”

“My skin.” She breathes, looking back at herself. “I like how it glows.”

“Keep going.”

“M… My lip shape is nice too.” Though her lips tremble she manages a soft smile.

“I love those lips, baby.” He coos, “You’re doing so, so well.” He leans in and kisses her cheek, moving behind her, his hands move down over her shoulders. She warms into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut as he runs his big hands down her back, and then over her hips. His hands reach her thighs, fingers spreading out over her exposed skin. She arches back into him, involuntarily. “You look so beautiful in this dress, but it’s time to get it off you.” He breathes into the crook of her neck, his lips pressing into the sensitive spot there. She bites her lip, holding back a moan just because of the tone of his voice, the small deep sounds that he makes. His fingers curl under the hem of the dress, and he slowly starts to peel it off her.

Once it’s off he leans back into her, his lips pressing into the skin of her shoulders, up to her neck. She tilts her head to give him more room, as he begins to mark her there. Tongue, teeth, and lips working to mark her as his own. His hands move over her now exposed areas, her stomach, her thighs, her chest. Over the lace and satin his fingers travel and press into her skin. She whimpers as he pulls away from her, “Look at yourself.” He breathes, her eyes snapping forward as his eyes peer up at her reflection. “What else? What about your body?”

Her breath hitches. If she had trouble finding something she liked on her face, her body would be near impossible. She looked, her lips turning down into a frown her eyes falling to the floor beneath her. “I… I don’t know.”

“Now, Angel…” He sings, “Unacceptable answer.” His hand slips lower, between her thighs, her center throbbing, aching for him. She whimpers as his fingers graze the fabric and push against her center. A gasp leaving her lips as she arches further against him. “I love your skin, it’s soft, it smells like you. I love your throat,” His opposite hand moved up around her throat as he said it, “Your chest. Your shoulders. Your stomach. Your thighs.” He continued, “Your legs. The way your skin reacts to my touch. The way it flushes when I touch you… Now you tell me what you like.”

Her head becomes increasingly hazy as his fingers tease her center, she wants to give him an answer, wants to please him. She can’t help but try to chase the pressure of his hand, grinding against his hand, “I-I…” She whines.

“I only like you dumb when I’m buried inside of you.” He growls, “So figure it out.” He pulls away from her, completely. Her breathing labored as she watched him stand up. Her bottom lip trembles, she looks at herself, her skin tinted red from the flush. Her chest heaving. She has tears in her eyes, her hands move up and she wraps her arms around herself. “You can do it.” He coos, “I want you to see how truly beautiful you are.” He unbuttons his shirt. letting it drop lightly onto the floor, unbuckling his bottoms next. “You’re doing so well. Don’t give up on me now.” He coos as he gets them off.

She can’t help but frown and pout. She swallows back the growing lump in her throat, and bites her trembling bottom lip. He kneels back beside her, his hands wrapping around to grab her wrists, pulling her arms back away from hiding herself. “You’re breaking rules…” He breathes, his mouth hovering over her ear, “Are you asking to be punished?”

“N-no.” She whimpers, “I’ll do better.”

“Mmm.” He nods, “You will.”

“I- I like the way this lingerie fits me.” She managed, “It fits my shape. I look hot.”

He gasps, kissing her cheek, “That’s my smart girl.” He hums, “See, you can do it. You look fucking amazing in this set.”

One of his hands starts to travel back down, this time he slips beneath the fabric, cupping her heat groaning at how wet she already was for him, how warm she felt. She whines as his fingertips glide over her skin, just teasing. “Daddy.” She whimpers, “Please.” He breathes out a short chuckle, his fingers dipping just slightly into her, just enough to tease her further. She leans her head back, opening her eyes to him, “Please more.” She blinks batting her lashes, a smirk spreading across his lips.

“You think your pretty eyes can get whatever you want, don’t you?” He purrs, “Use my hand. Show me how bad you want it.” She whines, without looking away from him she reaches for his hand and presses his fingers into her, deeper, a breathy moan leaving her lips as she grinds against his fingers. “Feel good, angel?”

“Mhm.” She bites her bottom lip.

“Eyes on the mirror, look at yourself.” She tilts her head back up, swallowing when she takes in the sight of her pushing his fingers into herself. Her hips grinding forward to chase more of him. His long arm stretched down without much effort. “Look at my greedy girl. You always want more. You deserve more. You deserve the world.” She moans at his words, watching as her chest heaved and her bottom lip gets drawn into her mouth by her teeth. She catches the glimpse of him, watching, enjoying. His lips press into her shoulder again, his eyes staying on her, making sure she’s still watching. She continues using his hand, trying to chase the feeling that’s starting to build in her lower stomach. Then he takes back control. He curls his fingers in, deeper than she could get them and she lets out a loud moan as he pads that spot deep inside of her. “How is that? Better?”

“Fuck…” She gasps, “Soo good, Daddy. Thank you.” He growls at her words, his teeth grazing her skin as he watches.

“I love when your mouth falls open like that.” He hums, “Like a dumb little doll.” He pumps his fingers now, curling them and pulling more sounds from her. “Let’s clear your head? Yeah?” He growls, nipping on her earlobe and making her cry out more. She grinds down against his hand, clenching around his fingers whining and whimpering as she moves. Every movement causing more arousal, more sounds, her body starting to act involuntarily as she melts into his chest. She’s close, so close she can taste it. Until he pulls out of her, causing her to gasp and reach for his hand. “You didn’t ask.”

“Daddy I…” She whines, “I was going to!”

“I can’t see the future, baby.” He sighs, “You’re making such a mess in your new linngerie.” She pouts again, turning to look back at him. “It’s okay… it’s my fault… I wanted you to empty your head. I want you to forget how to speak.” He sighs, “Bend over, face up to the mirror.”

She moves without hesitation, her palms against the floor as she gets closer to the mirror, his hand sliding down her back and toward himself. He groans at the sight of her while running his hands over her ass. He runs his fingers over her red underwear with a visible dark mark from her arousal. He reaches to tear them off her hips, peeling them down and off her. Her knees move so he can pull them off fully tossing them to the side, revealing her completely to him. Another sound rolls from his mouth, something deep and vibrating. Something that sounds like delight. His fingers move over her soaking center, through her folds, making her whimper. He watches in the mirror as she closes her eyes and moans when he pushes his fingers back into her, knuckles deep, his eyes coming back to watch her take him. She’s tight, even with just his fingers and he stretches and pumps into her slowly. It pulls more from her, his fingers glistening, his mouth watering.

“Look into the mirror, tell yourself who’s Daddy’s pretty little thing?”

“I am…” She breathes, opening her eyes looking at herself.

“Say it fully.”

“I’m… Daddy’s pretty little thing.” Her moan comes out breathy and strained. He pushes in deep, curling his fingers and holding there. Ripping another sound from her throat as he moves his fingers inside of her.

“Again.”

“Ah… I’m Daddy’s pretty little thing.” She arches into his touch and he pulls out again, making her whimper and pout, breathing heavily. She watches as he stands up getting his boxers off, before getting back on the floor. She can see how hard he is, his tip leaking precum, his veins prominent. He strokes himself before lining himself up and pressing forward. She gasps as he fills her out in one swift stroke forward, a grunt leaving his lips as she pulsed forward. His hands reach to guide her hips back to him, her mouth falling open as he slowly brings her all the way back on his length.

“Again…” He groans, “Look at yourself and say it again.”

She looks at herself, “I’m… Daddy’s pretty little thing.” She trembles, and he guides her hips slowly sliding slowly off him and then swiftly back onto him, taking her breath away.

“Again…” He thrusts into her harshly a sharp cry leaving her as he does.

“I’m Daddy’s pretty little thing-“

Another rough thrusts makes her lose her words, her mouth falling open as she mewls. Her head falling from looking at herself. A little fire inside of her started to grow, she needed more. He breathed heavily surging forward again forcing the breath out of her and she shook. His hand reached to grab her chin and force her head back up to look. “Look at yourself. Look how pretty you look like this.” He steadily rocks into her, holding her chin up, her eyes half lidded and watery as he hit that spot deep inside of her. She clenched around him, and she did look at herself. How desperate and needy and fucked out she looked.

Her eyes findYunho behind her. His muscles flexing under his skin, face flushed, bottom lip between his teeth as he looked at her. Them. He always looked beautiful to her and even more now. Eyebrows furrowed, burying himself inside of her, eyes focused, concentration as he moved steadily. She thought he looked beautiful. He let out a strangled moan, his voice shaking as she clenched harder around him, her orgasm growing fast.

“Daddy, please.” She cried, “You feel so fucking- Ah.” She shook, as he slammed into her even harder, her words leaving.

“It’s getting harder to think now, isn’t it?” He rasped, “Focus. Breathe. Tell me what you want.”

Her fingers clenched into the carpet beneath her, she moaned and swallowed hard, her breath catching as he slammed into her harder. She grits her teeth, the sound of him pounding into her like music to her ears. “Please Daddy, let me cum.” She manages in a weak voice. He moans at her request pulling her up pressing her back against his chest, the new angle is devastating. She trembles and groans, “Please can I?” She looks up at him, her eyes big and watery as he holds her there, stopping his movements. Her walls flutter and clench around him, her body begging for release as she holds back.

“Not yet.” He coos, one of his hands slipping down her body, down to her clit. He doesn’t rub or roll his fingers, he lightly taps and makes her writhe in his arms. He chuckles at her, “My pretty little thing, you want to cum so bad don’t you?” She nods, trying to still herself, though her body trembles. She can feel her orgasm, feel it threatening her. Taunting her. Just like Yunho liked to do.

“Please.” She whines and pouts and he lets out a strangled moan.

“Say it again, tell me you’re my pretty little thing.”

“I’m” She breathes a heavy sigh, “I’m your pretty little thing.”

“Fuck yeah, you are.” He moans his own cock twitching inside of her, “My pretty girl. My perfect smart girl.” She whines, shaking, holding back the best she can, “Cum with me.” He growls and he pounds up into her, his fingers rolling over her clit as she starts to unravel. Her body tensing and shaking all at once. “God.” He lets out a strangled moan, clenching his hold on her as he starts to spill out into her again. “Look at you.” A hand clamps around her cheeks as he turns her attention to the mirror.

She looked gone, he looked gone. Both red in the face, trembling, sweaty. She whimpered as she continued shaking. Her eyes focused on him, his eyes focused on her. He pulls out of her, and he lets her down gently. She takes a few seconds to breath, the aftershocks making her weak. His hands reached for her, rubbing over her skin lightly as he tried to catch his breath too.

She pushes herself up, turning toward him. Closing the small gap between them. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders, her head leaning on his shoulder. One hand smoothing down her back, the other holding her head against him. “You did so well for your training, baby.” He smirked, “I am so proud of you.” She glowed from his praise, leaning into him to kiss him. His hands moving down her back in unison, over her ass, lifting her slightly before pulling her back onto his lap. They kiss, slowly. Tongues moving against one another, small sounds leaving both of them as their lips move together.

Then she feels him, hard again, ready for more. He glides her against him, not pushing in, just teasing again. Letting his tip bump her clit, fresh arousal coating him. She muffles a moan biting her bottom lip as he kisses her chest. Then she pulls her up, her knees on either side of his waist, before sitting her back down on his tip.

She sinks down slowly, feeling every inch as she fully sits on it. “Fuck.” She whimpers at the feeling of him filling her back up, her hands trembling. He held her still even as she tried to move. She moaned as he ran his hands up her back and easily unhooked her bra, and slipped it off her.

“Let me see you.” He breathed, and she pulled back his eyes on hers as she shifted, a small sound leaving her lips. His eyes dropped from hers, down to her lips, then trailed down her neck and chest all the way down to where they connected. He moans at the sight of her wrapped around him tightly like a bow. He guides her hips along him, she leans back, her hands reaching back for his legs, letting him move her body for her. She moans louder than before, her head falling back at the feeling of him gliding into her, every drag of his long cock pulling sounds out of her, making her head spin as she leans forward again, her lips searching for his lips and finding them. “That’s it…” He moans into her mouth, her tongue slipping into his mouth and moving with his again. She sucks on his tongue as she starts to get needy again.

She starts to move on her own, starting to chase her own high, beginning to bounce on him in a steady rhythm. Even as her thighs start burning she doesn't care. She needs to keep feeling every inch, her walls squeezing him as she rides him. He moaned into her mouth and drew back his head, his lips finding her chest. His tongue swept against her skin as she moved, her eyes clenched as he kissed and licked her chest.

She slows her movements when her legs start to shake, unable to keep her pace and Yunho chuckles as she whines. “It’s okay… I’ve got you.” He guides her again, “Roll your hips like that, angel. Doesn’t that feel good?” She shakes her head moaning in response, “Words, use them.”

“Yes…” She breathes, “So good.” She throws her head back, her stomach starting to tighten as she lets a weepy moan out. She continues to move her hips with his help. “I’m close… I’m…” He grabs her throat quickly, her breath catching. It only makes her pleasure more prominent, she cries out a choked sob as he groans at the way she clenches around him.

“Ask nicely.” He purrs, “Ask nicely and I’ll let you cum again.”

“Please… Please let me cum.” She whimpers and he chuckles, with one hand he lifts her off him only to let her fall back down, the feeling of him filling her to the brim makes her head spin she almost loses it. The pleasure is intense, making fireworks go off in her body. Another choked sob leaving her. Her legs start to shake, her knees buckling as he brings her mouth to him. He kisses her.

“Don’t cum yet.” He breathes lifting her again, the tip of his cock finding her g-spot and he pulls her back down, harshly. The slap of skin on skin loud as she gasps.

“Oh— Oh my god!” She cries, “Please, Daddy. Please…” Her voice shakes like she’s crying, he knows he’s getting to her. He knows she’s close and right on the edge. He knows it’s mean to deny her, but watching her beg. Watching the way she made big eyes at him, leaning into the hold around her throat. He was eating it up. She started to tear up when he lifted her again and brought her back down harshly, his own orgasm starting to boil over. He groans.

“Please… please…” He taunts, pouting at her. She whimpers and he lifts her again, her legs shaking as he holds her there. He has to ground himself. His own cock ready to release into her again.

“Please… Please…” She cried, “I can’t… I can’t.” Her words turn to air as he moves her again, and then finally.

“Cum.” He breathes out a long groan, his head falling back, his eyes rolling. Her whole body goes almost numb, tingling like radio static beneath her skin, she cries out, gushes around him, lets him hold her up. Her vision blacks out, her head in the clouds as his grip around her throat tightened to almost no air. Her thighs clenched around his waist, and she couldn’t even feel his cum being pumped inside of her. Not this time, this was like heaven. Her breathing was shaky and she held onto Yunho like she’d float away if not. And he groaned and shook with her.

“Thank you, daddy.” She mewled as they both panted, trying to catch their breath. He pulled her back into him, his lips finding hers messily. She warms into him, when he pulls away from kissing her she nuzzles into the crook of his neck.

“You did so well.” He breathed, “You deserve a treat.” He pulls her off him, pulling her up with him, her legs feeling like jello as she stands. He pulls her toward him kissing her forehead and bridge of her nose while walking her back toward the bed. “Lay down, get comfortable.” She moves slowly on wobbling limbs like a newborn deer, but lays back on the bed. He crawls toward her, his eyes stuck on her as he stops between her legs, he pulls her knees over his shoulders before dipping down. “You get a free one. One where you don’t have to ask…” He hums, nose grazing her heat, “I’ll be too busy burying my tongue inside of you to give you permission anyway.” His words have her whimpering.

He dips down to her sensitive center, his tongue already lapping at her and making her arch herself toward his mouth. He dives in like a man starved, his tongue working to lap up every single drop from her. She already is shaking, already whining and near crying. He buries his face inside of her, his nose nudging her clit as he fucked her with his tongue. He moaned and groaned into her, his cock already getting hard just from the way she sounded and tasted. One hand grabs his hair and it acts like a trigger, to make him more feral. He growls as his hands move to push her thighs up and apart. Her stomach clenched as he moved his lips to her clit. He sucked and rolled his tongue over her sensitive bud, making her cry out again. She could feel another orgasm already bubbling in her stomach, already making her eyes roll back and back arch off the bed. She was gone, her body on fire, her soul leaving her body.

She trembled and cried as he sucked and licked and held her down beneath him. Her body pliant and adjusting to him as he dove in and ate her out like she was his last meal. His fingers gripped into her skin so tightly she felt like he would leave marks, her one hand still gripping his hair the other grasping for the blankets beneath her. She was grateful she didn’t have to ask permission, because she couldn’t hold back any longer. Her head falling back into the mattress.

“Da-ah!” She sobbed, and she came, hard. Her body locking up, her vision white, her brain powered down. She didn’t realize the mess she made, she didn’t realize Yunho had started to climb back up to her. She didn’t realize she was shaking so hard until Yunho reached for her. She babbled and curled into him and rested against his chest, unable to control her body. He held her through it, let her decompress, kissed her forehead and ran his hand through her hair.

“Thank you.” She whispered, so low he almost didn’t hear it. He pulled her against him and stroked her hair and ran his thumb over her cheek. She slowly pushed herself up, “I should…” She reached down, as if she was going to return the favor.

“No…” He hums, “No, you did enough for me.” She trembled as he pulled her hand up to his mouth, his lips pressing into her knuckles. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? A nice hot shower and bath?” She smiles, nodding as he slowly helps her up.

She knew he could keep going, maybe he even wanted too. But he didn’t, he helped her to the bathroom instead. He jumped in the shower with her, washed her hair, and cleaned her body. His once rough touches turned gentle and sweet. His lips pressing into skin, no teeth, no tongue, just softness. He ran a bath, added bubbles, and lit candles. Let her sink to her shoulders, and close her eyes and breathe. His hand was only there to hold hers and sooth her skin. When he helps her out he’s getting her into soft pajamas and helping her into bed. He brings her water and tucks her in. He runs his hand over her head, down her body but only cuddling into her. Then, he holds her until she’s sleeping.

── omg this is my first ever post on here and it turned out to be waaaay longer than i had intended, honestly. i’ve had this idea in my head for a while and knew nobody else was gonna do it so i had to take matters into my own hands. i’d like to mention that this is NOT proofread. if you see any typos pls lmk !! i really hope u enjoy it, byeeeee >ᴗ<

inhale.

exhale.

everything is fine, you’re okay. it’s not like you’re about to walk into a room full of people you’ve never met before or anything. oh! and even better, you’ll be with them for the rest of your life. how perfect. it’s not a huge change, i mean, you’ve been working for this since you were what, sixteen? or was it fifteen? hell, who knows? all you know is you’re an eighteen year old girl ready to change her life forever.

“come in!” that pulls you out of it. the rough voice coming from the other side of the frosted glass door has just enough power to make your hand rest on the handle.

you want this. you need this.

one more inhale, another exhale. you push the door open and immediate chaos floods all five of your senses.

boys. eight boys are seen on the couch in the corner of the room, some goofing off with one another and some staying to themselves.

loud, it’s so loud in here, why? oh, that might be due to the four boys practically screaming over each other as they argue about whatever the fuck the current topic is.

cologne. it reeks of testosterone in here. woody, fresh, warm, musky. wait, it kind of smells really good. not important.

oh god, here comes the cotton mouth. your mouth tastes bitter and your whole body has run cold, or hot. are you sweating? fuck if you know. you reach up to touch your forehead. no, yeah, definitely sweating. why are you so cold? oh no, no, no.

consider your world completely and utterly fucking. rocked.

boys? why would i ever want to be surrounded by boys all day, every day?

i thought i would be with a group of girls.

they didn’t specify this in the papers.

god, please save me, tell me this is a dream. i can’t live a life like this. i’m gonna pass out. there is entirely too much going on in this room. is the room spinning?

you exhausted all of the possibilities in your head long before opening the door. but this? this was not one of them.

one of the eight boys looks up at you. he has sharp features. asymmetrical eyes, you clock that almost immediately as they pierce through you. he’s clad in a red bape and ape hoodie and black adidas sweatpants. brown hair, tanned skin, big, perfect nose. he nods towards you and goes right back to his phone. the smirk on his face certainly not going unnoticed by you.

you know what? okay, yeah.

“wooyoung, please, not right now,” you breathe out. you guys have just wrapped up practice for your latest comeback; work. and boy, oh boy, are you fucking working.

“pleaseeeee,” he begs, “it’ll only take a minute.”

“okay, then you can wait for just a minute,” you pant. keep in mind, currently laying on the floor here. dropped dead. limbs numb. sweating from your scalp to your little piggies. what does wooyoung want? glad you asked! tiktok. he wants to make a fucking tiktok fresh after practice. “how do you have the energy to even want to make a tiktok right now, dude?”

“um, because the choreo isn’t as draining as you’re making it seem? and even then, you’ve been stumbling over your feet all day,” he sits next to you on the floor, holding himself up with his arms as he cocks his head at you. at this point, the rest of the boys have exited the room for water, food, or their beds.

you chew on the inside of your cheek as you figure out what to say. honestly? you haven’t eaten in two days, certain parts of the choreo aren’t sticking with you like they usually would, you’re distracted, dissociated, not all there with the rest of the world. your boyfriend is currently on tour, and you’ve had this gut wrenching feeling eating away at you ever since he left. i love you baby, you know that, right? he had said. weird, but also, not weird? you say you love each other every time you’re going to be separated for a while, so why did it feel different this time?

“hello?” wooyoungs fingers snap in front of your face, “are you still with me, darling?” you blink.

“did you just snap at me?”

“well, yes.”

a moment of silence.

you spring forward and drag him onto the floor with you, punching his sides, “do. you. want. to. die?” you grunt between punches as he laughs, pleading with you. after a moment you both sit up, “i’m fine, wooyoung, don’t worry. i do have to go to my dorm though, so, have fun!” you squeak as you jump up onto your feet, almost losing your balance.

wooyoungs face scrunches up, “what are you in such a rush for? gotta call your boytoy?”

“he’s my boyfriend, not boytoy. get it right. but since you’re so curious, no, actually, i’m just ready to strip naked and wash my ass.”

“yeah whatever, didn’t need to know all that,” it’s silent as he watches you pack up your belongings from the floor. his feet wiggle in place, fighting the urge to help you pack up. he can hear it now, i am an independent woman, why the fuck would i need you to do that for me? he chuckles to himself before noticing a bruise on the back of your arm, immediately perking up, “what happened there?”

“huh?” you turn to look at him, then to the back of your arm where he was gesturing, “oh, mingi happened. i slammed into him earlier, remember? turns out he’s made of stone instead of skin and bones.”

“ah, right. make sure you take care of that.”

your eyebrows furrow as you chuckle and turn to face him again, “it’s a bruise wooyoung, not a stab wound. it’ll take care of itself.”

“still, don’t put pressure on it when you sleep tonight,” he states as he finally gets up and makes his way towards the door with you, “it could make it worse, or something.” he shrugs.

“sir yes sir, dr. jung,” you salute as you turn to walk your separate ways. wooyoung slings his already-packed-bag over his shoulder and watches you turn the corridor. with a sigh, he turns and makes his way over to his dorm.

perk number one of being the only girl in ateez: you get your own dorm. it gives you a break from boys in your fully furnished, cozy, warm, space. now, yunho and yeosangs dorm? a literal cardboard box. you couldn’t be paid enough to live in that.

you let out a sigh upon entering your dorm, sliding off your shoes and into your slippers. dropping your bag and keys off at the door, you beeline to your room and rip your drawers open.

underwear, shirt, what else, what else… oh!

you throw the clothes on your king sized bed, moving towards your vanity where you keep your self care. you snatch your favorite scents off the shelves and toss them on the bed with your clothes. it’s go time, baby.

the bathroom is humid and smells like the gingerbread man drowned in the tub, just how you like it. bubbles are engulfing your body, music is playing on the speaker beside you, you’ve got your wine glass in your hand, vanilla candle lit. what else could you possibly need?

…

why did your music stop..?

ring ring ring

your eyes snap open. you have got to be kidding me.

the growl that escapes your throat is beastly, leaning over the wall of the bathtub to grab your phone.

incoming call: my baby <3

the smile that appears on your face is bright enough to light millions of galaxies. of course, you answer with much enthusiasm. “hi baby! i miss you so much. how’s tour?”

“i miss you too, what’re you doing?” okay fuck me and my question then. from the looks of it, he’s laying in his hotel bed. all you can see is the top of his head though, strange?

“i’m taking a nice relaxing bath, soaking in the peace while i have some. today’s practice was so tiring.”

“mm,” he groans out. it’s silent for a beat before he speaks again, “fuck- i miss you, baby,” he sounds breathless.

um. “i miss you too… are you feeling okay?” your eyebrows furrow with concern. his camera moved down a bit more, you can see his whole face now. his eyes are closed, his bottom lip squeezed between his teeth, eyebrows pinched together. it seems he has no shirt on also, which is pretty normal for him.

“y-yeah, i’m just tired,” his eyes open to look at you now, droopy.

“oh- well, i’ll let you go then. get some rest, okay?”

“alright. b-bye,” he stutters. right before he hangs up the phone, yes, he hangs up, you hear a moan. well, no not a moan. a groan? squeak? whatever the fuck it was, it didn’t come from him. it was high pitched, feminine.

the fuck?

your thumbs move faster than your brain.

you: what the fuck was that?

12:28am

you: hello?

12:46am

you: jaehyun r u srs

you: did u fall asleep

1:13am

you: annyeonghaseyo what the fuck ????

now here you are, laying in your bed. restless, stressed, sad. you have pretty damn good ears, there’s no chance that they could be deceiving you right now. it’s been almost two hours since he hung up and you bolted out of the bathroom. you don’t understand, everything was fine before he left. what could’ve happened within the span of a few days?

you didn’t get a wink of sleep. maybe an hour — no, that’s a reach. you slept for thirty minutes before your alarm clock began screaming at you to wake up. ten seconds later, here comes the banging on the door.

“what, literally what?” you yelled as you stomped towards the door, swinging it open harshly.

“oh- good morning to you, too,” wooyoung waves before pushing past you and into your living room. “you look like shit, by the way.”

you’re surprised your eyes didn’t get stuck in the back of your head with the force you rolled them with. “we don’t have practice for another three hours wooyoung, why are you here?”

“i’m here to chill and eat your snacks beforehand, duh. call it practice pregame,” he says matter-of-factly.

“the whole point of me having my own dorm was so that none of you could be in here with me. get out,” you deadpanned as you made your way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“well that’s kind of hard to avoid, i’m only a building away. plus, san, mingi, and seonghwa literally live a door down.”

“yeah, a door down, not in my guest bedroom.”

wooyoung scoffs and turns his body away from the tv, really watching you now, “what’s up with you today? you’re awfully snappy”

you place your glass on the island counter and stare at him for second. he’s serious, isn’t he? “gee, i don’t know, maybe because i only got thirty minutes of sleep before i was woken up by a psychotic alarm clock at seven in the fucking morning! then an even more psychotic man—who is currently sitting on my couch, barged into my home, chose to bother me on a morning that wouldn’t have been any better anyways but at least i wouldn’t have to worry about being disturbed by you—” you ramble, your hands flailing all over the place as you go on and on.

wooyoung? he listens. he could tell something has been bothering you these past few days, he knows it’s best for you to let it all out now than later. in the midst of your breakdown he rises from the couch and moves to sit across from where you stand instead.

“i tried to have a relaxing night last night before my fucking boyfriend called me—”

“i thought you were excited to talk to him?”

“oh, just you fucking wait. so, he ended up calling me while i was in the bath. when i answered he sounded very… tired? i guess, i have no idea anymore. i’m so fucking confused,” you hold your head in your hands as you recall what happened last night, “he fucking called me, okay? i knew something was off when i answered and the only thing i could see was his stupid fucking forehead for the first two minutes.”

“two minutes? but th—”

“it was a short conversation,” you cut wooyoung off, holding your hand up, “i tried to talk to him about my day, you know, normal couple things. told him about practice, all that good shit. what’d he say? mm. fucking mm?!” you exclaimed, “and it didn’t even sound like an mm of acknowledgement, it sounded horny as fuck! he was all like—mm fuck, baby i miss you, like, get out of my face.”

wooyoung rolled his eyes, not at you—never at you, but at what he was hearing. he was simply distraught at the fact that anyone could be so vague and passive with you, one of the most charismatic people he knows. although he can’t blame him if he was in fact horny.

“that’s not even it, wooyoung. he starts… moaning? groaning? i don’t know, he sounded out of breath and like he was trying to hold stuff in. eventually, the camera moved down. i don’t think he meant for it to though. he was biting his lip and shit, it looked freaky as hell, and trust me, i know his sex faces.”

wooyoung grimaces at the thought of you doing the deed with someone, “alright maybe i didn’t need to know that.” retract previous statement. he can blame him.

“no you definitely did, it’s crucial to the plot. anyways, i asked him if he felt okay, to which he replied y-yeah, i’m just tired,” you mocked him in your ‘man voice’, “i told him to just get some rest—now keep in mind, he called me, okay? right before he hung up i heard a weird noise. i don’t wanna say it was a woman, but it sounded very feminine.”

“what the fuck?”

“yeah, what the fuck. i texted him for an hour straight last night, still no response to this very moment,” you sigh, now looking down at your glass of water. “i don’t want to accuse him of cheating but like,” you look back up at wooyoung, “ive had this gut feeling something bad was happening behind my back ever since he left for tour. that’s why ive been acting strange, and i know i shouldn’t have held it in but i just-” you sigh.

wooyoung is absolutely fuming, even if he didn’t show it. he is a man after all, he understands exactly what is going on—granted he’d never participate in such devious activities if he had a parter, especially not if he had someone like you. he walked around the counter and engulfed you in his arms. your body began to tremble, finally releasing all the pent up emotions you’ve been holding on to.

“i’m sorry i was mean,” your muffled voice fills his ears.

“it’s okay honey, i’d be mean too if i were you,” he pulled back to look at your face. your had tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him. it tore him into pieces to see you like this. his hands reached up to wipe your face, “go get cleaned up, we’re going out.”

you frown, “out where?”

“out,” he shoves you towards your room, “go.”

“ooh look at this,” san chirps as he poses with the girliest purse you’ve ever seen. wooyoung decided to gather almost everyone to go out and shop together after your breakdown? rant? rant. you don’t have breakdowns over men. either way, it’s definitely cheering you up.

“wait, what about this one?” mingi walks up behind you with a more sleek purse. oh, here comes seonghwa strutting down with wooyoung hand-in-hand, holding matching coach bags. you can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous they look.

“so if i say i love them all you guys will buy them for me?” you lift your eyebrow with a smirk on your face.

“yes,” they say in unison.

chuckling and shaking your head, “guys you don’t have to do this, i’m seriously fine with just walking around. you don’t have to shove all these things in my face and beg to buy them for me,” wooyoung looks at you with a knowing look, cocking his head to the side. he can always tell when you’re bluffing, “okay fine, sugar baby me.”

and sugar baby you they sure fucking did. the boys walk in tandem with you back to your dorm, all of their arms covered with bags of things they bought you. you know when that one kid in school walked down the hallway and you just knew they were coming because of their keychains? yeah, that’s basically them but with shopping bags right now.

“fuck, why did you let me do this,” seonghwa pants as you guys exit the elevator.

“you wouldn’t leave me alone, don’t complain now,” you shrug as you unlock your door and let them in. the bags are immediately dropped to the floor, grunts and groans of relief coming from the men. “you guys are dramatic. hey—don’t break my shit!”

“anything you say, girly. now let’s go, we have to be at practice in thirty minutes. hongjoong will kill us if we’re late… again.” san says.

you giggle as they walk ahead of you and out of your dorm. as you’re locking your door you feel your phone vibrating in your pocket, frowning, you pull it out.

oh.

jaehyun.

you begrudgingly put the phone to your ear, “yes, jaehyun?” wooyoung turns to look at you at the mention of his name, a concerned look on his face. you shake your head at him and motion for him to go ahead, which he reluctantly obeys.

“hey baby, how are you?”

“uh, i’m good. could be better, actually. what’s up?” you begin walking a few feet behind the boys, closer to wooyoung than the rest of them. of course, he purposefully walked slower than the rest to pick up on your conversation. call him nosy, shame him for eavesdropping, he couldn’t care less.

“oh, um- i was just wondering. what happened last night?”

your heart stopped for a moment. he’s serious?

“what do you mean?”

“well i saw i had called you last night but i don’t remember it at all, haha,” haha. “i drank with the guys so i was pretty drunk.”

“oh, i see… were you too drunk to answer my texts as well or was that because you were busy doing something else—or should i say—someone else?” your irritation is evident in your voice at this point. the other side of the line does quiet for a beat too long, so you take the initiative, “you know what, jaehyun? until you manage to use all the brain power you have left to tell me exactly what you were doing last night; don’t message me, don’t call me, don’t even think of me. got it?”

“wait- baby, i-”

beep beep beep.

shut up.

you rolled your eyes and tucked your phone back into your pocket. the peace was nice for the two hours it lasted.

“get out. my. face.” sans voice booms through the practice room as he calls out the phrases that helps you all remember the choreo. today is the last day of practice, which is very stressful for you this time around. usuallly you’d have every movement nailed down by now, but you’re falling behind.

you keep fucking bumping into mingi during the stupid ass line formation you have to do. you’re sweating, your clothes are sticking to your body, hair falling out of your ponytail, bruises beginning to form from your countless failures.

“take 5 guys,” hongjoong calls out as he exits the room.

“are you doing okay?” jongho crouched down beside where you’re sprawled out on the floor.

“oh my fucking lord, yes, i’m fucking peachy. i am perfectly fine. why is everyone asking me this? actually, no, you know what, jongho? no, i’m not fucking okay because i’m pretty sure my boyfriend is cheating on me with some random bitch while i’m here stuck in this muggy practice room and failing at everything i do. is that a better answer for you guys? i’m not okay,” is what you wish you could scream out at the top of your lungs. unfortunately, what you say is, “i’m okay jjong, thank you,” don’t forget to top it off with a smile and nod!

thankfully, he drops it, deciding to not push you further. unlike someone, what’s his name?

“yeah right, what’d that asshole have to say to you earlier?” wooyoung plops himself on the ground on your other side. oh right, wooyoung.

“wouldn’t you like to know.”

“yeah i would, that’s kind of why i asked,” he shoves your shoulder, “come on, tell me. i promise i wont hunt him down, even though i should,” he murmurs the last part.

“what was that?” he shakes his head and motions for you to speak, sigh. “he basically just told me he didn’t remember anything from last night.”

“mm, and what’d you say?”

“you know what i said wooyoung, i know you were listening.”

“well tell me again, it was kind of hot,” he smirks, that makes you roll your eyes as you laugh.

hongjoong comes back and everything is set in motion once again, you swear that five minute break felt more like five seconds. after two more hours the work day has ended, you’re back in your bed, and suddenly it’s almost a month later. you pulled countless all-nighters practicing the choreography by yourself, pushing your body to its limit. jaehyun? not a word from him, and that’s perfectly fine with you. the music video released a few days ago, and now it’s s performance day. you have bigger things to worry about.

to say you’re nervous is an understatement. the anxiety of repeating the same mistakes you had worked so hard to fix comes creeping up your neck, sending shivers down your spine. or was it the hand that’s now laying against your lower back that did that?

“you ready, popstar?” wooyoung whispers into your ear from behind. you can’t see him, but you can feel him. hear him, smell him. it’s overwhelming to say the least, but also provides you a sense of comfort. you turn your head to the side and smile at him with a nod.

you all get into position in the stage, waiting patiently for the music to start, fans are cheering. what’s going in your head, you wonder?

anytime now…

oh! that scared me, oh my it’s really loud.

these lights are blinding me…

don’t mess up, don’t fuck it up. wait—yes, fuck it up. fuck it up so good, girl.

get out. my. face.

please don’t bump into him, please don’t bump into him.

oh thank fuck. thank you, lord.

okay jongho sing itttt.

voice please don’t crack, it’s my turn.

gotta make that money make—

it’s nothing but heavy breathing and stripping of clothing once you get backstage. you had been itching to get this heavy ass jacket off your frame for over an hour now, the relief of shredding it from your body an overwhelming sensation.

“you did so good, im so proud of you.” wooyoung jogs towards you and squeezes you so tight you can barely breathe.

“thank you, youngie, but i’m really sweaty and i kinda can’t breathe… move. please.” he pulls away with a breathless smile.

“you ready to do it all over again in two days?” he winks at you, the guttural groan you let out probably echoed down the halls. “i’ll take that as a no,” he laughs.

later that night after you’ve returned home and showered, you hear a knock at your door. who the fuck? you open the door to see none other than jung fucking wooyoung standing there in his full pajama set.

a giggle escapes your lip as you quirk a brow at him, “and what do you think you’re doing?”

“uh, sleepover?” he says, or asks, it’s hard to tell which one it was. once you see the container of brownies in his hands though? it was an immediate yes anyway. he cooks you dinner, you serve him wine, it all felt very domestic but also… just friendly? there was no tension, nothing dramatic. it was almost as if he were one of your girlfriends. you gossiped, laughed, watched movies, things that you’d do with your best friend.

while you guys are in the middle of watching the second hunger games movie, there’s another knock at the door.

“did you invite san or yeosang over?” you question, to which he shakes his head just as confused as you are. you get up and go open the door, freezing in place once you see who’s behind your door.

jaehyun.

all you can do is stare at him through the crack of the door, all the emotions you had forgotten about a month ago suddenly crashing down on you.

“who is it?” you hear wooyoung shout from the couch. nobody answered him.

“hey,” jaehyun started. no.

“don’t,” you hold your hand up, “are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“look, i know i messed up—”

“messed up? messed up?! we haven’t spoken in a fucking month, jaehyun!” you snatch your phone from the pocket of your pajama pants and open the messages between you guys, “12:28am, what the fuck was that? 12:46am, hello? jaehyun are you serious? did you fall asleep? 1:13am, hello, what the fuck?” your eyes are open so wide they’re damn near bulging out of your head. behind you, wooyoung creeps up around the corner.

“baby, please just let me in so we can talk—”

“about what? about fucking what, jaehyun? have you finally remembered what happened that night or what?” silence. “well, i’m waiting. what happened? please, do tell.”

silence, again. fine.

“i thought you were on tour, why are you here?”

“i- i am- i was i- i’m back just for the week. i-“ he sighs, searching for the words he wants to say, “i- i cheated on you,” he said under his breath as he looked at his feet.

“hm? what?”

“i fucking cheated! okay? are you happy now? i cheated on you!”

your five senses have been infiltrated once again.

blurry. everything is blurry, you can’t see who you’re talking to anymore. nothing is clear, you’ve spent two years of your life with this man. the man you thought you would marry, the man who wrote songs about you, the man who was your first everything.

your ears are ringing, what did he say? you knew it, you had a feeling deep down inside. but for him to just flat out scream it out like it means nothing? like you mean nothing?

you can smell the alcohol on his breath as he speaks to you. oh, he’s been drinking. again. go figure.

just seeing him leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

tears. red, hot, angry tears are streaming down your face. you feel your hands touch your face, are you moving your arms? you can’t feel them. everything feels numb, you’re numb.

“y-you need to go,” you whimper, looking right through him as more and more tears cascade down your cheeks.

“jagiya, i-”

“don’t,” you feel a hand on the small of your back. your lip starts quivering, you start breathing faster, you’re panicking. you don’t understand anything that’s going on right now. “you heard her, you need to go,” he doesn’t. “leave before i fucking make you leave, and trust me, you don’t want that.” wooyoung threatens, causing you to jump slightly at the sudden outburst. his hand rubs circles against your spine.

jaehyun looks between the two of you, then at the floor, ultimately deciding to leave the premise. your numb hand slowly moves to shut the door, and all you can do is stare at it. you feel your body slide down the door as your sobs finally break free.

you knew it.

you fucking knew it.

why were you in denial for so long? why did you allow this to happen to yourself? this is all your fault, if you knew, then why didn’t you end it before now? do you still love him? were you hoping that it wasn’t true? god, it would’ve been much better if you were just making thing up in your head.

you sob, and you sob even more. wooyoung drops down next to you and pulls you into his arms. “what’s wrong with me?” you cry out.

“nothing is wrong with you, honey. nothing at all, okay?” he hears his chin on top of your head as he rubs your back, “he has no idea what he just lost. you’re the smartest, most amazing, beautiful, kind, courageous person i know. you’ll find the one who’s best for you.”

“promise?” you whimper.

wooyoungs heart is torn. all he wants in this moment is for you to be okay, happy, and in his arms. “i promise, i really do.”

it’s been a long time since that night. a really long time, actually. you’ve had three comebacks since then and are currently working on your fourth; golden hour: part 4. now sitting in the studio, wooyoung and yourself are bundled up on the couch together scrolling on pinterest.

“i’ll do it if you do it,” he smiles and turns his head to look at you, showing you a picture of cherry red hair.

“you want me to dye my hair red?” he nods. “you’re not gonna chicken out last second and have me running around like strawberry shortcake, will you?” wooyoung damn near dies. why? because it’s you. it wasn’t nearly half as funny as he made it out to be, but you just tickle him so good.

“of course not, i’ve already dyed my hair red before, remember?” oh you remember all too well. that red hair looked spectacular on him. it was during that time when you had a crush on him—or was it before then? scratch that, it was when you first met. you had a huge crush on wooyoung when you first met, and it lasted up until you met jaehyun for the first time. when was that? 2021? you broke up in… 2024?

gosh, it’s been so long since you’ve even thought about jaehyun. it’s now 2026 and you all have moved on to bigger and better things. last you checked, he was doing his military service.

haha, you lost your hair. loser.

you know who hasn’t lost his hair? wooyoung. where were we? oh right, back to the crush thing. yeah, you had the fattest crush on him, just cute puppy love at first. he didn’t know, you tried to hold it in, it ate away at you for years, and eventually the crush faded. but now? something has changed, you can’t tell if it’s the way he looks at you or if the plates in your brain shifted the night he comforted you during one of the most heartbreaking moments in your life. all you know is right now, he is taking your breath away all over again.

“do you know how to dye hair?” you ask.

“i mean… not really, but i can try.” he smiles down at you, oh god.

“alright, i’ll dye your hair tonight. come over with the stuff so i can get to business, and make sure you get enough!”

“how much is enough?”

“the whole store baby, the whole store.” you rest your head on his shoulder and continue scrolling on your phone.

baby? did she just call me baby? she’s never done that before. what does that mean? uh, my heart is kind of freaking out. oh my god, does she hear it?

so yeah, wooyoung may or may not have never gotten over his crush on you. fuck that, he never did. it’s definite. when you were with jaehyun he had to tone down the his touching, flirting, all the things that makes him, well, him. but it’s been two years since jaehyun has been out of the picture. guess what that means? it’s his turn.

he’s had a crush on you ever since you graced his eyes, though he never allowed himself to show it. which, even if he did, he’s pretty sure you’d only just think it’s him being the same old flirty wooyoung when that wouldn’t have been the case at all. i mean, yes, he has flirted with you, and yes it has been serious on his end. does he think you got the hint though? pfft, how could you? you were too far up jaehyuns ass to pay him any mind.

knock knock knock

“yay, yay, yay, yay, yay, yay, yayyyyy!” you squeal as you make your way over to your door. you love when it’s time to get your hair done, just as much as you love doing others’ hair. you yank the door open with a big smile, and as expected, wooyoung is standing there with a boyish grin and a bag full of hair supplies.

“are you ready to stain your entire bathroom?”

“yes!”

here’s the current situation; you currently have your hair soaked in red dye under a shower cap. wooyoung? he’s sitting on the toilet while you stand in front of him and work the dye into his hair.

“you should’ve put gloves on,” he says as he watches you work your magic above him. he’s extremely aware of how close you are to one another right now, you between his legs while he struggles to figure out where the fuck he should put his hands.

“well you didn’t either. if you get in trouble then i’ll get in trouble too,” you smile down at him with the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. he takes this moment to really look at you. you have a beauty mark right under your lip, how has he never noticed that before? you smell amazing, don’t get him wrong, you always smell good, but right now? oh my god. vanilla and everything gourmand. wooyoung swears he’s become addicted to it.

you know he’s staring, you’re extremely aware of it actually. that’s what makes this all the more fun. you’ve noticed he’s been extra clingy lately. always sitting with you during practice breaks, going to get food with you, getting food for you, he’s even been walking you home some nights. you’re not sure why, but your hopes are most certainly high.

“what’re you looking at?” you question with an anxious laugh.

“your beauty mark,” he replies, reaching up to rub his finger against it. okay, that took you off guard completely. your entire body froze for a second before getting back to work on his hair, reaching to gather more of the dye. wooyoung noticed the effect he had on you.

“you’re just now noticing it?”

“yeah, i don’t know why though…” he says softly, almost mesmerized. “it’s pretty,” the room is silent for a moment after that, the only sound coming from your hands working on his head. “you’re pretty.”

you freeze.

what did he just say?

your eyes fall to his, he’s already looking at you. you both stare at each other for a moment, no words being said but somehow it’s so loud in this bathroom. you notice him leaning up, an attempt to get closer to your face. you find yourself also inching closer to him, so close yet so far.

your lips are inches away from each other at this point, his breath tickling your face. his hands slide up the backs of your legs and that’s what snaps you out of it. you quickly pull away, clearing your throat. wooyoung jumps from shock and does the same, nervously rubbing his hands on his thighs.

“um- your hair should be good now. we just have to leave it in for thirty minutes,” you quickly say as your hands move just as fast to grab all the trash.

wooyoung clears his throat, “yeah, alright. okay,” he stands and grabs a shower cap, putting it over his hair. you’re out of the bathroom in a flash, speeding to your trash can and onto the couch. fuck. what just happened.

you turn a show on, no idea what it is but it provides you a distraction from whatever the hell you almost did in there. wooyoung makes himself known by sinking into the couch next to you. you don’t look at him, don’t acknowledge his presence, you don’t even speak. all you can do is stare straight ahead at the tv and pray the timer on your phone goes off any minute now.

wooyoung is the same. this fucking timer can’t go off any faster. he takes his chances and looks over at you, but you pay him no mind. ouch. it’s stays exactly like that until thirty minutes are up, the both of you springing off the couch and heading for the bathroom.

“we should wash your hair out first since it’s been sitting longer,” he points out. yeah, i guess we should. you grab a towel and wrap it around your shoulders while wooyoung takes your shower cap off. god this is awkward. you get on your knees and lean over the tub while wooyoung begins massaging your head under the water.

“holy fucking shit it’s been almost ten minutes why is the water not clear yet?” you yell out. you back is aching and your sure wooyoungs is too.

“i don’t know, do you think it’s good enough? i mean, it’s pink water and not red water so…”

“it’s good. it’s good, it’s good. oh my god, my back hurts please let me get up,” you groan as wooyoung helps you up and wraps the towel over your head. you just stare at each other for a minute before letting out tiny laughs. “you’re next.”

wooyoung stares at your pink-stained bathtub, “yeah, i guess i am.” and then you repeat the process once more, except it’s much louder and way more annoying this time.

“ouch! don’t rip my hair out, damn it!”

“i’m sorry, im not trying to!”

“my back hurts, oh my god.”

“i’m never letting you dye my hair again.”

wah, wah, wah! crybaby, crybaby, crybaby!

eventually, the torture is over and it’s time to dry the hair. great.

“do you want me to dry your hair or do you have it?” you ask.

wooyoung smiles, “you can do it.” oh, of course. don’t be mistaken, the situation is still very much awkward, but somehow a bit of the tension has been released. that’s just how you guys are. while you dry his hair there’s nothing to be said, as if you would even be able to with how loud the damn thing is.

once you finish his hair you switch roles, but instead of you sitting on the toilet he stands behind you in front of the sink. perks of being taller, i guess. you watch him very carefully through the mirror as he runs his fingers through your hair, making sure to dry every piece without tangles. he’s so pretty, you can’t help but to think.

just then, he looks up at you. you’ve been caught. his smirk grows wide, “whatcha looking at, huh?” he yells over the blow dryer.

“mm, nothing,” you say innocently with the faintest smile.

he turns the blow dryer off, “huh? what was that?” he teases.

you roll your eyes, “i said nothing.” he places the blow dryer on the counter and traps you from behind, both arms resting on either side of your body.

“doesn’t look like nothing,” he whispers in your ear whilst maintaining eye contact in the mirror. is the window open? it’s very cold in here, no, it’s hot. it’s so fucking hot.

wooyoungs hands move to your waist and spin you around to face him, “you won’t run from me this time, will you?” he whispers, eyes flicking to your lips for a split second.

you can’t help but to notice how close you both are in this moment, his hips keeping you grounded against counter, the tips of your noses brushing. you shake your head as you both lean in, lips finally locking. his arms wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer, your arms lock around his neck, fingers pulling at his freshly dyed hair.

you open your eyes for a split second, seeing the cherry red hair you worked oh so hard on.

you hear wooyoungs groans as you pull his soft hair, and you can smell the strawberry chapstick he must’ve put on right before this.

your tongues mix together, now finally, you taste the strawberry chapstick.

his hands are roaming all over your body now, and you reciprocate. your hands glide down his back, feeling the muscles as they flex beneath your hands.

wooyoung groans into your mouth once more, feeding you with all of his beautiful sounds. yours mouths move in tandem with one another, barely coming up for air, but when you finally do? oh, it is so, so sweet.

your breaths mingle as you pull apart, staring into each others eyes. “so,” you squeak.

“so.”

“what now?” he hums as he rests his forehead on yours.

“hmm, round two?” you both giggle as you lock your lips for a second time that night, the both of you having no idea what you’ve just started.

it’s officially comeback day. you’ve got adrenaline flushing through your veins. no, seriously. you’re all backstage getting your make up and hair done. wooyoung is sitting beside you with his assigned make up artist while you get your hair done, scrolling through your phone and seeing what atiny thinks about the music video.

“wooyoung, atiny said they like our matching hair.” you giggle and show him the comments under the video.

“they have good taste,” he winks. after about fifteen minutes your hair is done and wooyoung has his make up on, it’s time to rotate with the other members. you walk out the room and to your dressing room to make any adjustments to your make up and hair. what? god forbid a girl has preferences.

“now why are you ruining what our lovely stylists worked so hard on?” the oh, so, familiar voice booms through your dressing room, causing you to jump and accidentally smear lipstick on your chin.

“wooyoung!” you whined, pouting at him through the mirror. he’s smirking, leaning against the doorframe. “it wasn’t ruined until you did that shit!” you groan, not noticing him close the door and lock it behind him. you’re too focused on trying to fix your make up that you don’t realize how close he is now.

“aww baby, it’s okay. here, let me see,” he leans down from behind and holds your face in his hand. oh. licking his lips, he kisses up from the smeared lipstick to your lips, stealing your breath away. you relax immediately, releasing the breath you didn’t know you were holding in all this time.

he pulls away with a frown, “mm. that didn’t work, hold on.” he moves his thumb to your chin, carefully wiping the lipstick off. his bottom lip is tucked between his teeth as he pulls your bottom lip down with his thumb. feeling a bit naughty, you take advantage of this moment. you open your mouth and let him thumb glide against your tongue, maintaining eye contact with the cherry-haired man. “oh, baby…” he groans, “you shouldn’t do that.”

that only encourages you to suck his thumb harder. “oh, i see. you wanna be a little slut, huh?” your eyes gloss over at that, pupils dilated. he pushes his thumb further back before sliding it out your mouth, holding the side of your head as you lean into his touch.

“please,” you beg.

“please what?” he presses, sinking down to his knees and turning your chair to face him. your legs spread willingly, your body moving before you can even think. his hands smooth over your thighs, trialing up your skirt, “you gotta tell me what you want or i can’t help you, my love.”

your breath hitches as he pulls down the shorts you’re wearing underneath your skirt. “p-please, touch me.”

“touch you?” he cocks his head to the side, “touch you where, huh?” wooyoung leaves a trail of kisses up your inner thighs and pushes up your skirt to reveal your panties. his thumb grazes the wet spot shining through them, “here?” your legs try to close but oh, oh no, he’s not having that. he keeps your legs spread with his hands, “keep these pretty legs open or you won’t be getting a damn thing from me, got it?”

you’ve never nodded your head so quick in your life.

he hooks his thumb on your panties and pushes them aside, mouth watering at the sight. “oh, look at this pretty pussy,” he damn near moans as he blows cool air against your heat, making your hips jerk forward. he smirks before sinking inbetween your thighs, flattening his tongue against you to test the waters. you lay your head back against the chair, a content sigh escaping your lips.

his tongue swirled around your clit once, twice, three times before he began to suck, eliciting a loud moan from you. then comes his fingers, and boy does he waste no time. he dives two fingers into your heat, curling and twisting while you encourage him with your moans.

“oh- fuck, youngie.” you cry out. he chuckles against your clit before picking up the pace, “please- don’t stop, please.”

“mm, yeah? don’t stop?”

“please-”

“tell me how good it feels baby, tell your youngie how good he’s treating your pussy.”

you’ve completely lost your mind at this point, the coil in your stomach is getting tighter and tighter by the second. not a single word is coming to mind. you can’t speak, you can hardly think, only thing you know is him. with another flick of his tongue you’re releasing all over his fingers, crying out for god knows who as you rock your hips with the movement of his fingers still inside of you.

“yeah baby, let it all out for me. cum all over my fingers.” he coos. he helps you ride out your orgasm with a couple kisses to your now swollen clit, kissing up your body to your mouth. you can taste yourself on his tongue, his fingers still pumping in and out of your at a slow pace. after another minute or two he finally pulls them out of you, sucking his fingers dry and pulling you into another sloppy, wet, kiss.

when he pulls away a string of saliva is left behind, keeping the two of you connected. “bend over the vanity for me, doll.” he says as he unbuckles his belt and works to get his pants off. you do as he says and watch in the mirror as he pulls his cock out. you bite your lip once you see his red, hot, angry tip is leaking with precum, mouth immediately watering. “it’s impolite to stare.” he teases, pushing your head further down as he lines up behind you.

he pushes your skirt over your hips and pulls your panties to the side again, rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit, your mouth falls open as a silent moan tears through you. wooyoung bites his lip as he watches through the mirror. “that feel good baby? you feel me?” you nod. all you can do is nod at this point, you’re so insanely fucked out and he’s barely even done anything. “i need you to be quieter this time, okay? we gotta go on in five minutes.” he whispers in your ear.

his hands hold your hips steady against the vanity as he pushes in, holding back his own moan as he sinks into your heat. “fuckkk, baby.” he groans, his head falling back before he slides out and then slams back into you.

his whole body is leaning over you now as his hips piston into your gummy walls, your mouth has fallen open once again and your eyes roll to the back of your head. “oh, fuck!” your cry out, causing wooyoung to shove two fingers into your mouth to shut you the fuck up.

“what did i say?” he groans breathlessly into your ear, “be a good girl for me, shhh, shh, it’s okay.” he has to bite into your shoulder himself just to stay quiet, his own orgasm creeping up on him. the coil in your stomach is tightening again, your hands grabbing out for anything to keep you stable.

your orgasm tears through you once more, tears running down your face. “i feel you, baby. i’m here.” his hips are moving at an impossible speed by now, chasing his orgasm along with yours. once he feels your walls fluttering around him he knows it’s time. “cum again, baby. cum all over my cock, please- cum for me.” his whines drive you over the edge.

your entire body trembles underneath his as you release for the third time, all over his now softening cock. he pumps a few more times, making sure every last drop is gone before removing his fingers from your mouth and leaning back, looking down at the beautiful sight. once he slides out of you, his thumb replaces his cock. bending down to be face to face with your pussy, he pumps his thumb in and out of you a few times. “gotta make sure you don’t leak all over the stage, huh?” he smirks, removing his thumb and sliding your panties back into place.

“hey, where are my shorts?” you ask once you’ve both cleaned each other up. wooyoung smirks at you for what feels like the hundredth time today.

“oh, you mean these?” he holds them up on his pointer finger, waving them around in your face before shoving them in his pocket. “you won’t be needing them.”

staff knocks on your door, “thirty seconds, let’s go!” you both look at the door and then at each other.

wooyoung leans towards you, “like i said, don’t leak all over the stage.” and with that, he leaves a smack on your ass before walking out of the dressing room, leaving both you and your five senses going haywire.

what. the. fuck.

© woopetal. all rights reserved.

—————-

Two days had passed since your appointment, 5 more to go before the next. You tossed and turned in bed, replaying your last appointment with Dr. Choi in your mind. You tried to shake off the desire you had for him and only focus on his professionalism. He was a new doctor. Not a lover. You had to remember that.

Even if your body didn’t.

You reached for the bottle of pills Dr. Choi gave you and shook them around before popping one out in your hand. He had told you to use them “as needed” which, in this moment, they were needed. The tingling sensation returning between your legs as you run back the images in your head of the examination. Yes, it was arousal. But it was something much deeper, more potent. You looked to extinguish the fire before it burned you.

You placed it under your tongue and let it dissolve in hopes of the effects taking place immediately. You cringed through the bitter taste for a moment and washed out the remainder with water.

You settled down deep into your pillow, the cold of the fabric comforting you. The promise of relief helping your brain settle down and you started to drift off to sleep..

You woke up a few minutes later gasping for air. Your heart raced and you felt an overwhelming thumping between your thighs. Your muscles convulsed and you could feel the sticky wetness that clung the panties to your skin.

You had just cum in your sleep, and you were about to cum again.

You plunged your hand down the front of your panties and frantically rubbed your clit, unable to resist the temptation. You let out a loud moan you were sure your neighbors could hear and had another orgasm, your fingers getting drenched in your cum.

The pulsing still continued and so did your fingers. You couldn’t stop cumming. You plunged two fingers inside of your cunt and stroked your swollen g- spot, dragging out a gushing climax, drenching your sheets. It still was not enough.

You lost track of how many times you came until you finally felt satisfied. Your soaked sheets suddenly repulsed you, making you feel uneasy. These pills should have helped you, not make it 10X worse. You reached for the bottle to read any information however, most of it was blank. Only Dr. Choi’s name was printed on the label and his phone number.

‘Call if concerns arise.”

You grabbed your phone and dialed his number, not caring about the time. Dr. Choi answered on the second ring, his voice riddled with sleep.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Choi? It’s y/n. I’m sorry to call but I took one of the pills you prescribed me and-“

You could hear him shifting behind the receiver, sitting up in his bed to focus. He had been expecting your call but of course, you didn’t know that.

“-and I think whatever ingredient that is in that lubricant I’m allergic to is also in these pills. But there are no ingredients I can see on the bottle. What are these again?”

“Did you have another reaction?” He brushed past your questions about the ingredients and focused on getting the information he was truly after from you.

“Yes. I just- I just orgasmed in my sleep. And kept climaxing uncontrollably after it woke me up.” You shyly explained to him, your voice falling to just above a whisper.

“I see. And you climaxed without stimulation?”

“Well, the one time in my sleep. But the others.. I was just trying to make the feeling go away and I just couldnt. It took so many times until the feeling went away.”

He could envision how you looked as the heat of embarrassment flowed to your cheeks from on the other end of the phone. It made his cock twitch.

“This is a bit puzzling. I need to research this right away and do an evaluation. Can we move your appointment up to tomorrow at 5pm?”

“Yes. I’ll be there, Doctor.”

——————————-

Dr. Choi opened the door to the exam room and you were surprised to see Dr. Jeong inside.

“Hello, it’s good to see you.” He greeted you with a warm smile.

“Oh, hi Dr. Jeong. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“When you called about the side effects you had to the medication I asked Dr. Jeong here to join us. Do you mind?” Dr. Choi asked you.

“No, not at all.”

“Great. Have a seat on the exam table and let’s discuss what we will be doing today.” Dr. Choi extended his hand out to the table.

Once you took a seat you felt the air in the room shift slightly, a bead of sweat gathered on the back of your neck. The two doctors stood in front of you with hands folded across their chests.

“So, we believe the medication prescribed to you is causing a reaction with your erogenous zones. We also think the same reaction occurred with the lubricant I used on our last appointment.”

“Erogenous zones?” You questioned, unfamiliar with the word.

“The part of your body linked to sexual pleasure.” Dr. Jeong explained.

“Yes, exactly.” Dr. Choi nodded. “And we’d like to look a bit further into this theory to make sure we are correct as well as figure out exactly how and why you are being affected as severely as you are.”

You were silent for a moment, taking in exactly what they were proposing. They wanted you to become aroused?

“Just to make sure I have this correct, you want me to have a ‘reaction’ so you can study me?”

Both of them chuckled a little bit at your question, finding your innocent charming.

“Yes. You will be perfectly safe and won’t be in any medical danger. It doesn’t seem like the reaction is fatal in any way. We are both medical professionals just trying to get a better understanding of what’s happening to you.”

Dr. Choi’s calming voice and Dr. Jeong’s smile put you at ease. Although you had no idea what sort of “examination” they had in store for you, you agreed without any more hesitation.

“Go ahead and take one more pill. Let it dissolve. We will step out for a moment to let you undress and we will be back soon.”

You followed Dr. Jeong’s instructions: letting the bitter pill dissolve on your tongue and stripping down to nothing. You put on a medical gown, tying it in the front and sitting down on the exam table. The doctors both came back in a few minutes later just as you started to feel the familiar heartbeat between your thighs return to torture you.

“Do you feel the side-effects yet?” Dr. Jeong asked you. You nodded, but he shook his head gently. “I need you to use words with me so I’m getting accurate information.”

“Yes, I feel it.” You swallowed nervously.

“What do you feel?”

“I can feel a thumping in my vagina. Like a pulse.” You explained, the word ‘vagina’ making you cringe.

“You can use a word other than ‘vagina’ if you want.” Dr. Jeong offered, sensing the uncomfortableness in your voice.

“Okay.” You nodded. “My pussy is pulsing. Like a throbbing feeling.”

Both of their cocks twitched under their medical coats.

“I see.” Dr. Jeong rubbed the back of his neck with his hand in deep thought. In the corner of your eye you saw Dr. Choi writing something down on a piece of paper. Notes of the exam maybe?

“Please lay in position for us on the table. Back flat and feet in the stirrups.”

You did as you were told and bit your lip to hold back the gasp that bubbled up in your mouth at the feeling of the cold air against your wet pussy. You felt and heard your folds spread open as you placed your feet in their place on the stirrups.

It took everything in their power not to take you right then and there. The way your cunt glistened in front of them, practically leaking onto the table, made their mouths water.

“Let’s take a closer look.” Dr. Choi said and handed the other doctor a pair of gloves. They both put them on snugly and walked over to the edge of the table.

Dr. Choi placed his gloved hand against your inter thigh, the warmth of his hand through the latex on your cold skin made goosebumps stand up on your body.

“Look at the way she swells.” Dr. Jeong comments his counterpart. His fingers hovering over your slit. You could not feel them but you could sense them. You felt yourself clench once from the anticipation which did not go unnoticed.

“Did you see that?” Dr. Jeong gasped.

“I told you, it’s an incredible reaction.”

Dr. Jeong dove in for a deeper look, placing each hand on either side of your opening and tugging them to the sides, spreading you open to him. He could see everything so clear now, especially how wet you were.

“The amount of arousal she has coming out is notable. A lot more than I expected.” You suddenly felt the light graze of a fingertip just below your opening. It swiped up your dripping slick and dragged it slowly up your aching slit. A broken moan slipped from your lips.

“I’m so sorry-“ you started to apologize but they both shook their heads ‘no.’

“There’s nothing to be worried about. The office staff went home since this is very sensitive research.” Dr. Choi assured you.

The fingers that touched you spread your folds open with two fingers. They felt long, leading you to the conclusion they were Dr. Jeong’s. You felt your clit start to throb but, too soon, he pulled his fingers away.

“Let’s check her nipples. They were engorged on her last appointment so they should be now as well.”

Dr. Choi carefully untied the front of your medical gown and laid it open. Your entire body was now exposed, breasts on full display for the doctor team. They stood on each side of you now. Both of them taking one hand and grabbing a breast.

“The right side definitely feels engorged as you get closer to the nipple.” Dr. Jeong told Dr. Choi as he massaged the soft mound in his big hand.

“The left side feels as you described as well.”

You closed your eyes in a big sigh as you took in the feeling of both of them squeezing at your tits. You arched your back up off the table into their touches without thinking. Both of the doctors smirked at each other due to your body’s reaction to their touch. Then, at the same time, they both gently tugged on your nipples.

“Oh!” You felt yourself clench down below around nothing.

“Wow, the nipples are really sensitive from this. Highly affected.”

“Yes. I noted that last time as well. I think we should utilize the clamps now, to see how she reacts, what do you say?” Dr. Choi suggested and Dr. Jeong nodded.

“Y/n, we’re going to place two of these tiny clamps on your nipples. It’s going to make the blood travel to them and make them more sensitive. For the exam. Alright?”

You were too turned on to think logically about what was being asked of you. Not caring to question the methods they were using to study you. You just nodded in agreement, brain almost mush.

Dr. Jeong walked over to the counter and opened a drawer, taking out two metal clamps with rubber ends on them. He opened them and attached one to each of your nipples. The pressure on your sensitive ends stung the tiniest bit but the pulse between your legs only got stronger.

“Doctor, take a look right here.” Dr. Choi pointed down at your core. “You can see her clitoris twitching.”

Dr. Jeong walked over to look at your pussy once again. You were visibly throbbing.

“Oh, my. Is this a concern?” He brought his gloved hand forward and placed his hand over your heat. He could feel your pussy pulse against his palm. Without thinking, you used your hips to grind against his touch a few times before he pulled away.

“Fuck.” He hissed under his breath, low enough for only Dr. Choi to hear.

“I think Dr. Jeong should do an internal exam. What do you think, y/n?”

“Whatever is necessary.” You answered breathlessly.

A hint of a smirk cracked on Dr. Jeong’s face but he quickly composed himself. He nodded and stood between your open legs, his hand giving your thigh a reassuring squeeze.

“Let me know if anything hurts or if you want me to stop.” He told you and you responded with a nod. After your agreement, he took two fingers and placed them at your entrance. He used his fingertips to stroke your opening, the light touches driving you up the walls. Once he felt you start to open up to take him, he pushed his long slender fingers inside of you one knuckle at a time.

You couldn’t help but moan, feeling embarrassed as his eyes flickered up to meet yours for a moment after hearing the sound. He twisted his fingers around just like Dr. Choi had done in the appointment prior. You could feel every inch of his fingers rub against your sensitive walls. You started to leak down his gloves.

“While Dr. Jeong continues his exam, I’m going to check on the clamps and what sort of results we got from those.”

Dr. San reached out and ran the tips of his fingers over your slightly purple nipples. The clamps had made the blood pool at the ends, making them overly sensitive to any touch.

“Ah!” You let out a short cry from his when his fingers grazed you, feeling entirely caught off guard by how sensitive they had gotten. Dr. Choi removed the clamps, leaving your nipples completely swollen and engorged. He then took his index finger and started to flick the hard peaks, his nail scraping across the very tips.

Dr. Jeong down below felt you start to get tighter around his fingers. With the twist of his wrist, he brought his fingers up against your g-spot and started to stroke it with his fingertips.

“God!-“ your back arched off the table from the delicious sensation. Dr. Choi continued flicking and tweaking your nipples, each touch of his fingers sending a shockwave to your clit. Dr. Jeong stroked your walls deeply with a steady speed, his fingers curled up inside of you.

“I need you to climax, y/n. For us to see what happens before, during, and after you do.” Dr. Choi spoke in a low tone close to your ear. His voice was deep and sensual. “Can you do that for me please?”

You whimpered and nodded your head quickly, dragging a short chuckle from Dr. Choi’s chest.

“Good girl.” He told you, his pet-name sending you into your first orgasm. You came hard around the silicone, creaming down the sides and onto Dr. Jeong’s gloved hand. He fucked you until you rode out your climax entirely, collapsing flat on the table when you were done.

“Has the feeling subsided?” Dr. Jeong asked you. You shook your head no, still able to feel the never-ended pulse between your thighs. Dr. Choi walked over to a drawer close by and opened it, taking out an object and turning back towards you.

“I think we should insert this into you and see if that might give us any more answers.” Dr. Choi’s facade was faltering ever so slightly as he watched you tremble below him, a smirk appearing on his face while you made eye contact. He held up a standard silicon dildo, about 6inches in length. You started to shake your head no, still not fully recovered from your recent orgasm, but you felt Dr. Jeong’s long fingers caressing your shoulders in a comforting way. He was standing at the head of the exam bed, leaning over you and giving you a reassuring nod.

“You’ll be fine, dear. We won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

You looked up at him with glossy doe eyes that made his cock throb. He discreetly started to rut his erection against the table for some relief.

“Okay.” You whispered and braced yourself as you felt the tip of the toy start to push into you. Your cunt swallowing the length of it easily, walls aching to grasp it. He held it deep inside of you, the fullness making your pussy clench around it. His wrist moved it in and out of you slowly, your grasp around it giving him a bit of resistance that gave him a dark idea.

“Dr. Jeong, I’m feeling some resistance. We need some lubrication.”

Dr. Jeong nodded, excitement building in his chest knowing what was to come next as he grabbed the jar of drugged lubrication.

“Wait, is this the same one from last time?” Your voice was frantic and full of panic.

“Yes. I think it’s important for Dr. Jeong to see first-hand what happened to you last time. It’s the same process as what we are doing the pills. We will monitor you and take care of you if anything happens.” Dr. Choi explained. You were hesitant to agree but gave in, the toy clenched up inside of you clouding your judgment.

He slathered the gel onto your pussy and around the base of the toy. Your already sensitive cunt started to pulsate once the contaminated lubricant touched you. Even without moving the toy inside of you yet, you could feel yourself getting close to another orgasm.

“Fuck- it’s really strong this time!” You gasped, thrashing a tiny bit on the table. Dr. Jeong put gentle pressure on your shoulders to keep you still. Meanwhile, Dr. Choi started to push the toy in and out of you again. It slipped in and out of you effortlessly now, the wet squelches your cunt made as it took the silicone filling the room to both doctor’s delight.

“She’s taking it quite well.” Dr. Choi said with a deeper than usual voice. “I can see every bit of her pulsating.”

“You’re doing so good.” Dr. Jeong whispered to you directly in your ear. His lips were only a breath away and it sent shivers down your spine. The lubrication and medication pushing your pleasure to the limit, mixing with the intense feeling of Dr. Choi fucking you with the toy. You came around the device, clamping around it while your body shuttered. You started to babble, not realizing what words came out of your mouth.

“Please, please, please! Please fuck me..” you whimpered as your orgasm continued to wash through you.

Dr. Jeong and Dr. Choi looked at each other, knowing this was the moment they’ve been working so diligently to get to. Dr. Choi finally removed the toy from you, leaving you empty and throbbing.

They both shrugged off their medical coats and took their pre-determined positions: Dr. Choi at the end of the table and Dr. Jeong at the top. Everything that had happened during this appointment was carefully planned and plotted.

Dr. Choi grabbed under your thighs and lifted them upwards, bending them back towards your chest. Dr. Jeong’s hands gripping them and holding them back against your ears.

“Wait-“ you gasped, another aftershock of your last orgasm still making you shutter.

“It’s okay, sweet. Dr. Choi is just going to observe how you react to his tongue, now.”

The words didn’t fully register in your head, the meaning behind them floating in your brain unable to put them together in that moment. Clarity not setting in until you felt the doctors thick and heavy tongue lick a slow stripe up your slit.

You whimpered and tried to thrash but Dr. Jeong’s grip was too strong, allowing Dr. Choi to continue his steady licks against your cunt. You couldn’t even protest due to the moans that clawed out of your throat every time you felt him slurp up your arousal.

“Sannie, I think she’s ready.” Dr. Jeong spoke, addressing the other casually like a friend. Dr. Choi, San, dragged his tongue further and further down, past your pussy entrance, and licked the piece of skin nestled between each of your holes. He tickled it with the tip of his tongue.

“Have you ever had your asshole licked?” Dr. Jeong asked you with his lips pressed to your ear, tickling your ear lobe.

“N-no.” You stuttered, taken aback by his sudden crudeness.

“You’re going to love it.”

San dipped his head lower and used his tongue to lap teasing licks over your untouched entrance. The light graze woke up your senses to a new, intense, pleasure that unlocked something deep inside.

“What the fuck..” you felt your pussy start to pulse again, the remaining side effects of the lubricant still encouraging your muscles to tighten and blood to rush to your clit.

“Look down between your legs.” Dr. Jeong instructed you. “Watch him lick you there.”

You lifted your head off the table to look down between your held-open legs. San was already looking up at you, dark eyes low and intense. He didn’t break eye contact as he ran his tongue continuously over your virgin hole. The new sensation shocked you completely. Each time you felt him touch it, you moaned. Soon enough, your cunt started to leak. The slick dripping down to where San’s tongue could lick it up as a sweet treat.

“We’re we right? Do you like how it feels?” Dr. Jeong whispered sensually into your ear. Your head fell back down against the table and eyes rolled back to look up at him. A noise of satisfaction rumbled in his chest when you lazily nodded your head, your mind too clouded to form actual words.

San brought two fingers up to your dripping cunt to rub down on your clit with pressure while he lapped at you, the taboo pleasure that you felt down below making your next orgasm begin to develop. Both doctors knew you were almost there, a bit too familiar now with what it sounded like just before you were about to cum. Dr. Jeong shifted his hands down your legs, still holding them in place, but far enough down where he could extend a long finger and flick it across your nipples. The moment his fingertips brushed against them, you started to cum.

You screamed and your back lifted off the table. San continued to lap at your puckered hole while you climaxed, the intense feeling of it brushing against your nerves and making you gush.

“God, you’re squirting all over him.”

You felt San hum in satisfaction, the vibrations tickling you. He licked you two more times before standing back up straight to take a look at your quivering body. You still convulsed even after he stopped, another gush flowing out of you and onto the floor.

“I told you she’s a messy one, Yunho.” San chuckled, overflowing with confidence as he watched you still struggling to come down from the orgasm he gave you.

“Did she taste good?”

“Yes. Sweet like candy.” He licked his lips to taste any remaining drops of your orgasm. Both of them started to move around the room once again, switching sides. Now, San was at the head of the table, Yunho was down below.

“I don’t understand?” You whined to them, your heart beating a little faster as you saw Yunho start to undo his belt buckle.

“This is all part of our research.” Both of them chuckled darkly at Yunho’s response.

“Yes, Miss y/n. We just want to see what happens when you take Dr. Jeong’s cock while on this drug we gave you. What do you say?”

At your feet, Yunho dropped his pants to the floor. His boxers strained against his leaking cock. He smirked as he watched you fixating on his clothed crotch and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, then slowly pulled them down until his dick sprung out in front of you.

Dr. Jeong cock was average in girth but long in length. A string of pre-cum started to drip from his pink tip, threatening to drop right on your used pussy. You should feel disgusted. Manipulated. Finally understanding their intentions were not pure. But, your cunt ached to feel his cock. Your opening throbbing, itching to take him inside. You were trying your best to fight against it, knowing it could just be the drugs.

“I don’t- we shouldn’t be doing this.” You weakly protested but made no effort to get yourself out of position.

“Do you want us to stop the appointment?” Dr. Choi asked you, not able to fight off the cocky smile on his face.

You didn’t want to respond with the answer you knew you should say, unable to find the will. Not when you wanted to be filled so bad. The aching between your thighs overpowering every ounce of self control and self-respect you had.

“No, I don’t want to end the appointment.” You admitted in a weak huff. “Please. Please continue with the exam.” That was the answer they had planned for, knowing you would give in and play along with their sick role-play.

“Good girl.” Yunho cooed at you. “Don’t worry miss. We’ll take good care of you.”

San gripped you by the arms and pulled you further up on the exam table. Your head dangled off the end and ass sat in the middle. You felt Yunho get up onto the table with you, and position himself between your thighs. He grabbed them both and wrapped them around his waist, his cock now teasing your entrance.

San supported your neck with his hand, holding your face against his clothed erection. You groaned and ran your nose against the straining cotton. He pushed into you, taking advantage of your face, and started to rut himself against your cheek.

“Fuck, you love this dont you?” San hissed through a clenched jaw.

“She does. Her cunt is begging to swallow me.” Yunho groaned. “Look at how her opening grabs around my cock head.”

Both of them watched as you opened up and closed tightly around him. He shifted his hips ever so slightly where only his head was pushing in and out of you, teasing your hungry hole. You moaned due to both the sensation and also the knowledge that they were both watching. You buried your face harder into San’s crotch, placing your lips around his cock and teasing him over the fabric.

“Do you want your mouth filled also, pretty?” He groaned when he felt you. You nodded shyly and San started to undress. His cock falling out in front of you. He was average in length but thick. Your mouth watered at the sight and you couldn’t help but extend your tongue out to lick away his precum that collected on his tip, making his eyes roll in the back of his head.

“She’s ready.” Yunho told him and San nodded. Yunho gripped down hard on your thighs and slid his entire length inside of you. Your cunt swallowed him eagerly, your sensitive walls closing down onto him in a delicious way that milked him with every thrust. Your mouth fell open in pleasure, encouraging San to take advantage and push his tip against your lips.

You placed your lips around the head of his cock and suckled gently, the softness of your lips around his throbbing member sending shivers up his spine. You twirled your tongue around the tip, teasing his slit with the end of your tongue.

“Take more of me.” He instructed you but you didn’t listen, too distracted by the rhythmic thrusts Yunho was pushing into you down below. This was as much as you could manage at the moment, or so you thought.

Yunho suddenly thrusted himself into your cunt hard, making you gasp in shock at the impact inside of you. With your mouth open wider thanks to Yunho’s assistance, San pushed his way down your throat. You accepted his thick member with a strangled gag, eyes bulging in the shock of the sudden fill.

“Listen when I’m speaking to you.” San grunted to you as he started to roll his hips into your throat. “Doctor’s orders.”

Both of them now stuffed you at each end. Yunho’s cock fucked you expertly, his hips rolling deeply into you then dragging his length back out almost completely to push into you over and over again while San relished in feeling his length scrape against the walls of your gagging throat, bulging visibly around him to his delight. The vibrations of your moans buzzing around his member and tickling his balls.

San, while continuing to fuck your throat, leaned over your body and gripped your breasts with his hands. He simultaneously used your breasts to pull his hips into your throat while using his thumb and index finger to pull at your painfully-sensitive nipples. The sensation sent shockwaves across your whole body and made you let go of any part of you that was still holding back. You relaxed your thighs, letting them fall open completely by your sides, spreading you open for Yunho to effortlessly take you how he wanted.

He groaned in satisfaction at your submission to them and rewarded you by picking up his pace. He reached his hand up to choke you, his hand wrapping around your throat to feel San’s cock slide in and out. His other hand reaching down between your bodies to rub his fingers in circles on your clit.

You screamed around San’s cock from the touch of Yunho’s fingers. San slid himself out of your throat, knowing you would be cumming soon and wanted to hear you when you came on his friend’s cock. He bent down to get face to face with you, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. He grabbed the back of your head and turned you to face him. You tried to focus as much as you could with your tear-blurred eyes, mouth hanging open with moans flowing out with every thrust from above.

“Are you going to be a good whore and cum on Dr. Jeong’s cock?” He asked you while looking at you in the eyes. His voice was light, almost mocking you. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head.

“Fuck..” Yunho groaned, the filthy words even affecting him.

“Answer me.” San growled at your silence. You nodded frantically, your core tightening around Yunho’s cock and choking down onto it. His hips started to quicken, but rhythm becoming sloppy and he climbed to his climax. He pressed down harder onto your clit.

“UUNNNGH- please!” You begged.

“Please what?” San smirked.

“Please, please, please..” you mindlessly begged, the tight string in your core about to snap.

“Cum around his cock for me. Let me watch.”

His request sent you over the edge. Your thighs clamping down around Yunho’s waist, pulling him deep inside of you while you came undone around him. Yunho spill into your pulsating cunt with a final and hard thrust. He collapsed on top of you, his cock leaking every last drop into you. He could feel your pussy continuing to throb around his now softening dick while you came down from your own climax.

San stroked your cheek comfortingly while Yunho slowly lifted himself off and out of you. He collected himself, taking a deep breath before snapping back into his role.

“Let’s take a look at your cunt now.”

Yunho pulled your limp body to the end of the table, your legs dangling off the end. Dr. Choi hit a button on the table and lifted the opposite end up, making you sit in an upright position leaned against the adjusted table. You could feel Dr. Jeong’s cum start to leak from your sore pussy, your hole still throbbing as it poured out of you.

“So messy. What a good whore.” Yunho praised you, giving you a sloppy kiss on the temple. Your head was swimming, mind close to detaching from your used body.

“Now it’s my turn to cum.” Dr. Choi said, angling himself between your weak thighs. You used all your strength to lift your hands to block him from trying to enter your used and swollen pussy. Both of them chuckled at your pathetic attempt.

“Please. I can’t take it anymore.” You whimpered, begging for mercy.

“Don’t worry, pretty. That’s not the hole I had in mind.” He told you, and rubbed the tip of his cock over your furthest hole. You groaned deeply from your chest and pulled your legs up to sit on the edges of the table, opening for him. Ready for another assault on your body.

“That’s our good girl.” Yunho cooed at you, enamored by how well you were embracing being their play-thing. Their experiment.

San rubbed his clock against your slit first, spreading Yunho’s cum and your orgasm around his shaft, and brought it back down to your ass. He used your orgasms to lubricate himself, making it easier when he finally pushed his tip into you.

“Fuck-“ you gasped at the faint sting of pain as his thick cock head stretched you open. Even with lots of your slick lubricating his cock, he still could not push in any further. Afraid he would tear you open.

Yunho reached down between your legs and spanked his long fingers down against your pulsating cunt. The impact making you scream. He continued to spank you over and over, your slick mixed with his cum splashing all over his hand and your thighs each time he brought his palm down against you.

“Since you won’t be a good girl and open up for Dr. Choi, you deserve some spankings.” Yunho growled into your hear while San continued to fuck your tight hole with the tip of his cock. Even with shallow strokes and penetration, it still felt sublime. Heat radiated up your body, igniting a fire inside you didn’t know existed. You were going to cum. Again. This time with a cock in your ass and a hand spanking your cunt. You felt disgusting, used, dirty. And more alive than ever. You wanted to dedicate yourself to feeling this type of pleasure from now on. Never settling for anything less. Addicted to it. You wanted to be used by them. Experimented on. Manipulated. You wanted them to train your ass so you could eventually take San completely. Maybe both of them at the same time.

San angled his hips upward, hitting a spot inside of you just as Yunho slapped down against your clit that made you slip into the most intense orgasm you’ve ever had. Your cunt gushed all over San, orgasm splashing everywhere as Yunho continued to slap your gushing pussy while you came, singing praises to you in your ear.

Watching you squirt with his dick in your tight asshole, his friend’s fingers slapping down on your cum-dripping cunt, pushed San to his release. Filling your second hole with cum with a beautiful strangled moan.

He pulled out of you, wincing from the stimulation. His load dropped out of you, mixing together with the remainder of Yunho. The room fell silent, the only sound being the gasps from all 3 of you as you all tried to regulate your breathing. Dr. Jeong grabbed a towel from the cabinet and handed it to you gently to clean yourself up while both of them put their clothing back on, resetting.

“I think this exam showed impressive results.” Dr. Choi returned back to his professional self as he tossed his lab coat back on. Dr. Jeong nodded in agreement but sent a shocking wave of confusion through you, then annoyance.

“You guys can stop pretending like you didn’t just fuck me. I won’t go to the police.” You told them, scoffing at the idea.

“Pardon?” Dr. Jeong looked at you a bit confused, eyebrow raised at your sentence.

“You may have fucked me dumb but I’m not stupid. It was hot. Maybe a bit scary at first but I really enjoyed it.”

“We’re glad you enjoyed the process.” Dr. Choi said. “But everything that happened today was all part of the research process.”

“Calling me a ‘good whore’ was part of the process? Cumming inside of me?” Your voice got higher in octave as you tried to fight against the information that were telling you.

“Lots of people respond well to talking during sexual encounters. And since we wanted your full and non-restricted response, we wanted to commit to the job.”

You sat in shock, truly unable to tell if they were telling the truth, that it was all part of the exam, or if they really plotted to fuck you. Maybe it was the pills or the multiple orgasms gifted to you by two handsome doctors, but you eventually came to the conclusion that you didn’t care. So, regardless of the truth, you decided to play along.

“So, same time next week?” You asked, and both of them smirked. Ready to schedule your next appointment. “I’ll need a refill on my prescription too.”

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