Honnie

It starts like most nights do—low lighting, soft jazz, the smell of expensive bourbon and even more expensive cologne drifting through the speakeasy’s velvet-lined walls. The kind of place that pretends not to notice you unless it wants to.

He always notices you.

Minho’s already at the bar, polishing glassware with deliberate, almost surgical focus. No smile. No greeting. He doesn’t do small talk—just glances at you when you slip onto the stool you always take, his gaze lingering for a moment too long on the bare skin above your knee before it flicks away like you imagined it.

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

Tonight it’s something amber and sharp—neat, no garnish. Not the floral bullshit you usually order to irritate him but don't actually enjoy.

“You’re learning,” you murmur, fingers curling around the glass.

“You’re predictable,” he says, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Amusement. Approval, maybe. It’s hard to tell with him.

You take a slow sip, letting the burn settle in your chest before you speak again.

“Gonna make fun of me tonight, or just stare at my legs?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

You lean in a little, voice dipping low. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked me.”

Minho finally looks at you head-on, the edge of a smile ghosting across his mouth.

“If I liked you,” he says, smooth as glass, “you’d know.”

The heat that curls low in your stomach has nothing to do with the liquor.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve been playing this game for weeks—weeks of drawn-out glances and sharp tongues, of letting your knee graze his thigh beneath the bar, of asking him questions you already know he won’t answer just to hear the dry curl of his voice when he tells you no.

But tonight, the rules feel different. The air feels heavier. Charged.

You blame it on the day you had. On the message you didn’t answer. On the fact that your body still remembers the way your so-called lover grabbed your wrist last night when you dared to pull away first. The apology this morning was short. Cold. Like a favor he did you.

You’re tired of favors. Of men who act like your body is borrowed space.

So maybe that’s why you’re here again. Why your dress is a little shorter than usual. Why your smile is a little sharper. Why you stare at Minho like you want him to cut you open and see what’s underneath.

“I think you like me,” you say, swirling the amber in your glass, eyes fixed on his fingers as he reaches for a bottle behind him.

He uncaps it without a word. Pours slow—like he’s buying time or maybe making you wait on purpose. The line of his jaw is clean and sharp in the bar’s dim light, a profile carved in something colder than marble.

You’ve never seen him fluster. Not once. That’s part of why you keep coming back. That composure, that razor-thin control—you want to see it slip. Just once. Just enough to know what he looks like when something matters.

But Minho doesn’t rattle. Doesn’t rise to the bait. He sets the bottle down, replaces the cap with the same care you imagine he uses with everything else—his knives, his words, his hands.

“I think you like being watched,” he says finally, without looking at you. “That’s not the same thing.”

Your lips curl. “Is that what you do? Watch me?”

He glances up, and the full weight of his gaze hits you square in the chest—dark, steady, measuring.

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

There’s nothing coy about it now. No masks, no playful deflection. Just static in the air and the slow realization that this isn’t banter anymore.

It’s foreplay.

Your thighs press together instinctively beneath the bar. The liquor burns differently now—hotter, deeper.

Minho sees it—how your legs shift, how your breath stutters—but he doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The power slips over him like a second skin, smooth and effortless, like he was born to unravel people slowly and never touch them at all.

You try to hold your ground, try to find something clever to say, but the words stick to your tongue. They don’t come.

He leans forward—just slightly, just enough that you catch a whisper of his cologne, clean and sharp like crushed pepper and steel. The kind of scent that makes you ache without knowing why.

“You always drink faster when you’re upset,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think he’d blow you off again.”

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

But you’ve mentioned him in passing before—your almost-boyfriend, your never-quite-yours. The man who texts when he’s bored and shows up when he’s drunk, who fucks you like a secret and then disappears for days. You’ve never named him. You never had to.

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

Minho hums like he understands. Not kindly—accurately. Like a blade understanding the softest part of skin.

“Didn’t think you would.”

His voice is soft. Low enough that it doesn’t carry over the jazz humming through the room, but not so low that it misses the mark. It slides under your skin, settles there. Warm. Heavy.

You press the rim of your glass to your lips, but don’t drink. You’re stalling. He knows it.

“Is this where you offer comfort?” you ask, tilting your head toward him, trying to claw some of the power back with your voice. “Tell me I deserve better?”

Minho chuckles—quiet, sharp-edged. “You know you deserve better.”

He lets it hang there for a beat too long, until you can feel the unspoken part of it clawing up your spine.

You deserve better, and I could give it to you. But I won’t.

Not yet.

His fingers flex against the bar’s edge. It’s the first crack in his control tonight, the only betrayal of the restraint wound tight through every part of him. You don’t think he even notices it—but you do.

Because that’s what this has always been, hasn’t it? A standoff. A war of glances and gestures. Who can make the other want without asking.

You swirl the last inch of liquor in your glass, watching the amber catch the low light, pretending like you’re not memorizing the shape of his hand against the bar.

Minho isn’t looking at you anymore. Not directly. His eyes are focused somewhere beyond you—on a bottle that doesn’t need touching, a thought that doesn’t need voicing. But his body betrays him in small, precise ways. That flex of his hand. The stillness of his shoulders. The slow, measured breaths like he’s giving himself rules to follow.

Don’t reach for her. Don’t say her name. Don’t touch unless she begs.

You can feel it—how close he is to undoing himself. How he’s fighting it like it would cost him something if he gave in.

And that makes you reckless.

“Why haven’t you?” you murmur, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “If you’ve thought about it—which you have. Why haven’t you done anything?”

You lick your lips—subtle, involuntary—and his eyes drop to your mouth like it was the only thing in the room worth watching. Just for a second. Just long enough to make your pulse thrum in your throat.

“You’re not going to offer comfort,” you say, quieter now, more to yourself than him. “That’s not your game.”

Minho doesn’t deny it.

“I don’t comfort girls who let men treat them like that,” he murmurs, voice like slow smoke. “I fuck it out of them.”

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

It punches the air straight from your lungs—just for a second. Just long enough for your lashes to flutter and your grip on the glass to falter and your entire body to go still.

You should’ve known that’s where he’d take it. You should’ve seen it coming. But hearing it—feeling it—low and steady like that, like an invocation and not a threat?

It’s something else entirely.

Your thighs clench beneath the bar. Instinctive. Useless. You feel suddenly too warm in your skin, in your dress, in this damn chair. Like the room’s shrunk down to just the two of you and the weight of those words lingering in the air between them.

He said it like a fact. Like a promise. No smirk. No tilt of his head. No performance.

Just Minho—staring at you with that terrifying, surgical precision that’s never been louder than it is now.

He knows what he just did.

Knows you’re squirming. Knows you’re soaking. Knows exactly where your mind’s gone—and he hasn’t even touched you.

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

Not by much—just enough that his mouth is close enough to graze the rim of your glass if you tilted it.

“I’d start with your mouth,” he says, barely louder than the jazz, like he’s confessing something obscene to a priest. “Because I know you’d still try to be smart with it. Even while you’re choking.”

Your stomach drops.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter to ground yourself, but it’s no use. His voice is a velvet hand at your throat, gentle enough to tease, firm enough to hold

Minho doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch into tension, doesn’t wait for your reply, doesn’t press a single inch further into the ache he’s just created.

He simply pulls away.

Smooth, unbothered, like he didn’t just fillet you open with nothing but words. Like your insides aren’t still ringing with the ghost of him. He reaches for a towel, wipes a nonexistent smudge from the rim of a coupe glass, and then—casually, almost bored—slides the folded slip of paper toward you across the polished marble.

Your bill.

Back to business.

It’s maddening. Unbearably normal. Like he didn’t just spit filth into your ear that made your spine arch in the seat. Like he didn’t just speak to you like he already owned your body and was only waiting for the right time to claim it.

Your hand moves on autopilot.

Fingers dip into your purse, fishing out your card, swiping it through the reader like this is any other night, like you’re not unraveling at the seams. Like you’re not trembling just slightly beneath the surface of your skin, still burning with every word he spoke to you moments ago.

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

Try again. Slower this time. Like it might make a difference.

Declined.

The air shifts.

You don’t look up. Can’t. You stare at the reader, thumb hovering over the chipped edge of your card like pressing harder might fix it. Like it wasn’t inevitable. Like you haven’t been running on fumes and stubbornness and overdraft protection for longer than you want to admit.

You exhale through your nose. Force a quiet laugh. “Sorry,” you mutter, trying for nonchalant. “Guess it’s been a week.”

Minho doesn’t move.

You finally glance up—and he’s already looking at you.

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is different now—softer, low and careful like a hand on the back of your neck. “I’ve got it.”

You hesitate. “No, really. I can come back tomorrow—”

“I said it’s okay.”

The quiet in his tone settles over you like a coat. Warm, heavy. Weighted with something you don’t quite recognize yet.

You search his face for a catch. A smirk. A condition. But there isn’t one.

And that—that’s what undoes you more than anything else.

Because it’s not a trade. Not a tease. Not a power play.

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

You swallow hard. Nodding feels dangerous, so you don’t.

You just sit there, small and grateful and aching in a way you didn’t expect.

“I’ll pay you back,” you say quietly. “Next time.”

Minho doesn’t respond right away. Just tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re not a charity case,” he says finally. “I know you’ll settle.”

You nod again. This time it lands.

He straightens. Pulls your empty glass away, sets it behind him.

“You staying a while?” he asks. Not teasing. Not performative. Just… offering.

And you want to say yes.

But your throat is tight and your wrist still hurts beneath your sleeve and your body feels like too much tonight—too raw, too full, too loud.

So you say, “Think I’ll head out,” and your voice sounds gentler than it should. Like you’re asking permission.

Minho nods. Doesn’t question it. Doesn’t try to stop you. Just wipes the bar in front of your empty seat like he’s already preparing for the next ghost to sit down.

You stand slowly. Adjust your bag over your shoulder, glance toward the hallway that leads to the exit.

He doesn’t say anything at first. But you feel him watching you—not your ass, not your dress, but the way you cradle your arm. The way your hand hovers over your wrist like you’re guarding something.

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

You don’t turn around right away. You just stand there, shoulders drawn tight, fingers white-knuckled around the strap of your bag.

“Excuse me?” you ask, voice sharper than you mean it to be.

Minho doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t repeat himself, either. Just waits.

You finally turn, chin lifted in that familiar tilt—the one you wear like armor, the one you’ve perfected for moments like this. When someone sees too much. When someone dares to ask.

“I don’t need you psychoanalyzing my love life,” you say flatly. “It’s none of your business.”

Minho says nothing.

Which somehow makes it worse. And for some reason, you can’t stop talking.

You huff a laugh, bitter and breathless. “Jesus. You let one card decline and suddenly you think you’re my therapist?”

Still nothing.

Just that same steady gaze. Not pitying. Not cold. Just... seeing.

And maybe that’s why it stings. Because he’s not wrong.

You fold your arms, fingers pressing hard over the bruise like you can erase it by force. “He didn’t mean to,” you finally mutter.

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

It’s not a fight. He’s not raising his voice. He’s not accusing you of anything. But something about the way he says it—flat, factual, calm—makes you feel like you’ve been caught doing something shameful.

You shake your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His expression doesn’t change. “It never is.”

You exhale hard through your nose. Every part of you wants to run. You don’t like feeling cornered like this—especially not by someone like him. Someone who doesn’t play pretend

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

“I’m not some broken girl who needs saving,” you snap.

“I know.”

And again—it’s not cruel. Not dismissive. Just a truth, spoken plainly.

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

He knows you’re angry and proud and stubborn. He knows you want control, even when it costs you peace. He knows you’re clawing your way through something you don’t want to name yet. He knows—and still, he said nothing until you were already walking away.

You sigh. The kind of sigh that tastes like surrender.

“I’m fine,” you say. Softer now. “Okay? I’m fine.”

Minho doesn’t agree. Doesn’t argue. Just nods like he’s filing it away for later.

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

The dark sweep of his lashes. The slow tension in his jaw. The barest flex of his fingers against the rag he’s holding—like he’s grounding himself on the bar instead of reaching for you.

“I don’t have your number,” you say, quiet again.

He doesn’t even blink.

Just reaches for a napkin. Writes it down in clean, deliberate strokes. Slides it to you without flourish, like it’s nothing.

You take it with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

The napkin is soft, a little damp in one corner, the ink bleeding just slightly where his pen dragged too slow over cheap paper. His handwriting is neat. Precise. The kind you’d expect from him. Not a flourish in sight.

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

Like if you memorize them now, maybe you won’t have to admit how much you care that he gave them to you.

“I’m not going to cry in the cab,” you mutter. Not to him. Just to yourself. A warning. A promise. A lie.

Minho’s mouth twitches—too fast to call it a smile. “Good. They charge extra for that.”

You roll your eyes, but the sound that escapes you is almost a laugh.

Almost.

You fold the napkin once. Then again. Tuck it into your purse like it’s fragile, like it’s worth something, like it matters. You don’t say thank you. Can’t. The words would taste too much like gratitude and not enough like the armor you’re trying to put back on.

He doesn’t press. Just nods once—final, quiet—and goes back to polishing the same glass he’s been holding all night. Like none of this ever happened.

You walk away before you can change your mind.

Before you do something stupid, like apologize for flinching. Like ask him to say it again, that he knows you’re not broken. Like ask if he’s ever been hurt in a way that still echoes years later.

The hallway is dim. The velvet curtains at the door part with a whisper. The street outside is colder than you remembered.

You step into it anyway.

That night, lying on your side with the city leaking through the blinds in long gray stripes, you stare at your phone screen for too long.

You’ve opened a new message three times. Deleted it each time.

Minho’s number sits untouched in your contacts now. Just a string of digits and a name that feels like something you shouldn’t be allowed to keep.

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

Just those two words. No punctuation. No fluff. Just simple, clean concern dressed up like a command.

You can almost hear his voice in it—low, even, with that deliberate edge that makes everything sound like a dare.

You think about typing something back. A joke. A thank you. Something to make it lighter.

But it’s too late for pretending now. And maybe—just maybe—you like that he didn’t say take care or sweet dreams or anything that would let you brush this off as ordinary.

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep before the sun rises.

The bass is too loud.

It rattles your ribs, crawls down your spine, settles behind your eyes like a headache waiting to happen. Bodies press in on all sides—sweaty, glittered, half-drunk strangers shouting lyrics they only know the chorus to. The lights strobe fast enough to make you nauseous.

You wish you were having fun.

You should be having fun. It’s Maya’s birthday. Everyone showed up. Friends, coworkers, mutuals you forgot you still followed. You wore the good dress, the one that makes you feel like the sexiest version of yourself. You downed two shots at the bar and danced until your skin burned.

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

You feel him before you see him. Isn’t that always the way?

That weight in the room. The static against your skin. The sharp twist in your stomach that feels too close to guilt to be anything else.

You turn. And there he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns it, drink in hand, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a show of it. He doesn’t look at you at first. He never does. Always lets you spot him first. Lets you feel him before he lets you see him.

Your heart drops anyway.

It’s been three weeks since you told him not to text you again.

Not after the last time—not after his fingers curled too tight around your wrist and left a bloom of purple that took a week to fade. Not after he said your name like a curse when you tried to walk away. You were never his. That was the whole point. And yet… it never seemed to matter.

You turn back toward your friends. Pretend you don’t see him.

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

His breath is warm against your ear. Familiar. Suffocating.

You force a smile, even as your whole body goes still. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he murmurs, voice syrup-smooth. “Say hi to my favorite girl?”

Your throat tightens. “I’m not your anything.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His fingers flex at your waist. Not hard. Not yet. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve already lost something.

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

He laughs—soft and cruel. “You’ve got some nerve, walking around like that. That dress. That mouth.”

You’re not sure what breaks first—the fear or the fury.

But your hand moves before your mind can catch up, pushing at his chest, not hard enough to knock him back but enough—enough to draw a line, enough to say stop, stop, STOP.

He stumbles back half a step, but the grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

You hate that he says it like he’s proud. Like he likes it when you push back—because it means he gets to push harder.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit, louder this time. Louder than you meant it to be. Louder than the beat crashing around you.

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

He laughs, cruel and close and reeking of entitlement. “Calm down, drama queen. We used to have fun, remember?”

You take a step back.

He follows.

His hand shoots out again, this time not for your waist—but for your face. Fingers clamp around your jaw, sudden and firm, yanking you forward so fast your breath lodges in your throat.

You gasp.

Pain sparks where his thumb digs in. Your hands shoot up instinctively, trying to pry him off, nails raking across his skin in desperation.

“I said don’t fucking touch me!” Your voice breaks—sharp, raw, real—and for a second, just one, the crowd parts around the two of you like the air shifted.

He leans in closer. His mouth is at your ear. “You think you’re better than me now?” he snarls, voice low and mean. “Is that it? That little bartender got you feeling brave?”

The blood drains from your face.

Because you never mentioned Minho. Not to him. Not to anyone who would repeat it.

It hits you like a punch to the chest. Not just the shock of his voice, low and poisonous in your ear—but what he said.

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

You don’t know how. Don’t know who told him or what he heard or why it matters to him at all—but the fact that he said it means he’s been watching. Listening. Picking up pieces you didn’t even know you were leaving behind.

Your stomach lurches.

“I said—” you shove him with everything you have, panic fusing with rage “—get off me!”

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

His grip slips from your jaw, and you recoil like you’ve been burned, taking three steps back so fast you nearly trip. Your chest is heaving. Your eyes sting. The club feels too loud, too tight, the lights flashing like warning signs behind your eyelids.

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

“You fucking slut,” he spits, voice ugly and thick with venom. “You think someone like him is gonna want you for anything more than your mouth? You think he’s any different?”

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

You don’t care that your friends will wonder where you went, that your drink is still half-full on the table, that your heels weren’t meant for this kind of escape.

You just run.

Out through the club doors, down the street, across the crosswalk without waiting for the signal. You walk like if you stop, he’ll catch up. Like the weight of his voice will sink into your skin and stay there. Like you’ll never feel clean again if you don’t keep moving.

You’re breathing too fast. Hands shaking. Vision blurry. Heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of your chest.

You swallow around the knot rising in your throat, the panic curling its claws up your spine, pressing down hard on your ribs like punishment.

And before you even know where you’re going, your feet are taking you there.

You don’t remember making the turn. Don’t remember crossing the street. You just blink—and suddenly the neon glow of the bar bleeds into your vision, cool and low and familiar in the haze of your panic. The bar. His bar.

And he’s there.

Outside, leaning against the brick wall near the back entrance, one arm crossed over his chest, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. The glow of the cherry lights his face in pulses—his cheekbone, his mouth, the sharp line of his jaw. His sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a smear of something on his forearm. 

He hasn’t seen you yet.

Not until your steps falter and the click of your heels dies out beneath the sound of his exhale.

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

You must look like a disaster. Eyes wide. Breath shallow. Shoulders drawn up like a cornered animal. Your lipstick smeared, hair falling out of place, the strap of your dress slipping.

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

The silence stretches for a moment too long. Then, quietly—

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

There’s something else beneath it. A thread of tension wound so tight it barely makes it to the surface. The kind of control that only comes from practice. From restraint.

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

Minho can read a room better than anyone you’ve ever met, and right now, you’re a room filled with alarms—flashing, screaming, crumbling.

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

He nods once. Slow. Like he hears what you didn’t say.

The cigarette between his fingers burns to the filter before he drops it to the pavement and crushes it beneath the heel of his boot.

You don’t realize you’ve been swaying on your feet until your hand shoots out to brace against the wall.

Minho’s eyes flick to the motion, then back to your face. He still doesn’t move.

Instead, his voice softens—somehow quieter than before, like he’s afraid even sound might be too much for you right now.

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

“My place,” he adds, nodding toward the street, toward the night that still hums like static around you. “Nothing weird. Just… quieter. Warmer. No one else there.”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t trust him—you do, in ways you probably shouldn’t—but because your whole body still feels wrong. Like your nerves are too close to the surface, like any wrong move might set them off again.

Minho sees it.

He doesn’t rush to reassure you. Doesn’t over-explain or fumble for comfort.

Just lifts a shoulder in a light shrug and says, dryly, “I have cats.”

Of all the things he could’ve said. “Cats,” you repeat, the word catching oddly on your tongue like it doesn’t belong in a night like this. Like it’s too soft, too domestic, too absurdly normal for the way your heart is still hammering inside your ribs.

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

You raise an eyebrow—wary, trembling, but still capable of curiosity. “Three?”

“Soonie. Doongie. Dori,” he says. “They're spoiled. Judgmental. Loud as hell.” His tone doesn’t change. Still calm. Still flat. But there’s something careful behind it. Like he’s offering you a rope. Something to hold onto. Something that doesn’t smell like sweat and fear and everything you just ran from.

You nod. Just once. And somehow, that’s enough.

His apartment is small. Not cramped, not cold—just lived-in. Clean in that intentional way, like someone takes pride in it but doesn't obsess. The floors are wood, soft under your bare feet when you kick off your heels by the door. The kitchen glows faintly from the under-cabinet lights he left on, casting long amber streaks across the floor.

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

One sits perched on the back of the couch like he owns the place—which, judging by the scratch marks in the armrest, he might. Another peeks out from under the coffee table. The third appears from the hallway, tail high, meowing like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

You blink again.

“They’re boys,” Minho explains as he hangs his keys. “But they act like little old ladies. Dori’s the mouthy one.”

The meowing continues. A chorus now. You’re too stunned to respond at first. But then—Doongie, maybe?—pads up to you with those wide, judgmental eyes and headbutts your calf like it’s his god-given right.

Something inside you breaks. Not in the sharp, painful way. Not like at the club. No. This is different. This is soft. Shaky. This is the moment your body decides it’s safe enough to start crumbling. You crouch down—slow, careful—and let your fingers curl into his fur.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel it drip from your chin. Until your breath stutters. Until you fold over completely, arms wrapped around a cat who didn’t ask for this, face pressed into the warm softness of something alive and gentle.

Minho doesn’t say anything. He doesn't touch you. You feel him move quietly behind you—setting a glass of water on the coffee table, flicking off the main lights until only the soft kitchen glow remains. And then… he just sits. A few feet away. Cross-legged on the floor, still in his black button-up and rolled sleeves, watching you like you’re made of glass and still trying to figure out if the cracks were already there.

You stay curled there on the floor for a while—knees tucked beneath you, fingers knotted in soft fur, cheek pressed to Doongie’s side like it might anchor you to something solid.

The apartment is quiet, save for the occasional swish of a tail or soft thump of paws. You can feel the warmth of Minho’s presence without looking at him. He doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just stays—close enough that you don’t feel alone, far enough that you don’t feel trapped.

Eventually, your breath starts to come steadier. The shaking dulls. And when you finally lift your head, cheeks sticky with dried tears and eyes too tired to hold anything else, he’s still there—arms resting loosely over his knees, gaze steady. You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, half-laughing, half-apologizing.

“Sorry,” you murmur, voice rough. “I didn’t mean to—fall apart all over your cat.”

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

“Doongie’s kind of a slut for attention.”

You laugh—a real one this time, hoarse and soft—and drag your fingers through Doongie’s fur once more before sitting up straighter, wiping your cheeks with the sleeve of your dress.

Minho stands slowly, careful not to startle the moment, and disappears into the hallway without a word. A minute later, he’s back, holding a folded bundle in his arms—what looks like a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie so worn it’s probably been through a hundred washes. He sets them gently on the arm of the couch beside you.

“Shower’s through there,” he says, nodding toward the narrow hallway. “First door on the right. Towels are on the rack. The water takes a second to heat up.”

You blink up at him, the offer settling slowly over you like warmth. He doesn't say you look like a mess. Doesn’t tell you to clean yourself up. Just offers you comfort in the quietest way he knows how. You nod.

The bathroom is small, clean, and filled with that same soft golden light that seems to follow him everywhere. You peel yourself out of your dress, step under the spray, and let the steam unwind you. It’s the first time all night you feel like you’re breathing in something clean. Like maybe there’s still space in your skin for something that isn’t fear.

You stay until the water starts to run cold. When you finally step out, dressed in his clothes, skin still damp and flushed from the heat, your heart thuds with a strange, fragile kind of relief.

And then you see it.

The couch. The cushions have been cleared, a blanket folded neatly at the foot, pillow fluffed, a glass of water on the side table. One of the cats is curled up like a sentry near the armrest, blinking at you lazily as if to say it’s fine now.

You stare for a second. Because it’s not just that he made up the couch. It’s that he didn’t assume. Didn’t point you toward his bed. Didn’t insist. Didn’t press. He just knew.

You sit down slowly, tucking the blanket over your legs, body sinking into the cushions like they were waiting for you.

Minho reappears from the hallway, already dressed down—black joggers, a loose hoodie hanging off one shoulder, hair damp like he rinsed off too. He gestures toward the light. “You good if I kill this?”

You nod. He flips the switch. The room dims. He doesn’t say goodnight. Doesn’t do the awkward lingering thing. He just turns, quiet as always, and heads for his bedroom.

And for a moment, you let him go.

For a moment, you think it’s fine. But the second the door clicks shut, something tightens in your chest. Your breath catches. Your pulse jumps. That same fear from earlier curls back in under your skin—not loud, not sharp. Just a whisper now. A what if. What if he comes back. What if he finds out where you went. What if this silence isn't safety at all, but the space before another breaking point.

You sit up. “Minho?”

A beat. His door opens again. The light from his room spills into the hall. He’s already halfway back into the living room when he says, “Yeah?”

Your throat works around the words. They feel small. Silly. Needful. But you say them anyway. “Can you stay?”

He pauses. Looks at you. And you can tell—he knows. Knows exactly what you mean. Knows it’s not about him. Not about company. Not about flirting or closeness or warmth. It’s about safety. It’s about knowing the world can’t get to you if he’s there. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make a sound. Just disappears for a second, then comes back with two blankets folded under one arm and a spare pillow under the other. He drops them on the floor beside the couch, shrugs out of his hoodie, and settles down without a word.

The hoodie slips off his shoulders in one smooth motion, revealing the thin black tank top underneath—clinging just enough to map the sharp cut of his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders.

You don’t mean to stare.

But the fabric hangs loose at the chest, dipping just low enough to expose the curve of ink over his left pectoral—black lines disappearing into shadow, something abstract and intricate. Just a glimpse. Just enough to wonder what the rest of it looks like when he breathes.

Minho doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just too tired—or too gracious—to call you on it.

He lies on his back beside the couch, one arm tucked under his head, the other draped loosely over his stomach. Doongie circles once on the rug, then collapses beside him like a guard, chin resting on his forearm.

You turn onto your side. The room is still. Not quiet—still. Like the air itself is holding its breath. You don’t sleep. You can’t. Not with the phantom heat of a hand still lingering on your face. Not with the aftershocks of fear still curling around your ribs. Not with the weight of this unfamiliar kindness just a few feet away, warm and steady and unearned.

So you watch him. And eventually, he turns his head. Eyes open. Heavy-lidded but focused. A slow drag up your face. Your cheekbone. The faint shadow blooming just below your temple. His jaw ticks, subtle but sharp, and he doesn’t look away. You don’t flinch.

“Didn’t know you had a tattoo,” you whisper.

He blinks. Like the words take a second to land. “Mm.”

His gaze flicks down briefly—to where the fabric clings to his chest, then back to your face. There’s no smirk, no warning, just a shift in the air, like gravity tilting. “Wanna see it?”

The question isn’t loaded. It’s not teasing. It just is. You nod. Minho sits up slowly, one hand tugging at the hem of his tank top. The fabric slides up and over his head in one clean motion, soft and soundless. He tosses it to the side and leans back on his elbows, the muscles in his arms flexing, loose and languid.

The tattoo stretches across the left side of his chest—black ink, fine lines, bold shapes. It isn’t a compass. It’s a storm. A swirl of wind and waves, jagged mountains etched in silhouette. At its center, the faint outline of a wing—fractured and rising, like something caught between ruin and flight. The ink moves with him, flexes when he breathes, like it’s alive beneath his skin.

You stare.

Not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it feels right on him. Like he was born with it. Like whatever storm he came from left its mark on the inside first, and this was just its echo.

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

Slowly, like reaching for fire. Like asking for permission with the space between your fingers. When you don’t meet resistance, you touch him.

Just a single point at first—your fingertip landing lightly on the edge of the wing, where ink meets skin just beneath his collarbone. His breath hitches, subtle but real, a flicker of tension in his chest. You feel it before you hear it. Then you trace. Softly. Reverently. Down the curve of the wing, across the stormline where jagged wind spirals out into broken waves.

Your touch drags slow, deliberate, following the black lines like you’re learning a language. One that only his body speaks. Minho doesn’t move. He just watches you. The way your lashes lower, the way your lips part slightly like you’re holding your breath for him. The silence between you is thick but not heavy—dense with something neither of you are ready to name.

When your finger glides over the highest peak—inked mountain just above his heart—his head tilts back slightly, like the contact pulls something from him. His throat bobs with the swallow he doesn’t bother to hide. You pause. Right over his heart now. The skin is warm. Steady. And for a second, the storm beneath your own ribs goes quiet—like his rhythm tames yours without trying. He exhales.

His eyes flutter shut for a beat, then open again—slow, measured. He looks at you like you’ve unraveled something in him, like your touch left ink on him instead. But when his gaze drops lower, it changes. Softens. Darkens. And then his hand moves. Carefully. Cautiously. Like he’s seen too many things break when touched too fast.

He lifts it to your face, the backs of his fingers ghosting along your jaw—light enough to be mistaken for air. He doesn’t go straight for the bruise. He lingers near it, watching you, waiting for the slightest sign of retreat.

You don’t give it.

So he shifts—just slightly—until his knuckles brush the edge of the swelling beneath your eye. You flinch. Not because of the pain. Not because it hurts. Because of how gentle it is. Like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he doesn’t know how to hold something unless he’s sure it won’t shatter. Like he wants to carve your bruises from your skin and wear them instead. His fingers hover there. Still. Tense. A breath away from trembling.

“Fucker’s lucky I wasn’t there,” he murmurs.

You inhale—slow, shallow. The air catches in your throat like it’s thick with something unspoken, something too big to name. Minho’s hand starts to pull back. And maybe that’s why you speak. Maybe that’s why you reach for something else, anything else, before the room folds in too tightly.

“So,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, “that tattoo.”

Minho pauses. Just for a moment. His eyes flick back to yours, and he knows what you’re doing. Of course he does. The deflection is transparent, but he lets it happen anyway—lets you steer them away from the heaviness still clinging to your skin like ash.

“What about it?” he murmurs, settling back on his elbow, the other hand now resting on his chest near the ink you traced. You mirror him slightly, folding into the edge of the couch, letting your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes fixed on the storm etched into his skin.

“The wing,” you say after a beat. “In the center. What’s it mean?”

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

His mouth quirks—barely a smile, not quite bitter. “Yeah. It usually is.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you say nothing. Just let your gaze trace the peaks and spirals, the places where black lines blur like smoke, the edges of him carved in ink instead of bruises. His body tells a story too. You just haven’t read all the pages yet.

Minho shifts again, slowly lying back down on the floor, the side of his arm brushing the base of the couch now. You're above him on the couch, laying on your side so you can look at him.

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

You hum—soft, skeptical. The kind of sound that curls into the quiet and lingers, not quite a no, not quite a yes. You’re tired now. The real kind. The kind that settles into your limbs like gravity, like wet sand. Your eyes flutter half-shut, your voice feather-light.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Minho lets out a low exhale, something between a laugh and a sigh.

"Maybe.”

Your gaze slips to his again—his eyes open, trained on the ceiling like the answers might be there if he stares hard enough. One hand still rests loosely over his chest, the other pressed against your cheek.

You reach for it. Not with purpose. Not even with need. Just because it’s there. Because it feels like the thing to do.

Your fingertips graze his, gentle, thoughtless. And then his hand shifts—just slightly—so his pinky catches yours. Hooks. Holds.

It’s not a kiss. It’s not a confession.

But it feels like both.

You don’t speak for a while. Don’t need to.

The silence feels clean now. Like rain after smoke. Like you could fall asleep inside it without drowning.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe too loud. Just lets you anchor there—your hand half-curled over his, your lashes brushing your cheek as your eyes slip closed.

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

“Yeah?” he says, and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said tonight—rough around the edges like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the compliment.

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

“You’ve heard me say some pretty fucked-up things.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “Have I?”

He huffs a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Just a sound with history behind it. With edge. With weight.

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmurs. “You remember.”

You do.

Of course you do.

Words like silk and smoke, coiled tight with implication. The things he said across the bar, into your drink, into your skin without ever laying a hand on you.

You remember all of them.

But you’re tired. Softened. And the edges of those memories feel dulled now—faded by warmth and flannel and the rhythm of his breathing a few feet from your chest.

So you hum again, lashes still pressed to your cheeks. “They didn’t sound fucked-up at the time.”

Minho’s quiet for a while after that. The kind of quiet that hums.

You can feel it in the space between your bodies—how the air thickens again, but not with tension. With memory. With the weight of everything you haven’t said and the things you probably never will.

“That’s the problem,” he says eventually, voice low enough that you almost miss it. 

Your eyes open again. Just barely. The room is still steeped in shadow, but your vision finds him easy—half-lit, half-lost in the floor beside the couch. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other still tethered to yours.

You study the line of his jaw, the way it tenses and relaxes like he’s caught between restraint and regret. He’s not looking at you anymore. Just staring at the ceiling again, like maybe it’ll answer for him this time.

“You say that like you’re proud of it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t smirk. Just exhales, rough and dry.

“No,” he says. “I say it like I don’t know how to stop.”

That hurts in a way you didn’t expect. Not because of what he said—but because of the way he said it. Like a flaw in the foundation. Like a truth carved into him long before you ever stepped foot inside that bar.

You shift a little, turning more fully toward him, cheek pressed deeper into the pillow. Your fingers are still slotted with his. His skin is warm. Callused at the tips.

“You don’t have to stop,” you say quietly. “Just don’t lie about what you mean.”

That gets him.

His gaze flicks to yours—fast, sharp. Like he wasn’t expecting that. Like no one’s ever said it to him quite like that before.

“I never lied,” he says.

You blink at him. Slow. Sleepy. “No. But you hide.”

Minho doesn’t answer. Just watches you. Face unreadable. Chest rising slow beneath the ink on his skin.

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

That makes you pause. The silence stretches thin and long between you.

“You don’t.”

Minho swallows. His thumb brushes, barely, against your knuckle.

“Not yet.”

You shake your head. Your voice is nearly gone now—nothing but a breath. “I think I’m harder to scare than you think.”

His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “I’m starting to believe that.”

The air settles again. Like the truth came in and made itself comfortable.

You close your eyes, finally letting your body sink into the couch. Letting the warmth of him—his hand, his presence, his voice—press into all the places that still feel fragile.

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your voice,” you murmur, already half gone. “It’s nice. It helps.”

And when you drift off like that—quiet, safe, held by nothing more than the sound of him—Minho stays awake long after. Eyes on the ceiling.

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

You wake to the scent of coffee and something faintly savory—garlic maybe, or eggs. The couch beneath you is warm where your body curled into it, blanket tangled around your legs. A cat is pressed to your ribs like a living paperweight, tail flicking once when you stir.

For a moment, you forget where you are. Forget what happened. Forget him.

Then the ache hits. Dull and deep, low in your chest and blooming outward. You shift to sit up, and it all comes back.

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

His apartment is quiet now, but not empty. There’s music playing low from somewhere down the hall. You follow the sound on slow feet, dragging the blanket with you like armor.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot in gray sweatpants and a loose black t-shirt, sleeves pushed up. He’s at the stove, spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. There’s a pan of eggs on the burner. A second mug waiting beside the sink.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just glances over his shoulder and says, “Mornin’.”

His voice is rough with sleep. Deeper. It hits somewhere low in your spine.

You hover at the doorway, feeling small in his clothes—his hoodie draped over your frame, sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Making breakfast,” he says, cutting you off with casual finality. “You still eat, right?”

You blink. “I… yeah.”

“Good.” He turns back to the pan. “Then sit.”

You do. Quietly. At the counter, fingers curling around the warm ceramic of the mug he left for you. It smells like cinnamon.

He plates the eggs. Adds toast. Pushes the dish toward you and leans back against the counter with his own. He eats without looking at you at first, fork moving in clean, efficient motions.

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

“I’m serious. If you don’t feel safe there…” He trails off, jaw tensing. “Stay here.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

“I’ve got room,” he adds. “Cats already like you. You don’t snore.”

That last part earns the smallest smile from you. “You don’t know that.”

“I was up half the night,” he says, mouth twitching. “I’d know.”

You look down at your plate, pretending to rearrange the toast like that’ll somehow buy you time to think. But the words—stay here—they’ve already lodged themselves under your ribs. Warm. Unexpected. Real.

And terrifying.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you say finally. Quiet. Like if you speak too loud, you’ll ruin the softness of it all.

Minho sets his fork down.

The sound is soft, deliberate. When you glance up, he’s watching you again. Really watching—like he does when he’s about to say something that’ll cut deeper than you expect.

“You’re not.”

Just that. Nothing flowery. Nothing performative. Just the fact of it, laid bare on the table between you like it shouldn’t be questioned.

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

But then your fingers twitch near your coffee, and the pain in your face pulses a little sharper—pulling you back into the fragile ache of your own body. You shift to look away, to hide the swelling that’s bloomed across your cheekbone and down to your jaw.

But Minho doesn’t let you.

He moves around the counter slowly, like he’s trying not to spook you. His hand is warm when it finds your chin again—fingertips brushing along your jawline, coaxing your face toward his. Gentle. Grounded.

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb ghosts beneath your cheekbone, skimming over the darkened bloom that’s bloomed overnight. His brow furrows—not in pity, not even in anger. Just... stillness. A silence that hums with the kind of fury he’s learned how to wear like armor.

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

You blink. Something thick swells in your throat, too full to swallow down.

“I hate that I didn’t find you first.”

That hits you harder than it should.

You try to speak—but your voice sticks somewhere behind your teeth. So you just nod, your cheek pressing into his palm like your body can answer for you.

Minho doesn’t let go—not yet. His fingers trail down to the edge of your neck, where the fabric of his hoodie pools at your collarbone. You’re not sure if he realizes how close he’s gotten. How the warmth of him wraps around you now, even without touching anything else.

“I want you to stay,” he says again, steady now. “Not because I feel bad. Not because you need help. I want you here.”

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

His thumb moves again—just a gentle stroke along your jaw.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You breathe in once, shaky and thin. “Okay.”

The corners of his mouth pull—slow, subtle. Not quite a smile. Something quieter. Relief, maybe.

He lets your face go with that same care—like he’s afraid it’ll leave a mark if he’s not gentle enough. Then he steps back, returns to his plate, and picks up his fork again like he didn’t just hand you the softest kind of shelter.

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

There’s no official decision, no suitcase moment. Just the slow accumulation of things—your toothbrush beside his, a sock that somehow never made its way back into your bag, a t-shirt folded neatly at the foot of the bed that you don’t remember taking off. A rhythm forms. One that begins with his voice in the morning—low, rough, coffee-laced—and ends with the soft click of the front door when he comes home from the bar past midnight, thinking you’re asleep.

You never are.

The apartment starts to feel different. Lived-in. Yours, even if you never say it out loud. Your shoes by the door. Your laughter echoing off the tile. Your perfume clinging to his sheets like memory.

Minho doesn’t comment. Not once. He just starts making a second cup of coffee without asking. Starts keeping almond milk in the fridge. Throws your laundry in with his like it’s never been separate.

And you—you watch him fall into it as easy as breath.

He moves through the apartment like smoke. Silent, confident, present in ways you’ve never been used to. There’s no performance with him, no empty gestures. If he folds your towel, it’s because it needed folding. If he brings home your favorite tea, it’s because he remembered. And if he looks at you too long in the mirror while you brush your teeth, it’s because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

One night, he comes home late. The bar ran over, and the cats had started pacing like they could feel the quiet shift without him. You’re curled on the couch in one of his hoodies, a half-finished movie playing on low, just waiting for the lock to turn. When it does, and he steps inside—shoulders drawn, eyes tired, the scent of smoke and whiskey clinging to him—you don’t say anything at first.

Just watch him.

He slips off his boots. Shrugs off his jacket. Walks into the kitchen and pours a glass of water like he’s not sure how to be here yet.

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

You rise slowly, tugging the sleeves of the hoodie over your hands, padding barefoot to meet him.

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

“You’re also lighting a cigarette at midnight.”

He exhales through his nose. Tired. “Rough night.”

You stop just short of the threshold between the hallway and the kitchen, bare toes curling against the tile, the silence stretching taut between you.

“Want to talk about it?” you ask softly.

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

Minho pulls the cigarette from the pack with that same familiar motion—two fingers, flick of the wrist. The sound of the lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. He doesn't look at you as he inhales, jaw tight, lashes low. The cherry glows in the dim.

You wrap your arms around yourself.

He leans against the counter, exhales slow, smoke curling up toward the ceiling. It swirls around the line of his jaw, catches the faint sheen of sweat at his temples, clings to him like it’s part of his skin.

You hate how good he looks like this. Angry. Quiet. Unreachable.

But you hate more that you can’t reach him.

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

You step closer, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

“I’m not,” he says. Still not looking at you. “I’m carrying it just fine.”

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

And this time, it is clipped. Sharp. The kind of sharp that cuts more than it means to. He finally looks at you then—eyes rimmed with something hot and unreadable, mouth hard.

The silence that follows is cold.

You shift your weight, wounded but trying not to show it. “Okay.”

Minho’s jaw ticks. Like he wants to take it back, but doesn’t know how. Like everything in him is fraying at the edges, and you just happened to be the softest thing close enough to get caught in it.

He curses under his breath. Stubs the cigarette out halfway through, presses the filter down into the tray until it smears.

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

He runs a hand down his face, palm dragging hard across his mouth like he’s trying to erase himself. Then he sighs and looks at you—really looks at you. The hoodie swallowed around your frame. The bare legs. The worry softening your brow.

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

“Had a guy come into the bar tonight. One of those types—smiles too wide, looks through women instead of at them. He kept cornering this girl, leaning over the counter, asking me why I gave a shit when I told him to back off.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

Minho swallows. “He called me a cockblock. Said I must’ve been jealous.” His gaze drops, eyes narrowing. “Said I looked like the kind of guy who watches.”

You don’t interrupt.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to leave. Wouldn’t let go."

The words hang there. Not just what he’s saying—but why he’s saying it. You feel it bloom in your chest. Cold. Familiar.

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

Your hand finds his wrist—warm, tense, still trembling slightly. You run your thumb over the bone there, grounding him.

“You’re not that kind of man.”

“I know,” he says. “But I wanted to be.”

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

“I wanted to slam him into the bar. Make him bleed. Make him feel small. And the worst part?” A breathless laugh. “I would’ve enjoyed it.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you didn’t.”

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

You squeeze his hand.

It’s quiet for a while. The kitchen lit only by the soft amber under the cabinets, casting warm shadows along the tile. The cats have settled somewhere in the living room. Even the city feels hushed.

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

Then, suddenly: “He looked at her the same way—”

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. You know.

And he knows you know.

So you step closer. Gently. Carefully. Press your forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in—smoke and soap and something like home. You pluck the cigarette from his lips and he lets you, watches as you toss it into the sink.

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

Minho glances at you—eyes a little too tired, a little too dark—but he lets you guide him.

He doesn’t say much once you're in the bedroom. Just peels his shirt off and tosses it into the corner. You catch a glimpse of the tattoo on his chest again—the wing in the center of the storm, fractured, fighting to stay airborne.

You turn away to climb into bed, give him space.

But when you settle under the blanket, he’s already there. Already behind you. Warm and solid, arm slipping around your waist without hesitation. His chest to your back, his breath against your neck.

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

“I hate that I couldn’t stop it. What happened to you.”

You close your eyes.

His fingers tighten slightly against your side. Not rough. Just firm. Just real.

“I think about it more than I should,” he murmurs. “What I’d do if I saw him again.”

You shift, just enough to feel him breathe differently—like your movement catches him off guard, like he wasn’t expecting you to respond. But you don’t turn around, not yet. You just let your voice slip into the quiet, soft and slow.

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

His breath ghosts across your shoulder. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

His voice is quiet, but not gentle. Measured. Sharp at the edges like he’s spent all night filing it down.

You blink slowly into the dark, heart thudding, air thick between your bodies. You feel him behind you—warm, solid, tense. A wall at your back. A shield. A fuse.

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

And just when you think he might pretend he didn’t hear you, Minho speaks.

“I’d wait,” he says, voice low, words heavy like molasses. “Wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t warn him. Just watch. Let him come close. Let him think he could try again.”

Your breath catches.

His fingers curl slightly where they rest on your waist, grounding himself in the shape of you.

“Then I’d take his hand,” Minho murmurs, “the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

Just something colder. Older. Like someone had finally said the thing you weren’t allowed to say out loud. That it wasn’t okay. That it would never be okay.

“And when he screamed,” Minho continues, voice almost tender now, “I wouldn’t stop. I’d make sure he understood what it feels like to lose control. To be small. Helpless. The way he made you feel.”

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

His jaw is clenched. Eyes storm-dark. He looks dangerous like this. Not because he’s violent. But because he’s loyal. Because he means every word and there’s no drama in his voice—just truth. Cold and clean.

You reach for him without thinking.

Your hand moves to his face, fingers threading into the hair at his temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone like you’re trying to soothe something in him—or maybe in yourself. And Minho… he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t soften either. He just lets you hold him, lets your touch settle over the anger still thrumming in his bones like a warning bell that hasn’t stopped ringing.

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

His brow twitches, just slightly. “You should be scared of a man who wants to hurt for you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I’ve been scared before. You’re not that kind of man.”

His mouth parts. His breath hits your lips. The weight in his eyes shifts—something cracks beneath it. Not entirely. Just a fracture. A weakness. A truth.

“You don’t know what I’d do,” he murmurs.

You lean in, close enough that your breath brushes his skin when you speak.

“I don’t need to,” you whisper. “I know what you’ve already done.”

His brow furrows, but you go on—soft and steady, the words falling between you like they’ve been waiting for a place to land.

“You made space. You listened. You held me when I couldn’t hold myself. You let me have silence without asking for anything in return.” Your fingers press more firmly against his jaw, thumb brushing just below his lower lip. “That’s enough. That’s more than anyone else ever did.”

Minho’s eyes darken—not with lust—but with something thicker. Something closer to reverence. Like the weight of your trust is heavier than all the violence he ever imagined inflicting in your name.

His hand rises slowly, palm cupping your cheek with a gentleness that borders on fragile. His thumb swipes beneath your eye like he’s checking for something he missed.

“I don’t deserve that,” he says, voice raw.

“Maybe not,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “But you have it.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

Minho kisses you like he’s falling. Like he’s been holding himself upright for so long, he doesn’t remember what it feels like to give in. His mouth finds yours, and there’s no hesitation in it—only heat, only hunger. His tongue slides against yours with a quiet groan that vibrates in your chest.

You gasp softly when he pushes you back, his body pressing you into the mattress, weight balanced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. One hand slips under your shirt, fingers skimming up your ribs, pausing just beneath the curve of your breast.

He pulls back barely an inch, eyes flicking over your face like a question.

His breathing is uneven, but his touch isn't. His hand rests there—still beneath your shirt, just barely cradling your breast like he's not sure he deserves to hold anything so soft. So willing. His thumb strokes gently, slowly, and his eyes search yours like he's waiting for a line to cross. Or worse—waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for the hem of your shirt, dragging it up with trembling fingers. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t speak.

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

He helps, silent, peeling it over your head with quiet reverence. He looks at you like you’re made of something rare and unrepeatable. And when his gaze drags over your chest, down the soft swell of your ribs to your stomach, he breathes your name like a confession.

His voice is wrecked when he says it—your name, cracked and reverent like he’s saying it for the first time. Like it’s a word he isn’t worthy of.

“Fuck, look at you.” His hands drag down your sides, slow and sure, palms wide and heavy like he’s trying to ground himself. He shifts over you, mouth lowering to your breast, and he moans as soon as his lips close around your nipple—no restraint, no performance. Just need. He sucks hard. Just once. Like he can’t help himself. Then he pulls back, panting, and shakes his head like he’s already losing it. “I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smile—lazy, wrecked, already warm all over—and tilt your head just enough for your lashes to sweep up, gaze locked on his. You reach for him, fingers trailing down his arm until your palm flattens against his chest, right over the fractured wing. “I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper.

Minho’s breath stutters—one of those shallow, fractured exhales that says he doesn’t believe you for a second. Not when your palm is flat against his chest, thumb grazing the tip of that wing inked over his heart. Not when your eyes look like that—half-lidded, dark, shining with something he’s not sure he deserves.

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice rough. “Keep lying to me.”

But he doesn’t pull away. He watches you. Watches the way your hand trails lower, slow and certain, down the cut of his abdomen. Fingertips ghosting over the faint dip of muscle, over the waistband of his pants, teasing the edge like you’re not sure yet—like he has any say in it anymore.

Minho goes still. Not because he doesn’t want it. God, he does. He’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against the fabric, already leaking for you. But there’s something in his face—tightness around the mouth, tension in his jaw. A flicker of control barely clinging to the edge. And you see it. You see all of it. So you press your lips to his collarbone—soft, reverent—and whisper, “Let me.”

Minho shudders. And then he nods. You sink down the bed a little, propping yourself on one elbow, other hand already slipping beneath his waistband. He lifts his hips to help, pants shoved just low enough to free him. His cock springs up, flushed and thick, tip slick with precome, veins standing in sharp relief.

“Jesus,” you murmur, fingers curling around the base. “You’re so hard…”

“Because of you,” he rasps. “You lying, teasing little thing—”

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

You give him another stroke, tighter this time, and the sound he makes punches straight through you—low and ragged, a shattered groan caught in the back of his throat. His hips twitch, almost against his will, and you can feel the restraint vibrating through his body, every muscle tight like he’s on the verge of snapping.

“You’re shaking,” you whisper, almost teasing. “What happened to all that control?”

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

“Keep talking like that,” he mutters, “and I’ll ruin you before you even get the chance to try.”

But the way his eyes flutter shut when you twist your wrist on the upstroke says otherwise. “Hah—fuck—” He’s panting now, head tipped back, one arm holding himself up beside your head for support while the other fists the sheets like he needs something—anything—to hold onto.

You lean up, breath brushing the underside of his jaw, your voice soft and honey-sweet in his ear.

“You gonna beg for it?”

He freezes. His eyes snap open, and there’s something electric in the silence between you. His cock throbs in your hand, twitching like the idea alone nearly undid him. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing yours.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

You smile, smug and slow. “Wouldn’t hate it.”

He groans—deep, guttural, wrecked—and it makes your cunt clench. He looks like he could devour you whole, like he might if you ask nicely. Or if you don’t.

“I’d get on my fucking knees if you told me to,” he mutters, mouth moving along your jaw, your cheek, your throat. His hand finds your hip and grips, firm enough to bruise. “I’d crawl. I’d beg. I’d say please—is that what you want?”

You don’t answer. You just stroke him again—slow, tight, deliberate—and feel the way he shudders against you, how his whole body flinches like your hand alone is enough to wreck him.

“Mm— baby, slow down—fuck—” He buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing skin.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmurs. “Anything. You want me desperate? Pathetic? Done. Just say it.”

You hum, soft and pleased, lips brushing his temple. “I think I like you pathetic.”

Minho groans—“Fuck, you’re evil,”—but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he sinks into it. Into you. Every stroke of your hand wrings another sound from his throat, each more desperate than the last.

You swipe your thumb over the slit, smear precum down the shaft, and his entire body jolts.

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

“You gonna make a mess in my hand, baby?” you ask sweetly, tightening just a little. “Gonna come like this? Without even being inside me?”

He growls. “No.”

You blink up at him, lips parting in mock surprise. “No?”

Minho pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes absolutely wrecked. Hair messy, jaw clenched, throat flushed with effort. He’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“I’m not coming until I’m inside you,” he says, voice low, dark, edged with pure hunger. “Until I’m fucking deep in that pretty cunt, feeling you squeeze me while I lose it. You think I can come just from your hand?”

He leans in, nose to yours, breath harsh. “I’d beg for the chance to do it right.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then you let go of his cock. Minho groans like it physically hurts.

“Then beg.” He stares at you. One long, heavy moment. Then he kneels back on his haunches, hands splayed on your thighs, and dips his head.

“Please.”

Just one word—but fuck, the way he says it. Voice hoarse, raw, like it’s scraped from the bottom of his chest. His lips graze the inside of your knee as he speaks again.

“Please, let me in. Let me fuck you slow. Let me feel you stretch around me.”

You exhale shakily.

He presses another kiss higher. “Let me make you come on my cock. Let me ruin you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.”

Your thighs tremble. He reaches for your underwear, eyes flicking to yours for permission, and when you nod—barely, breathless—he tugs them down with reverence, slow enough to make you whimper.

Minho drags your underwear down your legs like it’s the last ribbon off a present, like beneath it is something he’s been waiting his whole life to unwrap. When the fabric slips past your ankles, he tosses it somewhere behind him without a glance. His gaze never leaves you. You’re already soaked.

He sees it—feels it when he runs two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, spreading you open with a breathless “fuck me.” His knuckles tremble.

He sees everything. Every flutter of your lashes, every twitch of your thighs, every slick sound his fingers make as they glide through you, slow and reverent. His knuckles tremble, but his touch doesn’t falter—not even a little. If anything, the way his hand moves only deepens, turns hungrier.

“Fuck me,” he breathes again. He parts you with two fingers, spreads your folds and watches your cunt clench on nothing, dripping for him, aching.

“Look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t help it. “So wet I can see my reflection. What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

You’re panting now, back arching just slightly off the sheets, eyes half-lidded but fixed on him, on the way he looks at you like you’re something sacred and ruined all at once.

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

Minho sinks two fingers into you in one smooth stroke—slow, thick, curling just right until your breath hits the back of your throat. He groans, low and guttural, watching your cunt stretch around his fingers like it’s something holy.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out, voice wrecked. “How the fuck am I gonna fit my cock in you if you’re already this tight around my fingers?”

The question is low, more to himself than to you, but it rips through you like heat, like lightning. Your walls flutter helplessly around his fingers at the thought, and Minho groans—long, drawn out, wrecked.

“Oh, you like that,” he breathes. “You want me to stretch you open, don’t you?”

Your answer is a breathy whimper, more sound than word—your hips canting up, your fingers curling in the sheets. Minho watches you, chest rising and falling like he’s the one being touched, like you are the thing unraveling him.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and then he’s lining up. His cock drags through your folds, thick and flushed, already smeared with your slick. He grinds once—slow, deliberate—letting the head catch against your clit before slipping lower. When he presses in, the stretch burns, even as your cunt welcomes him, soaking and clenching and shaking just from the promise of it.

“Jesus—ngh, fuck—you’re tight,” he growls, jaw clenched, forehead tipped against yours. “Gonna ruin me.”

He gives you an inch. Then another. Then thrusts the rest of the way in with a groan that sounds like it’s been caged in his throat for weeks.

You cry out—sharp, startled, stretched to the brim in one sudden, devastating motion.

“Minho—”

“Shh,” he pants, not stopping. His hips roll into yours, hard and deep, dragging his cock through your walls like he’s trying to etch himself into them. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you—fuck—made for this.”

The first few thrusts are brutal. Snapping, deliberate, filthy. Your thighs tremble. Your back arches. He pins your hips down like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t keep you there. Every time he sinks back in, your breath knocks out of your lungs, and his name falls from your lips like a prayer—wrecked, endless, real.

“Just like that,” he grits, cock dragging against your walls, soaked in you. “Let me fuck it into you—let me make you feel me.”

But then— Then he slows. Not because he has to. Because he wants to. Because he wants to feel all of it. His hand slides under your thigh, hikes your leg higher around his waist, and he sinks into you again—slower this time. Deeper. His hips roll instead of snap, the rhythm shifting into something that feels closer to worship than fucking.

He fucks into you slow, deep—each thrust wringing a breathy moan from your throat, each drag of his cock carving his name deeper into the heat of you. The sweat on his skin glistens under the low light, hair clinging to his forehead, jaw tight with effort and restraint. You’re clinging to him now—arms looped around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back, body arching to meet every roll of his hips. And then he says it—low, ragged, right in your ear.

“Feel good?”

You gasp, nod, whisper-plead a breathless “Yes.”

He hums—a soft, dark thing, almost smug. He thrusts a little harder, just once, like a reward, like a test. “Yeah?” he pants. “How good? Tell me."

You try—but your voice catches. It’s just air at first, punched out of you by the deliberate grind of his hips, by the thick, aching stretch of him moving so slowly inside you you could scream. You manage a broken, breathy sound: “So—fuck—so good…”

And Minho groans. Long, low, full of grit. He kisses your jaw, your cheek, your lips—messy, hot, open-mouthed. His breath fans against your skin as he mutters, “That all you’ve got for me, baby?”

You dig your nails in—fuck him, he knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly how good he feels, the way his cock strokes that spot just right, again and again, with filthy precision. The way his hand curls around your thigh to keep you spread for him, to keep you right there

You whimper his name—soft, ruined—like it’s the only word you remember, and he groans, sharp and deep, lips dragging along the sweat-slick curve of your throat.

“God, you feel—” he pants, voice splintered, barely holding. “You feel so fucking good, baby. You’re so tight, so warm, you—fuck, you ruin me.”

Another thrust—slow, deep, devastating—and your head falls back against the pillow, mouth open in a silent cry. Minho watches your face twist, watches your chest heave, and it breaks something in him.

“I—shit—I think I’m in love with you.”

It slips out like a sin. Like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like he couldn’t hold it in one second longer.

Your whole body goes still beneath him—just for a moment. Like your brain’s catching up. Like his words are a second kind of penetration, sharp and unexpected. He freezes, too. Breath held. Eyes wide. The moment burns.

And then you whisper, broken and trembling: “Say it again.”

Minho doesn’t hesitate this time. “I love you.”

He moans it into your mouth, like it hurts to say, like it hurts more not to. His hand slides up your side, tender now, reverent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, forehead pressed to yours, hips still rolling deep, slow, full of everything he never knew how to say before now.

“You hear me? You’re not just someone I fuck, you’re—god, you’re everything.”

Your lips part—words rising up like breath, like instinct—but you don’t get the chance.

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

Not soft. Not tentative. It’s all tongue and teeth, heat and hunger, the kind of kiss that steals thought and gives only feeling in return. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been starving for it—like he’s still starving, even now, with his cock buried deep inside you and your body curled so sweetly beneath his.

You gasp into him, and he drinks it down—tongue licking into your mouth, filthy and tender and real.

And then it’s all friction.

The slow roll of his hips turns urgent, dragging moans from your throat he swallows between kisses. He fucks into you like he means it now—like every thrust is a promise carved into your bones. You cling to him, helpless against the way your body arches, the way your cunt tightens around him, soaked and pulsing, every nerve on fire.

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

He pulls back just long enough to look at you—just long enough to let you see how wrecked he is, how far gone, how in it he is with you.

“You’re mine,” he pants, voice rough and wrecked, thrusts hitting deeper now, harder, his hand gripping your thigh to keep you open for him. “You hear me? Say it.”

You nod, broken. “Yours—fuck, I’m yours—”

And that’s all he needed.

He groans—loud, guttural—and buries himself deeper, cock twitching as he fucks you through it. His thrusts lose rhythm, chasing his high, and you’re barely hanging on, every drag of him inside you rubbing all the right places, the sweet heat spiraling again in your belly.

You’re both so close. So close.

And when you come again—tight and soaked and shaking all around him—he feels it. Feels you flutter and pull and milk him until he can’t hold back anymore.

He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering, voice wrecked.

“I love you—fuck—I love you, I love you—”

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

And when the tremors subside, when your nails loosen from his back and your breaths sync again, he still doesn’t let you speak.

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

And kisses you.

You learn something about Minho that night. That as nonchalant and unshakable as he seems—cool and composed, cigarette smoke and sharp tongues—when he gets going, he doesn’t stop. Not until you’re crying his name again. Not until your thighs tremble and your voice is wrecked and your body’s too boneless to beg for more, even though your eyes still plead with him.

You lose track of how many times.

The night runs long and slow and molten—fucking turns to touching, touching turns to laughing, and every kiss feels like a secret passed between mouths.

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

You’re sprawled across the sheets, skin bare, limbs warm and heavy with exhaustion. The duvet’s been kicked down to your ankles, your body slick with the soft sheen of sweat, your chest rising in steady, sated waves.

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

You hear the quiet thud of the fridge door, the sound of a glass under the tap. When he returns, he’s shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and he’s holding out a glass of water like it’s some sacred offering.

“Drink,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and sex. You sit up just enough to take it, careful not to meet his eyes at first—and then you see them.

The marks. Dark smudges blooming across the sharp cut of his hips. Nail trails raked down the meat of his shoulders. A bite on his collarbone, faint and already bruising. All yours. And suddenly you feel… Shy.

You didn’t before—when his mouth was on you, when his hands were everywhere, when your back arched and you begged him not to stop. But now, in the soft quiet, with morning somewhere close on the horizon, it hits you. So you reach for the blanket, dragging it up your chest like modesty matters, like you didn’t spend the whole night unraveling beneath him.

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

That slow, crooked thing. The one that doesn’t show teeth but somehow says everything.

“Oh?” he murmurs, placing the water on the nightstand before crawling back into bed. “Now you’re shy?”

You don’t answer. Just burrow into the pillow, cheeks hot. He slips beneath the duvet anyway—doesn’t give you a choice. Just tugs it down again with a smug little hum, eyes flicking across your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of your embarrassment.

“I like the marks,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Wish you’d left more.”

You blink at him. He just keeps going—slow, lazy kisses trailed down your arm, his body curling around yours like he can’t bear the distance. One arm loops under your waist. The other hooks over your thigh. And then he’s half on top of you, all weight and warmth and him. Clingy.

He tucks his face into your neck like it’s the only place he knows how to breathe. His nose nuzzles behind your ear, lips brushing the shell of it when he speaks again—low, slurred, thick with sleep and smugness.

“Gonna have to start wearing long sleeves to work.”

You choke on a breath, eyes fluttering open. “Because of me?”

“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “Unless I want to get fired.”

You raise an eyebrow. "You work at a bar, not an office."

“Yeah,” Minho hums, lazy and amused. “But people tip more when I’m unmarked.”

The words slip out casual, offhand—like a throwaway comment he doesn’t mean anything by.

But your smile falters anyway.

Just a flicker. Just enough for him to see it.

You shift beneath him, eyes drifting away, teeth catching your lower lip before you can stop the twist of something sour in your gut. You don’t say anything—not right away—but your silence says enough.

Minho stills.

Then lifts his head, just barely, so he can see your face.

“Hey.”

You blink up at him, startled by the sudden seriousness in his voice.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, tone low. Honest. “Because I’ll quit.”

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

“I mean it.” His hand slides up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “If you don’t like it—me working there, people flirting, whatever—I’ll quit. I don’t give a fuck about the tips.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off before you can answer.

“I only took that job to kill time. To pay rent. But you—” His brow furrows. “You’re not something I’m willing to risk for a few extra bills thrown in a jar.”

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

Your eyes search his face—his furrowed brow, the firm set of his mouth, the dark smudge of sleep still softening the corners of his eyes—and there’s no doubt. No teasing in his voice, no smirk on his lips. Just Minho. Serious. Steady. Unflinching in his honesty.

“I’d rather be yours than anyone’s favorite bartender,” he says, quieter this time.

Your throat tightens.

And for a second, you can’t speak. You can only stare, caught between the weight of his words and the way his fingers stay curled so gently around your jaw—like you might vanish if he lets go.

You whisper, “I don’t want you to quit.”

He waits.

You blink slowly, pulling in a breath thick with the scent of him, the warmth of his body still heavy across yours. “I just didn’t like the idea of someone else looking at you like I look at you.”

Minho’s expression shifts—barely, but you feel it. Something in his chest loosens. His eyes soften, flicking between yours.

“No one else gets to,” he says simply. “Not anymore.”

You exhale, shaky with something that feels suspiciously close to relief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leans down, brushes his lips against yours—so soft, so sure. “They can look all they want. But I go home with your marks on me. I come home to you.”

Your pulse trips. Your hand fists the sheets at your side, but he feels it. Feels the way the tension bleeds out of you when he says it like that. Like a promise.

And then he flops on top of you.

Dead weight. Limbs loose. Hair flopping messily across his forehead as he buries his face in your chest with a dramatic sigh.

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

“Mmm,” he grunts, nuzzling between your breasts. “Too early for serious talks. Thought we were in our post-sex cuddling era.”

You squirm under the sudden weight, still giggling, breath hitching when his cheek brushes the swell of your breast. “We can’t be in our post-sex cuddling era if you suffocate me in it.”

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

Just slings an arm over your ribs like a human paperweight, sighs through his nose like he’s never been more at peace. “Shhh,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “You love it.”

You do.

You really, really do.

You let your fingers find his hair, carding gently through the tangled strands at his nape. He melts into it, chest rising and falling slow against your stomach. The silence between you stretches—soft, golden, alive with the echo of everything that came before. Of everything that now lingers.

Minho doesn’t say anything else for a while. He just breathes you in. Lets you trace lazy shapes along his spine. Lets his lips ghost across your skin every now and then, aimless, unthinking. Like he needs the taste of you to fall asleep.

Eventually, you murmur, “You’re not really gonna wear long sleeves, are you?”

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

Then, after a beat: “Might even go shirtless.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmhmm.” His voice is muffled against your skin, low and lazy. “Let ‘em see everything. Let ‘em know I’m taken. Ruined. Whipped.”

You huff a laugh, warm and breathless, chest shifting beneath him. “You’re not whipped,” you tease, even though your heart trips a little at the word. The way he says it like a badge of honor, like something he wants people to know.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t even lift his head.

“Babe,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin with every syllable, “I let you suck a bruise into my neck while my dick was still inside you. I think the jury’s in.”

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

He grins, smug and sleepy and so clearly unrepentant. “Should’ve taken a picture. Hung it behind the bar.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious.” He nuzzles into your sternum, exhales a satisfied sigh. “Caption it: Do not touch. Fed and fucked.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “You’re insane.”

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

The words land softer than they should, but firmer than you'd expect. Not casual—comfortable. Like truth in its final form. And you feel it, all the way down: the weight of his affection, the certainty of it, so tangled up in the ridiculous things he says that it feels like breathing.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left for him to go. “You’re still insane,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hairline.

“And you’re stuck with me.”

The truth of it rings out between you—not heavy, not sharp. Just there. Simple. Whole. You are. He is.

His fingers drum a slow beat against your ribs. He studies you for a second longer, then tucks himself back in, face hidden against your skin, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, already halfway there. “We can fall in love more tomorrow.”

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

A few golden, quiet, full-bodied weeks—where everything that once felt fragile now feels real. Whole. Yours.

Minho had asked you properly—booked out the bar for the night, turned the lights low, played your favorite song on vinyl, and gave you a private bartender show complete with one too many shirtless shaker tricks and your name carved into a lemon twist.

He cooked, too. And kissed you between courses. And pulled you into his lap to ask—not casually, not like it was assumed—if you’d be his girlfriend.

You said yes.

Of course you did.

And now you live together. Officially. Your clothes are in his drawers. His toothbrush sits next to yours. He makes you coffee and you fold his laundry and somewhere in the haze of shared spaces and soft kisses, you forgot what it felt like to flinch.

And then it happens fast.

One moment, you’re walking up the block—hands tucked into your sleeves, heart light from the texts Minho sent not even ten minutes ago.

[Minho] : hurry up[Minho] : wear that thing i like [Minho] : might be drunk by the time you get here if i keep taste-testing the menu

The bar’s glowing ahead, amber light spilling out of the windows like warmth. You’re already rehearsing the way you’ll slip onto a barstool, lean over the counter just far enough for him to grab your waist and kiss you across the spill mat—

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

Slurring your name like a threat. Blocking the sidewalk like a curse you thought you’d buried for good.

And for a second, it startles you. Not because you’re afraid—no, not anymore. But because how dare he.

How dare he still think he has access. How dare he act like the time you spent clawing your way out of the wreckage didn’t matter. Like the scars he left didn’t teach you how to fight.

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

“Oh, now you’ve got a mouth?” he slurs, taking a step forward. “What, dick that good it grew you a backbone?”

You don't flinch.

Not when he leans in, not when he sways close enough for you to smell the sour reek of alcohol clinging to his breath like bile. Not even when his voice drops lower, curling around your name like it still belongs to him.

It doesn't.

"You heard me," you say again, firmer this time. "Move."

But he doesn't. He laughs instead—ugly, mean, mouth curled in that old, familiar smirk that used to make your stomach sink.

Now it just makes you angry.

“You always thought you were better than me,” he sneers, stepping closer, invading your space like he owns it. “Acting like you're some fucking saint now, just ‘cause you got a new dick to suck—”

You move to sidestep him, but his hand shoots out—grabbing your wrist, hard.

Too hard.

You stumble back with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the brick wall of the alley beside the bar. Pain sparks up your arm, sharp and hot where his fingers dig into your skin.

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

A blur of dark hair, a sharp crack of movement, and suddenly your ex is off you, shoved back so fast and so hard he nearly falls into the curb. The momentum knocks him sideways, but he catches himself, stumbling back with a curse.

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

Your ex scoffs, bloodshot eyes narrowing. “The fuck are you gonna—”

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

Minho’s fist slams into his jaw with a sickening crack, the force of it snapping his head sideways. He stumbles—off-balance, stunned—but Minho doesn’t let up. Another punch, straight to the ribs, and you hear the breath leave his lungs in a strangled wheeze.

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

He drops to one knee beside him—precise, deliberate—and grabs his hand.

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

“Then I’d take his hand, the one he used on you, and I’d break every fucking finger. One by one. Slow. Make sure he remembered why.”

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

Minho takes that wrist in both hands, pins it to the pavement, and presses down—hard—until your ex screams.

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

He curls his fingers around one of your ex’s.

“First one,” he mutters—almost gently. Like he’s naming something, not destroying it.

Then he bends.

The crack is sharp, grotesque. It splits the air like a firework misfired—brief and brutal and final.

Your ex howls, voice cracking as he thrashes beneath Minho’s knee, but it doesn’t matter. Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

You should—maybe. A part of you knows that. But the rest of you, the part that remembers—remembers shaking hands, bruised ribs, the way your ex used to whisper apologies into your hair while you cried onto the bathroom tile—that part of you watches.

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

Your ex is crying now. Tears, snot, spit—he’s babbling nonsense, slurring pleads that dissolve into whimpers.

“Stop—please—I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

Minho grabs the fourth finger. “You meant it every time.”

“Fourth,” he says, and the word falls like a guillotine.

He pulls.

The snap is quieter this time—deeper, more internal. A tendon giving way. A joint yanked cruelly from its socket. Your ex lets out a broken sound, not quite a scream anymore. Not loud. Just raw. Hollow. The kind of sound a man makes when he realizes no one’s coming to save him.

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

Because this isn’t rage. It isn’t revenge.

It’s justice.

Delivered slow. Delivered steady. Delivered by the man who saw every crack in you and loved you anyway—especially because you survived them.

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

“No,” your ex gasps, eyes rolling, lips slick with blood from where he must’ve bitten through them. “No—no more, I—please, please, I—”

But Minho’s hand is already there, curling around that last finger like a closing grave.

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

He just looks at him—right in the eyes. Like he wants this to be the last thing your ex ever remembers when he reaches for something in the dark.

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

“Touch her again,” Minho murmurs, bending the wrist back until the guy writhes, “and I’ll break your fucking spine next.”

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

He rises slowly, like he’s not rushing to leave the wreckage behind, like he wants your ex to feel every second of what it means to be beneath him. A shadow cast by justice. A reminder that some hands don’t heal—they answer.

He turns to you.

And all of it—the sharpness, the stillness, the steel in his spine—it bleeds away when his eyes meet yours.

He sees the shock there, the tremble hiding in your shoulders.

And he moves to you—not with fire this time, but with the same careful quiet he always gives you after storms. Hands gentle. Expression softer now, but no less certain.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

So he cups your face in both hands, grounding you.

“Look at me,” he says. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.

You had been at this for over an hour. Watching your poor boyfriend cum over and over. He had a ring around his cock and was rock hard despite having cum five times - once down your throat, once across your bare chest, and once in your pussy. The last two were dry orgasms but you knew he was holding out. He always had more cum for you, and three times was not enough to milk him dry.

Whether or not he was enjoying himself was questionable. He stopped talking a good bit ago. Now he just moans, whines, or mumbles incoherently. He was a mess all thanks to you. Tears fell down his cheeks, his lips glistening with your essence. 

You had already come three times thanks to that expert tongue and big, beautiful nose of his. Even with his hands tied behind him, he could still please you just how you liked. It was impressive actually….

You climbed off of your boyfriend, pecking his lips before helping him off the bed.

“More…” He pleaded - coherently this time - as his body trembled. 

He was now standing in front of you in the spare room of your shared apartment. Untying him, you moved his arms to cuff them above his head. You locked his wrists in the cuffs connected to the chain dangling from the ceiling.

“More?” you ask, tilting your head at him.

“Yes please..” His glassy eyes were locked onto you. The stare was intense despite the obvious exhaustion. Sweat beaded his forehead and neck, dripping down his temples. And his face was flush as he panted. 

“You don't need a break?” you test him. 

Will he break? No, of course not. He’s too good for that.

“No…just…more please!” He begged breathlessly.

“Okay…” you shrug. “Binnie, you heard him. Your turn.”

Changbin, who had been watching the whole time as you played with your boyfriend, moved to stand. He had been stroking himself and already came once. But the sight of his hyung cumming over and over had him still so hard. 

He stood behind Chan, lined up with Chan's entrance, and pushed himself inside. Chan was already stretched out from the dildo you had used to make him cum the second time. He secretly loved when you stretched him out, massaging his prostate just right. And you loved watching him crumble and break under your control.

Changbin pushed past the slight resistance and pounded him from behind. He was gripping his hips tight as he kept tempo despite Chan’s legs threatening to buckle underneath him. The stimulation felt good - so good - it was nearly too much. He could feel his orgasm building as he took every thick inch of his member’s cock.

His own thick cock was still so hard, veiny and red-tipped.  You watched in awe, circling the two. Chan was such a good boy and so eager to please you. When you told him about this fantasy of him being stretched by Changbin, he pushed aside his worries and agreed. You were elated and insisted that he talk to Changbin that night.

Two days later, and they finally had enough free time to play.

Groaning, he pulled against his restraints and moaned. Changbin grunted, the sound of skin smacking filling the room as you watched. Chan whined.

“What’s the matter, Channie?” You coo, stroking his cheek.

He leans into your touch. “Need t’cum.”

“Binnie fucking you so good?”

“Mmm” he nodded weakly.

You smack him across the face. “Words.”

He winces. “Yes, ma’am”

“Good.” you step back.

“Let me breed you. Please…” Chan whined, raising his head to look at you.

“No.”

“Please…” the desperation in the way his voice cracked tugged at your heartstrings but you didn’t cave. He knew better. No means no.

“Binnie, pull out.” you demand.

Changbin stutters, but reluctantly obeys. With a groan, he pulls out of Chan’s tight heat. He was close… Why does he have to suffer too?

“No...” Chan whines, trying to clench and hold Changbin in place.

But it was no use. Changbin slipped out and stood out of reach.

“Please….y/n…” Chan drops his head, tears pooling in his eyes.

“You’re not listening, Channie…” You gesture Changbin over to you. “Now you get to watch Binnie breed me.”

Changbin’s cock twitches at the idea, eager to fill you up. You crawl on the bed and lay on your side, facing Chan. Changbin pushes your legs up towards your chest, kneeling at your bottom and lining up with your entrance. He buries himself inside you with a grunt and begins pounding into you.

Chan whines, hanging his head. The sound of skin smacking fills the room and you relish in the feel of Changbin stretching you out.

“Eyes up, Channie. You have to watch.” you say.

He looks up with hooded eyes, trying to focus on you and watching as Changbin takes what should be his. 

“Fuck…I’m close.” Changbin grunts.

“That’s it baby. Fill me up.”

“Yeah? Want me to breed you?”

“Please, Binnie.” 

A few thrusts later and Changbin is holding you flush with him as his cock twitches inside you, releasing globs of cum into your womb. He leans down, buried balls deep as he gropes your breasts. His hand slides down and begins to rub circles on your clit.

“Mmmm…fuck Binnie.” you throw your head back as he continues.

Changbin slowly moves in and out of you, overstimulating himself as the coil inside you tightens and threatens to snap. 

“Cum for me darling.” Changbin says. 

With that, you snap, coming hard around his cock and milking him dry. You could feel how full of cum you were as you caught your breath. Finally looking back over to Chan, you smirk as you see him biting his lip. He had tears in his eyes as his cock twitched beneath him. 

There was cum dripping from his reddened tip, a little splatter on the floor beneath him. Changbin slipped out with a groan and fell back on the bed. You slip off the bed, doing your best to keep the cum from slipping out.

“Channie…” you say, walking over to him

“I’m sorry…sorry..so sorry…” he blurts out in a mumble.

“Did I say you could cum?” you cross your arms.

Chan whines.

You move swiftly, grabbing him by the balls harshly. “Answer me.”

“No.” he says with a wince. Sniffling, he shakes his head.

“No, what?”

“No ma’am.” he takes a shaky breath.

You pull on the ring around his cock and he hisses.

“Since you want to cum so bad…you’re gonna cum over and over until I tell you to stop.”

“I’m sorry….” he says.

“Nope. Too late. Binnie, bring me the vibrator. And some lube.”

Changbin moves swiftly, his cock fully hard once more. Chan sighs, worried about the rest of the night. It was already close to midnight. At least he thought so. Frankly, he was losing track of time with all the orgasms fogging his brain.

You step behind him, smacking his ass harshly. Five times in the same spot and you were seeing a red mark in the shape of your hand. His body started to shake as he grunted. His arms were hurting and he was tired of standing but he didn’t complain - he was already in enough trouble.

You kneel down behind him, prodding his hole with your finger. He lets out a moan as you push two in. 

“Fuck….” he groans.

You curl your fingers to massage his prostate and he is seeing stars. He squirms against the restraints, too sensitive from all the orgasms. You motion for Changbin to use the vibrator so he turns it on and places it on Chan's cock.

“Mmmmm….y/n,” he moans.

“Cum for me, slut.” You demand.

“I can’t…” he whines.

“You wanted to cum so badly…so come on. Give me another one.” you say, inserting three fingers.

Chan whines, pulling at the restraints. 

“Let’s go, we don’t have all night.” you say as if annoyed.

Taking the lube, you apply a little on your hand and push your whole fist inside.

Chan’s eyes pop open as he squirms. “Ahh…fuck.”

“Cum.” you demand, thrusting your hand in his tight hole.

With a grunt, Chan’s body shakes as an orgasm washes over him. Another dry orgasm. A little cum beads at his tip but that’s all. You keep massaging his prostate, making him fight the restraints in efforts of getting away from your touch. Smirking, you slip your hand out.

“Is that all you got, hyung?” Changbin shakes his head.

“Oh Channie…I know you can do better than that.” you say, licking the bead from his tip. He shivers at your tongue and you take his entire length in your mouth.

“Ahh…” he squirms harder.

When you stop and stand up, his head drops, his body going slack. You loved him like this - all fucked out and barely there. He was probably one orgasm away from blacking out.

“So sensitive.” you smile, lifting his head to look into his eyes.

He groans, mumbling incoherently as his eyes try to focus on you. It was pathetic really.

“One more.” you say.

His brows furrowed as he whined, his eyes closing. 

“Be a good boy for me, yeah?”

His lip pouts but he nods.

“Channie…” you warn.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good boy.”

Changbin moves behind him and slips inside once more. A pained whine escapes Chan. He was reaching his limit.

You watch as Changbin loses himself in the feel of Chan wrapped around him. He pounds into him, practically holding Chan up. Tears fall down Chan’s cheeks, the sensations too much.

“Please…” he whines.

This is it. He’s breaking. He made it farther than last time.

“No.” you say. “Changbin isn’t even done. And I said….One. More.” 

You grip his chin and make him look at you. The sad, pitiful look on his face tugged at your heartstrings. But he never used the safeword. You doubt he ever would…. So you stay strong.

Changbin lifts him by the hips, pounding into him as his feet no longer touch the floor. Chan’s back was more arched and Changbin was hitting deeper in this position. It also put more strain on Chan’s wrists, making him moan louder.

You knelt down, taking Chan’s cock into your mouth. Craving his taste, you suck and bob your head.

“Ahhh..noo..s’too too…m-much.” Chan cries out.

You ignore him, pushing him to orgasm once more. 

“Ahhh…fuck..” Chan’s body trembles as the orgasm is being pulled from him.

“Fuck…I’m gonna cum.” Changbin grunts.

You reach between Chan’s legs and massage Changbin’s balls, pushing him over the edge with a groan.

“Fuck..” he hisses, cock twitching inside of Chan as he fills him up.

Chan’s eyes roll back as his own orgasm washes over him. His whole body was shaking violently. He moaned loudly, his cum hitting the back of your throat. You suck, milking him dry as his cock finally begins to soften. 

His chest heaves as his eyes close. You stand and kiss his lips, a ghost of a smile appears before he’s truly gone.

“Fuck.” Changbin says, wiping his forehead. 

You reach up and undo the handcuffs, only for him to nearly fall on you. Changbin helps you carry him to the bed, laying him on his back. He spreads Chan’s legs, looking at the poor boy’s abused hole. 

“Look at that.” Changbin smiles triumphantly as a glob of cum drips out. He takes his finger and pushes it back in, Chan squirming weakly.

You lay next to Chan, brushing his hair from his sweaty forehead. You pepper his face with kisses, loving how good he was for you - how much he trusted you.

“I’m gonna shower. Want to join me?” Changbin asks.

“You go ahead. I’m gonna wait for him to wake.” you say.

Changbin goes into the bathroom, insisting on cleaning you up before his shower. After he does, you lay on Chan’s chest for a bit until he finally comes to. 

“How you feeling?” you ask.

“Sore.” he chuckles.

“Too much?”

“Nope. Too good.” he smiles, kissing your forehead.

“We should shower.”

“In the morning. I can’t move.”

“Fine. At least let me clean you up.” You say, hurrying off into the bathroom.

You return with a warm washcloth and begin wiping him down. He jerks slightly, still sensitive from the shenanigans. You giggle when some of Changbin’s cum drips out. You push it back in, making him moan.

“Y/n…” he cautions.

“Well don’t let it drip out.” you say.

You toss the washcloth into the hamper and snuggle back up with your boyfriend. It didn’t take long for you both to fall asleep. You both would definitely be sleeping in the next morning.

His thumb brushes your lip.

And then—

He leans in.

Slow. Careful.

And finally kisses you.

Jisung’s lips brush yours like he’s afraid you might break.

You’re still so close, tucked under Minho’s shirt, curled into his side, fingers resting on the faint outline of ink across his ribs.

His hand holds your face now — cradling your cheek with such care it makes your chest ache. His thumb strokes slowly across your skin, grounding you. Silencing everything else.

And then?

He kisses you again.

This time fully.

Soft.

Real.

There’s no rush in it. No teeth, no tongue, no hunger.

Just his lips against yours — warm and gentle, like he’s giving you something sacred.

You breathe into it.

Melt into it.

One hand drifts up to his chest, fingers curling into the soft curve of his collarbone.

He tilts his head, deepening it just slightly — his nose brushing yours, his lips parting a little more now, not to devour, but to taste.

And you kiss him back.

Slow.

Long.

Each pass of his mouth over yours feels like the kind of thing people don’t talk about out loud. Like something secret. Something quiet. Something… safe.

You sigh into him.

He kisses you again.

This one lingers longer.

He lets it drag.

Lets your bottom lip catch between his for just a second before pulling back — only to kiss you again, slower this time, like he’s memorizing you.

You feel his hand slip to your waist.

His thumb rubs soft circles under the hem of the shirt — his shirt now, technically — skin on skin, warm and lazy.

You hum into him, eyes closed, heart fluttering.

Then the kiss shifts.

Just slightly.

A little more pressure.

Your lips part more willingly now, and his tongue just barely flicks between — not enough to start something, but enough to remind you who he is.

Who you are.

Who you’ve both been holding back from being.

His hand presses gently at the base of your spine now, pulling you a bit closer.

And you let him.

You kiss him deeper — slower — your fingers curling tighter into the fabric over his chest, your knee nudging between his legs without even realizing it.

He exhales shakily.

Pulls back just enough to whisper, “You okay?”

You nod, lips brushing his as you speak. “Mhm. Just don’t stop.”

He smiles against your mouth.

And kisses you again.

Longer.

Softer.

Hotter.

The air between you thickens.

You’re practically laying over him now, his leg slotted between yours, your hand resting just over his heart as it races against your palm.

Your mouth opens more for him, and he kisses you like he’s wanted to for hours—like he’s still afraid he’ll have to stop, but can’t help himself.

Your hips shift slightly, instinctively grinding down.

You both moan.

Quiet.

Soft.

Barely there.

But then—

Click.

The sound of the shower turning off breaks through the silence.

You freeze.

Both of you do.

Jisung blinks at you, lips swollen, cheeks pink.

Your chest rises and falls against his, your mouth still hovering close to his, still tingling from his warmth.

He swallows.

You whisper, “Just one kiss, huh?”

Jisung laughs breathlessly.

But neither of you move.

Not yet.

Because your lips still remember.

And so do his.

The second the water shuts off, it’s like your whole body forgets how to move.

You’re still pressed against Jisung — your face tucked into his neck, his hand warm under the hem of Minho’s shirt on your waist, both of you dazed and quiet.

Your lips are swollen.

His are too.

You blink.

Reality crashes back.

Jisung whispers first, voice low and tight, “Shit—shit—okay—”

You scramble off of him, rolling onto your side and grabbing the edge of the comforter to pull over yourself like it could somehow hide the guilt.

Jisung shifts too, adjusting his position under the blanket, laying back and throwing an arm over his forehead like he’s always been relaxing.

You both try to breathe normal.

But the air between you still hums.

And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Confident. Getting closer.

The bedroom door creaks open.

Minho walks in, towel around his hips, damp hair pushed back, a few drops of water still trailing down his chest.

He stops just inside the doorway.

And looks.

At you.

At Jisung.

At the way the blanket’s a little too rumpled.

At your flushed cheeks.

At how Jisung won’t meet his eyes.

At how still you suddenly are.

He doesn’t say anything for a second.

Just shuts the door behind him.

And smiles.

Slow. Dangerous. Knowing.

“Well…”

His voice is deep and quiet, and it cuts right through you.

“Did you behave while I was gone?”

You don’t answer right away.

Your heart’s pounding.

Jisung lets out a weak little breath that sounds like it wants to be a laugh but fails halfway through.

Minho walks closer.

You shift under the blanket, forcing yourself to sit up as casually as possible.

“I… yeah,” you lie softly.

Minho tilts his head. “Yeah?”

He stops at the edge of the bed.

Leans down.

Face inches from yours.

“So if I kiss you right now…” he murmurs, voice silk-wrapped steel. “I won’t taste anything I’m not supposed to?”

Your stomach drops.

Jisung turns his face to the wall.

Minho smirks.

“Thought so.”

Minho’s face is so close it’s almost cruel.

His mouth is right there — the mouth you’ve been chasing all night — and still, he doesn’t give it to you.

Instead, he just looks at you.

“Did you kiss him?”

Your breath catches.

“I—”

Minho tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Yes or no?”

You fidget under his gaze, your fingers curling into the edge of the blanket. “It—it wasn’t like that—“

His brow lifts. “So you did.”

You shake your head. “I—he—no—”

He lets out a low chuckle.

It’s not funny.

It’s dangerous.

Minho stands straight again, dragging one hand through his damp hair, still watching you like a cat watches a mouse trying to lie.

“You really gonna sit there in my shirt,” he says slowly, “on my bed, after I let you ride my cock like that—and lie to my face?”

You bite your lip.

“Minho…”

“Say it.”

His voice drops lower. Firmer. Unmovable.

“Did you kiss him?”

You glance toward Jisung, who’s still turned slightly away, silent but clearly listening.

You clench the blanket tighter in your fists.

And you whisper, “Yes.”

Minho hums. No surprise. No anger.

Just that fucking look.

“Good girl,” he says softly.

You blink.

But then he leans closer again—closer than before—his breath brushing your lips.

And still…

He doesn’t kiss you.

You whimper. “Minho…”

He brushes his nose against yours. “What?”

You’re squirming now, voice tight, body hot all over again. “It’s not fair.”

“Mm?”

“I’ve been so good,” you whisper, breath shaking. “You said if I worked for it—if I earned it—please, I just want one…”

Minho just watches you.

Then—

“Do you really think you deserve it?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. Please—*please—*just one—”

He leans in so close you feel his lips brush yours.

Then turns his head.

And kisses your cheek instead.

You let out a strangled sob of frustration. “Minho—!”

“You kissed him first,” he murmurs against your skin. “Now you get to wait.”

Minho’s breath ghosts over your cheek where he just kissed you.

You’re still frozen, wide-eyed, lips parted like they’re waiting—like maybe if you don’t move, he’ll still change his mind and give it to you.

He doesn’t.

You let out a soft, broken sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. “Minho… please.”

He doesn’t pull back.

Just stays there. Inches away. His eyes flick down to your mouth—once, slowly—and then back up to your eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb gently beneath your eye. “You brought this on yourself.”

“I was good,” you whisper. “I did everything. I came when you told me to, I begged, I—”

“You also kissed someone else.”

You look down, voice crumbling. “Because you wouldn’t.”

Minho lets out a soft hum—thoughtful, not angry. He brushes your hair back behind your ear and looks at you like he’s trying to decide what to do with you.

“I know what you want,” he says gently.

“Then give it to me,” you plead.

“I will,” he murmurs, fingers stroking under your jaw. “Eventually.”

Your body deflates—shoulders dropping, lips wobbling, tears still hot behind your eyes.

“You’re cruel.”

He leans in again.

This time his mouth brushes just below your ear, lips barely grazing your skin.

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m patient. You? You still need to learn.”

Your throat tightens as he shifts, sitting up straighter. He glances at Jisung, who’s been silent but wide-eyed through the whole exchange, still laid back against the pillows.

“Come here,” Minho says, voice smooth again.

Jisung blinks. “Me?”

Minho nods. “She’s been acting like she’s starving. Let her watch while I remind you what a kiss feels like.”

And just like that—

Minho pulls Jisung in.

And kisses him.

Full.

Deep.

Jisung gasps against his mouth before melting into it instantly, their bodies sliding together under the sheets as their hands start to roam again. It’s slower than before now, more deliberate, hotter, somehow more intimate.

You watch.

Frozen.

Soaked.

Eyes wide and aching.

Because once again…

It’s not you.

(to be continued maybe…)

“This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things”

You don’t even flinch when a pillow smacks you dead in the face.

“You’ve paused this movie three times now,” Jisung groans from where he’s sprawled across the couch like a tired housecat. “At this point we might as well just reenact it ourselves.”

“You wanna play the role of ‘Guy Who Dies in the First Five Minutes’?” you mutter, flinging popcorn at his forehead.

Minho snorts from the kitchen. “He’d overact and cry for no reason. The director would kill him off faster.”

“Excuse you,” Jisung gasps, sitting up indignantly, his hair a disaster and his sweatpants even worse. “I am a natural-born thespian. Right, babe?”

You blink at him. “Don’t call me babe.”

“You let Minho call you babe,” he whines, pouting now. “This is favoritism.”

“He doesn’t call me babe,” you say, just as Minho strolls in and casually drops into the seat next to you.

“Babe, you want the last can of cider?” he asks, already handing it to you.

You take it, muttering, “I hate both of you.”

It’s always like this — loud, stupid, a little too close. No boundaries. No filters. Just the three of you, the weirdest little trio to ever share a rent bill.

Jisung throws his leg over yours without asking, warm skin brushing yours where your shorts ride up. Minho leans into your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, arm slung lazily along the back of the couch. No part of this should feel abnormal. It never used to.

But then again, you’re pretty sure Minho’s hand just grazed the top of your thigh when he shifted.

And you’re definitely not thinking about the way Jisung’s bare knee is pressed between yours, or how his voice goes lower when he talks like that.

You crack open the can and take a long sip.

Nope. Not thinking about it at all.

“Men Are Actually So Useless”

You shut the apartment door as quietly as you can, slipping your shoes off with a sigh. It’s almost 1 a.m. Your date ended forty-five minutes ago, and you’ve been walking off the frustration ever since.

You’d shaved. You’d worn perfume. You’d even sat through two hours of small talk with a man who thought astrology was “girl math.” And for what?

To get railed like a fleshlight and left hanging.

Pathetic.

You’re halfway to your room when a voice calls out from the couch.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to come home.”

You groan internally. Of course they’re still up.

Minho’s half-asleep on one end of the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, blanket up to his chin. Jisung is sitting cross-legged on the floor, munching on leftover dumplings and looking way too smug.

“Don’t,” you warn, not even turning around.

“Aw, come on,” Jisung says through a mouthful of rice. “How was your date? Did he whine about the check or just show you his Spotify Wrapped?”

You pivot slowly, arms crossed. “He came in under two minutes.”

Minho lifts his head. “Like… into the date?”

“No,” you say flatly. “Into me.”

Jisung chokes on his food.

There’s a beat of stunned silence. Then—

“Bro.”

“What the fuck—”

“Are you serious?”

You walk to the kitchen, ignoring their reactions, and grab a cold bottle of water. The twist of the cap feels like violence. “I should’ve known when he asked if foreplay was like, optional.”

Minho groans. “Oh my God.”

“He literally said — and I quote — ‘I usually skip it unless it’s their birthday.’”

Jisung drops his chopsticks like the dramatics he is. “Men are actually a crime. A war crime. I want names.”

You sit on the counter and take a swig of water, swinging your legs. “It’s fine. I’m just gonna start pretending sex doesn’t exist. Like birds.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Birds do exist.”

“Not to me.”

Jisung stares at you for a second. “Wait, are you telling me you didn’t finish?”

“Jisung.” You stare back, deadpan. “I’ve never finished. Not from another person. I genuinely think the female orgasm is a myth. Like… Santa. Or straight men who actually eat pussy.”

Minho visibly winces.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap, pointing at him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Looks away.

Exactly.

Jisung throws his hands up. “No, you’re right. We’re hopeless. I’ve seen porn and I still don’t know what the clit looks like.”

You snort. “It’s okay. Neither does anyone I’ve ever dated.”

There’s another pause. One of those loaded, too-quiet ones.

Then Minho mutters under his breath, “Maybe you’re just dating the wrong people.”

You blink.

Jisung slowly turns toward him, eyebrows raised.

“What was that?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says immediately. “Forget it.”

But you don’t. And neither does Jisung.

Because something about the way he said it—

The quiet.

The certainty.

—makes something in your chest stir.

You’re still perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, water bottle in hand. The silence after Minho’s little comment sits heavy in the air, even with the distant hum of the fridge and Jisung’s abandoned dumplings growing cold on the coffee table.

Then, casually — like he’s talking about the weather — Minho speaks again.

“I’ve never left anyone high and dry.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, leaning back into the couch. “I’ve never been that guy. They always finish. Every single time.”

You snort. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, I know you’re serious,” you say, sliding off the counter. “You just sound dumb.”

Minho blinks. “Why?”

“Because they were acting, dumbass.”

His jaw twitches.

You wave your hand dramatically. “Moaning, shaking, saying your name like you’re the second coming of Christ? All fake. Peak performance. Women deserve Oscars.”

“I know the difference between fake and real.”

You laugh in his face. “Oh my God.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

Jisung raises a finger. “Okay, hold on. I always let the girl finish before me, too—”

“You think you do,” you say.

He stops mid-sentence, blinking. “Wait. What if they faked it too?”

“Exactly,” you mutter. “Men always assume they’re God’s gift to—”

“No, no, no, don’t do this to me,” Jisung says, pointing at his own heart. “I give effort. I go in with a strategy. I pace myself. I’ve got rhythm. I ask questions.”

Minho laughs into his blanket. “You sound like you’re planning a heist.”

“This is a heist. Stealing orgasms. Successfully.” Jisung looks at you, distressed. “Wait, what if I’m just mid?”

Minho wipes a tear of laughter from his eye. “Do they leave right away?”

“What?”

“The girls you’re with. Do they get up and ghost right after, or do they cling? Text you later? Try to come back for more?”

Jisung pauses.

Thinks.

“…They cling.”

Minho raises his brows, smug. “Exactly.”

“So… I’m good?”

“You’re welcome.”

Jisung looks weirdly proud of himself now, arms crossed and chin up like he’s just been knighted.

You just stare at them both, blinking slowly.

“This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever heard,” you mutter.

Minho turns his attention back to you, eyes lazy, voice casual. “I know when it’s real. Don’t lump me in with your trash date.”

You open your mouth to say something. Maybe to argue. Maybe to mock.

But then you remember the way he’d said it the first time—quiet, certain, calm—and the way he’s looking at you now.

And for some reason…

You say nothing at all.

“You Two Are All Talk”

You’re sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by greasy takeout boxes, scattered shot glasses, and half-finished bottles of soju and beer. The air smells like sweet alcohol and fried food, and someone — probably Jisung — spilled peach soju on the remote, which means you’re now stuck watching a dating show that none of you care about.

The TV’s playing in the background, but you’re more focused on watching Jisung reenact one of the over-the-top breakup scenes using a piece of fried chicken as a microphone.

“—and then she goes, ‘I just feel like you’re not emotionally available,’” he says in a fake high-pitched voice, holding the drumstick dramatically to his chest. “Girl, he ghosted his own mom! Of course he’s not available!”

Minho’s snorting into his beer bottle, lounging on the couch with one arm thrown lazily behind his head.

You’re sipping straight from a bottle of plum wine, blinking slowly. “Still more emotionally satisfying than my date.”

“Okay, we get it,” Jisung sighs, tossing the chicken bone onto a napkin. “Your sex life’s a horror movie. We’ve been hearing about this man’s 45-second sprint for days.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You two act like you’re walking sex ed posters.”

Minho glances at you lazily. “Because we are.”

You laugh — hard. “Right. You two probably watched one moaning compilation and decided you’re gifted by the gods.”

“I do my research!” Jisung insists, sitting up straighter. “I study. I prepare.”

“Yeah? So you’re publishing a thesis now? ‘Women Are Easy: A Straight Man’s Journey Through Delusion’?”

Minho lifts his beer, grinning. “You’re just mad because your date couldn’t find the clit with GPS.”

You gesture at him with your wine. “Please. You probably think the clit is a setting on a washing machine.”

“I’ve had people shaking,” Minho says, smug.

“From disappointment?”

He smirks. “From pleasure, kitten.”

You groan. “Stop calling me that.”

“She looks like she’s gonna throw something,” Jisung mutters.

“I’m fine,” you say sweetly, taking another long swig. “Just dying of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Never have I ever“

An hour later, Jisung announces shots like it’s a public service.

There’s a dangerous mix of bottles on the table — soju, tequila, beer, someone’s emergency stash of rum Minho “accidentally” found in your closet. You’re all way past tipsy and deep into dangerously oversharing territory.

“I swear to God,” Jisung slurs, trying to stack the bottle caps like a tower, “if this one doesn’t count, I’m doing a truth round.”

You just laugh and refill your cup. “You’re already three truths deep. It’s called Never Have I Ever, not Tell All My Kinks and Cry About It.”

Minho raises his half-empty glass. “Never have I ever… had sex in a moving vehicle.”

You drink.

They both stare at you.

You shrug. “Backseat. Wasn’t great. Windows fogged up. Whole Titanic reenactment. Zero payoff.”

Minho smirks. “You really do have hidden talents, kitten.”

“I swear to God if you say that one more time—”

“What? It suits you.”

“You’re literally projecting a furry kink onto me.”

“No, I’m projecting cutie with claws energy onto you.”

You take another drink just to avoid screaming.

“Okay, okay—my turn,” Jisung says, pointing dramatically. “Never have I ever… choked someone during sex.”

You and Minho both drink.

Jisung makes a noise. “Wait, you?!”

You shrug. “I’ve had a weird phase or two.”

“She’s so mysterious,” Minho teases, leaning in. “What else don’t we know?”

“That I regret agreeing to this game.”

“Liar,” he says, grinning. “You live for the drama.”

Jisung grins, drunk and delighted. “Never have I ever had a kink I was scared to tell someone.”

Minho drinks.

You raise your brow. “Spill.”

He just licks his lips and smiles. “Wouldn’t you like to know… kitten.”

You throw a napkin at his face. “Get a new personality.”

“I’m gonna get it printed on a t-shirt,” he says proudly.

“Make it two,” Jisung adds.

You groan.

Jisung turns to you, squinting. “Okay, what about you? Be real. What’s your weirdest kink?”

“I don’t have one.”

Minho snorts. “Liar.”

“I don’t!”

“You’re too aggressive to be vanilla. I don’t buy it.”

“I will fight both of you in the street.”

“I’d still call you kitten.”

“I’ll put you in a headlock.”

“Still hot.”

You down the rest of your drink.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

—

The bottle of tequila is almost empty, which means the decisions being made now are… unsupervised at best.

Someone — probably you, but you’ll deny it later — suggested switching to dares after Jisung confessed he once cried mid-blowjob because the girl played a Taylor Swift song in the background and it “unlocked a core memory.”

There’s no music anymore. Just laughter, slurred speech, and the occasional crash of something being knocked over as Minho tries to do yoga in jeans for a dare.

“I’m literally—” he wheezes, stuck in a sad downward dog, “—so flexible.”

“You’re gonna snap your spine,” you say, lying sideways on the couch, cheeks flushed from alcohol and laughter.

“You love it,” he grins, not even getting up. “Don’t act like you don’t wanna see me in this position.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Born this way, kitten.”

“I swear to God.”

Jisung downs a shot. “Alright! My turn again. Truth or dare, baby girl?”

You throw a pillow at his face. “You call me that again and I’m putting your toothbrush in the toilet.”

He giggles. “Dare it is.”

You groan. “Fine. Hit me.”

Jisung lights up with pure evil. “I dare you to send a ‘you up?’ text to the last person you matched with.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Absolutely not.”

Minho sits up with interest. “Do it.”

“I’m blocking both of you.”

Jisung leans in. “Come on, you said you wanted someone with actual experience, remember?”

“I also said I wanted to be hit by a bus.”

“Same vibe.”

You groan louder, but you grab your phone anyway. “If I get ghosted or proposed to, it’s your fault.”

“I accept full responsibility,” Jisung says, raising his glass.

You fire off the message, toss your phone face-down, and collapse dramatically across Minho’s lap, already regretting everything.

“Ow,” he says, not even trying to push you off. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“You’re skinnier than your attitude,” you mutter into his thigh.

He just laughs, brushing a strand of hair off your face. “Still comfy though?”

You flip him off without looking.

“Still cute though,” he says, way too casually.

You groan. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love being called kitten.”

“I don’t!”

“Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart.”

You dramatically slide off his lap and onto the floor like a melting popsicle. “I’m gonna actually lose it.”

“Too late,” Jisung says. “You lost it three shots ago.”

You throw another pillow at him.

He throws one back.

Minho just watches, sipping his drink and smiling like he’s hosting a sitcom.

“Alright,” you say, slurring a little, “who’s next before I start throwing hands?”

“You just went,” Minho smirks from the couch, legs spread, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “It’s my turn.”

“Oh no,” Jisung groans. “This is how we die.”

Minho lifts his shot glass, looking far too pleased with himself. “Jisung. I dare you to reenact the most dramatic porn line you’ve ever heard.”

Jisung doesn’t even blink. “Challenge accepted.”

He clears his throat like he’s prepping for a Shakespearean monologue.

Then, in the most unhinged, breathy voice you’ve ever heard:

“Doctor… I think my clothes are allergic to me. They just keep falling off.”

You choke on your drink. Minho lets out an actual wheeze.

“No, no wait—” Jisung holds up a hand, getting into position. “Let me set the scene.”

He kicks over a chair pretending it’s a hospital gurney and drops to one knee dramatically.

“Oh no, step-sir… I’m stuck. In my own feelings. For you.”

You’re crying. Actually crying. There are tears in your eyes.

“Step-sir!?” you gasp between laughs. “I hate you so much!”

Minho’s laughing so hard he’s gone silent.

“You’re welcome,” Jisung says with a bow, then promptly stands up and starts grinding to the faint beat of a TikTok sound someone left playing on a loop.

“Why does he dance like a drunk worm?” you mutter.

“He is a drunk worm,” Minho replies, refilling his glass.

“You love it!” Jisung yells mid-body roll, nearly falling over.

“I love you less every second.”

You all spiral again.

Once the laughter dies down and Jisung finally collapses into a heap, panting from his own twerk attempt, he raises his hand like he’s back in school.

“Okay. New round,” he says, breathing hard. “Everyone says their real kink. No lies.”

You groan. “This again?”

Minho leans in. “You scared, kitten?”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

You flip him off but stay seated.

“Fine,” Jisung says. “I’ll go first. Praise kink. But like—genuine praise. Not condescending.”

Minho raises a brow. “You want someone to pat your head and go ‘Good boy?’”

Jisung shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”

You snort into your glass.

Minho gestures at himself. “Control. Domination. Tying people up. Making them beg.”

You look at him. “You sound too confident.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone. I just know what I like.”

Everyone looks at you next.

You hesitate.

Then sigh. “…Probably power play. Like, being told what to do. But not in a creepy way.”

Minho smirks. “So you do have a thing.”

You hold your drink up. “Shut up and cheers me.”

He clinks glasses with you, looking way too smug.

You roll your eyes and look back at Jisung. “That enough horny for you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quieter than expected, he asks:

“Have you ever actually felt… safe during sex?”

The room stills.

Like, really stills.

Even the soft music from your phone feels too loud all of a sudden.

You glance over. Minho’s not smiling. Jisung’s staring at the floor. You don’t say anything right away, because you don’t know what to say.

And for the first time all night, it doesn’t feel like a joke.

Just a very real, very honest question hanging in the air.

No one answers.

But no one laughs either.

And somehow, that feels like enough.

But then Jisung lets out a breath and laughs — not a bitter laugh, just a tired, tipsy one.

“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. That was a buzzkill.”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s valid.”

Minho finally speaks, voice low but easy. “Alright. That’s enough emotional intimacy for one night.”

You glance over at him. He stretches his arms above his head, his hoodie riding up slightly, revealing the sharp line of his waist.

He catches you looking and smirks. “Unless you wanna unpack your trauma some more, kitten.”

You groan. “I’ll smother you with a couch cushion.”

“You’d have to reach me first.”

Jisung raises his hand from where he’s lying like a corpse on the rug. “I vote we move this party to Minho’s room.”

Minho blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You have a big-ass bed and a TV. Your room’s the final boss of sleepover vibes.”

“He’s right,” you yawn. “Your mattress is practically luxury. My back still hurts from that Ikea piece of shit in my room.”

“Wow,” Minho says, offended. “She insults my kindness and wants to steal my bed. Incredible.”

“You love us,” you say, already standing. “Shut up and move.”

“Fine,” he mutters, grabbing his phone and the last bottle. “But if any of you hog the blanket, I’m throwing hands.”

Ten minutes later, you’re all tangled up on Minho’s bed — limbs draped across one another, the soft buzz of a random movie playing on the mounted TV. It’s dark, but the screen casts a glow across the room, painting Jisung’s half-asleep face in soft blue light as he mumbles something about how good Minho’s sheets smell.

“Because I wash them like a civilized human,” Minho mutters, shifting so he’s not lying directly on someone’s foot.

You’re curled on your side, head half on a pillow, half on Minho’s chest, too drunk and tired to move. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.

“I’m never going back to my room,” you mumble.

“Same,” Jisung adds, already half snoring.

Minho’s voice is quiet but amused. “You’re like stray cats. I let you in once and now you live here.”

You don’t reply. You’re too busy letting your eyelids fall shut, body warm, brain fuzzy, surrounded by the two people who somehow make everything feel a little easier — even the hard stuff.

And in that moment, with the movie humming softly and the bed full of slow, sleepy breathing, the world feels… safe.

Maybe not perfect.

But safe.

—

“Too Hot to Be Wingmanned”

The apartment smells like toasted bagels, fabric softener, and regret.

You sit at the kitchen table, hair in a messy bun, oversized t-shirt barely covering your shorts, sipping the world’s strongest coffee while Jisung pops Advil like candy.

“I don’t remember falling asleep,” he mumbles, face buried in his arms.

“You didn’t,” Minho says, already fully dressed in sweatpants and a smug expression. “You just faceplanted into my mattress and made dolphin noises until you passed out.”

“I’m a delight,” Jisung groans.

You stretch, sore but oddly content. “Well, that was the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

“See?” Jisung says, perking up. “And now we keep the energy going. There’s a party tonight.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He downs the rest of his orange juice and slaps the counter. “We’re going. We’re getting dressed. We’re finding someone to ruin your life for the weekend.”

Minho frowns. “Why would we do that?”

“To get her laid,” Jisung says proudly.

“I’m standing right here,” you deadpan.

“Sorry, get her emotionally and physically fulfilled.”

Minho looks at you. “Do you actually want to go?”

You shrug. “Why not?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Because parties are loud, sweaty, and full of men who say ‘vibes’ unironically.”

You smirk. “Sounds like your dating history.”

Jisung chokes on his bagel.

“Fine,” Minho sighs. “But I reserve the right to judge every person you talk to.”

“And I reserve the right to ignore you.”

One Hour Later:

“Okay, thoughts on this one?” you ask, stepping out of your room in a strappy red dress that’s half the size of your confidence.

Minho looks up from the couch, squints. “Too… Valentine’s. Like you’re about to hand out chocolates and trauma.”

You scowl. “That’s literally my personality.”

Jisung gives it a seven out of ten. “It’s giving accidentally slept with the DJ.”

“Next one,” you sigh.

They sit through six more dress changes — everything from “bored trophy wife” to “church girl who commits tax fraud” — all met with critiques like:

“Too prom.”

“Too goth girl on her fifth rebirth.”

“Too nun, but like a bitter nun.”

“That one’s straight-up whore vibes — which, to be clear, I support.”

Finally, you step out in the final dress.

Jet black. Tight. Short.

Backless, clinging to your curves like it was made for you.

Your thigh tattoo — the bow on the back of your leg — peeks out with every step.

And your back tattoo trails upward from your lower spine, delicate and dark and sexy as hell, disappearing under the high collar and reappearing again at your nape.

You don’t even speak. You just do a slow spin.

The room is silent.

Jisung’s mouth is open.

Minho blinks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Well?”

Minho swallows. “You’re not wearing that.”

You smirk. “Oh? Why not?”

He gestures vaguely. “Because… it’s… a lot.”

“That’s the point,” you say, admiring yourself in the mirror. “If a man’s gonna ruin my night, he better at least be speechless first.”

Jisung finally exhales. “No, but like… why does this feel illegal? I feel like I’m watching something I need permission to see.”

Minho’s still staring, brows furrowed. “I just think—maybe you could wear a jacket.”

You laugh. “The fact you’re malfunctioning means it’s the perfect pick.”

Jisung’s already getting his shoes. “We’re so dead.”

Minho mutters something under his breath as you walk past to grab your lipstick.

It sounds suspiciously like “fuck me” — but you pretend not to hear it.

“Look Hot, Regret Nothing”

The party’s already in full swing by the time the three of you walk through the door — bass thrumming in the floorboards, lights low and hazy, the scent of perfume, alcohol, and way too much cologne clouding the air.

Heads turn as you step in.

Not because you’re doing anything special.

Just existing.

Looking like that.

Jisung whistles low under his breath. “Goddamn, we’re not even ten feet in and people are already eyeing you like you’re a buffet.”

You shrug, pretending not to notice the way a few people pause mid-conversation to check you out. “Good. I’m starving too.”

Minho’s next to you, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. “This place smells like frat boy sweat and bad decisions.”

“That’s the vibe,” Jisung grins. “Come on, let’s find the drinks and a corner to watch the world burn.”

The three of you weave through the crowd — a tangle of neon lights and pulsing music, people dancing, bodies swaying too close, laughter rising like steam.

You make it to the makeshift bar, where Jisung immediately takes on the role of overenthusiastic bartender, pouring shots like you’re all 19 again.

“To bad choices and worse men,” he says, handing you a glass.

You raise yours. “And to thighs that don’t chafe.”

Minho reluctantly clinks his glass with yours. “And to someone trying to flirt with you so I can judge them relentlessly.”

You grin. “Aw, you do care.”

“I just don’t want to have to fight someone,” he mutters. “These pants are too tight for kicking.”

You toss the shot back, and the burn in your throat barely registers — the music’s too loud, the energy too electric, and you look too damn good to care.

And apparently, so does the guy walking up to you.

He’s tall. Sharp jaw, smirky lips, a little too confident.

“Hey,” he says smoothly. “Saw you walk in and had to come over before I lost my chance.”

You blink. Bold.

Minho, beside you, doesn’t say anything. Just sips his drink. But you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Name’s Theo,” the guy says, offering his hand. “You look… dangerous.”

You raise a brow, taking his hand just long enough to keep it polite. “And you look like you use that line a lot.”

He laughs. “Guilty. But I’m charming enough to get away with it, right?”

You open your mouth to respond, but Jisung beats you to it.

“She’s got a low tolerance for bullshit,” he says, grinning wide. “But if you’re lucky, she might let you buy her a drink before crushing your ego.”

Theo glances between you and your two best friends, then locks back onto you. “Is this the part where they give me a shovel and tell me to start digging my own grave?”

Minho finally speaks.

“No. This is the part where we see how long you last before she figures out you don’t know where the clit is.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Theo laughs, a little less confident this time. “You’re the protective type, huh?”

Minho’s smile is cold. “No. I’m the honest type.”

You nudge him with your elbow, shooting him a look. “Be nice.”

“I am,” he says, deadpan. “That was me being nice.”

Despite the tension, Theo stays — talking, flirting, clearly trying to impress. You humor him for a while, laughing at some jokes, sipping another drink, even swaying a little when the music gets good.

He leans in close when he talks. Too close.

His hand brushes your lower back once. You ignore it.

Minho doesn’t.

Jisung, sensing the vibe shift, quickly drags Minho to the other side of the dance floor under the excuse of “bro I love this song,” giving you space.

You dance a little. Just enough to tease. Just enough to feel good.

But when Theo leans in, breath warm against your ear, and whispers, “Wanna get out of here?” — you freeze.

You don’t answer.

Because before you can even think of a reply, a hand curls around your wrist and pulls you back.

Not hard.

Just enough to stop you.

You blink, turning around.

Minho.

Standing there, jaw clenched, eyes dark, voice low.

“She’s not going anywhere.”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “You her boyfriend?”

“No,” Minho says, tone sharp. “I’m her reality check.”

Theo snorts. “Yeah? And what reality is that?”

“The one where she’s too good for you, and you’re a ten-minute detour she won’t even remember tomorrow.”

You don’t say anything.

Because you don’t have to.

Theo holds your gaze for a beat longer, then shrugs and walks off without another word.

The music swells again.

You and Minho stand there in the middle of it — the lights, the noise, the crowd — and for once, he doesn’t say something smug or sarcastic.

He just looks at you.

Like maybe he’s not entirely sure what just happened either.

You swallow.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to keep it light. “For cockblocking my one shot at mediocre disappointment.”

He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh.

“You deserve better than that.”

And then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd before you can answer.

—

After Theo disappears into the crowd — bruised ego and all — you take a second to breathe, letting the music thrum through your veins and clear your head.

You spot Jisung dancing near the kitchen, doing some chaotic combination of body rolls and finger guns that should be illegal. You walk over, slide in beside him, and match his rhythm just enough to make him grin.

“There’s my girl,” he yells over the music. “You good?”

You nod. “Minho scared off my fan club.”

“Tragic.” He leans closer. “But also… not mad about it.”

You laugh, shake it off, and grab another drink. Jisung disappears toward the bar to flirt with someone wearing leather pants and absolutely no shame.

You’re left standing near the edge of the dance floor when a girl approaches you.

She’s pretty. Glitter under her eyes, drink in hand, tipsy smile already half-formed.

“Hey,” she says, swaying slightly. “Sorry — I just have to ask. Are you, like… poly?”

You blink. “What?”

She giggles. “Like, are you dating both of them?”

You tilt your head. “Both of who?”

She gestures vaguely toward the party. “Your two boyfriends. The tall chaotic one and the one with the resting murder face. They’ve been glued to you all night.”

You pause.

Then it clicks.

Minho. Jisung.

She thinks… oh.

You stifle a laugh, glancing across the room where Jisung is now dramatically flipping his hair at someone and Minho is leaning against a wall like it personally offended him.

“Oh,” you say, trying not to wheeze. “No. They’re just my roommates.”

The girl blinks. “Seriously?”

You nod, sipping your drink.

She leans in conspiratorially. “Girl. I can’t even find one man to text me back. You’ve got two hot ones wrapped around your finger like a romcom. That’s not fair.”

You smile. “What can I say? I cook frozen dumplings and never wear pants around the house.”

She stares for a beat. “Yeah. I’d fall in love with you too.”

You laugh out loud this time.

Hard.

But when she keeps looking at you like you’re the luckiest bitch on Earth, you just raise your cup and say, “You know what? Sure. They’re both mine. Full-time emotional support boyfriends.”

She gasps. “Iconic.”

You clink drinks with her, still grinning.

Because honestly? Explaining the chaos that is your friendship with Minho and Jisung would take too long.

And at this point?

You’re not even gonna fix her.

—

You find them near the balcony, Jisung sipping a mixed drink that’s definitely 90% sugar and 10% vodka, and Minho leaned against the railing like he’s about to deliver a monologue from a noir film.

They both look over as you walk up, still chuckling from your last conversation.

“What’s so funny?” Jisung asks.

You grin. “Some girl just came up to me and asked if I was poly.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Because of us?”

You nod. “Apparently I’m dating both of you. She said she couldn’t even get one man to text her back, and I’ve got two stuck to me like glue.”

Jisung beams. “Wow. She gets it.”

Minho just groans. “That’s it. We’re changing our group chat name to ‘Gay Boyfriends United.’”

You’re mid-sip when a voice interrupts you — confident, a little too loud, and already annoying.

“Excuse me,” a guy says, stepping in far too close. “I just had to say—you are absolutely gorgeous.”

You glance over.

He’s tall. Overdressed. The kind of guy who thinks holding a drink in a wine glass makes him sophisticated.

“I mean, damn,” he says, eyes raking over you like you’re inventory. “Face, body, those tattoos… just—perfect.”

Minho straightens up behind you.

The guy keeps going. “I don’t know how your two gay boyfriends are letting you walk around like this without putting a ring on it.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” the guy smirks. “They’re obviously just your fashion advisors. Let me take you out sometime—properly. You deserve a real man.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond.

Because Minho moves.

Slowly.

Calmly.

His hand finds your waist from behind, warm and solid, and he steps right up to your back. His head rests gently on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear as he speaks low.

“Let’s go home, babe.”

The word babe lands like a gunshot.

Your heart stutters. Your mouth goes dry.

The guy in front of you falters. Blinks. Then scoffs.

“Seriously? That guy’s not even into girls.”

Minho tightens his grip slightly. Doesn’t say a word.

And that’s when Jisung steps in, looping his arm around both you and Minho with a blinding smile that somehow doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” Jisung says lightly. “We were just about to leave. Weren’t we, babe?”

You’re completely frozen now.

Minho’s breath is warm against your neck.

Jisung’s grin sharpens.

And both of them?

Staring this man down like they’ll bury him behind the venue without breaking a sweat.

The guy looks between the three of you — the way you’re pressed together, how they’re practically wrapped around you like they’re daring him to speak again.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Yikes. Alright. Didn’t realize it was that serious.”

He backs away, muttering something under his breath, and disappears into the crowd.

You don’t move.

Minho doesn’t move.

Jisung hums like nothing happened. “I really liked that drink too. Tragic.”

You blink. Slowly.

Minho leans in just a little more, voice low against your skin. “You okay?”

You nod once, still stunned.

Jisung squeezes your arm. “We’re gonna go home now. You’re riding with us, yeah?”

You look between them, still pressed to both sides of your body like armor.

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

Because at this point, what else can you say?

—

The car is quiet.

Minho’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. He’s focused — a little too focused — eyes forward, jaw tense. Jisung’s in the backseat, head tilted against the window, drunk and humming along to the low music playing on the stereo.

You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in your lap.

No one’s spoken since you left the party.

Not about what happened.

Not about the guy.

Not about the way Minho pulled you into his arms like it was nothing, or the way Jisung clung to both of you like backup was already pre-planned.

You don’t know what to say. You’re not even sure what you should say.

So you just… stare out the window, watching the city pass in blurs of gold and red, neon signs flickering past like ghosts.

Finally, Jisung speaks.

“Do you think that guy moisturizes?”

Minho snorts. “Doubt it.”

You blink. “That’s what you’re choosing to talk about?”

“He looked dry,” Jisung murmurs, eyes still half-closed. “Like… emotionally. And epidermically.”

“Epidermically,” Minho repeats, deadpan.

You smile a little despite yourself.

Minho glances at you at a red light. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just processing.”

He nods once. Doesn’t press.

Jisung hums again. “You looked hot, though. Like, actual hot. Like a problem.”

“Thanks,” you mutter. “Apparently too hot for gay boyfriends.”

That gets a laugh out of both of them.

Minho shakes his head, pulling into your building’s parking lot. “If I hear that phrase one more time, I’m committing a felony.”

—

Back at the apartment, you all peel off your shoes and jackets with the sluggishness of post-party fatigue. Jisung collapses dramatically onto the couch like he’s just been shot.

“I’m so tired,” he whines into the cushions. “Minho, carry me to bed.”

“I’d rather throw you out the window.”

You laugh, making your way to the kitchen for water. Minho joins you, grabbing a glass from the cabinet like it’s muscle memory.

For a second, it’s just the sound of water pouring and the low hum of the fridge.

Then—

“You know you didn’t have to do all that back there,” you say quietly.

Minho glances at you. “What, call you babe and hold you like a K-drama boyfriend?”

You snort. “Exactly.”

“I was just playing the part,” he says, voice light. “Didn’t wanna deal with that guy’s mouth for another five seconds.”

“Sure,” you say, raising your glass. “Oscar-worthy performance.”

He smirks. “You liked it.”

“I blacked out.”

“Liar.”

Jisung yells from the couch, “If anyone’s Oscar-worthy, it’s me. I fully committed to the role of clingy gay boyfriend. I deserve a bouquet and maybe some champagne.”

“You’re not getting shit,” Minho calls back.

“Discrimination,” Jisung mutters.

You lean against the counter, sipping your water, feeling the tension finally starting to bleed out of your system.

Minho looks at you, serious for just a second. “He was being a dick. I wasn’t gonna stand there and let him talk to you like that.”

You stare at him.

He holds your gaze.

You nod once, softly. “Thanks.”

He shrugs, reaching past you to grab a snack from the cabinet — like he didn’t just melt your brain a few hours ago.

“Anytime, kitten.”

You groan. “I knew you’d bring it back.”

He grins. “Don’t act like you don’t miss it when I stop.”

You chuck your water bottle at him.

Another date night

It had started out fine.

Better than fine, even.

You’d gotten dressed up — not too much skin this time, just enough confidence. He picked you up, took you to a quiet rooftop bar, ordered for you without being an asshole about it. He was funny. Charming. Flirty in a way that felt natural.

You laughed. You flirted back. You let yourself think, Maybe this time.

And when he leaned in and kissed you outside his place, hand on your waist, whispering something smooth against your skin — you didn’t flinch. You let him lead you in.

And that was the mistake.

Because the moment things got physical… it all unraveled.

His kisses were messy — but not the good kind. All teeth and wetness, like he was trying to eat your mouth instead of kiss it. His hands were too fast, like he was skipping every chapter just to get to the end of the book.

When he finally got you to his bed, it wasn’t sex.

It was… humping.

That’s the only word that came to mind.

Rhythmic, fast, mechanical. He didn’t look at you, didn’t touch you properly, didn’t even notice that you’d gone completely silent halfway through.

And when it was over — when he collapsed beside you with a content sigh and tried to pull you into his arms like he’d done something worth celebrating —

You stood up and said, “I have to go.”

You dressed in silence, didn’t bother with excuses, and left before he could ask if you wanted water.

—

By the time you get home, your skin is still buzzing — not with arousal, but with rage.

Minho and Jisung are on the couch, both in sweatpants, half-watching some dumb late-night cooking show. They pause when they hear the door open.

And they look at you.

Like they already know.

Minho cocks his head. “Well?”

You don’t say anything.

You just kick your shoes off harder than necessary, walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, close it again without grabbing anything, and press both hands against the counter.

“You okay?” Jisung asks gently.

Still nothing.

Minho sits up straighter. “Bad?”

You laugh. Just once. A broken, humorless sound.

“Why is it always me?” you ask, still facing the fridge. “Like… what the hell am I doing wrong?”

Neither of them says anything.

You turn, and they both see it — your eyes glassy, your voice shaking now.

“Do I have a sign on me that says ‘Don’t worry about her’? Like I’m just… there to be used and thrown away?” You gesture vaguely. “It’s like none of them even try. Like I don’t matter.”

“Hey,” Minho says, standing now. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you snap, voice rising. “I keep going on these dates. I try to give people chances. I try to have fun. And every single time I end up back here, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.”

Jisung walks toward you slowly, like you’re a wild animal about to bolt.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says softly.

You shake your head. “It’s pathetic. I literally had to fake moaning just to get it over with faster. I felt nothing. Nothing. It’s like he wasn’t even with me.”

“Did you—”

“No,” you cut in. “Of course I didn’t.”

Minho’s jaw tenses.

You take a shaky breath. “I came home. Got in. Locked the door. Said hi to you guys. And now I’m going straight to my room to do what he couldn’t: make myself cum.”

Jisung’s eyes widen slightly.

Minho doesn’t move.

You look between them. “What? You wanted honesty? There it is. I’m tired. I’m frustrated. And I’m so fucking done pretending this doesn’t bother me.”

And with that, you turn on your heel, walk down the hall, and shut your bedroom door.

Behind the door, it’s quiet.

Just you, your pounding heart, and the sound of your vibrator drawer sliding open.

—

Minho and Jisung stand in the living room, frozen in place, her words still echoing in the silence between them.

“…make myself cum.”

Neither of them speaks.

Then, very faintly—just through the thin walls they all used to joke about when playing music too loud—comes the sound.

A soft whimper.

Followed by another.

Then a quiet, breathy moan.

And another.

Jisung’s eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

Minho doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just stares at the hallway, jaw clenched, lips parted, expression unreadable.

But then the sounds continue — more desperate now, sharper, her breaths catching like she’s chasing it, needing it. Taking it. The kind of pleasure they’ve never seen her give anyone else.

The kind of pleasure no one else has ever deserved to give her.

And suddenly the silence between them is heavier than ever.

Hotter.

Jisung shifts slightly, hands twitching at his sides. “That’s… she’s really…”

Minho finally speaks. Voice low. Dangerous.

“She’s not faking this time.”

Jisung looks down.

Minho follows his gaze.

They both see it.

Hard.

Obvious.

Each of them, clearly affected.

Jisung swallows hard. “Okay… this is new.”

Minho doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t joke.

Just lifts one brow and lets his gaze flick from Jisung’s straining sweatpants to his flushed face and back again.

Then, calmly — like he’s talking about the weather:

“So it’s not just her.”

Jisung’s voice is a little breathless. “Nope.”

They stare at each other for a long second.

And then another moan cuts through the air — louder this time. Her voice raw, desperate, breaking as she gasps something unintelligible.

Minho exhales slowly. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

And then he smirks.

“Still think we’re all talk?”

Jisung doesn’t answer.

Minho steps closer — just one step — his eyes gleaming, cocky, full of wicked confidence.

“She thinks no man can make her cum,” he says, voice low, hungry. “That no one’s capable.”

He leans in just enough for Jisung to feel the heat of his breath.

“I say we prove her wrong.”

Jisung swallows. “We?”

Minho’s smirk widens.

“Oh yeah,” he murmurs. “We.”

He turns toward the hallway, voice dropping even lower.

“And I know just the way to prove it to her.”

The sounds from your bedroom have faded now — the vibrator long silenced — but the effect lingers.

The air is thick with tension, lust, and something darker.

Something heavier.

Jisung still stands frozen by the couch, hands clenched at his sides, face flushed to the tips of his ears. His chest rises and falls in short, unsteady breaths, his eyes flicking between the hallway and Minho like he’s stuck in the middle of a slow-burning fever.

Minho watches him.

Carefully.

Hungrily.

Then, he steps closer.

“You hear the way she sounded?” he asks quietly. “That wasn’t fake. That was real.”

Jisung nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

“She’s been chasing that feeling from every guy who’s ever touched her.”

Minho’s voice drops lower — smooth, deliberate.

“And none of them gave it to her.”

Jisung bites his lip.

Minho steps even closer.

“You think she deserves to keep begging for it?”

His fingers lift — featherlight — and ghost along the hem of Jisung’s shirt, just barely grazing the skin underneath.

Jisung shivers.

“N-no,” he says, voice catching.

Minho smiles.

“Exactly.”

He lets his hand drift upward, knuckles grazing Jisung’s bare stomach, brushing just under his ribs — not enough to satisfy, just enough to taunt.

“You want to help her, don’t you?”

Jisung nods quickly. “Please.”

Minho’s hand trails slowly up to his chest, fingers dragging lightly over his shirt, then back down to his waistband.

His lips are close to Jisung’s ear now, breath warm, soft, intimate.

“We take our time,” he murmurs. “No rushing. No fucking her like a rabbit. No skipping the parts that make her moan like that.”

Jisung lets out a soft, helpless sound — somewhere between a whine and a whimper.

Minho grins.

“We make her feel everything. We kiss her slow. We touch her like she’s breakable. And when she’s trembling? When she’s begging?”

His fingers drift down, teasing the waistband of Jisung’s sweats.

“We don’t let her finish until she knows exactly who it was that finally made her cum.”

Jisung lets out a shaky breath, hips twitching forward instinctively, chasing contact. “Minho—please…”

Minho pulls back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“You too, huh?”

Jisung blushes deeper, his hand twitching toward his own waistband. “I—yeah. I need…”

Minho hums.

“Oh, I know what you need, baby.”

He dips his head lower, lips brushing against Jisung’s jaw now.

“But you don’t get it. Not yet.”

Jisung whines, softly. “Please…”

Minho steps back, smug as ever, eyes dark.

“Not until we make her beg first.”

He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, tilts his head, and grins.

“Then maybe I’ll let you beg for me too.”

“So This Is War”

It starts small.

You barely even notice it at first.

Minho’s hand brushing your lower back every time he passes behind you.

Jisung leaning his head on your shoulder when you’re watching TV, his fingers just barely grazing your thigh.

A smirk. A wink. A joke that feels a little too heavy, a little too close to something more.

They’re not doing anything new, not really.

But something’s different.

And the worst part?

They’re suddenly everywhere.

Minho starts walking around shirtless.

Not unusual — but now he does it with his sweatpants slung so low on his hips you can see the sculpted V-cut leading down beneath the waistband. His body glows — pale, smooth skin, lean lines, strong forearms, chest defined enough to make you choke on your morning coffee.

He catches you looking. Every time.

“You good?” he asks one day, when you’ve been staring at his abs for way too long.

“Peachy,” you mutter, looking away fast.

But then Jisung joins in.

Except with him, it’s worse.

Because Jisung’s tan, tattooed, and stacked like he was carved from heat and sweat.

His chest is broad, arms thick, abs sharp — and the ink curling down his ribs only makes it worse. When he stretches? You can see the cut of every muscle down his sides, the way his sweatpants hug just right.

And he stretches a lot.

Especially in front of you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper under your breath one day when he reaches up to grab a cup and his entire back flexes.

You don’t think anyone hears.

But Minho smirks behind you.

You try to keep it together.

You really try.

But one day, you’re sitting on the couch and both of them — shirtless, in grey sweats — come in laughing about some inside joke, brushing past you to grab drinks from the kitchen, all tan skin and defined muscle and cocky grins—

—and your thighs squeeze together involuntarily.

Hard.

You suck in a breath and clench your fists in your lap, trying not to make a noise.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. It’s just the lack of sex. The drought. The desert. It’s not them. It’s me.

It’s not just you.

And when you catch Minho watching you squirm?

You know it.

—

So the next day, you fight back.

You grab one of their shirts from the laundry — oversized, soft, smells like a mix of laundry sheets and masculine warmth — and wear it.

Just it.

No shorts.

No bra.

You walk into the kitchen like it’s nothing, yawning, pretending you don’t notice the way the hem barely covers your ass.

Minho glances up from his cereal.

Freezes.

Jisung does a double take from the sink and nearly drops his mug.

You stretch, arms overhead. “Morning.”

They both respond at the same time.

“Good morning.”

“Holy shit.”

You smirk, turn around slowly to reach into the cabinet, letting the shirt ride up just enough to flash the curve of your thigh.

When you glance back, both of them are staring.

And neither says a word.

Because they’re trying not to fold.

They’re trying to wait you out.

And all you’re thinking is:

Let’s see who breaks first.

“Just Watch the Movie”

Minho’s bed has always been the biggest, the comfiest, the default for group hangouts — but tonight? It feels more like a battlefield.

A slow, sticky, silk-and-skin battlefield.

The lights are off. The screen glows soft and blue, casting flickers across the walls as some random action movie plays — explosions and gunshots you’re not paying attention to at all.

Because you’re sandwiched between Minho and Jisung.

Again.

Only now?

You’re in your favorite black silk nightgown. Thin straps, low neckline, barely brushing mid-thigh. Soft as sin.

Minho’s wearing loose grey sweats, nothing else. His pale chest rises and falls slowly, one arm thrown behind his head like he’s not doing anything wrong.

Jisung’s in gym shorts, shirtless, golden skin on full display — broad chest, solid arms, side tattoo visible and staring at you like a dare.

They’d invited you in with matching smirks.

You should’ve known.

It starts small.

Minho tugs the blanket over your legs, hand brushing up your bare thigh — casual, almost careless.

Jisung shifts beside you, leaning into your shoulder like he’s getting comfy, but his fingers trail lightly along your arm, then down to your wrist.

You try to focus.

You try.

But their hands keep moving.

Minho’s fingers start stroking slow circles just above your knee, thumb dragging lazily over your skin like he’s petting a cat.

Jisung starts playing with the ends of your hair — gentle, rhythmic — his knuckles grazing your collarbone when he tucks a strand behind your ear.

Your pulse is pounding.

“Comfortable?” Minho asks, voice low and warm.

“Mmhm,” you manage, not sounding convincing in the slightest.

Jisung shifts again, this time letting his hand rest on your bare thigh — just resting, but warm, and big, and intentional.

You clench your jaw.

The movie plays on. You couldn’t name a single character if someone paid you.

Minho leans closer, his mouth near your ear now. “You’re really tense, kitten.”

You swallow hard. “Just… focused on the movie.”

Jisung chuckles against your shoulder. “You sure? You’re squirming.”

You turn your face, trying to glare, but Jisung’s grinning — full lips, hooded eyes, messy hair, and he’s so close you could count his lashes.

Minho’s fingers trace the edge of your nightgown now, teasing the thin fabric, like he’s curious how far it rides up when you breathe deep.

You shift again, thighs pressing together, heat blooming low in your stomach.

They don’t say anything.

But they know.

And worse?

You know they know.

Jisung presses a kiss to your shoulder — innocent, featherlight, like he’s not driving you insane.

Minho exhales a soft laugh, eyes glued to the screen but fingers sliding higher by the second.

And you?

You’re trying to keep your breathing even.

Trying to keep your thighs still.

Trying not to melt into the sheets and moan out loud.

Because this is a game.

And you’re still trying to win.

“Not Gonna Break”

You don’t know how much time has passed.

Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour.

The movie plays on — indistinct background noise, flickering shadows on the wall — but your brain hasn’t registered a single frame. Not when Jisung is currently lying with his head pillowed on your chest, warm cheek against your collarbone, arm draped across your stomach like he belongs there.

And his hand…

Is on your thigh.

Massaging.

Not lazily. Not teasingly.

Expertly.

His palm kneads into the muscle with slow, soothing pressure, fingers spreading warmth through your entire leg as he works his way up and down your thigh like he’s really trying to help.

“You keep tensing,” he murmurs against your chest. “You’re all tight. I’m gonna help, okay?”

Your breath catches, but you nod.

“Mmhm,” you hum, barely holding it together.

He squeezes your thigh a little harder, just under the hem of your nightgown. His skin is so warm. His hands so big.

Focus on the movie.

Beside you, Minho shifts.

He’s been quiet — too quiet — stretched out along your other side, one hand behind his head, the other still lazily resting just above your knee. But you feel his gaze now.

You feel it when it drops to your shoulder.

The one where the silky strap of your nightgown has slipped down — exposing the smooth curve of your skin, your collarbone, the faint outline of the top of your chest. You didn’t even realize it had fallen.

But he did.

And now?

Minho lifts his hand.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Fingers brushing against your bare shoulder as he hooks the strap with his thumb, sliding it back into place.

He doesn’t rush.

He lingers.

The backs of his fingers trail up your neck, grazing the edge of your jaw, the heat of his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

But your thighs press together again — instinctive, desperate — and Jisung notices.

He hums low against your chest. “Still tense, baby.”

You nod once, throat dry. “Just tired.”

Minho smiles beside you, voice soft. “Mm. Sure it’s not something else?”

You stay silent.

Jisung’s thumb strokes along the inside of your thigh now.

Minho’s fingers casually draw shapes on your shoulder.

And you?

You’re overheating.

You’re melting.

You’re gripping the blanket in your lap so hard your knuckles ache.

Because you refuse to fold.

You refuse to moan.

And you refuse to let them win.

Not yet.

—

You woke up the next morning tangled in silk sheets, warm and still buzzing slightly from the night before.

They’d teased.

They’d touched.

They’d pushed.

But you?

You won.

You fell asleep between them like it was nothing — calm, composed, lips sealed shut even when your thighs were clenched so tightly it hurt.

Now, the living room is filled with sunlight and fake peace.

You’re curled up on the couch with your phone, scrolling idly through your feed, coffee in hand. Trying to pretend the night before didn’t exist.

Trying to pretend you’re unaffected.

Meanwhile, Minho and Jisung are standing across the room — sweaty, shirtless, freshly back from the gym — and so clearly up to something.

You hear it first in their voices.

The tone.

The deliberate lightness.

“I think I pulled something,” Jisung says, stretching dramatically, sweat glistening down his chest.

Minho smirks, slapping his shoulder. “That’s because you never stretch before lifting. Amateur move.”

“You were the one grunting through squats like a porn star.”

Minho shrugs. “I was lifting heavy. Don’t be jealous.”

You glance up from your phone just in time to see Jisung walk behind Minho, arms snaking loosely around his waist in mock-affection.

“Oh, I’m so jealous,” he says, pressing his cheek dramatically to Minho’s back. “You’re just so strong and sweaty. Who wouldn’t want you?”

Minho laughs low in his throat, hand covering Jisung’s where it rests on his stomach. “Careful, babe. Say that again and I might start thinking you mean it.”

You blink.

Stillness.

They’re not looking at you.

They’re fully focused on each other — too close, too flirty, too much.

Touching like they’ve done it a thousand times.

Comfortable. Warm. Intimate.

You swallow.

Your thighs press together.

Again.

Your brain protests. They’re your best friends. They’re messing with you. This is just a bit—

But your body?

Your body is burning.

You don’t even realize you’ve been staring until Minho glances over — meets your eyes — and smirks.

“Oh, morning,” he says, pulling away from Jisung just slightly. “We were just talking about the gym. Got real hot in there.”

“So hot,” Jisung agrees, stretching his arms behind his head, chest flexing, sweat still glistening along his collarbone. “Dripping.”

You say nothing.

“Actually,” Minho adds, grabbing a towel from the back of a chair and wiping his neck slowly, “we should probably shower.”

Jisung nods. “Yeah, especially if we’re going out later. Shopping, right?”

Minho turns to him. “You go first?”

Jisung tilts his head, smiling. “Why don’t we just shower together?”

You choke on your coffee.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “To save water?”

“Yeah,” Jisung grins. “And time. We don’t wanna keep her waiting.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Minho lets out a soft, thoughtful hum. “You’re right. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

They turn.

Walk toward the bathroom.

And just before disappearing down the hall, Minho glances over his shoulder.

“Unless you’d rather join us, kitten.”

You don’t breathe.

The bathroom door clicks shut.

And you’re left on the couch, heart pounding, legs tight, coffee forgotten.

What the fuck.

Minho x Jisung — third person POV

————————————————————————————————————————

Minho didn’t speak when they stepped into the bathroom together — didn’t need to.

The silence between them said enough.

Jisung hesitated just slightly, fingers fumbling at the waistband of his gym shorts. Minho noticed, eyes gleaming. He stepped in close and reached down, his knuckles brushing lightly against Jisung’s hip as he curled his fingers under the fabric.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, voice low and smooth.

Jisung’s breath hitched.

Minho dragged the shorts down slowly, past the swell of his ass, down thick, toned thighs — letting his hands linger, teasing the skin just enough to make Jisung tremble. He peeled them off completely, gaze flicking up as Jisung stood completely bare in front of him.

“Look at you,” Minho said softly, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Already flushed.”

Jisung swallowed, eyes wide. “I—”

“Shower,” Minho interrupted, tugging off his own sweats and stepping into the water like it was nothing. “We need to get clean.”

He didn’t wait. Just reached for the soap, lathered it between his hands, and moved in behind Jisung.

The first touch made Jisung shiver — Minho’s slick palms dragging slowly down his back, massaging the lather into his skin like he had all the time in the world.

Then lower.

Over his hips.

Around the front.

Minho’s hands slid over Jisung’s chest, fingers pressing into the muscle, thumbs brushing his nipples before moving lower again.

Jisung bit his lip, thighs trembling.

Minho leaned in, lips ghosting his ear. “Still holding it together?”

Jisung’s head dropped back against Minho’s shoulder, a soft whimper escaping. “No. Minho, please—kiss me, just—something.”

He turned without waiting.

Minho caught him, both hands gripping his waist now — and then their mouths met.

The kiss was messy. Desperate. Full of moans swallowed and lips bitten and Jisung pressing forward like he couldn’t get close enough.

Minho groaned, hands sliding down to grab Jisung’s ass, squeezing tightly, dragging their hips together until their cocks brushed — hard, hot, aching for more.

Jisung gasped into the kiss.

Minho broke it only to kiss lower — trailing down his jaw, to his throat, then lower still, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of Jisung’s chest.

When he reached a nipple, he bit.

Jisung cried out, hand flying to Minho’s hair.

Minho sucked harshly — then licked over it, soothing the sting before switching sides.

“Fuck—Minho—please—don’t stop—”

His mouth moved with purpose now, kissing and sucking all over Jisung’s chest, hands roaming his sides, hips grinding into him with each flick of tongue.

Jisung’s body was shaking.

Every moan echoed in the tile and steam.

Every breath sounded like begging.

And when Minho finally pulled back, lips red, eyes dark, Jisung looked ruined.

“Needy little thing,” Minho whispered, brushing hair from his face. “You’re gonna come undone before we even get started.”

Minho’s gaze swept over Jisung like fire licking across paper — slow, consuming, inevitable.

His hands stayed firm on Jisung’s hips, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his waist, holding him steady even as his legs threatened to give out. Steam curled around them, the sound of water splashing against tile almost drowned beneath the sounds pouring from Jisung’s mouth.

Minho bent again, pressing his lips to Jisung’s chest — not kissing gently, not even sweetly — but claiming, with his teeth and tongue and heat. Every time Jisung moaned, Minho dragged it deeper, lower, letting his hands slide over Jisung’s ass, gripping hard, grinding him up against the firm line of his own cock.

“Minho, please—fuck—please,” Jisung choked out, hands buried in Minho’s hair, hips twitching helplessly forward, desperate for any friction.

“You’re already falling apart,” Minho murmured, voice soaked in that sharp, dangerous calm. “We haven’t even touched your cock yet.”

Jisung whimpered.

Minho licked a slow, deliberate line across one nipple before dragging his teeth gently against it. He felt Jisung’s whole body jolt, legs trembling harder now.

“Fuck—Minho, please, I’m so close—”

That made Minho pause.

He leaned back, looked up at him — water dripping down his temple, lips flushed and wet from kissing, eyes half-lidded but sharp.

“No,” he said simply.

Jisung blinked through the haze. “W-what?”

Minho’s hand moved between them. Not to stroke. Not to finish. Just to hold him — his palm wrapping firmly around Jisung’s cock and keeping him still.

“You don’t get to cum yet,” Minho said, cool and smug, brushing his thumb just barely over the head. “Not until I say so.”

Jisung whined loudly, body jerking forward involuntarily, cock twitching in Minho’s grip. “Fuck—fuck, Minho, I can’t—”

“You can.” Minho’s voice was like velvet-covered steel. “Because I said so.”

He gave one slow pump — not fast enough to satisfy, just enough to remind him who was in charge — before pulling his hand away completely.

Jisung almost sobbed at the loss of contact.

“You’re gonna stay nice and hard for me,” Minho continued, licking across his own bottom lip as his eyes dragged slowly down Jisung’s body. “And you’re not gonna cum until I make you beg for it like you mean it.”

“Minho, please—*please—*just a little—”

“No.”

Minho turned him around suddenly, pressing Jisung’s chest up against the cool tile wall, keeping his body flush behind him.

He leaned in close, voice right at his ear.

“You’re mine to play with,” he whispered. “And we haven’t even started yet.”

Jisung whimpered again, chest heaving, cock dripping, thighs shaking.

He was wrecked.

And Minho?

Minho was just getting warmed up.

Jisung’s forehead rested against the cold tile, chest heaving, body trembling from the denial and heat surging through him. His cock throbbed between his legs, so painfully hard it ached. Every breath he took fogged the wall in front of him, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t move.

Because Minho was still pressed to his back — solid, slick skin, warm breath at his ear, one hand wrapped tight around his waist to keep him right where he wanted.

“I warned you,” Minho murmured. “Told you we weren’t done.”

And then—

He slid inside.

No teasing.

No preamble.

Just the thick press of his cock as he bottomed out in one, long, devastating thrust.

Jisung cried out — sharp and wrecked — a raw sound that echoed against the tile like it meant something.

Minho didn’t flinch.

He simply moved.

Steady.

Hard.

Fucking him into the wall with slow, brutal precision, each thrust deliberate and deep. Jisung moaned again — louder this time, voice breaking.

And that’s when Minho’s hand clamped down over his mouth.

“Shut up,” he growled against Jisung’s ear. “You wanna be loud? Then I’ll make sure no one hears you.”

Jisung’s eyes rolled back as Minho’s other hand wrapped around his throat — firm and unforgiving, not cutting off his air, just holding him there, keeping him in place like a prize.

Jisung moaned helplessly against the palm covering his mouth, muffled and soaked with need, his body twitching under the pressure, hips arching back into every thrust.

Minho groaned, voice hot and breathless against his skin. “You feel that? How deep I am inside you?”

Jisung nodded desperately, his muffled cries high and urgent behind Minho’s hand.

“You’re taking me so fucking well, baby,” Minho whispered, licking a stripe along Jisung’s jaw. “So tight. So desperate.”

His hips snapped harder, pace brutal now — the sound of skin on skin echoing between the moans Jisung couldn’t stop.

“Stay loud,” Minho growled. “I dare you.”

He tightened his hand just slightly around Jisung’s throat — enough to make his breath stutter, to make his entire body go tight — and thrust in again, even deeper, watching Jisung fall apart from every inch.

And under Minho’s hand, Jisung moaned like he was dying for it.

Because maybe he was.

Readers POV

——————————————————————————————

You’re halfway through getting dressed when you hear it.

A faint sound.

He had called you on his way home. He demanded you be waiting for him on your shared bed, in that sage green lacy set he just bought you. You ripped the tags off and slipped into it, the set accentuating your curves perfectly.

You did a sexy pose in front of the mirror, taking a picture to show him later. Then you heard the front door open and close. You put on the playlist Seungmin had made and placed your phone on the dresser. You scurried onto the bed, laying on your stomach and facing the door.

He walked in, a grin on his face. You were his good girl. You always did what he asked - no matter what. He slipped his shirt over his head and kicked off his slippers as he made his way over to you.

“Hi Minnie.” you drawled.

“Hi sexy. All this for me?” He asked, slapping your ass.

“Of course. Only for you.” You say, sitting up on your knees.

“My perfect angel… always coming back for more.”

You giggle, scooting to the edge of the bed and reaching for his pants.

“Haven’t I ruined you enough by now? No?” he asks.

You shake your head whilst biting your lip.

“Fuck..you drive me crazy, jagi.” he says, grabbing your throat and kissing you hard.

You moan into the kiss, grabbing his waist.

He grabbed your wrists and put them above your head as he laid you back onto the bed. He hovered over you, one leg between yours. You grinded instinctively, bucking your hips.

“Someone’s eager…” he whispers, nipping at your neck.

You tilt your head to give him access as your back arches. “Minnie…”

“That’s it baby. Hump my leg like the needy little slut you are.”

Your hips moved up and down on his thigh, needing more friction. You whine, trying to pull him closer.

“What is it?” he asks, stroking your hair.

“More…” you moan.

He moves his leg and you pout.

“We’re doing this my way. Now come sit on my lap.” 

Seungmin moved so he was sitting against the headboard, setting you on one of his thighs. “Ride me like a good little slut.”

You moved your hips, sliding along his thigh as his hands rested on your waist. Your hands rested on his shoulders, head thrown back as you could feel the build. But it wasn’t enough.

“What’s wrong, pretty? Why the frown?” Seungmin asks with faux sympathy.

“Need more, Minnie..” you whine.

Seungmin reaches forward, tearing your panties with ease and tossing the scrap of fabric. “Better?”

You blush, hiding your face in his shoulder.

“Ah ah, let me see you, pretty.” Seungmin says, tucking your hair behind your ear.

You moved your hips again, this time feeling more. You moan loudly, holding onto his shoulders tightly. He pushed the waistband of his pants down, his hard cock popping free. You reach your hand down, stroking him as you ride his thigh.

“Good girl.” he panted, his head falling back.

You relished in the sight of him, the pleasure on his face as you made him feel good. He was slightly above average size, stretching you out so well every time. The ridges and veins of his cock drove you wild. You spit on it and move your hand more, getting off on his pleasure. 

He could feel you approaching an orgasm and smacked your ass, his voice raspy. “Gonna cum, jagi?”

You look into his eyes and see his blown pupils. He watched you with parted lips, panting as he watched you. He smacks you again when you don’t answer, making you squeal.

“Yes, daddy. Wanna cum...” you say.

“Should I let you cum?” Seungmin asks, pretending to ponder. 

“Please…” you whine.

He grips your hips, guiding your movements as he flexes his thigh. “Cum for me, darling.”

He moves you faster, making you moan loudly. Before long, your orgasm washes over you and your body shudders, But he doesn’t let up - he keeps you moving and his thigh pressed to you.

“Min…” you pant. “Minnie…”

He lets you come down, relaxing his leg. You fall into his chest with a huff, trying to catch your breath. But he’s not having it. He lays you on your back, spreading your legs wide.

“Look at this pretty pussy, baby. Is it all mine?”

“Yes…all yours,” you pant.

He dives in, nose bumping your sensitive clit as his tongue prods your hole. Only the lewd sounds of him feasting on you fill the room. You moan, arching your back as your hand finds its way into his hair. You tug, making him groan into your sweet flesh, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine. 

“God, you taste amazing.” Seungmin groans, inserting two fingers. 

He curls them just right and your legs threaten to close. He pins one leg down with his free hand, not letting up as he circles his lips around your clit. He sucks aggressively, pushing you over the edge.

You cum, clamping down on his fingers. You try to turn over in an effort to close your legs but he doesn’t let up. He turns with your body, riding out your high. Your body is trembling at his expert fingers as you squirm to get away.

“Min…min please…” you beg.

He lets up, climbing up your body. “I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else but me, darling.”

He smashes his wet lips onto yours, letting you taste yourself. You moan into the kiss, hands trailing down his sides and pushing his pants down. 

“Greedy little slut, aren’t you?” he chuckles darkly, his eyes boring into you. 

He moves to lay next to you, sliding off his pants and boxers, kicking them to the ground. He then moves you so you're straddling his face, your head at his crotch.

“Well, go on then. Suck me off since you want to so badly.” He commands.

You grip his cock at the base, slowly stroking him. His head falls back, a groan escaping his lips. You move your hand slowly, thumb lightly grazing his tip.

“Stop fucking tease me and suck me.” he rasps.

You smirk, knowing you’re pissing him off. You lick a stripe up his cock, swirling the tip. He smacks your ass, making you jolt. You loved getting him riled up. You take him fully in your mouth before popping off and licking his slit.

He hisses, swatting your ass once more. “Y/n…”

“Yes?” you ask innocently.

He leans up, nibbling on your clit and making you squirm. His tight hold on you prevents you from getting away from his aggressive ministrations. He prods your hole and sucks hard, slurping up your juices like a starved man. He bucks his hip and you know he’s telling you to suck.

Trying to focus, you bend down and take him in your mouth. He thrusts his hips, fucking your mouth as he gets lost in your pussy. He groans against your sensitive folds and you moan around him. 

He quickly flips you over, keeping your legs spread as he straddles your head. He continues his assault on your mouth as he fingers you, sucking your clit numb. Your hands grab his ass, squeezing as he thrusts into your throat.

You clench around him, signaling that you're close. And that’s when he pulls away, falling to the side with a smirk. You whine. 

“Not yet. Since you want to tease…” Seungmin says. “Get on top.”

You lay there, pouting. 

Seungmin pokes his cheek with a shake of his head. “Quit being a brat or you won't cum any more.” 

You sit up, climbing on top of his waist, pushing his torso down so he's laying back. He gives two harsh smacks to your ass before gripping your throat. 

“You wanna play? Or you want me to fuck you so good my name is the only thing you remember? Hmm?” 

“Fuck me.” you give in.

“Good choice, pretty.” He cocks his head to side, smashing his lips onto yours before leaning back and watching you.

You line him up with your dripping entrance and slide down on him. Throwing your head back in utter bliss, you begin bouncing on his lap. He sits up, one hand palming your breast as his mouth sucks the other. He sucks harshly, nibbling before moving to the other. He does the same, nipping at the bud. You hiss at a particularly hard bite and he chuckles against your skin. 

“Not funny.” you whisper.

“No?” Seungmin lifts an eye brow.

You push him back onto his back and he grips your hips, pounding up into you. You feel yourself getting close, clenching around his cock as he hits your sweet spot repeatedly. You brace yourself on his chest, eyes squeezed shut as you're about to cum again. But just before you tip over the edge, he pulls you off him and tosses you to the side. 

You groan at him, getting frustrated. He ignores you and moves you so he can take you from behind, lifting up your hips and lining himself up. 

“Next time, don't tease me.” He says, leaning over you as he slams into you. 

He stops, sliding out slowly before slamming back into you again. He does this a few times before you cum. It happened so fast, you didn’t see it coming.

“Fuck…” you exhale, body trembling. 

He picks up his tempo, fucking you like a jack rabbit as he prolongs your high. Then he pulls out just as fast and flips you onto your back. 

“Minnie…” you say, barely able to keep up. 

But he's lost - lost and drunk off of you. And you'd be lying if you said you didn't love it when he gets like this. He would fuck you day and night if he could. 

His grip on your hips was bruising as he pounded into you. You could feel another orgasm approaching and prayed he wouldn't take it away from you. 

But he didn't. He thrusted until you were an incoherent mess. Your vision was getting hazy and your limbs were feeling fuzzy. He moves one of your legs to the other side, putting you on your side as he keeps fucking you. He grunted and groaned as he chased his own high. 

He bent over, kissing and sucking your breasts again as you ran your fingers through his hair. You held his head to you, relishing in his slow languid strokes. It felt so good, him massaging your insides. 

His skin was sticky and sweaty as he panted, kissing you.

“Be a good little slut and cum for me.” he rasps. 

He leans up, thrusting faster now as he pushes you over the edge. White dots filled your vision as you clamped down on him like a vice. You came - hard. Hard enough to push him out as you shook. Your eyes water, tears streaming down your face. 

“Fuck, jagiya.” he whispers. “Look at how pretty you are, sobbing over my cock. Is it that good?” 

You moan in response and he smirks. Opening your legs once more, he bends down to lick at your folds. He was obsessed with your taste - this you knew. He could never get enough. 

But you were so sensitive from all the orgasms and abuse that you squirmed, whining as more tears fell. “Minnie…”

“You can cum for me once more, yeah?” he asks, kissing up your body as he leans over you.

His cock head poked at your entrance as he laid on top of you, barricading you in with his arms around your head.

“I can’t, Min…” you whisper.

“Yes you can. I know you can.” Seungmin whispers, peppering your face with kisses as he slowly slides himself in again. 

You moan, eyes rolling back.

“My little slut always has one more…” Seungmin nips at your earlobe, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts.

His moves were torturously slow as he built you up again. Your body contradicts your words as it begins to tighten once more. He slams his hips into you, skin smacking as kisses and sucks at your neck. You knew your neck was going to be littered with marks in the morning.

He reaches between the two of you, his fingers circling your sensitive bud. You moan in his ear and his hips pick up speed. 

“Cum with me, jagi.” he whispers.

He applied more pressure to your clit as he felt himself approaching climax. He groans, hips stuttering as he comes undone. You feel his cock twitching inside, filling you up and cum too. You clench around him, milking every last drop from his cock as you cry out his name. It was so much - he’s never cum this much inside you before. 

Your legs were wrapped around his waist, body trembling beneath him as he still circled your clit. Your eyes rolled back, body arched, you felt yourself slipping away.

He finally released you, letting you come down from the high as he stilled. He panted in your ear, taking in your scent as he relaxed.

A few minutes later, he kissed your neck, along your jawline, and your lips as he leaned up. He wiped your tears with his thumb as he admired you all fucked out and ruined.

“Fuck…you’re too good, jagi.” he says.

“Mmm..” you say, not opening your eyes.

He chuckles. “What’s my name, jagiya?”

“S-Seungmin.” you whisper.

“Good girl.”

Thank you beta: @rain-water-flowers for your editing, support, and motivation to disrespect :))) LUV U

but he’s shutting up as soon as you’re slowing the movement of your hips, just whimpering and moaning and heavy breathing with every slide of pussy, heated and wet against the length of his sensitive cock. he likes to act composed and like he has you right under his thumb, and usually he does. normally he has you wrapped around his finger with the simple promise of dick, giving you everything before ripping it away when he feels your pussy quivering around his cock, just to see those pretty tears line your lashes when he leaves your cunt sad and empty. but with the way he was panting and whining and damn near crying, desperate to be inside you, he clearly wasn’t as calm and collected as he likes to claim. “please, c’mon. just let me out of these things and i’ll fuck you so good,” he’s still tugging on the cuffs, arms tense and knuckles white, adams apple bobbing as soon as you press down on him even more, not leaving an inch of dick uncovered as bare flesh suffocates the length of his cock. and he’s so sure, so convinced that you’ll give in and give him what he wants, getting rid of those fucking handcuffs and fucking you until you’re sorry for ever putting him in them. “but where’s the fun in that?” that one question is enough to rip all hope away from him, lips quivering and eyes stinging cause he just wants to cum so bad :( 

it’s just so fun to tease minho sometimes - he always acts untouchable, like he’s doing you a favour by dicking you down, like the twitch of his cock was easy to ignore when he’s busy torturing your poor cunt. but now, with the way his eyes are rolling into the back of his skull with every hot drag of your pussy, how he chokes on his whimpers when your cunt shifts forward, hooking against the tip of his dick, feeling the swell of his cock clearing through a sticky mixture of precum and arousal - it was easy to see he wasn’t as in control as he’d like to be. 

he’s also a little impatient, gets a little nasty with his words when the swell of his cock becomes almost painful with the way it was twitching and crying into your pussy - if he moved his hips up even an inch he’d be nudging himself deep into your dripping core and finally finding the release he’s so pitifully chasing after. “gonna make you pay for this. that pussy is as good as fucked as soon as i’m out of these things ugh-“ he’s cutting himself off with a choked gasp, head thrown back and chest heaving when your fingers reach down to press on the drooling slit of his cockhead, continuing to mash his dick back and forth in shallow thrusts, angling your clit so that his cock was barely bumping into the dip of your pussy, just an inch, but enough to coax more of those pretty begs from his lips.

“fuck, so warm. please baby, just let me fuck you, even just the tip. please, swear i’ll be so good for you.” and he’s loud. loud enough that the rest of his members could probably hear him through the walls. hear how pathetic he becomes when he doesn’t get what he wants. but minho can’t find it in himself to care, not when he’s so close, throat raw and dick twitching and an unquenched need to cum making his pretty eyes gloss over with tears, cock full and red and crying with precum. his eye twitches with every stroke of pussy, each shallow grind pulling more fucked out whimpers out of him - until finally he’s cumming onto your folds in hot, thick ropes of cum. and it’s so unsatisfying that he could cry, cock sore and softening against your clit, cum dribbling onto your nub and painting your cunt in his load until it’s hot and sticky to the touch. his chest is heaving, heartbeat loud in his ears as you continue to grind down onto his limp cock, using his cum to wedge effortlessly between your folds as you use him to get yourself off - the same way he’s done so many times before with your tired pussy. and it’s almost cute the way he chokes and sobs and stutters underneath you, knees trembling and forehead sweaty and toes curling, begging you to finally show him some mercy. 

but why should you? he’s never been nice to you, never paid your pretty whimpers any mind when he’s stretching you out on his dick, laughed straight in your face a few times when you’ve begged him to go easy on you and only fucked you even harder for even suggesting it. and you tell him such, tell him that he’s getting exactly what he deserves. and he hates that you’re right.

Minho didn’t do flashy.

He didn’t need to. He did exclusive.

Her Gucci collection didn’t come from store shelves.

It came from private appointments, whispered calls, and sketches sent to his inbox for approval. Each one designed with her in mind.

A velvet handbag dyed to match the flush on her cheeks when she came for him.

A pair of gold heels engraved with his initials under the sole, so she’d always have him beneath her.

A perfume created by the Gucci lab with notes of peach nectar and white musk — he named it “Mine.”

“I want her to smell like she belongs to me,” he’d told them. “And something sweet. She is sweet.”

He never let her see the invoices.

She didn’t need to.

He’d slide rings onto her fingers mid-conversation, like it was nothing.

Fold jackets over her shoulders in rooms that weren’t cold, just to see her wear his name.

And when Gucci sent over a mini-dress designed for events — deep green silk, bare-backed, dripping with subtle crystals — he only had one response:

“She’ll wear it at home. No one else gets to see her in that.”

And she did.

In their bedroom.

With nothing underneath but a thong he bought to match.

────୨ৎ────

He once got her a travel bag.

Cream leather, soft as sin. Her initials embossed in rose gold on the side.

She laughed. “I don’t travel enough to need this.”

“You will,” he said, zipping it open. “Check the inside.”

She did.

It was packed.

With envelopes.

Each one labeled in his neat, sharp handwriting:

• Paris – for the kiss on the Seine.

• Tokyo – for the night we stay in.

• Milan – for the Gucci headquarters. I want them to see how perfect you are in person.

He’d planned it all. First class, black cars, suites with balconies — and a new outfit for each destination, custom-tailored to her measurements.

“Minho,” she whispered, teary-eyed.

He only smiled, pulling her into his lap. “Told you. You don’t lift a finger unless it’s to touch me.”

And she did.

────୨ৎ────

He swore he just came for a wallet.

Simple. Clean. Black leather, nothing flashy — just something to replace the worn one he’d been using for three years.

But the second she sighed, it was over.

Minho followed her gaze without a word.

The bag was a soft cream Gucci Jackie — butter leather and gold hardware. She didn’t even say anything, just looked once and turned away like it was nothing.

Like she didn’t know he noticed.

He tapped the glass counter lazily. “We’ll take the bag too.”

The cashier brightened. “Anything else? It comes in a set with three—”

“Yes,” he cut in. Didn’t even let her finish.

His Girl turned, eyes wide. “Wait—”

“Choose the other bags,” he said simply, leaning back on the counter. “Whatever you want, kitten.”

The cashier smiled. “Follow me, Miss.”

This wasn’t the first time. Not with Minho.

Her collection was ridiculous by now, a full spectrum of spoiling.

Minho never blinked. Never asked twice.

He just gave.

Like the day he came home with a little velvet box and pulled out a diamond collar.

Not a choker. Not jewelry.

A collar — dainty but unmistakable. With his name engraved in cursive at the center, studded with tiny black diamonds.

“Come here,” he’d said that night, low and calm, snapping it around her throat.

“Now everyone knows who my kitten is, right?”

He’d tilted her chin up, kissed her mouth softly.

And then ruined her on the floor like she was made to be taken with his name glittering at her neck.

God, he loved how it looked when she went down on him like that.

Diamond collar catching the light. Tears sparkling on her cheeks. His hand fisted in her hair while she gagged so sweetly around him.

“Mine,” he’d growled, hips thrusting deeper, “look how fucking pretty my girl is like this.”

Minho didn’t just spoil. He claimed.

────୨ৎ────

He cooked for her like it was sacred.

Wouldn’t let her near a single knife or pan. Just sat her on the counter, fed her from the spoon, kissed her when she whined.

“Let me help—”

“No.”

“But—”

“No, kitten. Sit there and look pretty.”

He’d press kisses to her knee. Sometimes he’d undo the straps of her dress and fuck her right there against the fridge before the water even boiled. He liked to see her tits bounce.

She was soft. Sweet. So good for him.

And he?

He was everything. Rich, controlled, a little dangerous — but hers.

────୨ৎ────

It wasn’t supposed to be used like this.

The scarf had been a gift — crimson silk, embroidered with tiny cats and cherries, a nod to her two favorite things. He’d tied it gently around her neck when he first gave it to her, pressing a kiss just beneath the knot.

But now, it was wet with spit and stuffed between her lips.

“Shhh, baby,” Minho cooed, thumbing away a tear from the corner of her eye. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, breath catching as he thrust deeper — slow, thick strokes that made her toes curl.

He was behind her, one hand fisted in her hair, the other resting on the small of her back, keeping her arched just the way he liked.

The scarf fluttered with every moan she choked on. Her Gucci gift — now her gag — pressed into her tongue like another brand of ownership.

And he loved it.

Loved seeing her spoiled and ruined, all at once.

A trembling doll made just for him.

“I should buy you another,” he murmured, voice low and amused. “One for every time I make you cry on my cock.”

He pulled back slightly, admiring the string of saliva that connected them to the scarf.

“Maybe one for every orgasm too. Hm?”

She could only sob in response, her walls fluttering around him like she was already saying yes.

────୨ৎ────

Minho had one room in their house locked.

She wasn’t supposed to go in.

But she peeked anyway, one day when he was gone for schedules.

What she found was a vault.

Dozens of boxes. Wrapped. Labeled.

Gucci. Cartier. Loewe. Rare editions. Archived pieces.

All neatly stacked, waiting for the right moment.

Shoes she hadn’t worn yet.

Dresses he never let her even see.

She was still standing there, stunned, when he walked in.

Caught red-handed.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue. “Curious kitten.”

Before she could apologize, he was already lifting her.

He sat her down — right on top of the stacked boxes. Velvet, silk, leather beneath her thighs.

She gasped.

“Since you’re up here,” he said, pushing her skirt up with slow fingers, “might as well give you a reason to come back.”

Her back hit the wall of the closet. He slid in without warning, one hand around her throat, his other gripping her thigh.

“Every one of these gifts,” he grunted against her ear, “is yours. But I’m your favorite, right?”

She nodded desperately, gasping against his mouth.

“Say it.”

“You,” she whimpered. “You’re my favorite gift.”

He smiled.

And made her scream that line three more times.

────୨ৎ────

But oh — she was in love with him. Not just the diamonds or the handbags or the silken scarf still damp with the memory of him.

No, she loved the way he looked at her when she was curled up on the couch in his hoodie, hair a mess, a cat asleep on each thigh.

She loved how he melted when she fed his babies before he even got the chance — Soonie, Doongie, and Dori happily flocking to her, as if she’d always belonged.

And he did too.

Some nights, he came home exhausted. His limbs heavy from hours of practice, his voice hoarse, his energy drained. But then he opened the door — and there she was.

His girl. His home.

Bundled up in the blanket he always said was too warm, half-asleep, a drama playing on low volume, and the cats purring beside her like guardians.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“You’re back,” she whispered.

And he’d kneel at her feet, bury his face in her stomach, arms wrapped around her waist like a man starved.

“You stayed up?”

“Always.”

Because no matter how much he spoiled her — she was the one who gave him peace. Who gave him softness. Who never let him go to bed without a kiss, or leave the house without a snack.

He pressed his lips to hers, slow and sleepy.

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever bought,” he teased, and she smacked his arm.

“I’m not for sale.”

“Exactly,” he murmured. “You’re priceless.”

And she was.

The one thing he couldn’t put in a shopping bag.

It made you feel broken. Or worse—boring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like you’d missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.

Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. You’d hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing stars—and you’d smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.

You’d never even come close.

You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.

You’d touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your head—please, just this once, just let me finish, please—and still end up breathless, sticky, empty.

You’d cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.

You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.

But the worst part—the actual worst part—was how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldn’t leave it alone.

You were eighteen, for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.

Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.

It made you feel fucking insane.

So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed to—when it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasn’t about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.

You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.

You didn’t dare.

-

Evie—Heejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her off—was your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your school’s carefully manicured social circles.

Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.

You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.

It wasn’t unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didn’t mind. They liked knowing where you both were—liked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.

And then there was Heeseung.

Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.

When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes he’d give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes he’d walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasn’t—off to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as he’d drifted through it.

You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fast—suffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.

By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or… something.

You didn’t think about him much. He was just Evie’s brother. Part of the background. White noise.

Your focus was always Evie.

She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, “You better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,” like it was the most normal sentence in the world.

She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.

You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.

You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.

-

The house settled around you like it always did—quiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shifting—background noise you’d grown so used to, it almost felt like home.

Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, too—like her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didn’t mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.

Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.

You’d been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. You’d scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.

Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomnia—just that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.

The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.

You’d thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. You’d done it before—quiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.

Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.

It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.

You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.

For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evie’s breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.

A man’s voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.

Heeseung’s door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadn’t even realized he was home tonight.

Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watched—except this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.

There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldn’t place the sound, and you didn’t care.

Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.

“It’s not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."

“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”

The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.

Not whispered. Not dirty. Just… stated. Like a law. Like fact.

Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.

Every hair on your arm lifted. He didn’t stop there.

“And if she won’t listen…I’ll make her.”

No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.

You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You weren’t just turned on—you were caught. Cornered by something you weren’t supposed to hear and couldn’t let go of.

Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just… a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didn’t realize you were trapped in.

You didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment.

But for the first time in your life, you wondered—really wondered—what your body would feel like under instructions that weren’t your own.

-

You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldn’t spiral.

You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentary—and you almost convinced yourself you were over it.

But when the house quieted again that night—when Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of you—you gave in.

You waited a while. Just in case she wasn’t fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.

And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.

You didn’t turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.

The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evie’s shampoo still clung to the room—vanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.

No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.

The video you always came back to. The closest thing you’d ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audio—nothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.

It wasn’t him, but it didn’t have to be. Not yet.

Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.

The wetness should’ve been a good sign.

But you already knew how this would go.

You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.

Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.

There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.

You tried harder.

Tried picturing something—someone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you weren’t just Evie’s friend, like he saw something else.

That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find something—anything—that would tip you over.

But it never came.

Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.

Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your hand—and still nothing. You hadn’t cum. Not even close.

Not even fucking close.

Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.

This wasn’t working.

You couldn’t do this by yourself. Not anymore.

The shame didn’t even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseung’s room.

You didn’t remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like you’d been running—not down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.

The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didn’t even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough anything left.

You knocked.

Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.

Nothing.

The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You should’ve gone back to Evie’s room. Should’ve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Should’ve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.

Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.

Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldn’t speak. You weren’t expecting him to look like that—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like he’d just come out of the shower… or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just confused.

His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingers—still wet, still trembling—curled tighter at your side.

He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.

“You good?”

The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.

Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.

“…What?”

“I just need to know,” you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Before I say anything. It matters.”

He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or suspicious.

“No. I don’t.”

You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.

“Fuck.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“If you said yes,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, “I would’ve had an excuse not to ask you.”

That made him pause.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, “Ask me what?”

Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didn’t have the energy to dance around it.

“You said something last night,” you started, forcing yourself to look at him. “About girls who can’t finish. About how they’re not listening to their bodies.”

He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.

“I heard it,” you added. “By accident. But it’s been stuck in my head. And I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you were right.”

Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.

You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. “I tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s always the same. Nothing works. I can’t finish. I touch myself, and it just—goes nowhere.”

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time you’d had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.

But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Your next breath shook as it left you.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” you said, quieter now. “I just want to ask… if you’d tell me what to do.”

That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes dropped—lower this time—to your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.

He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. “Your hand’s still wet.”

You froze.

His voice was low, unreadable. “You tried that hard, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He stepped back.

Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.

He held your gaze.

 “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evie’s room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained world—it all drops away. There’s only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.

You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.

Heeseung’s already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forward—lazily, unbothered—until it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, he’d have a front-row seat.

Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. “Sit.”

You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know he’s seen. You’re still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.

His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.

You fidget.

Heeseung doesn’t move. “Don’t get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.”

Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.

He lifts his chin. “Tell me what you usually do.”

The question lands harder than it should. Not because it’s dirty, but because it’s so simple.

You blink. “Like… where I touch?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate. “I usually just go straight to my clit.”

“Figures.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And then what? Rub the fuck out of it ‘til it gets sore and wonder why it doesn’t work?”

Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “Don’t take it personal. That’s what most girls do. It’s not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.”

You don’t respond, but your silence is answer enough.

He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. There’s no hunger in it—not yet. Just observation. Like he’s assessing you.

“If your pussy had a voice,” he says smoothly, “she’d be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.”

You’re quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is… he’s not wrong.

He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.

“Take your time,” he says, gentler now. “You rush her, she locks up. Doesn’t matter how wet you are.”

“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.

Heeseung shrugs again, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. She.” His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.”

Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he says with a smirk, eyes dark. “Go on. Show me how you start.”

Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.

You don’t move right away.

He raises a brow. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you. That’s cool. But I need to see what you’re doing wrong.”

Your breath hitches.

Your hand moves on instinct—slow, shaky—and dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. You’re already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. It’s too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.

You rub. Once. Twice. It’s not bad. It’s what you always do.

But still—nothing clicks.

Heeseung tilts his head. “You’re too stiff.”

“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.

“Don’t be.” His voice drops half an octave. “You look hot.”

The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like he’s telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something he’s been picturing all night.

“You’re thinking too much,” he adds. “Trying to force it instead of feel it.”

Your hand stills.

He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “Try this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just… feel her.”

You hesitate, then obey.

The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.

“Feel that?”

You nod. Barely.

“That’s what she likes,” he murmurs. “You’ve been poking at her like she’s a fucking keyboard. No wonder she’s not putting out.”

You let out a breathy laugh—half scandalized, half aroused. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re soaking through your panties,” he says, deadpan.

Your breath catches. Heeseung doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.

He sits there like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s enjoying this. You’re not even sure he’s hard yet—but he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.

He lets the moment hang.

Then: “Now—slow circles. Don’t speed up unless she tells you to.”

“She doesn’t talk,” you whisper, teasing without confidence.

His gaze is heavy. Steady.

“She does,” he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. “You just haven’t been listening.”

The room feels hotter now.

Not just the air—your skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet they’re practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. It’s not graceful. It’s not some porn fantasy. It’s messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like it’s the only thing worth watching.

You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. You’re spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back again—but you’re too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you can’t look away from him.

He hasn’t blinked once.

Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like you’re just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and he’s your substitute teacher for the night.

The only thing that’s changed is his posture.

His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you don’t miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.

You’re doing this to him.

But not enough.

Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.

You’re trying. God, you’re trying.

Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. You’re listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like it’s scared to fall off the cliff it’s been building for years. Your hand’s cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like you’re close—and then it dips, again and again.

It’s good. So good.

But it’s not enough.

You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. “Still rushing her.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You are. I can see it.”

You shake your head, breath stuttering. “I’m not trying to—I swear, I’m—” You gasp. “It’s just—it’s not—”

You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussy’s pulsing, and it still feels like you’re just rubbing up against a wall.

“It’s not enough,” you breathe out, broken. “I—I can’t—fuck—she’s not listening.”

Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.

“Oh, she’s listening,” he says. “You’re just not talking to her the right way.”

You whimper. “Then tell me what to say.”

That makes his mouth twitch—just barely. Like he’s been waiting for that.

“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. “She’s tight. Warm. I feel her—pulsing. Like she wants something but—she’s not opening.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. “She wants to be filled.”

You nod.

“No,” he says. “Say it.”

Your chest heaves. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. “She wants to be filled.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“She wants to be fucking filled,” you whine. “She’s throbbing—she’s soaking—fuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.”

Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now she’s talking.”

Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everything’s soaked. You’re dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.

“She needs more,” you pant. “She’s clenching—she’s starving—”

Heeseung’s hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. “So feed her.”

You moan—high and breathy—and press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, eyes burning into you. “Look at your fucking fingers.”

You do. It’s obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.

“She’s begging,” he says softly. “And you’re finally listening.”

You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.

“She’s so fucking greedy,” you gasp. “She won’t stop pulling—I can’t—I can’t keep up—”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “She knows what she’s doing. Let her take it.”

You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until you hear yourself moan again—shameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.

Your legs spread wider. You’re not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.

You’re right there.

You’re going to break.

He’s just watching. Like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

You’re right on the edge, and this time it’s not teasing.

It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.

Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soaked—slipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your body’s trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and there’s no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussy’s leaking, twitching, clenching around nothing—and Heeseung watches like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize you’re moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.

The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.

Heeseung doesn’t say a word for a second too long.

You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.

His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like he’s reading it better than your face.

He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he can’t ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himself—and your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.

He’s so hard.

His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like it’s the only thing anchoring him in the room.

“Look at that messy little cunt.”

Your body jerks at the word. You’ve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.

Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.

“She’s drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet she’s never been this loud for you before.”

“She hasn’t,” you breathe. “She never—she never—”

“You’ve been starving her,” he says, still jerking himself lazily. “Touching her like she’s a problem instead of a fucking meal.”

Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. You’re humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.

Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “Yes. Please—I wanna cum—I need it—”

“Need what?” he pushes.

“I need her to fucking break,” you sob. “She’s clenching—she’s begging—she needs to cum, she needs it—”

“Then let her,” he growls. “Don’t fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.”

You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.

And that’s when he says it—low and hot and foul.

“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”

You snap.

Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.

It doesn’t hit you right away.

At first, there’s just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t even sound like you.

It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—harder than you thought was even possible—and your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.

Heeseung is still there.

You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not like this.

And then it fades.

That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.

What’s left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.

Reality slams back into you hard.

You’re laid out across his bed—sweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussy’s still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.

Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.

You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. “Shit—fuck.”

Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though they’re absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.

Heeseung hasn’t moved.

Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didn’t just cum your entire soul out in front of him.

You can’t meet his eyes.

He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.

“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I came. Pretty sure that’s the goal, right?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just surprised you’re acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.”

“Jesus—” you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.

Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.

“You do realize how loud you were, right?” he adds. “I thought the bed was gonna snap in half.”

“Please stop talking,” you groan, voice muffled.

“You were crying,” he says like it’s a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. “That shit was beautiful.”

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.

He doesn’t even seem fazed.

That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t realize I—um. That I could… do that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”

You shoot him a look.

Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. “You’ve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.”

You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothed—and now he’s just lounging there like you didn’t just show him the most private part of yourself.

You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.

Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. “So,” he says, tone casual. “Lesson two tomorrow?”

You blink.

“…There’s a second lesson?”

He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. “You think she’s done learning?”

Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.

-

Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.

Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didn’t think it would matter—but the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows she’s been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.

You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.

 It starts that fast—barely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someone’s new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping. 

Already you’re restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasn’t gone away. The ache stayed with you. 

That trembling throb between your legs that didn’t fade after one orgasm—or two—or three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didn’t just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone else’s bed with someone else’s voice in your ear.

You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but that’s cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a message—just to see his name.

 You scroll through the notifications like maybe he’ll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it. 

Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your body’s too hot and your thoughts won’t stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying “Good girl. She’s listening now.”

You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and it’s not casual. It’s deep. It’s mean. 

Like your pussy’s crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.

You don’t try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the message—“Can I call you?”—and hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like you’ve already crossed a line and he hasn’t even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.

No. I’ll call you.

Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.

You don’t even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. You’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt—no bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.

His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.

Low. Thick. Wrecked.

“You waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didn’t you?”

The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You can’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasn’t even seen you.

“You’re pathetic,” he breathes, and it’s not cruel—it’s reverent. Like he’s turned on by the depth of your desperation. “You left for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already starving.”

Your breath comes out shaky. “She hasn’t shut up.”

“I bet. That little pussy’s been crying for attention, hasn’t she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?”

Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. “I tried last night.”

“And?”

Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.

“…Didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because she’s not trained to your fingers. She’s trained to my voice.”

You nearly choke.

“Take the blanket off.”

You do.

“T-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.”

You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping already—your folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.

“Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You don’t answer.

“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”

You whimper. “I’m wet.”

“Where?”

Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”

“Let me hear it.”

You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.

Squish. Slick. Wet.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “She’s fucking leaking for me.”

“She won’t stop,” you pant. “She’s been clenching—she’s needy. I can’t—I can’t even think straight.”

“She doesn’t need you to think. She needs you to listen.”

You nod like he can see you.

“You touching your clit yet?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”

You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“Fuck. That’s it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.”

You do.

And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I might be,” you choke out. “I’m—I’ve been on edge all day. She’s screaming—”

“Then shut her up.”

Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere now—coating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear it—slap, slap, slap—and you know he can too.

“God, listen to her,” he says. “She’s fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.”

Your thighs start to shake.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”

“She wants to cum. So let her.”

You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothing—just your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.

“Again,” he growls. “Don’t you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.”

You keep going. Because you can’t stop. Because this is his now.

-

You don’t get a break.

Heeseung doesn’t let you.

After that first call—the one where you came so hard you swore you saw stars—you thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe you’d get to breathe. But you don’t. Because the second you wake up the next morning, there’s already a text waiting for you.

Morning. She hungry?

Your pussy clenches on reflex.

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.

Yes.

His reply is instant.

Good. edge yourself until you’re shaking. No cumming. No cheating. You’ll send me a pic of your fingers when you’re done.

That’s it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of course—you obey.

You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.

You send the photo.

Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.

He doesn’t reply until hours later.

Beautiful. Don’t clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.

That’s how it starts.

Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just a photo prompt. Sometimes it’s voice notes—low, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.

Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Don’t wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.

When you can’t call—family dinners, company in the house, a wedding event—he doesn’t complain. He just adapts.

He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.

“Are you wearing panties right now?”

“She’s wet just from this, isn’t she?”

“Put your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.”

You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.

Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.

On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. That’s all.

You cum like a trained animal.

By the end of the fourth day, you’re overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You can’t think straight without hearing his voice. You can’t fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.

He doesn’t let you get comfortable.

I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?

-

You’re at the dinner table when the text comes in.

There’s a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncle’s talking about traffic. Your mom’s pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lap—one tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.

Heeseung.

Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like that’s gonna help anything.

You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, it’s just a single message.

Don’t open this here. I’m serious.

You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.

It’s not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.

And it destroys you.

I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like she’s just been edged for an hour and she’s still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though she’s never had it. That’s how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though I’ve never fucked her. I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy she’s gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and she’s frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching. I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what I’ve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesn’t get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you can’t clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, they’d smell her. No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesn’t need permission anymore. You’re gonna leak down your leg just reading this, aren’t you? She’s already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.

You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.

You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your panties—soaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.

You spread your legs wider. There’s no stopping it. You have to.

You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.

You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.

You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like she’s starved.

You’re fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.

You don’t stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until you’re crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.

When it’s over, you’re wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like she’s still looking for him.

You snap a photo.

Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.

You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.

That’s how she’s supposed to look. Every day until you get home.

-

You don’t even knock.

You could, but what’s the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:

You better show up dripping.

And you are.

The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time you’re standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.

He opens it like he already knew you were there.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.

He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way you’re fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

Just opens the door wider and lets you in.

You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building already—your pussy knows. She’s aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.

He closes the door behind you. And waits.

You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. “I did everything.”

He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”

Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like he’s looking for confirmation.

“You leaking?”

Your breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. But you don’t hesitate.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and he’d see everything.

He doesn’t touch you.

“Show me,” he says, voice low.

Your breath hitches again—but you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.

You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your folds—dripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like it’s nothing new. Like she’s been practicing all week.

You keep your eyes on him the whole time.

And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.

Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks—deep, slow, tongue curling around them like it’s a reward.

Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.

“She tastes trained.”

You nod.

“She beg yet?”

You exhale. “She never shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”

Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.

“You want her filled?”

You nod again. “Please.”

“Not yet,” he says. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m ready—she’s so ready, I’ve been—”

“I don’t care what you think. You’re not here to make decisions. You’re here to do what I say.” He lets go of your face. “You wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.”

You scramble onto the bed.

Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.

You’re already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat that’s been building all week. You don’t try to hide it. You can’t. Your pussy’s wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. She’s been teased. Trained. Denied. You’ve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now he’s standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s finally ready to eat.

But he doesn’t touch you first.

He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside out—and finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.

And sniffs.

Deep.

He inhales like it’s a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks out—tastes it.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s been marinating in this.”

Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.

“She’s loud, too.” His voice drops lower. “I haven’t even touched her and she’s already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.”

“Heeseung—” You whimper.

“Shut up.”

He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.

You’re soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.

He just stares.

“You fucking trained her like this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.”

“She’s starving,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“I can see that.”

His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.

He doesn’t lick you.

Not yet.

He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in again—this time slower. Longer. Right at the source.

“God,” he mutters. “She fucking smells like obedience.”

You sob.

And then he spits.

Right on your pussy.

Hot. Heavy. Messy.

It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.

Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls. “She’s getting attention. She better stay still.”

And finally—finally—his tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.

But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesn’t stop.

He eats you like a man starved. Like you’ve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhere—tongue licking up everything you’ve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.

“That’s it,” he groans against your clit. “Let me taste five fucking days of begging.”

You cry out, thighs clenching.

But he slaps your pussy with his hand—sharp, wet, punishing.

“Open.”

You go limp. You can’t fight it. You don’t want to.

He eats you like it’s personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clit’s too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesn’t care. He mumbles into you—filth you can barely understand because he’s too focused on devouring.

“She’s so fucking loud. She won’t shut up. You hear that?”

You do.

Your pussy makes noise with every lick—squelching, wet, obscene.

“I didn’t even fuck her yet,” he growls. “And she’s already creaming.”

You try to cum. You try.

But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.

“Nope. She’s not getting fed all the way until I’ve felt her on my cock.”

You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.

Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“She’s ready,” he says. “She’s starving.”

He’s already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.

Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.

He shoves his fingers past your lips—soaked in your own slick, the same fingers he’s been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongue—salty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.

“Swallow it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face. “That’s what obedience tastes like.”

You do. Of course you do.

Because you’d do anything he says.

And he knows it.

He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forward—kneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like he’s been waiting years for this moment.

You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. You’re already open, already dripping, already fucked dumb—but none of it’s going to prepare you for this.

“Look at her,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. “She’s fucking begging.”

“She wants it,” you pant, voice shaking. “Please—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish.

He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.

The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans. “She’s trained alright.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.

She’s full.

Finally fucking full.

Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like she’s been starving for it—and she has. Every inch of him hits something you didn’t know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. You’re soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she is.”

“She’s yours,” you gasp. “She’s a hole—your hole—she’s been waiting for this—”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You scream.

“You’re goddamn right she’s mine,” he snarls. “You trained her just to take my cock.”

You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.

He starts to fuck you in earnest—hard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.

Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.

So you lift your head—try to kiss him.

You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.

He pulls back.

His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.

“No,” he says coldly. “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

Your breath shatters.

“Kisses are for good girls,” he spits. “You’re just a trained little hole.”

Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.

“That’s all you are now, isn’t it?” he sneers. “A stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.”

Tears spill over your cheeks.

And you cum. Just like that.

From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.

Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like he’s trying to reprogram you from the inside out.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.”

You’re sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.

“Fucking knew it,” he groans. “You were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.”

He leans down, mouth right by your ear.

“But don’t ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you don’t get kissed.”

You’re already limp when he flips you.

Your body gives out so easily—shoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. You’re crying, still, but there’s no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothing—because he pulled out.

You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.

“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.

You nod into the pillow.

“Say it.”

“She’s empty,” you whimper. “She’s twitching—she wants you back in—she’s not done—she’s never done—”

You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.

He doesn’t give you the rest.

You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.

“You trained her to take it,” he says. “Now you’re gonna train her to keep it.”

He presses forward.

His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. You’re still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesn’t care.

He starts fucking you again like he owns you.

The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like she’s just a hole to conquer. You don’t even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being my little fucktoy?”

“Yeah, you do. You’re trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when she’s told. Cries when she’s full. Cums from being humiliated.”

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m yours—I’m your toy—just your fucktoy—use me—use her—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her she’s nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.”

He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.

“She’s so loud,” he snarls. “So fucking wet. She’s gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you cum again.

It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.

You scream—clawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to.

He fucks you through it—harder.

“Let her break,” he growls. “Let her fucking split.”

And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesn’t even slow down.

He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more time—and stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.

You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.

He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.

Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.

You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth’s open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.

“You’re not starved anymore,” he whispers. “She’s fed now. Finally.”

You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.

“She’s still twitching,” he murmurs. “She wants to sleep like this.”

-

You wake up to the burn in your thighs.

The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skin’s flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel it—him.

Still there. Still inside you.

You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your body—but the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.

A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.

His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. He’s asleep—soft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.

But something else creeps in too.

You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.

“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”

It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.

His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.

You almost regret asking.

Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, “I’m still fucking inside you, you brat. You think I’m gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?”

You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulder—and his mouth is already there.

No hesitation. He kisses you hard.

Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like she’s reacting to the kiss like it’s touch.

His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means it—like you’ve earned it—like he’s been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.

You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.

Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasn’t pulled out. He’s still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didn’t get to be last night.

His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he’s re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cunt’s trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesn’t even know how to be empty anymore.

And then you hear it.

“Heeseung?”

It’s distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.

“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”

Evie. She’s awake. The breath dies in your throat.

Your eyes fly open. Heeseung’s hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.

“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.

Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like he’s trying to figure out his next move in real time.

“Y/N?” she calls again. “Where’d you go?”

You scramble out of the bed like you’ve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. You’re still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.

Heeseung’s already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.

You’re panicking. “Do I go back to her room? What do I do—what if she’s in the hallway—?”

Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead once—quick, mocking, cocky—like this is funny to him.

“Bathroom. Now.”

You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.

His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.

“Yo.”

“You seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasn’t in bed. Her stuff’s still there though.”

Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.

“Nah, haven’t seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t text me.”

“She probably didn’t want to wake you.”

You’re crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.

“Whatever. Tell her I’m making pancakes.”

“Will do.”

Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.

“You owe me.”

You punch his chest.

He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low. “You’ll pay me back tonight."

-

It’s early.

Evie’s downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when she’s in a good mood.

You’re in Heeseung’s lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His back’s against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and you’re grinding slowly—hips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.

You’re not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.

Just slow, controlled rolls—like you’re milking him without giving yourself away.

“You sound like you want her to know,” he whispers against your throat.

You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.

“Then be quiet, baby. Or I’ll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you won’t cum at all.”

You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.

“If she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.”

You do. Barely.

You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for it—and Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.

Downstairs?

Evie sings along to the chorus.

-

It’s disgusting.

There’s no other word for it.

You’re on all fours, face buried in Heeseung’s mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you open—and the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.

You’re whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.

“Fuck, she’s drooling for it,” he mutters into your pussy. “She wants both. She’s ready. One in her ass, two in her cunt—you wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?”

Your face is soaked. Your body’s trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she wants.”

“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want you to open my ass—wanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoy—please—please—”

And then—

“Y/N?”

You hear your name like it’s being spoken through a tunnel.

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.

And then you both look up.

In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

Evie.

Her face doesn’t go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.

She stares at your body—at your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseung’s hand buried between your cheeks, your best friend’s brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.

And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.

Her whole body jolts forward like she’s about to puke right there in the hallway.

“Oh my—fucking—god—” she chokes. “What the—what the FUCK—”

She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.

“No—no—no—no, no, no—”

She’s panicking.

Can’t breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.

“Evie—” you start, voice already wet. “Evie, please—please just listen—”

“DON’T.”

The scream hits like a slap.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t—don’t even say my fucking name—”

You’re sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.

Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.

“Heejoo—”

“DON’T. CALL ME THAT.” Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. “You’re my fucking brother.”

She looks at you. Like she doesn’t even know you.

And then her expression cracks completely.

Her face contorts—pain, betrayal, disgust, hatred—all in one devastating collapse.

“You were inside her,” she whispers, and her voice breaks. “You had your—your—you were licking her while you were fingering her ass—”

“You’re both fucking insane.”

You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.

“Evie—please—please just let me explain—”

She flinches.

Flinches.

Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.

She looks empty.

“Don’t come near me.”

Her voice is flat now. Robotic.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even fucking breathe in my direction.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. She steps back.

Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.

“You’re both dead to me.”

-

​​You don’t remember the walk home.

You don’t remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You don’t remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floor—hoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocket—and trying to breathe without choking on it.

Because it doesn’t stop. The image. Her face.

Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.

She meant it. Every word.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking breathe in my direction.”

She meant it.

You try to text her that night. You don’t even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says “I’m sorry.” One that says nothing at all.

They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.

He doesn’t text either. You don’t even know if he can.

The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.

It never comes.

But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.

Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like it’s expecting to be filled.

Some nights you wake up sweating—panting, pussy twitching—because you dreamed of his voice again.

You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.

Even after Evie’s face broke in half at the sight of you—wet, spread open, her brother’s finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.