so what i lied 25 | 🖤

The pinewood flooring creaks under the shoes of the only other person in the room; the wooden moan of the panels mixing with the sound of leather oxfords produces a calming symphony of life. The noise is welcome to Anna’s ears, warding off the crushing persistence of cruel nostalgia.

Dark eyes lifting slowly from the dark colors and patterns and settling comfortably on the young man who paces the room, Anna pulls her arms away from the book and drops them into her lap, the pads of her fingertips rubbing over the creases of her slacks. Her companion circles the large table as though his racing mind won’t work unless his feet are in motion as well.

Peering at her over his lenses, Douglas Martin lowers his brow and pauses his finger’s descent over the words of his own book. “You’re not going to finish?” He questions, tucking one hand into his pocket.

She shakes her head. “Not today,” Anna pulls the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows. She nods towards his book, her shoulders slumping heavily. “You’re busy, anyway.”

There’s a soft thump as Douglas lets his book close. He sets it down on the table across from her and uses the same hand to brace himself as he sits, adjusting his pants around his knees. “I can read through anything, you know that. Anything but dead silence, anyway.” He gestures to her old green book. “That’s your favorite Bradstreet.” Both elbows on the table, leaning over the table towards her, letting his readers slip down his nose so his brown eyes can gaze piercingly at her, Douglas lets a consoling smile lift a corner of his lips. “So why won’t you finish it?”

Anna sucks in a deep, cold breath, grasping her hair, bunching it in her fists before letting it go with a quick exhale. She shakes her head again and pushes the old anthology across the table towards him, watching him catch it with his long, slightly crooked fingers. “I’ve read the words so many times…” Her head tilts to the side as she gazes down at it almost painfully. “All I hear is my own voice.”

He grins at her, flipping the book back open to the page she’d been reading from. His watch glints in the light as he slides it back to her. “Doesn’t bother me, I rather like your voice.”

Her expression is unimpressed as it turns on him. “You’re supposed to be reading a hundred-year-old book on transport phenomena, not listening to my voice read the same poem that I’ve read a dozen times in the past.” She makes no move to retrieve her book back from him. “I’m irritating myself; I’d rather not frustrate you, too.”

Douglas reaches out, encompassing her small, pale, cold hand with his large warm one. “You’re thinking about Jo.” He doesn’t let her pull her hand back until she meets his eyes and nods affirmatively.

As soon as her hand is released, Anna’s eyes fall away from his searching gaze, to his shoulders, then his arms, then his tie, then the little coffee stain on his shirt. “I guess it just feels wrong to be sitting here reading poetry.” Her tone wavers. “What if it’s Cass next? What if it’s me? What do you think it’s like? To have survived, to have escaped, to have lived free—and then be his victim again?”

Douglas just watches as her expression falls further.

He can’t respond, can’t offer comfort. There’s nothing to say.

1947 - Edward

“Someone tell me why there’s a beat cop in my office.” Captain Weston lifts his coffee cup to his lips and draws in a small sip. It’s scalding, and not worth the pain. He can taste the chalky residue of expired grounds in the back of his throat and sets the cup down on somebody’s desk with a wince. He’s staring across the precinct’s bullpen at the windows of his office where, through the open blinds, he sees a non-ranked officer sitting stiffly against one wall.

Next to him, one of his lieutenants huffs an aggravated sigh. “That’s Officer Franklin. He’s been trying to talk to you for a couple weeks now—really giving his sergeants an earful about it.”

One eyebrow lifts curiously as Captain Weston shoots Lieutenant O’Reilly a look. “He wants to talk to me about what?”

O’Reilly shrugs. “He says he’s got a lead on your serial killer case.”

“And the sergeants shut him down for a couple of weeks?”

“People on his beat keep telling him they’ve seen the guy going into that nightclub on fifth.”

“Ah.” Captain Weston rubs his forehead in irritation. He casts a wistful look to his disappointing cup of coffee and checks his watch. He’ll give the officer five minutes, but after that, he’s going across the street for fresh coffee.

He leaves his lieutenant and crosses the bullpen to enter his office. Closing the door behind him, he gives a nod as the young officer shoots to his feet. “Sit down, Officer Franklin.” Weston takes a seat behind his desk and folds his hands impatiently in his lap. “What’s the problem, kid?”

Officer Edward Franklin smooths down his tie as he sits back down, pursing his lips and clearing his throat. “Sir, I have reason to believe that Cain Roberts is operating out of The Pink Door on fifth street—”

“What reason?”

Edward blinks at the interruption, not at all oblivious to the fact that the police captain has obviously already written off the conversation. “I’m sorry?”

“What reason have you to believe that Cain Roberts is operating out of The Pink Door on fifth street?”

It takes a second for the patrol officer to gather his thoughts. “Numerous eyewitness accounts of his activity in the daytime, as well as suspicious activity after dark around the back of the building—”

“It’s a nightclub, Officer Franklin. Most nightclub activity after dark is suspicious.”

Face heating at being so flatly discounted, Edward frowns. “Many people in my patrol area have been able to describe Roberts to me, and tell me about the sounds they hear at night.”

“The sounds.” Weston repeats flatly, his eyebrows sinking lower.

“Girls, screaming.” Edwards responds, finally sensing some interest. “Voices crying for help.”

Weston leans forward on his elbows and peers up at the young beat cop through hooded eyes. Silence ticks between them for a few seconds, and he considers his next words carefully. “To the first point, I didn’t think I would need to remind you that wanted posters of Roberts are posted all over the city, especially in yours and surrounding areas. My twelve-year-olddaughter could describe him to me. To your second point, I’ll say it again—it’s a nightclub.”

Edward reddens. “No, I asked if it was noise to be expected from a nightclub, they all said it sounded too urgent.”

Weston shakes his head with a short laugh. “Trust me, Officer Franklin, what those people are hearing is best kept behind closed doors. Don’t feel bad, kid. You’re not the first person to fall for it. We’ve investigated the club before—we’ve gotten warrants and done audits. From the umbrella holder to the basement storage, we’ve checked that place three times. I cannot open another investigation without better evidence than the sounds of people hollering after dark.”

Captain Weston picks up a folder from his desk and flips it open, and Edward knows he’s being dismissed. He stands, brushing down his slacks, and nods obediently. “Yes sir.” He reaches for the doorknob and pauses, turning back. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

He is waved away in response. “Stop bothering your supervisors, Officer Franklin.”

He walks the sidewalk of fifth street with his partner, eyes stuck to his shoes. The surrounding four blocks are their usual haunt, and he can’t help but feel like he’s ignoring the needs of his people by refusing to look into their concerns.

“That’s ridiculous,” His partner refutes. “We didn’t ignore them. You talked to the captain, he said it’s already been taken care of. Let it go.”

Edward lifts his chin and grits his teeth, staring angrily across the street at the quiet windows of The Pink Door.

Beside him, Douglas Martin rolls his eyes and tucks his hands into his uniform pockets. “The captain was probably right, anyway. Nightclubs are too noisy to distinguish those kinds of sounds for sure; and besides, most of the locals don’t want the club there in the first place. They just want it closed down.”

The older officer disagrees. He’s not convinced that Cain Roberts is definitively operating out of a nightclub, of all places, but so many people had brought the spot to his attention that he feels like he’s disregarding an enormous, blaring red flag.

“Morning, officers.” A familiar voice calls, and both cops stop to turn to the bookshop owner who hailed them.

The man is standing in the doorway of his shop, watering the flowers that hang in baskets around the entrance. He gives them both a smile. “Any news?”

Edward and Douglas glance at each other before approaching. “Bad news,” Edward admits. He casts a cursory glance around the street and then focuses again. “We’ve been ordered not to look into the reports. Apparently it’s already been investigated.”

Douglas reaches out and stabilizes one of the flower baskets when it tips. “It’s been thoroughly investigated, many times. There’s nothing to worry about, Tom.”

Frowning, the shop owner glances between them. “Alright,” He says hesitantly. “If you’re sure.”

They’re not, but they don’t say so.

Tom puts down the watering pot. “It’s just that I heard something last night.” He steps aside to let some customers enter his shop, greets them cheerfully, and then lowers his voice. “I stayed late to organize a new shipment, and it was like a girl was crying just down the way. It was weird, though.”

Edward steps in closer, tossing a polite smile to some passersby who try to lean in close enough to catch some of the officers’ conversation.

The locals are used to Edward and Douglas’s faces, and can’t hide their curiosity when they notice them conspiring with Tom. The shop owner is known for his ability to chat the ears off of anybody unfortunate enough to fall into his trap, and anything he has to share with the police must be interesting.

Douglas waits until the pedestrians pass. “Weird, how?”

Tom turns to point into the shop, towards the back. “I was sitting at my desk back there, with the window open when I heard it. It was kind of echo-y, you know? Like I was hearing it through a tunnel.”

Gaze following Tom’s finger and then snapping around to peer at the nightclub on the opposite side of the street, Edward’s eyes narrow. “Couldn’t it have been one of your neighbors? Or someone’s radio? Everybody says they hear things from the nightclub, not from this side of the block.”

Shaking his head, Tom shrugs. “I swear I heard it like it was under my window. I even stuck my head out to look for someone, and no one was there. The only building behind mine is the barber, and he was already closed.”

The new information is getting into Edward’s head, piling up with all the other accounts people have been giving them. Douglas can see the wheels turning and touches his partner’s arm. “We have to keep walking.” He gives Tom a smile. “Have a good one, Tom.”

As he drags Edward away from the book store, pulling him all the way across the street to patrol the other side of the road, Douglas mutters under his breath. “You know, if we decide to follow up on some rumor that these people propagate amongst themselves because they’re bored, we’ll be fired. Just let it go and focus on patrol. Please, Edward, let it go.”

Not at all planning to let it go, Edward nods. “Yeah. Sorry. Let’s get some coffee, I’m freezing.”

They round the corner, just in time to hear a woman’s voice say, “I swear, I heard screaming in the alley last night. I thought it was the cats, but they were all inside. Honestly, these kids and their late night pranks—their parents should be ashamed.”

The officers meet each other’s eyes, expressions matching.

They’re standing on the opposite end of the block from the club, across the street from Tom’s bookstore, each landmark well out of earshot from each other. All three eyewitness testimonies can’t be true.

But then, both at once, Douglas and Edward’s gazes drop to the manhole covers that dot the block. One in the woman’s alleyway, multiple surrounding the club, one behind Tom’s shop.

Douglas rubs a hand over his face. “I am not going down there.”

Edward’s flashlight traces the damp seams of the tunnel, reflecting off the moisture on the walls. He’s got one sleeved arm over his nose to block the smell, training his light on every shadow while trying to simultaneously watch where he steps. He pauses for a second to take stock of his surroundings.

He should be somewhere below Tom’s shop now, and there’s a ladder headed up to a manhole ahead of him. He glances back over his shoulder, where he can just barely see the black of Douglas’s shoes where he’s standing watch above ground.

“Anything?” Douglas’s voice calls into the tunnel.

Edward scans his surroundings with his light again. “Not yet. I’m under the bookstore.”

The light behind him disappears as Douglas drops the manhole cover back into place, and a few seconds pass in eerie silence. Then there’s a scraping sound and light breaks the darkness ahead of Edward, where the other manhole is.

Douglas’s head appears, upside down. “It stinks down here.”

Edward flashes his light in the younger man’s eyes, unappreciative of the commentary. “Why don’t you go into the sewer by the club?”

“No way, man, I got your back. Don’t even worry about it.” Douglas pulls his head back and returns to the world of fresh air.

Rolling his eyes, Edward examines the tunnel. There aren’t even footprints visible. It’s becoming increasingly evident that nobody has been stashing girls in the sewer system the further he gets, and he wishes he hadn’t descended into the filthy underground.

Just as he’s about to give up and reach for the ladder, he sees a hole in the seam of the tunnel. Edging closer, he finds that a chunk of concrete has crumbled away from the floor in the corner, and an unknown depth lies below. He shines his light down and sees nothing.

Dropping into a crouch, Edward frowns at the hole in the floor and wonders why it’s caught his attention. It’s just a broken section of cement, nothing more. He leans back on his heels and sighs, sucking air through the cloth of his shirt.

Maybe Tom has been hearing things.

“No! Don’t touch me!”

Maybe he’s hearing things.

Edward trains his light on the hole again, eyes wide and heart racing. The voice sounded like it was a mile away and speaking into a tin can, but it had definitely come through the hole. He leans in closer. “Hello?” His own voice is a whisper, and part of him doesn’t expect to be heard.

If he really is dealing with Cain Roberts, and the girl’s voice is one of his victims, then the last thing Edward wants to do is draw attention to himself and cause the serial abductor to do anything rash.

As expected, nobody responds to his whisper.

He waits, and doesn’t hear anything at all.

No matter how he angles the light, he can’t see anything but the rough edges of more concrete. A few moments pass and no other sounds come through the hole, so he pulls a pen from his shirt pocket. Holding his breath, he drops it into the abyss and counts.

After a few seconds, he hears the pen clatter to a cement floor.

Doing the math in his head, Edward scrambles to his feet and jogs back to the manhole. “Douglas!”

His partner’s head appears. “What? Is it a rat? I don’t want to see it.”

“I need twine, like at least thirty feet, on a spool. And a paperclip.”

Douglas’s face pulls in confusion. “What kind of boy scout Jerry-rigging—”

“Hurry.” Edward urges, and turns away from the manhole to go listen by the hole again.

When his partner returns, lowering himself to join Edward in the sewer, there still aren’t any more noises coming from the hole.

“What’s it for?” Douglas hands him a spool of twine and a box of paperclips. “You owe me forty-two cents.”

Edward kneels, planting one knee on the floor, making Douglas gag. “I heard someone,” He says. “It’s coming from down here. If there’s someone down there that needs help, we need to know.”

“Down where? There’s nothing underneath sewers.” Douglas crouches too, but keeps his clothes off the floor. He frowns at the hole in the floor, and gives his partner a concerned look. “Are you sure you heard something? Whatever it was could have just come from another sewer vent somewhere.”

Edward ties one end of the spool to a piece of rebar that juts from the broken edge of cement. He fastens a clip to the other end and drops it into the hole, unwinding the predetermined length of twine into the darkness. “What’s it going to hurt to drop a line and come back and check it tomorrow? Just let me have some peace of mind.”

“I’ll personally buy you psychiatric drugs if it means you stop acting like a freak.” Douglas grumbles back. “Whatever. I’m not coming back down here tomorrow, though, this is disgusting.”

When Edward is finished with the twine, he’s yanked upward by the shoulders of his uniform and urged towards the manhole. “Alright, I’m going, I’m going.”

Douglas lets out a groan as they climb back up to street level. “Ugh, we smell gross.”

The next day, Edward kneels once more in the sewer, this time having brought a rag down to rest his knee on. He’d had enough of Douglas’s whining yesterday about the stench, and the way he’d gag every time he saw the wet patch on the knee of Edward’s pants.

Reaching cautiously for the twine, Edward begins to reel it in as gently as he can. If there’s something hooked to the paperclip on the other end, he doesn’t want to lose it by being too reckless with the string.

It feels like forever before he reaches the last few inches.

Overhead, he feels Douglas pacing, but all he can focus on is the end of the string and his heart pounding in his throat. Beads of sweat roll over his brow and his stomach twists because, as he pulls up the last little bit of twine, he sees something stuck in the paperclip.

A second later, he’s staring at a scrap of dirty white cloth, all but one corner soaked in fresh blood.

Cass watches from afar, her hand tightly gripped in Anna’s. “They look so small.” She says, and they do.

“They look cold.” Anna returns. She shivers, shuffles her feet, and huddles closer to Cass. “How long do you think our parents will stand at our graves and weep?”

She is herself when she speaks. There is no funeral version of Anna, no sheathed variation of her razor edges. It is a permissible sharpness, because Anna understands—they both do.

Jo is not the only one who has been interred.

Anna is hammered steel, polished by fire.

Cass finds herself feeling more blunted than sharpened. She turns her eyes away from the grieving parents and counts the statues in the graveyard. There are so many. Overused, cliché, romantic things like guardian angels and protection saints and even heroic postures of the lauded deceased.

She likes the one they stand beside the best—a figure thrown over a carved casket, weeping into stone, wings spread like a bird enveloping her hatchlings—a remorseful, repenting failure. The guardian angel who lost.

It feels more justified than the ones who stand triumphant.

“They said she was out late studying.” Edward is in uniform as he approaches, the glossy polish of his shoes catching perfect beads of dew from the moist grass. “It just happened between the library and her dorm that night. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Nothing out of the ordinary.

That’s how they were abducted, too.

“You see them?” Edward nods over her shoulder and she turns.

The young man who’s always there, standing in the trees at the outskirts of the cemetery. He’s not alone this time, observing the final seconds of the funeral with another man beside him. The other is taller and narrower but otherwise too far away to be clearly seen.

“Maybe they knew her.” Cass suggests, looking away when the first man’s face angles towards her.

“Maybe they know him.” Anna counters. She’s frowning, expression pinched, as though they might see her warning glare from so far away.

“I don’t like that one always popping up.” Edward mutters. “I think I’ll go talk—” He breaks off and sighs.

Both men are gone.

Days pass after the funeral with quiet unease. The boarding house, softly lit and peacefully quiet after dark, hosts the friend group’s undertone discussion after dinner. A tea service tray and set of table candles are the only things on the surface between them, the meal placements long since having been cleared away. The housekeeper, Mrs. Nichols, had retired hours ago, leaving the dining room to the use of the students.

Charles, majoring in journalism, reclines gracefully in his chair and stretches one arm behind his head. “The university paper wants me to cover Jo’s case,” he comments carefully. “They want me to interview you about your captivity.”

“Terrence gave me an angle of it, too,” Douglas adds, nodding tiredly as he remembers his meeting with the paper’s editor earlier. “Vultures, all of them.”

“We heard,” Anna mumbles, tipping creamer into a fresh cup of tea. “They talked to us about it. Terrence is likely working up incentives as we speak to get us to talk to him and no one else,” She pulls a candle closer to the homework that she’s bent over, only to have Douglas pull it back away just slightly when she nearly leans her hair into it.

Charles glances around the table, landing on confused and defeated faces. “You think the local town papers will try to pick up the story, too? Last time anybody talked about it they were still trying to keep it hush-hush.” He has a handful of news articles before him, putting off arguably the easiest set of homework that any of the six of them have. Instead of reading through them and identifying the writing styles within, he’s leaned back in his chair, distracting the others from their own work. “They only want us to write about it now? Two years after it happened? All because now people are dying again.”

Across from him, Edward swirls his tea in his cup, wishing for coffee, and lifts a single shoulder in a careless shrug. “Whatever it is that the powers that be are arranging from their gilded pedestals of authority, I am more than happy to bow to their benevolent wills so long as they continue to bestow upon me high wages and uninterrupted time for sleep. I need but little in this world and I blame all that I do require on this flawed and oppressive institution we call university.” He takes a long sip, draining his cup, and pushes it closer to Douglas, who mans the teapot.

At the dramatic plight of the indignant raconteur, Cass rolls her eyes, and mumbles, “That’s easy for you to say, you weren’t buried alive. And you know you love it here, you absolute buffoon.”

Douglas scribbles out one of his incorrect calculus problems and tosses his eraser at Charles. “Get your work done, Charlie.”

Charles throws the eraser back. “It’s not like I’m working for the Stanford paper, there’s no rush. Do you know the Stanford Institute for Journalism Studies—that’s what they’re calling it now—is the most prominent college newspaper in the country? I mean, what am I even doing here? Maybe I’ll move to California.”

“I’ll help you pack your bags if it means you dry up sometime soon.” Betty quips.

Sunlight pours through a series of long windows set into the east side of the room. Cass leans comfortably over her desk, scribbling her way through an outline for her current assignment. 

Stationed at the desk next to her, Anna tips back an entire cup of coffee and flips through the pages of multiple of the books stacked up around her. She looks exhausted, staring so hard down at the worn, yellowed pages that Cass thinks she might burn holes right through them.

“You’re still having trouble sleeping?” Cass wonders, mild concern filling her expression as the younger girl rises to refill her coffee cup. “Is it Laurie?” 

Anna shakes her head and pauses to refill Cass’s cup, and Betty’s across the aisle as well. “Cain. Jo.” She shrugs and replaces the coffee pot. “I keep seeing them in my dreams. Like he still has her down there in the tunnels. Like he’s trying to get us all back, you know?” 

The question leaves Cass unsettled, deeply uneasy over the concept of reuniting with all of the captives in death. “You should try to sleep tonight,” she says instead of answering. “There’s no need to be working on articles and homework through the night.” 

They’re seated in the university news room, surrounded by some of the other student writers of the college paper. At the front of the room, their editor, Terrence, busily reviews the copy, briefly offering the girls a reprieve from his persistent attempts to gain their coverage of the Cain Roberts story. 

“Staying up late into the night is more restful than trying to sleep through the nightmares.” Betty adds bitterly, pausing in her rhythmic typewriter clacking to accept the fresh coffee.

It is well known among the friends that Better suffers nightmares, though hers began before Jo’s death occurred. To her recollection, she’s always found sleep unkind; a restless onslaught of dissonance, confusing mental images, threads of a thousand different stories that only unravel into nothingness at the slightest tug. 

Cass has never known how to offer comfort to the older girl, except to attempt to provide enough distraction in her waking hours to ward off thoughts of the discomforting dreams until nightfall. And now, she doesn’t know how to soothe Anna’s unsettled mind, either, much less her own. 

Sparing both of her weary friends a sympathetic frown, Cass returns her attention to the article she’s planning for the paper’s government column.

Nights are often restless and visited by bad dreams for herself as well. Her own experience in Cain Roberts’ captivity hadn’t quite left her yet, still finding her in the dark of night and her occasional wandering thoughts. 

Cass finishes her outline and turns to her books to begin a list of sources, forcing her mind to focus before falling into the cold, black pit of reminiscence. 

Later that night, after reaching a satisfactory stopping point, Cass leaves the news room. Anna and Betty stay behind, still working. The sky has grown darker outside, dark enough that the street lamps are on and casting significant light down on the campus sidewalks. Characteristically cold for a December night on the open plains of Washington, the crisp air puts a chill in her bones and a brisk skip in her step.

She prefers the cold.

Even on the frigid, below-freezing days of winter, she thinks she will always prefer to be out of doors in the elements, experiencing the weather against her own skin. The sensation is something she never thought she could take for granted, the freedom to feel the sun on her face and the rain in her clothes.

Cass finally arrives at the Cornerstone Diner, cheeks immediately flushing with the heat of the dining room in search of a late dinner. 

The diner is busy as usual, teeming with students, though the atmosphere is somewhat subdued. After news of Jo’s murder made its way across campus, the student body became reasonably wary of the threat to their safety. 

Cass watches them speak in muffled tones, imagining how much worse this all could have been if the survivors of Cain Roberts’ abductions had been publicly acknowledged. She can only imagine the stares, the hushed whispers, the attention that herself and Anna would be enduring. 

A waitress floats by and takes her order and scoots away again.

Back when the young women were first rescued, all of the important figures in town had something to say about it, but they were all singing the same tune—the girls were not to release their story or their personal details to the press; not until Cain Roberts has been caught.

And now, two years later, the Girls of the Underground are still Pullman’s dirty little secrets.

Cass peels off her gloves and takes in her surroundings. She can’t help but be observant, aware, overly cautious. Part of her always expects to see Cain Roberts lurking in every dark corner, grinning from every looming shadow. 

But the Cornerstone is brightly lit, buzzing with infectious energy, lifted in spirit by the soft notes of cheerful swing music from the radio. She spots a dozen different familiar faces, but they’re from her classes and hallways, not from her nightmares. 

She ignores the activity around her and focuses on the dinner that appears before her, eager to satiate her hunger and put herself to bed. Despite her abandonment of her habitual surveillance, Cass can’t help but feel like there are eyes on her. No matter how persistently she ignores the sensation, she can’t shake the feeling of being watched. 

It’s paranoia.

It’s the power of suggestion, feeding off the lingering fear that Jo’s death has unearthed.

“Cass.”

Edward’s voice suddenly at her side finally convinces her to look up from her plate, and as she does, she catches a glimpse of something in her peripheral—something that strikes her as unsettling and out of place. 

A darkly shadowed face despite the bright lights; wide, round, unblinking, staring directly at her.

Her head snaps in the direction of the odd glimpse, but she only sees the obscured side profile of a man who eats his dinner alone and absorbs himself in a tall stack of textbooks. 

She shakes the disconcerting image out of her brain and finally allows her gaze to settle on Edward. Greeting him with a smile, she gestures for him to take the seat across from her, an invitation that he readily accepts. 

“What are you doing here?” He raises his eyebrows at her. “You shouldn’t be out by yourself right now.” 

A displeased frown settles over her features. “You sound like my mother. Since when is eating dinner illegal?”

Edward appears wholly unimpressed with her attempt at ignorance. “I think you don’t realize how much you’re risking by wandering campus alone after dark.” 

“Who’s wandering? I’m eating dinner.” 

“Terrence sent Charlie to speak to Kara, see if she would agree to an interview after Jo.” Edward continues as though she hadn’t spoken. “He took Alan with him, one of my old police buddies? When they got to her family’s house, the parents were distraught. Apparently Kara’s been missing for two days.” 

Cass’s appetite promptly disappears.

Memories of the younger girl suffering the same torturous imprisonment with her flood to the forefront of her mind, effectively darkening her mood. 

“No one can say for sure if she’s safe or not, but after Jo, we can only assume…” Edward breaks off, loathe to say the words. “Anyway, we think you and Anna should be accompanied everywhere until we get all of this sorted out.” 

“What, like last time?” She mutters sourly. “Can I expect to be babysat for the next year?”

It’s Edward’s turn to feel his countenance plummet. “The Society is doing the work this time. They’ll get this figured out.” 

She spends a few more minutes buried in her textbooks, before going to bed. It’s a hard learned habit now, formed through two years of trial and error and sub-optimal test grades—to spend at least half an hour every night writing up concise summaries of the day’s information.

Sitting herself up on her bedroom floor with her materials and a pot of tea, warmed by a small candle, Cass checks the time and then begins her task.

There’s noise in the house around her other tenants arriving home late or moving up and down the stairs in attempts to either pursue socialization or avoid it. One of the older tenants, Mrs. Earl, can be heard in the sitting room, yelling at the cat.

Within only a few minutes, Cass is so deeply immersed in her studies that the sounds all seem to fall silent. It’s only nearly an hour later that she realizes that her teapot is empty and that she is well past the half hour mark. 

She drops her pencil into the crease of her notebook and straightens, stretching her back and rubbing the stiffness in her neck. 

Cass turns to the window. Nothing but her own reflection can be seen in the glass, as the sun has gone down long ago. Craving the cool breeze on her face, she bends to open the window, leaning against the sill to breathe in the fresh air.

There’s not much to see from her second story window, but she peers down to the dark backyard anyway. It’s dimly lit by the porch light, but for the most part, just an expanse of blackness.

That’s when her eyes drift to the dark treeline just beyond, and with a lurch of surprise, she sees them.

Two wide, unblinking, reflective eyes in between the trees.

Enormous pupils hold her captive, staring straight up at her.

Cass blinks, breaths quickening at the impossible spectacle, but the ghoulish eyes are gone when she brings her own back into focus.

She closes the window.

Noon the next day finds her in the office of her political science professor, consulting on a few subjects for her article. She sits near the window, transcribing the notes they’ve discussed so far, and her mind returns to the discomforting sight outside her own window the night before. 

Unease sends a shiver down her spine. Turning away from the window before she imagines something equally unnerving on the campus lawn below, she decides instead to distract Professor Stevens from the papers he is grading. “Edward said the Society is heading up the murder investigations?”

The elderly man lifts his bespectacled eyes from an essay on the Revolutionary War and observes her curiously. “The police commissioner and a number of the members of the city council are among our ranks, so yes, we are deeply involved in the process.” 

“So we’ll know the moment he’s been caught?”

“Of course.” It’s a matter of fact. There is no hesitation in his voice.

She can’t find it in herself to share his certainty. “And if I thought someone might be following me?”

Professor Stevens puts down his pen to give her his full attention. “Why do you think that?” 

It doesn’t seem very credible to tell him that it’s mostly just a feeling she gets, or that she thinks she sees strange creatures at night and in the corner of her eye, so she just pins her gaze to her notes and hopes a normal explanation presents itself.

“Are you being followed?” Stevens questions. “Have you seen Roberts?” 

She doesn’t know what she’s seen. “It’s hard to describe. No, I haven’t seen Roberts.”

The professor levels her with a somber gaze. “The organization that Cain Roberts is part of is a very powerful one. The Order of the Blood Feather thrives on anonymity, and right now, one of their own is calling attention to their covert methods. The blood feather is a calling card meant for heads of state and diplomats and various departmental directors. It’s never been meant for newspapers and grieving families.”

She listens with interest. There are multiple faculty members of the college who are members of the mysterious Ravencrest Society, and after the end of the original Cain Roberts case, they had taken Anna and Cass in, but they rarely spoke of their history or their elusive counterparts. 

When the survivors had first been rescued, there had been talk of the Order of the Blood Feather and Cain’s connection to it, but her mission and her members had remained a secret.

“I have heard talk of the Order losing track of Roberts. We’re viewing his use of the calling card as open rebellion against them. If that’s true, if the Order is looking at Cain as a thing to be silenced, they’re going to be looking for him. And if they knew his targets are his survivors, they’re going to use them to find him.” 

“So you think political assassins are following me?”

“Not necessarily.” He offers a wry smile. “Orders of assassins have secretaries too.” 

Cass doesn’t find this bit of levity nearly as humorous as he seems to. The idea that members of an order of trained killers are potentially stalking her bothers her more than the assumption that she’s once again a target of Cain Roberts. “Ravencrest monitors the Order, doesn’t it?”

He nods cautiously, like he’s trying to divine her next question. “We do. We as a society were founded long before Blood Feather was, but out mission has always been the same.” 

“That being?” 

“To be prepared for every possibility. Especially the impossible kind.” 

The strange thing about working with Stray Kids is not the noise, the chaos, or the sheer volume of inside jokes, it is the sheer amount of physical affection. Your natural setting is touchy to say the least. You greet Chan with a quick shoulder bump. When Felix walks by, your arm automatically loops through his. If Changbin makes a good point, he earns a friendly knuckle-punch. Physical proximity is your language of comfort and acknowledgment.

And then there is Yang Jeongin. He doesn't just dislike skinship, he seems to have an active forcefield. You can practically chart the recoil radius when Hyunjin approaches for a hug, or the dramatic push-off Han uses when he tries to lean on Jeongin’s shoulder. It isn't mean, it is just intensely, definitively no.

You know this, You respect it.

But respecting the boundary isn’t easy because you aren't just friends with Jeongin. You are secretly, stupidly, completely in love with him.

You love the sharp, clever glint in his eyes when he wins a game, the tiny dimple that appears when he laughs at his hyungs, and the way he hunches just slightly over his suitcase, planning his next outfit or post. These quiet observations are the closest you allow yourself to get to him. If you touch him, even accidentally, you know your heart rate will spike and you will give yourself away.

The disaster happens on a quick break during dance practice.

You are all flopped across the studio floor, scrolling on your phones, when Minho decides it is too quiet. He silently creeps up behind Jeongin, who is trying to sip a water bottle, and locks him in a headlock.

"Hyunjin! Han! Get him!" Minho yells.

Chaos erupts. Jeongin, trapped, kicks his legs and whines, "No! Stop! Get away from me!"

Hyunjin, delighted by the pure terror, leans in close to Jeongin's ear. "One little kiss, Jeongin. Just one. Give your hyung some love!"

Han, ever the hype man, gets right up in Jeongin's face. "Yeah, Ayena. You keep making that cute little pout, you’re just asking for it!"

The atmosphere is loud, familiar, and ridiculously playful. You are laughing so hard you can barely breathe, when Felix calls out. “Isn’t he so cute? I bet you want to give our Jeonginnie a kiss too, Noona“

“I mean, if he keeps making that pout…”

Minho and Han instantly howl with laughter at the audacity. Minho releases his hold to dramatically clutch his chest. Hyunjin is still grinning, but as he moves his head back, you catch Jeongin's eyes, and the laughter dies in your throat.

He isn't just annoyed or playful anymore. He freezes, his eyes, previously full of mock outrage, go wide and panicked. You are the only one who sees the genuine fear there as his gaze lands on you.

He doesn't push his hyungs away, he makes an immediate, frantic scramble for the door while Minho is still wheezing and Han is wiping a tear of laughter. Jeongin trips over a yoga mat in his haste. He doesn't say a word, just runs.

Your stomach drops out. He isn't rejecting a joke kiss. He is rejecting the thought of you.

He doesn't return for twenty minutes. When he does, he studiously avoids making eye contact with you, only talking to Chan and Minho about scheduling. You feel a flush of mortification that lasts the rest of the day.

You crossed a boundary you hadn't even known existed, and the takeaway is clear: You made him genuinely uncomfortable. You need to back off. You’re not nearly as close to him as they are. It’s not professional to be making jokes like that about the idols you work with.

Your new policy is the "two-foot bubble."

You start leaving Jeongin’s coffee mug on the table instead of handing it to him. If you walk down a narrow hallway, you press yourself against the wall to ensure your shoulder doesn't accidentally brush his. It is exhausting, but you figure it is the only way to make up for your monumental screw-up.

The rest of the guys notice. "You trying out for the Witness Protection Program, Bunny?" Changbin asks one afternoon, watching you place a full four feet of sofa between yourself and Jeongin before sitting down. "You're giving our maknae the wide berth today."

"Nope! Just trying to respect his space," you chirp, maybe a little too loudly.

What you don't see is Jeongin's mounting confusion. He sees you laughingly head-pat Han after he finishes a line of lyrics. He sees Felix use your thigh as a pillow during a movie night. He sees you and Chan lean close together to look at a monitor. The only person you seem incapable of even brushing is him.

Why is the one person who is always touching everyone else, avoiding only me? he wonders. Did I say something? Did she think I looked stupid when I run? Does she think I’m weird?

The tension reaches its peak a week later while cleaning up after a live. You are both kneeling in the corner of the practice room, winding thick bundles of cords.

"I need that one," you say, pointing to a red XLR cable.

You both reach for it at the exact same moment. Your fingers, so close to his, brush lightly.

It is barely a second of contact, yet your whole body seizes up, instantly flooding with the ridiculous, terrifying awareness of his presence.

“Oh! Sorry!” you cry out, yanking your hand back as if you touch a hot stove, and immediately scrambling for a different, much safer cable.

You don't notice the small, hopeful movement of his hand, the way his fingers twitch, ready to gently hold your wrist for just a second.

The withdrawal is the final nail in the coffin for Jeongin. She physically recoils, he thinks. She definitely hates being near me.

From that moment, he becomes stiff, awkward, and overly polite. His voice is always formal when he speaks to you. He rarely looks you in the eye. You interpret this as solid confirmation: he finds you repellent, and your only option is to endure the polite distance.

The confrontation comes moments after a late-night, high-energy live broadcast. The main stage area is chaos, but you are in the relative quiet of the staff equipment area backstage, meticulously running through the post-show checklist. The air still hums with static from the show. Jeongin walks over to where you are neatly stacking his personal mics and earpieces, looking utterly drained and hesitant.

"Y/N-ssi," he says, his voice quiet, almost lost in the dim light.

"Jeongin! Did you need something?" You keep your eyes focused on the custom IEMs, wiping them down with a small cloth.

He doesn't answer right away. Then, Chan approaches the area, handing off his towel to a stylist. He glances over at the small, intensely quiet corner where you stand cleaning and Jeongin stands fiddling with his sleeve.

"Wow," Chan murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's unsettlingly quiet back here. Are you two practicing a silent film?" He chuckles lightly, but his eyes briefly linger on the unnatural distance between you. "Y/N, can you just double-check the time for the early meeting tomorrow? It's on the whiteboard."

Chan claps Jeongin lightly on the shoulder before leaving, the casual sound echoing in the silence of the staff area.

Jeongin waits until the area is truly deserted. He takes a small, shaky breath and looks down, his shoulders slump. He kicks at a loose cable, unable to look at you.

"It's just... everyone else. They still... they get a touch," he finally mumbles, his voice so low you have to strain to hear it. "But with me... it's like you can't even stand to be in the same space. Did I—did I seriously do something that bad? You really don't like me at all, do you?"

You stop, your hand frozen on the earpiece. The raw, genuine defeat in his body language makes your entire internal defense system crumble.

"What? Jeongin, no!" You drop the gear. Your natural impulse wins, and without thinking about the two-foot bubble or the professionalism, you quickly reach out to gently touch his arm, intending to reassure him.

The moment your skin brushes his sleeve, he flinches, his whole body going rigid again. Your hand immediately retracts. The sight of his quick, unconscious recoil stings, a confirmation of your worst fear. He sees your instant withdrawal. His shoulders slump even further. He kicks the floor, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound of frustration.

"I just... I wish you didn't hate it so much," he murmurs, his voice barely audible, a needy, lost-puppy sound that wrenches your heart. He sounds utterly dejected.

You stare at the top of his bowed head, confusion hitting you. “Hate what?“

He lifts his head slowly, and his eyes are wet, reflecting the dim emergency lights of the backstage corridor. He immediately ducks his head again, pressing his fists to his eyes in a spasm of shame.

"The kiss thing," he mutters into his shirt, the words muffled and rushed. "I ran because I... I didn't want the kiss to be a joke? And then you started avoiding me so much. You won't even bump into me." He kicks the floor harder. "The others get touches, but me? You-you look away so fast. And now you just... you don't want to be near me because I'm weird."

The quiet confession, fueled by embarrassment, hangs in the humid air. The realization is a physical jolt. You shove the cleaning cloth and the earpiece onto the table, the clatter loud in the quiet area. He freezes, his face lifting slowly, his cheeks immediately flushed scarlet. He stares, the shock of your touch and the honesty of your words hitting him simultaneously.

Dropping your voice to a tense whisper. "I didn't hate touching you."

His eyes go impossibly wide. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he just covers his face with his free hand, a desperate, mortified groan escaping him.

"This is-" he mutters into his palm, muffled by embarrassment.

You don't wait for permission or clarification this time. You reach out, your fingers sliding around his wrist and gently pulling his hand away from his face. You interlace your fingers with his, palm to palm. This time, there is no flinch, no rigidity. He lets out a long, shaky sigh, the sound of weeks of tension finally escaping his lungs. He doesn't pull his hand back. Instead, he squeezes yours, gently, his thumb rubbing tentatively over your knuckles.

You drop his hand and step fully into his space, closing the distance you agonized over for weeks. You cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the soft skin beneath his eye. He stills instantly, but this time, there is no flinch, only a slow, shaky inhale. His eyes flutter shut, the movement a silent, hopeful invitation.

You lean in and press your mouth to his, a soft, tentative contact that holds all the unspent emotion of the past weeks. It is quiet and shy, the gentlest of confirmations. He responds instantly, his free hand lifting to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The kiss deepens, losing its tentative edge as the realization of mutual feelings finally explodes between you.

You pull back, breathless, but keeping your forehead pressed to his. His eyes remain closed, a relieved, perfect smile reaching his eyes, dimples popping.

You, on the other hand, were the polar opposite: unapologetically sexy, with a confidence that turned heads wherever you went. Curves in all the right places, a wardrobe that hugged your body just enough to tease, and a love for skinship that bordered on obsessive. You were always the one initiating hugs that lingered a second too long, draping your legs over his during movie nights, or playfully smacking his arm while laughing at his jokes. Physical touch was your love language, and Jeongin never complained; in fact, he’d lean into it, his cheeks flushing pink as he’d mumble something about how “clingy” you were, but his eyes would sparkle with that hidden mischief.

Lately, though, things had shifted. Jeongin had been hitting the gym hard, trading his slim, boyish frame for something more defined like broad shoulders, toned arms, and abs that peeked out when his shirt rode up. You’d noticed, alright. How could you not? You’d tease him relentlessly about it: “Damn, Innie, when did you get so hot? Flex for me, come on!” He’d roll his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but you’d catch the way his gaze would flick to your lips, or how he’d shift uncomfortably in his seat, like he was fighting back a retort that was anything but innocent.

It was mid-winter when his heater crapped out, turning his apartment into an icebox overnight.

“Y/n, please,” he’d begged over the phone, his voice shivering as much as he probably was. “The repair guy’s booked solid for a week. Can I crash at yours? I’ll sleep on the couch, promise.” You laughed, already picturing him bundled up in your spare blankets.

“Couch? Don’t be ridiculous. We’ve shared beds before on trips. Come over, loser.”

He showed up that evening with a duffel bag, snowflakes melting in his dark hair, looking every bit the adorable puppy he pretended to be. But as you pulled him into a tight hug at the door, your hands sliding up his back, you felt the new firmness of his muscles under his sweater.

“Whoa, someone’s been working out,” you purred teasingly, giving his bicep a squeeze.

He chuckled softly, but his arms wrapped around you a little tighter than usual, his breath warm against your neck. “Shut up, Y/N. You’re just saying that to make me blush.”

The first couple of days were easy… cozy, even. You’d cook dinner together, him chopping veggies while you “accidentally” brushed against him every time you reached for a spice. Movie marathons on the couch turned into you curling up against his side, your head on his shoulder, fingers tracing idle patterns on his thigh. He’d tense up at first, then relax, his hand eventually finding its way to your waist, pulling you closer under the pretence of sharing the blanket.

“You’re so warm,” he’d murmur, his voice low and innocent, but you’d feel the subtle press of his body against yours, the way his fingers lingered on your hip.

By day three, the tension was simmering. You’d catch him watching you as you changed into your pyjamas in the bathroom, the door cracked just enough for a glimpse… innocent mistake, right? Or when you’d stretch in the morning, your tank top riding up to expose your midriff, and his eyes would darken for a split second before he looked away, clearing his throat.

“You okay, Innie?” you’d ask with a smirk, sauntering over to ruffle his hair.

“Yeah, just… cold,” he’d lie, but you’d notice the way he adjusted his sweatpants, hiding what you suspected was a growing problem.

Sharing the bed wasn’t new, but in the dead of winter, with the heat cranked up in your room, it felt different. The first night, he’d crashed almost immediately, his soft snores filling the space as you scrolled through TikTok on your phone, the blue light casting shadows on the walls. But tonight, day four, the air felt thicker. You’d both climbed under the covers after a long day, him in loose sweatpants and a t-shirt, you in your flimsy pyjama shorts and a cropped top that barely covered anything, that was your usual sleepwear, because why not? It was comfortable, and besides, Jeongin was your best friend. No big deal.

He’d fallen asleep quickly again, his breathing evening out as he lay on his side facing you. You were on your back at first, but eventually rolled onto your side away from him, phone in hand, mindlessly swiping through videos. The room was dim, lit only by the glow from your screen and the faint moonlight slipping through the curtains. Outside, snow fell softly, muffling the world, making everything feel intimate, isolated.

Then it started. A soft whimper escaped his lips… barely audible at first, like a sigh in his sleep. You paused your scrolling, ear perking up. Another one, this time accompanied by a subtle shift in the bed. He was moving closer, chasing your warmth in the cool sheets. Your heart skipped a beat as his body pressed against yours from behind, his chest molding to your back. His arm draped over your waist tentatively at first, then tightened, pulling you flush against him.

You froze, phone still in hand, the TikTok video looping forgotten. His breath was hot on the back of your neck, ragged now, interspersed with those little whimpers that sounded way too needy to be innocent dreams. And then… oh god.

You felt it; his cock, thick and unmistakably curved, pressing insistently against your ass through the thin fabric of your shorts and his sweats. It was hard, throbbing subtly with each hitch in his breathing, the shape of it so prominent you could almost trace it with your mind.

Heat flooded your core, a mix of surprise and arousal making your skin tingle. You didn’t move, didn’t dare breathe too loudly, but your body betrayed you, arching just slightly into him. That’s when it got worse. His hips bucked forward in a slow, unconscious grind, humping against you with a rhythm that screamed wet dream. His whimpers grew louder, muffled against your shoulder as he nuzzled closer, his free hand sliding up to grip your hip, fingers digging in possessively.

“Y/n…” he murmured in his sleep, voice husky and desperate, sending a shiver straight down your spine. His cock slid along the curve of your ass with each thrust, the friction electric even through the layers. Your shorts rode up, the loose fabric doing nothing to hide how wet you were getting, your thighs pressing together instinctively. Part of you wanted to wake him, to tease him about this “innocent” side of his finally slipping, but another part (the touchy, clingy, horny part) wanted to see how far this would go.

His humping grew more insistent, his thick length grinding right between your cheeks now, the curve of it hitting just right to make you bite your lip to stifle a moan. His arms locked around you like a vice, trapping you in his heat, his perverted subconscious taking what it craved. The room felt stifling, the air thick with the scent of arousal, yours and his mingling. You could feel every inch of him, the way he twitched against you, precum probably soaking through his pants by now.

Finally, you couldn’t take it. You shifted, pressing back deliberately, grinding your ass against his cock with a slow roll of your hips. His whimper turned into a groan, louder this time, and his eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep and lust.

“Y/n… what—fuck,” he rasped, realizing what was happening but not pulling away. Instead, his hand slid under your top, palm hot against your bare skin, thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“You were humping me in your sleep, Innie,” you whispered, voice breathy as you turned your head to look at him over your shoulder. His face was flushed, lips parted, that innocent mask shattered. “Dreaming about me?”

He didn’t deny it. His hips bucked again, deliberate this time, his cock throbbing against you. “Maybe,” he admitted, voice low and perverted, a smirk tugging at his lips. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Your hand reached back, fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, lips crashing into his in a messy, heated kiss. Tongues tangled immediately, all the built-up tension exploding. His hand roamed freely now, squeezing your breast, pinching your nipple until you gasped into his mouth. You ground back harder, feeling the full girth of him; thick, curved and perfect for hitting spots that made your toes curl just thinking about it.

He broke the kiss, trailing bites down your neck, his other hand dipping into your shorts, fingers finding your slick folds. “So wet already,” he growled, no trace of innocence left. “Teasing me all week, being so touchy… you wanted this, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” you moaned, arching into his touch as he circled your clit, slow and torturous. “Fuck, Innie, you’re so hard… so big.”

He chuckled darkly, thrusting against your hand as you palmed him through his sweats. “All for you. Been wanting to bend you over since you started teasing me about my muscles.” His fingers plunged inside you, two at once, curling to hit that spot that made you see stars. You cried out, grinding down on his hand while he humped your ass relentlessly.

The bed creaked under your movements, the room filled with wet sounds… his fingers pumping in and out, your moans, his grunts. He pulled his fingers out abruptly, making you whine, only to yank your shorts down your thighs. His sweats followed, his thick cock springing free, hot and heavy against your bare skin. The curve of it nestled perfectly between your cheeks as he rutted against you, precum smearing everywhere.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded, voice rough. You did, lifting one thigh as he positioned himself, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. He pushed in slow, inch by thick inch, stretching you deliciously. “Fuck, so tight… feels like you were made for this.”

You gasped, clutching the sheets as he bottomed out, the curve hitting your g-spot on the first thrust. He didn’t hold back, pounding into you from behind, arms wrapped around your waist like in his dream. Skin slapped against skin, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene in the quiet room. His hand found your clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts, while the other pinched your nipples, twisting just hard enough to make you scream.

“Cum for me, Y/n,” he panted, hips snapping faster, chasing his own release. “Wanna feel you clench around my cock.”

It hit you like a wave, the orgasm crashing over you, vision blurring as you pulsed around him. He followed seconds later, groaning your name as he spilled deep inside, hot and thick.

You both collapsed, panting, his arms still around you. “Best wet dream ever,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder with a grin.

You laughed breathlessly, turning to face him. “Round two?”

His eyes darkened again, that perverted spark back. “Always."

---

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the tangled sheets. You stirred first, the ache between your legs a delicious reminder of last night’s frenzy. Jeongin’s arm was still slung possessively over your waist, his bare chest pressed against your back, skin warm and slightly sticky from sweat and cum. He’d pulled out eventually, after round two turned into three, but not before filling you up again, whispering filthy promises in your ear about how he’d been fantasizing about this for months. His “innocent” facade had crumbled completely, revealing the pervert underneath who loved edging you until you begged, then fucking you senseless.

You shifted slightly, feeling his morning wood twitch against your ass… thick, curved, and already half-hard, like it hadn’t gotten enough. A smirk tugged at your lips as you pressed back teasingly, grinding just enough to elicit a low groan from him. His eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep, but that mischievous spark ignited instantly when he realized where he was… and who he was with.

“Morning, perv,” you murmured, your voice husky from all the moaning you’d done. You reached back, fingers tracing the defined lines of his abs, dipping lower to wrap around his cock. He was fully hard now, throbbing in your hand, the curve making it perfect for stroking from this angle. Precum beaded at the tip, slicking your palm as you pumped him slowly.

Jeongin chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine. No more shy maknae vibes… he nuzzled into your neck, teeth grazing your skin before biting down gently. “Says the one who’s already stroking me like you can’t get enough.”

His hand slid up your thigh, parting your legs effortlessly. You were still naked from the waist down, your pussy sore but slick again, betraying how turned on you were. His fingers found your folds, dipping in to feel the mix of your juices and his cum from last night. “Fuck, you’re still so wet… or is this from now?”

You gasped as he pushed two fingers inside, curling them to hit that spot he now knew so well. “Both,” you admitted, arching into his touch. Your free hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer for a lazy, open-mouthed kiss. Tongues slid together, tasting remnants of each other; salty, sweet and utterly debauched. He hummed into your mouth, thrusting his fingers deeper while you jerked him off faster, thumb circling the sensitive head.

He broke the kiss, eyes dark and hungry as he flipped you onto your back, hovering over you. The sheets pooled around his waist, exposing his toned body, those gym sessions had really paid off, his muscles flexing as he pinned your wrists above your head with one hand.

“Tease me all you want, Y/n, but I know you love it when I take control.” His free hand trailed down, spreading your legs wider, his cock nudging your entrance. He didn’t push in yet, just rubbed the curved length along your slit, coating himself in your wetness.

“Please, Innie,” you whined, your clingy side in full force as you wrapped your legs around his hips, trying to pull him closer. Skinship was your thing, but now it was amplified, every touch electric, every press of his body against yours making you crave more.

He grinned, that perverted glint in his eye as he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Beg for it, baby. Tell me how bad you want this thick cock stretching you again.” His hips rolled, the head catching on your clit, making you buck up with a moan.

“Fuck me, Jeongin—hard, like last night. I need it,” you pleaded, nails digging into his back. Satisfied, he thrust in all at once, bottoming out with a groan. The curve hit your g-spot perfectly, stars bursting behind your eyes. He set a brutal pace, pounding into you, the bed frame creaking in protest. His hand released your wrists to squeeze your breast, pinching the nipple until it hardened, then soothing it with his tongue.

You were a mess beneath him, your moans spilling out, legs trembling as he fucked you deeper, his balls slapping against your ass with each snap of his hips. “So fucking tight… gonna cum inside you again, mark you as mine,” he growled, his innocent image long gone. One hand slipped between you, rubbing your clit in tight circles, pushing you toward the edge.

“Cum with me,” you gasped, clenching around him as the orgasm built, hot and intense. He nodded, thrusts erratic now, chasing his release. It hit you both at once—you crying out his name, pulsing around his cock, milking him dry as he spilled deep inside, hot ropes filling you up.

He collapsed on top of you, both panting, his weight comforting rather than crushing. After a moment, he rolled off, pulling you into his side with a satisfied sigh. “Best morning ever,” he murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin.

You snuggled closer, head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “Round four after breakfast?”

He laughed, but his hand squeezed your ass possessively. “Deal.” The week was just getting started, and with his heater still broken, neither of you were in a rush for it to end.

================================================

Authors note; Happy New Month guys!!! I know I said the requests will be opened in November... but not yet! I don't think my DMs are safe to be opened yet after the death threats I got last month over the whole AI thing. maybe I'll address that later when I can but for now let's just enjoy this short Innie smut.

Important note: I know I'm trolling on my bio but please please, this was NOT written with AI, okay? I read and heard all you guys have been saying the past few weeks and I took corrections, I also will not be using any AI editors for any of my work anymore. I'm sorry guys. LOVE YOU!!!

Realizing she’s being watched by eight or nine girls, she flinches back in surprise and feels her skull crack against a hard surface.

“Don’t move,” One of the girls says in a low, raspy voice. She’s leaning closer, close enough that a number of small scars are visible. “You’re still bleeding.”

Anna reaches for her head as a wave of pain washes down her spine. “What?” She feels the wetness on her fingers, and doesn’t have to look to confirm what it is. Her legs feel cold as she tries to back away from the girl who spoke and she realizes that her skirt is gone.

She’s been left on the floor of some kind of stone basement in nothing but a cotton nightgown that smells like sweat and urine. It matches what all of the others are wearing, though she can’t help but notice that hers has remarkably fewer blood and soil stains than theirs do.

“He sometimes hits the nose when he knocks us out.” The girl explains, far too casually for Anna to grasp the context of what’s going on.

“What?” She gasps again, but then she feels the viscous liquid that’s pooled in the bow of her lip and feels the fluid in her nostrils.

The girl puts a hand over her own mouth to mimic blocking her airways. “He holds on too tight. Most of us bled too.” She reaches for Anna, and helps her bunch the hem of the strange nightgown to mop at the flowing blood. “How do you feel?”

Another of the girls sits back against the wall, no longer interested in gawking at the newcomer. “What’s the point?” She grumbles. “She’ll wish she was dead soon enough.”

Anna’s eyes widen and her eyes dart around from face to face. “What do you mean? What is this?” She can’t remember how she ended up on the floor of a basement, or where her clothes went, or if what the first girl said about being hit and knocked out was what really happened. “Who is he? Where are we?”

Most of the girls seem to be about her age, eighteen or nineteen, but a couple of them look like they might be fifteen or sixteen.

The second girl spreads her arms to gesture to their surroundings, drawing attention to the tattered sleeves of her nightgown that reveals a series of terrible bruises along both biceps and forearms, both arms mostly wrapped in thick bandages. “Does it look like we know? It’s not like there are windows.” She brings her arms back to her lap and hunches over herself with a frown. “Might as well get comfortable.”

“You don’t remember?” The first girl asks softly.

Anna shakes her head and feels the ache pound behind her eyes.

“We were kidnapped.” The girl nods behind her, where all of the other girls are sitting and watching. “We were all ambushed, in one place or another, and woke up here.” Her words are punctuated by a few of the girls sniffling, scrubbing dirty hands and arms over their dirty faces.

Fear is worming into Anna’s heart, noticing the various states of the others with mounting distress. “How long have you been here?”

The first girl points at herself. “Two years,” She points to each one of the girls and labels them with their own durations, ranging from two years to two months.

Anna’s eyes fill with tears and she pushes herself up to lean against the wall. She studies each face, praying they’re pulling a prank, just waiting to break character and laugh at her for crying. But the room smells too much like waste, the girls too marked by pain and hunger, for any of it to be a prank. Her gaze jumps back to the girl who’s been there the longest, and sees the hollowness of her cheeks, the sharpness of her bones, and knows it’s real. “What does he want with us?”

She doesn’t even know who he is.

The second girl meets Anna’s eyes. “Nothing good.”

“How old are you?” The first girl, who introduced herself as Ruby, sits close by and offers her hand to hold as Anna cries into her elbow. “I’m almost nineteen.”

Sniffling against incessant sobs, Anna blinks tearfully at her. “Eighteen.”

Ruby smiles sympathetically. “Try to breathe,” she offers as the girl begins to weep once more.

The others are watching. Some of them cry, too, and some of them, like the girl who sits against the wall, just stare hollowly. One of the younger girls scoots over and sits next to Anna, and reaches up to stroke a hand gently over her hair.

She’s one of the ones who had been there for more than a year. “Your hair is like gold,” she whispers, feeling the silky strands slide against her skin.

Ruby rubs Anna’s arm. “That’s Jackie. She’s twelve.”

But the newest girl isn’t listening. “Is he mean?”

Jackie’s hand falls away from her hair, and the girl by the wall scoffs. Ruby just pulls her smile into a wince. “Yeah. He is.”

“Look at us.” The girl by the wall snaps. “You think he’s hosting tea parties?”

“Sara.” Ruby berates. “You don’t have to be so cruel.”

Sara rolls her eyes. “She’ll find out soon enough. Doesn’t matter if I’m cruel or not.”

Anna doesn’t care that she’s cruel. If she’d been held captive by a malevolent psychopath for over a year, she’d be mean about it, too. Her red eyes turn to Sara and catch her already watching.

The bitter girl looks younger, maybe fifteen, and the right side of her face is bruised and blistered terribly. The swelling is still red and weeping, and Anna knows it just happened recently. Under Anna’s gaze, Sara pulls the neck of her nightgown up to her chin and holds it in her fist.

She looks away.

Somewhere, a door opens and a male voice calls, “Time to go back to your rooms. Come on,” Shuffling sounds and some of the girls’ voices make quiet whimpers of protest.

Anna scrambles back into her corner of the room, heart pounding. She doesn’t want to meet the man who abducted her and removed her clothes. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near the man who starved and beat and held prisoner all of the girls who sat around her like so many abandoned pets.

But Sara just sighs and gets herself to her feet, shoulders hunching as she heads deeper into the darkness of the room.

Little Jackie gives Anna’s shoulder a squeeze and stands up as well, disappearing into the places where the light doesn’t reach.

Anna’s eyes are darting around, trying to see through the black, trying to focus past the blur of tears.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Ruby says suddenly, rising to her full height. “It’s not him. It’s just Laurie. He’s stuck here, too.” She holds out a hand to Anna. “While Cain is away, Laurie lets us out of our rooms, lets us talk to each other. As long as we don’t tell Cain, and we all go back before we get caught, we can all be together. But that means we have to go back when Laurie tells us to.”

Anna blinks up at her, ignoring the hand of help, tears spilling over. She can hear the man—Laurie—coming closer, his low voice directed to the girls he’s nearest to. “Cain—?”

“He’s the one who abducted us. The one who does things.”

“The mean one.” Anna’s voice is small, childish. “And Laurie?” Laurie sounds like a nickname, like some term of endearment that she either hasn’t earned or doesn’t want to get familiar with. She has thoughts of an abuser—a groomer who takes advantage of girls at their most vulnerable. She thinks again to Jackie and the other girl who looked so young.

What was he doing to them while Cain was away?

Did he make them call him Laurie?

“He was taken right after I was. Him and his little brother. Don’t be scared, he’s nice. He takes care of us.” Ruby kneels again, trying to see why Anna isn’t moving. “Are your legs okay? I don’t want to force you up if you’re hurt.”

Too many questions flood Anna’s mind, too many to process. She wants to have a conversation and answer all of them, but Ruby’s trying to rush her into movement. “He’s nice?” Her eyes flash to the dark form of the man who is now crouched over one of the young girls, the shadow of his hand extended towards her face.

Ruby places a hand on Anna’s knee reassuringly. “He’s nice. I promise.”

“Go back to your room, Ruby.” The man’s voice says, his footsteps finally approaching.

As he emerges from the shadows, Anna finally sees him clearly. He’s young, maybe twenty, maybe twenty-two. His collarbones jut out from the ripped neck of his wispy-thin gray sweater, which was more a draping of cloth that hung in tatters from the sharp points of his shoulders to dangle in shreds around the narrow edges of his hips. His sweatpants are too short, the elastic cuffs gripping a pair of frightfully scrawny legs just below the knees.

The voice that resounds from his chapped lips is low and soothing as his hooded eyes flick from Anna to Ruby. “I got her.”

Anna’s legs shuffle like she can push herself away from him, but she’s already pressed into the corner of the room. She doesn’t move an inch, instead feeling the roughness of the bricks behind her scratch into her back and shoulders.

Ruby gives Anna’s knee a squeeze, the same way Jackie had done earlier. “See you tomorrow.” She gets up and slinks past the man who is really more of a boy, now that Anna looks at him, and disappears into the shadows.

He just stands there, hands dangling listlessly at his sides, watching Anna with the same level of guardedness that she watches him with. There are claw marks on his face, long since healed and scarred over, but prominent enough to be noticed in the dim light of the single bulb overhead. Dull black hair that falls in tangled curls around the nape of his neck also lays over his brow and dances with his eyelashes as he blinks. “I’m Lawrence.” He says finally, and lowers himself to his knees.

He’s still a few yards away, but she pulls her legs up under her to create more distance. “Lawrence?” That means nothing to her. Cain means nothing to her. How could he approach her in a dingy, crappy basement and expect her to respond to him? He could be the very man who abducted her.

It’s not like she’d seen his face.

Not that she remembers, anyway.

“They call me Laurie.” He rubs his fingertips over the knobby bones of his knees that she can see even through the pilled fabric of his sweatpants.

“Why?”

Lawrence blinks at her, hooded eyes widening just a little, and his mouth falls open for a second. “I…it’s a nickname.” He stammers. “They gave it to me.”

“They?” She has no defense except to question him at every turn, needling him for inconsistencies or information that can gain her a way of escape. In her mind, it doesn’t matter that eight other girls haven’t found a way to escape yet. It only matters that she hasn’t yet tried for herself.

“The girls.” He hooks a thumb shakily back to the dark side of the room. “And my brother. It’s…” He squints like he’s somewhat confused. “It’s the nickname you give to someone named Lawrence.”

The hyper literalism startles her out of her fight or flight for a second, and she blinks right back at him. To be fair, she really is asking useless questions. “What do you want?”

His head cocks piteously to the side. “You have to go to your room now. Cain will be back soon.”

Her hands are bunched in the skirt of her nightgown, heart hammering in her ears. “My room isn’t here.”

His chest concaves with a saddened sigh and his chin dips. “I know. But if Cain catches any of you out here, we’ll all get in trouble. You have to go to the room that he has for you. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to it.”

Her arms wrap around her folded legs and she frowns stubbornly. “No.”

He scoots closer, still on his knees. “I know you’re scared, but I won’t hurt you. Cain will. Please.” His eyes are saucers, reflecting the yellow light of the bulb. “Please come with me.” He reaches out a hand to her that is barely more than skin and bones, and it trembles in the space between them.

She can hear him breathing with a slight rasp, can see the trace of blood at the corner of his mouth. His face is just as bruised as the rest of the girls, all of his visible skin marked by either scars or cuts or abrasions, or all three.

He turns away slightly to sniffle and cough into his other elbow before returning to his former position, and she sees that he’s just as battered as the rest of them.

Anna scoots forward slowly. As soon as she’s not leaning against the wall anymore, she’s reminded of the sledge hammer pounding in her head as her vision spins. She sees a flash of gray clothes and black hair, and then a warm body is tucked against her side, his arm around her back.

“Don’t fall,” He rasps. “I’ll help you up.”

He smells like a mixture of fresh air and stale sweat, but it’s so much better than the crushing odor of urine and excrement that’s everywhere else, that she instinctively leans in closer before she stops herself. She lurches away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

His arm doesn’t move. “We only have a few minutes. We have to go.”

Before she can fight him, he’s bringing her to her feet and steadying her. His hands are still trembling against her arms, his steps slow and stilted, like he has to lock his knees in order to stay upright, but he still manages to keep her stable even when her equilibrium knocks around like a pinball.

“Please.” Her tears start again, face scrunching pathetically. “Please let me go. I didn’t do anything.”

Lawrence’s hand settles on her shoulder, guiding her into the dark side of the room. The further they go, the more her eyes adjust. “I wish I could. I swear.”

The room narrows into a hall lined with doors, all of which are shut except for one on the end. There’s a heavy looking ring of keys hanging on the wall, well out of her reach.

“Please.” She sobs. “My family will be looking for me.”

He smiles at her sadly as they stop in front of the open room. “Just be glad they’re not here with you. Trust me. That would be worse.” Lawrence nods into the room. “There’s a bed in there. I gave you clean sheets. There’s water in the corner, and a bucket.”

“A bucket?” She wishes she hadn’t asked. She doesn’t want to know.

He doesn’t want to explain it, so he doesn’t.

He gives her a small push. “Don’t tell him about this, and you can come out tomorrow. That’s how this works, okay?”

She steps into the room and turns to face him, tears streaking down her face. “Please.” She begs again.

He’s got one hand on the door. “What’s your name?”

She chokes on her sobs, and covers her face with her hands. It’s all crashing down on her. She’s somewhere, somewhere unfamiliar, with people who are miserable, people who promise her she’ll be miserable soon, too. No one can help her. She forces her shoulders back and gasps for air, letting her hands fall. “Anna.”

Lawrence gives her the smallest smile, but after a second it turns into a wince. “Goodnight, Anna. I’m sorry.” And then he closes the door softly and locks it.

1949 - Cass

Night has crept in and turned the room cold by the time Cass realizes that she’s no longer processing her studies. After a few moments of clearing up her books, cloaking herself in thick layers, and collecting her companion from the kitchen, the two young women venture out into the cool evening air.

Anna Griffin links an arm through her friend's and draws her closer, both in a perhaps false sense of security and a search for warmth in the brisk fall weather. Mere days before the start of exams, the atmosphere on campus had gradually ramped up from care-free relaxation and comfort to the high-tension stress that would follow the student body through the rest of the semester.

Fall had descended upon the university with as much grace as an exhausted engineering student throwing himself, book bag and all, into the nearest garbage receptacle and waiting for the custodians to dispose of him.

The trees and shrubbery which line the sidewalks and garnish the buildings are coated in an obscene shade of orange, forever shedding shriveled, dead leaves and dropping wet branches onto the walkways to be stepped on by droves of aspiring intellectuals. Dried up maple seeds and rotted acorns lay strewn across the front lawn.

The sky looms perpetually gray overhead, the air unforgivably humid, with a persistent wind which serves only to dishevel all, even those who are already held together merely by their last shred of sanity.

Cassan Blythe and Anna Griffin trek briskly across campus with little regard for the seasonal decorations and social events scattered around them. One of the university choral groups is set up in front of the administration building, practicing their Christmas carols, attempting to provide some Yuletide cheer to distract from the panic of impending finals.

Cornerstone Café emanates warmth, the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke intermingling and clinging to the clothes of those within. University students fill the brightly lit space, most of them standing, grouped off with familiars, others crowding the small tables. Two of six friends meeting for dinner are already crowding in and claiming their regular table before the evening rush can swarm in and take it.

"Starting a war merely to garner political favor via the rally effect is a terrible idea." Betty Hughes gives an undignified chortle, the sound deliberately akin to a parrot's mocking tone, as she crashes into a chair.

"It was your idea. And by the way, it's called diversionary foreign policy."

"I have zero follow-through for overly ambitious endeavors, which automatically voids all of my suggestions. Pursuing this avenue of discussion was your mistake."

Few topics of conversation can elicit as deep a passionate fervor within Charles Butler as society and economy, but the only response he gives is a stare so thoroughly unimpressed that Betty thinks he might be ill. The harsh lines of his features, the nearly black eyes, all combine just to make her shift awkwardly in her seat. She had hoped she could spurn an indignant response by inciting some idea of social injustice, but she seems to be falling hopelessly short.

After a long moment of judgmental silence, her male companion pulls his glasses off to clean them and lifts a single shoulder in a shrug. In the temporary absence of the rest of their party, he has one foot propped up on the seat of the chair next to him, one elbow balanced on his arched knee. The dark navy sweater he wears contrasts the white pressed collar poking out from beneath, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, giving him a particularly scholarly appearance in the dim dining light. "The fact remains, you would have quick and effective results. Partisanship lessens and patriotism prevails through the unity of nationalism.”

The tension in the room shifts to Betty's side of the table. No longer is she uncomfortably sitting in judgement, rather considering hurling a blunt object at him. "Not to my satisfaction. The cost of war is too much to consider for this singular purpose, and once the conflict is over, the approval ratings start dropping all over again. And it’s not exactly a morally lucrative campaign plan."

Charles Butler lets out a long breath, shrugs carelessly, and snaps his class notebook shut. He lights a cigarette and checks his watch. "You'd be a weak President." There is a soft, metal on wood thump as his cigarette lighter clunks down to the tabletop.

Betty never wanted to be President. She has always abhorred politics; no force on Earth could draw her into the world of expressing meaningless ideologies for the singular purpose of maintaining office and gaining power, and yet, Charles' words, though undoubtedly true, are to Betty as gasoline to an open flame.

Even with her eyes closed in tempered frustration, she can sense his lips tilting up at one corner in a self-satisfied smirk. Eyebrows lowering in offense, the woman beholds him once more and lobs her gloves at his head.

The infuriating boy catches them both easily in his fist and leans back with an indifferent expression. "Now, now. Acting out in anger is no way to lead a respectable republic. Perhaps a dictatorship is more your style, yes?"

He might as well have called her a Nazi.

"You're atrocious." Betty grumbles, reaching for her gloves in his evasive grasp as someone shuffles towards the table from out of the cold. After all but lunging across the table to snatch the items back, she smooths her skirt beneath her as she sits, taking up her pencil once more and scribbling notes in a small journal.

Charles merely laughs softly, the sound nearly muted by the din around them.

Hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, hair unkempt, Douglas Martin sits himself at their table, one eye still pinched shut against wakefulness. "What's happening?"

"Betty's a dictator."

"And Charles is an evil warmonger." She sees the infuriating man raise his eyebrows at her jab, disconcertingly calm despite the unfounded accusation.

Douglas slumps back wearily in his chair. "Hm." He musters with little interest. "So, I didn't miss anything."

Charles puffs at his smoke, cracking a grin and flashing Betty a wink. He is a man with a Herculean ego, propped back in his chair with one foot on the floor and one arm draped over the seat back, the lines in his cheeks when he smiles giving him a decidedly arrogant appearance.

Half the reason the university paper had taken him on was because his looks alone entice everyone on campus to agree to a conversation with him.

His presence has no such effect on Douglas. "When are the others coming?" He drapes an arm over his eyes. He’d been up until four in the morning working on homework, and had the chance for only two hours of catch-up rest between classes and dinner.

"Any minute now." Betty rises to order the first round of warm drinks. "Would you rather head back to the house and go to bed?"

Douglas rejects the suggestion, slouching down into the chair. "I'll be fine. Just let me adjust to this lower standard of living, would you?"

Anna and Cass shoulder through the throng, making their way to the circular table so marked by knives and harshly pressed pens that it no longer bears an even surface. They find Betty already sitting there, along with Charles and Douglas, the latter of whom with painfully dark circles under his eyes and the former with an unrelenting, satisfied smirk.

Cass stops short at the table, peeling off her heavy overcoat with determined vigor before glancing around and asking distractedly, "Is Edward late again?" She begins rolling up her sleeves, tucking her soft brown hair behind her ears, swiping the glasses from the table and putting them on.

Charles pops up from his creaky wooden chair to pull out Cass’s seat while the other did likewise for Anna. "He'll be around; no point in waiting." Charles pats her shoulder in greeting before sitting back in his seat and snatching his glasses from her face.

The five of them seated, Anna begins tugging off her gloves, shivering theatrically and tossing Cass accusing glares, which the older woman proudly ignores. Anna appears to be clinging to the same bitterness she'd adopted earlier in the day when the late-night study session at Cornerstone had been suggested. With heavy hands she draws three books from her bag and drops them to the tabletop. "I am in anguish."

The proclamation is greeted by murmured agreements all around. As though attempting to provide some solution to the problem, Douglas rises from his chair, pausing slightly to ask, "The usuals for everybody?" Once affirmed, he moves his chair from his path and heads up to the counter. His place is promptly claimed by the arrival of Edward Franklin, who brandishes with a great flourish the school's paper. "Look here, everyone!" Holding the college paper proudly before him, he displays a lengthy article on the second page, the byline reading: 'Charles Butler'.

Douglas returns just in time, beholding the byline with an obnoxious shout, and snatches the paper from Edward, clapping Charles on the shoulder. "Exemplary, Charlie; they've finally come to their senses and put you in the paper; and it's not even your face in the funny pages."

Expression smug and glowing from the attention, Charles offers a half-bow and tips his coffee at Douglas. "We always knew I'd be the first of us to rise to success."

"First to rise, first to fall." The woman at his elbow shoots back, quick to humble him once more.

"Don't be envious, Betty," Anna chides her. "Besides, there are punctuation errors in this article anyway." She peers over Douglas' shoulder, wrinkling her nose at the paper.

Charles nearly topples his chair jumping up, reaching for the paper. "You're lying."

Douglas yanks the paper out of the way as Edward settles into the seat next to Cass, quietly proud of the uproar he'd started.

Betty tugs at the hem of Charles' jacket, urging him to sit back down before he lunges over the table. Douglas and Anna keep up their game until Betty threatens to push them all into traffic, and they admit to having teased him. Charles' relief is thoroughly masked behind his irritation. "I'd like to see your name in a scientific journal," He snaps at Douglas.

"Yeah, labeled, 'discovered: new simian subspecies.'" Betty quips, sipping innocently at her coffee.

Indignant, Douglas falls into his seat and lets the matter rest.

"Alright, hands up, who's going to the Latin texts seminar tomorrow?"

Edward’s question goes unanswered as Anna abruptly snatches Cass’s arm and fixes her eyes to the paper that’s still clutched in Charles’ hands. All eyes turn to her when she calls Cass’s name, her voice small and choked with emotion.

“Anna?” Cass takes only a second to take in the stunned expression on the blonde’s face before craning her neck to find out what had captured her attention so viciously. Charles has noticed the same disturbance, and has already unfolded the paper to find the source of Anna’s distress.

A second later, the answer becomes clear.

“Oh,” He says blankly, and lets the pages lay flat on the table before him so they all can see the headline that he had overlooked for the sake of his first article in the university publication.

MURDERED FEMALE STUDENT NOW IDENTIFIED, KILLER STILL AT LARGE After a long week of investigating the apparent murder of an unidentified female student, authorities have finally confirmed both her identity and certain details surrounding her manner of passing. The body of Josephine Sturm, 18, a freshman at the University of Washington, was found December 1 on campus after dark. Cause of death has been determined to be a stabbing to the throat, and police have confirmed that she has been found to have been deliberately murdered. Sturm’s body was discovered in a drainage ditch on campus, allegedly disposed of by the killer who remains at large. According to authorities, the killer left a signature clue on the body—a white feather bloodied by Sturm’s wounds.

The six friends around the table read the article in shocked silence.

A waiter appears, dropping off their meals and shattering the atmosphere with chirping questions and comments shouted to be heard over the clamor of the other students. When she finally leaves, the newspaper is pinned beneath Charles’ pot roast and Betty’s chicken, and its hold over the friends is broken.

“Josephine Sturm—” Charles begins uncertainly.

“Jo.” Edward corrects grimly. “Her name was Jo.”

Cass’s eyes flood with tears, her fists clenching in her lap. She glances at Anna, the one who understands the most, and finds her staring blankly at her meal. There is no emotion on her face, her eyes tracing the vibrant colors of her meat and vegetables as her mind transposes the memory of old broth and stale bread over her steaming plate.

“They’re sure?” Betty wonders softly. “What if they’re wrong? What if it isn’t her?”

Douglas shakes his head. “They wouldn’t have released her identity until her next of kin have confirmed it. I doubt they’ve made a mistake.”

“Maybe it’s a different Josephine Sturm.” She argues, eyes flashing between Cass and Anna. “Maybe it’s someone else.”

“I don’t think it’s a very common name.” Cass closes her eyes and settles the roaring thoughts overwhelming her senses, the intense rush of memories from two years before. “She was down there with us. She survived. And now—stabbed to death? On campus?”

“Stabbed in the throat.” Anna adds softly. “The way he always did it.”

Cass’s stomach churns.

Next to her, Douglas scrubs a hand through his hair and further dishevels his already unkempt appearance. “We can go talk to Byrd. They definitely know by now, and they probably know more than the paper. Let’s finish dinner and go find him.”

“What about the feather?” Charles wonders. “What’s the deal with the white feather?”

“Historically speaking there was an Order of the White Feather,” Cass offers. “It was instigated by women during World War I to shame men for not fighting in the war.”

“There’s a contemporary offshoot of that called The Order of the Blood Feather. Rather than a passive aggressive protest, the creed of the Blood Feather is more to the tune of political assassinations.” Betty returns carefully, her voice low to avoid being overheard by the droves of students all around them. “Cain Roberts is involved with them. The combination of his signature method of killing with the signature of his organization is a pretty conclusive case for his involvement in Jo’s murder.”

Anna swallows tightly, turning her face away.

Cass isn’t faring much better.

She feels the weight of their concerned gazes on both of them, but her mind is racing too fast to address any of the friends. The suggestion that Cain Roberts is back in their lives is too much, too horrible, too wretched to process.

Cain Roberts, still out in the world after every terrible thing he did to them three years ago.

Cain Roberts, targeting and murdering a young woman who had already survived and escaped his dominion once.

Cain Roberts, on campus, lurking in the dark.

Anna finally speaks. “Laurie did say that Jo was going to be Cain’s next target.”

No one wishes to reply.

Darkness has fallen decidedly over the campus by the time the friends leave the diner, the frozen-over sidewalks illuminated only by dim and flickering lamps that are spaced too far apart. A pall hangs over the group, indiscernible from the cloud of cigarette smoke that travels with them.

Somewhere off to the right, members of a large social club parade across the front lawn, boisterously singing some kind of creed that bounces off the trees and buildings and ricochets distortedly from ear to ear.

“Professor Byrd should still be in his office,” Edward says quietly, though no one asks. “He told me earlier that he’d be here until he graded every last paper.”

Anna makes some kind of comment about the unusual number of essays assigned her across her classes, but Cass isn’t listening.

Her gaze is far away, tracing the shadows at the edge of her vision. There’s a man there, a tall, young man, standing at the furthest reach of the lawn. From such a distance it’s nearly impossible to identify the specific direction of his stare, but by the prickling of her neck she knows.

She’s seen him before.

Long and strange and lurking in the corner of her eye, his gaze always somehow finding hers.

He’s just a student, loaded down with a heavy book bag and his appearances usually scheduled based on the beginnings and ends of his classes, but he is otherwise entirely foreign. A stranger who carries no sign of exhaustion on his face, who walks without the slumping weight of academic pressure.

A second passes between her noticing him and her recognition of his familiarity, and then when she blinks he’s turning away, continuing down the sidewalk with languid movements.

“Did you see that?” Edward is next to her then, nudging her arm, gesturing towards the very young man she’s just been watching. “I’ve seen that guy before. Have you noticed how he seems to be following you?”

“Following me?” She repeats blankly, mind still lost in the weeds. “If you’re noticing him around too, maybe it’s you he’s following.”

Edward shakes his head with a small smile and rolls his eyes. “It’s just weird. He’s an odd fellow.”

As Edward predicted, Professor Byrd is indeed at his office when the students arive. He opens his doors at their knocking and looks unsurprised as all six of them file into the small space.

He greets each of them in turn, but his focus is unmistakeably on Cass and Anna. “I assume this means you’ve seen the news.” He guesses solemnly, glancing between faces until his suspicion is confirmed. “I’m very sorry. I’m sure it was very difficult to hear.”

“It was him?” Cass disregards his perfunctory condolences, finding a seat on his small sofa. “Obviously it’s him, but—do you know anything?”

The history professor returns to his place behind his desk and gathers his thoughts cautiously. “We know that her cause of death is identical to some of Cain Robert’s methods. We have no other proof than that at this time, but circumstantially, yes. It looks like this was Cain’s doing.”

Edward jumps in then. “My understanding of the Order of the Blood Feather is that their kills are politically motivated. Jo Sturm doesn’t fit their pattern. Even if Cain is a member of the Order, why would he choose to leave the calling card on her? I’m sure that none of the other girls were found with the feather.” He glances to Douglas for confirmation, who shrugs.

“Cain Roberts abducted and tortured those young women as a personal endeavor, unaffiliated with the Order.” Byrd responds cautiously. “If he’s choosing to now begin targeting his survivors a year later, we’re assuming that the Order has put pressure on him to clean up his mess. His actions now may be meant to be perceived as an Order obligation rather than a choice of his own will.”

Anna’s gaze is fixed firmly on the carpet, mind flooding with blood soaked memories. Her fingertips absently trace the scars on her skin, phantom sensations of pain poisoning her brain. Before she can spiral into an endless pit of squeezing darkness, she slips her hand into her pocket and runs her thumb over the smooth surface of a cool, flat object.

“So if Cain Roberts is targeting survivors—” Edward cuts himself off. He doesn’t need to finish.

If Cain Roberts is going after his survivors, then Cass and Anna will be on his list of targets.

There’s so much crashing against the walls of Cass’s mind that she can barely see past the mental images that this conversation—that the newspaper article—have evoked. Residual fear and panic that she always thinks she’s one more good day away from vanquishing entirely grips her throat for the millionth time. The cold, unforgiving hands of nostalgia reach their fingers into her intestines and claw up cramping handfuls.

She can’t breathe.

She’s supposed to be past this. She’s a year free; a whole year. Her skin has healed, her muscles have knit back together, her bones have set. She’s done the diligence of physical therapy and emotional exploration to overcome the could-be mortal wounds exacted over a year ago. Her nights have brought sleep once more, most of the nightmares all chased away. She can close her eyes without seeing smiling icy blue eyes and inhale deeply without the stench of sewage and death clinging to her nostrils.

But she can’t breathe.

Her eyes slam shut like a door between herself and the memories, but it doesn’t help. They press in harder, faster, until she’s dizzy.

Warmth seeping into her shoulder breaks her free fall.

She finds Edward there, his hand tethering her to the present, watching her closely. She blinks back, stunned by the sudden quiet of reality.

No one is screaming, no one is crying; Professor Byrd’s office is warm and bright, and filled with kind people. Anna sits in the farthest corner of the room, pressed as deeply into the crevice of the wall as she can be, a flat black stone bouncing absently in the palm of her hand. She looks just as distraught as Cass feels, the panicking reminiscence painted unmissably on her face.

Edward is next to Cass, Betty is next to Anna, and Charles and Douglas surround the professor.

The painstakingly slow headcount brings air back into her lungs.

They’re safe.

There’s fresh air outside, and warmth all around her.

“You three are so loud,” you snarl as your penny loafers click to a stop before the three chairs huddled in a triangle, a deep, black table in the center, holding thick books and chalices of god knows what. With a hand on your hip, the other arm holding books pressed to your chest, you keep your voice quiet but sharp, “This room is for studying, you know.”

San makes a show of looking around him, at the lack of people occupying the lounge. Almost ten, maybe fifteen chairs took up space, five tables amongst them, maybe three people occupying them. You let your eyes dance over the almost empty room before landing back on San, his slicked back hair, the black robe hanging over his shoulders, the yellow illuminating the breadth. 

You stand your ground, “Just because it’s not busy in here doesn’t mean you need to be obnoxious.”

“We weren’t even loud,” Wooyoung argues, the blue in his robe bringing out the chocolate of his eyes, the red undertone in his black hair that nearly lays over his lashes. His mouth twitches upward in a smirk, “We were just laughing. You should try it sometime.”

You slide your scowl to Yeosang, whose eyes dance between the three of you, but he doesn’t interject. He never interjects, not when Wooyoung makes one of his infamous remarks towards you, nor when he encourages San into teasing you, too. Yeosang, quiet, timid and kind until it killed him, you wondered how you were both in the same House. Sometimes you wondered if you were tutoring him to bring out the bravery buried inside him, too. 

“Whatever,” you huff, rolling your eyes. You turn your body to Yeosang, hands clutching your books to your chest a little harder, “Are you ready? It’s past three.” 

Yeosang nods, black hair tied tightly behind his head, tendrils framing his face that curved just beneath his jaw. Both hands grip the armrests of the chair to help him stand, then he grabs his books from the table, his goblet, you had the same routine every other day. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the days you meet Yeosang here at three o’clock sharp to tutor him in everything. History of Magic, Herbology, Transfigurations, Potions, you remember the day your professor assigned Yeosang to you in hopes that you’d get him to at least pass. 

“Good luck,” Wooyoung teases, a song in his tone, eyes trapped in crescents with how wide his grin spreads. He reaches into his pockets, “Hold on, don’t forget this.”

“I’m not taking that,” Yeosang huffs, “You shouldn’t even have that.”

“What is it?” You ask, eyeing the iridescent liquid in the small glass vial. It doesn’t look like any potion you’ve seen before. 

“Liquid Luck,” Yeosang answers too quickly, waving his hands in front of Wooyoung who tips his head back in loud laughter. Your eyebrows furrow, you know the color of Liquid Luck, a molten gold that looks as lucky as it makes you, but you’ve never seen such a pearly, almost rainbow substance. Your curiosity makes you take a step forward, hand reaching out to touch it.

Yeosang lurches forward to snap the potion from between Wooyoung’s fingers before you get the chance, “You’re beyond help. Beyond saving, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung just laughs louder, crinkles beside his uneven eyes, “You- You should try it out, man. Just see what happens, I’m curious.”

“You use it,” Yeosang stuffs the glass in his robe pocket, the red interior bustling outward at the movement, a bite in his tone you’ve never heard before. You’re standing frozen, eyes wide, confusion and surprise written all over your face. 

“I’m not as lucky as you,” Wooyoung is smirking again, his eyes sliding to you right before he winks, long, dark lashes almost reaching his cheek as he does so. “I like ‘em to have a little attitude.”

Your top lip curls in disgust, “Ew, Jung Wooyoung. Never speak to me again.” You turn on your heel, penny loafers heading toward the private study room you and Yeosang always used. Turning your head behind you to Yeosang who had leaned towards Wooyoung, no doubt whispering words you didn’t want to hear, you called, “Let’s go, Yeosang.”

He straightens on command, following behind you to the study room. The room smelled faintly of morning mist leftover from the window that had most likely been cracked earlier in the day, paired with the same smell of magic and ancientness that wrapped around the school like a hug. You laid your books down on the wooden table, a long slab of oak that ate up half the space, benches lined on either side, a tall, full bookshelf against the wall. A lonely bar-cart sat in the corner, water and potions glittering the space for focus, listening, learning, golden goblets and tall jars atop a used, golden slate.

“I’m sorry about him,” Yeosang mutters quietly as the heavy door groans closed, the small metal lock latching louder than his voice. 

You take your normal spot, and the bench cries as Yeosang sits down beside you. You give him a quick shake of your head, “Nothing I’m not used to.”

“You shouldn’t be used to it,” Yeosang’s voice is quiet, small, almost sheepish. 

Your head turns, taking in the shape of his jaw, the slope of his nose. So beautiful he’d appear feminine if it wasn’t for the masculinity he bore in his chest, his shoulders, everywhere from the neck down. You open your Potions book to the page that you left off last on Wednesday, somewhere in the middle, a wit-sharpening draft Yeosang couldn’t memorize for shit. The same draft charmed to keep itself filled kept in the corner of the study rooms.

You huff, “It is what it is.” Spreading your hands on each page, covering the contents of the book, you turned to him again, “You studied?”

Yeosang’s lips curled at the corner, “...Somewhat.”

“The exam is on Monday, Yeo,” you slant your eyebrows, pointing your gaze. “That whole time you were giggling with San and Wooyoung you could have been memorizing.”

“I’m sorry,” he frowns, a crease forming between his brows, “I looked over it last night.”

“You swear?” You ask, pulling the book towards you, not waiting for his answer. “Recite it to me then.”

His cheeks heat a pretty pink color, kissing the high points, spreading wide over his nose. His voice is quiet, uneasy, slightly high-pitched as he counts on his fingers, “Water, ginger…”

“And?” You raise your brows, “There’s only four ingredients, Yeosang.”

“Something with beetles…” He makes a disgruntled face, features morphing together. “...Armadillo.”

Your lips curl into a grin, “So close.”

He meets your eye with nothing but uncertainty swirling in deep brown, “Scab beetles.”

“Scarab beetles.”

“Right, right. Armadillo…”

“Bile.”

“Yes!”

“I’ll actually accept that,” your eyebrows raise, mouth bending to show how impressed you were. Usually Yeosang didn’t remember anything past water. “Now tell me how to brew it.”

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and the word falling from his lips so shamelessly makes you choke on your spit, a laugh tumbling form your chest. 

“I don’t think that’s a step,” you giggle, then attempt to look serious again, “Don’t curse, it’s foul.”

“I’m sorry,” his lips are still bent, humor and amusement in his eyes. “Simmer the water, add the… Scarab beetles, stir three times–”

“Five times,” you correct. 

“Five times,” he nods, “Clockwise.”

“Counter-clockwise.”

He furrows his brows, “Clockwise.”

You tilt your head, lips smacking, “Counter-clockwise.”

“Check the book,” his eyes drop to the book you held to your chest and you peel it from your red-colored robes, eyes scanning the page. Right there, in clean cut handwriting, it says Clockwise.

You purse your lips, “I’m sorry, my fault. It’s clockwise.”

His smile is proud like he wants to pat himself on the back– the sight makes you giggle. You don’t get to see that look on him very often. With heat in your cheeks, you shake your head quickly, “Keep going.”

“Five times clockwise,” he nods his head as he speaks as if he’s committing the information to memory, searching for more inside his head, “Simmer five minutes. Add ginger, don’t stir, simmer again.”

“For how long?” You cock a brow. 

“...Twenty minutes?” His eyes widened, looking to you for confirmation. When you nod, he smiles all teeth, and continues. “Let it cool, stir seven times every three minutes, clockwise and counter-clockwise. When it’s not hot anymore–”

“How do you check?”

“With a hand over the pot. Add the armadillo bile then, and let it sit for eight minutes.” 

“Wow,” you breathe, “That was all, like, perfectly correct. I’m surprised and impressed.”

He claps his hands together ceremoniously, lips stuck together, curled at the edges and pursed in the center. You lean in closer, smelling the woody, black pepper, tea-leaf scent that was purely Yeosang, “Now tell me how to make it taste better.”

“Peppermint leaf on the tongue, not in the potion,” he nods, then meets your eye, pride evident in his features. You clap your hands together, wide smile on your face, cheering for him like he had just won a world record. It was a huge deal to have a study session go so smoothly, so effortlessly– Usually studying was like pulling teeth with Yeosang. 

“Temperature is key for this one,” you say after a minute of cheering, “You need to be vigilant with the fire while brewing, to keep it at a simmer. You don’t want it boiling.”

He nods with every word, letting them sink in, and you place the Potions book atop the wooden table again, hands landing just beside it, letting the cold, almost damp-feeling oak settle into your skin. A knock sounds at the door a moment later, and your necks snap to Wooyoung creaking the door open, a sly grin on his cheeks. 

“Apologies, study-birds,” he teases, peeking his head around the slab of oak, “Can I get that vial of Desiderium back?”

Your jaw drops to the wood beneath your skull. You repeat, with eyebrows in your hairline, “Desiderium?!” 

Yeosang huffs, an irritated breath, digging into his pockets for the glass. You choke on a laugh, “How the hell did you get your hands on Desiderium? You could get expelled for that, Jung Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes and holds his hands out for Yeosang to toss the vial to him. He catches it swiftly between deft fingers, shooting Yeosang a nod of appreciation before his rebuttal, “Who cares.”

You stand, palms planted on the damp wood as Wooyoung makes his way over to the study bar, carelessness in his steps. You keep your voice quiet but harsh, “Wooyoung, Desiderium is banned, like banned banned. You could get somebody hurt, you could hurt yourself, that isn’t a toy or Viagra.”

He whips his head around, a nasty smirk on his lips, “You know what Viagra is?” 

Your cheeks flush, back straightening, fingers curling before your robes. Voice smaller now, not as quiet or confident, you say, “Yes I know what Viagra is, I’m not a child.”

He pours himself a goblet of the wit-sharpening potion, taking a deep drink from the scratched golden chalice, you watch how his bumped nose dips into the cup, how his Adam’s apple expands with each gulp. He lets out a massive, verbal breath when the cup is drained, slamming the goblet back on the slate. 

“Go to the bathroom and drain that vial, Woo.” 

He raises his brows, “Do you know how much it took to even get this? Hell no.”

You crane your neck to look down at Yeosang who appears utterly thoughtless. With a strain in your voice, you try, “Yeosang, do something.”

“What am I supposed to do?” He asks, his voice genuine. “He did go through a lot to get it.”

You release a sound of disbelief, a sharp breath from your lungs. “Yeosang!” You whisper-yell, then turn back to Wooyoung who leans against the bar cart, “I can’t just let you carry that around with no consequence.” 

“Who are you gonna tell?” Wooyoung raises his brows in amusement, “A professor? Head Girl?”

You sputter, “I- I’ll–” 

The truth was, you didn’t want to tell anyone. You eyed his pocket, the crinkle of weight in the black robe, curiosity lighting up your mind. Desiderium was a banned potion across the wizard world, a worse love potion than Amortentia, it wasn’t even considered a love potion. It was an… Arousal potion of sorts, you’ve only heard stories of it, but you knew it wasn’t safe. If taken in large quantities it was toxic, resulting in a stomach-pumping spell or in worse cases, death. If taken in small quantities, it makes the consumer unbelievably horny, insatiable for hours, so aroused and consumed by lust they lose themselves completely.

You wondered, despite knowing it was banned. If that really was Desiderium, if it really does what it’s supposed to, what it feels like to be under the spell. You don’t have much experience in the sex area, or really in the arousal area entirely. Your life has always been centered around academics and competition, and your small group of friends that were more like you than someone like Wooyoung. You’d never had a boyfriend, or someone to pull that velvety feeling from your gut, you’ve never felt the feeling of losing yourself that you’ve overheard Wooyoung talk about when debriefing his hook-ups with San and Yeosang.

“You’ll what?” Wooyoung tilts his head in amusement. 

“It’s fine,” Yeosang finally interjects, “He won’t do anything with it, he has no problem getting… no problem in that area.” 

“Yeosang, that’s–”

He glances up at you, eyes clear, certain. You swallow down your disdain, your clear discomfort, the heated curiosity nipping at your cheeks. You sit down slowly, back in your place next to Yeosang, and Wooyoung giggles like a child. 

“Have fun studying,” he winks again, and then he’s out the door in a flash. 

You huff a breath when he’s no longer in sight, irritation biting at your skin, heating you beneath your robes. Pushing your hair behind your ears and flattening your skirt, you huff, “I’m just gonna pretend like that didn’t happen.” 

“That’s best to do with most things concerning Wooyoung.” 

“Well, do you think it’s right?” You’re facing him now, eyebrows back in your hairline, “He could do whatever he wants with Desiderium, he could give it to whoever he wants. That’s sick.” 

“He’s not a bad guy,” he’s shaking his head fervently, his hands coming up to his chest in defense, “He’d never use it on someone without their knowledge or anything like that.”

“Then what’s the point of having it?” You argue, jaw tight, eyes focused. 

“Well,” Yeosang cranes his neck slowly, a tilt to his head that means he doesn’t want to finish his sentence, “There’s this one girl, and he… They, you know. A lot. And there’s stuff he wants to try, and—”

“Okay,” you turn away, cheeks growing hot at the words leaving his mouth. For a moment you wonder if Yeosang has ever been with anyone like that, if he’s taken a sip of the Desiderium, if he ever thinks of getting that kind of… boost. 

You shake your head to hopefully rid yourself of the thought, “I get it. But if he uses it on anyone,” you shoot him a sideways glance, “I can’t let that slide. I won’t be a bystander. You have to tell me.” 

Yeosang nods what seems like a thousand times in a millisecond, “I will, I promise.” 

You push out a heavy breath, forcing your eyes back on your book, you had three more potions to get through for his exam on Monday. Blinking at the page, brain drifting back to the Desiderium… No. 

“What’s next?” His voice is soft, as if he’s gracefully pulling you out of your mind, as if he could read it. You swallow. 

“Sleeping draft,” your voice is so low it’s basically a whisper, turning the page, trying to ignore how the energy in the room feels different. Charged. Maybe two curious brains instead of one. You don’t look up, “Ingredients?” 

He leans onto the table, two elbows pressed to the wood, his chin buried between them. He tilts his head to the side, giving you a view of his pretty cheekbones, the side of his face that didn’t have the birthmark. You glue your eyes to the book. Yeosang is barely even your friend, just a guy you tutor– But you wonder if his thoughts mirrored yours at all, even if you shouldn’t think of him that way at all. 

“Water,” he’s mumbling, his tone half bored, “Um, Lavender.”

“This one’s a breeze,” you try to push some encouragement into your tone, “One more ingredient, and then tell me how it’s brewed.”

A small breath passes through his lips, “Uh,” he closes his eyes for a moment, “Mint.”

His lips are so shiny– wet, like he’d just swiped his tongue over them. The loose pieces of hair hanging out of his ponytail lay over his creamy skin, the rich color a contrast to the pink on his cheeks still present. 

“No, chamomile.” 

Shit. You didn’t even hear him get it wrong. 

“Hey,” he picks his head up, eyeing you from the table, “I thought you said cursing is foul.”

You said that out loud? “It is,” your chuckle is nervous, “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he smiles, the S in sorry slurred by his slight lisp. The sound brings an unfamiliar warmth to your chest, a smile on your cheeks. In a rush, you turn your head back to the book. 

“Okay,” you heave a breath in an attempt to push the weird air away from the two of you, “Water, lavender, chamomile. Tell me how it’s brewed.”

Yeosang groans, sitting up straight, “I can’t focus.”

“Fill your cup,” you jut your chin in the direction of the mind-sharpening potion in the corner of the room, “Actually, can you pour me one, too?” 

He nods, untangling himself from the bench to walk over to the bar-cart, and you suck in a deep breath that isn’t full of Yeosang’s air. You don’t know what’s going on in your chest, or why the mention of Desiderium has you both feeling weird, or maybe it was just you that was weird. It was always just you, the untouched one who has no experience that feels weird when anything sex-related is brought up. Yeosang is probably fine. 

Your eyes pick up to his fingers wrapped around the handle of the jar, watching how the veins that climb up his forearm like vines strain while he fills two goblets. You’ve always known Yeosang is attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. He’s popular amongst the girls in your year, your house, other houses, even. He’s kind, genuine, soft, but you’ve never really thought about him that way, never had anything to add to the conversation, because you know him as the timid dumbass you tutor in every single subject. 

“Do you want any mint?” He asks from the cart, and you nod your head, mumbling your thanks. 

Always kind, with his deep voice and the muted rose colored kiss mark on his temple, funny in the way that has you shaking your head because his humor was so silly it was almost childish. He always opens the door for you to the study room, pulls out the heavy bench if the last group to occupy the room pushed it in too far. Chivalrous. Sweet. Gorgeous. 

You’re taking it from his hand by the time he walks back to the bench and gulping down the cup in four massive swallows. You need to focus on tutoring him, not how pretty he looks when he’s smiling or how words fall off his lips like each one is a spell. 

When his empty goblet hits the oak you plant your hands on the wooden table before you, mind already feeling sharper. “Okay, seriously now, this one’s easy.” You shoot him another sideways glance. “Tell me how it’s brewed.”

“Bring the water to a slow boil,” you’re both nodding with his words, “Add lavender and stir twenty times.”

“Twenty-one,” you correct, and his smile blooms again. You shudder. 

“Add chamomile and let it simmer for twenty minutes.”

“Ah, that’s where twenty came from.”

“Add purslane for nightmares,” he hums, a low, ruddy sound, “Add ginger for some kick.”

“I’m proud of you,” you say matter-of-factly, “You even answered questions I didn’t ask yet.”

“I told you I studied!” He’s smiling wide and bright, “I know how you work now, how you ask questions. I know the question before it’s on your tongue.”

You think both of your eyes widen at the same time. An innocent statement, nothing behind it, but the word tongue… Right now… Why is there a heat blooming in the pit of your stomach?

He must feel it too, with the way his eyes dart for his lap, fingers twisting together above his slacks. You swallow again, robes feeling heavy on your skin, the air of the room feeling hotter. 

“The next is, um,” you’re blinking rapidly as you flip the page, “Uh, deflating draft. Antidote for the… Swelling solution, it reduces… Um, swelling… And size.”

You can feel the sheen of sweat on your forehead growing rapidly. You’re twisting your neck in discomfort, your clothes too fucking hot, you shimmy off your robe, letting it fall over back of the bench. 

There’s an intake of breath on your left, and your head turns to Yeosang who’s already staring at you, his pupils blown. Eyes wider. Nostrils flared in a way that told you he was on alert. 

“Ingredients?” You squeak, swallowing down the spit that keeps forming in your mouth. What the fuck is going on right now?

“Water, wood sorrel,” his voice is monotonous, as if he was reading a script, mind somewhere else, but his eyes are still locked on you. His voice deepens, a low hum, “Sagebrush, aloe, powdered galangal.” 

Your thighs tighten. Has he always sounded that way? Sultry? Sexy?

You clear your throat as his fingers stop twisting together on his lap, he crosses his leg over his knee and throws his robe over his slacks. Your jaw locks, the movement shoving his smell into your space, and the scent becomes a feeling. A low rumbling in your gut, a blooming heat turned to sparks ignited. 

“How- Um, How do you brew it? The potion?” You’re obvious. You’re internally smacking the shit out of yourself because it’s so fucking obvious you’re horny, it might as well be written on your forehead. 

Yeosang looses a shaky breath, you can hear how it staggers, you can feel how it reaches your hair, moving it across your blouse. Still in that sultry, alluring tone, he says, “Boil the water, and– fuck, add the woodsorrel and sagebrush.”

You don’t scold him for the curse. He continues, “Don’t stir, make sure they’re submer- ah, under water, under the water completely. Submerged, yeah.” 

Your ears are red-hot, body tingling, you can feel the stickiness growing between your legs like it did when you’re ovulating. And his voice, his voice, your shoulders slouch listening to him, getting lost in how clear he sounds in the depth of his words. Breathily, you say, “Keep going.”

He groans. Groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, head dipped down, hair creating a veil so he can’t see you. It feels unbearable– the fire burning so brightly in your gut, your body felt like a livewire, if he so much as brushed his skin against you, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to hold back. 

“Lower the temp to a simmer, add the aloe,” your eyes slide to where his fists curl around his robe, knuckles white. In a low grumble, he says, “Fuck Wooyoung.”

Your head perks up, eyes widening as you face him, and as soon as he sees your face his eyes close immediately, lips curling together. “Shit, I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Why?” You ask, barely noticing how heavy your breath has gotten. You were nearly panting now, lips wet and swollen, “Why fuck Wooyoung? What did he do?” 

He looked flushed, his cheeks bright pink, his ears tipped red, his birthmark was so dark. You wanted to kiss it, lick it, his eyelashes so beautiful, you wanted to see them closer–

“He used it,” he cracks an eye open, “The Desiderium.”

You blink, eyes sliding to the pair of empty goblets on the table, then back to him. “Like, on us?”

Both of his eyes are open now, but they dance around the room, never landing on you. “Yes, on us, we drank it. I don’t– I don’t know how much, but it was in the potion jar on the cart, we- we drank it.” 

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, but somehow the air filling your lungs feels good, “Oh shit.” 

Panic doesn’t seem to find you. You’d left yourself entirely, entering a bubble of lust and arousal, feeling the burn inside your body with nothing to fucking smother it. Your eyes drop to his robe, the breadth of his shoulders, the veins dancing on his wrists while his fists still curl around the fabric. 

“What do we do?” He asks you, eyebrows shot up, “What’s the anecdote?!”

“Don’t know,” you mumble dreamily as your eyes catch onto his jaw, his tongue that pokes between his lips as he speaks. He’s so pretty, so big and so muscular but so beautiful, you wonder if he tastes as sweet as he looks. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath and it sounds like a compliment. 

You smile, head tilting, hand reaching forward to play with one of the hairs that frame his face. His eyes widen when you take it between your fingers, twirling it, knuckles brushing against his face. The millisecond of contact, of skin on skin, you can feel it like you’d just stuck your hand between your legs. 

He moans. 

He moans, and your entire world is flipped upside down. 

Your eyes lock together, a question neither of you want to ask, have to ask. 

Pride was a thing of the past by the time you climbed into Yeosang’s lap, legs splintered by his hips, mouths messily tangling together as if you were trying to swallow each other whole. You could feel him pressed up against you— hard chest, hard abdomen, hard cock— every inch of you was touched by him, consumed by him, burning, steaming, you were sure when you lifted your heads the windows would be fogged over. 

Panting into each other’s mouths like dogs, his tongue dragged across yours hastily, harshly, his lips bruising yours with blatant force. Your hands held onto his nape, fingertips tangled in the slick of his ponytail, pulling stray hairs out every time your fingers twitched. 

“Shit—” he breathed, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, a nasty, brutal sound. You moaned at the sound of his voice, shameless and completely involuntary, head dropping at how it rumbled from his chest. 

“We,” he tilted his head back as your lips moved to his jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses down his throat, tongue lapping at every inch of skin as if you’d taste his very soul. His hands land on your hips, heavy and rough, “I can’t—”

“I need it,” you sound breathless, murmuring into his skin, “I need you to do something, need you to touch me, Yeosang.” 

He moans again at how his name falls off your lips, high-pitched, eyes screwed tight with his hips bucking up at how gone you sound. Your hips grind into him, panties pressed against his slacks, skirt blanketing over where your hips met. 

“We’re not in our,” his groan is breathy, strained, as if he was fighting it off, “Right minds. We shouldn’t be doing this here.” 

“I don’t care,” your hands slide to his cheeks, feeling the heat beneath them, hips still working their dirty, slow grind, meeting his eye. “You want it, don’t you? You do, right?” 

He’s nodding before you finish the question, “I want it, I want you, in this skirt, your face, fuck—”

Your lips curl, parting, leaning forward to attack his again, tongue slipping into his mouth like its made a home there. This heat, this urgency, you didn’t care how you looked, how you sounded, if you were doing this right, it was incredible. Empowering. It was a fleeting thought, how you’ve never done this before, how you’ve gone so long without doing this. 

His hands find your top while your lips stay locked, fingers nimble, making haste as they undo the tiny buttons lining your chest and abdomen. He pushes the cotton off your shoulders, throwing it to the floor, face lighting up when he sees the baby pink bra adorning your chest.  

“Are you sure?” He mumbles as he pulls back, eyes zeroed in on your chest, as if he couldn’t force himself to meet your eye if he tried. You wonder how he still has so much self control, yours was gone the moment the goblet touched your lips. “I need, need you to say yes, I—”

“Please, yes, do something.” 

A hand slides under your ass, lifting you at the same time as the backs of his knees push the bench out from behind him. One hand clears the table while the other keeps you close, and then your ass is pressed to the bare wood, his palms pressing your shoulders back until you feel the steam of the wet slab of wood meet your burning skin. 

“Yeosang!” You squeal, the cold a shock, but a comfort. He grunts in response, pulling his wand from his pants, quickly charming the door locked, the room soundproof, two spells you’d taught him to master two weeks ago. 

“I’m sorry,” he growls and it doesn’t sound like an apology at all, especially not when he peels his robe from his shoulders, pulling his sweater vest over his head, more stray hairs framing his face. His voice is dazed now, low, here but far as he starts to unbutton his own shirt, “I can’t risk someone hearing or coming in, I need you, I need to do whatever, everything, I need all of you.” 

Your body tightens at his words, at how desperate he sounds, the only thing you want right now is for him to take all of you. You want him shameless, you want him impolite, you want him so far from kind he isn’t Yeosang at all anymore. 

You spread your knees, bare thighs pressed to the wood, skirt hiked up to your hips. He gasps when he bends while pulling his pants down, eye to eye with your heat atop the table, a low groan rips from his chest again. 

“You’re soaked,” still dazed, eyes locked again, he spoke to himself more than to you. “I want— can I taste you?” 

“Stop asking,” you mutter, anticipation carbonating your very blood, “Do everything like you promised.” 

He’s on his knees then, fingers hooked into the elastic of your baby pink panties, tugging them down your legs. He pulls your hips to the end of the table and the back of your head meets the wood, sighing in relief when the thick air meets your core, gasping again when you feel cool breath pushed into your glistening folds. 

He wastes no time licking a stripe up your center, moaning so loud when his tongue slides between your folds, and the noise, the pleasure makes your back arch. It's barely a thought in your mind that no one’s seen you there, that no one’s had their mouth there— you didn’t care, you needed it. You needed more. 

Your hands fly to his hair, fingertips sliding into his tightly bound ponytail, nails clawing at his scalp, sounds of pleasure ripping from your chest one after another. It felt so good, so wet, you’ve never experienced anything like it, this burn in your core, how every nerve ending in your body seemed to ignite. 

When the tip of one of his fingers prod at your entrance your body locks, thighs squeezing against his head, it felt foreign and weird but good and confusing. He hums against your clit, lips wrapped around it, lightly sucking as he slips inside slowly, groaning into you when he gets past his first knuckle. 

He pulls back, “You’re tight.” 

You can’t see him, but you moan in response, words escaping you before you can think about them, “Stretch me out then.” 

With more force he curls his finger inside and your back lifts from the wood, an elbow sliding behind you, holding yourself up as a wrecked, ragged, guttural moan escapes you. “Keep doing that,” you breathe, “Oh my god, Yeosang, do that again.” 

His eyes flick up to yours and they’re so dark, his pupils so wide, with his hair so messy and his features so deep he almost seemed menacing. He shakes his head, fingers pulling from your core, mouth detaching from your folds, you feel empty.

He doesn’t sound like himself anymore, raw, restless, “Can’t, can’t take it anymore.” 

Your back meets the wood again as he tugs his deep red briefs down to his thighs, rock hard and leaking cock slapping up between veiny hips, his chin tucked to his chest. He grips himself, knuckles white around the base of his cock as he stares at your core, still glistening, pulsing for him. 

“Inside,” you nearly cry, knees bending upward, spreading yourself wide. His eyes meet yours and there’s no uncertainty, no pause, no patience. 

He lines himself up, mushroom tip poking at your entrance that’s never felt more than his finger, your breath hitched in your throat. Your face tightens as he slips himself inside, a cry leaving your lips once the fat tip pushes past your folds, a relieving yet strangled sigh when he sheathes himself fully. 

“You have to— I’m not gonna,” his eyes are screwed shut, mouth hanging open, lips glossy and wet, hands planted on either side of the table. He’s moaning now, higher in pitch and you’re trying to calm your breathing, locked in on how he feels like he’s splintering your stomach. 

Overwhelming but everything, he’s huge, everything about him. Your eyes flutter, open and closed, watching how his curved shoulders flex, how the veins on his arms swim up to his biceps, the chiseled abs on his torso, stuck in a time-warp of constant enduring how he splits you open. 

“I gotta move,” he’s panting all over again, “Open up for me, baby.” 

Your breath hitches at the pet name, pulsing around him, clenching around his length. A muddled groan leaves his lips as everything freezes, his fingers on the table, his abdomen, his eyes, you feel warm. Full. He curses through an ear-piercing moan, pulling out halfway, chest heaving, and then he mutters, “Shit, I just came.” 

You lean up on your elbows, eyeing him through wet lashes, “What?” 

But then he’s grabbing you, a strong, sticky forearm wrapping around your torso, pulling you into him, his mouth sloppy against yours once more. He whines into your lips as he starts thrusting inside you again and you’re speechless, frozen, drool spilling down your unmoving lips as his cock curves upward, hitting that same spot from before. 

“Gods, baby, you gotta open up or I’m gonna cum again,” he says through a ragged breath, hips quickening their pace, the slick inside you letting him move so easily. 

“I can’t,” you whimper, chin tipping back, hands braced on the table behind you. “It feels so good, Yeo,” you snap your head back down, “I didn’t- I didn’t know it felt so good.” 

His eyes flicker to yours, a question on his tongue he didn’t need to ask, he didn’t want to stop. Selfishly he fucks into you faster, harder, hands planted on your hips as he drinks up every moan and cry that leaves your lips. 

His head hangs low, sweat dripping past his collarbones, down his abdomen, your legs hook around his waist, knee socks and penny loafers slamming into his too-hot skin. 

“I need,” you shake your head, throat dry, the pleasure was too much. Too overwhelming. “Sit down, sit, sit sit sit.” 

In one quick motion he’s scooping you up, sitting back on the bench, your knees landing on either side of him with your hands planted on his shoulders. 

You bounce as soon as you gain leverage, ignoring the immediate burn in your thighs as your forehead falls to his shoulder, lips pressed to his skin with sounds of pleasure stringing together in a continuous song. He’s somehow deeper, the pleasure more intense, a pit of blazing heat that grows stronger, you can’t keep yourself upright. 

His grip on your hips is steady, grounding in the swirl of sweat and spit and lust, bouncing you effortlessly, keeping you moving in rhythm. His voice is low and strained again, “Want you to cum around my cock, baby.” 

You cry, hips twitching against him, the pit in your stomach growing hotter, stronger. His lips press against your burning skin and you moan, his tongue is heavy and sopping wet as he licks up the sweat along your jaw, whispering, “Rub your clit for me, baby, please.”

Your nails claw into his shoulders harder, stomach clenching, a cry leaving your lips after the words leave his mouth, your orgasm was right there, right on the brink. You clench around him, hips stuttering when a low groan leaves Yeosang’s lips, so low and rumbled it makes the rubber band snap. 

Your moans slur together you cum around his length, his firm hands on your hips fucking you through it as if you were weightless, nothing but a fucktoy for him to use. His huff of a laugh is in amusement and disbelief, “You came? Just like that?” 

Winded, cheeks hot and body stinging, you nod, head tipping back, needing the air of the room on your skin. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, “I need to cum again, need to fill this pussy one more time.” 

His arm wraps around your waist one more time and you’ve submitted to the fact that you could be just a toy for him to use forever. You’re on the floor in a flash, knees pressed to hardwood, your palms braced before you, on all fours. 

He slips back in and you fold, chest pressed to the hardwood, cheek hot against the floor, elbows bent with your palms still braced on either side of you. He fucks into you ruthlessly, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, his hands heavy and hot against you. 

You’re jelly, body moving with his, muscles barely holding you up anymore. You’re sure drool is puddled beside your mouth, sounds leaving you that you couldn’t hear, a mess of overwhelming, blinding pleasure. 

“Want you to cum again,” he says from behind you and all you can do is cry. Tears fill your waterline and spill down your cheeks, into your mouth, mixing with the drool on the floor. 

He’s so fucking deep you swear he’s in your throat, his rhythm sloppy but merciless, cockhead kissing your cervix. He slips a hand around your front, two fingers pressed against your clit, rubbing quick circles as he leans down, panting against your back. 

“T-Too much,” you cry, nails clawing into the hardwood, shoulders shaking with each sob. 

“You can,” he’s straining like he’s on the brink of his own orgasm, “Come on, baby. Cum with me, c’mon.” 

You focus on his hand between your legs, his cock drilling into you, the pit in your stomach filling with pressure again. You choke, on your breath or your tears or your spit you weren’t sure, breath getting caught in your lungs as he pushes you closer, your orgasm so close to could taste it. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you choke out, voice utterly raw, words slurred and muffled. 

“Yes,” he moans, “Mm, fuck, yes, so good for me, cum around my cock.” 

Your body locks, joints tightening at his words, orgasm rushing over you like a tidal wave. His grip on your hip is blinding, he’s focusing on fucking you through it, keeping his rhythm precise, his angle perfect, “Yes, that’s it, baby. So tight— fuck, you’re so— fuck.” 

He’s spilling into you again, filling you with that sticky warmth, that fullness you felt before. You moan together, shameless and debauched as his thrusts slow down, then he’s pausing, fully sheathed, the only sounds in the room being your heaving breaths. 

“Oh my gods,” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, heavy hands running over your shaking, hot skin. Down your back, landing on your hips, he pulls you backward as he sits on his heels. 

You land over his chest, cock still buried inside you, head flopping back over his shoulder. He moves your hair from your face, thumb swiping below your lips, cleaning off the drool. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, panic in his tone. 

You nod, still pulling breath into your lungs, eyes softly closed. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know,” you repeat with a shake of your head, “That sex felt so good, Yeosang.” 

You crack an eye and he’s beet red, half his hair pulled out of his ponytail, framing his face like a mural. He’s so fucking beautiful. 

“I didn’t know that you haven’t had sex before,” his voice is quiet, tone raw, you both needed water. “I’m going to kill Wooyoung.” 

“No,” you shake your head, dry swallowing, “No, thank him.” 

“Thank him?” Yeosang repeats, eyebrows raised. 

Your smile is lazy, tired, a slow chuckle tumbling off your tongue, “I don’t think the Desiderium wore off yet.” 

His cock twitches inside you, still rock fucking hard, he blushes even deeper, “You wanna go again?” 

“It’s a form of studying,” you shrug, breaths finally slowing, “You can tell Wooyoung exactly how it works.” 

Your blood runs cold when you hear Hongjoong scream in pain. The walls of an abandoned warehouse you both lured a werewolf into carry his voice around you. You pray to every entity you’re aware of as you rush to him, your right hand tightly gripping a gun with silver bullets in it.

Guilt clutches your stomach. It was your idea to try and catch a werewolf during a vulnerable period right before the full moon, but you weren’t sure you could pull it off alone so you roped Hongjoong into helping you. And now he’s hurt because of you.

You gasp as you catch up with them in one of the empty rooms. The werewolf is half-turned, which is somehow more eerie than its full form. It’s a weird amalgamation of human and beast features, and right now it has its very wolf-like teeth in Hongjoong’s neck.

“Let him go!” You yell and take aim.

The werewolf lets go with a snarl and sends you a death stare before lunging for the exit. You try to get him as best as you can, but he’s incredibly fast even in this state and your bullets hit the walls instead. Before you know it, the beast is out of the building and there’s no way for you to chase him.

So instead, you go for Hongjoong. You drop to your knees and try not to panic. From what you can see, the bite at least doesn't look fatal, but it’s still bleeding pretty badly.

“He fucking, he…” he’s in a frenzy trying to press his hand to the wound as best as he can. “He just came out of nowhere. I did everything like we planned and…”

You can tell that he’s trying to stay strong in your presence despite the overwhelming panic.

“Hongjoong, it’s okay, I believe you.” You pet his hair in an attempt to calm him. “Let’s go back and patch you up. We’ll get him another time.”

You manage to help him to your car and take both of you to the nearest safehouse reserved for hunters specifically in case of emergencies like this one.

You patch him up using what you have in your first aid kit, but you’ll have to contact other hunters in the morning to ask what you should do next. You doubt you’ll need their advice, though. Usually if the bite takes, the infected show signs pretty soon after. But after a few hours, Hongjoong is acting normally, save for the general exhaustion and trauma after being attacked. You leave him to rest in the bedroom.

For now… It’s time to take care of yourself.

You glance at him before leaving to the bathroom, which is adjacent to the bedroom. He’s resting on the bed, eyes closed, dark circles under his eyes. Exhausted, but peaceful. You just hope he makes it through the night.

You spin the shower handles to the very ends, hoping that the strong stream of water will help you clear your head, distract you from your troubling thoughts. You stand there until all you can hear is the water.

When you feel like your body is clean enough and your head is empty enough, you turn the water off, dry yourself and change into your sleep t-shirt and simple gray cotton underwear. You’re in the process of drying your hair with a towel when you step out of the bathroom.

The bed is empty.

You freeze.

The only source of light in the bedroom is the pale light of the full moon entering through the curtains. When your eyes adjust to the half-dark, you barely make out a figure crouching in the far corner. Your breath hitches. The gun is under your pillow. If you try, you could grab it before he does anything.

Slowly, you let out the breath you were holding, and then you hear a low growl come from the corner.

“H-hongjoong?” You’re not sure if he’ll understand you, but you have to try. It’s your friend, your hunting partner. The person with whom you saved so many people. The one who shares your devotion to making the world a better place, ridding it of evil. Just the thought of having to put a silver bullet through his heart makes tears spring to your eyes. 

All you get in response is another low growl, then suddenly a whine, almost like it came from a puppy. The figure shifts in the corner, but otherwise makes no move towards you. Now might be your chance.

Except, you don’t make it to the gun. The second you make a move, he springs from his position and tackles you to the carpeted floor, looming over you as you lay on your back. Now, up close, you can see everything. His eyes, previously pleasantly brown, are now like two burning ambers. His hands on both sides of your head are now adorned with sharp claws. Another growl brings your attention to his mouth, and you watch his elongated tongue slide over sharp teeth that could tear you to shreds. The bite on his neck is healed completely.

“Please,” is the only thing you manage to whisper through coming tears.

His large frame covers you entirely. You see tears in his shirt where it couldn’t handle his newly large form. He leans down and brings his face near your neck. You whimper in fear, but instead of biting, he just sniffs you.

He moves lower, still sniffing you all over. You hope that maybe he’ll remember the scent of his friend, and you’ll be spared.

The panic starts up again when he passes your stomach and starts sniffing between your legs. He stops for a second like he’s caught off guard, but then starts again with a new vigor. He breathes in deeply, pushing his whole face into your crotch.

“Oh fuck, oh no,” you whisper as you grab the carpet beneath you.

He whines through short, repeated sniffs. Just when you think this couldn’t get weirder, you gasp loudly when you feel his large tongue lick you through the cotton of your panties.

“Hongjoong, stop,” you whisper, knowing it’s probably futile.

He keeps licking, dragging his long tongue over the heat between your legs until the fabric is drenched in saliva. His tongue presses against your clit a couple of times and sparks of pleasure shoot through your core making you clench your walls which feels absolutely wrong right now. But you can’t help the way your body reacts. You can’t help that you’re getting wetter by the second as he keeps stimulating you, intentionally or not. You’re not sure how much or if there even is any conscious intention behind his actions. Right now, he’s running purely on whatever instincts werewolves have.

His clawed hands come up to your hips and tear your underwear to shreds. Now, with no barrier, he moves to smell you again before continuing to lick up your arousal directly from the source. This is so fucking wrong. You want to push him away, but you’re scared of his possible reaction. All you can do is squirm and whine quietly as his warm tongue slides through your slick folds, the sound of it reverberating through the silent bedroom.

When you feel like you can’t take it anymore, he finally stops and slowly crawls up your body, and you see his face again. He’s panting, hot breath hitting your face, his amber eyes half lidded, hair a mess.

You glance down for a moment and that’s when you finally spot it. His pants are gone, probably ripped when his body grew during transformation. His large pointed cock, red at the tip and glistening with precum is bobbing between his legs. It’s obvious that it’s so hard it must be hurting him, with thick veins running all along. At the base of it, you see what you suppose is a knot…

“On God, this isn’t happening right now,” you whisper to yourself.

He leans down and licks your cheek almost gently, reverently. It’s a weird contrast to the danger his teeth and claws hold. He keeps pressing closer to your body, and both of you whine when the head of his cock accidentally rubs against your wet folds. With a little adjustment, he now intentionally moves his hips to rut against you. Your mind is short circuiting due to your feelings and sensations contradicting each other. You want to run, get away from here, but the way his hot and hardened length feels against your skin makes the heat in your stomach grow tenfold. You should do something, but you just can’t think of anything that could get you of out this situation. Guess the only way out is through.

Hongjoong keeps licking your face and rutting against you aimlessly, whining constantly. You don’t think he has the presence of mind to guide his cock inside of you. Great, maybe he’ll just get off like this and this will all be over. But no. Not with your luck.

His leaky tip catches on your entrance and he yips excitedly. Just the tip is already making you feel a considerable stretch, and you have to take a deep breath.

“Oh fuck”, the back of your head hits the floor and you shut your eyes tightly as he slowly moves his hips forward.

He keeps pushing, sobbing dumbly when his cock doesn't go in easily. Fuck, it stings. At some point it’s too much and you just can’t help the yelp you let out. To your surprise, he actually stops and when you look up, there’s something akin to worry on his face. Despite the situation, you're glad to see evidence that there’s still some awareness left in his mind.

Against better judgment, you shakily reach out a hand and caress his cheek.

“Hongjoong?” you try to reach the human part of him again, but he just looks at you confused, brows knit together, like he doesn't understand what he's doing or why.

His cock is half way inside of you and while he’s not moving you can feel it fucking pulsing with need. As if in response, your own walls squeeze him and he hisses and pushes forward again, driving his cock further into you. You choke on a moan as he fills you up completely. When he slowly draws back, you feel every ridge and vein of his cock dragging along your walls, leaving a weird vacuum-like feeling of emptiness behind. Pain and pleasure mix into something that has your head spinning. You no longer try to stay quiet, letting out whimpers and yelps as you hold onto the carpet.

The next time he pushes forward with more confidence and fluidity in his motion. It’s urgent, desperate and primal, the way he moves in and out with a single purpose in mind. The next time he slams back into you, he pushes a part of his knot inside as well. There’s just no way it’s going to fit. But of course he’s not thinking about that right now. Hongjoong just keeps moving faster and faster, driven by some foreign animalistic urge he’s infected with now.

It catches you by surprise when you cum around him. You weren’t paying attention, too busy being scared for your life, but your body felt everything. Your thighs tense up, the tingling feeling traveling from your core and through your whole body. The moan you let out is drowned by the absolutely obscene sounds of Hongjoong’s heavy breathing and his hips slapping against yours. He keeps moving and you whine with overstimulation. It’s too much, everything is too much.

You don’t get a chance for relief as he smashes into you for the last time and keeps pushing until his knot is inside of you, and it starts swelling. Your mouth hangs open around a silent moan as it stretches you to your absolute limit.

With a high whine that sounds just short of a howl, Hongjoong finally stills and unloads in you. It’s a lot and it’s so warm. He keeps cumming for almost an entire minute until you start thinking there’s no more space in your body for it. You’re stuffed so full you feel it in your fucking throat. Hongjoong lets out a low satisfied growl and lowers his body to lay on top of you, his breathing still labored.

You’re completely exhausted, mind nearly scrambled. Trying to come back to your senses is not easy while Hongjoong stays on top of you, nuzzling your neck and giving it little licks, his cum locked inside of you with his knot.

Not fully realizing what you’re doing, you reach your hands to stroke his back, listening as his breathing finally slows down. When you turn you head, you see the sun begin to peak through the curtains. 

You watch the sunrise through the bedroom window as you feel his form grow smaller now that the night is over. Whines and growls are replaced by ragged human breathing. The knot deflates inside of you and you feel it all leak out of you. It’s gross but you just keep lying on your back and watching the sunrise, your hands still on his back.

When his breath hitches and he stills above you, you know his human conscience came back to him. He doesn’t dare to move or say anything, still laying on top of you and trying to comprehend what just happened, what he just did.

You’d always prided yourself on being predictable.

Monday through Friday, 7 AM sharp, you’d arrive at the Crescent City Public Library with your color coordinated planner, sensible flats, and a thermos of tea that was always, always Earl Grey. Your life ran on schedules, proper filing systems, and the Dewey Decimal Classification like clockwork.

Which is why finding a man bleeding on your library steps at 6:47 AM on a Tuesday was particularly inconvenient for you.

“Excuse me,” you said, adjusting your glasses as you approached the bleeding man in the expensive looking black coat. “The library doesn’t open until 9 AM. Also, you’re bleeding on municipal property.”

The man looked up, and you were struck by two things: first, he was devastatingly handsome in that dangerous, sharp featured way that belonged in noir films, not small town libraries. Second, his eyes held the kind of cold calculation that suggested he was used to people running away from him, not politely informing him of operating hours.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he began, his voice low and menacing as he struggled to his feet. “I don’t think you understand who you’re-”

“With whom! you’re dealing,” you corrected automatically, pulling out your keys. “The preposition ‘with’ can’t be omitted in formal speech. Are you having a medical emergency? Should I call 119?”

Seonghwa blinked. In his twenty eight years of existence, most of which had been spent in various states of criminal activity, no one had ever interrupted his intimidation tactics to correct his grammar.

“I… what?”

“Your sentence structure,” you explained patiently, unlocking the library door. “You said ‘who you’re dealing,’ but it should be ‘with whom you’re dealing.’ Although, in casual speech, ‘who you’re dealing with’ would also be acceptable, despite the dangling preposition.”

“Are you seriously giving me a grammar lesson right now?”

“Would you prefer to bleed out instead? Because those are really your only two options until the clinic opens at eight.” You held the door open. “Come on. I have a first aid kit in the reference section.”

And that’s how Park Seonghwa -heir to the most feared crime family in South Korea, the man who could make grown adults weep with a single glance- found himself getting bandaged by a librarian who hummed softly while she worked and smelled like vanilla and old books.

“So,” you said, carefully cleaning the cut on his forehead, “what’s your name? For the incident report.”

“You’re filing a report?”

“Well, yes. Municipal property, potential liability issues, and I need to document the use of library supplies for non library purposes.” You paused. “Don’t worry, I’ll categorize it under ‘community outreach.’”

Seonghwa stared at you. “Park Seonghwa.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Park. I’m Y/N.” You applied a neat bandage and stepped back to admire your work. “There. You should see a proper doctor, though. I’m only certified in basic first aid and children’s story time management.”

====================================

Three weeks later, Seonghwa found himself back at the library. Not because he was injured -though he’d taken a concerning number of hits lately- or because he kept getting distracted thinking about proper grammar, thinking about proper grammar, but because he figured you probably needed a proper first aid kit after using the last one on him.

He found you exactly where he’d expected: behind the reference desk, sorting through a stack of returned books with the focused intensity of a surgeon.

“Mr. Park,” you said without looking up. “Your books are overdue.”

“My what?”

You held up a copy of “Advanced Accounting Principles” and “The Art of War.” “Checked out on your library card three weeks ago. That’ll be ₩6.500 in late fees.”

“I don’t have a library card.”

“You do now.” You slid a laminated card across the desk. “I took the liberty of signing you up when you bled on my steps. Emergency contact information was needed for the incident report.”

Seonghwa picked up the card, noting his name printed in neat block letters. “You listed yourself as my emergency contact.”

“Well, I don’t know your family, and you seem like the type who might not have many close friends. Occupational hazard of being mysterious and intimidating.” You finally looked up, adjusting your glasses. “Although you’re not very good at the intimidating part.”

“Excuse me?”

“You apologized when you bumped into the biography section. Twice. And you’ve been standing there for five minutes without saying anything threatening. Very un-menacing behavior.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth, then closed it. You were right. He was probably the least intimidating he’d ever been in his life inside this library.

“I brought you a first aid kit,” he said instead.

“Keep it. You seem like you might need it again.” You stamped a returned book with unnecessary force. “Besides, I ordered a new one. Much more efficient.”

That’s when Seonghwa noticed your desk. Every pen was in its designated holder, arranged by color and tip size. Your staplers (you had three) were lined up in ascending size order. Even your paper clips were sorted by color in a small divided container.

“You’re very…” he searched for the word.

“Organized? Yes. It’s a professional requirement. And a personal preference. And possibly a mild compulsion, according to my sister, but I prefer ‘thorough.’”

“I was going to say ‘perfect,’” Seonghwa said, then immediately looked horrified that he’d said it out loud.

You blinked owlishly at him. “Oh. That’s… thank you?”

For a moment, you both stood there in awkward silence, the air filled with the soft sounds of the library; pages turning, the distant hum of the air conditioning, someone typing on the ancient computer in the corner.

“Would you like me to show you how to properly return books?” you asked finally. “Since you’re apparently a cardholder now.”

“I should probably mention,” Seonghwa said, because he was apparently having some sort of crisis of conscience, “that I’m not exactly a law abiding citizen.”

“I assumed as much. People who follow the law don’t usually show up bleeding.” You walked around the desk. “What kind of not law abiding are we talking about? Tax evasion? Jaywalking? Running a criminal empire built on fear and violence?”

“More the last one.”

“Hmm.” You considered this. “Do you sell drugs to children?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you return your library books on time?”

“I… didn’t know I had library books until five minutes ago.”

“Well, we’ll work on that.” You smiled at him, the first real smile he’d seen from you, and Seonghwa felt something dangerous happen in his chest. “Everyone deserves access to literature, Mr. Park. Even morally ambiguous individuals with dramatic tendencies.”

====================================

The next few months fell into an unlikely routine. Seonghwa would show up at the library every Tuesday and Thursday, apparently to fill out his paperworks or browse the business section, but really to watch you work. You’d greet him with the same polite professionalism you showed everyone, but you’d also started leaving books you thought he’d like on the reserved shelf- biographies of famous strategists, novels about complicated anti heroes, and, memorably, a cookbook titled “Meals That Don’t Require Alibis.”

“That’s not a real cookbook title,” he’d said.

“I know. I made a custom cover. The actual book is ‘30 Minute Meals for Busy Professionals.’” You’d looked pleased with yourself. “I thought the joke was appropriate.”

It was things like that; your dry humor, your thoughtful book recommendations, the way you’d started keeping bandages at the reference desk “just in case” that made Seonghwa realize he was in serious trouble.

The kind of trouble that had nothing to do with rival families or federal investigations and everything to do with the way you’d started smiling when you saw him, like his presence was something pleasant rather than threatening.

The crisis came on a rainy Thursday in November.

Seonghwa had been having a particularly difficult week. A territorial dispute had required his… intervention, and he’d spent most of Tuesday in meetings that were really negotiations that were really threats wrapped in polite language. He was tired, on edge, and probably should have gone home instead of to the library.

But he’d promised to return “The Prince” (which you’d recommended with the note “thought you might relate to the moral complexity”), and Seonghwa had never broken a promise to you.

He found you at your desk, but something was wrong. Your usually perfect organization was in chaos. Papers scattered, books in wrong piles, your pen holder knocked over.

“Y/N?” He approached carefully. “Everything okay?”

You looked up, and he saw how your eyes became red and puffy. “Oh. Hi, Seonghwa. I’m fine, just… budget cuts. The city’s closing the library.”

“What?”

“Lack of funding. Apparently, we’re not cost effective.” You gestured at the mess. “I’m trying to organize the collection transfer, but some books will just be… disposed of. Forty years of carefully curated literature, and they’re treating it like garbage.”

Seonghwa had seen you handle rude patrons, broken printers, and his own dramatic appearances with unflappable calm. But the thought of losing your library, your kingdom of organized knowledge and quiet sanctuary, had you falling apart.

Something protective and fierce rose in his chest.

“No,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

“No. That’s not happening.” Seonghwa pulled out his phone. “Hongjoong? I need you to look into the Crescent City municipal budget. Specifically, library funding.”

“Hey! Seonghwa, you can’t just-”

He held up a hand while listening to his brother’s response. “Yes, I know it’s weird. No, I’m not having a breakdown. Just… do it. And see what it would take to make a significant anonymous donation to keep it open.”

You stared at him. “You can’t buy a library.”

“Watch me.” He ended the call and looked at you seriously. “How much do you need?”

“I… this isn’t how municipal funding works. There are protocols, procedures, approval processes-”

“Y/N.” He stepped closer, and for the first time since you’d met, his voice carried the edge that made other people afraid. “How much do you need?”

You told him. He made another phone call.

“It’s handled,” he said afterward.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He started helping you reorganize your scattered papers. “Though I should probably mention that you might want to be extra careful about following proper shelving procedures for the next few months. The donation is coming from a… let’s call it a ‘shell corporation,’ and we don’t want to attract unnecessary attention.”

You watched him sort your papers with unnecessary gentleness, and something clicked into place.

“You’re not just ‘not law-abiding,’” you said slowly. “You’re actually dangerous, aren’t you?”

Seonghwa’s hands stilled. “Yes.”

“Like, genuinely scary to most people.”

“Yes.”

“But you just saved my library because I was sad.”

“…Yes.”

You were quiet for a long moment, processing this. Then: “Your shell corporation has a grammatical error in its name.”

“What?”

“‘Mars Enterprises LLC.’ You can’t use ‘LLC’ with ‘Limited Liability Company’ because ‘LLC’ already stands for ‘Limited Liability Company.’ It’s redundant.” You pulled out a red pen. “Also, you’re missing a comma in your articles of incorporation, and your tax documentation is filed under the wrong fiscal year. I've seen the documents you've brought here.”

Seonghwa blinked. “You read my corporate filings?”

“I read everything you bring in here. Did you know you have 8 different shell companies, and all of them have minor clerical errors?” You started making neat corrections on the papers. “It’s like you’re trying to get audited.”

“I… no one’s ever mentioned that before.”

“Well, your accountant should be fired. This is sloppy work.” You handed him the corrected papers. “I took the liberty of fixing the most egregious errors, but you really should have someone detail oriented review your documentation process.”

Seonghwa looked at the papers, then at you, then back at the papers. Your corrections were neat, precise, and absolutely accurate. You’d identified problems that had somehow slipped past his very expensive legal team.

“Y/N,” he said carefully, “would you be interested in a consulting job?”

====================================

Which is how you found yourself, three weeks later, sitting in the back room of what was definitely a legitimate import/export business and absolutely not a front for organized crime, color coding financial documents while Park Seonghwa watched you with fascination.

“The red tabs are for quarterly reports, yellow for tax documents, and blue for… what did you call these? ‘Operational expenses’?” You held up a receipt. “Though I have to say, claiming a flamethrower as a business expense seems optimistic.”

“It was for a barbecue,” Seonghwa said.

“A barbecue that required a flamethrower?”

“It was a very large barbecue.”

You gave him a look that suggested you weren’t buying it, but you filed the receipt under blue anyway. “Your bookkeeping is atrocious, by the way. How have you not been arrested for tax evasion?”

“We have lawyers.”

“You need accountants. Possibly accountants who specialize in creative financial interpretation, but still.” You pulled out another stack of papers. “What’s this receipt for ‘duck food’? Fifty thousand dollars worth of duck food?”

“We own a duck pond.”

“Nobody owns a fifty thousand dollar duck pond, Seonghwa.”

“We have very expensive ducks.”

You stared at him. He stared back, his expression perfectly serious.

“I’m not going to ask,” you decided finally.

“Probably for the best.”

You went back to organizing, but Seonghwa noticed you were smiling. Somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped being shocked by his world and started being amused by it. You treated his criminal empire like an especially chaotic library collection. Something that just needed proper organization and systematic management.

“Seonghwa,” you said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“This document says you’re the ‘Regional Manager of Intimidation Services.’”

“That’s… accurate.”

“It’s also the most ridiculous job title I’ve ever seen. What does that even mean in practical terms?”

Seonghwa considered this. “I make people afraid so they’ll do what we want.”

“And how do you do that?”

“Usually I just stand there and look menacing. Sometimes I have to break things. Occasionally I threaten people.”

“Hmm.” You made a note on your tablet. “What’s your success rate?”

“Pretty high. Most people find me intimidating.”

“I don’t.”

“I’ve noticed.”

You looked up from your organizing. “Does that bother you?”

Seonghwa thought about it. Six months ago, the fact that someone wasn’t afraid of him would have been a professional problem requiring immediate correction. Now, the thought of you being afraid of him made something twist uncomfortably in his stomach.

“No,” he said. “I like it.”

“Good. Because I have some suggestions for improving your operational efficiency, and they’re going to require you to be significantly less mysterious and dramatically brooding.”

“I don’t brood.”

“Seonghwa, you spent twenty minutes yesterday staring pensively out that window while wearing all black and looking like you were contemplating the weight of your sins.”

“I was watching for surveillance.”

“While brooding.”

“I don’t-”

“You definitely brood. It’s very atmospheric, but probably not great for productivity.” You pulled out a color coded chart. “I’ve analyzed your workflow, and I think we can streamline your intimidation process significantly.”

Seonghwa looked at the chart. You’d somehow turned his methods of frightening people into a neat, organized system complete with decision trees and efficiency metrics.

“You made me a flowchart.”

“I made you several flowcharts. This one’s for standard intimidation scenarios, but I also have specialized charts for ‘dramatic reveals,’ ‘threatening negotiations,’ and ‘ominous warnings.’” You looked proud of yourself. “I even included a section on proper dramatic timing. Did you know you pause for an average of 4.7 seconds too long during threatening monologues? It’s affecting your impact.”

Seonghwa stared at the charts, then at you, then back at the charts. “You’ve been timing my monologues?”

“I time everything. It’s a habit.” You flipped to another page. “I also noticed you tend to over complicate your threats. For example, instead of saying ‘Cross me and you’ll discover what happens when someone forgets that actions have consequences in a world where power determines the difference between mercy and justice,’ you could just say ‘Cross me and you’ll regret it.’ Same message, 73% fewer words.”

“But the first version is more intimidating.”

“Is it, though? Because based on my observations, people stop listening after about fifteen words. You’re burying your actual threat under unnecessary philosophical commentary.”

Seonghwa opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. You were probably right. You were usually right about these things.

“I’ve been doing this for ten years,” he said instead.

“And I’m sure you’re very good at it. But there’s always room for improvement.” You smiled at him, and Seonghwa felt that dangerous thing in his chest again. “Besides, think of how much more time you’ll have for other activities if you can resolve intimidation scenarios 23% faster.”

“What other activities?”

“Well, you still haven’t finished reading ‘Pride and Prejudice.’”

“That book is 400 pages long.”

“It’s a classic of English literature.”

“It’s a romance novel.”

“It’s a brilliant examination of social class, personal growth, and the dangers of first impressions.” You gave him a pointed look. “I thought you might relate to Mr. Darcy.”

“The brooding rich guy everyone thinks is an asshole?”

“The brooding rich guy who turns out to have a good heart under all the dramatic posturing.”

Seonghwa stared at you. “Are you saying I have a good heart?”

“I’m saying you saved my library and you bring me coffee every Tuesday and Thursday.” You went back to your filing. “Also, you alphabetized my emergency contact list without being asked.”

“It was bothering me that it wasn’t in order.”

“See? Good heart. It was bothering me too.”

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, you organizing and labeling while Seonghwa watched and tried to figure out when exactly his life had become something he didn’t recognize. When had he started looking forward to Tuesday afternoons in a back room, watching you turn his chaotic criminal enterprise into neat, color coded files? When had your approval become more important than his reputation?

When had he fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a librarian who corrected his grammar and wasn’t afraid of him?

“Y/N,” he said suddenly.

“Mmm?”

“Would you like to have dinner with me? Somewhere that’s not a library or a legitimate business establishment that definitely isn’t a front for organized crime?”

You looked up, a slight smile playing at the corners of your mouth. “Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Regional Manager of Intimidation Services?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Will there be proper grammar involved?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And no dramatic brooding?”

“I make no promises about the brooding.”

You laughed, actually laughed, and Seonghwa felt something settle into place in his chest.

“Okay,” you said. “But I’m picking the restaurant. You have terrible taste in public venues.”

“How do you know that?”

“You chose a library for bleeding out in front of. A library, Seonghwa.”

“I didn't have lots of choices, and It worked out.”

“It worked out because I don’t intimidate easily and I have a thing for mysterious men with good bone structure and poor organizational skills.” You went back to your filing, but Seonghwa caught your smile. “Also, you’re paying. Saving libraries is expensive, and I assume your ‘duck food’ budget can handle dinner.”

“The ducks are very high maintenance,” Seonghwa said solemnly.

“I’m sure they are.”

And as he watched you organize his criminal empire with the same care and attention you gave to library books, Seonghwa realized that maybe being predictable wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe having someone who treated his dangerous world like a collection that just needed proper cataloging was exactly what he’d been missing.

Even if she did keep correcting his grammar.

Especially because she kept correcting his grammar.

THE END

====================================

BONUS PART:

“Seonghwa,” you called from the kitchen of his ridiculously secure apartment, “your tax documents came in, and I have concerns.”

“What kind of concerns?” he called back, not looking up from his laptop where he was reviewing what were definitely legitimate shipping manifests.

“The kind where you’ve apparently donated half a million dollars to ‘Literacy Programs for At Risk Youth’ and I’m wondering if that’s code for something illegal or if you’ve actually gone soft.”

Seonghwa smiled to himself. “Maybe I just think education is important.”

“Seonghwa Park, Regional Manager of Intimidation Services and secret supporter of childhood literacy programs.” You appeared in the doorway, wearing one of his shirts over your pajama pants and holding a cup of tea. “Who would have thought?”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Your reputation as what? The world’s most considerate criminal?” You settled next to him on the couch, automatically straightening the papers scattered across the coffee table. “Hongjoong called earlier, by the way. He wants to know why all your recent contracts include clauses about proper citation format.”

“You said it was important.”

“It is important. But I’m not sure your clients appreciate having their illegal agreements corrected for APA formatting.”

“They’ll learn to appreciate it.”

You laughed, and Seonghwa realized that this, you in his space, organizing his life and making everything make sense, was better than any reputation he’d ever had.

Even if you did still correct his grammar.

Especially, because you still corrected his grammar.

====================================

it’s getting late. they’re late, to be more precise, but you feel as if you look at the window again it will feel like even longer. you tap away at your keyboard. it’s too quiet - the house is empty with your parents out at dinner. normally your two boyfriends would be making enough noise to drown out the everlasting silence, but again, they’re nowhere to be seen. your foot taps against the carpet impatiently underneath your desk.

a noise from your back garden catches your attention. nothing too loud, just a rustle of leaves and a few small thuds, but it has you rising from your computer chair to check it out. jisung would chastise you. “don’t you know horror movies?” he’d say, eyes round and wide, “investigating a strange noise is how you die, jagi.” still, you’re pissed that they’re late, and you also know full well that your boyfriends are the only threat to your small, isolated town. 

it started last year. jeongin came bursting through your window, clad in a halloween costume drenched in blood, and you laughed in his face thinking it was fake. it wasn’t fake. jisung followed closely behind him, a knife in his hand still messy with the efforts of their mission, and you almost had a heart attack. jeongin had to sit you down and explain, but really, there’s not a lot of explaining you can do when your girlfriend finds out you’ve been killing students from the local high school. 

they’re psychopathic, to put it lightly, but surely you are too - one toothy smile from jeongin and a comforting rub of jisung’s hand on your back was all it took. you’d accepted it all. 

now, you stand at your window, sticking your head out of the open pane of glass. the autumn air is crisp and it bites at your flushed, alarmed cheeks. when you can’t see anything through the darkness, you sigh, pulling your body back into your room. it’s not them. you turn to make your way back to the computer. maybe they’ll call before they come, just to let you know not to be scared and-

“ugh,” jeongin’s voice groans from behind you. your head whips around, shocked to see that he actually looks reasonably presentable. he’s in their signature costume, long, pitch black fabric drowning his lightly toned frame, and he carries the matching mask in his hand. “i thought you’d at least help me inside, baby. are your parents even home? i could’ve just used the front door.”

there’s other things on your mind. you’re pissed he’s late, and your arms fold over your chest. “where’s the other one?” your voice is dismissive, as if you don’t care about where jeongin’s partner-in-crime normally is. of course you care. one of your boys never comes without the other - quite literally - and you try to peek behind jeongin to see the missing boy. he crowds in through your window to block your vision, toned arms and long legs climbing through his chosen entry point. 

“he’s on his way,” jeongin says. the mask drops from his hand to the floor in favour of wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in, the fabric of his halloween costume scratching against your bare collarbones. you’re in one of jisung’s old oversized shirts, and the neckline is stretched beyond belief. your hands soften the impact by bracing themselves on his shoulders. “he got caught up with something. you understand, right?”

he feels like he’s everywhere in your room at once, an aura that only jeongin could have wrapped around you. it’s all it takes to calm you down, to forget about the fact that they didn’t even call, and then you’re focusing on the feeling of something solid pressing into your thigh. 

your hand moves down. his eyes follow the movement, narrowed, head tilting to the side as if he’s daring you to touch. you do, because you always rise to jeongin’s challenges. your fingers wrap around the object with a mischievous giggle. “is that a knife or are you just happy to see me?”

“that’s a knife,” he responds, quick as a bat. his hand wraps around your wrist and moves you a few inches to the right, positioning your hand over his actual cock and oh. it’s throbbing, and you can feel the way the shaft hardens further in your hand, even through the layers of fabric. you blink up at him, all coy through your lashes, and he raises an eyebrow. “i’m hard because i just killed someone, and that’s turning you on. do you know how fucked up that is?”

“it’s even more fucked up to be hard after killing someone,” you say, hands moving to his hips. you begin a backwards walk to your bed, pulling him along with you. jeongin’s more than happy to follow. his body slides between your legs easily, erection pressing into the middle of your sleep shorts, right above your core, and you try to catch his lips with yours. he moves away from your face with that signature cheeky grin, one that only jeongin could pull off. “why? first you’re late, and now no kiss? don’t wind me up, jeonginnie.”

“i’m gonna lick your pussy, that’s why,” his voice is low, tone steady. it makes a shiver run down your spine, but you’re nodding, letting your thighs fall apart. jeongin’s grin widens at the effect he has on you. he’s still in that stupid costume, but you watch his body slide down your bed until his face is nuzzling into your core.

you can’t help it. you’re curious, and they may say curiosity kills the cat, but well - the only thing killing anyone is rutting his nose into the covered pudge of your clit. “who did you kill?”

“what?” he scoffs, pulling your sleep shorts to the side with two long, gloved fingers. the texture of his gloves is cold against your heated mound, and you stutter out a breath, hands moving to the sheets beside you. “does it matter, jagi?”

“y-yeah, it does,” you whine when he dips down, tongue licking over your clit for the first time tonight. he’s talented with his mouth, but he’s normally better with his fingers. jisung’s forte is oral, and you let your mind wander again. where is he? you’re missing the essential third piece in your beloved psychopathic throuple.

when he speaks again, the vibrations hit your pussy. “he was a lowlife. don’t worry about it. he deserved to die.”

“you say that about e-everyone- oh my god,” he sucks your clit into his mouth as you’re speaking. it makes you surge from the bed, back arching, hand weaving into his hair to pull and tug to where you need him to be. jeongin’s malleable like that, letting you grind your pussy up into his mouth while he presses his tongue flat against the sensitive bud. “fuck. fuck, jeonginnie, innie, please, baby-“

“jesus, man. that was a ballache. y’know, would’ve been easier if maybe there were two of us like there’s meant to be, or-” your head snaps to your window. jeongin’s mouth stops moving, but he kisses your clit as an apology. 

sure, you would normally jump at the sight of someone standing in your bedroom dressed in a full halloween costume, ghostface mask and all. however, you’ve already received one of your male visitors tonight and you know that voice all too well - especially when it’s paired with a short stature and fumbling hands gripping at his mask. you see jisung’s appalled expression once the mask is gone, dropped to the floor to join jeongin’s, round eyes staring at his boyfriend’s position between your legs. “you seriously started without me?! c’mon man, don’t piss me off!”

jeongin only shrugs and nuzzles his nose against your mound to get your attention. you turn back to the boy, running your fingers through his hair comfortingly. he resumes the fat licks he’s giving your core, broad and messy and too fucking good. “iyennie’s being nice and eating my- ah- pussy, baby,” jisung’s staring at you, bouncing from one foot to the other. “you could’ve too, if you weren’t late.”

“wha-“ jisung splutters. he’s already toeing his boots off, yanking the costume over his head to reveal the baggy jeans and black tank he’s got on underneath. the sight of his honey-toned arms against the dark fabric is enough to make your mouth water, but then he drops his jeans and you can see his erection pressing against the front of his boxers. jeongin ignores him, sucking your pussy hard with a soothing hum. your labia stretches with it, and then he flicks his tongue over your clit so fast that your legs kick out. jisung catches them. “not my fault. jeonginnie made me do all the cleanup and the fucking theatrics and shit. this guy bled like a pig too, baby, so-“

“hyung,” jeongin chastises, eyes flitting over to him. when he pulls his head back, his chin is covered in drool and your arousal. you want to lick it clean. you’re barely even paying attention to what your boys are bickering about. “don’t get into the gory details.”

jisung stops in his tracks, trousers wrapped around his ankles. he looks at you. you shiver. he looks at jeongin, and jeongin raises an eyebrow, challenging again. “don’t you know?” jisung’s grin is wide, mischievous. “she likes hearing the gory details. go on, tell her.”

jeongin’s lips part in surprise. he looks at you, scrutinising. “is that so? you wanna hear how i gutted that guy and jisungie hung him from a tree?”

you can’t help it. with his words, jeongin slides two fingers inside of you, curling them so harshly it makes your eyes water. you let out a keen, trying to reach out to pull jisung onto the bed, but he’s too far. he seems to get it, knee-walking onto the mattress until he’s positioned next to you. his hand doesn’t stay out of his boxers for long, sliding beneath the tight fabric. you watch him grip his shaft and pump slowly at the sight in front of him. 

“do you wanna know who it was?” jeongin continues. his thumb slides to rub over your clit, and your thighs tremble. you’re moaning, nodding, babbling pleadings and little ‘yes’s that fall from your mouth urgently. jeongin chuckles. “your little friend from your math class. see, i wasn’t too mad about it, but jisung said he was trying to fuck you.”

“god, fuckin- he pissed me off, baby, ‘m sorry,” jisung whines, and your head is spinning. you’re reeling. jeongin thrusts his fingers a little harder, a little faster, and you’re struggling to concentrate. jisung’s tongue swipes over his bottom lip once, twice, eyes flitting between you and jeongin as if he’s not quite sure who to look at. “he was t-too nice to you, he- he wanted you. you’re ours.”

you’ve barely spoken to the guy from your math class - in all honesty, you’re not quite sure of his name, but now that you think about it… yeah. he was a little touchy, a little flirty, maybe too kind and considerate in letting you copy his work. it all adds up, but he’s taken care of now. you don’t have to worry about it. you never have to worry about anything with your boys around.

jisung pushes his boxers down, and his shaft slaps up against the base of his tummy, not too long but girthy enough to make your mouth water. he catches your gaze and uses his grip to slap it against his skin a little more, precum forming a thin trail attaching the cockhead to his tank top. “fuck. s-suck it, baby, won’t you?” 

“cum first,” jeongin insists. jisung grumbles in protest, but jeongin’s thumb presses harder on your clit, and he reels backwards to spit down against your pussy. the slap of his hand against your core is debauched, messy, and your eyes flutter shut. it’s too good. you’re gonna cum. “cum for me. fucking give it to me. my little fucked up baby, huh? that turned you on, didn’t it?”

“y-yeah! yes, yes, of course, y-you two are- fuck, too much, too much, i’m gonna cum,” you’re babbling again, and when your hand shoots out to grip onto something jisung catches it with his own spare hand. he links your fingers together, and jeongin dips down, finally, finally pressing his lips against yours. it’s all just enough and you feel like you’re dying, shots of electricity running through you, core gushing your release over jeongin’s wrist while he slides his tongue into your mouth. 

you’re given barely any time to come down. jeongin’s hand reels back and slaps your pussy. “hands and knees f’me. head between hyung’s legs.”

you scramble against your bedsheets, limbs kicking out and positioning your body face down in the sheets below jisung’s cock. jeongin moves behind you, yanking your sleep shorts down with a wet, still gloved hand. 

“you liked hearing what we d-did, baby, yeah?” jisung questions, and you whine, nodding. you did. secretly, in a dark place you try not to go into, you want their knives pressed against you and making you bleed while they fuck you. the thought makes your pussy clench down around nothing. 

jisung’s fingers move to your hair, yanking you forward until you’re nosing at his cock. you slide your tongue over his shaft just briefly, nuzzling your nose into the hair at his base, but it’s not long before he’s slapping his cock against your cheek impatiently. “shiiiit, jeonginnie, get inside already. i need her mouth so fucking bad, i’m so fucking hard.”

“just take it,” jeongin fumbles with his belt behind you. you hear the tell-tale clanging of metal, and then the rustling of fabric. his cockhead presses against your hole unceremoniously, blunt and thick, and you try to rut backwards onto it. jisung’s grip prohibits you, and he drags you upwards above his cock to finally press his tip between your lips. 

they both slide in together. jeongin’s thick shaft stretches you beyond belief, making you moan hard around jisung’s cock. you’re glad your parents aren’t home. jisung squirms from the vibrations, and before jeongin can start moving, he’s bouncing your head on his shaft. 

you can see his eyes roll back into his head, lips parting with a sharp whine. you feel like a ragdoll. it has you getting even wetter. “t-that’s it. fuckin’ beautiful mouth, my baby, so dirty, lemme- jus’ lemme fuckin’ take it, god, please.”

jeongin thrusts into you once, twice, testing movements that have your pussy all creamy and easy around him. he sighs, positions his large palms on your ass, and then he starts thrusting at a breakneck speed that has you bouncing between their cocks. you feel used. your clit aches for touch, hard and sensitive above where your hole is getting decimated. 

jisung pulls your head up to give you air, his hand polishing his cockhead. you’re immediately babbling. “fuck, you- jeongin, j-jeonginnie, the knife. will you- will you use it? o-on me? please?”

jisung moans. his hand moves between his legs, pumping his cock quickly in front of your face. it leaks against your lips. jeongin’s hips halt, pressing deep inside you. “the knife? baby, i don’t know.”

“get it, iyennie,” jisung nudges jeongin with his toes. you don’t miss the way jeongin’s cock twitches inside of you. “get mine. it still has blood on it.”

“oh my god,” you moan, wiggling backwards onto jeongin. you can tell his face must be a picture right now because jisung laughs, loud albeit shaky, and he reaches down onto the floor into the pocket of jisung’s jeans to reveal the offending object. he throws it to jisung, who brands it to you, showing that yeah, really, it’s still got someone else’s blood on it. it should be disgusting, moreso terrifying, but when the blade presses against your neck you wriggle just enough to get jisung’s cock back into your mouth. 

“see? f-fucking look at her,” jisung says, voice pitched higher. the angle is awkward, but he manages to fuck his cock into your mouth in tiny, shallow thrusts while the blunt edge of the blade is against your skin. he wouldn’t turn it the other way, not seriously when he knows he might lose control and hurt you. the idea has you keening. “she fucking loves it.”

“yeah? is that true?” jeongin sounds gravelly, throat hoarse, and he starts to fuck into you again. the slide is smooth with how wet you’ve gotten, and your pussy clings to him on every outwards thrust, dragging him back inside of you. jisung pushes harder and the knife presses harder. “hannie. hyung, be- be careful.”

“don’t need to be,” jisung responds, quick, and yanks your head upwards so you’re just suckling on his cockhead. you’ve been drooling all over it, and the feeling of your wet mouth around the most sensitive part of him makes his thighs tremble. he’s close. he never lasts long in your mouth, and you reach one hand up from your position, running a thumb over the creased skin of his ballsack. his foot shoots out so sharply it kicks jeongin in the thigh. “fuck! sorry, sorry aegi, i’m- i’m close, i-“

“already?” jeongin chuckles, but his thrusts are beginning to stagger too. he’s just as close as his boyfriend is, and the blood smearing on your throat has you clenching so hard you think you might be, too. jeongin’s pace quickens, and despite it being messy and uncalculated you let your head fall to jisung’s hip with a moan. he’s fine to strip his cock in your face, body curled over you to hold the knife to your neck, and you nuzzle downwards to suck his balls into your mouth.

“yes! yesyesyes, baby, oh, yeah! just like that, my baby, gonna- i’ll cum, fuck, on your face, you want it?”

“fuck. fuck, daddy, please,” you keen, and you watch in real time how it affects your boyfriend. jisung’s eyebrows scrunch together, pouty lips forming the perfect o as his cock spurts ropes of cum onto your head. it’s imprecise, landing mostly on your forehead and in your hair, and you squeal when jeongin yanks you back by the same messy strands. 

“daddy? fuckin’ really?” he pulls you into him, almost fully sat in his lap, and uses a hand he slides up your shirt to bounce you on top of him. you’re out of it. the blood has smeared all over your neck and stained the neck of your shirt, but you don’t care, whinging and gripping onto jeongin’s lithe thighs. his balls slap against your clit like this, and you can see jisung’s cock perking in interest already.

“this is fuckin’ hot! aegi, make her cum. wan’ see it.”

“you already saw it, i need to- i gotta cum now,” jeongin gasps, teeth biting into your shoulder. it’s too much. 

“no, jeonginnie, please! make me- please make me cum!”

he gives in. jisung will tease him about this later. his fingers move to your clit despite his words, and with only a few precisely formed circles onto the bud you’re creaming on his cock with another pathetic squeal. the sensitivity rises quickly, and it has tears biting at your eyes, but jeongin continues to fuck into you like you’re nothing more than a warm hole. maybe that’s all you are. the thought has your pussy clenching down again, and he thrusts deep before he fills you up with a shout, thick and warm inside of you.

jisung stretches his limbs with a sigh, thumb and index finger rubbing over his cockhead. it’s all too wet, and jeongin slides his softening cock out of your hole with a groan. the knife clatters unceremoniously to the floor. before you can whine and make a fuss over the cum still on your face, jeongin grabs hold of your hair and presses his tongue against your skin.

“when do i get a kiss?” jisung protests, cock still soft against his tank top. “no kisses for hannie even after all that hard work. this is unjust. unfair. it’s wrong, i would say.”

you watch jeongin surge across the bed and feed jisung his own cum from his lips. it’s dirty, and jisung’s shaft twitches valiantly against his tummy when he kisses back, tongues intertwining amidst the high pitched noise he makes. you let them kiss for a bit, and then you wriggle yourself up to your boys. the elder welcomes you with open arms, and jeongin pulls away from his lips with a wet sound, collapsing onto jisung’s shoulder.

“welcome home,” you chirp, and jeongin chuckles sleepily. jisung only pulls you into his chest further, fingers tracing patterns on the bare skin of your arm. “will i be expecting any more late nights this week?”

Electricity crackles in the power lines overhead. The sky is nearly black, only the dark silhouettes of two enormous maple trees outline the horizon before her. It’s 2:47am, and the air is empty and still.

The distant rumble of an airplane hums above the clouds. Two rabbits, small and round, dart through the wet grass. They pause as they catch her scent in the stillness, puffing short bursts of frightened air that sounds like tiny coughs before shooting off into the overgrown brambles that line the barbed wire fence.

She crosses one leg over the other, tucking her hands into a pair of soft leather gloves, and lets the wild ambiance saturate her senses. Someone’s dogs, two pastures over, barking at God knows what. The shrill tones of elk keening at each other on the other side of the fence, aware of her presence but by now well used to it.

The soft, upward-lilting call of a bird somewhere in the trees, sounding like a question thrown into the void.

The wordless question echos in her chest.

A nearly perfect night stretching out before her, little woodland creatures all around like she’s some kind of magnetic Disney Princess, cold seeping through her leggings and thick leather jacket—but her mind stays empty.

She’s supposed to be thinking.

Planning.

Working through an outline for the report she’s supposed to write in the morning. But the words don’t come. Even the details of the case she’s been chasing tirelessly for the past week remain locked behind a foggy haze of broken focus, unreachable.

Footsteps crunch through leaves on the other side of the brambles, elk running through the field. A calf gives a little cry, its mother grunting an encouraging response.

She shakes her head. Tries to focus again.

Her mind shifts instead to her car. She drove it home from the station on empty, parked it outside her little woodsy cabin with an all but empty tank. There are about two gallons in the reservoir that don’t reach the sensor. She had sixty miles of allowance once the needle came to rest on the red floor. She’d used twenty of them driving home. It’s another seven miles to the closest gas station.

She’ll be fine in the morning.

But she’ll have to wake up early enough to get gas before work.

Sighing in frustration, she rolls her eyes to the dark sky.

Focus.

The report.

The case is closed.

The report has to be written.

Empty.

Her mind is empty.

Practiced, subconscious movements put her hands in motion, and then she’s holding a cigarette to her lips, thumbing her lighter. Flame bursts bright light in the darkness, and with two quick puffs, she’s lit.

She uncrosses her legs. Crosses them again to move the warmth to her other leg. The night is cold. Colder than last night. She needs to check her propane levels. Pull out her generator and make sure it still fires up before winter sets in.

Maybe she’ll take gas cans in to work tomorrow to get some fuel in reserve, just in case.

Smoke pours from her lips, illuminated faintly by the dim porch light.

The report isn’t coming together, even in concept.

It won’t come tonight.

She drops her cigarette butt into an ash tray and lights another.

If she really were a princess, and this was a Disney movie, there would at least be stars above her.

Instead, there are headlights.

Coming up the driveway, bumping over potholes, casting herself and her small home in yellowish light. She lets her cigarette dangle between two fingers as she watches, unsurprised by the intrusion on her serene nighttime routine.

He comes often now, finding a strange comfort in the loneliness of her forest-edge property.

The driver door pops open. Gravel crunches under his boots, and the headlights flick off. The badge he wears glints in the porch light.

He’s younger than her by two years, not at all new to the job but still working it with a dutiful passion that seems to be slipping through her fingers more and more each time she steps into her uniform.

His keys jingle on his belt as he approaches.

“It’s late for you, isn’t it?” Her voice is low as it carries across the emptiness of the night.

The young deputy’s posture sinks into a relaxed slump with every step, the broad corners of his lips falling lower and lower, as though he doesn’t have the strength to hold them up anymore. “Rough night,” he responds lowly. “Caught an overdose right before my shift was up. Died on the scene.”

He slumps into a creaky teakwood chair next to her, the leather of his gun belt squeaking as he leans back with a heavy sigh. “Poor guy fell off the wagon. Took his usual dose. Didn’t come back.”

She watches him drag a hand over his face.

It’s not his first death on the job. There’s not a lot of action in their little country county, but the deaths come in regular proportions. An accident here, an assault there, vehicle collision casualties on drunken weekends and holidays.

He never takes them any easier.

She almost envies him.

“Want a drink?” She asks, instead of the usual questions. His friends would ask him if he’s okay. His family would ask if there was anything they could do for him. His supervisor would ask if he felt like he needed to talk to somebody about it.

She’s not in the habit of filling silence with textbook pleasantries.

He nods gruffly, unbuckling his gun belt and tugging his badge off his chest. “I’ll put these in my truck. Be right back.” With a heavy grunt, he lifts himself out of the chair and trudges back to where he parked his marked vehicle next to hers.

When he returns to his chair, she has a beer from the fridge ready for him.

She lights a third cigarette.

Silence fills the stillness again. The report is forgotten. Now it’s just her and him, leaving the world at the door, sitting in the void where nothing can reach them.

He doesn’t smoke.

He doesn’t tell her she shouldn’t smoke.

He doesn’t tell her that it’s bad for her.

He just sits in the haze and sips his beer, watching his breath puff in front of his face as his nose turns pink.

“You can stay.” She says, as she always does.

They don’t work the same shift. They shouldn’t even know each other. She’s on the streets while he sleeps the morning away, and he rolls into the station to start his day when she pulls out of the parking lot to head home.

Her guest bed knows the scent and shape of him as well as his own apartment does.

It happened by accident.

She’d found him near her property one day, finishing clearing a crime scene after all the other responders had left. His first crime scene. His first shooting. His first officer down. She’d pulled up after seeing the red and blue lights through the trees, curious and back in uniform to offer a hand, but it was already over.

He was the only one left, sitting on the tail gate of his truck, eyes red and cheeks ruddy.

She’d offered him a place to sit down. A hot drink in hand, a hot dinner to replace the subpar diner meal he had been planning to eat. She’d listened to him recount the gruesome details, offering understanding and compassion for the experience he couldn’t have prepared for.

He never stopped coming after that.

And just like that night, she always offered him a bed to sleep in.

She knows what is like to go home to an empty house after a haunting shift. She makes sure he never has to.

It takes him too long to answer. Long enough that she stamps out her cigarette butt. Long enough that he drains the last of his beer.

“No.” He says in a gust of exhaustion. “Thanks. I’ll be outta here in a minute. Just had to…” he breaks off to listen to the elk whistle in the pasture. “Just had to sit for a second.”

“Jeongin.”

He meets her eyes at the flat edge of her voice.

“Stay.”

The sharp angles of his handsome face soften. The deep-set dimples in his cheeks broaden, his full lips pull back in a sweet, bashful smile. The foxy points of his clever eyes straighten into moonish slivers as the smile reaches them, and his head falls back. “Okay. Thank you.”

She hums lowly, letting both of her feet touch the planks of her porch. “You know where your room is. There are fresh towels and shower things in the guest bath. Help yourself to the fridge.”

“I’m not hungry.” He waves her off.

“The day that bottomless pit turns into a human stomach with limitations is the day I’ll quit smoking.” She says without hesitation. “I’ve got your protein shakes in the fridge and your cereal in the pantry. Eat what you want, just load your dishes when you’re done.”

Jeongin’s gaze follows her as she stands, stretching soreness out of her back. “I will. Thank you.”

“Come inside.” She holds out a hand for his beer bottle. “It’s nearly freezing out here.”

When she pushes the screen door back and steps into the kitchen, he’s behind her. He leaves his boots next to hers, and hangs his jacket on the rack.

It smells like cinnamon and spiced apple from her candles, with a hint of the perfume that she mists before work every morning. For a second, he stands in the doorway, his strong frame hunched as he takes in the ambiance of what has become his second home.

Beer bottle in the recycling, water kettle flicked on, two mugs pulled from the cabinet, and he’s still standing there under the weight of his last call.

She leans against the counter, eyes coasting the shape of him. Thick muscles under the tan uniform shirt, long fingers hooked in the loops of his pants, soft hair falling in messy strands over his forehead. He’s the image of hard work and discipline, but right now he’s a shadow of himself.

Heavy. Tired. Tortured.

The overdose still sits on his shoulders.

He’s in her home, rescued from haunted loneliness of his empty apartment, but he looks like he’s suddenly alone.

Her hand reaches before she can stop it.

Cold from the chill of the outdoors, her fingers hook his chin and he flinches, a sharp breath hissing past his teeth. She lifts his face. “Let me see those eyes, Jeongin.”

His lashes part.

The moment his gaze lands on her, he breathes again. His abdomen contracts, the hard lines of his torso pushing against his uniform. The transformation happens as she hopes. His shoulders straighten, the firm set of his jaw loosens, his hands fall from his belt loops.

Her hand drops. “I’m making tea. I’ll pour you a cup. Don’t let it get cold.”

Jeongin is alive again, snapped back into the present. His hands lift to work his tie and tug it out of his collar. “I won’t.”

She nods, satisfied, and turns back to watch the kettle begin to steam.

He’s not big on physical touch. Neither is she.

It doesn’t escape her, the effect that her occasional touches have on him. The reminder that he still needs it, even if he doesn’t tend to reach for it. The reminder that she needs it too, even if she doesn’t really know how to give it.

But it’s been years now that they’ve been in this strange little routine of finding refuge in her space, and it doesn’t scare her so much to assert herself anymore.

Her working hours are filled with polite smiles and professional conduct and every attempt to make the people around her feel comfortable.

It’s exhausting.

She can be herself around him. Quiet. Reserved. Borderline unresponsive. He doesn’t mind. He welcomes it. She’s unobtrusive. Noninvasive. She doesn’t say meaningless nothings to placate him.

And when she does touch him, it’s because she’s drawn to it, not because she thinks it will make her job easier.

“So tired.” He mutters with a wry smile. “Feel like I’ve been on my feet for twenty hours instead of ten.”

“Nothing a hot shower and twelve hours of sleep won’t fix.” She pours the tea and sets his mug on the table. “Goodnight, Jeongin.”

His voice has lost all body as he watches her collect her mug and shuffle off toward the hall. “Goodnight.”

The shower runs a few moments later, after she’s changed into an old sleep shirt and sweatpants. Her tea sits on her nightstand, cooling as she curls her legs under her and opens a book on her lap.

The words don’t make sense.

Her eyes don’t absorb a single line.

Because the scent of his body wash and shampoo is carried on the steam that escapes under the bathroom door, and not for the first time, it laces into the chemicals in her brain and ignites a heat in her blood.

He hums in the shower.

He has a beautiful voice, soft and throaty, and if she could hear her dreams, she knows it would be the soundtrack every night.

The water shuts off.

She hasn’t turned even one page in her book.

The wooden floorboards creak when he opens the door and steps out. She sees him past her doorway, standing in the hall, and her heart clenches in her chest.

A towel around his waist. Water dripping over every inch of his toned chest, dipping into the contours of the defined muscles of his abdomen. One arm lifted to scrub a hand towel through his hair, biceps bulging. One hand clutching the towel around his waist, veins prominent and teasing.

She shuts her book, and his eyes lift, catching her staring.

The hand in his hair pauses, and his mouth drops open, perhaps to apologize, or merely in surprise, she isn’t sure. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stands in the spotlight of her admiring gaze, frozen.

She’s not blind. She’s not clueless. She knows the attraction she’s felt for him is mirrored in the way he watches her with those wide, sparkling eyes, the way he brushes her fingers when she hands him his breakfast plate, the way he sits too close on the couch.

It’s a line neither of them have crossed, but she knows they both want to.

“I…” He closes his mouth, swallows thickly. “I’m done in the bathroom.”

He doesn’t move, not even to hurry to his room to cover himself. He doesn’t shirk back when she pushes her blankets off and swings her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Feel better?” She asks quietly, coming to lean in her doorway. The frame is cold under her shoulder, the floor icy beneath her feet. She doesn’t even feel it, not with the way her body heats when her eyes sweep him from head to toe before landing on his face again. “Ready for bed?”

It’s an offer for him to escape. He can go. He can turn her down. She’ll pretend this scouring assessment of his dripping body never happened, and they’ll both shake it off and go to sleep.

“I feel better.” He says, barely a whisper. “Feel refreshed.” This time is his gaze that drops, and she knows what he sees. Her oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, her breasts pressing against the fabric without a bra to hold them up, one leg of her sweatpants pulled up above her knee in the tangle of sliding out of bed. “Not as tired as I was.”

She hears it for what it is.

Her offer, declined.

He’s not shy so much as he’s polite, and she’s reminded of this aspect of his temperament by the hungry glint in his sharp eyes.

She takes a step away from her doorway, into the hallway, closer to him. “Is there anything else you need before bed?” Another offer, masked in nonchalance, an opportunity for him to reject her without shattering their peace.

He doesn’t reject her. He swallows again, throat bobbing with effort. “I might think of something.”

That’s enough for her to know. Enough for her to reach for his hand with confidence, letting him drop the smaller towel over his shoulder and slip his long fingers into her waiting palm. His breath catches when she pulls it towards her, placing his hand on her waist, watching him.

He keeps his eyes on where he’s now touching her, his pulse racing visibly in his throat. She takes her hand away, and his fingers close around her waist on their own. “Jeongin.” Her voice is even, steady, despite the thriving desire beneath her skin. “Say no.”

His gaze snaps to her face and the hesitation in his stillness begins to thaw. “I don’t want to.”

Her fingers trace over his chest, dipping in the dampness from the shower, absorbing the pulsing heat of his body under her touch. He sucks in a slow breath, and the hand that grips the towel around his waist tightens. She drags her touch up his throat, curling around his neck, tangling in his hair. “Kiss me then.”

He moves like a man unleashed. Spine curving, head ducking at a speed she barely comprehends, hand dragging her closer. His mouth is hot, searching, grasping for more. It’s all the years of late night conversation and early morning companionship over coffee coming to a head, years of careful exploration, years of mounting attraction.

She tugs him further down, fist closing in his hair, nails scraping over his chest. A guttural groan breaks from his throat into her mouth, and it sets her feet in motion. He follows, lips still chasing hers in a fevered caress, his grip on her tightening. The towel falls from his shoulder, forgotten on the floor.

He’s pulsing through the one around his waist, pressed against her hip, hard and enticing. His surroundings are completely gone by the time he realizes he’s in her room, tracing the shape of her tongue with his own. “Please,” he whispers against her lips.

A thrill shoots down her spine. She knows where her bed is without looking, and turns him. When he breaks away to take a breath, he’s on his back. She’s crawling over him, straddling him with confidence that has him gasping.

“Let me see those eyes.” Her fingers push into the hair at his brow, nails scraping his scalp as she grips the wet locks and pulls them back.

He’s the perfect picture under her. Panting, eyes wide and glittering with desire, cheeks flushed a pretty pink. He shudders as she sets her weight over his waist, abdomen clenching beneath her core as a groan tumbles from his lips. “That’s right,” Her whisper tickles his ear and sends a shiver across his skin. “Let me hear you, Jeongin.”

He grips her blankets at his sides, breaths coming in gasps, and she pulls a small frown that has his brows lowering in concerned confusion. “Be nice,” she says lowly, tracing her fingertips down his arms until they curl around his clenched fists. He lets her lift them from the blankets, mouth opening in surprise as she brings them to her hips and makes him hold her there. “Don’t make me feel unappreciated.”

Before he can respond, she rolls her hips once, grinding her core against his stomach. Another groan spills over his lips and his hands tighten around her on their own. She leans low over him again. “There you go.” Her tongue tickles his jaw, then she pulls his ear lobe between her teeth.

“Oh…” Jeongin’s eyes roll back as she grinds down on him again. He trembles beneath her, gripping her hips with almost no restraint as she traces her tongue over his skin, littering gentle kisses down the slope of his throat. Her hands are moving again, pushing his from her hips to her thighs.

There’s no part of her that regrets this. He’s pliant under her, practically keening for more, holding her like his life depends on it. They’ve been heading for this for a long time.

Hooded gazes across the room, lingering touches in passing, raw conversations that spill secrets between them like they’d known each other their whole lives.

Whatever this changes come morning, she’s ready for it.

She’s been ready for it for a long time.

And he’s accepting her like he’s been waiting just as long.

She lifts her hips just enough to reach behind her and pull the towel away from him, settling herself back on his stomach as he utters a short gasp that makes her heart flutter. “You’re perfect,” she murmurs against his skin. “Sweet, clever Jeongin.”

“You’re so beautiful.” He rasps, kneading his fingers into her thighs as she nips and bites at the thick muscles of his shoulders. “You’re so—” he breaks off with a moan at another roll of her hips. “You’re everything—”

She presses her lips to his before he can finish, too entranced by the way he can barely speak under her ministrations. He tugs her lip between his teeth, slipping his tongue into her mouth and arching his back off the bed to chase her.

When she reaches behind her to wrap her hand around the thick length of him, giving a long, experimental stroke, he moans brokenly into her mouth.

Jeongin falls back, panting as her hand works him to fullness, eyes fluttering shut. “I need you.” He whispers. “I need you around me.”

She kisses him again, long and slow, twisting her wrist once, twice, feeling his abdomen contract under her with each flick. “Say please.” She breathes against him.

His eyes snap open, uncontrollable desire burning into her. “Please, I need you.”

She smiles, rising up on her knees, and he tugs her sweats down in one strong yank.

“Let me—” He tries to sit up. “Let me help you. Let me prepare you—”

She puts a palm to his chest and pushes him back. “Not this time, baby.”

He stares, surprised.

“I want to feel you.” She scoots herself back and lifts her hips, guiding him to her core and lifting her eyes for one last check.

He’s watching, shaking, fingers gripping her bare thighs.

She sinks down slow.

He’s big. Thick.

The stretch brings tears to her eyes. Curls in her stomach and sends heat blooming through her core.

He groans as she seats herself fully, gasping at the fullness inside. His hips twitch, his body aching for movement, but he doesn’t push. Not until she can breathe again, and the little rolls of her hips start over.

The moans fall off his tongue in time with her movements, and she leans down to capture them in a kiss. “Let me hear you, baby.” She breathes, rocking over him slowly.

He doesn’t silence himself, tangling his fingers in her hair and dragging her down to press her face to his throat.

“Fuck me, Jeongin.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He sets his heels under him and cradles her body in his arms, pistoning his hips up to meet hers in heavy thrusts. Each slam of him inside her tears a cry from her throat, pleasure sparking through her chest.

He’s hot, slick with sweat and pushing into her with loud abandon, pushing her until she’s clenching around him.

“Shit.” He groans in her ear. “Shit, baby, I’m gonna—”

“Inside.” She says through clenched teeth, stars exploding behind her eyes. “Let go, Jeongin.”

He releases with a final thrust into her, holding her tightly to him as he finished through a low groan. “Holy shit.”

When the high settles, when he’s cleaned her gently and pulled her into his strong arms, she finally relaxes against his chest with a satisfied hum.

“Stay here with me.”

You were currently lying on your back on the couch in the very spacious cabin Hongjoong had rented for a week and a half, and your body was not happy with the amount of moving you've been doing the past couple of days. Jet skiing, swimming, rock climbing, long hikes to gorgeous waterfalls and other breathtaking focal points— it was all a lot of fun, but even with the more relaxed day of board games and group painting on the back patio thrown into the mix, it wasn't enough rest for your body to not wake up this morning and immediately protest any ideas involving moving.

You drag yourself to the kitchen and take a seat at the island, watching the chaos of Wooyoung yelling at Mingi and Yeosang to get out of his cooking space or he'd hit them with the skillet he was using to make pancakes. Meanwhile, Jongho stole eggs from the plate sitting off to the side while the chef was distracted.

You feel a hand on your shoulder and turn to see Seonghwa walking into the kitchen with a sigh. He squeezes your shoulder in greeting with a sleepy smile before immediately herding Mingi and Yeosang back to the living room, distracting them with talks of the day ahead.

"So Yeosang, I ended up calling that place you mentioned with white water rafting and we're set to ride the rapids at 2!"

Seonghwa's voice floats into the kitchen from the living room and you turn your head in time to see Mingi cheer and a smile spread on Yeosang's face.

Rough water plus your tender body didn't seem like an equation that would work, and Seonghwa could tell from the face you unknowingly make.

"Not feeling it, doll?"

"Oh, sorry." You laugh sheepishly, "Didn't mean for it to show. I'm just a bit tired."

"That's fair. Don't worry about it, you can stay back today if you want, you won't be the only one anyway."

You furrow your brows in confusion as Hongjoong and San make their way down the stairs to join for breakfast. You do a quick headcount and come up short one person.

"Yunho?" You turn back to Seonghwa who nods.

"He's been in a mood all morning. Woke up with a scowl, I swear." Mingi chimes in from his spot on the couch, swiping through something mindlessly on his phone, "Told me to set his plate aside and leave him out of plans for today."

You frown at this news, a small inkling of worry wiggling it's way into your mind. You did notice that once you all came back in from the hike to the waterfall yesterday, he beelined it right to his room instead of staying downstairs to chat with everyone while dinner was made— but you chalked it up to exhaustion and him just wanting some time to himself. An assumption that was clearly wrong considering what Mingi just told you. You flip through yesterday in your head, trying to pinpoint what could've made him so irritable, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing out of the ordinary happened.

"Maybe you can check in on him, Y/N? He's always had a soft spot for you." Yeosang suggests, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Yeah, maybe I will once you guys head out. Leave a plate for me, I'm gonna shower." You stand up and stretch a bit, groaning as you hear several cracks ring out from your body before you relax.

"You got it, grandma!" Wooyoung calls from the kitchen, breaking out into loud laughter when you give him a death glare.

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reply, you head back upstairs— hoping a long, warm shower would be the thing to help ease your muscles.

Half a playlist later, you shut off the water and step out of the wet chamber that had become your sanctuary for the past 50 minutes. The boys were really sweet giving you the room with the ensuite bath— at first you turned it down, but now you were grateful that it only took you about 10 steps before you could faceplant into your soft bed. You listen to the hustle and bustle outside your bedroom door of everyone getting ready to head out for the day, and though you don't mean to, your eyes slip shut. Perhaps it was the really warm shower, or the soft robe you put on, or the softness of the mattress underneath your body, but one moment you're resting your eyes and the next the house is dead silent. You crack your eyes open, a yawn leaving you as you sit up and glance at the clock on the bedside table.

1:32 PM. You must've fallen asleep. Shit.

No doubt the boys had already left for the rapids, meaning you were here alone.

Wait, no, Yunho. Yunho was also here.

Your brain replays Mingi's words from this morning and you glance at your door, knowing Yunho and Mingi's room was right across from yours. Yeosang did task you with finding out what was up with him, now is a good a time as any.

Once you put on some actual clothes, of course.

You toss on the first oversized shirt, pair of panties, and sleep shorts you find in your drawers then make your way over to Yunho's door, putting an ear to it and try to listen for any sounds.

Silence.

You knock softly and wait for a response.

"I said I'm good. Go without me." Yunho speaks loudly to make sure his message gets through the door.

The monotone tone of his voice was foreign, a frown forming on your face at how wrong it felt to hear him like that.

"It's me. I stayed back too. Do you want to hang out just us? We can watch a movie while we eat breakfast or something. I wasn't feeling too sporty after yesterday's hike so..." You trail off, rocking back and forth on your heels as you wait for a reply.

There's silence for a moment before Yunho replies.

"I'm good."

The rejection shouldn't sting as much as it does. He has the right to say no, but he's never once told you no when you've asked him to hang out. Yunho was always the one super excited to spend time with you, so for him to turn you down in such a disinterested tone felt like a slap to the face.

"Oh..." You reply, cursing mentally when your voice cracks, "Okay. Sorry."

You turn and walk away from the door, body on autopilot as you go back to your room and shut the door behind you. Now that you were there, you didn't know exactly what you wanted to do. Eventually, you settle on laying in bed and turning on the TV, no longer feeling hungry despite knowing a plate awaits you downstairs.

Who needs Yunho anyway?

You swallow down the sad lump in your throat. Whatever. You'd enjoy some time alone, there was too much testosterone in the house anyway. You're ten minutes into a random action film when you hear a knock on your door. Your eyes dart to it, confused as to who could be there since Yunho was shut up in his room. Maybe one of the boys changed their mind and came back?

"Come in." You call out softly as you sit up.

The door opens slowly and in pops Yunho's head, looking at you like a puppy who got into something it shouldn't have and was now pleading for forgiveness.

"Hey..."

His voice drips with guilt and you fight the urge to forgive him too quickly. He had been rudely dismissive, he couldn't just come around with his big eyes and pathetic tone and expect to be immediately forgiven. You give him a light glare as you pull your blanket more on you.

"Hi."

An awkward silence settles in the air, the only sounds being the car chase happening on the TV you had completely forgotten about.

"Can I come in?"

"Oh, am I worthy of your time now?" You deadpan and Yunho sighs softly as he closes his eyes.

"I deserved that."

You hum in agreement, turning back to the TV as Yunho steps into the room and shuts the door behind him. He was in sweatpants and a loose tanktop with a lollipop hanging between his lips. He pushes the lollipop into his cheek as he walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, watching the action scene with you for a moment before he speaks again.

"I'm sorry for brushing you off like that. I've just been...in a mood lately."

"Yeah I noticed, that's why I came to check on you. Are you not having fun?"

Yunho turns to you with widened eyes, as if even the implication that he didn't wanna be here was appalling.

"I am! I love being with all of you, you know that. It's just..." He trails off, averting his gaze back to the TV.

"Just...?" You echo, hoping he'll continue what he was about to say.

Yunho sucks on the lollipop for a moment before he pulls it out of his mouth and rolls the stick between his fingers, watching it glisten in the light from the TV.

"I have this...habit?" He tests the word out, making a face as he realizes it doesn't fit what he means, "Urge? Yeah, urge. An urge that I can't sate while I'm out here. I thought I'd be fine but it's starting to get to me and make me irritated."

You tilt your head, thinking over what Yunho is sharing. He has an urge he can't sate and it's making him moody. What kind of urge could have that big of a hold on him and his mood?

"Is it a gaming thing?" You ask, taking a shot in the dark.

Yunho huffs out a humorless laugh.

"I fucking wish. Would be easier to deal with if it was."

"Okay then, what is it?"

Yunho's cheeks start turning red as he puts the lollipop back in his mouth and rolls it around his tongue for a moment, thinking to himself before he responds.

"No judgment?"

"Is that even a question? You're my best friend. I wouldn't ever judge you, nothing you say will make me look at you differently." You say surely with a warm smile, scooting closer to put an arm around his shoulder.

Yunho gives you a grateful smile before he pulls the candy out of his mouth again.

"You know what an oral fixation is?"

The question makes your brain stutter for a moment as you blink at your best friend a few times.

Okay— that wasn't what you were expecting.

"Yeah...I do." You nod slowly, brows creasing in confusion.

Where was he going with this? You follow his gaze down to the lollipop and the gears in your head start turning. Yunho had been chewing gum, sucking on candies, and chewing on straws in his water bottles this whole trip. You didn't think much of it, but with this question it was starting to make sense.

"You have an oral fixation...and the things you brought to curb it aren't working enough?" You speak slowly, piecing it together as you go.

Yunho sighs deeply as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders as he nods his head.

"It's getting to the point where I'm getting irritable and I hate it but I also can't help it. I'm so used to having someone sate it that I never imagined it becoming this much of an issue for me."

Yunho runs a hand through his hair, putting the candy back into his mouth and bitterly biting at it.

"Self-soothing isn't working, and whoever you have sate it is obviously not here with us." You say, Yunho nods to affirm what you said.

"So...I'm almost scared to ask. How do you usually sate it?" You ask and a small smile tugs at Yunho's lips.

"I'm sure you can imagine the ways one can use their mouth on someone. I'm not picky as long as it's someone else's, can't explain why but my own fingers and stuff don't do it for me like someone else's fingers."

You nod in understanding, mind running a mile a minute as you process the information Yunho is sharing.

"So sucking on someone else's fingers could help?"

Yunho's eyes light up like a Christmas tree at the mere thought and you fight the urge to giggle at him.

"Absolutely." He confirms, "God, I'd kill for that right now."

The thought is one you shouldn't entertain, but you have at least 5 more days out here and you really didn't want Yunho to be miserable and in his room for most of it. So regardless of the warning bells in your mind, you still let the thought fall from your lips.

"Then you can suck on mine if you want."

You hear a loud crunch as Yunho bites straight through the lollipop, a chunk flying out of his mouth and to the floor but neither of you acknowledge it as your words hang in the air. He turns his head to you with a look of pure shock.

"W-What? You really mean that?"

His wide eyes hold a level of joy you've only seen when he's fresh off the stage or just ranked up in a game. There was no way in hell you'd take it back when he was looking at you like you held the answer to all his problems. You nod with a small shy smile.

"It's just fingers. A small favor if it means you'll go back to enjoying the trip. Plus it's only us home so no worries of the guys seeing it." You reason, shrugging a bit despite how your heart thumps against your chest.

"I owe you. So much. Seriously, thank you."

Yunho gives you a big hug, his gratitude is clear in how tight he squeezes and rocks you side to side lightly before he gets up to throw his lollipop stick away. You watch him for a moment before your eyes flicker back to the movie on the TV. The loud explosions and gunshots should serve as the perfect distraction as Yunho got his urges out of his system.

You lay back, propping your head up on two pillows so you can easily see the TV while comfortable. Yunho makes his way over, settling in the bed next to you and resting his head on your tummy as he curls into your side. It's a little amusing seeing such a tall man curl up on you like this, but he was clearly comfortable in how he hums in satisfaction and relaxes against the bed.

"Oh, I do want to warn you that I may drool a bit. So if you want me to like...move your shirt out the way so I don't stain it, just let me know." Yunho says as he tilts his head back to look up at you.

It isn't that you didn't hear his question, it's that your brain needed a minute to truly take in what Yunho's said. He's rested against your bare skin before, usually shoulders or putting his chin in your neck but nothing to do with your stomach. It felt strangely intimate but also the thought of spit soaking into your shirt wasn't appealing, it would be easier to clean your skin. So you nod to show it was okay and Yunho gently pushes your shirt up before resting his cheek on your bare stomach and facing the TV in front of both of you. His warmth was pleasant despite the odd circumstances that led here so you find yourself relaxing into the bed easily as you move your right hand to gently pet his head like you always do. You feel his cheek shift up as he smiles at your gentle affection, relaxing further into your side.

"Whenever you're ready." Yunho hums softly, eyelids starting to feel heavy with how comfortable he was.

He couldn't help it, the puppy jokes weren't too off base considering how much he likes it when you rub his head. There's a light flutter in your stomach as you slowly move your left hand to his face. Yunho parts his lips, gently taking your wrist and putting your pointer and middle finger into his mouth. The sensation was foreign, a bit weird considering you've never had someone do this to you before, but the content sigh that leaves Yunho as his lips wrap around your fingers makes you suck it up and endure the weird feelings that were settling into you. Instead you try to hone in on the movie in front of you, watching the main character make a speech to his team about whatever dangerous mission they were going to embark on.

Perhaps if you could've spoken to Yunho it would've been easier to take your mind off what's currently happening, but his mouth was occupied which means you were left to sit with only your thoughts and the soundtrack of the movie playing on the TV.

The former was extremely unhelpful.

No matter how much you try to focus on the high intense scenes playing in front of you, your brain chooses to focus on how Yunho's tongue gently swirls around the pads of your fingers with a practiced ease that made your stomach flip. How he sucks so tenderly and sometimes bites down softly before he swallows around them. How every so often you'll hear a slurp of him trying to keep his drool in his mouth and it makes your thighs clench involuntarily. How his thumb rubs circles on your wrist right over your pulse point which you're sure is broadcasting that your heart is racing. How his breathing has gotten slightly heavier and though his tongue's movements were lazy, his eagerness for your digits is clear in how he has yet to let go of your wrist, as if he's scared you'll pull his salvation away.

It was an agony you had no idea was coming when you agreed to something that seemed simple. Your mind wanders to how his tongue would feel elsewhere, with each swipe of his tongue a spark of arousal finds its way into your body until a dim fire is simmering right between your thighs. Thank God Yunho couldn't see your face at this angle, you can't imagine you were able to hide how you were feeling now, especially with your nipples annoyingly poking through your shirt in a way that your best friend would likely instantly notice the moment he looked up at you.

How would you get out of this situation in a way that wasn't extremely awkward? Logically speaking, you knew Yunho was respectful enough to not point out your hard nipples even if he did notice them. If anything he'd just thank you for the help and hug you before returning to his room and you both pretend this never happened.

But what if logic wasn't what controlled you in this moment?

A once small desire has bubbled into a bigger problem, gripping at your resolve and weakening it to the point of winning you over. It had been a while since you've gotten off, even longer since you'd gotten off with a partner, and you had been yearning for it for a while. You didn't think you'd ever put your best friend in the position of fulfilling that yearn but with each suckle on your fingers, he was looking more and more like the perfect fit for it. You squirm lightly with the next swallow around your fingers, clearing your throat to speak.

"How are you feeling?"

Yunho perks up, tilting his head back to look at you. You watch his gaze land on your tits before they lifted to your face, a haze in his eyes you've never seen before. He smiles at you, slurping before letting go of your fingers with a pop.

"Amazing. You?" He asks, voice dropped into an octave that made your heart skip.

That dangerous want rears its head harder than before, whispering at you to let the lines blur for just this one time. Who could pass up a tongue like that?

"I, um..." You trail off, voice light and airy, betraying your attempt to seem unaffected.

Despite your brain racing endlessly for the past 5 minutes, you can't form any words to exactly describe how you felt beside 'horny' and you'd rather sink into the ground than say that. Though it seems Yunho may be able to see your thoughts because the smallest smirk tugs at his lips as he takes in your current state.

He's seen that type of look too often to not know what you were feeling right now, but instead of calling you out on it, he gently pushes his hips forward against you. Something hard presses against your leg and your eyes widen as you realize exactly what's being pressed against you, your body tensing as the reality that Yunho is hard crashes into your already scrambled mind. You barely have time to assess how that makes you feel before Yunho pulls his hips back to their previous position, an almost playful twinkle passing through his eyes.

Despite the space he's put between you both, you can almost still feel it against your leg. As if an imprint has been left behind, like footsteps in fresh snow. Your leg twitches, itching to follow Yunho's hips and press against him again, to feel him— hard, thick, warm against your bare skin.

These new feelings for the man currently watching your face are almost overwhelming, your mind and body at odds between jumping his bones and remembering this was your best friend not a random guy you met on Tinder.

"You...?" Yunho repeats, tilting his head as amusement slips into his stare.

He was enjoying seeing you melt like this. A light annoyance starts forming words on your tongue, ready to sass Yunho, but then he takes your fingers back into his mouth. He keeps his eyes locked on yours as he slowly drags his tongue between them before sucking them deeper in. Any words melt off your mind as he sits up and turns to face you, his free hand running up your forearm and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"You know when you offered to give me your fingers, I wondered if you'd feel it." Yunho muses, his speech is a bit slurred around your fingers but you understand him just fine, "Any time I get my mouth on someone, things tend to escalate. I'm really good with my tongue, at least that's what I've been told."

You swallow thickly, eyes trained on Yunho's lips as his breath fans over your hand and his tongue works your fingers like they would over a clit. You swear you go lightheaded for a moment at the thought of a tongue this precise being between your legs, and if you're picking up the energy Yunho is putting off as he stares a hole in your face, he wouldn't be against that idea.

"I didn't think it'd be this intense." You confess, heat flooding your cheeks as Yunho pops your fingers out of his mouth again, licking his lips.

"Fingers seem innocent enough." He agrees, "Until you realize where else it can lead."

His eyes trail down your body, as if he could see through your pajamas. Like he knows you were staining your panties as he sits beside you, thinking about his mouth and what it could do to you. Yunho sets down your hand, leaning forward until his lips hover right by your ear.

"If you want it, all you have to do is ask." He whispers, warm breath fanning over your skin, "I promise I'll make you feel good, but I'll warn you that I can be...insatiable, and I've been dying to have someone on my tongue. I can't promise I'll be able to control myself."

The arousal flowing through your body made you feel delirious, breathing getting heavy as Yunho's words go straight to your core. For a moment you mull over whether this is a good idea or not, but then you remember the taunting drag of his tongue on your fingers, the thick bulge he pressed into your leg, his fingers sliding along your skin and you nod without realizing it— your body coming to a conclusion before your brain can kick in to stop it.

"Please. Show me what else you can do."

A deep rumble of satisfaction leaves Yunho's chest as his soft lips drag over the shell of your ear down to your neck.

"Anywhere I want?" He whispers, lips brushing against your skin.

Automatically your head falls back to give him more space, craving more of him. Any opposing thoughts you may of had fade into the background, the need in your body burning bright enough to turn them to ash, leaning behind only the desire to chase the wisps of pleasure Yunho is giving you. You give him a quick nod as you lick your lips.

"Anywhere."

Yunho wastes no time in pressing his lips to your heated skin, trailing kisses to your collarbone before moving up to your jaw. His hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers gripping your hair to keep you exactly where he wanted you as he bites down. You keen softly, hand flying to his shirt to grip it in your fist. You didn't pull him in or push him away, it was an anchor that kept you in the moment before you floated away under the greed on his tongue and teeth.

The sounds leaving Yunho's throat were new to you: guttural, gritty, deep, hungry. Something in them made your body go completely pliant under him as if a spell was casted over you, making you surrender to the man who was currently moving his mouth to your chest while his free hand creeps up your stomach to go under your shirt. You arch into his hand more as he cups and squeezes your breast, your nipple dragging against his palm as he gropes you. Your eyes flutter shut when his lips continue down to the neckline of your shirt. He's quick to move his hand from your hair to push your shirt up to your neck. He pulls back to look down at your now exposed chest, eyes drinking the expanse of skin he has at his disposal.

"How do you feel about marks?" He asks before wetting his thumb and circling it around your nipple, relishing in your soft whine.

"Keep them somewhere I can hide is all I ask."

Yunho nods in response before he lowers his mouth down and takes your other nipple into his mouth, a gritty groan leaving his throat as he finally sates the unreachable itch he's had for the past couple days. You arch your back lightly, rubbing your thighs together for some relief as Yunho takes his time circling his tongue around your stiffened bud.

When Yunho warned you about being insatiable, you expected him to be rushed or impatient in how he devoured you, but you couldn't have been more wrong. His tongue's swirls and flicks are calm, slow, intentional. While you compared insatiable to an all-consuming greed that would quickly overwhelm you— Yunho's greed showed itself in a patient game that built upon itself with each trace of his warm tongue along your skin until you're left panting, whining, moments away from begging him for more. He toys with your chest, switching between sucks, flicks, and swirls on one nipple and almost like he could read your mind he would switch to the other one when it started feeling neglected.

Sometimes his eyes would stay shut, savoring your skin against his lips with a slight raise of his brows being the only tell giving away his state of bliss. Sometimes you'd let out a whimper he really likes and his darkened eyes would lock onto yours, the intensity in them sending a pulse of pleasure down to your core, legs clenching together as your mind starts to slip into a fuzzy warmth.

"Y-Yunho-" You whine his name breathlessly, his next harsh suck at your skin making your body shudder underneath him.

"Mmm?" He hums low against your skin, eyes flickering to your face as he bites down hard enough to leave yet another hickey on the side of your chest where he knew you could hide it.

His hands rub at your sides, sometimes moving up to lightly pull at your nipples and roll them between his fingers but it felt like an afterthought compared to his mouth. Hot, precise, messy as he descends even further down your body, kissing and nipping at the skin on your stomach. Your reply is lost in the soft whimper you let out when one of his hands makes it's way to your legs, spreading them apart so he can rub at your inner thigh— nails lightly dragging down the sensitive skin.

"What is it, sweetheart? Talk to Yuyu." He coos sweetly, but the look on his face didn't match his tone at all.

A knowing smirk pulling at the corners of his lips, like he knew exactly what it is you wanted to say but couldn't get out of your fog-filled mind. Instead of words you settle on threading your fingers through his soft, black locks and pulling at them, making him groan deeply and his smirk only widens further. You kept playing into exactly what he wanted and you had no idea.

"Too much? Should I stop?" He tilts his head into your grip, hand slipping back toward your knee and you instinctively clamp your legs shut, capturing his hand.

"Don't you even think about it." You hiss between pants, the small bubble of irritation at his smugness breaking the haze in your mind just enough to get words out.

Yunho chuckles— a deep, honeyed sound that makes your thighs clench around his currently captured hand. Of course he notices and though he doesn't say anything, you can see the amusement in his eyes as his hand grips at your thigh as best as it can.

You've never seen Yunho so cocky or smug before and something about it made you itch to knock him down a peg or two.

"You know for someone who claimed they were dying to have someone on their tongue, you sure are taking your time messing with me. Makes me wonder if you really have an oral fixation or if you just wanted an excuse to sleep with me." You jeered while rolling your eyes.

The surge of brattiness isn't one you expected to come out of you but with how wet you were and the lack of Yunho moving to where you so clearly wanted him, it was only a matter of time. Yunho raises a brow at you as he pulls back from your stomach to sit up next to your hips, your hand forced to fall from his hair due to him going out of your reach. You wait for a retort, a scolding, a correction of some sort, but instead Yunho gives you a smile.

"Oh, am I taking too long?" He asks, eyes trailing down your body and taking in the sight of the many hickeys littering your tits and upper stomach.

The lack of bite back makes your response come out stammered, uncertain.

"Y-Yeah. Want more."

Yunho is quiet for a moment, his face unreadable, then he nods once and smiles at you.

"Okay, sweetheart. Whatever you want."

He takes the hand that fell to your side and kisses the back of it before setting it back on the sheets and your confusion only intensifies. You've never bratted your way into anything other than some sort of punishment— for a second you wonder if perhaps Yunho wasn't the type to respond to acting up and instead the type to give what you want when he's asked.

Strange. A small part of you was disappointed in his lack of response, but that quickly dissipates when you feel Yunho's fingers dip into the side of your shorts and panties. You lift your hips and let him tug them clean off your body, face growing hot as he pushes your legs apart and settles himself between them. His eyes stayed glued to your dripping wet core, a deep hunger in his gaze as his hands move to your hips and yanks you down to be more level with him.

"Look at you. So wet for me." He murmurs against your skin as he gently kisses up your inner thigh.

Your breathing quickens, thighs trembling as his tongue peaks out to swipe along your skin. His thumbs rub circles into your thighs as he continues his trail of kisses, making his way closer and closer to where you were aching for him. Soon his kisses lead him right to your pussy— you can feel his breath on your aching clit and your hips buck upward, begging for him to finally put his tongue where you've been imagining it since he started sucking your fingers. His gaze flits to your face as his grip tightens on your hips to keep you down, then without breaking eye contact, he flattens his tongue and licks over your clit slowly.

The same motions he made over the pad of your fingers are repeated over your clit but with more intent behind his actions— a deadlier precision to the swipes of his tongue as he takes in your reactions and adjusts to what makes your face twist in pleasure more. Which patterns make your thighs tremble around his head, how harsh and long he could suck before you start tugging at his hair— he read your body like a book until he developed the perfect routine to make your eyes roll into your skull, your hips fight his grip, and your cries bounce off the walls.

Meanwhile your mind was reeling from the pleasure coursing through your body. Yunho's previous warning that you used as a taunt turned into a reality you couldn't have prepared for. The continuous wind up from his tongue on your neck, then your chest, then your stomach and now your clit has left your body feeling tight, hot, seconds away from snapping before he's even been down there for too long. When he lets out a long moan into your pussy, the vibrations sending another pulse of pleasure straight up your spine, you know you're hitting your limit.

"Yu-Yun-" You stutter between whimpers, back bowing as the next drag of his filthy tongue makes you moan loudly.

Somewhere in your clouded mind you decide it would be a good idea to lift your head and look down at the man currently between your legs, licking at you like a sweet treat he couldn't bear to be separated from. His hair is a mess, thanks to your frantic hands, eyes closed with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he savored you on his tongue, skin lightly sheened with sweat. As if he can feel your stare on him, in that moment his eyes snap open— smoldering, dark gaze meeting yours and the heat from his stare sends a surge of arousal through your body that sends you crashing over the edge. The world goes white for a moment and you let out a loud cry as your orgasm rips through your body, trembling in Yunho's grip as your toes curl and he chooses that moment to slip a finger into you.

A whimper leaves your throat as your walls flutter around the digit, brain still returning to Earth as he keeps his tongue flicking over your clit, working you through your orgasm. As your climax subsides what was once helping you ride the waves of pleasure becomes overstimulating pumps of his finger deep inside of you and your hips try to squirm away from his insistent tongue still dragging filthy patterns over your now tingling clit.

"Y-Yunho, sensitive-" You force the words out of you, fighting against his grip.

But he doesn't pull away entirely like you expect him too. Instead he works a second finger into you, curling them against your still twitching walls as he pulls his mouth from your clit to speak.

"One more time, sweetheart?" He asks, a sweet lilt to his deepened voice that makes you clench on his fingers.

"S-Sen-" You start to repeat yourself but then he presses into that spongy little spot inside of you that makes your eyes cross.

"But you wanted more, didn't you?" He purrs, flashing a smile at you that didn't reach his eyes at all, a sadism seeping into his tone as his fingers pick up speed, "Weren't you the one rushing me earlier? Saying I was just using this as an excuse to fuck you?"

Yunho leans forward to hover over your trembling figure— amused eyes meeting your teary ones as you fight to get anything beyond whines and whimpers to come out of your mouth and fail miserably, only able to grip at his shirt with a pleading look. His smile only widens at how helpless you look beneath him.

"See, I would've let that be the end, but you just had to run that pretty little mouth. You had to rush me. Impatient little brat you are." He hums, lowering his head to kiss and nip at your neck again.

Your legs try to close but his body is more than effective at keeping you spread for him, his weight keeping you still enough that he can keep thrusting his fingers into your sweet spot. Your overtuned body tries to move away from the stimulation, but there was nowhere to go. He had you trapped under his big body, at the mercy of his ministrations that refused to slow down even as tears stream down your face.

"You wanted to cum so bad, didn't you? Well, go ahead." He husks into your ear, "Cum."

Your body responds to his words like a command, a second orgasm hitting you so hard you sob as it rolls through you, every nerve in your body feeling set alight.

"Good girl." He coos, kissing your jaw before swiping his tongue over your tears with a dark chuckle, "Now you're gonna keep cumming since you wanted it so badly.”

A third finger slips into your sopping wet heat and you thrash against him, more tears streaming down your face as the pleasure becomes almost disorienting at this point. His thumb on your clit rubbing circles in time with his thrusting fingers is what breaks you, the words jumping out of your mouth before you even realize it.

"S-Sorry! 'm sorry!" You yell between the sobs wracking through your chest.

"Hm? What was that, sweetheart?" Yunho asks, fingers slowing down just a bit, but that slight reprieve was enough to set off more apologies.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" You ramble repeatedly, wet eyes locking onto his as he pulls back to look at your completely wrecked face.

"Oh, you're sorry? For what?"

His fingers keep slowing down gradually as he gives you a chance to fix your earlier mistake.

"F-For rushing you! For being a b-brat, I'm sorry! P-Please, please, I'm sorry-"

Yunho looks over your teary eyes, the annoyance from earlier long gone from them— all that's left is a desperate, pleading look of pure submission that makes his cock throb in his boxers. You were so pretty when you cried for him, even prettier when you submitted to him. His fingers finally come to a stop and you let out a deep sigh of relief as your body goes limp against the bed.

Your heart hammers in your ears as you try to catch your breath. Yunho pulls his fingers from your twitching heat making you whimper at the loss but also at how sensitive you were. You watch him bring his fingers to his mouth and groan deeply as he sucks them clean, a small bolt of desire still finding its way to your core despite your sensitivity. Yunho sits back on his knees for a moment and you watch his face as he seems to think over something. Your gaze naturally lingers down his body and you stop at the tent in his sweatpants.

Oh yeah. He didn't really get off, did he? The agreement was to sate his fixation and it seems to have worked considering his much happier state, but still...he didn't get to cum, and that bothered you more than you'd like to admit. He made you feel amazing, you wanted him to feel good too.

Yunho starts to get off the bed but you grab his arm before he can and pull him back toward you. He looks back at you with a questioning glance.

"Yeah? You okay? Was it too much?" He asks, concern filling his gaze as he crawls back to you and looks over your face.

There's your Yuyu. Sweet, caring Yuyu.

You ignore how the fondness in your chest morphs into something else for a moment, opting instead to move your grip from his arm to his shirt and continue pulling him until he hovered over you again with one hand holding him up. His confusion only deepens as you move him where you want him.

"Y/N? What are you...?" He begins to question, but when you lock your legs around his waist and gently roll your hips, whimpering at the stimulation that still felt a little too raw, he goes quiet.

Yunho's eyes widen as what you want suddenly clicks in his head. He looks down at where you're both pressed against each other before his eyes go back to yours.

"Oh you don't have to worry about me. You did your part, the fixation is sated. That's all we agreed on." Yunho assures you, a hand rubbing up and down your arm.

"I know, but..." You trail off, heat flooding your cheeks as you look away, stomach flipping as you continue, "I want to."

Yunho's brows raise in shock, not expecting you to actually want to go any further than this. His free hand turns your head back to face him, a soft expression on his face as he gently cups your cheek.

"Are you absolutely sure? You don't owe me this and I won't be mad if you change your mind. I just don't want you to regret this. I can always go rub one out in the shower like a normal person."

You burst into giggles at that and Yunho can't help the smile that makes it way to his face at your clear joy.

"I'm sure, Yunho. Very sure, just take it easy on me? Still a little sensitive." You run your fingers through his hair and he nods with a small chuckle.

He gently unwraps your legs from him so he can stand up to take off his clothes and you take the moment to throw aside the shirt that was still hiked up to your collarbone. When you turn your attention back to Yunho he's crawling between your legs again, stroking himself with one hand while he gets settled and the sheer size of him makes you clench around nothing. Good thing he used three fingers on you earlier, it was prep that you unknowingly needed for what was coming. Yunho starts to position himself when he suddenly goes still.

"Yuyu?" You call to him, tilting your head a bit as he lets out a sigh.

"I don't have a condom. I didn't pack any." He groans, anguish in his voice like it physically pains him to start pulling away from your dripping core.

But you clamp your legs around his hips to stop him and he meets your gaze with a raised brow.

"Are you clean?"

"Of course! I don't mess around with things like that." He balks, understanding why you asked, but still semi-offended you asked anyway.

"So am I." You say between amused giggles at his facial expression, "Just pull out."

Yunho blinks once, twice, before a familiar heat settles into his gaze again. He looks at you, spread open in front of him, completely bare and wanting him so much you were willing to forgo a condom. His cock twitches and your eyes flicker down to the movement, biting your lip as you spread your legs further to invite him in. He takes the invitation immediately, one hand settling next to your waist to hold himself up as his other hand lines himself to slide into you. He taps his tip against your clit a few times, relishing in your soft whimpers and how your hips jolt at the stimulation before finally angling himself and sinking into you slowly.

You keen at the stretch, forcing yourself to stay relaxed as Yunho carefully sinks into you with a soft hiss. Every nerve in his body begs him to fuck into you already but your words about taking it easy continuously ring in his mind. By the time he's fully sheathed inside of you, you feel full. Completely and utterly full, like he was somehow reaching your lungs and taking the air out of them. Yunho leans over more, eyes searching your face for discomfort and your breath catches in your throat.

The current energy was different than what crackled in the air in the beginning. Before there was a burning need in every motion between you two, greedily sating all urges and desires until nothing was left but satisfaction. Now, with him deep as he can be inside of you, looking at you with his usual caring, concerned eyes, his hand gentle on your waist— you find your heart leaping into your throat and your face flooding with so much heat you want to sink into the ground. Yunho just smiles once he sees there's no discomfort to be found and leans down to gently kiss your neck.

"I'm gonna move now, alright?" He whispers against your heated skin.

You bite down on your lip, cursing mentally at how your walls clench around him from his whisper as you nod in response, not trusting your words at the moment.

He pulls out halfway before rolling his hips back into you and your hands fly to his back, digging your nails into it as some lingering wisps of overstimulation run through your body, but at a level that leans toward pleasure over pain. You hide your face in Yunho's neck— your moans and whimpers spilling onto his slick skin as he keeps rocking into you slow but firmly.

Yunho grits his teeth as his eyes squeeze shut, fighting every instinct in his being as you unknowingly pull at every loose end he has, unraveling his resolve slowly. Each whine into his skin, each drag of your nails down his back, each sigh of his name when he rocks into your sweet spot, each clench of your walls around his cock. He pulls away from your neck, intending to warn you of what you're doing to him, but his words catch in his throat when he sees your face— your fucked out, blissful face. Parted lips, tongue lightly poking out of them as you breathe heavily, glassy, wet eyes giving him such a needy look it makes his cock twitch. When your eyes flicker down to his lips, he can't help but give you exactly what you're wordlessly pleading for.

Your lips meet in a soft kiss that Yunho intends to keep that way, until your fingers thread into his hair again and pull. His hips snap forward harshly at the pleasurable burn on his scalp, an instinctive action that makes you cry out his name against his lips and he decides he really likes how you sound when you're crying his name like that.

So against his logical mind's better judgment, he starts to fuck you harder— not plowing into you, just putting slightly more weight behind his thrusts, enough to make you bounce against the bed and the headboard to start gently knocking against the wall. When your reaction is to pull at his hair and claw at his back once more, his hips start rocking even faster, fisting the sheets beneath his hands as he breaks the kiss to focus on keeping his pace steady and deep in you.

He watches you fall apart yet again— soft whimpers becoming louder cries, wet eyes becoming overflowing, back arching into him, nails scratching at him in ways he knows will leave marks but he doesn't care. Not when you're singing his name so sweetly and looking at him like that. Not when you're gripping him like you never want his cock to leave you every time he pulls out until only his tip is in.

"F-Fuck, I'm getting close." He rasps, looking at where you two connect and biting back a groan at how wet his dick was and what a mess you've left on his hips.

"M-Me too, just a bit more, Yuyu." You pant before pulling him back into a desperate kiss, hips bucking up to meet his thrusts.

Yunho's hand cups your cheek as the kiss gets messy, with you bouncing from his thrusts it's hard to keep your lips locked but neither of you care as you get closer to your shared high. You feel a hand sneak between your legs to rub circles on your clit in time with his strokes and it only takes four circles before your eyes are rolling back and you're cumming around Yunho with a silent cry. Yunho has to stop moving his hips entirely to focus on not emptying his balls into you because the way you clench around him makes his body feel like you're begging for it, desperate to be filled with his warm load— but no, not this time. He had to keep to your request, so his fingers on your clit help you ride out the high. He cuts it dangerously close, barely pulling out with enough time to spill his seed all over your mound and lower stomach without even needing to stroke himself.

His large frame collapses a bit onto you and for a while you both lie there, breathing heavily. Eventually Yunho rolls off of you, relaxing into the bed as he stares at the ceiling. You turn your head to Yunho and he turns to meet your gaze, smiling softly at how cute you looked all worn out like this.

"Come here, sweetheart."

Yunho has called you that pet name more times than you can count, but this time it sets a flutter into your stomach and you dip your head into his neck to hide your face as heat rises into your cheeks again. Yunho laughs softly, pulling your body against him and putting an arm around you as you settle on his chest.

The cabin is quiet except for the credits rolling on the movie faintly in the background, but neither of you feel the need to speak. Despite the questions rolling around in both of your minds, you don't say a word. Instead, you let exhaustion take you under and before you know it, you're asleep on Yunho's chest. Yunho glances down when he notices your slowed breathing, pressing a soft kiss to your head before lying on the pillow again. He'd wake you up in a bit to clean up and eat, he did a number on you and you could take a few minutes to recuperate. Plus, he liked your weight pressing on him like this. A closeness he's had with you before but not exactly like this, though he didn't mind it at all. Matter of fact, he liked it.

Huh, who woulda thought? Certainly not Yunho.

He looks at your face one more time, trying to place a finger on the feelings blooming in his chest, but ultimately he gives up because his brain was not entirely here in the moment. For now, he would just hum a song softly as he traces shapes in your skin.

For now, he'd see this as a one-off favor that went a bit further than intended. Nothing more, nothing less.

For now.

please do not repost my works. thank you for reading!

There were no rules. Just you, and him, and the strange little rhythm you’d fallen into over the years. Late-night hangouts, casual sleepovers, the occasional too-long hug when one of you needed something unspoken. No lines ever crossed, but plenty blurred.

So when he asked you to come over that night — casual, chill, just to hang — you didn’t think twice.

You showed up in your usual post-shower state: oversized hoodie, bare legs, the kind of soft cotton underwear that felt like home. His place was warm, clean in a way that said he’d tried to impress you without saying it out loud.

He opened the door, hair messy, smile crooked. “You’re late.”

“You’re lucky I came at all.”

He stuck his tongue out. “You always come when I ask.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping in.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of the night. But somehow, two episodes into whatever trashy dating show you’d landed on, something shifted.

“Do you mind,” Hyunjin said, reaching lazily for his iPad, “if I put something else on?”

You shrugged. “Sure.”

You didn’t expect him to open his browser and pull up porn.

“Hyunjin—”

“Don’t freak out,” he said, like this was totally normal. “I’m not gonna jerk off. Just… I don’t know. I like having it on sometimes.”

You stared at him. “With me right here?”

“That’s the point.”

You blinked.

“I can’t enjoy it when I’m alone,” he said with a small shrug. “It’s not hot unless someone else is in the room. I’m not gonna do anything unless you want me to. I just… I don’t know. It feels less sad this way.”

You stared at him, mouth opening, then closing.

“Hyune,” you said slowly. “That’s not normal.”

He grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “You say that like I’m trying to be normal.”

Your instinct was to say no. To laugh it off. To tell him he was fucking insane and grab your shoes. But you didn’t.

Instead, you sighed, shaking your head, and muttered, “Fine. But you’re not allowed to make this weird.”

“I never make anything weird.”

“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”

He winked. “And yet… you’re still here.”

⸻

The video was loud. That was the first problem. The moans were high and breathy and clearly real — not the fake, over-the-top stuff that was easy to ignore.

The second problem was Hyunjin himself.

He didn’t just watch it. He felt it. Breathing in these slow, shallow hitches. Sinking back into the pillows like he was alone, even though you were right there.

You weren’t even watching the screen. You were watching him.

His mouth was slightly open. His chest rose and fell under the soft black tee he’d half-tucked into those stupid grey sweatpants — the ones you’d teased him about a thousand times for being too dangerous.

And then… he moved.

Just a shift of the hips at first. Then his hand — long fingers twitching — rested near his thigh. A rub. Absentminded at first. Then another. Slower. Firmer.

Your stomach dipped.

He groaned, soft and low. His head tilted back.

And that sound — fuck, that sound — sent a pulse straight between your legs.

You tried to ignore it. You tried so hard. But your body was already reacting before your brain could process what was happening. Your thighs pressed together. You adjusted your hoodie. You stopped breathing entirely when his eyes flicked toward you and then dropped — low, slow, hungry.

“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”

He smiled — a little too knowingly — and exhaled. “Fuck, she sounds like you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The girl. On the video.” His voice was dreamy, almost dazed. “She moans like you.”

You stared at him. “How would you even know that?”

He looked at you then, eyes dark and shining. “You think I’ve never heard you?”

Your skin went hot. “Hyunjin—”

“I wasn’t trying to. But you always leave your door cracked. And sometimes I’d just be passing by and then… you’d make this sound. Like you didn’t know how to stop yourself.”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but then he moaned again. This time because of you. He was hard now. Very visibly hard.

“God,” he whispered. “Why is this so much hotter with you here?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Your body was buzzing. Your underwear damp. And every inch of space between you suddenly felt razor-thin, unbearable.

“Touch yourself,” he said, almost breathless.

You shook your head, barely.

He leaned in, voice low. “Please.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because I need it,” he said, groaning again as he pressed into his palm. “And I don’t want to be the only one.”

His eyes flicked to your legs.

“You’re turned on.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” His voice was firmer now. “I can see it. The way your thighs are clenched. The way you’re breathing.”

You looked away. He reached out, gently brushing your knee.

“Look at me.”

You did.

“I swear,” he said, “I’ll stop if you tell me to. But if you want this even a little… just stay.”

You exhaled. Shaky. Unsure. Wet.

And you stayed. Neither of you said anything for a long moment.

The porn still played softly in the background, but it was just noise now — the tension in the room had turned so dense it pressed in on your skin like heat, like breath.

Hyunjin dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose. His hand hadn’t left his lap.

You were still watching him.

And he was watching you watching him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice hoarse.

Your chest tightened. “No.”

That was all he needed.

He shifted closer, just barely, and let out a sound — low, needy — as he rolled his hips against his palm. The motion was subtle, but it jolted through you like lightning. He rubbed again, slow, firm, a deliberate drag of pressure down the thick line in his sweatpants.

Your thighs clenched instinctively. You were soaked. You could feel it — the press of cotton against slick skin, the fluttering ache that had been growing steadily in your core from the moment he started moaning.

He looked drunk off it. His mouth was open, panting softly. His eyes flicked over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes.

“Touch yourself,” he said again, quieter this time. “I want to see what you look like when you’re needy.”

You let out a breath that trembled.

Your hand moved before your mind could stop it — sliding under the hem of your hoodie, then beneath the waistband of your underwear. Hyunjin’s eyes followed every inch.

“Oh my god” he whispered.

Your fingers dipped into yourself. Soaked.

Your breath hitched hard.

Hyunjin groaned — loud, ragged — and dropped his head back against the headboard, his hand now gripping the full length of his cock over his sweats. The bulge was thick and heavy, straining the fabric.

“Fuck, you’re touching yourself,” he rasped. “I can’t believe you’re actually…”

You moaned — quietly, shakily — and he snapped his eyes open.

“Say something,” he begged. “Tell me what you feel like.”

“I’m wet,” you whispered, eyes closing. “I’ve never been this wet just from watching someone.”

That made him gasp.

“God—fuck—” He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, and suddenly you couldn’t look away.

He was long, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with pre-cum.

You whimpered.

His eyes fluttered shut at the sound.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he muttered. “You know that? Just—so fucking pretty when you touch yourself like that. Show me more.”

You moved your fingers again, slow and deliberate, spreading the slickness and brushing over your clit. Your hips arched subtly into the motion, breath stuttering.

Hyunjin watched like a man starved.

“I want to taste you,” he said suddenly, voice broken. “Fuck—I want my face between your legs so bad.”

Your whole body shuddered.

He jerked himself once, twice — not fast, but hard. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize the way it felt while staring at you.

You moaned again, louder this time. Embarrassed at how fast your body was unraveling.

“I’ve thought about this before,” he confessed, still stroking. “Not like this exactly. But… you. Under me. Wet and panting. Saying my name.”

You bit your lip, fingers moving faster now. “I didn’t think we’d ever—”

“Me neither,” he whispered. “But now I don’t even want to stop.”

The air was charged, burning.

You were close. So close it was making your knees tremble.

Hyunjin leaned in again, his free hand brushing against your thigh as if asking for permission.

You didn’t stop him.

His lips were inches from your ear when he whispered, “Let me help.”

You paused. Swallowed.

He watched you — tense, hopeful, ruined — until you nodded.

And then… the shift happened.

Hyunjin slipped his hand down, fingers brushing yours under the band of your underwear. You gasped, but didn’t pull away. He cupped you gently, middle finger sliding through the mess you’d made.

“Oh my fucking god,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”

Your head dropped against his shoulder.

“You made me like this,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” he said, voice shaking. “You like watching me stroke my cock for you?”

You whimpered again. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

He slid his finger in, slow and deep, while still stroking himself with the other hand. You cried out, biting down on your hoodie sleeve as he moved inside you, curling slightly.

“Come for me,” he said, lips against your temple. “Please. I want to see you fall apart.”

It didn’t take long.

Your body clenched tight, the pressure building sharp and sudden until it broke — heat flooding you from the inside out, your voice catching as you gasped and ground against his hand.

Hyunjin let out a desperate groan and came right after you, hot and heavy against his stomach, chest rising in ragged breaths as his hips jerked through the last few strokes.

You both collapsed sideways into the pillows, breathing hard, sweaty, trembling.

For a moment, it was quiet.

Then—

“That was…” you began, voice wrecked.

“I know.” He laughed, still panting. “I know.”

You turned your head to look at him. His hair was a mess. His lips were red. His eyes were soft now — not teasing, not smug. Just open.

“That didn’t feel casual,” you whispered.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“No,” he said. “It didn’t.”

You didn’t know what would come next.

⸻

The worst part wasn’t what happened between you.

It was the silence after.

The way everything between you and Hyunjin felt louder because no one was talking about it.

You’d spent the last three nights pretending that orgasm hadn’t happened. That your fingers hadn’t tangled with his. That he hadn’t whispered I want to taste you while stroking himself, eyes on your mouth.

You didn’t talk about it. You couldn’t.

But the tension between you? You may as well have been shouting.

He sat closer now. Looked longer. He didn’t tease like he used to — not playfully, not harmlessly. Now every glance had heat. Every brush of skin felt intentional.

So when Jisung shouted across the living room, “Let’s play hide and seek — losers get a punishment dare,” you already knew something was going to go wrong.

Because you and Hyunjin couldn’t be trusted anymore.

⸻

You didn’t even plan to hide in the closet.

You were laughing, breathless, the count ticking down — Ten! Nine! Eight! — and you darted around a corner in the hallway looking for literally anywhere to disappear.

The closet door was cracked open.

You pushed in and—

“Shit—!”

A hand reached out to yank you the rest of the way in.

Hyunjin.

He shoved the door closed behind you both, muffling your gasp, then exhaled hard against your ear.

You were chest to chest. Pressed flush to him. The closet was barely the size of a broom closet — coats brushing your cheeks, the smell of old cedar, the wood beneath your bare feet cool from the tile.

“Seriously?” you whispered, half-giggling. “You’re here?”

“You ran into me,” he hissed. “Be quiet—”

Footsteps passed in the hallway. The sound of someone shouting: “Not in the bathroom!”

You both stilled.

And then you started laughing.

Quiet, breathy little giggles that made your shoulders shake. His hands were on your hips now, steadying you, his face so close you could feel his mouth twitch into a smile.

“Shhh,” he whispered, amused. “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“It’s your fault,” you whispered back.

“Yeah?” His breath ghosted your cheek. “Pretty sure it’s yours.”

Your back hit the wall as you shifted to give him room. But there was no room. Nowhere to go.

His thigh brushed up between yours. Your knee bent just slightly.

And that’s when you felt it.

The slow, unmistakable press of something hard against your hip.

You froze.

Hyunjin did, too.

“Hyunjin—?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. His breath had turned shallow, his forehead dropping forward slightly to rest against the wall beside your head.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I can’t help it.”

His voice was low. Strained. Honest.

You swallowed.

It didn’t feel like a joke. It didn’t even feel like a dare. It just… was. Real. Present. Pressed right up against you.

The memory of that night came rushing back — the way he gasped when you moaned, the wet sound of your bodies moving in sync, the look in his eyes when he touched you like it meant something.

And now you were here.

Too close. Too warm. Your short dress had ridden up when he pulled you in, and your bare legs were brushing his sweatpants with every shaky inhale.

You should’ve moved away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you whispered, “This is dangerous.”

He nodded. Barely. “I know.”

Your hands were on his chest, fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. His hands still sat heavy on your hips. Neither of you were breathing quite right.

And then—you shifted.

Just the smallest movement. An unconscious roll of your hips as you tried to balance.

And Hyunjin let out the quietest, shattered groan.

Your stomach dropped.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Do what?” But your voice was thinner now.

“That.”

You did it again. Just to be sure. The press of your core against him was slow, experimental — your thin underwear the only barrier between your body and the thick, hard line of his cock beneath his sweats.

He whined.

Low, soft, desperate.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt him tremble.

“You can’t grind on me like that,” he breathed.

“You were already hard.”

“And now you’re already wet.”

The words punched the breath out of your lungs.

You didn’t say anything — couldn’t — and instead let yourself roll against him again, slowly this time, hips rocking once more into his.

His mouth dropped open. You felt it brush your skin.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned.

The coats swayed faintly beside you as he gently pressed you back into the wall, his hands tightening at your waist, thumbs brushing under the edge of your dress.

You gasped quietly as he rocked up into you, the friction too good, too familiar.

“I think about it every night,” he whispered, like it hurt. “The way you sound when you come. How soft you were. How hot your hand felt over mine.”

You were burning.

Your body responded before your mind did — rocking again, your arms slipping up around his neck to muffle a soft, stuttering moan into his shoulder.

He cursed under his breath.

Then he stilled. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned in — your lips brushing his, breath against breath, heart in your throat.

And that’s when the closet door creaked.

“Anyone in here?” someone called.

You and Hyunjin froze.

Your mouth hovered over his.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared.

The door didn’t open.

Footsteps passed.

And the second you were alone again, Hyunjin exhaled.

You were still catching your breath when you heard it.

The soft click of the inside lock.

Hyunjin had turned the tiny latch on the closet door — sealing you both inside.

Your eyes darted to his, wide, breathless, heart kicking.

“What are you doing—?”

But he was already shifting you, gentle but firm.

Turning you in the dark, pressing your front to the wall of the closet, your palms flat against the wood paneling, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.

His voice came at your ear, low and wrecked. “I can’t pretend anymore.”

His hands slid up your thighs — slow, reverent, shaking slightly — fingers brushing the hem of your dress, pushing it higher until it was bunched around your hips.

You gasped when you felt it — the warm weight of his cock, thick and flushed, freed from his sweats and nestled right in the crease of your thighs. Hot, hard skin against the damp cotton of your panties.

“Hyunjin—” You tried to say something. Anything.

But then he rocked forward.

And your mind blanked.

The first thrust wasn’t deep, wasn’t precise — just a desperate press of his cock between your thighs, dragging the thick head right along your clothed pussy.

You whimpered.

Your knees nearly buckled.

His breath left him in a shaky hiss. “Holy fuck—”

You didn’t realize you were moving until you were rocking back against him — instinctive, helpless — meeting every slow rut of his hips with the arch of your spine.

The friction was perfect.

Each thrust of his cock between your thighs rubbed right against your clit through the soaked fabric. It felt filthy. Overwhelming. Like a fever dream you didn’t dare wake up from.

And then his mouth was on your neck.

Hot, open, wet kisses down your jaw, your pulse, his tongue tasting your skin like he’d wanted to for years. His hands grabbed your hips, greedy now, pulling you tighter against him with every roll of his body.

You were panting, trembling, moaning softly into the wall with every pass of his cock between your slick thighs.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice unraveling, “you feel so—shit—so soft.”

You turned your head, breath shallow, eyes finding his in the dark.

“Hyunjin,” you whispered.

His mouth crashed into yours before the word could fully leave you.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.

It was desperate.

Tongue and teeth, lips parted, mouths gasping against each other like this kiss had been trapped between you for years. Like he was starving for it. Like you’d never survive it.

You grabbed at his hair. He groaned into your mouth.

His hand slid up your front, fingers curling under the fabric of your dress, and suddenly he was palming your breast — rough, hungry, his thumb brushing your nipple through the lace of your bra.

You arched into his hand.

He bit your lip.

You whined, trembling, your voice cracking. “I need you.”

He froze.

Your words hung in the air — too raw, too loud, too real.

Then he growled, deep in his chest.

And his hand moved.

Down your stomach. Past the waistband of your underwear. Two fingers slid through your soaked slit and came away dripping.

He hissed, whispering something under his breath you couldn’t catch.

Then he hooked his fingers under your thong — pulled it aside.

And you felt him.

The head of his cock, hot and heavy, slipping between your folds. Your knees nearly gave out.

“Are you sure?” he breathed. “Fuck—tell me.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes. Please—”

He didn’t wait another second.

He gripped your hip, braced a hand on the wall beside your head, and with a single smooth thrust, sank into you.

You gasped — loud and broken.

He groaned like it hurt.

Like he’d been dreaming of this for too fucking long.

You could barely breathe.

He filled you so completely you felt split open. Every inch of him slid deep, hot and thick, your body clenching around him like it had been aching for this—like it knew him.

Hyunjin stayed still at first.

Forehead to your shoulder, panting, hand tight on your hip like he was trying to ground himself.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You whined — a low, raw sound — hips rolling back into him, your fingers scraping the wall for anything to hold on to.

That was all it took.

His restraint snapped.

His hips drew back.

And then he started fucking you.

It wasn’t slow anymore.

It wasn’t careful.

It was frantic, overwhelming, wet — the obscene slap of skin-on-skin muffled only slightly by the coats around you, your slick dripping down the inside of your thighs with each thrust.

You tried to be quiet. You really did.

But every time his cock drove into you, you couldn’t stop the moans — breathy and soft at first, then high and frantic as his pace picked up.

And when a louder gasp escaped your mouth—

His hand clamped over it.

Large, warm, shaking fingers curled across your lips, muffling the helpless sounds spilling from you as he pounded into you from behind.

You whimpered into his palm.

His voice broke right beside your ear. “I’m sorry, baby—I need you quiet—can’t let them hear—”

You nodded. Barely.

But your body was shaking. Your walls fluttering around him. And Hyunjin knew you were close.

So he got mean.

Rougher.

He slammed into you harder, his cock dragging across all the right spots, your thighs trembling from the pressure of each thrust — and the filthiest part? You were soaked. The squelch of your cunt around him was wet and loud and pornographic, and it only made him fuck you harder.

You bit down.

Hard.

Right into the base of his palm as his hand stayed tight over your mouth.

He groaned, bucking into you like it drove him insane.

“Shit—fuck, just like that—”

He lost rhythm for a second, stuttering into you, hand slipping from your mouth to your throat, thumb under your jaw to tilt your head back, mouth against your skin again.

Then he bit down.

His teeth sank into the soft curve of your shoulder as he buried himself deep, his moans muffled into your skin.

You swore you blacked out for a second.

You couldn’t tell which way was up anymore — just the overwhelming drag of his cock, the heat in your belly, the white-noise roar in your ears as your orgasm crept higher, hotter, inevitable.

“Fuck—Hyunjin—I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he groaned. “I feel you, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

You came with a cry into his wrist, your whole body spasming.

Everything snapped — the pressure, the tension, the weeks of unsaid things between you, all of it boiling over in that moment as you fell apart on his cock.

He barely held it together.

You felt him twitch inside you, pace faltering, his voice falling to ragged, desperate whimpers.

“Fuckfuckfuck—oh my god, I’m gonna—can I—inside—?”

You nodded, dazed. “Yes—yes, please—”

One more thrust. Deep. Hot.

And he came with a bitten-off moan into your neck, his body jerking hard as he spilled into you — thick, hot spurts of cum painting your insides, his cock buried deep as he rode out every last pulse, twitching and trembling.

You slumped forward, boneless.

His arms caught you. Held you there.

Both of you breathing like you’d run miles. Sweaty. Shaking. Still joined, still stuffed full.

The closet spun in silence.

And when his hand finally fell from your mouth, you whispered — voice shot, lips swollen —

“…We can’t ever just be friends again, can we?”

And Hyunjin, still inside you, kissed your shoulder like it was a promise.

“No,” he said. “We’re so fucked.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: HIIIIIIIIII!!!! Breakfast is served (or lunch or dinner lol) 😂 personally i think this is the filthiest hyunjin fic i have written… right? I cant even remember lol! So i got that closet idea from this edit… saw it and my brain short-circuited 😭🫠❤️ And now we are here!

Give this a lot of love! Also update; i have officially started writing my first original novel 🥹 ahhhhh

You looked away, suddenly aware of how warm your cheeks were despite the cold air

Rolling your eyes, you said, “It’s not an offer”

But when it came time to sleep, the joke turned into reality.

No one knew how it happened, but there’d been a mix up. Jeongin’s pack had been missing some gear and only one sleeping bag was left— yours. The others were already claimed, and there was no room in anyone else’s tent. Jeongin scratched the back of his neck when he realized.

“I can just sleep in my hoodie, no big deal”

“No, you can’t. Don’t be an idiot”, you cut in, already unzipping the bag, “You’ll wake up with pneumonia. Get in. Just… don’t be weird”

He paused, “I’m never weird”

You both knew that was a lie, but neither of you said it.

It was cramped. The kind of cramped that left no space between your bodies so you had his chest pressed against your back, his legs curled behind yours. And it was warm. Like, really warm. Despite that, it was still very very cold, and you couldn’t help but shiver uncomfortably against his body. And you could feel the way his breath hitched when you did that.

But then

You shifted slightly, and you felt it— he hard pressed against your lower back.

Immediately, your body went stiff. And of course he noticed it. Without moving, he whispered in your ear.

“…You’re making it really hard to sleep”. Yeah, you could tell something was hard in there.

You gulped, “B-because it’s tight in here?”

“No”, he said, and you could feel him smirking against your skin, “Because you’re shivering and squirming against me like that”

You didn’t answer.

Then in a low, concerned tone, he asked, “Are you still cold?”

“A little, yes”, you murmured, trying not to let your voice shake.

“Can I help?”, his hand found your hip, gently, “I’ll stop if you say no”

Your heart started to pound, “Jeongin…”

“Just let me warm you up”, he said, “Nothing crazy. Just… a friend helping another friend”

Unable to think straight, you easily agreed. Maybe it was your frozen neurons. Or maybe you just craved him.

His hand slid under the sweater slowly, splaying his finger over your stomach. The touch was light, careful, but it made heat build up between your legs. You couldn’t stop the tiny sound that escaped you.

“Are you okay?”, he whispered.

You nodded.

Then he pressed closer, hips aligning with yours, the full length of him tucked against your ass now. You could tell exactly how hard he was. It pulsed against you, unashamedly.

“I’ve wanted to be this close to you for so long”, he said, voice thick with lust, like he had been holding back for a while.

You turned your head slightly, “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me like this”

You breath faltered, “Well, I do”

His hand moved lower, “Then let me take care of you”.

You let him.

And the moment your hips pressed back into his, the tension shattered like broken glass.

His hand slid from your stomach to your thigh, tracing the curve of it through the fabric of your sleeping shorts. His breath brushed over the back of your neck, hot and shaky.

“Your body is perfect”, he whispered, pressing soft kisses to your neck, “I knew it’d be like this”

You closed your eyes, feeling the way he touched you— it wasn’t rushed, it was careful. Like he was savoring the way your body melted against his. Jeongin’s hips rolled slowly into yours, the thick length of him grinding between your ass cheeks, making you whimper.

“Jeongin…”

“You feel that?”, he murmured, letting you feel all of him through the layers of fabric, “Been like this since the second I got into this damn sleeping bag”

You reached back, hand sliding down his thigh, then between your bodies until you could palm him against his boxers. His breath hitched, hips jerked forward.

“Damn”, he groaned.

“Are you okay back there, Innie?”, you teased him

“You can’t do that and expect me to be okay“

You smiled, drunk on the feeling of him— flushed and desperate behind you.

He nudged your sleep shorts down with a shaky hand, just enough to expose the curve of your ass. Then his fingers slipped between your legs, stroking you over your underwear, and he hissed when he felt how soaked you already were.

“Shit… you’re dripping”

“It’s your fault”, you whispered back.

He laughed softly, mouth dragging down your neck, “Can I take them off?”

“Yes, fuck…”

Everything felt hotter in the small space of the sleeping bag, like the world had shrunk to just your bare skin, his fingers sliding through your folds, your swallowed moans…

Suddenly, he pushed into you from behind. You gasped, hand reaching back to clutch at his leg. He filled you completely until your body trembled from the stretch.

“F-fuck”, he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, “You’re so tight”

Then he started to move in tender thrusts, hips grinding against yours, skin slapping softly in the dark tent. His arm curled around your waist, holding you close, keeping you close.

“Does that feel good?”, he whispered.

You couldn’t speak. So you just whimpered as he angled his hips just right and hit the spot that made your toes curl.

He kept the pace deep and unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be. His mouth pressed to your shoulder, teeth dragging lightly over your skin.

“You wrap around me so perfectly”, he growled, thrusting deeper, “I can’t believe we waited this long”

You pushed back into him, moaning, “Don’t stop… please”

“I won’t”

You could feel your orgasm building already, every slow grind of his hips pushing you closer to the edge.

And then it hit you.

Your body tensed, thighs shaking as you came around him, squeezing down so tight his breath caught in his throat.

“Fuck… shit…”, he gasped, hips stuttering, cock twitching inside you, “Oh my god, you’re clenching too hard… I’m gonna…”

Your voice was ragged, urgent, “Not inside. Please, not inside”

He groaned, high and wrecked, burying his face in your neck as he fought every instinct screaming at him to let go right there, “Shit…fuck… I’m trying… I’m trying…”

He pulled out at the last second, trembling with the effort, and his cock pulsed against your ass as he spilled all over your skin— hot, thick strands trailing your lower back, dripping down over the curve of your ass.

His hand clenched tight on your waist as he came, breath hitched and broken against your shoulder.

For a second, all he could do was stare.

“Holy fuck”, he whispered, eyes wide as he watched his release slide slowly down your skin. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen”

You still could feel your pulse pounding.

Jeongin pressed a kiss to your shoulder, a small gesture, quietly thanking you.

“I almost lost it”, he murmured, “I’ve never had to fight that hard in my life”

You laughed softly, breathless. “You did good.”

He curled himself on you tighter, then grabbed one of his hoodies from the floor to gently clean you up.

“Next time” he said with a smug grin, voice still hoarse, “I’m not pulling out. I wanna feel all of it”

You both stayed tangled like that for a few more moments— his chest to your back, holding you close like you were too precious to let go, wth your breaths syncing.

“Are you warmer now, princess?”, he asked.

“Actually I think I’m sweating now”, you hummed, already almost falling asleep.

Jeongin kissed the back of your neck, “We should’ve shared a sleeping bag a long time ago”.

You couldn’t agree more.

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