sunkissedlix.

The studio speakers finally went dead, leaving nothing but the sound of heavy breathing fogging the mirrors on the dance room. Minho didn't drop to the floor like the others, he still stood in the center of the room, pulling the collar of his soaked shirt away from his chest and staring intensely at his own reflection. In the background, Changbin and I.N were already talking about getting food, but his eyes continued fixed on the mirror, tracking the exact second his foot slipped during the bridge.

“민호씨 (Minho-ssi)!” The choreographer called out, waving a tablet.

Before he could take a step, the studio door clicked open. You slipped in, face mostly hidden under a beige cap, keeping your back almost pressed to the wall as you moved toward one of the senior trainers. You bent into a quick, tense bow and whispered something that wasn't korean, the vowels were too soft and the rhythm was completely different.

The trainer didn't look up from her clipboard. She just let out a sharp sigh, rolled her eyes, and barked a dry “그래 (Sure).”

You bit your lip, your fingers twitching against the strap of your hoodie. Without another word, you turned and practically bolted out the door. Minho watched the door click shut, his brows knitting together.

By midnight, the building was mostly dark as Minho finally gathered his gym bag, sneakers squeaking loudly in the desert hallway. Near the exit, one last group of female staff members passed him, their tired faces lighting up while they offered quick bows.

“수고하셨습니다, 민호씨 (Good work, Minho-ssi).”

“조심히 들어가세요. 수고하셨습니다. (Please be careful on your way out. Thank you for your hard work.),” he replied, giving them a small nod.

As their giggles faded down the street, probably towards the nearest bar, the lobby went quiet again. When he noticed a silent shadow tucked near the vending machines.

It was the same beige cap from earlier, but this time you were sitting on a low stool, face buried behind a black mask, staring so hard at your phone that you didn't hear him approach. Minho stopped a step away, tilting his head to look over your shoulder. On the screen, a picture of a blue coastline flashed next to a text cursor of some korean-learning app, where your thumb hovered over the keyboard a bit hesitant.

“해안 (coastline),” Minho said into the quiet space.

You jumped on your seat, the phone nearly slipping through your fingers before you caught it against your chest.

“The word,” Minho pointed a nonchalant finger at the screen, completely unbothered by startling you. “You are new here? Never saw you.”

“Ah…” You pulled your mask down slightly, your voice a little shaky. “I am... stylist assistant. One year. Just small gigs.”

“Stylist assistant?” Minho tilted his head, absorbing the foreign language he also didn’t feel quite used to after all those years. “Cool. One year is... a long time.”

“네 (Yes),” you muttered, looking down at your hands. “하지만 한국어는 (But korean)… still very hard for me.”

“Oh, Felix too,” Minho shrugged, his sharp features softening into a casual smirk and a light chuckle. “He makes mistakes every day. It's okay.”

Headlights cut through the glass doors of the lobby, painting the walls white. A black cab pulled up to the curb outside, you glanced at your phone, hastily grabbing your clothes’ bag from the floor.

“I need to go. 수고하셨습니다 (Thank you for your hard work),” you said in a rush with a shy smile, throwing a clumsy bow before jogging out into the night.

Minho stood in the empty lobby for a moment, the heavy glass doors swinging shut as he let out a quiet breath, an amused smile spreading over his face at the sound of your adorable accent that still lingered inside his head.

—

With the release of a new comeback, over the next few weeks, Stray Kids operated in a clocked schedule of photo shoots, dance practices, and clothing fittings. But even through the hectic pace that took over the days ahead, he could always find you on the sidelines, working hard but lingering your eyes a bit too long on him before another staff called you out.

Whenever the last member wrapped up the day or the staff organized the few remaining equipment, you’d be there, untangling wardrobe racks or waiting on late-night shipments, and Minho would still be waiting for you under the fluorescent lights every night.

He didn't really like doing small talk, but he couldn’t deny how much he felt delighted by your cute reactions towards his presence, when he'd just walk up, tap something with his foot or finger, and wait for your response.

“목걸이 (Necklace),” he said one night, flicking the silver chain dangling from his neck.

“Moggeoli,” you tried a bit hesitant, your tongue tripping over the double consonant.

For a moment Minho stared at the shape of your mouth, licking his own lips to the thought of it against his. “목. 걸. 이. Again.”

“Mok... geol... i?”

“그치 (That’s it),” he would mutter as his eyes crinkled at the corners with a proud smile.

When your korean hit a wall, you'd shove your translator app in his face and Minho would read the overly formal text, make a disgusted face, then say some short english words and explain to you how people actually talked in Korea. He could be a bit blunt, not care much about grammar rules, but he never ran out of patience with you.

By the end of the month, the entire JYP building felt like a rush to finish up the last adjustments for the showcase that was less than twenty four hours away. It was past midnight again when you dropped onto a metal bench in the hallway, completely spent after packing away dozens of heavy boot boxes. Your brain felt completely fried from a solid twelve hours of trying to decode so many korean styling directions and tasks.

“Ah!” You flinched as a freezing water bottle pressed against your cheek.

Minho was standing over you, swallowed up by a black hoodie a few sizes bigger than him, his hair still slightly damp from the last practice. He looked completely wired, his eyes bright with that restless energy as he slid onto the bench next to you, keeping a bit of space between you, but close enough that you could feel his intoxicating scent wrapping around you.

“Today... very hard work,” Minho said with his voice a bit husky from fatigue, tilting his head toward you. “괜찮아 (All right)?”

“괜찮아요 (All right),” you sighed, letting your shoulders drop as you offered a tired smile. “Just... my brain is…” you mimicked a small explosion with your hands.

Minho let out a breathless laugh. “Me too. Choreo today... crazy.” He leaned his head back against the concrete wall, staring blankly at the hallway ceiling. Neither of you spoke for a few minutes, the silence didn't feel awkward anymore, it was just the quiet of two people who had survived the same long day.

When his stomach suddenly let out a loud growl, getting you to turn and look at him with a worried expression. But Minho didn't even look embarrassed, he just tilted his head with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Ah, I’m so hungry,” he muttered, shifting his weight and turning his body fully toward you and resting his elbow on the back of the bench. “You free tonight?” He spoke slowly, using his hand to emphasize the words. “Members at home, so…” He pointed a finger at you, then at himself. “Me. You. Ramyeon.”

You blinked. “Are you asking me out for dinner?”

“Yes. Dinner.” He nodded firmly, sensing the language barrier might need a bridge, he pulled his phone out, thumbs typing quickly across the screen before turning it toward you where the translator read: I know a really good place near here where the staff won't bother us. I can teach you the food vocabulary.

Your heart gave a sudden and unexpected flutter when you looked up from the screen, his usual playful smirk was gone, replaced by a surprisingly soft and genuine expression.

—

The restaurant was mostly empty, tucked away on a dark corner where you didn't have to worry about anyone recognizing him. Minho picked a table in the furthest booth, away from the small crowd near the counter. Over steaming bowls of ramyeon and a few drinks, the constant pull to check your phone translator faded, somehow with enough patience and fragmented phrases, the words just made sense.

Outside, the heavy and humid air from the past few days started to shift, low thunders rumbled across the sky and the imminence of a storm settled in Seoul. Rain started lashing against the restaurant’s glass windows, but inside, under the low yellow lights of the booth, the only thing keeping your attention was the relaxed smile on Minho’s face.

After each shared giggle, the heat of the burning soup and the kick of the alcohol began to catch up with you, loosening your tongue when his piercing eyes landed on you.

“You know… your voice is so cute in korean,” you smirked, twirling some noodles on your chopsticks. “It feels almost easy when you speak.”

“그래 (Really)?” Minho murmured, his voice dropped into a velvety, playful tone. He didn't reach for his phone this time, letting the foreign, melodic syllables just hang in the warm space between you.

“네 (Yes).” You bit your lower lip, trying to press down the growing smile curling on your mouth as your pulse started to hammer harder against your ribs.

“너 한국어 할 때 진짜 귀여워. 가끔 연습할 때 너 보느라 집중 안 돼 (You're also really cute when you speak korean. Sometimes when I'm practicing, I can't concentrate because I'm watching you).” He leaned closer, his dark eyes locking onto your lips before rising to meet your gaze. He reached across the small table, his long fingers gently playing with the sensitive skin just below your ear to tuck a strand of hair behind it.

“That’s not fair,” you blinked confused at the shift you couldn’t decode. “You're cheating. Translate it.”

Minho let out a low chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest. Instead of reaching for his phone, he slid along the booth, closing the distance between you until his lips slightly brushed the shell of your ear. His hot breath sent a dizzy spike of heat straight down your spine.

“우리 집으로 가자. 내가 너한테 뭘 하고 싶은지 직접 보여줄게 (Let's go to my place. I'll show you exactly what I want to do to you).”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes burning with a possessive heat that left absolutely no doubt about his intentions, even without the translation.

“What did you say?” Your voice came out in a quiet, uneven breath. “Translate. Now.”

Minho’s boyish, teasing smirk returned, he leaned in and pressed a faint kiss right to the corner of your mouth.

“I said,” Minho murmured in english, his voice returning to that polite cadence, though the fire in his eyes didn't waver for a second, “that the weather is weird and we should go to my house.”

—

The front door had barely clicked shut behind you before the skies were torn open outside, the sound of torrential rain hammering the windows in Minho’s apartment. You were both utterly drenched, water dripping from your hair and pooling around your sneakers. Without a word, he disappeared for a second, returning to drape a plush towel over your head and pointing down the short hallway.

“Bathroom. Warm shower. Go.”

He left a neat pile of clothes on the counter for you. When you finally stepped out of the fogged bathroom, his already oversized black t-shirt draped all the way down to your thighs, while the sweatpants hung far too low onto your hips, the drawstring pulled as tight as it could go.

The living room was quiet, save for the low murmur of the TV broadcasting a weather warning about the storm. You sat on the floor, waiting for your damp hair to dry, awkwardly feeling the heavy buzz of the alcohol wash away as you drank a large glass of water, that left you intensely aware of the kiss at the restaurant and the fact you were currently wearing his clothes in his apartment.

The soft padding of bare feet broke the quiet. Minho walked into the room, his own hair damp and messy, and slid down onto the floor beside you, resting his back against the base of the couch.

You stared down at your fingers, suddenly unsure of what to say. “Thanks,” you mumbled under your breath, keeping your eyes on your lap. “For the clothes... and the dinner... and everything you did for me.”

Minho offered a quick glance, sitting with his legs slightly spread, one knee pulled up closer to his chest, the other leg extended as his thigh almost brushed against yours. Scratching the back of his neck, a rare, genuinely shy smile touched his mouth.

“It's okay,” he said softly.

Silence stretched through the apartment, making the space feel entirely isolated from the storm outside, he shifted again and his body heat pressed closer as he leaned closer to you.

“I can... teach other things too,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave, “나 지금 너 진짜 필요해 (I really need you right now).” His warm breath fanned directly over the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a sharp shiver down your spine. “Try it.”

You swallowed hard, your heart instantly pounding against your ribs even faster than before. “What does it mean, Minho?”

“Say it,” he countered, his dark eyes locking onto yours with unblinking focus. “And I will tell.”

“Na jigeum neo jinjja… pilyohae,” you repeated. The syllables felt stiff on your tongue, completely unattached to any meaning in your brain, but you forced them out anyway.

“It means,” Minho’s large hand reached up, his fingers cradling the back of your head and tilting it slightly to the side. “I really need you right now.”

Before the translation could fully register, he leaned across the small gap between you. His lips planted a soft, lingering kiss just under your ear, tracing a slow line down your jawline until he reached your parted lips. The kiss started slow and hesitant, almost as if he were trying to find a way to translate how good it felt to touch you without using words at all.

But the hesitation didn't last, it deepened rapidly, turning into a breathless rhythm as your tongues tangled in a wet embrace of pure need. Your hands went up to his broad shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his hoodie as you pulled him closer, sinking entirely into him. At that moment, you didn't want to pull apart and risk hearing any more of the foreign language that had isolated you for the past year, not when it finally made perfect sense.

Minho was the one to break the kiss, his chest heaving as he pulled back just an inch. He was panting, lips already twitching to press back against yours, but he stopped himself, holding your face firmly between his palms.

“계속 키스해줘 (Keep kissing me),” he breathed out raggedly against your swollen lips, his thumb wiping away a trace of moist from your chin. “Say it.”

“Gyesog kiseuhaejwo,” you whispered instantly.

“Keep kissing me.”

His palms slid to the sides of your face, angling your head as he bruised your lips again. The pace was urgent, sucking and biting at your lower lip, drawing a needy moan from the back of your throat. He pulled back again just far enough to look down at you, his pupils completely dilated and dark with heat.

“Want more?”

“Uhm,” you breathed, unable to form any coherent word or thought.

“Say 더 해줘 (Do more).”

“Deo haejwo,” you promptly repeated, your hands tugging him back down to you.

Minho let out a rough chuckle, hands sliding down to your waist as he pulled you directly onto his lap. The hard line of his growing manhood pressed firmly against you through the soft fabric of his sweatpants as he dragged his lips across your flushed cheek, his voice a soft murmur against your skin.

“더 해줄까 (Should I do more)?” He chuckled.

You didn't understand a single syllable, but the friction felt so good you didn't even care. You just leaned into his touch, your mouth seeking his as he captured your lips in another bruising kiss.

“느낌 너무 좋아 (This feels too good),” he muttered against your mouth. The casual and cute tone he used with the other staff members was entirely gone, replaced by a low rumble that vibrated deep in his chest and sent a wave of shivers down your spine as he ground his hips up against yours.

With a swift movement, his large hands wrapped under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly into his arms before laying your back down onto the soft cushions of the sofa. He let out a ragged exhale, his gaze completely focused on you as he gave a light tap to the inside of your bent knees.

“다리 벌려봐. 힘 빼고 (Spread your legs. Relax).”

You instinctively followed his order, spreading your legs open for him. A satisfied smile touched his lips, his fingers hooked into the waistband of the oversized sweatpants, slowly pulling them down over your hips along with your underwear, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the room. With a gentle but unyielding tug, he slid the hem of the shirt up your torso, exposing your perked up nipples underneath the fabric.

A sudden wave of shyness hit you and you started to close your legs again, Minho paused, a single eyebrow arching as he looked down at you. He brushed the tip of his finger against your jaw, silently commanding you to look into his eyes, before trailing that single finger down the center of your breasts, past your stomach, and directly over your damp core.

“잘하네, 착하지 (You’re doing well, good girl),” he mumbled against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You could see the heavy distortion of his bulge in his gray sweatpants, but he took his time, sliding his fingers over your slick skin before easily pushing two digits deep inside you. A few pumps later and a breathy moan escaped your throat, your hips instinctively arching into his touch.

But Minho pulled his hand back, the sudden loss of friction making you whimper wanting more. He reached up, pulling his own hoodie over his head in one fluid motion to reveal the toned lines of his chest and shoulders. With an impatient push, he stripped out of his pants, finally freeing his hard length that now hung stiffly in front of him. Completely uncovered, he loomed over you, his member giving a slight throb as his eyes tracked the way your thighs clutched at the air.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket, which lay discarded on the floor beside the couch, and tore open a condom wrapper, rolling it on quickly over his veiny shaft. Leaning back over your chest, he settled his weight between your thighs, aligning his round tip right at your entrance.

A small, anxious whimper left your lips, desperate to feel him inside you as he dragged his length with a stretch through your folds, your brain scrambled through the few korean phrases you actually knew, trying to patch together something from your previous lessons.

“Ah... 느낌 좋아요 (it feels good),” you whispered, voice trembling at the overwhelming sensations under your skin.

He let out a soft chuckle, the heavy tension in his shoulders melting as he pulled you flush against his bare chest, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck, slowly sinking all the way inside you.

“Why so polite?” he murmured, his breath hot against your collarbone as your warm, gummy walls opened to accommodate him. “Just say 좋아 (It's good).”

“좋아,” you gasped out, a breathless moan tearing from your throat as he began to move, his full girth making you fully aware of just how strong and manly he actually was beneath his usual baggy clothes. “더 해줘 (Do it more).”

“귀엽다 (so cute)... you learn so fast,” he murmured against your skin, a praise that felt like a caress, before blocking out the rest of the world by pressing another wet kiss over your parted lips.

“너 정말 꽉 조이네 (You’re so tight),” Minho groaned, his voice dropping into a ragged, low groan.

You had absolutely no idea what he’d been mumbling for the past few minutes, but the way his hips stuttered told you everything you needed to know. Your walls were clamping down impossibly tight around his length, catching every heavy friction of his thrusts.

“정말 미치게 하네 (You’re seriously driving me crazy).”

Another helpless moan broke from your lips when he suddenly lifted his torso, his large hands anchoring firmly onto your hips to angle himself deeper. He bit his lower lip hard, his eyelids fluttering shut as a violent shudder rolled through his entire body, sending the heat straight into yours.

“나 더는 못 참겠어. 너 진짜... 너무 좋아. (I can't take it anymore. You really... so good).”

With a dominant grip on your waist, he delivered a few more perfectly angled thrusts, his length throbbing maddeningly against your most sensitive spots until a sudden, burning tension struck both of your bodies at once. You cried out, a high-pitched yelp escaping your throat as your core tightly convulsed around him.

With one final, deep thrust, Minho buried his face into the crook of your neck. His breath was burning against your skin, panting more unintelligible groans until his entire body went rigid, a wave of intense pleasure taking over as he shot all of his warm load inside the latex.

The frantic pace slowly ground to a halt, leaving only the sound of your uneven breathing as Minho wrapped his arms around your waist and shifted his weight, pulling you along with him as he rolled onto his back on the couch. You collapsed directly onto his chest, your skin slick with a thin coat of shared sweat, his heartbeat was a wild, erratic thumping against your cheek.

Slowly, his fingers began to thread through your damp hair, the gentle, constant motion letting you drift toward a heavy slumber after such an exhausting day. But just as your eyes started to flutter shut, he hooked two fingers under your chin and tilted your face up to force you to look at him again.

A wide and teasing smirk spread across his face, his eyes crinkling with that familiar, playful malice. Before you could even blink, he reached down and gave your bare ass a light pinch on the soft flesh.

“Ah!” You flinched, instantly awake.

“아직 안 끝났어, 바보야 (It's not over yet, dummy),” Minho chuckled, his voice still husky but dripping with mischief. He tapped your chin playfully, switching back to his accented english. “Tutoring only finishes when the teacher says finish.”

and with the way he keeps it in, it just builds. and builds. and builds. until suddenly he’s three drinks in at noon, sitting somewhere he doesn’t even remember choosing, staring at his phone because you’re not answering fast enough.

not even ignoring him. just… busy. with someone else.

oh, so you’re with them. cool. great.

and then he orders another drink.

because obviously that’s the solution.

and we’re talking about a noon here but it’s already on in the mornings. hyunjin wakes up already pissed off at his fucking chungus life. with a headache, most time.

his hands don’t know what to do anymore. before you, they knew exactly what they were for. he was born to end lives. now… now he just holds shit when not stabbing with it. he always looks so off nowadays. but always plays with something in his hands when spacing out, that’s our point here.

one morning, early, hyunjin’s already up. he always wakes up early. can’t not. currently sitting at the counter of his and binnie’s place, hunched forward with that ass posture of his, why is this guy so long, turning a knife slowly in his hand. not like a big one, just… enough to do damage if he wanted to. but he’s not using it. he’s just holding it. plus you would worry about him if he hurt himself. so he’s… not going to do that.

changbin stands there for a second, watching. then he walks over, holds his hand out. “give me that.”

“fuck off.”

“hyune.”

“i said fuck off.”

changbin reaches out and takes the knife.

hyunjin lets him. lets his hand go slack, lets it be taken because nothing matters. fucking psycho.

changbin turns it once in his hand, sets it down out of reach. sighs. mr emo should calm the fuck down. (or maybe changbin should open up his eyes and realize hyunjin is not wrong here, just a more expressed and deeper version of what changbin also was once before you let him hit. changbin is kind of an asshole here, always on your dick and not helping his friend who’s having it way worse.)

that’s why for hyunjin, it’s not just that you’re with other people, it’s who. it’s the details. it’s the images that won’t leave his head no matter how much he tries to drown them out.

you.

on his bed.

changbin’s hands on you.

changbin’s mouth on you.

right there. while he was just asleep. he keeps seeing it, over and over, and it’s not even something he witnessed, it’s something he imagines only, fills in with way too much detail that destroy him but most likely didn’t even happen. like hyune i promise you that they did not kiss that close to you as you imagine it.

it makes his stomach twist. makes his grip tighten on whatevers in his hands at the time. makes him want to break something. or someone’s bones. or his own head on a wall.

and hyunjin can’t be mad at you. couldn’t even try. because to him, you’re, fuck, you’re everything.

when you look at him? it all just stops, just for that long. the constant torture in his head and everything that holds in itself, gone. that’s why he still wants you just as bad. maybe worse.

if you asked him to wait? he would.

if you asked him to share? he might.

if you asked him to stay like this, falling deep into this and mad and completely fucked up over you, just a simple little human? he’d do that too.

but all this waiting just ends up making him… hungrier.

he’s constantly trying to figure out where he fits. where he’s allowed to stand. he doesn’t openly hit on you like jeongin, he can’t give you that. doesn’t do what he wants like seungmin, would mess up everything if he did. doesn’t cling like han, he’d feel annoying. can’t over-daddy everyone like chan, could never be on that level. can’t have the same charm as changbin does, doesn’t have it, what changbin was born with, hyunjin learned himself. wouldn’t get away with being creepy like minho(god, only minho can do it like that, even hyunjin wants to drop his panties when he sees minho be a creep towards you. anyone else would be dead if the boys saw someone act like that, but not minho)

he just… waits. that’s what he does, lives in the back, in the others’ shadows, not even his looks saving him now.

first time having feelings going well so far.

oh, sweetie.

but at least he still has the privilege to steal you sometimes, because you do like hanging out with him. he’s grateful for that. (only has himself to be grateful for, is still grateful for you) he can grab your hand and pull and you won’t resist. you’ll giggle and go with him, even while han keeps making little noises.

“hey, hey, where are you taking her?”

“out.” hyunjin says.

“no—”

“yeah.”

he actually had to stab han in the thigh once just so that he wouldn’t follow you. hyunjin always. makes. sure. the others don’t follow you.

he needs the contact to stay sane. just the two of you’s. he doesn’t even talk much in these hangouts, just sits with you, smokes one maybe, watching you. accepting his heartache when you lean on him a little.

internally, he’s fine then. okay. life is good but then he remembers(just imagines, fuck he remembers if he didn’t see it) changbin on his bed, and it all comes back. he has to throw up again.

“…you really didn’t wake me up, huh.” he mutters one time.

you look at him. you’re beautiful. “what?”

he shakes his head. looks good on him. “nothing.”

drinks again. conversation over. but it’s not over.

changbin has taken that knife out of his hand multiple times now.

walk in. see hyunjin. see knife. say “again?” take the knife. place it somewhere, knowing he’ll find it again anyway. “you’re going to cut yourself.”

“wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“you’re being dramatic.”

“you’re in a fivesome.”

“…can’t even argue with you, dude.”

it hits him in waves. that would be the best metaphor, though he has lots more of those. one minute he’s fine. normal. functionalish. doing whatever the fuck he does during the day. then next he’s on his bed, flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, flushed, heart doing some weird, uneven shit in his chest.

his brain, all you. again. always you.

he’s just thinking. thinking about the way you act with him. the way you lean into him when he pulls you into him, how you trust him with being that close, trust him to protect you in that position. he feels so boyfriend when you do that. you’re the perfect girl. the way your hand fits in his like it was made to be there. he’s sure it was. it must. the way you went out with him before you knew the others. the way your tits look—holy shit tits. yeah these thought chains can be sweet, can be dirty, longing, desperate, needy, horny, everything.

it’s not just want, attraction. it’s this gross need that took over his perfect life.

it’s unhealthy.

but what the fuck is anyone gonna do about it. nothing. that’s what.

so he gets love drunk. and it’s pathetic. genuinely embarrassing for a man like this. ptoo. this was supposed to be the sound of spitting in him. anyways. he’s on his bed in these little episodes, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling looking like he just got shot by cupid himself. feels like it too. even ears red, little boy neck warm, just a boy thinking about you. no distractions. no phone. no alcohol (at least not yet, give him ten minutes).

and then there’s the other problem, which is that all this feeling has to go somewhere. and hyunjin is not good at expressing it. at all.

so it leaks. kinda like that. like one late night, hyunjin is not sleeping again. shocking. he’s been staring at the ceiling for… fuck knows how long, thinking about you, replaying everything, overanalyzing shit.

he gets up. no thoughts that drive him, just feels like going. walks out of his room, down the hallway. to changbin’s door, and opens it without knocking. (them not knocking on each other’s doors has gotten them into multiple situations now)

changbin is asleep. shirtless, sprawled out, one arm thrown over his head. he’a cute. such a boy. more man, maybe.

hyunjin stands there, staring. kinda forget why he came for. so he walks in, closes the door, and climbs into the bed.

fucking cuddles up to changbin. like presses into changbin’s side, throws a leg over him, one arm tucked between them and the other over changbin’s body.

changbin obviously wakes up to this, eyes opening, looking down, seeing hyunjin. processing… processing…

“hey, buddy.” changbin says.

“…hi.”

changbin exhales, so soft, adjusting to get comfortable again, then puts an arm around hyunjin.

“you okay?” he asks.

“no.”

“yeah. figured.”

hyunjin presses his face into changbin’s shoulder, trying to hide.

changbin understands. wishes he could do something for hyunjin. these two kill people btw.

at some point, hyunjin falls asleep. changbin goes back to sleep too. cuties.

and they could be doing this more, would help a lot, but when not, they’re at your place. everyone is at your place. it’s not your place anymore. it’s theirs too. they have collectively decided that your space is now their space. your time is their time.

like, some days you walk in, and felix is on your couch, flipping through one of your magazines like he can actually read. (he can)

he looks up when you come in, smiling ear to ear. “oh, hey.”

“hi, lix. what are you doing?”

“reading.” such a cutie. “my horoscope says i’m gonna change the world.”

“amazing, sweetie.”

and when you turn your head because hyunjin is talking to you about how the moon looks like your left tit or whatever emo shit he’s on today, and when you turn back, felix is eating the paper.

you don’t even have the energy to yell anymore. you just take the rest of the magazine before he eats the whole thing.

you like your magazines.

sometimes when the boys are all too much, too loud, too physical, too on you, and you need to calm down before you lose your mind or commit a homicide of your own, you sit down, grab the latest issue, and you read it. close every single one of them out. usually perfect legs crossed, flipping pages while han is trying to climb on top of the fridge, seungmin is shooting at changbin(your neighbors just started moving not too long ago), that’s the game, changbin has to dodge, jeongin climbs onto the back of the couch, start braiding tiny sections of your hair while talking to you. “and then i told the guy i was gonna wear his face as a mask for you, but he screamed so loud i had to—” you hum and don’t pay attention. felix is usually on the floor gnawing on something (sometimes a bone, sometimes one of your socks) making happy little noises, watching the others or plays with them when invited, minho stands there holding one of your bras, sniffing it every few minutes(fucking creep??? hello???), hyunjin tries to read over your shoulder. “this writer doesn’t understand true longing. i would kill myself for you.” chan’s the only one who sometimes just sits next to you quietly(when not sharpening something with little metal shavings accidentally ending up in your hair), arm around your shoulders, scrolling on his phone like a normal(ish) boyfriend until seungmin starts shit talking and they throw hands. it drives them insane because they want your attention so bad but you’re over here reading about skincare while three of them have their dicks out.

you need it because they’re always on you. touching you. leaning on you. sitting too close. standing too close. breathing too close. you’ll be in the kitchen and suddenly there’s a hand on you, any part of you. sometimes head, arm, the boyfriends get private areas privilege of course, whatnot. you’ll be on the couch and someone’s arm is around you. you’ll be walking somewhere and someone’s grabbed your wrist, your hand, your sleeve, something.

“where are you going?”

“over there.”

“why?”

“because i want to.”

“…come back.”

so you need your magazines to ignore them sometimes. and, surprisingly, they don’t bother you that much when they see you’re reading. well, they don’t stop bothering you, they still talk your ear off, but at least don’t rip the magazine out of your hands so you pay attention to them.

when shit gets too… well, psychotic, these men are sick and need you to stop them sometimes, we know that, sometimes you just shove the magazine into seungmin’s hands. he’s usually the closest to you. and you know he’ll hold it.

“read this and shut up for five minutes.” you say, going to the kitchen where minho and felix are about to castrate each other.

seungmin bitches “this is fucking stupid, why do women need ten tips for everything, just suck dick better, why am i—” but two minutes later he’s fully invested in the “sex tips for women who like it rough” article, eyebrows raised, nodding while reading.

you come back ten minutes later with jeongin crying because felix tried to bite his dick and seungmin’s just quietly reading under his breath “pro tip, communicate your needs… yeah no shit.” he hands it back without looking at you, face a little red. “mid.”

they’re always on your dick. you try to pee in peace and the bathroom door creaks open and one of them is just standing there. like changbin, saying “just making sure you’re okay, baby.”

“fuck are you looking at, get out.”

“okay. you’re so cute.” he says, smiling and waving.

chan will knock once, then walk in anyway, starts talking to you. he acts the most normal of them. acts. doesn’t mean he is. he’s not.

han will wander in scratching his balls, go “oh shit sorry” then just stand there watching. fascinated. “you pee like a girl… that’s so cool…” ??? okay??? once he got so excited he started clapping. “wow you’re really going!! good job!!”

seungmin doesn’t really come in unless he needs something or just wants to annoy you, but not like he minds the fact that you’re peeing. once the second you wrapped your used pad up he took it from your hands and threw it into the tiny trash can for you. you, to this day, genuinely can’t decide if that was cute or fucking creepy.

and your bedroom? fucking circus. you have one bed. one. one! you’re lucky that it’s a big bed, but not big enough for the fact that all of these men, freshly feeling men, deeply in love men, want to sleep touching you.

han is glued to you, nonnegotiable. if he doesn’t get to be next to you, it’s “no—no, i’m staying—i’m staying right here—” it’s too much, but you love him. it’s also kind of sad. it’s also incredibly fucking inconvenient when there are also other people in the room.

seungmin is just “this is disgusting.” “move over.” “why is he breathing like that.” “why is everyone breathing like that.” but god forbid he’s not involved.

chan just decides where he’s sleeping and everyone else adjusts accordingly. daddy has built this system up himself.

and you want changbin there, and no way you don’t get what you want(except for peace but whatever) so changbin will be touching you one way or another. that gives him more confidence too nowadayd.

you wake up some mornings with han drooling on your tit, seungmin’s arm over your waist, changbin curled up at your feet the baby(execute him now), and chan somehow taking up half the mattress, with an arm behind your neck!! then you look down and felix is on the floor waiting for you to wake up and spend time with him, jeongin is spooning a pillow, hyunjin is writing something on the ceiling with a marker(???), and minho is standing in the corner watching everyone. waves to you. you hate them. (you love them more than anything and you’re unbelievably grateful for them no matter how horrible they are to the world)

and naturally, now that they’re all over you and see that the others are also all over you, they will… not want to be all over the others too. difficult wording, point here, jealousy.

not so serious that they’ll kill each other(except if you’re minho, he’d kill anyone), god no, but still. some of them are fine with sharing, some get a bit jealous. (but still would share if you told them to. anything you want, y/n.)

right now, the mainly hated one is chan.

well, they actually love chan, in the limited way serial killers can love anything that isn’t themselves and their needs to kill. they look up to him. he’s the most put together in any given situation, minho and felix trying to rip each other’s faces off or jeongin threatening to “end it all” over a bad haircut that’s not even bad and he’s the only one who thinks so, chan’s daddy ass steps in and everything is fine in five minutes. okay, sure, he had to break hyunjin’s collarbone once, but still settled shit.

they respect him. they copy him sometimes. they see how he acts with you and try the same. but right now, mostly they want to kill him.

he’s spending solo time with you today. they know. it makes them want to hang themselves.

right now, hyunjin and felix are… somewhere. no one really knows where they decided to go, just that hyunjin needed to get out and felix followed because he likes hyunjin’s company. (let’s note that he doesn’t know he likes hyunjin’s company, his brain likes it without him being conscious of it.) so they’re spending time together in an alley behind a building. felix is gnawing on a forearm, making disgusting, crunching sounds while he talks to hyunjin.

“and then i was like, wait, what if you just—”

“yeah.”

“right? like you don’t even have to—”

“no, yeah.”

“and then it just, like, came off, right? like, completely off. i didn’t even know that could happen, but then minho told me to put it down and i really—“

“deep.”

hyunjin hasn’t heard a single word. not one. he’s staring off into the distance, mind somewhere else entirely. guess where, you. every few minutes felix offers him a bite and hyunjin politely declines without even looking at felix, it would be hard for anyone else, felix is beautiful. hyunjin just doesn’t care now. it’s sweet that felix still keeps offering the boys bites even though they always say no. he’s either thoughtful or thoughtless and forgot they keep declining. anyways, he swings his legs, talks, goes on, while hyunjin drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

minho and jeongin are out getting rid of a body together, the two of them dragging a trash bag through the woods. they don’t talk much. but they’re having fun. seungmin is waiting in the car, he’s not in the mood for moving around now.

changbin and han are at changbin’s(and hyunjin’s but whatever he’s not home) place.

han is whining. “i miss her already, man, what if—”

changbin has him by the collar, holding him in place with one massive fucking arm holy shit so hot while he stirs something on the stove. “she’s fine, buddy. just chill. i made pasta. eat.”

han tries to run toward the door again and changbin yanks him back. brutal respect to him for never once raising his voice, by the way.

so. you and chan have your place to yourselves. you’re in the kitchen doing shit, chopping things or stirring whatever’s in the pot, while chan is behind you.

he’s such a sex symbol. moves behind you without a sound, psychopath quiet really, big hands on your hips. he leans down, presses a soft kiss to the side of your head. “smells good.” reaches around to steal a piece of whatever you’re chopping, puts it in his mouth, and hums. approval. “missed you today.” he whispers. that, is harder to say. but he did great.

you lean back into him. “missed you too. how was the… thing?” you don’t say kill out loud. ew ew ew. sometimes you dance around it, sometimes you don’t. today feels like dancing.

it’s brutal development, where we are now, where you are about what they do. but you love them this way, learn to accept it.

“i did good. guy begged like a lil bitch at the end but that’s nothing new. told him to shut up and think about his family. made it faster for him.”

you turn your head enough to look at him, to see his pretty face, tasting the sauce off the wooden spoon. offer it back over your shoulder for him. “here. try this. too much basil?”

he takes the spoon, tastes it. nods. “perfect. you always nail it.” he sets the spoon down and wraps both arms around your waist now, pulling you back against him.

it’s weird, that killing gives him this much of a rush. a man who can be this gentle with you is that evil.

and you also give him that rush. you do the same shit to his nervous system but worse. or better, y’know. he gets these random adrenaline rushes just from the way you do even the most insignificant shit like sneezing. now his heart rate raises like it does when he’s chasing someone, so blood reacts to that, and oh look at that, his dick is filling slowly because his body chose you.

the part in his brain that used to only light up for, to react to violence, now does that for your voice. for your anything really, your whole being. he loves it, living with this now. weird. makes him feel human, that used to make him want to peel his skin off.

he’s so in love it’s dumb. lame. his psychology’s new, attachment that used to be impossible for a guy like him now feels like oxygen. you’re the only thing that brings him good emotions all the time. every little interaction with you, or just thinking about you really, gets his dopamine, his dumb man body, higher than any kill ever did.

so, his cock’s half hard now, pressing against the front of his jeans, and it’s not even because his brain got sexual information, it’s because you simply make him this happy.

before you, he thought this shit, talking, touching, just existing in the same room, was a waste of time, oh he didn’t need it. now he’d watch you do this for hours. he’d watch you sleep, he does.

you turn your head to look at him and he catches your mouth in a kiss, no tongue, just wet mouth on mouth. when he pulls back his eyes are dark, pupils big from the love and lust flooding his system. looks good on him. the white feather hawk tail deer hunter likes to keep me cold in the hot breeze summer ever.

“keep cooking, i’m good right here.” he murmurs, not wanting to stop your little woman activity for his dumb dick. but he could cum like this if he let himself, really could, humping you while you finish dinner, spilling in his pants because you do that to him. but he won’t.

“mm.” you reply. “give me time then, i want you to try this for sure. just thought i’d make something you like. i know you love spicy.”

he puts his cheek to your cheek. heartless psychopath, by the way. “i do. you know me so well.”

let’s ignore that he can’t deal with spicy. loves it, tolerating it is another case entirely. you know that, he forgets sometimes.

“i want to know you so well. i care about you, you know. so i worry. what if one day something goes wrong out there? what if you don’t come back? i don’t know what i’d do with all these assholes without you keeping them in line.”

chan smiles. he presses another kiss to your temple, then your cheek. “i always come back. got too much to come home to now.” his hands slide a little higher, palms on your sides, holding you closer. “tell me about your day. you were out earlier. anything interesting?”

“usual. ran into jeongin at the store. he obviously followed me there, but didn’t cause trouble so it was fine. i told him to tone it down or i’m banning him from the apartment for a week, and han tried to cheer him up by offering to share his ‘special’ energy drink. which is just vodka and red bull. they both ended up puking in the bathtub. they left after that. nothing else, actually.

chan hums and holds you to himself, letting you feel him. “fuck, baby. you feel good. always do.”

you bite your lip, getting all horny now too. “yeah?”

“mhm.” he hums, grinding against you a bit. just a little bit, not like, han, who would be full on humping you now. he looks away. “feels good when you worry.”

this is huge, coming from someone this closed off. the progress you made with these boys should get an award, no joke. it’s serious shit.

you add more things into the pan because they need vegetables and thankfully all eats them. then lean back into him more, letting him hold your weight. he’ll always hold your weight. “i do worry, chan. you’re not invincible. promise me you’ll be careful?”

his hips press in again, cock going between your asscheeks over the clothes. it’s not to start anything, just to relieve the situation in his pants. he’s obviously listening to you, kisses the side of your neck even, open mouthed and wet. hot. “i promise, baby. careful as i can be.” another press of his hips, more upwards, breath hitching just slightly. “talk to me more.”

you hum, giving everything a stir in the pan. “okay, fine. i’ve been thinking about getting a bigger place. this one bedroom is killing me with all eight of you basically living here. but then i think about moving and i get this weird panic because… what if the new place doesn’t feel like home? what if it’s too big and you all spread out?”

“mm. i get it. it’s grown on me too.”

you hum, focusing on the food even as your body responds to this man’s whole being. “i’ve been reading this article in one of my magazines about how to deal with difficult people. thought it was funny because none of the tips apply to you guys. ‘set boundaries’ yeah right, tried and didn’t work. ‘communicate calmly’ i do but it doesn’t do anything. but with you they work. you listen.“ you mumble. this is not favoritism, you love the others just as much as you love chan, it’s just a fact that he’s easier to deal with. “anyways, how was your day besides the thing? you went out earlier with minnie, right? didn’t come back covered in blood this time, so i’m guessing you two ate out or something? went well?”

“no that was murder too.”

“oh.”

“seungmin got a little creative with a crowbar, but it wasn’t that serious. you should be proud.”

you put your head back against his chest, smiling. “i am. the others couldn’t do that. han told me he almost set the couch on fire yesterday trying to ‘impress’ felix with some dumb lighter trick. you hear about that?”

he rocks you a little. it’s not even to relieve his boner, it’s just to be close to you. “heard the smoke alarm. changbin had to put the fire out. should’ve seen his face, he thought he ruined dinner for you.”

“poor bin.” you say, genuinely feeling a little bad. you add some soy sauce to the pan. sizzles. “he tries so hard. last week he brought me flowers, it was so cute. you notice how he’s been smiling more since… well, since he got added?”

he watches over your shoulder as you toss the things in the pan around. “yeah. innie’s worse though. he tried to do push ups in the living room to ‘bulk up’ so you’d notice him more. got to twenty, then felix walked by eating a sandwich and jeongin got distracted, fell on the carpet. nosebleed everywhere. han laughed so hard he pissed himself a little. changbin tried to help clean it up but used your good towel. the pink one.”

“NO.”

he hisses. “yeah, sorry.”

you sigh, reaching back with one hand to pat his thigh. “whatever, i’ll ask felix for a new one. speaking of, did you see what he did to my last magazine? ate half of it. i don’t even know how to respond to that anymore.”

his hands squeeze your hips as he rolls against you again, his cock pressing nicely between your cheeks. still patient though. “i’ll talk to him.”

“god, he’s so empty up there.” you say fondly. the food’s starting to look done. “but he tries. in his weird way. two days ago he brought me a flower. like one. picked it himself. it was sweet.”

chan’s hips keep humping into yours, sometimes in circles. “they all try. even seungmin. he bitched about your magazine the other day but i saw him reading the how to squirt article when he thought nobody was looking. turned the page so fast when i walked in. almost ripped it.”

you giggle. “he’s an angel. he leaves hickeys shaped like hearts sometimes. don’t tell him i noticed.“

“wouldn’t dream of it, baby.” oh, his voice is getting a little rougher, but he keeps the conversation going like nothing’s happening below the waist. skill. his free hand reaches around to steal a piece of broccoli from the pan, pops it in his mouth.

you turn the heat down and you lean back into him completely now, and he takes this deep, slow breath.

you smile, god, it’s weird that a smile comes so natural for you, compared to them, eyes half closed, enjoying him.“hey. i saw a bruise on your ribs two days ago when you were changing. it looked kinda nasty. you never told me how you got it. still hurting?”

he huffs against your hair, hips moving against your ass because he can’t help it. “no big deal. just some guy got lucky. nothing broken. barely even feel it anymore.”

you don’t buy it for a second. you turn around in his arms, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging it upward. “let me see anyway.”

chan raises an eyebrow, the one without the cute little mole, but lifts his arms to help, that calm, sexy smirk on his face(embodiment of dr dr feel good come make me feel real good fr) as you peel the shirt off over his head and drop it on the counter behind him. oh that’s dada right there. even with the bruise on his left side, ugly, purple yellow thing spread across his ribs, fresh.

your heart does a little twist, these guys are brutal, survive anything basically, but seeing him like this still makes you worry.

you’re the only one who worries for them like this. who knows them like this.

“fuck, chan… that looks like it hurts more than you’re letting on.”

you keep looking at him, not the bruise only,(of course) but just savoring that this is your man. that your man has this chest, these shoulders, these traps, these biceps, triceps, and not to forget that light little happy trail starting under his belly button, leading down into his jeans where his cock is visibly straining, begging for your attention.

it’s really important that it’s begging for yours specifically.

your hand slides down his stomach, fingertips moving over his abs, then lower. you cup him through his jeans, feeling how he presses against the layers of clothing. giving him a gentle squeeze, then a slow little tug, petting the outline of his cock.

chan takes a cute, deep little breath but he stays still, letting you touch however you want. “y/n…” he mutters, plea. there’s a tiny smile on his mouth. you want to rip him apart.

instead, you pull your groping hand away(the way his chest rises at that is panty dropping) and press under his belly button instead, pushing him back gently until his ass hits the edge of the counter.

he goes easy, leaning against it, watching you, letting you manhandle him because it’s you. his hands settle on the counter behind him.

you step in, rise up on your toes, and kiss him.

it’s slow. loving. a psychopath’s love on your lips, really. tasting each other.

one of his hands comes up to cradle the back of your head, the other on your waist, the soft wet sounds of making out in the quiet kitchen or the occasional pop from the cooling pan.

when you finally pull back you tilt your head and kiss along his jaw, then down to his neck. your mouth latches on, sucking blood up to the surface hard, leaving a trail of dark hickeys across his skin. so everyone will see it tomorrow and know exactly who put it there.

one goes right over the tendon that flexes when he swallows. that’s your favorite.

chan tilts his head to give you more room, sighing and grabbing into your hair in pleasure, letting you mark him up.

you keep going, down, down, down, kissing down the center of his chest now. your knees don’t even mind their position so just that your tongue can flick out over one of his nipples, circling it before you close your lips around it and suck gently.

chan’s hand pulls lightly at your hair, a soft grunt escaping him.

you part from him, giving the peaked little nipple(god you’re crazy about men’s nipples) one last little flick before you leave to lick across to the other one, giving it the same love, teeth involved now to make his abs tense under your finger.

lower. you sink down slowly, knees bending until you’re crouching in front of him, eyes locked on his the whole way. your hands slide up his thighs, feeling the muscle there before you lean in and press a soft kiss right to the bruise on his ribs.

soft, careful kisses right over the discolored skin. little pecks that turn into longer presses of your lips, tongue poking out on his hot skin. he’s such a man. a babe too, deep down.

“kissing it better.” you murmur on his skin, lips on the bruise where it’s turning yellowish now.

“it’s better already, baby. swear.”

you smile on the bruise and kiss it again. “good. i hate when you get hurt and don’t tell me. i want you to come home to me in one piece.”

“i always do.” he murmurs. his hand strokes your scalp gently. “always come back to you.”

you move across his stomach then, kissing every inch of skin, dipping your tongue into his belly button for a second to hear the way his breath stutters. he likes that. then back up a little, licking over his nipples again on the way, sucking one into your mouth while your hand strokes lightly over his side.

back up, eventually, standing up again so you can kiss his mouth once more. this time chan meets you halfway, kissing you deeper now, tongue trying to meet yours immediately. big bad psycho man needed this now.

and he’s still so, so hard for you.

when you break the kiss you go back down again, lips finding his neck for more hickeys. you suck a particularly dark one on his collarbone, then soothe it with your tongue. not even close to the tendon’s number one spot in your favorites, but this looks good too. chan’s head is tipped back, eyes half lidded, blissed the fuck out. you kiss lower again, across his chest.

you move down to give the bruise another round of soft kisses, murmuring “still kissing it better.”

“it’s perfect now. doesn’t hurt at all. you fixed it.”

you always fix everything.

you give his hipbone a loving squeeze with both hands, then just again, rise up and kiss his neck again, add another hickey, then find his mouth.

now it’s getting mf wet. lips pulling and sucking until your knees are weak and it’s practically chan holding you up. but why wouldn’t he when you pour this much care into every kiss, every lick, every mark?

he can’t believe that he’s this lucky to have you. he’ll have to go and thank hyunjin for choosing you back then. hyunjin, who chan doesn’t feel bad for even while clearly seeing what he’s going through. he simply couldn’t care when you’re there and in his mind instead. plus the dude will live anyway.

you lose track of how many times you travel that path. down and up, kissing, licking, sucking, making out. each round slower than the last. his neck is a mess of hickeys now, a field really, body hot and flushed, the bruise looking the same but he said you fixed it so you fixed it. his cock stays hard the whole time, straining, leaking a little but no seeping through, but you never touch it again after that first tease. this isn’t about getting him off. it’s about you caring for your man, showing him with your mouth and hands that he matters, that his bruises get kissed, that his cold little psycho heart is safe with you, as crazy that is to say.

you could do this all night.

you pull back to look at him. his eyes are heavy, so beautiful, biiiiig lips a little red, fresh hickeys looking good on his skin. he looks thoroughly kissed and completely content. the dream man.

“hungry?” you ask quietly, nodding toward the cold food.

chan smiles, so rare. “starving, baby. but not for that.”

he leans in and kisses you again, slow, hands sliding to your skin now.

you make everything perfect in his feelingless little world. you make the black and white colorful. you put a meaning into everything.

hours later you’re tangled up in your bed now, sheets kicked halfway off because the two of you went at it like animals after allat slow kissing in the kitchen getting both of you hot and bothered. clothes gone in a second, man fucked you into the mattress until both of you were shaking and swearing and cumming so loud(the way chan was shouting was delicious) the neighbors probably thought someone was getting murdered (again). now the afterglow has you both… like this, naked, sticky, limbs around each other.

chan’s face is on your tummy, cheek on your skin, arm draped over your hip. babe’s almost asleep, breathing slowly, warm puffs ghosting over your belly button every time he exhales. he’s about to fall asleep.

you’re on your back, legs loosely tangled with his, one hand buried in his hair while the other rests on his broad shoulder.

the state you left him in is fucking brutal.

his whole torso is… wow. dark hickeys on his chest, some overlapping where you sucked the same spot twice. a lot of them. like an unsettling amount at this point. there’s a line of them down his stomach, fading into smaller ones right above where his cock is now soft and tucked against your thigh. his nipples are still a little puffy and red from how long you licked and sucked them. you even left a set of teeth marks on the inside of his left pec because you got carried away when he hit that spot inside you. his eyes rolled back then.

his back is shredded with your nail marks, long, red scratches running from his shoulder blades all the way down to the dimples above his ass. you can feel the raised lines under your fingertips when you slide your hand down there. that’s how rough you went. you’ll have to put something on it tomorrow. some cream. one particularly wild scratch is around his ribcage, right next to the bruise you spent so long kissing better earlier. on the side of his face, right under his cheekbone, there’s a fading set of nail marks where you grabbed him while he was pounding into you and you were cumming so hard you saw stars. and then there’s the hickey on his right ass cheek, even though it’s currently hidden under the crumpled sheet.

but right now, your full focus is on his curls.

you’re obsessed with them. they’re so soft, a little damp from sweat, so cute over his forehead and around his ears. like wdym boys have their little hairs too and they live with it.

you thread your fingers through it slowly, scratching lightly at his scalp with your nails when not gently tugging at the hair itself.

chan’s eyes are closed but they’re rolling the fuck back from pleasure under his pretty lids. he even lets out these tiny little “mhmfp” sounds and (which he doesn’t notice) his legs kick a little.

you smile at your big strong scary boyfriend and massage the base of his skull with your fingertips. another soft sound from him. his arm tightens around your hip before it loses tension again because you hit a good spot.

“your hair’s so fucking pretty.” you murmur. you don’t expect an answer. chan isn’t big on pillow talk about feelings, but he listens. he always listens when you talk. he’s okay with you talking.

he knows you know. communication, obviously. hyunjin should learn.

you gather a handful of curls at the crown of his head and give a gentle tug, then release, watching them bounce back into place. chan’s eyelashes flutter against your skin and he makes almost a purr now. you repeat, scratching behind his ear with your nails, then smoothing the curls down only to mess them up again on purpose. all the tension he carries around (the kills, the other seven, the constant everything on everything) just drains out through your touch.

you were born to deal with these psychos, and each of them was born to be right in your palm.

you twirl one curl around your index finger until it’s tight, hold it for a second, then let go so it springs free. cute. chan’s lips part against your tummy and he lets out a quiet “fuck…” under his breath. he can feel his love for you in his arms, not just his huge chest.

you’re like some cat, entertained by this. just playing around. how are they supposed to take your seriously like this??

you drag your nails from his hairline all the way back, then repeat, over and over. soothing. every pass earns you another one of those little sounds, sometimes a hum, sometimes just the tiniest hitch in his breath. big bad man who can choke someone out with one hand and stay completely calm while doing it is currently putty because you’re giving his hair some love.

you trace the shell of his ear with one fingertip, then bury your fingers back into the hair behind it. chan nuzzles closer to your tummy, nose(that you like riding so much) pressing into the soft skin there.

“i could do this for hours. they’re softer than they look, you know that? and the way they curl right here at the nape of your neck… fuck, channie. it’s so cute how hot you are even when you’re being all sweet like this.” type shit good dick makes you say.

“not sweet.” he mumbles, voice muffled and kinda raspy from all the groaning he did earlier. it sounds adorable. “just… tired. you wore me out.”

“hm.”

you know him. he won’t suddenly start talking about his feelings or how much he loves you out loud. but the way his arm squeezes your hip, the way his whole body relaxed on yours(means a lot coming from a psycho who was never felt attachment before) the way he keeps making those baby little noises every time you hit a good spot, that’s his version of i’m so fucking in love with you.

you keep playing with his hair for a long time. sometimes you just let your fingers rest in the curls, feeling the warmth of his scalp. boy warmth. sometimes you tug a little harder, and he rewards you with a deeper sound on your belly.

his nail marked back rises and falls under your arm. so sweet. he’s just a little meow meow(an unbelievably disgusting man to walk this earth)

you tug at a curl, watch it bounce, and smile when chan makes a little sound again. it’s so attractive. more attractive when you remember how fast he can snap spines. weird, how slowly you began to get over these little images. they’re not upsetting anymore, but seeing it in real life would still freak you out, no doubt.

you do it once more, then smooth everything down with your palm, only to mess it all up again because you can’t help yourself.

“love your curls so much.” you murmur scratching behind his ear. “love you, baby.”

chan, sleepy psycho he is, turns his face to press a kiss right below your belly button, then settles again, cheek back on your tummy.

god, you really do love this man.

“Y/N!!!”

han.

home.

the front door slams. immediately after you hear changbin’s slightly panicked voice “jis, buddy, please, calm down, they’re probably resting—”

something crashes. glass? a lamp? maybe the coffee table. another crash, louder. a third noise sounds suspiciously like a chair being thrown across the living room???

you and chan both sigh at the exact same time.

“should’ve locked the door.” he mutters.

before you can answer, the bedroom door flies open.

“hi y/n!! hi chan!!” han says, already kicking his shoes off so hard one of them smacks the wall and leaves a black little stain. you keep telling him to take them off at the door. “you guys won’t believe the day i had! i tried to steal this guy’s car but the keys were in his pocket so i had to cut his pocket off first and then the pocket had a hole and the keys fell into a sewer grate and then felix tried to reach in after them but his arm got stuck and—” he’s talking a mile a minute while simultaneously peeling his shirt off over his head. pants next, he hops on one foot, almost falls, catches himself on the dresser, then yanks them down along with his boxers halfway before stopping and pulling the boxers back up. he leaves them on, thank god. “—and then the guy woke up even though i swore i hit him hard enough and he started screaming so i had to sit on his face until he stopped moving and his nose made this wet crunch sound and blood came out his ears and it was so gross but also kinda funny and then changbin said i couldn’t keep the car anyway because it had blood on the seats—”

he fucking lifts the covers like it’s his god given fucking right and crawls into bed, wiggling between you and chan. half on top of you, one arm over your waist, face nuzzling into the side of your bare boob. his leg kicks out, his foot ends up between chan’s ass cheeks under the sheets.

chan doesn’t even fucking care anyone, just shifts his hips because whatever it’s han.

han’s pretty voice is slightly muffled against your tit now. “anyway i missed you so much i thought about you the whole time even when i was pulling that guy’s teeth out with pliers and you smell like sex. that’s nice. did chan make you cum a lot? he’s good at that. i’m getting better too, remember last time i lasted four minutes instead of two—”

changbin catches up, now at the door too looking exhausted. “i tried. i really tried to keep him outside longer. he just… ran.”

you smile, still playing with chan’s hair with one hand while the other reaches out toward changbin “c’mere, baby. it’s fine.”

he doesn’t need telling twice. he strips fast, shirt folded (really important that he folds it), pants folded, everything placed carefully on the chair(seungmin usually sits in when is not in the mood but still wants to be involved in some way) like a good boy before he closes the door behind himself. then he climbs into bed on your other side, under the covers and cuddling up to you with his head on your shoulder, one big arm going on you too, just under han’s dumb arm and above chan’s being.

now. we got, chan’s face still on your tummy, han’s face in your tits, changbin’s face tucked into your neck, his thigh just where his underwear ends next to chan’s head, and han’s foot still living happily between chan’s asscheeks. chan doesn’t mention it. han sure as fuck doesn’t notice.

you hum, a little sleepy. “seungmin is gonna be so fucking mad when he finds out he missed this. left out again. he’s gonna lose his shit. someone should text him.”

han lifts his pretty head to nod. “yeah. last time he found out we had group time without him he got so pissed he took it out on that one delivery guy. seungmin dragged him into the alley, beat his face in with the pizza box, then used the guy’s own belt to strangle him. the pizza was cold by the time we ate it. sad.”

changbin noses at your skin. “or remember when han accidentally sat in min’s favorite spot on the couch? he didn’t say anything, just waited until han went to take a piss, then followed him into the bathroom, slammed his head into the mirror three times, and made him apologize to the toilet while bleeding everywhere.”

han giggles. “yeah!! my forehead scar is from that! looks kinda cool though. he said ‘next time i’ll use the plunger’ and i believed him so i don’t sit there anymore.”

you snort, still playing with chan’s hair. “jesus. and the stranger thing last month?”

han is visibly excited to tell you about that, foot flexing happily between chan’s cheeks. “oh oh!! seungmin was already mad because jeongin stole his last cigarette, so when this random dude at the gas station bumped into him and didn’t say sorry, he grabbed the guy by the hair, slammed his face into the pump like eight times, then ripped the nozzle out and shoved it down the dude’s throat. started pumping gas straight into his stomach. guy died. we had to hose min off.”

changbin sighs into your shoulder. “he does get… creative when he’s angry. last time he thought chan was hogging you too much he keyed chan’s car with the word ‘selfish’ and then slashed all four tires. chan just fixed it and told seungmin to grow up. seungmin punched a hole in the wall after.”

“he’s lucky i like you more than i like my car.” chan mumbles into your stomach.

“mhm.” comes from han. “he also stabbed jeongin in the thigh with a fork then. jeongin screamed so loud felix dropped his human finger sandwich. he still walks funny sometimes. anyway, he can stay mad. i’m comfy. can i sleep here forever? even if seungmin comes home and tries to castrate me with a spoon?” home. like aw his psycho brain recognized this place as home.

changbin yawns, cuddling closer. “he probably will try. but i’ll protect you. mostly. unless he brings the brick again.” the brick. what could have that been.

you hum an agreement out. too lazy to speak. (but not to play with chan’s hair)

yeah long story short seungmin did end up losing his shit the next morning.

he walked in, already tired and done with everything(but when is he not) saw the four of you tangled up naked and cuddly, and went aaaall the fuck out. didn’t touch you, didn’t even look at you wrong. you’re his god. instead he grabbed changbin by the throat, slammed him into the wall, and started hitting him. men.

changbin, brutal respect to him here(zero respect he’s a murderer), took the first three punches like a champ, blood already dripping from his lip, before he finally swung back because seungmin wasn’t stopping.

they took it to the living room. seungmin headbutted changbin, so he picked seungmin up and body slammed him through the coffee table. seungmin came up laughing like a fucking maniac, genuinely what the fuck is his problem, tackled changbin into the tv, and they rolled around punching and choking and bleeding all over your floor.

they finally stopped when seungmin bit changbin’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood and make him unable to use that arm since the muscle hurt that much and changbin accidentally elbowed him in the balls. both of them ended up on the floor panting, covered in each other’s blood, too tired to keep going.

you made them both clean the mess while you and chan and han ate in bed.

but seungmin never once got mad at you. not even a little. you’re the only thing in his life that doesn’t get this treatment. you’re sacred.

he respects you like crazy. dead serious.

example, last week you told him “minnie, babe, can you keep an eye on felix? i won’t be home and he keeps chasing the mailman and i’m tired of it.”

“got it.”

later you come home and felix is tied to a kitchen chair with zip ties and a gag in his mouth. gnawing on the gag making happy cannibal noises but doesn’t move an inch. package is sitting untouched on the counter. that night you licked seungmin head to toe for that. he melted the fuck away. submissive babe.

another time you’re running late and you text him “make sure han eats something before 8pm. he gets hangry and starts humping the furniture.”

seungmin replies with a thumbs up emoji (which is the most effort he ever puts into texting). when you get home han is sitting at the table eating a full plate of spaghetti while seungmin stands over him with crossed arms. han has sauce all over his face and is mumbling “this is so good bro thank you”

you once told him “if jeongin is in the kitchen for more than twenty minutes, drag his ass outside and make him run laps until he keeps his cocktail recipes to himself.”

next day jeongin comes back sweaty and red faced, thighs burning, muttering “seungmin made me sprint while he timed me.”

seungmin just shrugs when you look at him. “he did eight laps. you’re welcome.”

you told him once that the group chat was getting too spammy and you wanted one day of peace. he immediately changed the group name to “shut the fuck up unless someone’s dead” and then threatened to remove anyone’s tongue if they messaged you after 8pm. jeongin sent a dick pic next to a corpse at 8:45. seungmin showed up at jeongin’s place ten minutes later with a pair of pliers. innie still can’t feel his left pinky. you took this rule out of order because you knew worse shit will happen.

he’s a violent, mean, sick fuck to everyone else on the planet, but the second you speak he turns into the most loyal little dog who ever lived. it’s actually kinda hot.

anyway.

days later you told the others you needed one single afternoon of peace with just changbin. they all whined except seungmin, and he teamed up with jeongin and hyunjin to entertain han for the day. they took him to the zoo.

han, to start the day, tried to climb into the monkey enclosure but luckily fell off. jeongin flirted with three different zookeepers trying to get them to let han “pet the big cats.” hyunjin drew the penguins and showed it to the sea lions. seungmin mostly stood there smoking, threatening to skin anyone who looked at the others wrong, but even he cracked a smile when han tried to hug a llama and got spit on.

at some point hyunjin stood at the lion exhibit monologuing about how the lions understood his pain and maybe he should just live in the savanna now. why is he fucking hilarious. han tried to feed the monkeys his own fingers. seungmin slapped his hand away. jeongin tried to steal a peacock feather for you and got chased by security. hyunjin cried because the butterflies were “too free and i am trapped in my longing for y/n.” seungmin threatened to throw all three of them into the shark tank if they didn’t behave. they behaved for exactly eleven minutes before han saw the gift shop and sprinted inside.

by noon, he almost got fucking bitten like three times. he kept pointing at every animal and yelling for the others to look too, jeongin flirted with the zookeeper girl so hard she gave him free popcorn, then immediately turned around and told hyunjin “she’s nothing compared to y/n.” they lost hyunjin for twelve whole minutes. he was talking with a dad whose kid was running around screaming.

at the end of the day they had dirt on then, ice cream, and a new knife. jeongin had hickeys from making out with the gift shop girl who slapped him after he moaned “y/n” into the kiss. he really did it just to imagine it was you kissing him. hyunjin was quietly crying into his notebook.

which brings us here.

you and changbin are finally alone in the big corner bathtub, water hot enough that steam is fogging the mirror and changbin is fucking dying inside but would rather boil alive than complain. the jets are not on a big setting, so they’re just working a bit on binnie’s back, and the whole bathroom smells like your fancy bath salts that you love and of course the boys will buy for you!!

the water is perfect for you, relaxing, changbin is lowkey dying. his chest and shoulders are turning red from the heat, little beads of sweat rolling down his temples, but he doesn’t say a single word. whatever you want goes.

you’re straddling his lap facing him, arms around his neck. his hands rest gently on your hips under the water, giving you all the love his sick little heart has.

you lean in and kiss him softly, lips sliding together warm and wet from the steam. really wet, he has to die from the heat. send help. but he kisses back just as gentle, tongue brushing yours in wet little strokes. you pull back a little, smile, then kiss him again, noses bumping, water sloshing quietly around you. creates a nice atmosphere.

your hands go down to move up and down his sides, nails dragging lightly over his wet skin. just teasing, running from his ribs down to his hips and back up again. naked men hips are breathtaking, on all eight of them.

every touch makes changbin shiver even in the boiling water. he makes a soft little sound into your mouth, almost a little moan, and kisses you again, sweeter. he could do this for hours and never get tired. well maybe he could pass out from the heat instead whatever.

you tilt your head, kiss the corner of his mouth, then his bottom lip, sucking on it gently before sliding your tongue back in. his hands tighten on your hips, then relaxes again, brain trying to deal with all these feelings.

you keep running your nails up his sides, soothing. he shudders, has to pull away to breathe for a second, then captures your mouth again in another kiss. innocent one.

his hands slide up from your hips, slow. sweet, not the palms that break bones but the palms that find your tits, cupping them both from underneath. so precious to him. he’s holding. thumbs brushing little circles over the soft skin next to your nipples, the more inside of your boobs, closer to your sternum. so loving. a man’s love, for you.

his psycho mind is still catching up to all of this, you can tell. the only high he ever chased was the wet pop of a neck snapping or the way blood sprayed across his face when he carved someone the fuck up. that was love to him. that was everything. (and his car. he loves that car.)

now he feels for you. love. actual love. really a still going crush that makes his chest hurt in the middle of a kill and get him excited that he’ll get to see you later.

but god, it also makes him do shit like this.

he leans in and kisses you again, wetter, weaker this time, mouth slow and so fucking sweet. his lips are plush from the steam, a little swollen already from how long you’ve been making out. he parts them on yours, tongue sliding in, tasting the inside of your mouth, he’s got all day to explore after all.

no rush.

just gentle, the soft suck of his bottom lip pulling yours in, then releasing, then doing it again.

you feel the way his jaw moves under your palm when you cup his face, the pretty shape of it flexing while he kisses you. it’s so intimate. only you can give him this.

one of his hands stays on your tit, while the other slides down your side, not once leaving your beloved skin, all the way to your ass. grips it gently, palm full of you, pulling you bit closer so your chests press together.

his little tummy squishes nice against your stomach when you settle in, so attractive. combined with the manly smell of him, intoxicating. plus he’s sweating so much now the water on his shoulders looks like it’s glowing under the bathroom light, fucking droplets sliding down his body before disappearing into the tub.

even though nothing about this is sexual to him right now (he’s not thinking about fucking, he’s thinking about how you feel, how much he loves you, how lucky he is), his cock is hard between you anyway. pressed up against your mound under the water, twitching everytime you shift or your nails drag up his face, or down to his side again. so sweet, the little guy reacting too.

he doesn’t even acknowledge it, though. just keeps kissing you, the hard on is nothing, something his body does because it’s stupid and in love.

every pass of your nails on his body earns you a tiny sound from him, little moans. so cute.

he kisses you harder for a second, tongue moving around yours, then pulls back to breathe. he needs it.

you drag your nails up his ribs again, slow, smiling at him, and he shudders, hard, mouth going back to yours immediately. he smiles into the kiss, the cutie(only feels excitement when snuffing out a human life) can’t help it, and tries to pulls you closer by the ass, just to feel more of you on him. his sweaty chest slides against your tits, the hand still cupping one of them giving the softest squeeze... was that a giggle he let out against your lips?

this is what you did to him. turned a man who only ever got hard from the smell of blood into someone who gets hard from your smile and your nails and the way you look at him.

he pulls back just a tiny baby bit, side of his nose brushing the side of yours.

“…y/n.”

“mm?”

he swallows, pink face somehow getting even pinker. “it’s… so hot.”

you giggle. he thinks you’re beautiful. “the water, baby? or me?”

“the water.” he mumbles, looking guilty. “i mean you too. but i’m boiling alive. my skin feels like it’s gonna peel off.”

you laugh, tilting your head back. he’d die for you. “and you didn’t say shit?” you lean back in, kiss the tip of his nose, then his flushed cheek. “get the fuck out then. go cool off.”

he moans. maybe at the relief, maybe because he doesn’t want to leave your touch yet.

you pat his chest. “go. i’ll follow in a minute. promise.”

he nods, presses one last slow kiss to your mouth, a little long, but no tongue this time, then carefully lifts you off his lap and sets you back down in the water. the jets keep working on your prettt back as he stands up.

fuck, the view.

water runs off his body, in sheets, on his muscles, his shape, his little soft tummy, water dripping from his still hard cock that bobs between his thick thighs. his skin is almost red everywhere the water touched. chest, shoulders, arms, even the tops of his ears. the nail marks you left on his sides stand out. the hickeys you sucked into his neck look almost purple now, they fit him. you almost wrap a hand around his cock, it’s so there, but really don’t want him overheating so you behave. he steps out of the tub carefully, feet leaving wet prints on the rug you love so much and hit felix once with when he was bad, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack.

you watch every second of it. chewing on your nail.

the way his back muscles shift when he grabs the towel, the long red scratches you put there. the way his ass flexes, round, soft. the way his little tummy jiggles just slightly when he turns to face you again, towel in hand, cock still hard, now not visible because the towel in his hand just hangs over it. it hasn’t gotten the memo that nothing dirty is up.

he starts drying off slowly, rubbing the towel over his chest, down his stomach, on the scratches, then lower, patting his thighs dry while water keeps dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. fuck.

the way you’re biting your lips, he’s resisting the urge to dive back into the water to you.

towel now wrapped around his hips so it barely covers the bulge, he leans down, presses a quick kiss to the top of your head. “i’ll be in the bedroom. take your time.”

you watch him walk out, towel moving on his cute little ass.

the door clicks shut behind him, leaving you alone in the hot water with a stupid smile on your face.

weird.

duality of man. killer but also oh i won’t say anything about my organs getting boiled because y/n is comfy.

y/n is comfy.

you sink a little deeper into the water, grinning, letting the heat soak into you while you picture his cute ass in the bedroom, probably lying on the bed in just the towel, fanning himself, waiting patiently for you. the best boy.

yeah long story short after you got out of that boiling tub you rode him to almost death.

he was waiting on the bed in just a towel like you imagined he would, still pink and sweaty, looking at you with those big shining eyes. (those only go for his lady, no victim or hyunjin puking at home could make him feel what you feel) you climbed on top of him, pushed him flat, and took what you wanted. rode him until he was shaking, until his eyes rolled back, until he came so hard he went cross eyed and almost passed out. then you kept going until you got yours too, grinding down on him while he whimpered and begged and told you he loved you.

afterward he just laid there like a dead man, chest heaving, covered in fresh scratches and hickeys, towel long gone, cock soft and messy against his thigh. you curled up on his little tummy like it was a pillow and passed out with his arm around you.

next morning.

but today’s mission is simpler.

take felix to his doctor’s check up.

dumb fuck knows the way to your place at least(one of the things he doesn’t forget)

when he arrives he’s wearing one of your stolen hoodies, baby give it back, (oh he’ll get the bathroom mat again for that), and a pair of sweatpants that are backwards. his hair is not messy, surprisingly.

“y/n, we’re going to the doctor together, a date!”

you sigh and walk over to fix his pants(expensive pants, wtf) the right way around. he giggles the whole time, blushing when you pull his pants down and also blushing when you pull them up. “felix, baby, pants go front first. we talked about this.”

“oh. right.“ then he leans in and nuzzles your neck, breathing you in. “you smell like binnie. that’s nice.”

you pat his head, fingers sliding through his soft hair. he’s so stupidly beautiful. why does he have to eat magazines and people?

“come on, dummy. shoes on. let’s not be late.”

you finally get him out the door. he holds your hand the entire walk to the car, swinging your arm, and every few steps he stops to point at random shit.

“look, a bird. do you think it has feelings? i have feelings now. mostly about meat and you.” “that cloud looks like a kidney. i’m hungry now.”

he’s not fucking brain dead, no matter how much we refer to him to as one, so you don’t even have to tell him to buckle himself in. literally the dumbest thing anyone can do is not buckle themselves in. please i’m begging you to and stay safe.

“you’re so pretty. and smart. and you let me sleep in your bed sometimes.” he tells you while you drive.

“thank you, lix.”

crazy. a pretty face that makes people do double takes right before he rips their throat out with his teeth. and last week he bought you a diamond necklace. the range these boys move on is unbelievable. and sweet, considering that you’re their first… first of most things. there’s only one of you in their lives, like a “once-in-a-lifetime connection, essentially love at first sight” says google about a zing from hotel transylvania. “where monsters immediately identify their soulmate.” our only off here is that it wasn’t an immediate realization, anyways “it represents an undeniable, electric attraction, bla bla bla(i’m skipping sentences here, not quoting dracula) that often leads to a lifelong bond.” there we go. you’re their almost zing.

the waiting room is quiet. normal people. magazines (the ones he hasn’t eaten at home). his pretty ass sits next to you, looking around.

“remember what i told you in the car?”

he nods. “mhm. no talking about eating people. no talking about the mailman. no talking about killing. or the boys.”

“good boy.”

the nurse calls you both and she’s immediately smitten with you. her eyes light up when she sees how gently you’re guiding felix by the hand. she chats with you the whole time you’re in the exam room while felix sits on the paper covered table swinging his legs.

“he’s so lucky to have you.” she says warmly while taking his vitals. “most patients his age come in alone and act like it’s the end of the world. you two are adorable.”

felix smiles at her, then at you, then leans over and tries to rest his head on your chest right there in front of her. “she’s the best. i love her so much i’d die for her. or kill for her. or—”

“lix.” you cut in sweetly.

“—or just be really good and not say anything weird.” he finishes, giggling.

he’s so underweight the scale actually beeps in concern when they weigh him.

the nurse frowns at the number. “he’s lost three more pounds since last visit. are you sure he’s eating enough?”

you sigh and launch into the usual cover story while felix distracts himself by counting the dots on the ceiling tiles out loud. “he’s just got a crazy fast metabolism. burns everything off. we try to keep him on high calorie stuff but he’s picky. likes… meat. a lot of meat.”

felix perks up. “yeah, big chunks of meat. sometimes raw if i’m in a hurry—”

“cooked.” you interrupt smoothly, shooting him a look. “always cooked. he’s just dramatic about textures.”

the nurse nods sympathetically, clearly buying it because you’re so calm and put together and she already likes you.

she starts checking his arms and freezes when she sees the mess. bite marks. deep ones. some fresh, some old and scarred over. bruises in the shape of fingers, knuckles, teeth. scars. one perfect crescent bite right above his elbow that definitely came from changbin during one of their play fights.

“oh my… what happened here?” she asks, concerned.

felix giggles again, swinging his legs harder. “oh those? that’s from—”

you clamp a hand over his fuckass mouth and lean in to whisper to the nurse. “he’s… a little mentally disabled, you know? just a touch. gets confused sometimes. wanders off, bumps into things, doesn’t always understand personal space.” fucking lie. there is nothing wrong with felix that can be diagnosed. well, except him being a total psycho, but that has nothing to do with him being dumb. he really is just this empty. but that’s not a disability. “he doesn’t know he’s different. we try not to make him feel bad about it. the bruises are from him playing too rough with the other boys at home. and the bite marks, well, he gets excited and nibbles when he’s happy. like a puppy.”

the nurse’s eyes go big immediately. she nods. “oh, bless his heart. that makes so much sense. you’re such a good girlfriend.”

felix is sitting on the table swinging his legs, humming a little song under your hand while he stares at the poster of the human digestive system. every few seconds he reaches out to touch your arm or your hair, smiling when you let him.

you take the hand away, keep chatting with the nurse while she checks more of him. she asks about his diet again and you spin the same story “he only likes certain textures, lots of protein, we’re trying to get him to eat more veggies but it’s a process.” you don’t mention that his version of protein usually comes from humans and the changes in weight is because he can’t always get what he’s craving, throws tantrums and doesn’t eat or eats lots at one sitting or just a little fruit plate you made him. he’s okay, no reason to worry about his weight, it always changes and he’s doing fine. human is just… not what usually humans eat.

the nurse looks horrified but also impressed by how casually you handle it. “that sounds exhausting for you. you’re such a good partner taking him to all these appointments.”

felix leans over and plants a loud, wet kiss on your cheek, leaving a little spit trail. “she’s the best partner. i’d eat the world for her. wait no, i’d buy her the world.“

you pat his head, smiling at the nurse.

she laughs softly, clearly charmed by the whole thing. “you two are honestly the cutest couple i’ve seen in months. most guys his age are rude. he’s an angel.”

felix smiles. “thank you.”

the nurse melts. “oh my gosh, he’s adorable. so innocent.”

you manage to keep a straight face. innocent. sure. the same guy who rips people apart with his bare hands and teeth.

okay. doctor. another woman. when the doctor tries to check his blood pressure and he starts giggling uncontrollably because “the squeeze feels funny!! like when seungmin chokes me but nicer!!”

when she asks him to open his mouth for the tongue depressor he sticks his tongue out as far as it goes and tries to lick the stick.

you have to physically hold his hand down when she goes for the reflex hammer because he keeps trying to snatch it.

the doctor ends up looking at you. “does he… always do this?”

“yes.” you say flatly. “every single day.”

doctor looks at the nurse. nurse nods in confirmation. great.

“any recent injuries?”

“uhhh i cut my finger last week but then i ate the scab so it’s fine now!!”

“any dietary concerns?”

“i only eat… beef.“ that was a taught answer.

“any sexual activity?”

“y/n and me haven’t had sex yet but i really really want to. she lets me cuddle though and that’s almost as good. sometimes i hump her leg when she’s sleeping but i think that’s normal right?”

you smack his arm. “felix.”

“sorry!!” he giggles, not sorry at all.

the doctor just sighs and moves on.

blood draw, felix sits there swinging his legs, holding your hand, and when the needle goes in he doesn’t even react??? fucking crazy, what he is.

on the way out he gets a lollipop. he unwraps it, sucks on it happily, leaning against you in the parking lot, so pretty it hurts.

“that was fun.” he mumbles around the lollipop. “can we come back next week? i wanna see if they have bigger lollipops. i want you to take me the next time too.”

you sigh, pull him down by the collar of your hoodie to kiss his forehead. he calms down immediately, eyes closing, making a dumb happy noise in his throat.

so. getting back to your place, finally, holding felix’s hand while the other unlocks your door.

han is on your couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table, looking too hot and manly like that for the fact that he’s watching a cartoon about talking animals solving mysteries. a really colorful cartoon. next to him, also watching the dumb cartoon, is hyunjin. grown ass, pretty as sin hyunjin, one elbow on the armrest, temple resting on two fingers, eyebrow pushed up so high it’s basically in his hairline. his face screams i am getting closer to the void and also why the fuck is this rabbit wearing pants. think of the steve harrington picture in tiktok comment sections.

it’s fucking hilarious.

you pat felix’s back. “go play with them, baby.”

“okay!” he skips over (actual skips) and drops himself right between han and hyunjin.

now it’s han on the right, giggling and pointing at the screen, felix in the middle swinging his legs and making little “hehehe” sounds, and hyunjin on the left still doing the exact same temple finger pose, eyebrow frozen in existential crisis.

you shake your head and head toward the kitchen.

changbin is standing by the counter in nothing but sweatpants(that he left at your place for occasions exactly like these, just a reminder, you two fucked last night) the second he sees you his whole face does that adorable thing, big dumb smile breaking out, shoulders dropping, his posture getting better. there are faint nail marks visible across his sides, one dark hickey peeking above the waistband.

he meets you halfway, arms already open.

you cup his face and kiss him soft and sweet. he melts into it immediately, like melts, big hands settling gently on your waist, humming happily into your mouth.

“missed you.” he mumbles when he pulls away. “how was the doctor?”

“fine. he didn’t slip. you guys described it as worse.”

“because with us, it is.”

over at the kitchen counter seungmin and jeongin are sitting on the stools, seungmin is shoveling cereal into his mouth, while jeongin gestures with his spoon. they both waved when you came in.

“—so then i told the guy if he screamed again i’d shove the pliers up his urethra instead of his nose.” seungmin says around a mouthful of cereal.

jeongin nods. “solid. i prefer the slow eyeball route. makes them really panic, y’know?”

“yeah but eyeballs pop too fast. nose takes longer.”

you sigh and reach over to grab jeongin’s empty bowl. seungmin still has half a bowl left so you leave his alone. you rinse jeongin’s out quick, put it into the dishwasher, then, a loud crash comes from the bathroom. something heavy hitting tile, followed by a grunt and the sound of something hitting the wall.

you stop.

from the couch han yells without looking away from the cartoon “minho and chan are in there settling something!!”

hyunjin is still not breaking eye contact with the talking rabbit. “they’ve been at it for twenty minutes. something about whose turn it was to hide the last body.”

whatever. they’ll sort it out.

seungmin finally glances at you, spoon halfway to his mouth. “you good?”

“yeah. it’s fine.”

jeongin looks up at you. sweet boy. (if we made a chart of who’s the worst from the boys he’d be in the top three) “want me to go break it up?”

“no. let them fight. they’ll tire themselves out.”

another crash, this one sounds like the toilet paper holder getting ripped clean off the wall and then immediately used as a weapon. there’s a wet smack, then a low grunt from chan that turns into a growl. something heavy drags across the floor. then a loud metallic clang that can only be the shower curtain rod being bent into a new shape.

you sigh. “whatever.“

comes the sound of a head being bounced off the sink. then the unmistakable noise of the medicine cabinet exploding open, bottles and tubes falling, then plastic crack against bone.

wetness that sounds suspiciously like someone’s face getting pressed into the toilet bowl, followed by gurgling and chan laughing. then a high pitched metallic screech as the towel rack gets torn off the wall.

glass shatters, probably the mirror, and there’s another crash. then a wet slap like someone just got bitch slapped onto the wet tile, followed by both of them breathing hard and… is that minho laughing?

you keep loading the dishwasher, rinsing a spoon, plates.

more thuds, the crack of knuckles against jaw, mean groaning, the shower turning on by accident and spraying water everywhere, someone slipping and eating shit with a loud “fuck—” then both of them cursing at the same time.

men.

silence.

the bathroom door finally opens. out stumble minho and chan looking… fucking horrible, jesus.

both shirtless, obviously. clothes got shredded somewhere between the sink and the shower curtain. chan’s got his left eye shut, swelling, a perfect imprint of your toilet brush handle branded across his cheek, and three long gashes across his chest that look suspiciously like they came from minho’s nails trying to claw his heart out for sport. there’s a fork, a FUCKING DINNER FORK sticking straight out of his left shoulder, blood trickling down his abs. more bruises on his ribs already. what happened to his nipple?

minho’s not doing any better. he’s limping hard on his right leg because there’s a broken piece of the shower curtain rod jammed into his thigh. what the fuck. blood’s soaking his pants. his whole torso is filled with bite marks, type shit anger makes men do, and his neck has a perfect circle of teeth where chan tried to rip his throat out. one of his ears is red and bloody, and there’s soap still bubbling in a nasty open cut across his forehead. he’s leaning sideways, same as chan.

you whine. “boys!”

they both freeze. chan tries to play it chill, blood dripping off his chin, but even he looks sheepish. minho just stares at you with those dead creepy eyes, blood trickling down his temple.

you point at the kitchen stools. “sit! fuck’s sake.”

they drag their feet over and drop onto the stools with grunts of pain. chan winces when the fork in his shoulder shifts. minho’s whole being makes a wet squelch.

the other three in the kitchen watch the whole thing, eyebrows raised. not at the injuries, just trying to guess it you’re gonna freak out internally or you’ll break a wooden spoon on their heads.

you grab the giant fucking first aid kit from under the sink (the one that’s basically a hospital in a box at this point, you need it with them) and stand between chan’s spread knees. first the fork. you grip the handle gentle, thumb stroking his collarbone to distract him.

“deep breath.”

you yank. chan hisses through his teeth. blood wells up and you immediately press a thick pad of gauze to the hole, holding it firm while you murmur “good boy, that’s it, almost done.”

you tape it down tight, then move to the toilet brush imprint on his cheek. you dab it with antiseptic, lots of it, blowing cool air on the sting. he could snap a neck one handed. “this one’s gonna bruise pretty. makes you look tough though. my tough man.” he leans into your touch, looking up at you. such a pathetic little sweetpea. (worst man to exist)

next the chest gashes. you clean each one with a warm cloth, wiping away blood, then smear antibiotic over the red lines. the other four watch your ass while you do it. some of jeongin’s drool end up on the countertop.

you save the (looks like bitten) nipple for last. it’s swollen and angry and… seeping a little. you clean it extra gentle, tongue clicking softly. “minho really went for blood huh?”

by the time you’re done with him he has gauze everywhere, tape crisscrossing his chest, but at least he’s not leaking on your floor anymore. looks good though. new thing to try in the bedroom.

now minho.

you look at the curtain rod in his thigh. “boys?”

jeongin immediately stands up. “of course.”

changbin holds minho’s shoulders. “i’m here.”

seungmin is lazy to help. just sits there with his now finished bowl, also lazy to put that into the dishwasher, watching the two other boys fight the rod out of minho’s leg.

they succeed. the rod comes out with a wet schlick and a fresh gush of blood.

you shove gauze into the injury immediately, your other arm curling around his pretty head to rock him a little. “there you go, deep breaths, i got you.” he gets a head kiss too. “innie, can you get his pants?”

“yeah.”

minho holds into you. arms around you. he’s adorable.

when he gets minho’s pants off for you, you wrap the whole thing, around and around his thick leg(hot) until it looks like he’s wearing a cast.

you move up to the ear next. it looks horrible. you clean the torn, TORN parts, murmuring “pretty boy” he holds onto your hip, eyes squeezed, breathing hard.

but survives. gets a temple kiss and a “good as new.” from you when he’s done.

the bite marks across his torso take forever. there’s like twenty of them, some overlapping though. you clean every single one, slow and loving, so loving, wiping away dried blood and fresh fluids, then smoothing ointment over each perfect imprint of chan’s teeth.

minho feels crazy. crazy in love. and crazy violent from it. he feels like he’s going to blow up.

you finish with the cut on his forehead. you wipe it clean, dab some cream on it, then press a butterfly bandage over it while blowing gently on the sting. “all done, creepy.”

meanwhile, oh your fucking god, the shit jeongin and seungmin talk about. just running their mouths.

jeongin: “look at her go. nurse y/n in the house. bet she’s got better bedside manner than the one who stitched my dick back together last month.”

seungmin, when he had a mouth full of cereal: “minho’s thigh looks like a glory hole.”

“a hole is a hole, bro.”

changbin gives your back a supportive caress from time to time. at least he’s helpful.

in the living room, han keeps tugging on hyunjin’s sleeve, watching the dog fly on some cheese rocket now. what the fuck are they watching seriously. “hyune, look!! the dog’s flying, that’s so cool! do you think i could fly if i ate enough cheese too??”

felix tugs the other sleeve. “hyunjin hyunjin hyunjin!! what if the cheese was made of people?? would it fly faster??”

hyunjin sighs through his nose. “yes, han. flying cheese is a legitimate theoretical concept in cartoon physics. and no, lix, human cheese would probably just smell bad and attract more cannibals. now watch the rabbit, he’s about to say something stupid.”

back in the kitchen you step back and look at your work. gauze, tape, bandages, kisses on every injury. both of them are still leaning sideways but at least they’re not bleeding on your floor anymore. you did great.

you wipe your hands on a towel and plant a hand on each of their heads, ruffling minho’s hair and smoothing chan’s. “you two are idiots. next time settle it by arm wrestling like normal men.”

chan hums. minho’s pretty ass just stares up at you with those wet eyes. you fixed more than just the holes in his body.

felix tugs hyunjin’s sleeve again. “hyu!! the cheese is winning!!”

hyunjin sighs. “yes. the cheese is indeed victorious. profound metaphor for life.” ???

“yo.” jeongin says, holding his pretty face in his hands. “this is exactly like that time hyunjin and seungmin went for each other’s throats in the woods house. remember? shit was biblical, bro.”

seungmin sighs. “biblical my ass. pretty emo bitch tried to slit my throat with a fucking wine opener.”

changbin bounces a little against the counter. “i was there. thought we were gonna have to bury one of them in the backyard. or both.”

minho looks up at you(he looks like a wet kitten) and then back at the others. “hyunjin ended up with a corkscrew through his left nut.”

chan nods, watching the floor. “yeah. he tried to stab min with the fireplace poker. missed and put it through his own foot instead. then seungmin shoved his head into the deer head mounted on the wall. hyunjin looked horrible. then they started rolling around on the rug. seungmin ended up with a black eye shaped exactly like hyunjin’s ring. hyune had teeth marks on his ass so deep we could read min’s dental records.”

jeongin leans forward. “don’t forget the part where seungmin tried to drown hyunjin in the hot tub. then hyunjin started talking about how min’s mother was a whore while bleeding from the mouth. seungmin threw him through the glass coffee table. hyunjin had glass shards in his back for days.“

“still managed to kick me in the balls so hard i pissed blood for three days.” seungmin mutters.

“but you ripped his pants off with teeth and then tried to shove a whole fucking log up his ass as revenge.“ jeongin says.

“then he smashed my face into an anthill.” god, seungmin being bratty is so hot.

chan shifts, even though it clearly hurts his ribs. “they both ended up tied to the same tree with duct tape because we got tired of the noise.”

“okay but what even is the woods house?” you ask.

changbin is a babe. “it was this rich victim’s vacation cabin. super cool, big stone fireplace, hot tub on the deck overlooking the lake, full kitchen, basement we turned into a playroom for… you know, guests who don’t leave. sorry. innie put the deed in his own name after we cleaned the place out, so now it’s technically ours. we go there sometimes.”

jeongin wiggles his eyebrows at you. “and it’s been way too long since we went. the hot tub’s probably lonely. the basement’s collecting dust. we should all go. take you with us this time, y/n.“

seungmin leans down to slap the side of your thigh. “yeah. i could chase you through the trees a little. hm?”

“ew ew ew.” jeongin puts his hands up. “not in front of me, bro.”

“pussy.”

minho’s creepy eyes actually sparkle for once. “i could show you the basement. lots of hooks. soundproof.” ???

chan grunts in agreement, looking half asleep on his stool. “you’d like it.”

“hyunjin!! hyunjin!!”

“dude look!! they’re getting married!!”

“hush.”

you smile.

chan finally pushes himself up from the stool with a groan, his little fork hole hurting. he gives minho one or those manly pats on the shoulder, good fight, no hard feelings, they’ll do it again next week. then he limps over to you, presses a soft, lingering peck to your lips. “i’m gonna go lie down before i fall over. thanks for patching us up.“

you kiss him back gently, thumb brushing his bruised cheek. “go rest. yell if you need anything.”

chan limps off toward the bedroom, still leaning sideways. he looks horrible and also unbelievably hot. like bandages stay ON.

you lean back against the counter, listening to your leftover boys in the kitchen plan their cute little vacation. like aw. they’re men and they want to be there with their friends and they’ll go. aww.

“hyunjin, the rabbit’s throwing the bouquet, catch it!”

“sure.”

you turn back to minho. he looks horrible. “you gonna be fine, creepy? need anything before i—”

“y/n!!”

“y/n y/n y/n!!”

what NOW. you look over. han and felix are both half standing, leaning over the back of the couch. huge puppy eyes. han’s waving both arms. felix is bouncing on his toes, hoodie sleeves flapping. fucking twink.

“come sit!l

“please please please we saved you the best spot, it’s warm!”

seungmin grunts, spoon scraping the bottom of his bowl. “let her go.“

changbin leans over and kisses the side of your head, sweet as ever. “go on.“

you sigh, give minho’s cute little psycho head a pat, and head for the couch before the begging turns into actually yanking at your clothes.

you sit down between felix and hyunjin. han needs to learn that he doesn’t get to have you every single time just because he’s loud and cute and dumb, even if we’re starting with small steps like this, sitting only a person away.

felix’s arm wraps around yours, fingers lacing with yours so he can hold your hand against his chest. oh he disgustingly in love, nuzzling into your shoulder, humming happily, leg thrown over your thigh.

on your other side hyunjin shifts to drape his arm along the back of the couch behind you.

han whines from the other end. “but i wanted to sit next to her, i saved the spot with my butt warmth.”

felix giggles and nuzzles closer to your arm. “too slow.”

you ignore han completely and turn your head toward hyunjin. “what’s up? you okay?”

“mm.” he says, thumb moving to stroke your neck. he’d like that if you did that to him one day. “how are the wounded soldiers? did you have to perform surgery with a spoon again?”

you hum and lean into his side a little. “the usual. they behaved.”

from your right felix tugs your arm, trying to get your attention. “y/n y/n look, the dog is in court.”

you don’t even glance at him. keep your eyes on hyunjin. “tell me more. how you feeling?”

hyunjin’s eyes actually sparkle a little. you caring about him drives him crazy. makes him forget all the dread that the picture of you kissing his roommate on his bed brings to him.

han leans over felix’s lap. “y/n, the cheese just exploded into glitter, look!”

felix whines and pushes han’s head away gently with his free hand while still clinging to your arm with the other. “stop it, she’s talking to hyunjin… but y/n the glitter cheese is really funny though.”

you reach over with your free hand, pat felix’s head once without breaking eye contact with hyunjin, then pull your hand away. han makes noise and flops backward, arms crossed, pouting.

han will learn eventually. or he won’t.

“you didn’t answer me earlier.” felix says, voice softer. so deep, so cute. “i asked you something.”

you watch hyunjin’s face. “they told me about that house in the woods.”

“yeah?” he says.

you nod. “they said it’s under innie’s name. invited me.”

felix tugs at your arm. “hey.”

han leans over again. “what are you talking about, what house?”

hyunjin exhales quietly through his nose. the fucking dog keeps talking on the tv. “they would. show off a little.”

“been there?”

“few times.”

“they said it’s quiet.”

“it is.”

“and kinda hidden.”

“very.”

his hand slides slightly, fingers on your arm.

“why aren’t you answering?” felix says, insistent. “i’m talking to you.”

han makes another noise, frustrated. “yeah, why aren’t you?”

it’s like they don’t exist. it’s killing them.

hyunjin has to hold back a smirk. like a cocky smirk. this feels good after his little heartbreak. let’s not forget that these boys are pure evil, after all, them being funny and in love with you doesn’t change the way they act with each other. unfair assholes.

“you thinking of coming?” he asks you.

“maybe. they made it sound nice.”

his gaze drops to your mouth. then back up. “it is.”

your shoulder presses a little more into his side. “you’ll come too, right?”

direct.

felix straightens a bit, eyes widening. “hey—what—”

han leans over him again, draping himself across felix now just to get closer to you. “what are you saying?”

hyunjin looks at you more… private. biting his lip. “if you want me there, i’ll be there.”

you smile. his hand moves on your arm.

“okay, no, this is—this is weird.” felix says. “you’re not talking to us.”

han nods. “you’re ignoring us, y/n why are you ignoring us—”

you turn just a bit more toward hyunjin.

his eyes don’t leave yours. “gets real dark out there.”

“you like it?”

“i do.”

“why?”

he tilts his head slightly, considering. “no distractions. just… what’s in front of you.”

your gaze holds his. “and what would that be?”

silence.

“…depends.” he says.

felix makes a frustrated sound, tugging on your arm slightly.

“hey.” han says. “hey, look at me.”

felix whines.

han is trying to catch your eye. “can you—can you look at me for a second—” his posture’s off, his hands keep fidgeting, eyes flicking between your face and hyunjin’s. “did i—did i do something?”

you don’t even glance. hyunjin bites a smile back. he pulls you closer.

han notices that. “okay, no, that’s—hey—that’s not—”

he reaches over felix, trying to touch your arm.

felix holds you closer to him. “no, wait, i’m holding it—”

“move—”

“no—”

they start wrestling over your arm.

you do not acknowledge this. at all. hyunjin watches it happen out of the corner of his eye. takes a slow breath.

“this is so unfair.” felix whispers loudly.

“i know.” han whispers back, equally loud. “she’s not even looking at us.”

“i asked like three times.”

“i asked five.”

“that’s more.”

“i know.”

they both look at you.

you continue ignoring them with impressive consistency.

han makes a small, desperate sound. “i can be quiet, i can—i won’t talk, i’ll just—just—”

felix nods. “yeah, me too. i’ll be quiet.” he lasts exactly two seconds. “…hey.” you don’t react. “…this is really hard.”

“yeah.” han says miserably.

hyunjin runs his hand over your arm. he thinks you’re doing great.

they sit there. quiet. for maybe three whole seconds.

“hey!” both of them at once.

“no.” hyunjin says.

“okay.”

silence again.

“chan.” han blurts out, sudden and loud. “where’s chan?”

“yeah, yeah, get chan, he’ll fix it—”

they both look around. for the first time in, what, an hour? two? han’s hands flap uselessly. they both spin around, searching the room for chan.

chan is nowhere in sight.

there’s a pause.

“…wait.” felix says.

han’s pretty head snaps toward him. “where is he?”

felix looks around again. “he was here. he was just here.”

han’s breathing changes to fast. “no, no, no—he was—he—he was here— where did he go—”

you ignoring them. talking to hyunjin. not looking at them. not answering. and now chan(who usually solves things for them) isn’t even here.

nothing is making sense.

han’s face crumples. “what the fuck? what the fuck is happening—”

“i don’t like this.” felix says, grabbing tighter onto your arm, yanking at it. “i don’t like this at all—”

han lets out the most pathetic sob you’ve ever heard and launches himself over felix and into your lap. his arms lock around your neck so tight you almost choke, face burying into your shoulder. “y/nnnnnn.” he wails, voice muffled and wet and adorable. “don’t ignore us please please we’ll be good we’ll eat vegetables and i’ll stop humping the couch when you’re not looking i swear—”

felix throws himself half on your lap too, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressed into your neck. “y/n we love you so much it hurts when you don’t look at us—my please—“ hic “please still love me!”

they’re heartwarming. big ugly sobs, snotty and loud, bodies shaking on you.

han keeps repeating “y/n” whining for his girlfriend while felix just sobs “we’re sorry we’re sorry we’re so sorry” into your collarbone.

you and hyunjin lock eyes over the top of their heads.

hyunjin’s eyebrow is arched so high it’s basically touching the ceiling. he lets out the longest, most exhausted sigh you’ve ever heard from him.

well. that didn’t work.

“alright, alright.” you murmur. your very loving arms come up, one around han’s back, the other sliding around felix’s waist, pulling both of them in tighter. “shhh, babies. i’m right here. i was just talking to hyunjin for a minute.”

all your they need to learn space effort? completely fucking gone. forget about it.

han is shaking, body convulsing. “i thought—” he starts, then stops because he doesn’t even know what he thought. “you weren’t—i didn’t—just don’t do that—”

“y/nnnn—” felix cries. “you weren’t—why weren’t you—”

“don’t, don’t do that.” han mumbles into your neck. “don’t ignore—euh.”

“i’m right here.” you coo.

“okay, okay.” felix sobs.

hyunjin is… weirdly turned on by this.

“don’t do that again.” han mumbles into your neck. “don’t—don’t pretend i’m not there.”

“i wasn’t pretending.” you say, squeezing felix.

“…you were.” felix insists, but he’s just confused.

“i was making a point.”

“…i didn’t get it.”

“…yeah.” hyunjin mutters. “we noticed.”

you shoot him a look. he lifts his hands slightly. what? it’s true.

han pulls back to look at you, eyes big, glassy, beautiful. “what point?”

“that you can’t have my attention every second.” you say.

“…why not?”

genuine confusion.

felix nods. “yeah.”

“because i’m a person.” you say. “not something you pass around or grab whenever you want. you boys always do this, since the very beginning i met you guys. i need some space too. i always tell you. but you’re right for crying, and i’m sorry i made you feel bad, okay? i was kind of mean, sorry.” means a lot that you teach them that apologizing is mature, that it’s fair, that they should, that recognizing your faults is the right thing to do. “just keep my needs in mind the next time.”

they both go quiet. not because they understand, but because… that sounded important.

“…okay.” han says slowly. “but can i still be here?”

“yes.”

he cuddles back to you.

felix relaxes too with a satisfied little exhale. “okay. that’s fine then.”

that’s all it took.

you lean back into hyunjin again. “they’ll get it eventually.”

“no, they won’t. but it’s cute that you think that.”

you keep rubbing their backs, big slow strokes, pressing little kisses wherever you can reach, han’s forehead, felix’s cheek, the top of han’s ear when he tilts his head.

hyunjin wants to pounce on you.

eventually the sobs go off into wet sniffles and hiccups. han’s death grip around your neck loosens. felix stops shaking and starts making those tiny contented hums he does when he’s happy again. their teary little faces slowly turn back toward the tv. they’re adorable. (ruthless serial killers)

the cheese rocket has landed and now the rabbit is talking to some carrot.

they both go quiet after that, just watching the screen in silence. han’s thumb rubs over your collarbone. felix nibs and drools on your shoulder but you don’t mind now.

you glance at hyunjin again.

“lesson learned?” he murmurs.

“slow steps.” you whisper back, still rubbing han’s back and felix’s hip. “they’ll get there. eventually.”

you’re definitely sucking han off later for this pathetic little performance. but for now you just hold them.

crisis over.

lesson… not really learned.

but attempted.

okay not even attempted because han lets out a shaky little breath on your neck, then another, hotter one, and his arms tighten around you again, but now to hold himself up better.

“y/n, i… i need you…” he whimpers into your neck, voice wet and needy.

lesson definitely not learned.

you close your eyes, taking a big breath, then… then… fuck’s sake he’s humping you.

“han. baby. we’re on the couch. there are people around. public living room. not the time.”

he doesn’t hear you. or he hears you and his single brain cell can’t process what you just said. he nuzzles into your neck, lips on your skin, hips grinding, desperate. “i’m so hard it hurts, please, just a little… i’ll be quick i promise i’ll be so quiet.”

“han.” you hiss, trying to push his hips back gently. “not here. the others are right fucking here.”

“but they’re watching cartoons, they won’t mind, i love you so much my balls feel full and sad…”

hyunjin and felix are watching with enormous eyes.

holding their fucking breath. hyunjin’s eyebrow is frozen in pure fascination, lips slightly parted. his whole body has gone still, drinking in every second of han’s pathetic grinding and whimpering. felix’s eyes are even bigger, hungry, mouth hanging open a little as he stares at the way han’s hips move against you.

they watch, breathing a little faster, clearly turned on by the fact that they’re this close to something they’re not allowed to have yet. it’s hot to them, seeing one of the “chosen four” get needy right in front of them, knowing they don’t get to touch you like that. they don’t get to fuck you, don’t get to be inside you, don’t get to be openly needy like this in front of everyone. but now they see it this close up. voyeuristic.

they’re both leaning in unconsciously, eyes glued to you two. like fucking porn.

you try again, one hand pushing gently at han’s slutty little hip. “han. public. people. stop.”

“but it hurts. please just touch it a little, i’ll be so quick, i promise.”

he needs to be put down. euthanized. neutered. something.

it’s even deeper for the other two after those words because han is being so relatable right now. like literally yes y/n it hurts just please touch it a little. that’s all they want too.

you’re about two seconds from dragging him off to the bedroom by his ear to chan when minho slowly limps over.

stops in front of han. says in that flat, creepy monotone: “you want to see my cats?”

han’s head snaps up. his eyes go wide. “all of them?”

minho nods. “yes. they missed you.”

“holy fuck yes!!” he scrambles off your lap, dick still visibly hard in his pants but suddenly irrelevant. he grabs minho’s arm (not careful of the bandages) and starts dragging the limping murderer toward the door. “let’s go let’s go i wanna pet dori he let me hold him last time—”

minho lets himself be pulled, but right before they disappear out the door he glances back at you. his version of i love you is saving you from situations like these. he did this for you.

you mouth a “thank you” and he gives a tiny nod before limping after han.

“bye y/n i love you i’ll be good i promise!”

the living room goes quiet except for the cartoon still playing.

felix, seeing that that situation is over, gently takes your hand. sighs. what does this angel could possibly have to sigh about. he brings two of your fingers to his mouth, innocent for a murderer, and slides them between his soft lips. oh, sweetheart. he starts sucking gently, tongue moving under your fingers.

god, he’s heartwarming(you shout his head off at least twice a week because he got blood inside the apartment again). you pump your fingers once because you know he likes it and he deserves it now, and felix’s eyes roll straight back into his head. actually moans, the sweetie. his whole body shudders.

hyunjin is going to combust just from watching. he’s genuinely starting to think about acting dumb just so that you’d give him this treatment too. like give him your fingers now.

you finally peel your eyes away from felix’s pretty little face(that does things to you, you can’t deny) and glance toward the kitchen.

jeongin has lost his shirt somewhere in the last five minutes??? hello?? his back is breathtaking. broad. literal work of art covered in old scars and fresh little bruises from whatever he got into yesterday. cutie. the muscles shift and flex as he does something in the sink.

you can see the little dimples above his ass. he really is hot. annoyingly hot. unbearably hot. fucking hot. has the kind of back you want to drag your nails down just to watch him arch. fuck.

thinking all this while the official boyfriend(well, one of them) is right next to him btw. shoulder to shoulder, both of them with their backs to the living room but at least seungmin has his shirt on. you’d be lowkey worried they’re plotting something again, but then changbin walks over to your little trio on the couch.

you want to RIP this man apart. bare chest and soft little tummy on display still, like put a baby in me. especially with the way he leans down and pats felix’s head, GENTLY.

felix makes a happy little sound around your fingers but doesn’t stop sucking.

changbin looks at you. “i’m heading home soon. you wanna come with me?” his eyes go to hyunjin. “you coming too?”

hyunjin leans his head back. “yeah. might as well.”

you smile up at changbin. “sure. sounds good. let me wrap things up here.”

felix makes a sad noise when you finally pull your fingers out of his mouth. a thin string of spit connects your fingertips to his bottom lip for a second before it breaks. he whines softly, lips chasing them for a second, disappointed.

“felix. hey.” you say gently, cupping his face with both hands, he doesn’t mind his own spit on him anyway. “i’m going out with binnie and hyune for a while, okay? you did so good at the doctor’s today. i’m really proud of you for not telling the doctors about the mailman or anything weird. you were good.”

he smiles, nuzzling into your palm. “really?”

“really. now go watch the rest of the cartoon. behave while i’m gone.”

he nods. “i’ll be so good. i’ll only eat one crayon if i get sad.”

you kiss his forehead and stand up. hyunjin gives your neck one last slow stroke before he pulls his arm back, rising with you.

you head into the kitchen for a quick glass of water. jeongin and seungmin are still at the sink, talking about something that sounds suspiciously like the best way to dissolve teeth.

“i’m heading out with bin and hyunjin for a bit.” you say, reaching past jeongin for a glass then to fill it.

seungmin nods. “don’t do anything i wouldn’t do.”

“that leaves a lot of options open.”

you step up behind him, lean in, and press a sweet kiss right to the side of his neck. was it on purpose that it was right over that sensitive spot you know drives him crazy? yeah, don’t be silly.

seungmin stiffens. there we go. you love leaving him horny on purpose.

jeongin turns his head just in time to catch the end of it. then he shoves his pretty face into the side of your head, nose burying in your hair, arms trying to snake around you. “my turn, my turn—”

you shove his face away with your palm. “down, boy.” you bend down to put your empty glass in the dishwasher and notice both seungmin’s and jeongin’s cereal bowls are already inside. well, you put jeongin’s there, but not seungmin’s. “look at you two actually putting shit away by yourself. i’m proud of you.”

seungmin turns around, sporting a half hard bulge you left him with. “it was me.” he’s so cute because like you need to know that he did it for you!!

pulled a face off in one move yesterday btw.

you give jeongin’s cheek a quick pat before heading back toward the living room. changbin got a shirt on since that(went into your room for it, the sleeping chan didn’t even wake up). hyunjin’s eyes flick over to the couch where felix is watching his cartoon.

“ready?” changbin asks, reaching for your hand.

you take it, lacing your fingers with his. “yeah. let’s go.”

changbin presses a soft kiss to your temple(my boy changbin getting feelings even though he’s a brutal psycho!! fuck it up changbin!! be a good boyfriend changbin!!) then the three of you leave.

god, you love how fancy their apartment is.

you love eating breakfast here. sitting at the island in one of changbin’s or hyunjin’s big shirts while one of them makes food, usually changbin, and those times hyunjin usually reads the news on his fucking ipad(this man and his fucking apple ecosystem), occasionally glancing over at you.

you love watching the city out those big windows, especially at night. you love the soft lighting in the living room that makes everyone look so hot. like why don’t they throw orgies in here? (you don’t know this but hyunjin once did, next day he cleaned up so good that changbin never found out)

now that we’re at this topic, you also really love fucking like animals with changbin when hyunjin’s not home. like, really, loud, sweaty, no restrictions, no rules or limitations sex on every surface. you love curling up by the windows with a mug, watching the city lights while his tongue is between your legs or while you’re just… sitting. could be either.

he gets loud when he cums. manly shouts that bounce off the pretty ceilings(yours has pesto stains on them from one of minho’s and seungmin’s fights). you love that he gives noises. you’ve broken two chairs and one coffee table because he gets too enthusiastic and forgets what his thick thighs can do.

but right now? right now you mostly love how fucking all about you they both are.

changbin unlocks the front door with one hand, keys jingling, then steps aside and gestures for you to go first. hyunjin does the same on the other side, holding the door open.

partly because they’re gentlemen.

partly because they’re in love with you.

and partly because you have a great ass and they both want to watch it as you walk in.

“go on.” changbin says, nodding inside.

“yeah.” hyunjin says. “after you.”

you can feel their eyes on it the whole three steps it takes to walk inside.

hyunjin is fucking mad tho. mad over the fact that changbin gets to tap that. changbin gets to fuck that perfect ass whenever he wants. changbin gets to bury his face between those ass cheeks and thighs and make you scream while hyunjin is stuck in the next room.

it burns. he wants it so bad it makes his stomach twist, makes him have to throw up.

he was there before changbin even considered looking at you like that.

and if he’d just… if he’d just said something earlier… if he’d just… but he didn’t.

and now look where that got him. fucking idiot.

changbin shuts the door behind you, kicking off his shoes. “client today was a fucking nightmare.” he says, running a hand through his hair. “he was calling me the whole time you were away with felix. some rich asshole who wants to ‘get shredded for his mistress.’”

hyunjin heads straight for the kitchen, already reaching for a glass.

“yeah?” you ask, cutely getting your shoes off.

“yeah. i’m thinking okay, cool, leg day, cardio, whatever. then he starts asking if i can meet now. i already have told him no a hundred times at least. fucker. then told me he’ll do it himself then and i tell him what to do. no.”

hyunjin snorts from the kitchen. “hate those.”

“he’s going to hurt himself.” changbin continues. “and then he’ll come back acting like it’s my fault.”

“it will be your fault.” hyunjin calls out, already pouring himself a drink. “you didn’t stop him.”

“i did.”

“clearly not enough.”

changbin shoots him a look.

hyunjin just raises his glass slightly in response, completely unbothered.

“what’d you do?” you ask.

“told him we’ll redo everything.” he says. “properly. slower. he hated it.”

“good.”

“yeah.”

there’s a pause.

“had to deal with a buyer after that.”

ah. there it is. changbin’s little side job of selling organs.

hyunjin lets out a low whistle, taking a sip. “bad one?”

“annoying.” changbin says. “kept asking questions.”

“that’s never a good sign.”

“no.”

hyunjin sets the glass down, then reaches for a cigarette, tucking it between his lips. he flicks his lighter. click, flame, inhale.

there it is. drink in one hand. cigarette in the other. leaning back against the counter.

like, how?

how the fuck is he this beautiful while living like this?

you stare for too long. he notices. his gaze flicks to you, then away again. inhales. exhales.

“price wasn’t even the issue.” changbin says. “he just wouldn’t shut up.”

“should’ve shut him up.” hyunjin mutters.

“considered it.”

“and?”

“wasn’t worth it.”

hyunjin taps ash into a tray, looking at you looking at changbin, paying attention to changbin, not him. but at least you’re here.

he’ll take it.

even if it’s not everything he wants. he’ll take it.

meanwhile all that’s in your mind is how comfy the couch looks. insert that picture where squidward looks like death and next to him spongebob is throwing his hands up smiling ear to ear. you and hyunjin fr. anyways, you do go and make yourself comfy on the couch, then pat it on either side of you. “come here, both of you. tell me more.”

changbin drops down on your left, big arm around your shoulders. hyunjin sits on your right, long legs laid out, cigarette letting that pretty smoke come. changbin tried to get him to stop smoking at least in the apartment but i think we see it didn’t do much.

changbin is still irritated but relaxed now that he’s home, that he’s with you. “guy kept calling his biceps the guns. i wanted to tell him the only gun was the one i had in my back pocket.” now that he said that, he begins to wonder where did it go. it sure got out his pocket at your place, must be there somewhere if nobody took it.

hyunjin hums. flicks ash into a fancy crystal tray. tf. “clients get stupider every week. last week some guy asked me if i could ‘source’ a liver that still had the gallbladder attached because ‘it adds flavor.’” he takes another drag, exhales “i charged him extra.”

changbin groans and squeezes your shoulder. “at least your idiots pay in cash sometimes. mine keep trying to pay in bitcoin. like fuck your mom.”

you don’t know if you should be turned on or deeply concerned and upset about what you’re hearing. both work.

changbin’s phone starts buzzing in his pocket.

he gets it out. looks at the screen and sighs. “it’s minho.” he picks up. “yeah? what’s up?”

you and hyunjin go quiet, watching bin’s face. it stays neutral for the first ten seconds. then his pretty jaw moves. then the vein on his forehead starts popping. another vein bulges in his huge left bicep. the big arm around your shoulders slowly turns hard. just again, turned on or, well, terrified is the other option in this scenario, you don’t know what you should be.

he listens for another thirty seconds, says “mm” twice, then hangs up. without saying goodbye, by the way. the phone gets placed down with way too much care. looks like if he slams it he’ll break the entire table.

he stares straight ahead at the window for a long time.

“han and jeongin fucked up. bad.”

you and hyunjin look at each other. you both can tell the two aren’t in danger or with police, changbin would be out the door already if that was the case, so you’re not worried.

changbin, though.

“they picked up some guy from the bar. everything was going fine until they cut off the guy’s fingers, all ten of them, and told him if he could juggle them for thirty seconds without dropping any, they’d let him go. minho said the guy was screaming, blood everywhere, fingers all around the place.” his hands flex on his (thick)thighs. the veins in his forearms are now basically fucking his skin. “they found it funny. apparently, they were laughing so hard they didn’t notice the guy’s girlfriend had followed him from the bar and tried to record. they almost got caught on camera. minho had to go clean it up, drag the girlfriend inside, and deal with the mess.”

so that’s what the case is. an almost caught. he gets angry at those.

the psycho part of changbin doesn’t come out in the way he acts, like minho having defects with communication, for an example. seungmin also has a hard time communicating sometimes but he’s significantly better. anyways, changbin’s defect doesn’t work socially.

what his main problem is, is dealing with anger.

this is why he killed for the first time, we already know that. it was pure, blinding anger. he can’t process it. never could. it doesn’t leak out in mean little comments or creepy staring like the rest of the boys. changbin explodes.

therapy? useless. talking? makes it worse. even fucking it out doesn’t work, so you don’t even come in handy now. plus getting his dick hard is difficult when he’s having one of these anger meltdowns. nothing helps. he just has to deal with it until it’s gone.

he stands up slowly. “i can’t deal with this shit.”

you’re mortified by what you just heard about what the two boys did but you’re also lowkey excited to see what he’ll do now. like that’s your boyfriend, go boyfriend, crash out!!

“those fucking idiots.” he says, voice shaking. “i told them. i fucking told them to keep it clean. but nooo, han has to turn every kill into a fucking children’s birthday party and jeongin just has to let him do it.”

“hyunjin. we are SO fucked.” you whisper.

something flies past your heads.

(not aimed at you, never at you, changbin would rather saw his own arms off)

hyunjin takes a slow drag from his cigarette. “myeah.”

you both get behind the couch. it looks stupidly cute from the outside, you two not visible but his smoke coming out anyway.

changbin flips the coffee table with one hand. it crashes into the wall. “i do everything right! i train those stupid clients, i move the organs, i keep the bodies from piling up in the fucking hallway, and these two dipshits treat it like a fucking joke!”

a lamp flies past. then the remote. then one of hyunjin’s fancy poetry books (hyunjin winces).

you peek out to take a look at your boyfriend now throw a little vase hyunjin purely keeps on the (now flipped over)coffee table for decoration. you turn back quickly and look at hyunjin with big eyes.

and he exhales a smoke ring???

“are they fucking five!? i told them, i fucking told them, keep it simple! strangle and dump! but nooo, they gotta make it into amateur porn! ‘funny’ my ass! i’m gonna shove my foot so far up han’s dumb fucking colon he’ll taste my toes for a week!”

another object flies, this time it’s the heavy crystal ashtray hyunjin was just using.

“i’m gonna skin jeongin alive and turn his little face into a fucking puppet. i’m gonna make han eat every single finger he juggled. raw.”

he grabs the expensive leather ottoman and throws it into the kitchen. wow.

hyunjin calmly takes another drag of his cigarette.

“binnie, baby—” you start.

“and the woooooorst part?! they’ve did this hundreds of times already! and they never.” he claps his hands. “fucking.” clap. “learn!” clap clap clap clap. “i’m gonna shove both their heads up each other’s asses and—”

another object flies. it bounces off the wall and lands in the potted plant hyunjin mothers so hard. he actually puts his hand out towards it but pulls it back into his lap almost immediately.

he sheds a tear for his beloved plant then moves on. “this is your boyfriend.” he whispers, tapping ash into an empty glass he grabbed on the way down. “romantic.”

“shut up. you’re hard, aren’t you?”

“painfully.”

crash.

silence.

changbin finally stops, chest heaving, standing in the middle of everything. he looks around at the mess, then at the couch you’re both hiding behind.

“…sorry.” he mutters. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

you peek over the couch, smiling. “you didn’t scare me.”

hyunjin takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette butt into the glass, and stands up. “i’ll order new furniture. again.”

he was two seconds away from leaning in and stealing a first kiss while changbin was distracted. his lips were already tingling with the possibility. but changbin came down from the rage too fast. damn it.

changbin rubs the back of his neck. “i’ll pay for it.”

you crawl out from behind the couch, smiling ear to ear and stepping over the shit he destroyed, and wrap your arms around his waist from behind. “you’re okay.”

he leans back into you. in the smallest, saddest voice you’ve ever heard from him “they juggled fingers, baby.” like aw okay binnie :(

hyunjin watches the two of you. jealous. fuck. he needs another drink. what happened to his earlier one anyway? oh, it’s pouring down the wall right there. okay.

yeah, shit like this happens all the time.

like seungmin’s mean little bitchass gets set off and suddenly it’s world war iii. (yeah he’s the worst, just blows up over anything small) last month jeongin ate a little yoghurt (the one seungmin had been thinking about all day) and seungmin tied him to a dining chair with duct tape and zip ties, then spent forty five minutes beating the absolute shit out of him with a bag of frozen chicken breasts.

chicken breasts everywhere. raw meat juice all over the floor. when seungmin finally calmed down he just cut jeongin loose, patted his bloody cheek, then crawled into your bed at 3am and cuddled up to you.

han once got mad at felix for eating the last of his crayons (the blue ones taste best, apparently, han just uses them to draw). han started screaming at the top of his lungs, stomped into the kitchen, grabbed a plate, and smashed it directly onto his own forehead. the plate shattered. his eyes rolled back and he dropped, out cold for six minutes. you had to ice his forehead.

once minho wordlessly took one of chan’s knives and left it covered in some random guy’s spinal fluid. chan found it, then destroyed every single plate in minho’s kitchen by throwing them one by one into the bathtub. when he was done he sat on the edge of the tub, covered in shards, and whispered “i need a minute.” he let you patch up his cut hands.

chan is fucking HILARIOUS in general. like another one was when he smashed a blender in one hand because jeongin pissed him off.

now that we’re at jeongin, oh he’s the hot babe ever(deserves death), you left him on seen once and he spent three hours shouting at hyunjin at the top of his lungs while carving lines into his own thigh with a razor. then crawled to your door at 2am covered in blood, begging you to kiss it better.

yeah he’s really… unstable.

not as unstable as hyunjin tho. last time he got jealous of changbin he disappeared for six hours and came back with someone else’s tongue in a jar as a gift. you made him throw it away but let him cuddle you while he read you something. he wants so badly to be allowed.

minho is… fucking terrifying. once chan accidentally sat in minho’s favorite staring at y/n spot. minho killed ten people that day.

felix doesn’t get mad lots. or angry. or any of those. he once got mad because you called han baby and not him. he disappeared for three hours and came back dragging a whole ass traffic cone he stole. he tried to eat it.

and we already saw today what happens to changbin. like he does this. once jeongin made a your mom joke and changbin flipped the entire couch, punched a hole through the wall, then spent twenty minutes doing pushups.

they are genuinely horrible at dealing with feelings. well, who can blame them, this is their first time experiencing them, but still, this canNOT be good for you. your mental health. your pussy, sure, the boyfriends do fuck it out sometimes, but let’s be real, it’s extremely unhealthy that you have to deal with these fuckers all day long.

but you like it. so, it is what it is. you’re fine.

you have fun with them. that fun can mean going out with hyunjin for coffee or yanking felix off the couch by both hands on his hips because he keeps humping it, but you really did grow attached to these boys. who cares that they tried to kill you.

that fun can also mean just hanging out with the boyfriends. little dates. seungmin once dragged you to a hardware store just so he could “look at knives and feel better.” you ended up making out in the aisle between the chainsaws. han likes when you let him eat you out. LET him. he has to beg. chan just wants to lie on your chest and have you play with his curls. changbin just needs to touch you to have fun, that can mean his toe in your ear, even. just please omg he has to touch y/n.

lol. men are so fucking adorable you might actually have to smash a plate on your own head too at this point.

like wdym these eight brutal psychos have little feelings??? wdym they get genuinely upset and their little hormones work and testosterone works and it comes from their balls?? AWWW MEN’S BALLS!!! balls gotta be the cutest fucking thing on earth istg. they’re so vulnerable!! they protect them!! they cup them when they’re scared!! the others kick them during fights and they curl up and it HURTS them!! sensitive little guys just hanging out between their legs, trying their best, getting cold and going up inside then dropping back down!!! hello to you too balls!! but they also make cum and babies and rage and horniness and all the stupid boy things and they’re just. down there. existing. between their stupid little legs. swinging. awww.

what do you meeeeaaaann all eight of your psychos have their own pair!!! men are SO cute.

you had to literally bite your fist the other day when hyunjin was manspreading on the couch and you remembered there’s a whole sensitive little sack there, vulnerable and warm and full of his lowk suicidal sperm. aww.

i’m crine the FUCK is your problem y/n😭😭😭

seungmin has straight up slapped your hand away in public before when you tried to sneak a feel. didn’t even look at you. just smack on your wrist, then kept talking to the cashier like nothing happened while you stood there grinning.

you MIGHT have gotten soft on these psychos.

you’re a freak.

but tbh each of the four you’re actually dating needs exactly you. exactly your sex drive. exactly the way you are.

cute. so fucking cute. men are awesome.

sometimes when chan is just sitting on the couch minding his own business, biiiig thighs spread, you’ll casually reach over and grope him through his pants. you’re brutal. palm covering his soft cock and balls, squeezing around.

he just sits there. letting you play w the jewels. sometimes he’ll keep watching whatever he’s watching, sometimes he’ll look over at you(calm, MANLY) murmur a “having fun, baby?”

you love how he feels. that he has those there. love how he trusts you completely with the most sensitive part of him.

when you get a little too enthusiastic and squeeze too hard he just jerks his hips away once and says “ow”. then you lean in and kiss his cheek as a little apology.

he accepts it. patting your head. he loves it. truly thinks he found a once in a lifetime gem with you.

god you’re so down bad.

you feel lucky too. unbelievably. what do you mean you have these psychos at your feet.

kinda… literally at your feet.

what we mean here, is once han is being annoying again, all around you. he keeps bumping into you, pushing you, giggling around, trying to “help” you reach the top shelf even though he’s only about two inches taller and mostly useless.

“y/n you’re so short it’s cute, wait no, i’m short too, we’re both short, that’s why we fit so good when i’m inside you!!”

you spin around and slap him lightly across the face. not hard. it’s genuinely just playful. doesn’t even hurt.

his eyes cross instantly. his mouth drops open, body jerking. he squeaks a “hnn?”

his knees buckle. he drops to the floor, landing on his ass with a pathetic little whimper. one hand flies between his legs, cupping his dick through his pants as his stomach and crotch and abdomen muscles flex.

his face has pure confusion. bliss. eyebrows furrowed, eyes crossed, mouth open.

he came so hard.

“wha— whaaat?” he whines, voice high. his hips twitch up into his own hand as ropes of cum flood his pants. he has tears pricking his eyes from how hard he came and how sudden and so not ready to. his hand is squeezing his twitching cock. that just came while soft. from a slap.

he’s never looked more pathetic or more adorable in his entire stupid life.

you stare down at him. “han. baby. i barely touched you.”

“i knowwww. i think i need new pants, ma—maybe new baaaaalls. y/n, can you slap me again but harder this time?”

you end up crouched in front of him, cradling his dumb flushed face while he keeps making little hiccupps, still gently palming his spent cock. he leans into your touch, nuzzling. dumbest fuck on earth. you’d keep him in a jar if you could.

now that we’re at a sexual topic, it deserves some recognition that seungmin is… surprisingly pathetic in bed. he talks a big game but the second he’s inside you he gets just… whiny. a lil flower, basically. “fuck— you’re so tight, gonna make me cum too fast again, shit—” he tries to stay confident and a mean cunt but ends up whimpering into your mouth, hips stuttering, begging you not to clench because he’s embarrassingly close. the dream boyfriend.

and about changbin, so we include all the four, he has stamina. like stamina. that man can fuck you for hours. (can, not always will. it’s only realistic that you tap out after about two rounds if not one.) then he’ll kiss every tear off your face and ask if you want another round “just to be sure you’re satisfied, baby :)”. insane. built different. (built himself to be different, he didn’t get those muscles and fat out of nowhere. he worked for this, let’s appreciate that)

anyways,

you watch them play sometimes from the safety of the couch(and by play you mean fists, wrestling, knives, guns), chin in your hands.

morons with weapons.

like minho has jeongin in a headlock on the living room floor. the others are doing their own shit around, they’re fine with anything as long as they can breathe your air in.

you watch them. they be rolling around on the floor trying to choke each other out and the second one of them senses danger near the crotch region their hips do that instinctive little squirm/twist away. protecting the goods. always protecting the goods. hips do that instinctive little tuck. ass clenching, balls drawing up, hiding. it’s so automatic. so fucking adorable.

the attackers are absolutely going for the sack on purpose because they know it would hurt them too.

men are sweet.

“quit guarding your little grapes, you pussy.” minho snarls, trying to knee jeongin in the balls while jeongin twists.

“my grapes are precious, you cum gargling— OW FUCK—”

felix once bit chan’s thigh so close to the balls that chan yelped. like imagine that scary ass psycho yelping. because he doesn’t usually yelp.

han knees seungmin in the nuts while giggling while playing tag. hyunjin will grab a handful of minho’s package mid grapple just to hear that cold motherfucker make a high pitched noise. changbin can always end a fight with shouldering into someone’s crotch.

can’t stress it enough, men are unique and funny and cute.

you were made for men.

not just any men, these men.

and oh, the way they come back to you. each get their little asses beaten by each other or get angry and destroy everything or get confused about their huge feelings for you, but since they know you’re safe, you’re y/n, they immediately come to you.

let’s start with chan’s baby ass(should fucking behead him) he’ll limp to you with fresh bruises, split lip, whatnot, and just collapse onto the bed or couch of yours. he just wants you close.

he lets you baby him then. enjoys it, wants it.

let’s go age order now, mkay? minho shows up covered in blood, silent, and just stares at you with those dead eyes until you open your arms. crawls into them. wraps himself around you in the weirdest positions, face buried somewhere on your body (neck, stomach, between your tits, wherever), and just breathe you in. for hours. that, calms him down.

changbin is the usual when he crashes down from their boy fights. after one of his big meltdowns he gets so guilty it’s painful. you can’t tell him enough times that it’s okay that he acts like this when he’s angry. he’s just a man. anyways, he’ll find you immediately, wrap those huuuuuge arms around you, and hang on you while you do whatever. he needs the reassurance that you still love him.

hyunjin will rest his head on your thigh while you play with his hair. he needs you. needs to find you. he yaps about how the world is empty and meaningless except for you. the FUCK is his problem. he needs your attention more than anything else. first boy or whatever.

han is… fuck, you already know, a dumb little bitch. like he got mad and did something stupid again. he’ll launch himself at you full force, wrapping around you, talking into your chest. same boy that tried to kill you once.

felix… aww. he comes back to you literally whimpering, covered in blood and whatever he was eating, and immediately tries to climb into your lap. baby, no, shower. after that, he’ll nuzzle into you and sometimes ask if you still love him. (he wouldn’t by himself, but he saw it on tiktok. also asks if you’d love him if he was a worm)

seungmin is a tsundere little bitch about it. done with his little blow up? start looking for you. crawling back to you. stomps around(with the exact movement a horse would) while hugging your arm only. grown ass man btw. you have to coax him into letting you clean him up. he’ll grumble the whole time (“i don’t need this shit”) but the second you kiss the bridge of his nose he goes boneless.

jeongin is such a personality. didn’t we already talk about him screaming into his pillow about you? well he acts like that didn’t happen, just finds you after to get relief, kneels on the floor, clings to your lap, sighing loudly, telling you in great detail how everyone is against him and how he suffered. you have to play along and kiss his “wounds” (even the fake ones) while he preens under the attention.

slut.

i mean him, not you.

never you.

that’s because they trust you this much. they’re also so fucking comfortable with you it’s actually insane.

and they expect you to be just as unbothered as they are.

example, you’re in your bathroom, brushing your teeth. the door opens(not a single knock knocked) and minho walks in without a word. steps up to the toilet, unzips, pulls his dick out, starts peeing. he doesn’t even look at you just stares at the wall. shakes off then tucks himself away. washes his hands and leaves. no big deal to him. meanwhile you’re standing there with your toothbrush hanging out of your mouth bc like ???

han will barge into the bathroom while you’re on the toilet just to show you something on his phone. he’ll stand there holding the screen in front of your face.

“han i am peeing give me two seconds”

“why?”

the other rock brained is felix. the empty headed little cannibal has walked in on you showering multiple times. you’ve had to start locking the door(though we already talked about them just fucking picking the lock then), and every single time he stands outside whimpering. (doesn’t remember he can literally pick locks)

you try to change shirts and jeongin walks in mid titty out. “oh don’t mind me, keep going.” you tell him to get out and he looks heartbroken. “but i’ve seen them before. why are we regressing as a society?”

changbin is horrible. fucking hell you think about him and have to hold your head in your hands. he’ll walk in while you’re changing pads and starts running his finger through your hair. “you cramping bad today, baby? want me to rub your tummy?” fucking horrible.

hyunjin sometimes sits on the edge of the bathtub while you’re soaking and read you something he wrote, completely ignoring the fact that you’re literally naked in the water. and if you dare tell him you need five minutes alone he’ll sit outside the door and monologue sadly about “the cruel walls you build between us” until you let him in.

seungmin will stand outside muttering “the fuck is the point of being together if i can’t even watch you wash your ass?” like y/n this is human rights violation. let him IN.

minho just… appears. you’ll be changing and suddenly he’s in the corner staring. no words. you undress to take a shower, turn to the shower, he’s standing inside. at the end of the day you get into bed, pull the covers down and he’s UNDER THEM.

how did he not kill you then if he’s THIS good?

felix, as we know, has zero concept of personal space or gendered boundaries. he’ll try to go into the shower with you “to help wash your back.” he’ll stick his cold hands up your shirt in the middle of the kitchen because “your tummy is warm and mine is cold.” when you tell him no he gets this heartbreakingly confused look. “but you let changbin do it, why not me? i love you too?”

chan is at least dada about it. he’ll come out of the shower with just a towel around his shoulders, everything else hanging out, and start making coffee like that. like okay wet daddy put that weapon away. and he tells you “what’s mine is yours, baby.” okay i take it back.

you whine one day that your boobs hurt, maybe pms, maybe han was too enthusiastic the night before, whatever, and chan reaches over, hooks two fingers in the collar of your shirt, and tugs it down.

just pulls your tits out into the open air.

he stares, few fingers poking at them, then tucks them back in and gives you a little forehead kiss. “they look fine.”

but when felix does the exact same thing two days later, it’s different!!

you’re on the couch complaining that your chest is sore and felix, who is very much not your boyfriend, is like “oh no!! let me see!!” and reaches over to yank your shirt down. full tits out in the living room while jeongin and minho are playing cards on the coffee table. you have to slap his hands away and pull your shirt back up while he looks… so lost. he genuinely doesn’t get why that’s crossing a line. to him, your body is community property because he loves you so much and he shares everything with the other seven boys.

they’ve seen you naked, fucked you (some of them), bled on you, cried on you, so why does the bathroom door need to be closed? why can’t they just walk in while you’re peeing? why can’t felix crawl into bed with you and han?

you close the bathroom door. han: “but why?? you’ve seen me naked before!! i’ve seen you bleed from the pussy!! why can’t i watch you pee???”

minho gave you the saddest stare when you told him you didn’t want company while you were changing a tampon.

and you’ve seen every inch of them (and they’ve seen plenty of you) so why the fuck would they hide anything?

because these boys are so comfortable with you.

take hyunjin, for example. you go over to their place one afternoon because he said he wants to show you this new painting he’s been working on. he leads you into his room, closes the door, and immediately starts stripping. shirt off. pants off. underwear too. your heart stops. his dick swings free for a second, soft, while he casually steps into clean boxers like. you’re not even there. your heart starts beating again.

he pulls his sweatpants up, grabs the painting, and turns around. “so what do you think?”

seungmin will casually scratch his balls while talking to you. full hand down the front of his pants, digging around, rearranging while he tells you about the guy he stabbed earlier.

you make a face.

he raises an eyebrow. “what? they itch.”

even better when he walks into your room completely naked, dick swinging, just out of your shower, and lies face down onto your bed. starfish. he’ll throw a leg over you and go straight to sleep while you’re trying to watch a show. if you complain he just “you’ve had it in your mouth, don’t act shy now.”

jeongin is tiring. you actually have to cry laugh. he’ll come up behind you while you’re cooking, press his morning wood against your ass(you’re fine with him doing this, he wouldn’t do it if it made the love of his life uncomfortable), and talks to you. “so then i was strangling the guy and his head turned purple and— waaaaaait, you’re not wearing panties under this? slut.”

“because i thought i was spending the night with changbin. where is he?!”

sometimes they?? switch?? places?? randomly??? like genuinely hyunjin walks into your bathroom and minho comes out. and hyunjin is nowhere. and there is no possible exit he could have gotten out on. or you send chan to the shop to get you something and felix comes home with it. then you think you’re talking to felix and when you turn around it’s hyunjin answering, two completely different voices mind you. you’re always so confused.

they genuinely don’t get it when you try to enforce boundaries. you’re their safe person. their person. so why would they hide basic bodily functions from you? it doesn’t compute in their boy brains.

underneath all the boundary issues is the fact that they trust you completely. that’s sweet though. they feel safe with you in ways they’ve never felt safe with anyone, only the others, but you’re different. so they offer you every part of themselves, the gross, the vulnerable, the naked, the soft dick, post shower, morning wood, post fight, post rage, post cry parts, without hesitation.

they all know, on some level, that women are more physically fragile. no sexism here, this is biology, though some of them know of it in the sexist way, some the biological. men and women are built different. standard knowledge. they’ve killed enough of both to notice the physical differences. they know your body is softer in places, more sensitive, bleeds differently, gets sore easier, boobs aren’t the same as pecs. they know you can’t just punch you in the arm like they punch each other. but the social boundary thing? the “this is my body and sometimes i want it to be private even from people i love” thing? can’t get it at all.

jeongin, hyunjin, changbin, and chan(chan respects you as his girl) are the ones who at least register the differences. they know boobs aren’t just funny squishy chest lumps like their own. they know periods suck and make you more fragile. they understand that randomly grabbing your ass in public might get them slapped while they can slap each other’s asses during fights and it’s just bro shit. they know girls need a little more… finesse. socially. emotionally. physically.

the others though, their brains simply do not… do not most of the time. they could understand if they tried, really could, but they simply don’t use those brain cells. well, the sunshine twins don’t, and minho and seungmin just don’t want to.

so you scold. they listen. sort of. for about three days. then han is back to trying to hold your tit in the middle of clothes shopping and felix is asking if he can sniff your armpit.

before you, there was nothing. we know that. now it’s just a big wobbly thing inside of them. love? terrifying. jealousy? torture. longing? makes them want to chew their own hands off.

their little hearts are really fragile right now.

and they relieve that by being quite the opposite on the outside. by murdering just as brutal as they used to. (crazy, the fact that they enjoy doing that)

chan has this weird little system that turns the feelings, the itch to kill inward first, then lets it go(aka murdering) when it’s a little more upset at him. bout to blow. he’ll go out, find someone who reminds him of his own insecurity, usually slowly, calmly choke them out while staring into their eyes. almost he’s having a conversation with himself. last time he came back with someone’s tongue in his pocket. forgot to take it out and you did when you were washing those jeans. you cried. he felt horrible.

feeling sad is also a new feeling. it’s heartbreaking. they actually feel bad for normal people because oh they had to live with this through their entire lives? but they mostly feel bad for you, because you also did. and you’re above everyone.

back to chan, he ends up lying down with you usually, needing you to give him any type of physical touch. but when he gets it he’s fine. (if we ignore his feelings fucking messing his system up)

about minho, when the feelings get too messy he goes out and does his cute little horror shit (keeping people alive for days, removing things slowly, enjoying their screams. he once kept a guy alive for twelve hours just so he could ask him philosophical questions about love while cutting out his liver piece by piece. then he came home, crawled into your arms, and stared at you for hours. you don’t even mind anymore. he your lil creep.)

changbin is unstable, just not (usually) in front of you. he caught someone looking at you wrong once and spent the next four hours breaking every single bone in the guy’s body. then came home, clung to you.

hyunjin suffers beautifully. little bitch always does. he’ll write twenty pages of the most heartbreaking shit about unrequited love, then go out and slowly take someone apart. he takes his time. makes it artistic. removes organs one by one while talking about the void you left in his chest(insert that talking to wall gif). babe(fucker) just needs you to let him rest his head on your chest.

han is dumb but evil. they all are, let’s not forget that. his brain can’t handle the new emotions so he always does shit with no clear purpose. last week he got jealous of chan taking you out and went on a rampage. caught some poor jogger, beat him unconscious, then tried to share the body with felix by playing tug with the intestines??? he came back covered in blood, tackled you onto the couch(you threw up). feelings are hard.

felix’s empty little brain wasn’t built for this much emotion. when it hits him he gets confused and restless and jealous(worse now that he knows what that is) and freaks out.

last week he got sad because you patted han’s head and he literally jumped at a random pedestrian in broad daylight, sank his teeth into the guy’s neck, and started eating him alive. blood everywhere. still managed to not get caught. tf. came home with blood in his hair and on his face and immediately pouted and crossed his little legs when you scolded him.

seungmin takes his emotional instability out on whoever’s unlucky enough to cross his path. the other day he was pissed because you smiled at changbin when you should have been making seungmin an omelette!! (still got it tf he pissed off about) he went out and found some random dude, tied him to a chair, and spent two hours explaining in great detail why the guy’s existence offended him while slowly peeling the skin off his arms like orange peels. slow. talking the whole time. “she smiled at him. smiled. you ever smile at someone that pretty? no? then shut the fuck up.” when the guy passed out from pain seungmin just slapped him awake and kept going???

he came home with blood in his hair and crawled straight into your lap. was relieved that you couldn’t see the blood in his dark hair but then you smelled it. he got outside time.

jeongin will have a childish breakdown. usually midkill, his lil(huge) ass sobbing about how you don’t love him enough while carving hearts into some girl’s chest. “do you feel this? this is what my heart feels like!!” he once begged you to tell him he’s pretty. it’s actually heartbreaking how undeveloped he is, we’ll talk about it more later.

they’re all so fragile now.

the new emotions are eating them alive from the inside.

they don’t know how to process love or jealousy or fear of abandonment. they don’t know anything, and especially not how to express it. they’re actually in a terrifying situation. especially for men.

hands constantly shaking. all eight’s.

but no matter how bad it gets, no matter how brutally they take it out on the world, they always come back to you.

always.

han jisung looked absolutely miserable.

and in any other situation you probably would've felt bad for him. you would've given up much sooner, unable to withstand the ridiculous way he looked at you whenever he wanted something.

but after spending the entire afternoon chasing after your attention, after listening to him insist over and over again with that infuriating determination, seeing him reduced to a mess of incoherent begging was far more satisfying than it should've been.

he'd spent the last half hour hiding his face against your neck, clinging to you as if the closeness alone could somehow make up for everything else.

his words blended together between gasps, half-formed apologies, and promises he probably wasn't even thinking through properly anymore thanks to the warm, suffocating sensation of having his cock trapped between your thighs.

“baby, please- i’m so s-sorry...,” he panted, voice cracked and worn down from begging.

you deliberately ignored him. rolled your hips just a little, slow and teasing, feeling his entire body react immediately.

your nails remained dug into his shoulders’ skin, using him for support while you tried to keep a clear head. the warm pressure of his throbbing cock was beginning to affect your own self-control.

his trembling hands remained locked around your hips. it was a constant contradiction: on one hand, he begged you to stop torturing him and give him what he wanted. on the other, he was the one guiding your movements whenever he lost control.

“j-jagi, i swear it would- ah, fuck- it would never happen a-again...” he promised between another embarrassed moan.

he kept insisting with the same exhausting need that had followed you around all afternoon.

if someone had walked into the apartment right then, they probably would've assumed you were punishing him for something terrible.

and maybe, in a way, you were.

and then it happened again.

you felt his entire body tense all at once. his fingers dug into your skin and a completely broken sound escaped his throat.

he buried his face even deeper against you as he came hard between the soft, slick warmth of your thighs. still thrusting weakly and clumsily between your legs, trying to drag his orgasm out for as long as possible.

“oh my god...” he barely whispered before another broken whine followed.

you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, slowly stroking his damp chest.

“there we go...” you murmured, satisfaction slipping into your voice. “such a good boy. so good for me, sweetheart.”

jisung practically melted beneath you. his eyes stayed shut. his breathing remained uneven. mumbling nonsense against your skin while he tried to remember how to think properly again.

but you knew han jisung far too well. you knew perfectly well this wasn't over.

you knew it from the way his hands started roaming your body again almost immediately.

from the way his cock remained hard between your thighs, still rocking into them clumsily. from the way his attention returned to you with the same obsessive intensity as always.

from the way he kept chasing your lips, desperate to feel all of you.

“baby, please...” his voice came out sluggish. “let me in... just for a second...” he begged, squeezing his eyes shut. “i’ll be good. i swear, just- fuck-!”

he seemed genuinely convinced he could still change your mind. because even exhausted, flushed, and completely unraveled, he was still trying to negotiate his way out of the ban.

still looking at you with those huge, shining eyes that rolled back every time the swollen head of his cock pressed deliciously between your soft skin, sliding easily through his own slick and the wetness gathering between your thighs.

“mmmh- so wet...” he gasped, speeding up. “oh shit-”

jisung groaned and panted, feeling the glorious pressure as he buried himself fully between your legs. a shaky moan escaped your lips when he brushed teasingly against your folds.

the head of his cock nudged your warm entrance. his entire body shuddered. he swallowed hard while unconsciously pushing his hips against it.

“jisung, no.” your voice came out firm, final. “you’re banned.”

the sound of protest he made was so pathetic it was impossible to take seriously. your fingers tangled into his hair, forcing him to tilt his head back slightly.

you could feel him trembling beneath you. could hear the pathetic sounds he made whenever your hips started moving up and down in an agonizingly slow rhythm.

“pleasepleaseplease-” he whined, the plea tumbling out all at once. “i’ll behave. i would do anything, but- please... let me fuck you good, jagi...”

it would've sounded much more convincing if he didn't already look seconds away from falling apart.

you leaned closer, trailing wet kisses from his chest all the way up to his ear, brushing your teeth lightly against his earlobe.

“is that what you want, jisung?”

he immediately shivered when your warm breath hit his damp skin.

“y-yes- fuck, yes!” he swallowed. “wanna be inside you so bad...”

the sincerity of his answer was almost funny.

there was no pride left. no strategy. just overwhelming need demanding immediate attention before he completely lost his mind.

his movements had become erratic. his hands kept roaming over you without knowing where to stay. his hair stuck to his forehead. his cheeks were completely red.

every time he looked up, he seemed to forget whatever he had wanted to say. his doe eyes remained locked on yours, pathetically begging while rolling back every time your lips found another patch of warm skin.

“wanna come inside me?” you murmured against his skin.

and that question completely destroyed him.

you watched him squeeze his eyes shut and cling to you with almost inhuman desperation. heard the moan he tried to hide against your neck.

he nodded far too quickly. desperate, needy.

his thrusts speeding up every time his cock slid through the wetness coating your thighs. his trembling fingers tracing along your legs slowly, almost reverently.

“you're so needy.” your laugh came out soft. “how embarrassing.”

“n-not fair...” he protested weakly before the sentence died. “please...”

“you got yourself into this mess, jisung.

his eyes closed when you kissed him. and for a few seconds, he seemed to forget how breathing worked altogether.

every time you leaned in again, he sighed into your lips like he was chasing something impossible to reach. his chest rose and fell unevenly. his hands seemed incapable of staying still.

when you pulled back just enough to look at him, another wave of heat swept through your body and settled deep in your stomach.

because he was completely gone.

his lips hung slightly open. his tongue peeking out shyly whenever his breathing became too shaky. his eyes unfocused. as if every ounce of his attention belonged entirely to you.

“are you gonna give up?” you murmured against his skin. “be a good boy and come for me, jisung.”

the words seemed to pass straight through him.

a violent shiver traveled from head to toe. his toes curled. his fingers dug into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

“b-baby...” his voice barely existed. “m’so close...” he panted desperately. “just the tip, please- you feel so good right now, i need it...”

you slowly shook your head and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

and somehow that only made everything worse.

your hips started moving in small circles, using the throbbing head of his cock for friction. the sounds escaping him blended together: tiny gasps, muffled moans, and pleas that weren't even attempting to form complete sentences anymore.

he was completely undone. and the harder he tried to recover, the more obvious it became that he'd lost the battle a long time ago.

you closed your eyes, feeling your own breathing begin to quicken. you were close. he was fucking your thighs so well.

and the tighter you squeezed them together the closer you got, the more pleasure tore through his entire body.

you trembled above him, a shiver running through your body before settling deliciously between your legs, pulling a muffled moan from your throat against his neck.

soon you felt his cock beginning to pulse between your thighs. felt his abdomen tense. felt him start trembling all over. he was close. he was going to fall apart all over again.

and you weren't doing much better.

the constant stimulation against your swollen, wet folds was making you lose your mind. jisung was pumping his hips with desperate rhythm. the overwhelming sensation of sliding so easily through the mess he'd already made was completely breaking him apart.

it was so hot and slick that if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was your cunt taking him perfectly. every tiny miscalculation that made him brush your entrance pulled an audible whine from him.

“mmmh-! babe, i-i’m gonna-!”

and just like before, jisung came unexpectedly. without grace, without dignity. without any way of hiding how much he'd enjoyed it.

his cock contracted rapidly, spilling in several desperate bursts, soaking the already ruined sheets beneath you and sliding hot and sticky between your legs.

“i-it’s okay, sung. you did so good... f-fuck-” you dragged the words out. “so good for me- shit... m’so close...” you whined against his shoulder.

your back arched as your entire body tightened and trembled.

you could feel your own wetness gathering and slowly sliding down your thighs. your body felt completely overstimulated. completely lost.

and for the next few seconds, the only thing that existed was the sound of both of you trying to breathe normally again.

and for the first time all afternoon, han jisung stopped negotiating.

stopped insisting. stopped searching for impossible arguments and desperate promises. he simply held you in his arms, resting his face against your shoulder while his fingers absentmindedly traced your waist.

“jagi...” he murmured, voice rough and exhausted.

you kept your eyes closed a little longer, enjoying the warm weight of him against you.

“what...?”

jisung didn't answer immediately.

when you lifted your head enough to look at him, you found something unexpected. his eyes hesitated. his cheeks remained faintly pink. a shy smile threatening to appear at the corner of his lips.

“are you not mad at me anymore?”

you blinked.

the question was so ridiculously sincere that a laugh escaped before you could stop it.

jisung immediately frowned.

“i’m serious!”

“i know, i know.”

his expression turned slightly accusatory.

“i thought you were gonna keep the punishment going for months...”

you snorted out a laugh. watching him hide his face deeper into your neck while waiting for a proper answer.

as if his entire afternoon had revolved around that one concern.

your hand moved into his hair, brushing away a few damp strands stuck to his forehead.

“as long as you learned your lesson...” you began. “i don't see why the punishment should continue.”

jisung immediately pushed himself upright onto his knees, staring at you with bright, hopeful eyes.

“wait- does that mean i’m not sex banned anymore?!”

you just stared at him.

“that's the conclusion you got from all of this.”

“s-sorry...” he mumbled, though the smile on his face completely betrayed him. “so... yes or no?”

you rolled your eyes. he really could be an adorable dork when he wanted to be.

you ran a hand through his still-messy hair and nodded.

“you're not sex banned anymore.”

jisung's only response was immediately pulling you into another hug, completely pleased with himself.

and watching him smile like that, as if he'd just won the lottery instead of simply regaining privileges he'd lost himself, you couldn't help thinking that maybe this really had turned into one of the best days of his life.

Too loud. Too confident. Too all over the place.

Every class, every group chat, every hallway you tried to exist in—he was there. Smirking. Teasing. Rolling his eyes at your notes, talking over you during discussions, always finding ways to get under your skin like it was a personal hobby.

But your girls had insisted. “You need a break. You need tequila.”

So you’d gone.

Lip gloss, crop top, shots lined up like soldiers.

By midnight, the living room was a haze of heat and laughter. Someone had started a game of truth or dare with twisted rules. Everyone was half-drunk and full of bad ideas.

You should’ve seen it coming. The moment your turn came and the bottle pointed at you, a few smirks lit up around the circle like a warning.

“Okay,” Layla grinned, “truth or dare?”

You hesitated. Truth was safe. Predictable. But everyone had been choosing it all night, and you’d mocked them for it. Now it was your turn to be bold.

“Dare.”

Layla didn’t hesitate.

“Send a nude to Seo Changbin… or run a full lap around the football field naked. With a suction dildo stuck to your forehead.”

The room howled.

Someone immediately got up to rummage in a drawer. “I have the dildo!”

Your stomach dropped.

You tried to laugh it off, eyes wide. “Are you fucking insane?”

“You’ve got beef with him, right?” someone snorted.

“This is perfect.”

“You’re always bickering, it’ll shake him up.”

It wasn’t the nudity that scared you. It wasn’t even Changbin.

It was what was already in your camera roll.

A photo you’d taken months ago during a particularly filthy night, when you were feeling reckless and painfully needy. The lights had been low, your skin warm, your thoughts wicked. You’d spread yourself wide open on the sheets, wet and glistening, lips parted, your own fingers pulling at your skin. Your face was in it. Your expression ruined.

You had stared at it afterward, thinking: This is too much. No one can ever see this.

But you hadn’t deleted it.

And now… your hand hovered over it. Over the send button. The whole room was watching you, waiting.

You felt drunk. Braver than you should’ve been.

So you said, too calmly, “Fine.”

And tapped send.

It only took thirty seconds for regret to sink in like poison.

What had you just done?

He was going to lose his mind. Or worse, not react at all. He could ruin you. Show people. Mock you in class. Bring it up next time you tried to speak during a lecture.

You curled into the couch, face hot, eyes burning from the alcohol and the humiliation chewing through your stomach. Your phone buzzed once.

Then twice.

You turned it over.

Changbin 💢:

Did you mean to send that?

You stared at your phone like it had grown teeth.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Every possible answer felt wrong. You almost typed “ignore it”, but deleted it. Then you typed:

“It was a dare. Just forget it.”

Another ping.

Changbin 💢:

That’s not the kind of photo you send as a dare.

You swallowed.

Your face was burning. All the background noise in the living room—the music, the laughter, the clinking glasses—faded to a soft murmur. The heat of the dare was starting to wear off, replaced by a sick rush of adrenaline and humiliation.

Changbin 💢:

Jesus fucking Christ.

I… I didn’t know you looked like that.

You’ve been walking around class with that between your legs?

You tightened your thighs instinctively.

You typed:

“It was a stupid dare. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

But he wasn’t letting it go.

Changbin 💢:

You already had that pic?

That wasn’t a selfie. That was planned.

You took that for someone. You were gonna send it eventually.

You bit your lip.

“It’s old. I never sent it to anyone.”

Changbin 💢:

That makes it worse.

You paused.

“Why?”

Changbin 💢:

Because I’ve never wanted to fuck someone I hate more than I do right now.

You looked so good. So fucking wet. Like you needed someone to take care of it.

You blinked.

Your stomach flipped. The burn between your legs sharpened. You weren’t sure if it was arousal or pure nerves—probably both.

“This is insane.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re still the asshole who makes me want to throw things in class.”

You deleted it all.

Instead:

“You’ve seen it now. Can you just forget it?”

The reply came back instantly.

Changbin 💢:

No fucking way.

Changbin 💢:

You’re seriously gonna act like you didn’t send that on purpose? Like you don’t want me thinking about it?

Changbin 💢:

You want me hard for you, don’t you?

“No.” “Fuck off.” “Stop.”

You didn’t send any of those.

“You’re full of yourself.”

Changbin 💢:

Nah, princess. You’re the one dripping in that pic, not me.

You closed your eyes.

He was unraveling you.

The way he talked in person was always irritating—too loud, too smug. But here? In text? At 1:03 a.m.?

He was… different. Sharper. Controlled. Bold in a way that went straight to your core.

“You’re lucky I’m drunk.”

Changbin 💢:

You think I need you drunk for this?

I’d still be hard for you even if we were sober in the library.

You bit back a noise.

Your thighs rubbed together involuntarily.

Changbin 💢:

You want me to send something back? Would that make it fair? Even the score?

Your fingers twitched.

“You’re bluffing.”

Changbin 💢:

Try me.

Your pulse quickened.

“You’re not actually going to—”

Ping.

The photo loaded slowly.

Dark sweatpants. No shirt. His abs were tight, skin glowing with a warm amber sheen like he’d taken the pic right after a workout. His hand tugged the waistband down low, and the bulge beneath was unmistakable—huge, thick, pressed to the fabric like it was dying to be freed.

You inhaled, sharp.

The outline of his cock was ridiculous. Heavy. Thick at the base, curving up. The tip clearly outlined. The kind of size that made your body react before your brain caught up.

And his caption?

Changbin 💢:

Now you can imagine what’s gonna fill you the next time you talk back in class.

You didn’t realize your mouth had gone dry until you swallowed hard.

Someone from the living room called your name. “Babe! Your turn!”

“I’ll be right back,” you called, voice strained.

You grabbed your phone, pushed off the couch, and disappeared into the hallway. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere you could breathe.

And think.

And maybe—just maybe—look again.

Because for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if you hated him… or if you just didn’t know what to do with how badly you suddenly wanted him.

—

You thought you could outlast the tension.

After the photo he sent—the dick print, the way it looked too big to even be real, the caption that made your thighs clench—you told yourself it was just late-night chaos. That once the sun came up, you could pretend it hadn’t happened.

You left him on read.

Muted the conversation.

Avoided every look in class, kept your expression cold, distant.

But Changbin?

He was different now.

Quieter. Sharper. Dangerous.

He still joked with the guys. Still sat in the same row as always. But whenever your eyes flicked up, he was watching you—really watching. Like he could still see that photo of you spread open and dripping every time you bit your lip or crossed your legs.

And when your professor assigned a partner project and called out his name alongside yours?

You knew it was over.

Later that afternoon, the library was quiet. Too quiet. The air between you was thick with something unsaid as you stood beside where he sat, laptops open, pretending to focus.

You tried not to look at him.

Tried not to remember the outline of his cock stretching grey fabric. The way he’d said “what’s gonna fill you next time you talk back in class.”

Your body hadn’t forgotten.

You’d touched yourself to that image more times than you were ready to admit.

“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured, eyes on the screen.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m working.”

“Right.”

“That’s what you were doing the other night too, huh? Working?”

You stiffened.

“I didn’t take you for the type to keep that kind of photo in your phone. Or was it just waiting for someone better to see it?”

You finally turned. “Are you done?”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, smirking—but something darker hid behind his eyes. He leaned in towards you, low and quiet.

“No. Not even close.”

You didn’t notice when he stood. But you did feel it when he moved behind you.

At first, it was just his hand brushing your shoulder as he leaned to peek at your screen.

Then he didn’t move away.

Instead, you felt the heavy press of his chest behind you. His palm slid slowly—casually—over your back. Lower. Resting at the curve of your waist.

And then he shifted—just slightly—and you felt it.

The unmistakable weight of him.

Hard. Thick. Pressed right up against your ass.

Your breath hitched.

“Miss me?” he whispered.

Your cheeks burned. “You’re disgusting.”

“Am I?”

“Because this…” his hand flattened against your hip, pulling you subtly back into his body, into his cock—“says otherwise.”

You should’ve shoved him.

Should’ve snapped, slapped, screamed.

But your body betrayed you.

Your thighs clenched. Your breathing went shallow.

And when his fingers brushed the hem of your skirt, you didn’t move away.

If anything—you leaned back.

“You liked it,” he murmured, lips just behind your ear.

“You liked knowing I saw you like that. That I wanted to fuck you from the second that photo lit up my screen.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“You keep saying that,” he murmured, voice dropping lower, hungrier. “But your body doesn’t agree.”

His hand slid lower, palm resting on your ass now—really grabbing, squeezing, like it was his already. He rutted against you once, slow, just enough to let you feel the size of him again.

You gasped, barely holding in the noise.

“Poor thing,” he whispered.

“Trying so hard to act like you don’t want this cock stretching you open.”

You closed your eyes. “We’re in a fucking library.”

“And you’re soaked,” he growled. “Aren’t you?”

You were.

You hated him for it.

But God—you wanted more.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice a low rumble in your ear.

“Tell me you don’t want me pushing these panties to the side and sliding in right here.”

You didn’t say anything.

And neither did your body.

Because for the first time, you weren’t sure who was in control—him, or the ache between your legs screaming for more.

His grip on your waist didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened—fingers flexing into the curve of your hips like he wanted to memorize the way you fit under his hands.

You told yourself to move.

To snap out of it.

To shove his cocky ass away and slap the heat off your face.

But instead… you shifted.

Barely. Subtly. Almost like a breath.

Your hips arched back just the tiniest bit—and you felt him twitch.

Big. Hot. Hard against you.

And god help you, you did it again.

This time, he chuckled. Low and raspy.

“Keep doing that and I’m gonna take it personally.”

His voice buzzed against the shell of your ear, warm and wicked.

“I can swear you’re wet.”

“I’m not,” you breathed, barely able to form the words.

“No?”

One of his hands slid from your hip, slipping lower, slow and deliberate. Your skirt offered no protection—his fingers eased beneath the hem with practiced ease, knuckles brushing your thigh.

“Then you won’t mind if I check.”

You gasped. “Changbin—”

But it was too late.

His hand slid up. Under your skirt. Under your panties.

And then—his fingers paused.

Right at your slit.

Slick. Dripping. Heat soaked through cotton and flushed onto his fingertips.

He let out a quiet groan, something dark and pleased.

“Fuck me…”

You froze.

“You’re soaked.”

You should’ve died of embarrassment.

Instead, you whimpered—barely, breath catching in your throat. Your thighs twitched, instinctively trying to close, but his hand was already there, slipping further, middle finger pressing through the wetness and parting you open.

“Look at that,” he muttered. “Fighting me in public, dripping for me in private.”

“You can’t—” you whispered, but your voice cracked halfway through.

“I can,” he said. “And I am.”

His fingertip circled your entrance, not quite pushing in. Just enough to tease. To test how badly your body wanted him.

And it did.

God, it did.

“All this just from my picture?” he murmured. “You really are a dirty little thing.”

“Changbin, we’re—someone could—”

“Then stay quiet,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear. “Be a good girl and let me feel what you’ve been hiding from me.”

You squirmed against him, helpless. His hard-on grinding into your ass. His hand between your legs. Your body betraying everything your mouth refused to say.

But then—he pulled back. Slow. Measured and wicked.

“Not here,” he muttered. “Not yet.”

You let out a shaky exhale, unsure if it was relief or frustration.

“You’re not ready.”

He said it like a promise. Even more like a plan.

—

That night, your phone lit up before midnight.

Changbin 💢

You touching yourself right now?

You swallowed, heat curling in your stomach.

“No.”

A lie.

You’d been thinking about his finger, barely there, slicking through your folds. The way he pressed against you like he could fuck you through your clothes. The restraint he showed—pulling away just when you were about to lose it.

Changbin 💢:

Liar. You were dripping earlier. You think that goes away?

Changbin 💢:

You want help?

Your breath caught.

Then another message.

📷 An image.

A mirror selfie. Taken low. No shirt. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. But this time… no filter, no teasing.

His cock was hard. So obvious. Thick and curving up in those grey sweats, the head visibly straining against the fabric. His hand was wrapped around the base, gripping himself through the material.

Your core clenched.

Changbin 💢:

You made me like this. Do something about it.

Another ping.

🎧An audio file.

You hesitated… then tapped.

His voice—low, breathless, filthy—filled your room.

“Wish you were here right now. I’d be in you already. So deep you’d cry. Want you moaning my name with your thighs wrapped around my waist.”

You bit your knuckle.

“Bet you’re wet again just hearing this.”

You were.

And you knew damn well… this was only the beginning because it was obvious that you knew you should stop.

Mute the chat. Turn your phone off. Go to sleep.

But instead, you hit play again.

Changbin’s voice filled your room for the second time, low and unsteady.

“Wish you were here right now. I’d be in you already. So deep you’d cry. Want you moaning my name with your thighs wrapped around my waist.”

Your hand had already slipped under the waistband of your shorts. Shame curled hot in your chest, but it wasn’t enough to stop you.

Not with his voice saying things like that.

Not when your body was still aching from what he’d done in the library.

You typed, hesitant:

“You’re a menace.”

Changbin 💢:

And you’re quiet. You touching yourself again?

“No.”

Changbin 💢:

You’re such a bad liar.

Another ping. Another message.

Changbin 💢:

Say my name once, and I’ll show you the real thing. But let me hear how down bad you are first.

Your legs squeezed together.

He wasn’t letting up.

Not just the teasing — the control. The way he peeled you open without even being in the same room. It was like he’d figured out every weakness you had and was pressing on all of them at once.

You typed:

“You want me to say your name?”

Changbin 💢:

Just once. Out loud. Right now.

I know you’re touching yourself, i just want to hear you.

Your heart pounded. You stared at the audio reply button. Your thumb hovered.

“I’m not sending you a voice note.”

Changbin 💢:

Why not?

You’re already soaked. Already picturing it, aren’t you?

Changbin 💢:

Me pulling your legs apart. Spitting on your pussy.

Sliding in nice and slow while you beg me to ruin it.

You let out a shaky breath.

Changbin 💢:

C’mon, baby.

Be a good girl and let me hear how badly you want it.

The words good girl punched straight through your resolve.

Your finger hovered over the record button.

You didn’t overthink it. Didn’t script it. But at the back of your mind, you knew shouldn’t have done it.

You knew the second you hit record—you were crossing a line you couldn’t uncross. But the heat in your stomach, the ache between your legs, the way Changbin’s voice still echoed in your ears? It all left you trembling.

So you moaned. You whimpered.

And you said his name.

“Changbin…”

You sounded so fucking needy. So shameless and desperate.

Exactly how you felt.

You hit send with your heart in your throat, thighs clenched tight around your own hand. And then you waited—seconds dragging, breath caught in your chest.

Then: ping.

🎥A video.

No caption. No warning.

You hesitated, pulse in your ears, then tapped it.

The first thing you saw was skin—his hand, wrapped tight around the base of his cock. Thick. Hard. Heavy. His head was a darker shade of his skin, glistening with precum, veins running thick along the shaft.

The next thing you heard?

His voice. Ragged. Strained.

“This what you want, baby?”

He was filming from above, cock in his fist, his abs flexing as he pumped slowly, steadily. Each stroke was loud and wet. His hand moved like he was imagining you were already wrapped around him—tight, dripping, ruined.

“Been jerking off since you moaned my name,” he growled. “You sound so fucking pretty when you’re begging.”

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled.

“Wanna cum in you so bad,” he panted. “Wanna watch it drip out of you. Want you to feel it for days.”

And then—he grunted. Shuddered.

And came.

Ropes of it. Thick spurts shooting across his abs, the head of his cock twitching violently in his grip.

“That’s all for you,” he breathed, voice wrecked.“Next time, I’m doing that inside.”

The video ended, but you were done for.

You stared at your screen like it had punched you in the stomach. Heat licked down your spine. Your hand had slipped between your legs again before you even realized it.

You replayed the video.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

You wanted to taste it. Feel it. Be under it.

Then your screen lit up again.

Changbin 💢:

You still there?

Your fingers trembled. You didn’t even overthink it.

You typed:

“I need you.”

[📍Location Shared]

And hit send.

—

You barely had time to think.

One knock. That’s all it took.

You opened the door and he was on you—mouth crashing into yours, body pinning you flat against the wall like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

He kissed like a man possessed.

Like your voice note had ruined him. Like your moan had carved something primal into his chest and he couldn’t shake it loose.

His tongue slid past your lips, rough and greedy, tasting you like he had to claim you first.

“Fuck,” he growled against your mouth. “Took you long enough.”

You barely had time to respond—his hands were already under your shirt, palming your tits like they were his, thumbs flicking your nipples until you whimpered.

“This all for me?” he asked, breath hot.

“This pussy been soaking since the second I sent that video?”

You gasped as he shoved one leg between yours, grinding up against your clothed heat—his cock already hard, pressing through his sweats like a weapon.

“God,” he groaned. “You feel so fucking good.”

“Can’t wait anymore.”

He picked you up like you weighed nothing, carried you into your own apartment without breaking the kiss, and dropped you—hard—onto the kitchen counter.

Before you could speak, your shorts were yanked down and off. Your panties, too. Ripped aside with one rough pull.

“Fucking knew it,” he muttered as he spread you open. “Look at this wet little pussy. So damn ready for me.”

“You’re such a—”

“Say it,” he snarled, two fingers sliding through your folds, circling your clit just right.

“Say it while I ruin you.”

You choked on a moan, hips jerking up. His fingers dipped inside—thick, slow, curling—testing you.

“Tight,” he hissed. “So fuckin’ tight already.

How the hell you gonna take my cock, baby?”

You looked down—and froze.

He’d pushed his sweats down just enough, and there it was. All of it.

His cock was thick. Long. Veiny. Angry-red at the tip, already leaking. You’d seen the outline. You’d watched him stroke it on video. But up close?

It was fucking terrifying.

And you wanted every inch.

“I’m gonna mess you up real pretty.” he whispered, dragging the head through your slick folds.

“You’re not walking tomorrow.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling.

“Changbin—fuck—”

“What’s that, princess?” he smirked. “You scared of this cock now?”

“Shut the fuck up and give it to me.”

That was all he needed.

He lined up and slammed in—

The stretch was obscene. Your back arched, a broken cry ripped from your throat. He didn’t wait. Didn’t tease. He bottomed out in one brutal stroke, hips snapping forward until his balls slapped against you.

“FUCK,” he growled, head dropping to your shoulder. “Tight little cunt’s squeezing the shit outta me.”

You clawed at his back, desperate to breathe, but it felt too good. The way he filled you—so deep, so thick—you felt him in your stomach.

“Took it all, huh?” he rasped, pulling back just to thrust in harder. “Greedy little thing.”

He fucked you like he meant it. Like he was punishing you for every time you rolled your eyes in class. For every time you told him to shut up.

You were moaning like a pornstar—loud, shameless, wrecked—as he pounded into you on the kitchen counter, sweat dripping, his abs flexing with every thrust.

“You were made for this cock,” he groaned. “Fucking built to take it like a good girl.”

He pulled out suddenly, grabbed your wrist, and dragged you into the living room.

“Bed’s too far. Couch. Now.”

You stumbled, legs shaking. He bent you over the armrest, slapped your ass once—hard—and buried himself inside again with a brutal snap of his hips.

“This ass…” he groaned. “You know how many times I’ve stared at it in class?”

“Wanted to fuck you bent over all the damn desks.”

Your moans were broken now—choked sobs of pleasure every time his hips slammed into you.

He wrapped his hand around your throat, not too tight—just enough to own you.

“You love this, don’t you?” he growled. “Big cock splitting you open. My hand on your neck. My cum dripping out of you.”

“Yes—fuck—yes, Changbin, please—”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop.”

His grip tightened. His thrusts turned savage.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he warned. “I want it leaking down your thighs when you go to class tomorrow. I want everyone to know this pussy’s mine.”

You clenched around him—hard—and he lost it.

“Fuck—fuck—baby—”

He came deep inside you, groaning like he was unraveling from the core. Hot spurts filling you up, cock twitching inside your walls.

You collapsed forward, shaking.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out, flipped you onto the rug, and dropped to his knees.

“Need to taste you.”

His tongue went straight to your core, licking up his own mess, spreading it across your folds as he devoured you like he’d starved for days.

“Not leaving till you cum on my face.”

And you did.

Screaming his name. Shaking. Barely able to think.

Your first mistake had been sending that photo.

But your biggest mistake?

Letting him in.

Because now?

You’d never get him out.

—

You couldn’t move.

You were sprawled out on your back on the rug, blinking at the ceiling, your entire body throbbing with the aftershocks of what he’d just done to you. You felt wrecked in the best, most glorious way.

And yet—somehow—Changbin was the one panting like he’d just gone through hell.

He lay beside you, arm thrown over his face dramatically.

“I’m filing a formal complaint,” he groaned. “Your pussy should come with a fucking warning label.”

You wheezed out a laugh.

“Says the guy who just broke my uterus.”

He turned his head, looked at you.

And melted.

The shift was instant—his gaze softened, mouth twitching into the tiniest smile. He scooted closer, propped himself on one elbow, and brushed your sweaty hair off your cheek.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gentle. “Like… really okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for ten years. Then leaned in and kissed your forehead, your nose, your cheekbone—everywhere but your lips, like he was saving those for dessert.

“I swear I didn’t mean to fuck you like a caveman,” he mumbled. “I blacked out. You made that sound and I was just—gone.”

“You were terrifying,” you whispered, smiling. “In the hottest possible way.”

That made him grin.

He reached over for the hoodie he’d left slung on the chair and helped you into it—actually helped, like lifting your arms, guiding it over your head, kissing your shoulder once it was on.

Then he grabbed a warm towel, knelt between your legs, and started cleaning you up with the softest, most careful touch.

“Can’t have my girl leaking all over the carpet,” he murmured.

“Your girl?”

He looked up with a cocky smirk.

“You just let me raw dog you and you screamed my name for the neighbors, baby. Don’t play shy now.”

You tried to glare, but he leaned forward and kissed your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher.

“Next time,” he said, “I’m taking you slower. Gonna edge you until you’re crying.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re already thinking about next time?”

He glanced up at you with a boyish little shrug.

“I think about you all the time.”

Your heart stuttered. Because it didn’t sound like a line. It sounded real. Raw. Like the truth.

He saw your expression shift and leaned in, his lips brushing your temple.

“Not just the sex,” he murmured.

“I think about you when you fight with the professor. When you tie your hoodie strings in knots. When you roll your eyes at me like you always do.”

“Binnie—”

“I like you,” he whispered.

Simple. Honest.

And it hit you harder than any orgasm.

You buried your face in his chest. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you, one big palm cupping the back of your head like he could hide you there forever.

“You hungry?” he murmured.

“Starving.”

“Good. I got us pizza and fried chicken.”

You looked up. “You really ordered food while I was moaning your name?”

He smirked. “Actually did it on my way here but I can multitask baby.”

You laughed into his chest, and he kissed your head again.

When the food arrived, you sat curled in his lap, eating from his chopsticks while he kissed sauce off your lips between bites.

Later, when you were tucked into bed and halfway to sleep, he whispered:

“You were fucking perfect tonight.”

“I’m gonna be addicted to you now.”

You didn’t say anything back. You just pulled his arm tighter around you and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.

Because you already were.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Its been a hot minute without a Binnie smut 💪🏻 How are we liking this cute little enemies to lovers?? 🤭❤️

DEAR Y/N:

ot8!skz x reader series in which the boys are serial killers.

DEAR Y/N: SORRY WE TRIED TO KILL YOU

DEAR Y/N: DON’T YOU THINK THIS GOT OUT OF HAND?

DEAR Y/N: WE’RE WORSE THAN YOU THOUGHT

DEAR Y/N: SHARING IS TOTALLY CARING

DEAR Y/N: PLEASE TELL MINHO TO CALM DOWN

DEAR Y/N: ONLY IF YOU GAVE A CHANCE

DEAR Y/N EXTRAS:

recommended to read before the series so you understand the storyline better.

visualizations!!

about felix’s cannibalism

about their parents, how they grew up

about changbin stalking

about their jobs

about how they got to know each other

about first kills + feelings

about how they’re not arrested

about their phones

OTHER X READERS:

⋆˚ B A N G C H A N:

MEET THE BOYFRIEND: PLEASE IGNORE THE SHOVEL

serial killer!bang chan x reader in which he tries to kill you, then falls in love with you.

⋆˚ L E E K N O W:

SO MEAN: WHEN MINE

toxic!boyfriend!lee know x reader in which he’s such a horrible boyfriend that you just have to cheat on him with his two bandmates.

⋆˚ H Y U N J I N:

RIDE OR DIE: HEAVY ON THE DIE

serial killer!hyunjin x reader in which you decide to accept him the way he is, and that’s exactly your end.

⋆˚ H A N:

ONLY YOU: AND SEVERAL FELONIES

serial killer!han x reader in which he’s minho’s dumb roommate and also your biggest admirer.

⋆˚ F E L I X:

SOFT BOY: JUST A LITTLE BLOOD ON HIS MOUTH

serial killer!felix x reader in which he’s a cannibal himbo who has his first crush on you.

SORRY SORRY SORRY: DIDN’T MEAN TO BITE

cannibal!felix x reader in which you teach him how to eat pussy, but he ends up being a natural.

SEE YOU: FOR MY NEXT APPOINTMENT, DOCTOR

dumb!felix x reader in which you two do a doctor roleplay… and ends in way more.

⋆˚ S E U N G M I N:

GOOD GIRL: WORSE CHOICES

serial killer!seungmin x reader in which you’re a ray of sunshine, so he stalks you until he gets to the conclusion of having to kill you.

⋆˚ I. N:

SWEETHEART: THAT STAIN WILL COME OUT, I PROMISE

serial killer!i.n x reader in which he’s a deranged axe murderer but also your boyfriend.

⋆˚ O T 8:

ALL DONE: BOSS

ot8!skz x assistant!reader in which you’re their assistant, but also down to fuck them whenever they need it.

minho’s hand slithers between his legs like clockwork. it’s a nightly routine, he can’t sleep without you.

eyelids fluttering shut, minho replays the day in his head: every glorious glimpse of you flashes through his mind as he palms himself through the fabric of his boxers. slowly, just until he gets to the good part.

every moment in passing is a delicacy. all of your little quirks he has the honour of witnessing: the cute ones and the annoying ones too.

the flick of your hair when you laughed with that girl in class. the way you chewed on the end of your pen when you thought no one’s looking. minho is, of course. he never isn’t. whether you’re aware of that or not.

he knows your schedule down to the minute— he could probably recite it faster than his own birthday. there were no ins or outs of your day that minho wasn’t already familiar with. it’s impressive, how he knows each of your steps before you take them.

minho tugs his waistband down, sighing as he wraps a tight fist around himself. he thinks back to when he ‘ran into’ you at the café, a smile adorning your face when you recognised him from your shared class. you spared him a brief hello. it’s almost like you were asking to be followed for the rest of the day.

the memory of it— the sweet sound of your voice— has minho bucking up into his hand. he hisses through his teeth. not so soon.

he recalls watching you in the library from his table, situated in a dark corner. you were sat by the window, biting your nails down to the cuticle as you studied. you poor thing. minho would eagerly rush to your side if all you did was ask.

you hadn’t noticed him— your very own eagle-eyed audience. of course not. you never did. that’s where the whole thrill arouses.

he groans, twitching in his hand as he replays the memory of following you in the shadows that afternoon. you walked through the campus with your head in the clouds— earbuds in, bag hanging off your shoulder. you were the textbook definition of a perfect target. what would you do if someone tried to steal your bag, or worse?

you needed him there. always. a pace behind, a corner away. to be the eyes in the back of your head. to pick up after you.

the receipts you’d forget to bin. the pen you dropped three weeks ago. your bracelet that went missing (he’s keeping it safe, don’t worry). a straw with a smudge of your lipgloss. items thoughtlessly discarded by you found a new purpose in his care.

minho’s walls were a shrine to you: quick sketches, blurry polaroids, messy love-letters. sometimes, he’ll drop one off at your desk before class— always unsigned, always sweet. sometimes he’d get a giggle out of you. sometimes you just crumpled them without reading. doesn’t matter. he’ll keep writing them.

minho grits his teeth, hips jutting into his hand at a crazed pace. he chases his release to his favourite fantasy— the one where you’d catch him lurking.

some nights you liked it, took it as a compliment. some nights you didn’t and he was a creep. sometimes you screamed, other times you begged. but this time, most delicious of all, he pictured you sighing; saying you were done with pretending, grabbing a fistful of his hair before bruising his lips with yours.

but that thought didn’t last long. when his breath slowed and the heat left his body, all that remained was agonising silence.

minho opened his eyes to the sticky disappointment of reality on his hand. a reminder that he still barely even existed to you— though not in the way he intends to.

not yet.

it started small. he hadn’t recognised it as anything out of the ordinary before it had spiralled out of his grasp.

first it was a missing worksheet from his desk. he chalked it up to just misplacing it, or perhaps someone else thought it was rubbish.

after there was a drawing torn from his sketchbook. odd, but maybe it was one he’d jacked off to and accidentally stained the paper. he simply ripped it off and forgot all about it.

then the pen he’d stolen from your bag was gone. vanished in thin air from where he’d tucked it, wrapped in crusted tissue under his mattress. maybe being swamped with assessments the past week had burned holes in his memory. maybe.

but then his glasses disappeared.

minho tore his room apart for hours, practically flipping the furniture upside-down to find them. he only ever took them off in his room where they’d sit on his nightstand. always. he knew because he lived in routine. in control.

except now he wasn’t in control.

his world blurred at the edges without them. and in that distorted fog, he started seeing you differently. more distant. less reachable. because suddenly, you weren’t alone anymore.

minho squinted from across the courtyard, peering from behind the vending machines. in his hazy vision, he could just make out your figure, along with your new companion.

the guy was tall, broad-shouldered, arm permanently slung over your shoulder. you looked up at him, laughter ringing sirens in minho’s ears. his nails bit crescent moons into his palms.

“who is that?” minho turned to hyunjin, tone too forced to be casual. he smirked when he noticed minho’s scowl.

"jealous?" he teased, sipping his iced coffee. “relax. that’s not her boyfriend.”

minho doesn’t answer. a fuck buddy? he might just vomit in his mouth.

"that’s her brother, chris. i see him around the gym.”

minho went still. brother?

he watched the way chris stood too close, the way his eyes scanned every guy in a five-foot radius like he was already picking targets.

chris didn’t carry himself like a brother. he was more like a bodyguard. or a threat. minho doesn’t take kindly to threats.

“heard he shanked a guy back in high-school over her.” hyunjin adds, lowering his voice. “he seems scary protective. me personally, i’d back off.”

“well i’m not you, am i?” minho bites. hyunjin just nods, not one to argue.

minho tries to ignore it. he wouldn’t expect hyunjin to understand— no one does. what’s between you and minho is something beyond words. you feel it too, he’s sure of it.

he’ll prove it.

after a streak of major inconveniences, luck is finally on minho’s side when one evening, you walk past him as you leave the campus— alone.

like a dog chasing cars, he can’t help himself to following you, feet moving faster than his mind.

minho shadows you down a side street off the campus. he contemplates how he’ll make his grand move. this could be the mere seconds leading up to your love story’s beginning.

he imagines brushing his hand against yours as he walks by, apologising as he realises it’s you. he’ll say something clever, pull you aside. ask where you’re going and offer to take you there. then maybe, you’ll finally see him.

he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.

a fist cracks into his jaw, sharp and merciless. minho’s back collides with the brick wall— he stumbles on his feet, tasting copper.

"think i didn’t see you?"

minho’s eyes flutter open, just barely recognising the voice as chris. the fucking brother.

"back off. before i do something worse than this,” chris reaches for him— minho writhing in his hold as pain sears across his face. chris’s fingers caved in on the mark blooming onto minho’s cheek. a reminder.

and then he was gone, just like that. fucked off after you, probably to go tell you about how minho was a perverted deranged stalker and other preposterous lies like that so now minho had to get a fucking gun and just air out the block because he has nothing to lose anymore.

his vision throbbed with each heartbeat. he crouched against the wall, flinching at his own touch as his fingers brushed over what chris had left him with.

his cheek would bruise. he'd have to lie to hyunjin. he might never get to see your smile directed at him again.

but one thing was certain. what once hadn’t occurred to him, he could see clear as day now:

chris was sabotaging him. he’d been taunting him— dangling minho’s infatuation with you over his head. he’d stolen his glasses. he made him think he was crazy.

minho wiped the blood from his lip, rubbing it between his fingers.

chris had been watching minho when he had been watching you.

and minho’s sorry, he really is. you know he’d never hurt you. but chris was coming between what had yet to blossom between you and minho.

so chris has to go.

minho’s hands were still was he slipped the lock. he was cool, collected. he’d lived this scenario out hundreds of times before in his own head.

you dorm was quiet, just like he knew it would be. you had study group tonight, each week at the same time. minho had an hour, maybe less. but he’ll make do.

he moved quickly, careful not to disturb the things he already knew by heart. your shelf with trinkets and books collecting dust. your calendar that he already knew the contents of. the string of prints clipped above your desk, which he resisted the urge to shred the ones with chris. he hated seeing you smile for him. for any man that wasn’t minho.

he’s out for blood now.

minho headed for your dresser, eyes trained on the bottom drawer. he needed leverage in order to bury chris completely. it had to be something twisted. something to make people question the ‘protective brother’ shtick. something he could plant, fabricate, frame.

his hand reached into the drawer, and his fingers brushed lace. he paused.

he shouldn’t.

he does.

he fists the fabric in his hand, bringing it to his nose. your panties. his mouth waters— he damn near saw his brain from how far his eyes roll back.

minho folds it back into its place. his knuckles brush over the other pairs as he contemplates which one you wouldn’t realise is gone, if he pocketed it for himself.

there’s something that catches his eye. but before minho can think to reach for it—

“knew it.”

his bones go rigid.

your voice comes behind him, from the doorway. he glances back— you’re stood there with your arms crossed, watching him. hunting the hunter.

minho straightens up. “i was just—”

“there’s no need to lie, min.” you cut in, voice dripping with something intoxicating. “do i look upset?”

his throat goes dry. you take a step closer. then another.

you pout, taking note of the bruise on his face. “aw, chris leave you with that?”

minho reminded himself to breathe, dazed. “your brother, he’s—”

“—such a buzzkill, right? thinks i need saving or something.” you’re there, way too close, fingertips dancing up minho’s chest. “he doesn’t get it. but it’s okay. i’m here now.”

he stammers, too many thoughts racing to land. your hand makes it way to his chin, tilting his head to meet your gaze.

“isn’t this what you wanted?”

“yes.” he replies breathlessly. he’d scream at the top of his lungs how badly he’s wanted you— if only he wasn’t so shell-shocked.

his fantasies playing out in real time. and when you pinch at his bruised cheek, he keels over as the pain throbs through his face— but he doesn’t wake up. you’re the real thing.

his back hits your mattress before he even registers that you’d shoved him. one blink later, and you’re mounting his lap, caging him in with legs on either side of his body.

your fist curls around his collar, tugging his face towards you like it’s your right.

“you’re mine, yeah?” your lips are mere inches from his, breathe heavy on his mouth. he just gawks up at you. “don’t hurt me, and i won’t have to hurt you.”

minho didn’t know what to say. you’re talking like he’d been born to you. he didn’t know you had this in you.

when your lips come crashing onto his, a groan escapes minho’s throat. your canine nipped at the skin of his lip but his head’s too fuzzy to give a fuck. you suck the blood onto your tongue, and his dick literally twitches.

you pull strained noises from minho between the kisses, parting his lips with a demanding force. he’s helpless to whatever you’ll do to him. he forgets himself, hands fumbling at your waist when he remembers he can actually touch you.

you rock your hips mindlessly as your tongue tastes every inch of his mouth— and minho’s seeing fucking stars. he still can’t believe it. his mind’s lagging behind, he doesn’t realise just how close he is until you moan down his throat.

he tries to pry you off of him, he doesn’t want to cum like this, embarrassingly quick. but you’re not budging. your hand comes to his neck to press him further into the mattress as you grind yourself down onto him harder— he could feel your heat as he dug up into you through the layers of fabric, and that’s when his resolve snapped.

minho’s hips stammer, hands roaming all over your body as he tries to anchor himself. that’s when your lips come off of his: just to hear the string of moans falling from his mouth as he cums. you don’t stop rocking against him, even when he’s freshly sensitive, and it takes him whining your name in a broken plea for you to let up.

you collapse next to him, face split in a smile. he’s still catching his breath like he was just in a triathlon. the warm sensation in his pants almost has him recoiling, but your hand comes to his chest, thumb rubbing soothing circles.

“i get it.” you’d told him. he didn’t know what it meant. not in the moment, at least.

it wasn’t until later, when the lust fuelled haze wore off and the stark clarity had settled in, that he remembered the drawer. that glint of metal.

silently, he pushed himself up off the bed, careful not to rouse you from your sleep. he stayed idle for a beat, until you snore softly, and he decided it was safe.

he knelt to the drawer slowly, and pulled out his glasses.

right where you had left them.

people are always so quick to assume that the stalker is the man. girls are just the prey, never the one in the shadows. that they don’t follow, or watch, or want things they shouldn’t.

but you saw him, lee minho, before he ever saw you.

he wasn’t as subtle as he might’ve liked to think. it was an effort to hold in your laughter at times. he was so obvious: how he’d linger, how his gaze was practically glued to you. he orbited you like you’re the air he breathes. and you let him. because you were already doing the same.

most would think, the moment you realise someone’s watching you would be terrifying. but you couldn’t of been more thrilled. because finally, finally— someone got it. someone loved the way you did: consumed by the other person. completely and utterly devoted.

minho wasn’t the hunter, not quite. he was just the one stupid enough to act first.

chris always tried to protect you. that was his role. and it’s true— someone got hurt in high school as a result. but it wasn’t him who went too far.

he merely cleaned it up like a good brother should. took the fall for it. hid the truth of what you’re willing to do for love.

but minho, he gets that you never wanted someone to save you. you just wanted to be seen. all of you, down to the marrow. and he did.

you’re perfect together. even if he doesn’t see that now, he will with time.

because you’ve got no intentions of letting him go.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

⤷ truth or dare (3 parts) by @bugeater101

⤷ happy ending (2 parts) by @prod-jeekies

⤷ bimbo!reader chronicles (ft. han) (5 parts) by @prod-jeekies

⤷ feel special by @ysljoon

⤷ hips by @fenya-scribbles

⤷ loud by @fenya-scribbles

⤷ quiet by @fenya-scribbles

⤷ from the coast, with love by @starlostjisung

⤷ bite me if you dare by @starlostjisung

⤷ stolen warmth by @ghostlyscripture

⤷ aisle be damned (5 parts) by @emmiesoverthemoon

⤷ what you deserve (3 parts) by @2chopsticks2eyes

⤷ free, when you're here with me (ft. han) by @skzms

⤷ bf lee know by @deadpanjisung

⤷ tunnel vision by @milkteabinniechan

⤷ crush by @makeitworse

⤷ and they were roommates (ft. han) by @baby-yongbok

⤷ say that again by @sereia4skz

⤷ welcome home by @sereia4skz

⤷ lost in translation by @moonjxsung

⤷ knit by @seospicybin

⤷ makes me dizzy by @hyunsvngs

⤷ ruin me (2 parts) by @skzms

⤷ his habits by @sourtae

Minho whined, staring down at you, not knowing if he could touch you as he felt your tongue teasing his leaking tip. "mmm-oh you f-feel good" His eyes widening as he felt your mouth slowly engulf his cock, pushing down as you started bobbing your head up and down, feeling your throat squeeze around him. His hand trembling as he didn't know what do do with them as he felt your hand pull his own to your hair, immediately gripping on for support.

"aah I-I-I've n-never this before-..." He trailed with embarrassment as he leaned his head back with a loud moan, his glasses falling down his nose slightly as he twitch squishing his thighs around your face (😫). "C-can...I...move?..." He mumbled quietly to shy to explain himself, seeing you not disagreeing with him, he slowly thrust his hips into your mouth, holding you in place and feeling every bit of his cock being teased with your swirling tongue.

Minho, he wanted to he be a good boy to your like in those videos, he didn't wanna cum too fast but he couldn't help himself as his thrust become clumsy and he start moaning and whimpering your name and suddenly, he tugged your hair down, gripping it for life as force his whole cock down your throat as he came inside you, amazed by how you swallow everything.

jeongin is well aware of how his members, and most of the world see him. a soft, sweet, cute and reserved persona that he can’t seem to ever escape. it’s a true rarity for him to willingly hold his hands out to another person, preferring to keep to himself. he’s grown accustomed to the touches and flicks, pats on the back and hair ruffles from the boys he knows and loves, but even then, he could still call himself a bit iffy with that sort of contact, pushing it away when he feels like it.

but with you? handsy.

jeongin is actually a greedy, possessive, handsy man. everything he supposedly is “against” goes straight out of the window, a seal he cracked open himself when he met you. yes, he loves to cuddle, to kiss and hold hands witj you in moments, which are in private for the most part. but he also has made you keenly aware that his hands love to claim what’s his.

he starts it off cutely innocent. small brushes against your spine, a smoothly undetectable grip behind your neck that lasts only a second. get him somewhere he feels comfortable, and he’s the definition of hands on.

tonight, it’s only a smallish party. him and the other seven, you, and some close friends in the industry to celebrate yet another win in their largely ever growing career. some music bumps in the background, and your dress sparkles underneath the low lights whenever your shimmery perfume catches them. a half empty martini glass sits to your left, extra olives completely gone, and to your right sits a very happy han jisung with something disgustingly fruity in his cup. where’d he get the good stuff?

and behind you is jeongin. your dressed up, sober boyfriend who’s silently laughing at how you considered a martini to be a snack instead of a drink.

“baby, you could’ve just ordered something. they have food.” he says with a soft touch to your side, grazing a finger over the folds of fabric by your hip.

“a martini is food, maknae... olives. duh.”

han jumps in the conversation with a jumbled “olives are nasty”, but you’re too busy focusing on jeongin to spit a witty response back.

because jeongin won’t stop touching you.

he’s muttering soft conversation, with some words exchanged between him and his supposed hyung, who acts younger when drunkened, and his actual older members who gather in the vicinity at empty stools and seats. most wouldn’t even take a second glance at jeongins mannerisms. but you do.

he gets experimental with his fingertips, one just barely slipping under the fabric he was just touching, retreating shortly afterward only to get bolder with every second. his hand glides up, then back, then down until he lands a soft pat to the plush of your bottom.

“no, hyung. i’m driving her home, so i’m not drinking.” he says. you hear someone, maybe minho, say something about having good responsibility. little does he know jeongin is nowhere near responsible with the lewd mind he carries, and with the way he’s practically groping you in front of his friends.

now he’s rubbing his hands up and down your arms, soft and slow with the sweetest kiss to the side of your neck, but you can feel the devilish intent hidden in his lips.

you’re getting hot and bothered now. you’re past the point of it being just the alcohol, that reasoning considered hysterical by this time. your face is turning flushed and rosy, and you use your manicured hands to cover it as much as possible. jisung would never let you hear the end of it.

“i like this dress on you..” is a honeyed compliment that slips from jeongins mouth next, his touch softening with that same hold he’s had on your hips.

“i think the bartender does too.”

and as quick to come to a revelation as you usually are, you finally see why jeongin has had his grasp on you the entire night. the way the rest of this party will go is already mapped out right in front of you.

jeongin can be handsy for some reasons. because he wants to have you close, because he missed you, because he’s feeling soft and needy. or, because he’s jealous.

“baby, let’s go home, okay?” jeongin feigns an innocent voice in case the rest of the boys hear him, but he leans down for only you to listen next.

“im the one who knows how that dress looks when it’s off, anyway.”

⸝⸝⸝

which now leads you to here, in your shared apartment, with jeongin pressed so closely against you that you can feel his rapid heartbeat against your own.

he’s all over you, all inside you, with every bit of skin you have being touched, caressed, and exposed eagerly as he pulls your dress off like he promised back at the party.

“why’re you so soft— huh? tell me baby..” he asks, feeling you up with graspy palms that don’t ever stop.

you can’t answer because he’s fucking the voice right out of you.

slow, deep thrusts that have unspoken words of possession and power behind them, your hands bound by your head in one of his.

“i—i don’t kno—jeong…” is all you can muster. you can feel him deep, feel his ragged breathing against your ear, and feel his hands touching you in places that really are only meant to be private.

“speak up, pretty. i can’t hear you o-over that whining.” but you can definitely hear him. he’s losing himself, clear as day, and you’re not far behind.

jeongin moves so his palms cup the back of your knees, pushing slightly down into a press that has you seeing stars on your dark ceiling. “fuck ! jeong—in!”

“you’re mine, aren’t you baby? cum on me so i know it.”

and fuck, you could forget about his hands when he has a mouth like that and a stroke so deep.

you finish soon after with a taught coil that snaps all over him, grasping at the sheets in an attempt to bring yourself back to earth. he follows behind, sounding with a low grumbly whine and hot stickiness that fills you up and drips out of the sides.

“so pretty… feel so good… i love you… so good…” he’s mumbling to himself, coming down to lay on you without his full weight that could crush, breathing hot onto your cheek where he plants a kiss not long afterward.

yes, he knows where to touch to get you going, what to grab when he has you. but he also knows where to hold you when you’re finished.

cleaning you up softly, taking a bubble filled bath, and keeping you close with a little thank you when you’re back in bed. all the while, his hands haven’t left you once, lingering on your skin with his fingertips that draw patterns to soften his previous actions.

“you must really love me. you’re like… a tic.” you joke quietly, smiling to yourself in the dark thinking he can’t see you.

jeongin laughs a breath through his nose that tickles the back of your neck.

“i guess im just handsy.”

🖇️ 𝓉aglist ◞ (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)

@moch3rii @bunbunbl0gs @seungzsmin @b4echo @twelve-twelve-eleven @casszzzii @lamalaggante6 @niku0704 @scrizvekz @skzlover143 @inniemeenymineymoe @ilysmbangchan @gyuzies

wanna be added to the taglist ? click me !

thank you so much for reading! sending you a kiss, quick, catch it . . . ᥫ᭡

You had never been one to trust easily- ‘specifically men. Perhaps it was prejudice from what you’ve seen throughout your childhood and your own, terrible taste in men.

You and Jeongin were friends for awhile, meeting after a mutual friend’s birthday party.

It was supposed to just be a simple friendship- though it gradually turned from occasional texts and chats during friend-group get togethers, to nonstop joking, inside jokes, and constantly hanging out.

Jeongin really wasn’t your type, you thought. Yet over the year and a half that the two of you’s friendships developed, you slowly developed feelings.

He was polite, funny, and kind. You could be absolutely chaotic and joke about stuff without worrying you’ll get hit with a romantic confession. Not worrying about getting a text at one in the morning, “pics?”

You managed to convince yourself that he was too good for you- and part of you was worried that it was all a charade. You convinced yourself that it was either a charade for his ulterior motives, or he saw you as a ‘little sister’- after all, he was five years older than you.

You found comfort in the latter, and a sense of disappointment that you didn’t like to acknowledge, so you didn’t.

The two of you were currently having a movie night. Though neither of you were paying attention to the movie. Instead watching stupid cat tiktoks on Jeongins phone.

He sat next to you, his body heavy and firm against yours. Wearing a pair of sweats and sweater. Hood pulls up over his head and a string in his mouth. His head resting on your shoulder while yours rested on top of his head. The two of you occasionally laughing at whatever stupid thing one of the cats did.

And somehow- from being snuggled together, movie in background and watching cat videos, you two ended up making out, Jeongin’s hands running up and down your sides, the two of you grinding against eachother subconsciously, still fully clothed.

A soft sound escaped your lips as Jeongin shifted his hips just enough to press against your clothed, throbbing clit.

Your kisses were shy- inexperienced. Jeongin could tell. You were simply following his lead, trying his best.

How badly he wanted to do more- show you more. You told him about that time with your ex. How you just hoped for it to be over because of how shitty it was. He wanted to actually pleasure you. Show you that it’s not sex that doesn’t feel good, but just that the guy was shitty and clearly had a bad dick.

He also noticed how much you were grinding against him. It was cute how you didn’t even realize.

However, he didn’t want to rush you. Didn’t want you to think that was all he was interested in.

But boy were you making it hard to go at your pace.

Feeling the heat from between the barrier of denim against his cock was like a tease of something he’s thought about many times. The way you were moving your hips didn’t help.

He couldn’t help the way his hips instinctively pushed back into yours. desperate for more friction and more of your muffled moans against his lips.

And that feeling didn’t stop when he started feeling your thighs shake, it only amplified. Hands tightening around your hips and pushing you down onto him, the harder friction making both of you moan.

“J-Jeon-“ You tried to speak but got cut off by Jeongin’s lips on yours along with his hips grinding against yours.

Quickly you felt yourself cum. Moans spilling from your lips as you pulled away. Jeongin came not far after you, hips stuttering against you.

The two of you caught your breath. bodies firm against each other as yous came down from your orgasm.

You pulled away slightly, glancing shyly at Jeongin. As if you were testing to see what he was gonna do next.

He pulled away, eye’s glancing down at you. then chuckled.

“Well… that got a bit out of hand.”

— hnsbxby tumblr ©

It’s not unusual for sex with Wooyoung to end up like this.

Especially when he’s been away on tour, or busy with comeback preparations—whenever he’s not able to fuck you as much of often as he likes, this is the result.

Whiny. Desperate. Clinging to you; fingers digging into your skin, blunts of his nails pressed in deep enough to sting. Like he’s holding on for dear life; like he’s afraid that if he lets go, if he loosens his grip even a little bit, you’ll slip away for good.

He was already half hard when you walked into the living room in a thin t-shirt, the fabric a little tighter around your tits and hips, nipples visible through the white cotton. He’d started getting hard on the car ride home just from the thought of you; the thought of how pent up he knows you are after days without him, how desperate you must be, how easy it’ll be to make you come undone and everything he’s going to do to get you there. He’d spent the whole journey with his bag on his lap, trying to hide the imprint of his hardening cock against his sweats in case the taxi driver decided to glance back at him in the rearview mirror.

Fuck, he should’ve worn underwear, but he knows you prefer it when he doesn’t, especially in those sweats. He hadn’t really thought about how difficult that would make it to get home; hadn’t remember how fucking easy it is for him to get hard over you.

When he entered the apartment, when you walked through to greet him, his dick was already straining the fabric of his sweats. The sight of you, the way your shirt clings to your body, your bare legs—it took him the rest of the way. He felt the beads of precum leaking from the tip as you padded across the floor over to him.

Fuck, he needs you bad. He wasn’t even half this bad when he met you; he was far from low libido, but you just bring something out in him that’s entirely new.

“Hey,” you smiled. “Missed you.”

He didn’t even reply. Couldn’t reply; the moment your hand was wrapped around his wrist, pulling him towards you, the moment he got a whiff of your scent, the body wash you like to lather over yourself and a hint of your natural sweetness—he couldn’t do anything but pounce.

He barely got you to the bedroom. He didn’t even get your shirt all the way off; just yanked it up so your tits were exposed, so he could watch the way your nipples hardened in the cold air, how the skin reddened when he smacked lightly at your breasts just to watch them move, so he could feel the warmth when he grasped them in his hands. He managed to pull it over your head, but neither of you thought to pull out your arms, so now it’s sitting there, leaving you entirely exposed while he fucks you open.

By the time he’d pulled his dick out the front of his sweats had darkened, spots of wetness seeping through the light grey fabric, precum already smeared over his tip, He didn’t take them down, just pulled them far enough to get out his cock and got to work.

Your pussy was already wet, of course, just as he knew it would be—still he was kind enough to spit down onto your hole, a little more onto his fingers, smearing his saliva across your clit just to get you a little more needy for it before he finally sunk himself into you.

Wooyoung is thick, a little longer than average, and even with your pussy leaking and weeping for him like it often does, it took a bit of effort to get himself all the way inside. When he finally got himself in, when your hole was finally wrapped around his shaft, about halfway down, he yelled. The pressure, the pleasure was dizzying; the way you clung to him like you couldn’t handle him, like your poor little pussy didn’t know what to do with something his size—it was too much. Fuck, he had to close his eyes, squeeze them shut, dig his fingers into the skin of your hips to ground himself to avoid cumming before he’d even bottomed out.

He couldn’t handle it. The way you were responding—pussy leaking and clenching around him at the same time, so incredibly tight despite how needy and sloppy is already was for him; your cry, strangled and dizzied, when he sunk into you, your small, desperate whimpers as he continues to push inside—it almost pushed him over the edge. If he hadn’t closed his eyes in time to avoid the way your eyes widened, lips parting and shiny with drool as you tried to adjust to him, he knows he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself.

Now, finally, he’s bottomed out, dick all the way inside, pressing against your g-spot, slamming into it with every thrust. His brows are furrowed, pupils blown, sweat sticking to his forehead and dripping from his chin. His grip is iron, fingers digging into your hips, holding onto the skin like a lifeline; you know there’ll be bruises later, littering the expanses of your hips and waist, but you don’t care. It wouldn’t be the first time for either of you. You wear the marks he leaves, and he wears yours, like a badge of honour.

He’s going hard, rough, thrusts one after the other, so fast even he can barely keep up. He’s almost crying, you can tell; see the tears brimming in his eyes, hear his whines and gasps like he’s trying to keep himself together. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, you— baby. Oh my god.”

“Wooyoung,” you cry. “You— feels so good. So deep, Woo, how are you so fucking deep?”

“I know,” he says. His hand moves from your hip to your tummy, pressing down, running across the expanse of your skin. “I’m in here,” he grunts. The pressure of his hands increases, pressing down right where his dick is stuffed all the way inside you and pressing against your spot. “Do you feel it?”

You nod, whimpering, and he groans, a sharp, strangled sound from the back of his throat. “Tell me you feel it,” he says, and fuck his voice sounds so raw, so affected, the way you sound when you’re all fucked out and begging him for release. “Please, baby, tell me.”

“I feel it,” you say. “Woo, I feel it. You’re so deep inside me, you’re so big, it hurts.”

He pushes down a little harder, making you sob, then his hand moves back to its place on your hip, holding onto the skin, fingers digging into it again.

“More,” you breathe, voice barely a whisper, need and desperation evident in the tone. “Woo, please. Need more.”

“Fuck.”

He can’t ever say no to you—you both know that. He could be at the very edge of what he can do, at the very edge of collapse, and if you looked up at him with those wide, loving, fucked our eyes and begged him for more, he’d give it to you.

And like this—with your pussy crying for him, tensing and spasming around his shaft, sucking him in, your body begging for him without words—he’s pretty much a dead man walking.

He can’t fucking take this. He doesn’t remember you ever being so tight and warm and wet. He knows you have been—you always are—it must just be the days, weeks even that he’s gone without having you like this, the compounded need and relief of finally having your cunt wrapped around his cock.

He’s going to break. He knows it. But he hasn’t given you nearly as much as he intends to yet.

His head dips, the pressure of his hands on your hips increasing, like he’s struggling to hold himself up now. His hair is sticking to his forehead, breathing laboured, whimpers getting louder and hotter and more guttural. His thrusts are speeding up too, getting harder, but the precision and control of them is slipping; the more he fucks you, the tighter he clings to you, the sloppier and messier his movements inside you get.

Your legs wrap around his waist, feet interlocking with each other against the small of his back, locking you in place. You push your hips up, pressing yourself closer to him, pulling him in deeper; your hands reach out to grab his shirt, curling the material around your fists then moving up to hold onto his shoulders, then his neck, then a fistful of his hair in one of your hands while the other grips his forearm. A harder thrust, sharper, makes you squeal, head thrown back, your face wet and flushed and blotchy with tears.

Wooyoung looks up, finally, meeting your eyes, and the sight of your face, so dumb and desperate and high on what he's giving you, makes his dick pulse inside you, legs almost giving out just from the sight of you. His dick is so fucking sensitive now, strangled by your cunt, hardly able to move in and out of you but unable to do anything but go harder and faster and messier. He’s fairly certain you’ve creamed already, probably more than once; he’s felt your cunt spasming around him, heard your cries grow sharper then settle back into softer whines and sobs, and he feels the stickiness leaking out of your hole around his cock. He wants to cum too, so fucking badly, but he can’t—

Fuck. Fuck. The image hits him like a vision, a spiritual experience, something solid against his chest. The way you’re clinging to him. He knows he’s not going to pull out, won’t be able to, he rarely does with you; knows that when he cums, when he finally allows himself to break, it will be with his dick pressed up against your g-spot, the cum filling up the deepest parts of you. He wishes he could cum directly into your womb; he’s said that to you before, and when you’re stuffed full of him and begging him to fill you up, you have on a few occasions cried for him to stuff your womb with cum. To get you pregnant.

He wants to do that now. He wants it so bad he could cry; wants it so bad it’s all he can think about. And with the way you’re squeezing him, milking his cock with your cunt, it seems like you want it too. Your body wants it, at least.

“Baby,” he hisses. “I…”

He leans down, closer to you now, face inches from yours, close enough to see the tiny details of his face and feel his breath against your skin. You grab a handful of his hair, gentle but desperate, and pull him closer to you. Your breaths are short and shallow, words whispered, like a prayer meant only for him. “You what?” You breathe.

He grunts, chewing on his lip, hips bucking just at the thought. “I want to get you pregnant,” he hisses, voice cracking on the final syllable and slipping into something more like a whimper. “Please, baby. Let me…”

You cunt clenches at that, at the image; your hips buck upwards and you pull his head down further, closer, until his lips are on yours. He freezes, just for a moment, then melts into it, tongue pushing past your lips and into your mouth, hands cupping your face with the same pressure and fervour they’d had on your hips. The kiss is wet, rushed, messy; loving and hungry at the same time. He groans into your mouth, his hips bucking, skin slapping against yours, then pulls away. “Tell me I can,” he says. “Tell me I can knock you up. I need to knock you up.”

“Knock me up, Wooyoung,” you say. He rewards you with another, sharper thrust that nearly makes your vision white out. “Please. Put a baby in me. Need a baby in my tummy, Woo, need to be all swollen with it.”

“Shit,” he grits out. His hands are on your shoulders now, pushing them down and pinning you against the bed. His eyes are wild now—crazed. “You need it,” he says. “Fuck, baby, you need it, right?”

“Need it,” you repeat. “I need your baby, Woo, it’d be so cute, right? We’d have such a cute baby.”

“Fuck, don’t talk like that.” Wooyoung feels lightheaded, his entire body buzzing with need, toes curling into the sheets. He slows down just enough to think a little clearer, thrusts lazier while he strings his words together. “Baby, put your legs up. I wanna— I wanna press it all the way in. Need to press my cum all the way inside, right in your little womb, okay?”

He stops fucking you for a moment, still stuffed inside, then adjusts. He sits himself up, straightening up from where he was leaning over your; his hands grip your legs, still wrapped around his waist, keeping them there as he moves. Then he pushes your legs forwards, gently, so your knees are pushed towards your face, legs spread, calves pressed against your thighs and your thighs pushed back until—

“Yeah,” he grunts. “That’s perfect.”

You know this position; remember how it feels, how it allows him to get so much deeper and stay there, how his cum stays stuffed inside you after he pulls out, your ass raised a little off the bed.

He starts to move again, but he doesn’t ease you into it; can’t, at this point, when you’re spread out so invitingly, your pussy pulsing around him at the realisation of the position he’s put you in, your entire body so vulgarly displayed beneath him, at his mercy, a present only he gets to unwrap. Soon enough, he’s slipped again, the thrusts sloppier, messier, the control he’d managed to cling to for all of a second, just long enough to adjust you the way he wanted you, now evaporated. His hands find your waist now, holding you tight whilst he slams himself into your spot over and over like he’s chasing something.

His moans are soft, breathy, whiny, getting louder as he gets closer and closer to the edge. He can’t stop thinking about it, picturing it; you, knocked up, carrying his child, looking so perfect and pretty and used. His cum in your cunt—fuck, if he could keep his cum inside you every fucking day he would. He’d fuck you every morning before he goes out, unload inside you, slide your pretty panties over your pussy to catch any seed that tries to escape. If it starts to leak he’d make you push it back inside, or gather it on his finger and make you lick it off. Then he’d fuck you again, before bed, hard and rough, until you fall asleep with bruised hips and smarting skin and a belly full of cum.

He’s going to get you pregnant—he doesn’t fucking care anymore. As he pushes towards his orgasm he knows for a fact, no doubt, that he’s going to do it; that he has to do it, or he’s going to shatter. It’s like a compulsion now, a need as much as eating or sleeping or drinking. He needs to get you pregnant and see you pregnant and know your belly is round and swelling because of him.

He doesn’t realise how loud he’s being; doesn’t realise the loud, whiny moans filling the air and drowning out the sound of his skin slapping against yours is him. Fuck. Is he always this fucked out when he’s trying to cum? Is he always this… pathetic?

He doesn’t care. If pathetic is what he is when he fucks you full, when he fills you up, when he feels your perfect cunt squeezing his dick like this, then fuck it, he’s pathetic. He’ll wear that badge with pride if it’s for you.

His orgasm comes quickly when he stops resisting; when he finally allows it to overtake it. He feels it in his entire body, in his fingers, his toes, every inch of him. It starts and doesn’t seem to stop; you feel your tummy filling up, warmth spreading through you, Wooyoung’s hands heavier and grip tighter, his strangled gasps and choked sobs as he keeps fucking you through it, like he’s trying to milk every last drop of himself out and into you. He’s saying something, somewhere between grunting and wailing; words you can’t quite decipher but understand entirely.

You’re going to get pregnant, tonight. He’s not stopping until you do. He’s gonna fill you up over and over and you can’t take anymore; until you’re so full of his cum that he can’t even fit his cock in there.

His hips rock back and forth, pushing the cum in deeper as it comes out.

And then he stills. His grip loosens just a little bit. He slumps slightly, catching himself in time, breathing heavy and laboured. His dick twitches inside you, still hard, but no longer moving.

“Stay still,” he says. His voice is raw, hollow, as though he’d been screaming and screaming and screaming until he lost it. “Keep your legs there. Helps— it helps it to take.”

“Take?” You repeat. You feel dazed.

Wooyoung nods. “My cum. If you keep your legs there it’ll help you get pregnant. Hold them there. Please.”

Fuck, he really… he really wants you pregnant. Like, actually pregnant. You pull him closer to you, pressing your lips together. This time the kiss is gentle, soft, none of the desperation of before but all of the feeling.

Wooyoung is massaging your legs, rubbing the backs of your thighs with enough pressure to feel it in the muscles; trying to keep the blood flow going, to stop you from losing the feeling in your legs with the strenuous position he’s holding you in. “Doing so well,” he murmurs into your mouth. “Always so good, so pretty, gonna be such a good mom. Wanna give you a daughter.”

“Please,” you breathe. “Want it.”

“Good.” He sits back up, pushing the hair out of his face, staring down at you with a small smile.

You know that smile. That’s a smile that says you’re not done—not even close.

“You’re probably pregnant now,” he says. “But we have to be sure. And we’re not stopping until we’re sure.”

You don’t reply. Just watch as his smile widens, as his hands move back to your hips where they’d been before.

“I’m gonna fuck you again,” he says. “I’m gonna breed you over and over, until the cum is spilling out of you. Until you have my baby. Until you’re carrying my seed inside you all day, every day, for nine months. Okay?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to; he knows you well enough to read your reaction.

And even if he didn’t—your pussy speaks for itself. The way it clenches around him says everything you’re too fucked out to voice.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The bass rattled through your molars, a rhythmic thud that drowned out the pulse in your own neck. The air in the middle of the floor was a soup of expensive cologne, salt-slicked skin, and the heavy scent of smoke. Behind you, the guy you’d been grinding against for the last three songs shifted his weight, his palms damp where they gripped the curve of your waist. He was a good dancer but the friction was starting to feel less like a release and more like a chore. You peeled his hands away with a practiced, apologetic tilt of your head, the neon blue light catching the sweat on your collarbone. He said something, but the words were swallowed by a remix of a track you didn’t recognise. You just pointed toward the booths, offering a non-committal wave before weaving through the thicket of bodies.

Mingi was exactly where you’d left him, though the rest of the group had long since scattered into the chaos. He was leaning against the high mahogany table. The new blonde of his hair was tucked haphazardly behind his ears, the strands glowing every time the strobe swept past. He wasn’t looking at the crowd. He wasn’t looking at his phone.

He was looking at you.

His chocolate eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris, tracking your progress across the floor with a heavy, unblinking focus. He didn’t look like he was having fun. He looked like he was vibrating at a frequency that might shatter the glass in his hand.

“You look like you’re at a funeral,” you hiked your voice to reach him, sliding into the narrow gap between his body and the table. The heat radiating off him was different from the dance floor—dryer, more concentrated. Mingi didn’t move back to give you space. He stayed still, his height forcing you to crane your neck, his shadow swallowing you whole.

“Do I?” His voice was a low rumble that you felt in your chest more than you heard in your ears. He didn’t smile. He just watched the way your chest rose and fell with your heavy breathing.

“Yeah. Serious. Grumpy.” You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold, condensation-slicked glass of the beer bottle he was white-knuckling. “You’re bringing the vibe down, Min. You need to get laid or get drunk. Preferably both.” You didn’t wait for an invitation. You wrapped your hand over his—your skin stinging at the contact of his frozen knuckles—and tilted the beer bottle toward your mouth. You took a long, stinging swallow, the bitter amber liquid cutting through the coat of sugar on your tongue from the cocktails earlier. When you pulled away, a stray drop of foam lingered on your lower lip. You didn’t miss the way Mingi’s gaze dropped to it, his jaw muscle jumping as he ground his teeth together.

“That’s mine,” he muttered.

“Everything of yours is mine,” you countered, leaning your hip into his thigh to steady yourself as a group of drunks stumbled past. “Since when do we care about germs? We’ve shared everything.”

Mingi let out a sharp, jagged breath through his nose. He took the bottle back, but he didn’t drink. He just held it, his thumb stroking the neck of the glass in a rhythmic motion. “The guy,” Mingi said, his voice dropping an octave, rasping against the music. “He had his hands all over you.”

“That’s usually how dancing works,” you teased, reaching up to flick a stray blonde hair away from his forehead. Your fingers lingered for a second too long against his skin—he was burning up, a stark contrast to the ice-cold beer. “He was fine. Boring, but fine.”

Mingi leaned down, his face inches from yours. The smell of him suddenly outweighed the scent of the club. His eyes searched yours, intense and frantic. “You’re sweat-soaked,” he noted, his free hand came up, not to touch you, but to hover just an inch from your waist, the heat of his palm seeping through your clothes. “You should sit down. Get some air.”

“I don’t want air,” you said, feeling a strange, tight coil of tension pull in your gut. You reached out, grabbing the material of his shirt to pull him a fraction closer. “I want you to stop acting like a bodyguard and start acting like my best friend. Drink. Dance. Find a girl. I’ll even vet her for you.”

Mingi’s hand finally closed the distance, his fingers splaying wide over the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The movement was sudden, knocking the breath right out of your lungs. “I don’t want a girl,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he lowered his head.

You leaned back just enough to catch the dark, honeyed shift of his eyes, the sticky heat of the club rushing into the inch of space between your chests. You let out a huff of a laugh, your hand still at his shoulder for balance while the floor tilted slightly under your shoes. “You better change your mind then,” you teased, your voice bright and irreverent over the thumping music. You didn’t lower your volume; the crudeness felt natural between you, a byproduct of years of shared secrets and unfiltered bullshit. “Your dick needs a good sucking, Min. You’re wound so tight I can practically hear your gears grinding from here. Go find a victim.” You flashed him a grin—the one that usually got him to stop brooding—and reached for the beer again, taking another long, unhurried swallow. The cold liquid slid down your throat, a sharp contrast to the humid air pressing against your skin.

Mingi didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a self-deprecating smirk. Instead, his fingers, still splayed across the small of your back, twitched. The fabric of your dress bunched under his palm as his grip tightened, drawing you a fraction closer until your thighs brushed his. He was tracking the way your throat moved as you swallowed, his jaw locked in a hard, protruding line. “Is that what you think?”

“I know it is,” you patted his chest, the muscle beneath his shirt felt like carved stone. “I’ve seen you when you’re stressed. You’re a menace. Go. I’ll be fine. I might even go find that guy again—he had a nice rhythm.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the faint click of his teeth over the sub-bass. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. He just stared at you, then, without a word, he tilted his head back. You watched the column of his throat work as he downed the rest of the beer in several heavy, aggressive gulps. The glass rattled against his teeth. When he pulled the bottle away, a single trail of amber liquid escaped the corner of his mouth, glistening in the strobe light before he wiped it away with the back of a shaking hand.

“Okay,” he said. The word was clipped, stripped of any warmth. It wasn’t the voice of the best friend; it was the voice of a man who had reached a very specific, very dangerous limit. He set the empty bottle on the table with a sharp clack and turned away. He didn’t look back. Not once. He didn’t check to see if you were following, didn’t offer a “see you later,” didn’t even spare you a final glance. He simply melted into the shifting sea of limbs on the dance floor, his blonde head bobbing through the neon haze like a signal fire being swallowed by the dark.

You blinked, the sudden absence of his heat leaving a strange, chilly vacuum against your front. “Well,” you muttered to yourself, the word lost to a sudden surge in the music’s volume. “Ask and you shall receive, I guess.” You shifted your weight, the floor sticky beneath your boots. You’d gotten what you wanted—Mingi was finally out there, hopefully looking for someone to help him sweat out that foul mood—but the air felt thinner without him hovering over you. You shook the feeling off, rolling your shoulders to loosen the tension that had settled there.

Time to find Mr. Rhythm.

You scanned the crowd, squinting against the blinding flashes of violet and white. The club was a kaleidoscope of blurred faces and grinding hips. You spotted the VIP section, where a group was spraying champagne, the fine mist catching the light like diamonds. You looked toward the bar, then back toward the floor where you’d been earlier. There. About twenty feet away, near the speakers, you caught the back of a familiar head—the guy from before. He was already back at it, his hands on the hips of a girl in a red dress, moving with that same fluid, easy confidence.

You felt a sharp, unexpected prick of annoyance in your chest. That was fast.

You turned your head, searching for Mingi instead. You found him almost instantly. He wasn’t hard to miss. He was standing near the edge of the floor, and he wasn’t alone. A girl with long, dark hair had already gravitated toward him, her hand resting brazenly on his bicep as she shouted something into his ear. Mingi was leaning down, his ear inches from her lips, his expression unreadable. From this distance, he looked like a different person.

You stood there for a moment, glued to the edge of the mahogany table, your fingers tracing the ring of condensation Mingi had left behind.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. His hair was catching every flicker of the neon lights. The girl with the dark hair was closer now, her fingers hooked into the belt loop of his jeans, pulling herself into the narrow orbit of his space. Mingi didn’t push her away. He didn’t lean in, either. He just stood there, tall and terrifyingly still, his head tilted back as he looked down at her with an expression that was cold, and entirely unrecognisable. It felt like watching a stranger wear your best friend’s skin. The knot in your stomach tightened, a dull ache that had nothing to do with the alcohol you had.

“You look like you’re waiting for a crash.” The voice was slick, cutting through the electronic roar of the track. You turned your head, blinking against a sudden burst of violet light. A man was standing beside you, leaning one elbow on the table. He was older than the guy you’d been dancing with, wearing a crisp black button-down and a heavy silver signet ring on his pinky. He held two glasses—crystal tumblers filled with an amber liquid and a single, oversized cube of ice.

“I’m just watching the show,” you said, your voice raspy from the smoke and the shouting.

“That tall, blonde guy?” The stranger followed your gaze, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t wait for an answer before sliding one of the tumblers across the wood toward you. “He looks like he’s trying to set the room on fire. You look like you’re wondering if you should call the fire department.”

You looked at the drink. “I don’t take drinks from people I don’t know,” you said, though your hand moved toward the glass of its own accord. Your throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

“I’m Seongmin,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that didn’t need to strain against the music. He took a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “Now you know me. Drink it. It’s better than that bottom-shelf lager the blonde guy was chugging.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the glass. The condensation was biting, a shock of cold against your palm. You took a sip—it was a peaty, expensive Scotch that burned all the way down, lighting a small fire in your belly.

“Better?” he asked, stepping a fraction closer. He smelled of peppermint gum and expensive leather.

“Stronger,” you countered.

Seongmin leaned in, “Strong is what you look like you need,” he reached out, his movements fluid and deliberate, and tucked a damp lock of hair behind your ear. His fingertips were warm—dry and steady—lingering against the sensitive skin of your temple. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” you lied.

“Your shoulders are up to your ears.” He let his hand slide down, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before his palm settled heavily on the nape of your neck. It was a grounding weight, firm enough to make you still. “There. Better.”

Across the room, the violet strobe cut through the dark, illuminating Mingi. He wasn’t paying attention to the girl grinding on him anymore. He was looking straight at you. Even from twenty feet away, the intensity of his stare felt like a physical shove.

Seongmin noticed. He didn’t turn around to look, but his eyes narrowed as they tracked yours. A slow, predatory smile pulled at his mouth. “He’s very protective, isn’t he? Your... friend.”

“He’s just moody,” you snapped, turning your back on the dance floor to face Seongmin fully. The movement brought you deep into his space, the scent of leather and peppermint thickening. “He needs to mind his own business.”

“I agree.” Seongmin’s hand shifted from your neck to your waist, pulling you an inch closer. “You’re much too vibrant to be watched over like a child.” He took the glass from your hand, setting it behind him without breaking eye contact. Then, he took your wrist. He didn’t ask. He simply guided your hand up until your palm was flat against his chest, right over the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart. The silk of his black shirt was cool, but the body beneath it was searing. “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a question, your legs were already moving as he backed away, leading you by the wrist toward a darker corner of the floor, away from the main crush but directly into Mingi’s line of sight.

The music shifted—the aggressive EDM fading into a R&B track with a bass line that felt like velvet. Seongmin didn’t waste time with distance. He stepped into you, his thighs slotting between yours, his hands sliding down to rest low on your hips. He moved with a slow, grinding confidence that made the previous guy look like an amateur. He surged forward, forcing you to take a half-step back until your spine hit the padded velvet of a pillar. He followed, pinning you there with the weight of his body. His hands didn’t stay still; they wandered, one sliding up to bunch the fabric at your waist, the other reaching up to cup your face, his thumb pressing firmly into your lower lip.

“You have a very loud mouth,” he said, his voice a dark, amused rumble. “I wonder if it tastes as sharp as it sounds.”

You felt the heat of him everywhere. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the collar of his black shirt, intending to pull him closer. He tilted his head, his lips grazing the corner of yours—a dry, searing contact that sent a jolt of static electricity straight to your toes. You felt the heavy silver of his ring press into the soft skin behind your ear, a cold touch as he began to claim the space you’d so carelessly offered. His tongue flicked out, a ghost of a touch against the seam of your lips, tasting the salt and the lingering amber of the drink he’d given you.

Seongmin’s thumb didn’t just rest on your lip; it hooked into the corner of your mouth, dragging the sensitive skin downward to expose the damp gleam of your teeth. The bass of the R&B track vibrated through the velvet-padded pillar behind you, rattling your ribcage and syncing with the heavy, insistent thud of his heart against your palm.

He shifted his weight, his thigh high and hard between yours, pressing upward with a slow, agonizing deliberation. The friction of his suit trousers against your thinner fabric was a dry heat that made your breath hitch, hitching again when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles.

“Not so loud now,” he murmured. He leaned in, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. He didn't close the distance to your lips. Instead, he tilted his head, his nose grazing yours, trailing down to the sensitive dip of your cupid’s bow. He inhaled sharply, a ragged sound that vibrated in his chest.

“Your friend is burning a hole in the back of your head,” Seongmin whispered, his breath ghosting over your damp lips, tasting of the same amber liquor. “Do you care? Or are you too busy feeling me?”

His hand at your waist tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hip bone, pulling you flush against the rigid line of his belt. He began to move—a slow, rhythmic grind that was less about the music and more about the friction. Each roll of his hips was a calculated invasion, forcing you to arch your back against the pillar, your fingers twitching where they were trapped between your chests.

You tried to pull him closer by the collar, the silk bunching in your fist, but he resisted, holding his head just an inch back. He wanted you reaching. He wanted you strained. His tongue flicked out again, tracing the very edge of your upper lip, a teasing, wet velvet that left you shivering.

“Answer me,” he commanded, the ‘s’ lingering into a hiss. He punctuated the demand with a sudden, sharper surge of his hips.

The air in the corner was thick, stripped of oxygen and replaced by the scent of him and the heat of the crowd a few feet away. You could hear the muffled clink of glasses and the roar of the party, but here, pinned under his shadow, the only thing that mattered was the way his thumb was now sliding inside your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, claiming the silence you’d finally fallen into.

He watched your eyes blow wide, his own dark and heavy-lidded, tracking the way your throat worked as you swallowed around him.

Then, a shadow fell over both of you.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Mingi looked feral, his blonde hair damp and sticking to his temples, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. “She’s done.”

Seongmin didn’t let go. He didn’t even flinch. He just tilted his head, his thumb still depressing your bottom lip, exposing the pink dampness of the inside. “She looks like she’s just starting, actually. Maybe you should take the hint, kid. You’re the only one here who’s uncomfortable.”

Mingi stepped forward, his hand lashing out to grip Seongmin’s wrist. He didn’t just pull it away; he twisted, a low growl vibrating in his throat that was purely animal. “I said,” Mingi rasped, his face inches from Seongmin’s, his knuckles white where he held the older man’s wrist, “she’s done”. He didn’t look at you—he couldn’t. If he looked at you, he’d see the flush on your neck and the way your mouth was still parted from Seongmin’s touch, and he knew he’d lose the last thread of his sanity.

“I’m not finished,” you managed to get out, your voice sounding thin and breathy even to your own ears. The adrenaline was pulsing in your blood, caught between the slick, practiced heat of Seongmin and the raw, bleeding energy radiating off Mingi.

Mingi’s other hand found your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with a bruising force that made you gasp. He yanked you toward him, stumbling you out from between Seongmin and the pillar, tucking you firmly under the line of his shoulder. He was shaking—hard enough that you could feel the tremors through his clothes.

“Mingi, stop,” you hissed, grabbing his forearm. “You’re making a scene.”

“We’re leaving,” Mingi stated. “Now.”

Seongmin stepped forward again, ignoring Mingi’s posturing. He reached out, his fingers skimming down the line of your arm, just inches away from where Mingi was holding you. “If you want to finish,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours, ignoring the blonde man entirely, “I’ll be at the bar. Don’t let the noise hold you back.” He winked and turned on his heel, disappearing into the neon haze with a grace that made the rest of the club look clumsy.

The silence between you and Mingi was a living thing, more deafening than the music screaming from the rafters. He didn’t let go of you. He started walking, his pace aggressive, dragging you through the thicket of bodies. He didn’t care if he bumped into people; his shoulders were set in a hard, uncompromising line.

Mingi’s hand didn’t just stay on your wrist; he hiked it up, forcing your arm between your chests as he crowded you back against the mahogany bar. The wood bit into the small of your back. Around you, the club blurred into a frantic smear of neon, but Mingi was the only thing in high-definition—the sweat beading on his upper lip, the raw, dilated heat of his pupils.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, his voice jagged and loud enough to pierce the music. “Folding for some suit who looks like he’s scouting for a second wife? Are you actually that dense?”

You didn’t shrink away. You stepped into the suffocating radius of his space, poking a finger hard into his chest, right over his thundering heart. “I was just having fun until you decided to play the caveman!”

Mingi let out a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh that had no humour in it. He leaned down, his face so close you could see the frantic, rhythmic pulse in his temple. “Oh, I’m the caveman? You’re the one standing here wagging your tail for any guy with a silver ring and a line of bullshit.” He sneered, his eyes raking over you with a disdain that stung worse than any insult. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that? You told me to go get laid, telling me I’m ‘wound too tight’—but look at you.” He reached out, his hand moving too fast to track, his fingers hooking into the hair at the nape of your neck and tugging, just enough to force your chin up. His touch was electric and furious. “Look at you,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration that bypassed your ears and settled deep in your gut. “You’re practically begging for it. You’re flushed, you’re panting, and you’ve got his damn thumb-prints all over your face. Is that what you wanted? To see how long it would take for me to lose it?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you hissed, your breath hitching as his thumb swiped across your lower lip—hard, as if he were trying to scrub Seongmin’s touch right off your skin. “You don’t get to act like this.”

“I get to act however the fuck I want when I’m watching you throw yourself at a predator,” he growled. He stepped even closer, his thigh forcing its way between yours, pinning you firmly against the table. The friction of his denim against your skin was a shock. “You think he wanted to talk? You think he wanted to hear your ‘witty banter’? He wanted to see how easy it would be to get you into a car. And you were making it real damn easy for him.”

“He was a better dancer than you’ve been all night,” you taunted, the words slipping out before you could filter them, fuelled by the sting of his grip.

Mingi’s expression shifted—the anger didn’t fade, but it sharpened into something dark and concentrated. He didn’t yell this time. He leaned in until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, his chest heaving against yours. “A better dancer? Is that what this is? You want to be handled? You want someone to stop being ‘nice’ and just take what they want?”

His hand slid from your neck down to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft skin there, pulling you so flush against him. He wasn’t acting like a bodyguard anymore. He was acting like a man who had finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to break you.

“Tell me,” he rasped, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Do you want me to be like him? Do you want me to stop being your ‘best friend’ and start being the guy who puts his hands wherever he wants? Because I can be that guy, Y/N.” The neon light overhead flickered, casting a sickly violet strobing across Mingi’s face, turning his features into a series of jagged, angry shadows. He looked like he was vibrating, the sheer force of his irritation radiating off his skin in waves of dry heat.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that! You don’t own me!” you snarled, the words tasting like the peat and fire of cocktails and Scotch. Your pulse was a frantic hammer against your ribs. “You’ve been acting like this all night—like you have some kind of divine right to be pissed off just because I’m breathing the same air as other men.”

“I have every right!” Mingi barked, the sound cutting through the synth-heavy beat of the music. He didn’t flinch as a group of clubbers squeezed past, his world narrowed down to the few inches of charged air between your faces. His blonde hair was a ruined mess, damp strands clinging to his forehead, and his eyes were wild—blown wide and dark, searching yours for a shred of the loyalty he thought he possessed.

“Based on what?” you challenged, stepping into him until your chest heaved against the solid, unyielding plane of his. “Based on a decade of friendship? Friends don’t act like this! Friends don’t suffocate each other! They don’t play the jealous watchdog every time someone looks my way!”

Mingi’s laugh was a jagged, ugly sound that started deep in his throat and ended in a sneer. He let go of you, but any hope of space vanished as he slammed both palms onto the mahogany table behind you. The wood groaned under the impact. He leaned in, his large frame creating a cage of heat and muscle, effectively pinning you against the bar.

“Friends?” the word dripped with a bitter, metallic irony that made your stomach flip. “Is that what we’re sticking with? Is that what we were three months ago?” He lowered his head, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and smelling of the beer he’d used to try and drown his temper. His eyes dropped to your mouth, tracking the frantic movement of your breathing with a terrifying, singular focus. “Was I just a ‘friend’ when you spent three hours screaming my name in my apartment because you couldn’t get enough of me? When you had your nails buried in my back, begging me not to stop?”

The air left your lungs in a silent rush. The memory hit you—the smell of rain on his skin that night, the way the floorboards had groaned under the weight of the two of you, the desperate, fumbling heat of a “mistake” you’d both agreed to bury under a mountain of “it was just the drinks” and “we’re fine.”

“Oh, you’re going to bring that up now?” you breathed, your hands coming up to his chest to push him back, but your fingers only curled into the damp fabric of his shirt. “We agreed, Mingi! We sat on your living room floor and promised it was a mistake! We shook on it! You don’t get to keep that in your back pocket like a fucking weapon just because you’re having a bad night! So shut the fuck up!”

“I won’t,” he growled, his hand moving from the table to catch your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into the hinge of your bone. It wasn’t a gentle touch. “You don’t get to go back to ‘friends’ because it’s convenient! You think I can just watch that suit touch you and not want to rip his hands off?” His grip on your jaw tightened just a fraction, his eyes dark with a desperate, starving hunger.

“We said that didn’t count! We agreed. It was a one-time thing. It was a slip-up!”

“You call the way you clutched at my back a ‘slip-up’? The way you begged me not to stop? That’s a hell of a lot of effort for a ‘slip-up,’ baby.”

“Don’t call me that!” You hissed, your vision blurring with a mix of heat and pure, unadulterated rage. “You’re just pissed because you can’t control me. You’re acting like I’m some prize you won three months ago and now you’re mad someone else is looking at the trophy.”

Mingi’s hand slammed against the table next to your hip, the wood groaning under the impact. The sound was a gunshot in the dark. “I don’t want a fucking trophy! It’s not the first time I call you ‘baby’, and you damn well know it wasn’t just a ‘slip-up’ for me.” Mingi roared, his composure finally snapping. “It’s been three months of me watching you pretend it never happened! Three months of me watching you smile at other guys while I can still feel the way your skin felt under my hands.” He was shaking now, his hands white-knuckled against the mahogany. The subtext was gone; the ugly, beautiful truth was laid bare between you, more neon and loud than anything in the club.

“You want me to go get laid?” he barked, his voice a jagged, ugly thing. “Fine. Give me a name, Y/N. Who should I go fuck tonight to make you feel better about being a coward? Should I find some random bitch at the bar who doesn’t mind being seen in public with me? Someone who isn’t busy playing ‘best friend’ while she’s still got the ghost of my hand on her thigh?”

He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his eyes bloodshot and burning with a terrifying, charcoal-dark intensity.

“Because that’s what this is, right? A game?” He let out a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh. “You have the fucking audacity to tell me to go find another girl. Like I can just turn it off. Like I haven’t spent every goddamn night remembering exactly how you taste.”

“Mingi, stop—”

“Stop what? Telling the truth?” He slammed his hand against the table next to your hip, the wood groaning. “You’re pathetic. You’re so scared of what we are that you’d rather see me balls-deep in some stranger than admit you belong to me. Is that it? Does it make you feel ‘safe’ to think of me with someone else?”

He grabbed the edge of the bar, pinning you in, his breath hot and smelling of bitter resentment.

“Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll go back down there, find the loudest girl in the club, and fuck the memory of you right out of my head. I’ll tell her to scream your name so I don’t forget who I’m trying to replace. Would you like that? Should I give you a play-by-play tomorrow morning while we’re having our ‘friendly’ coffee? Should I tell you if she’s tighter than you were?”

The words were a physical assault, a cruel, calculated attempt to draw blood. He was weaponising the intimacy you’d shared, dragging it through the dirt just to see you flinch.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, venomous crawl. “You’re a liar and a coward, and you’re so desperate to keep this ‘friendship’ alive that you’re willing to watch me bleed out right in front of you.”

The slap wasn’t a choice; it was an explosion.

Your palm connected with his cheek with a violent, stinging crack that seemed to suck the air out of the room. The force of it snapped his head to the side, his blonde hair falling over his eyes as he went deathly still.

Silence stretched between you, a taut, vibrating wire.

Slowly, Mingi turned his face back to you. The imprint of your fingers was blooming a dark, angry red against his pale skin. He didn’t look hurt. He looked unhinged. A dark, terrifying smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth—the look of a man who had finally stopped trying to be the “good friend.”

“I was wondering when you’d stop pretending to be ‘fine’.”

The air in the club was suddenly too thick to breathe, a humid soup of Mingi’s possessiveness and the ghost of a memory you’d both tried to bury under layers of “best friends” bullshit.

“Now, tell me again. Tell me to go find someone else. Look me in the eye and tell me you want another man’s hands on you after what we did.”

You shoved at his chest—hard—and this time he let you, his hands sliding off the mahogany with a jagged scrape. You didn’t say a word. You turned and bolted for the exit, the heavy bass chasing you like a heartbeat until the steel doors hissed shut behind you.

The parking lot was lit by the buzzing, sickly orange glow of lamps. The air was bitingly cold, snapping at the sweat on your skin, but it wasn’t enough to cool the furnace in your blood. You were halfway to the taxi zone when the heavy thud of the club doors swinging open again echoed off the asphalt.

“Don’t you fucking walk away from me!” Mingi’s voice cracked the silence of the night.

You spun around, your heels clicking sharply against the oil-stained ground. “Or what, Mingi? What the fuck are you going to do? Pin me against another table? Remind me again how I sounded three months ago?” Your voice rose, trembling with a mix of fury and the terrifying realisation that the walls you’d built were crumbling. “You don’t get to use that! That was—that was a mistake! We said it was a mistake!”

Mingi didn’t stop. He ate up the distance between you with rushed strides. He reached you in seconds, his hand lashing out to catch your upper arm, spinning you around so hard you stumbled into the side of a parked SUV. The metal was freezing against your shoulder blades.

“A mistake?” He threw the word back at you like a slur. He slammed his hand against the car next to your head, the thump of palm on metal loud enough to make you flinch. “Is that what you call it when I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you? Is it a ‘mistake’ that I can’t look at another woman without wishing she had your eyes?”

“Stop,” you breathed, but your hands weren’t pushing him away anymore.

“No,” he rasped, his face dropping until his nose was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath a searing brand against your skin. “You want me to act like I don’t give a shit who touches you? I can’t do it. I’m fucking done pretending.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were no longer chocolate; they were charcoal, burning with a hunger that made Seongmin’s interest look like a polite suggestion. “Tell me it was a mistake again,” he challenged, “Tell me you didn’t feel the way my hands were on you. Tell me you want that suit back here instead of me.” His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He didn’t wait for your answer. He leaned in, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from yours, the tension so thick it felt like it would shatter the glass in the windows around you. “Say it,” he whispered against your lips. “Lie to me.”

“You have no right to be this angry! You agreed to the silence! You looked me in the eye over coffee the next morning and said, ‘Let’s just be us again’ It’s you who lied!”

“I didn’t lie! I tried! I tried to be ‘us’ again. I tried to watch movies with you and not think about the way we kissed. I tried to listen to you talk about work and not remember the way you moaned when I was inside you!” He let out a harsh, guttural breath, his eyes wild and shimmering with a frustrated heat. “But then you walk into a club looking like that. You spend the whole night grinding against some strangers, looking back at me like you’re daring me to say something. And then you have the fucking nerve to tell me I need to get laid? Like I haven’t been starving for three months because I’m stuck in ‘best friend’ purgatory?”

“I didn’t ask you to wait!” your voice trembled with a mix of fury and a terrifying, rising ache in your chest. “If you wanted me, you should have said something! You should have stopped me from leaving that morning! But you just fucking sat there and let me walk out!”

“Because I was terrified! I was terrified that if I reached for you, I’d lose the only person who actually knows me. I thought I could handle being your friend. I thought I could watch you date and smile and be happy. But tonight? Seeing his hands on you?” He leaned down, his forehead thumping against yours with a dull, desperate thud. His breath was hot, smelling of malt and obsession. “It felt like someone was ripping my ribs out of my chest,” he whispered, the anger turning into something far more dangerous—honesty. “I’m done, baby. I’m done pretending. I’m a fucking wreck. Are you happy now? Is this the ‘fun’ you wanted me to have?”

You felt the heat of him radiating through your clothes, the violent rhythm of his heart drumming against your own ribs. Your hands, which had been balled into fists against his chest, slowly unfurled, your fingers clutching at the damp fabric of his shirt.

The silence of the parking lot was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the club and the ragged hitch of Mingi’s breath against your mouth. The cold air nipped at your damp skin, but where your bodies pressed together, the heat was suffocating.

“I’m not happy,” you whispered, your voice cracking as the last of your defensive anger dissolved into a jagged, aching vulnerability. “I'm exhausted, Mingi. I’ve been waiting for you to say something. Anything.”

Mingi’s hands, which had been bruising your hips, suddenly shifted. One slid up the curve of your spine, his palm flat and searing, while the other tangled deep into the hair at the base of your skull, tilting your head back until you were forced to meet the raw, unmasked hunger in his eyes. He didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

“You want me to say it?” he rasped, his lips brushing yours with every word, a torture of near-contact. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the second I woke up that morning and saw you curled by my side. I wanted to pull you closer and never let the sun come up.” He leaned in, his nose sliding against yours, his grip tightening until you were fused to the cold metal of the SUV. “I don’t want to be your ‘friend’ tonight, I don’t want to be the guy who vets your dates or buys you a beer while you dance with someone else. I want to be the reason you can’t walk tomorrow. I want to be the only name you can remember.”

He paused, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch heavy and possessive. “Tell me to stop. Right now. Tell me you want the ‘best friend’ back, and I’ll walk away. I’ll go find that girl. I’ll do exactly what you told me to do.”

You looked at him—at the damp platinum hair, the red mark of your palm still burning on his cheek, the intensity of his stare—and felt the last of your resolve shatter. You couldn’t tell him to stop. Instead, you arched your back, pulling his hips flush against yours, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. “Don’t go.”

Mingi didn’t give you a chance to change your mind. He crashed his mouth against yours, the contact violent and desperate, a collision of three months of starved silence. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a reclamation. His tongue demanding entry as he groaned deep in his throat—a sound of pure relief. His hands were everywhere—clutching your waist, hiking up the hem of your dress, his skin a brand against yours. He backed you harder into the car, the suspension creaking under the weight of his aggression. He kissed you like he was trying to breathe you in, like he was trying to erase the ghost of every other hand that had touched you. It was messy, teeth clashing, the salt of your sweat mixing as he tilted your head back at a sharp angle to get deeper, hungrier. You didn’t fight him. You were kissing him back with the same pent-up rage. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in those blonde, sweat-damp strands, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a molecule of air left between your bodies.

“Min—” you whimpered into his mouth, the name broken and small.

His large hand slid down from your face, his fingers pug your dress higher, knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your tight. He broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breath scalding your skin. He bit—not a nip, but a sharp, possessive mark, making you arch your back and cry out into the empty parking lot. His hands were everywhere now, frantic and heavy, mapping the curves he’d spent days trying to forget.

“Mine,” he muttered against your skin, his voice a dark, fractured thing. “You’re mine.”

The metal of the SUV groaned as Mingi surged forward, his body crushing you into the side of the car. He didn’t just hold your leg; he hiked it higher, his forearm hooking under the crook of your knee to pull you flush against the hard, frantic line of his hips. The friction of his denim against your bare inner thigh was a jolt of pure electricity, a rough, grounding contrast to the slick, desperate heat of his mouth. Mingi’s grip on your thighs tightened until his knuckles went white, his fingers sinking into your skin with a bruising, territorial force that made you let out a sharp, jagged gasp. He didn’t care about the bruises he was leaving; he wanted you to feel every ounce of hunger he’d been choking back.

“Say it,” he growled, his voice vibrating against the sensitive cord of your neck. He didn’t wait for you to speak, his teeth grazing the skin he’d just bitten, soothing and then stinging again. “Tell me you’re mine before I lose my fucking mind.” His free hand, the one not holding your leg, didn’t stay still. It slid upward, the tips of his fingers dragging over the silk of your dress, bunching the fabric until he found the damp, heated skin of your waist. He didn’t stop there. He pushed the material higher, his palm sliding over your ribs with a possessive, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch in a series of broken stammers. He moved his hand from your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of his own jeans with a frantic, clumsy desperation. He broke away from your neck, his face flushed, his eyes dark and blown out with a hunger that was terrifyingly beautiful.

“Say it,” he growled again, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register as he ground his hips into yours. You felt the hard, insistent length of his cock through his clothes. The friction was a white-hot spark against your core, the heavy, rigid length of him pressing through the thin silk of your dress with an uncompromising demand. “I want to hear you admit what a fucking liar you’ve been. Tell me you’re mine before I fuck the memory of that other prick out of your head right here on the street.”

Your head thrashed back against the cold glass of the car window, a low, desperate whine vibrating in your throat. “Min… Please… It’s you. I promise it’s you.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he hissed, his mouth crashing onto the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his pupils so dilated they swallowed the gold of his irises. “I don’t want ‘it’s you.’ I want you to say the words. Tell me you’re my slut. Tell me you’ve been sitting across from me for months dreaming about me pinning you down like this.”

He didn’t wait for your answer. He let go of one of your legs, his hand diving between your bodies to finish what he’d started with his jeans. You heard the harsh, metallic zip of his fly—a sound that felt like a death knell for your dignity. He didn’t think about a condom; he didn’t even slow down. He grabbed his own length, his other hand bluntly and impatiently pulling the lace of your panties to the side.

Mingi guided himself to the soaking, frantic heat of your entrance. The feel of him—thick, hot, and uncompromisingly hard—pressing against your opening made your vision spark. He wasn’t entering you yet, but he was right there, the blunt head of him sliding through the slickness you’d made for him, teasing the very edge of the abyss.

“Look at you,” he taunted, his breath hitching as he felt how ready you were. “Leaking like a fucking sink for me while you were telling yourself we were ‘just friends’ ten minutes ago. You’re so desperate for me you don’t even care who sees.” He hiked your leg higher, his forearm pressing into the glass behind your head to steady himself. He leaned in until his nose was brushing yours. “I’m going to stretch you out so wide you won’t be able to walk back into that club,” he promised, his hips twitching in a slow, shallow thrust that tested your limits. “I’m going to fill you with so much of me that you’ll smell like me for a week. Now, tell me who you belong to before I take it.”

“Min, someone... someone might—”

“Let them fucking look,” he rasped, his voice a jagged edge. He didn’t care about the yellow wash of the street lamps or the muffled, rhythmic thump of the club doors.

“Min… stop,” you gasped, your fingers trembling as you shoved against the hard wall of his chest, trying to find a single inch of air. “Not here. Take me… take me home. Please.”

He didn’t let go. If anything, he pressed closer. “Take you home?” he leaned in until his lips were grazing yours, his teeth bared in a jagged sneer. “What, you worried that suit might walk out and see you getting exactly what you’ve been begging for? You want to be a lady now?”

"No, I just— Not here,” you gasped, “Mingi, please... not on the street. Take me home. Just—get me home.” You were breathless, your voice a ragged thread of sound that broke against his lips. You didn’t pull away; instead, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the salt, the expensive cologne, and the raw, terrifying heat of him. You bit down on the corded tendon of his shoulder, a sharp, desperate nip that was less about pain and more a wordless, frantic plea.

Mingi let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, his forehead thumping against the car window with a dull thud as he fought the urge to just sink into you right there. He stayed pinned against you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving in sync with yours.

The silence of the alleyway seemed to roar in his ears. Slowly, the haze in his eyes cleared just enough for him to see the way you were shaking in his arms—not just from the cold, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of him. With a sharp, frustrated exhale, he snapped. He pulled back abruptly, his hands leaving your skin so suddenly you nearly stumbled. “Home,” he nodded slowly, the word sounding like a vow.

He didn’t drop you gently. He slid you down the side of the car, his hands never leaving your waist, his thumbs digging into your hip bones to keep you steady as your heels hit the pavement. His eyes were dark, almost black in the orange glow of the streetlamp, tracking the way your chest rose and fell. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he jerked your dress back down, smoothing the fabric over your thighs with a possessive, territorial rough-handedness.

“Don’t move,” he stepped back just far enough to fumble with his zipper, his movements jagged and impatient. He didn’t look toward the club; he looked toward the street, his arm shooting up the second he spotted the yellow glow of a taxi rounding the corner two blocks away.

He didn’t wait for it to reach you. He started walking toward the edge of the curb, his hand locked around your wrist, pulling you behind him with a singular, focused gravity. He was a different person—harder, faster, his shoulders set in a line that warned the world to stay the hell away. The taxi screeched to a halt, the driver barely having time to put it in park before Mingi yanked the back door open. He practically folded you into the seat, his body following yours so closely that you were pinned against the far door before he’d even slammed the car shut.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Mingi gave his address, his voice dropping an octave, his hand already finding your thigh under the cover of the shadows. He didn’t care about the driver. He didn’t care about the neon lights of the city blurring past the window. He leaned over you, his hand sliding up your leg to bunch the fabric of your dress back toward your hips, his eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying, beautiful promise.

The interior of the taxi was a cramped, vinyl-scented capsule, the orange glow of the street lamps strobing across Mingi’s face in rhythmic, violent flashes. The driver hummed some mindless radio tune, oblivious to the fact that the air in the backseat was thick enough to choke on.

Mingi didn’t waste a second. He shifted, pinning you against the far door, his thigh slotting between yours to keep them spread. He looked out the window, his jaw set in a hard, protruding line of feigned indifference for the driver’s benefit, but his hand was doing something entirely different. His fingers hooked into the hem of your dress, the fabric sliding up your skin with a dry, rasping sound. He didn’t stop until his knuckles bumped against the damp lace of your underwear. You let out a soft, broken hitch of a breath, your head falling back against the window as the cool glass met your burning skin.

“Mingi,” you breathed, a warning and a plea rolled into one.

“Shh,” he rasped, finally turning his head to look at you. “You wanted to go home. We’re going. But I’m not stopping.”

He slid his hand beneath the lace, his palm cupping you with a sudden, bruising heat. You buckled against him, your fingers digging into the denim of his thighs. The taxi hit a pothole, jouncing the cabin, and Mingi used the momentum to drive his palm harder against you. He didn’t just slide his fingers in; he paused at the threshold, the tips of his fingers merely fluttering against the soaked silk of your underwear. He began to stroke you—just a feather-light touch at first, a torturous promise—before his fingers dipped lower, finding the slick, aching heat you’d been hiding all night. Your head hit the headrest, a choked-back moan dying in your throat. You could feel the vibration of the car’s engine beneath you, but it was nothing compared to the violent thrumming of Mingi’s heart against your shoulder.

“Look at this,” he whispered, his voice thick with a terrifying sort of triumph. He shifted his hand, bringing his damp fingers up between your faces so you could see the shimmer of yourself on his skin in the passing glow of a streetlamp. “All that talk about being ‘friends’ and ‘slip-ups,’ and you’re leaking for me in the back of a fucking taxi.” He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his scent—sharp, masculine, and intoxicating—filling your head. He slid one finger in, just past the first knuckle, hooking it upward. You let out a strangled, high-pitched whimper, your hips jerking upward in a desperate search for friction. “You wanted me to put these hands on a stranger? To make her feel like this?” He pulled his finger back out until he was barely there. He did it again. And again. A rhythmic, shallow teasing that was ten times worse than the frantic grinding in the parking lot. He was reclaiming you, inch by agonising inch.

“You like that?” he rasped, his thumb catching your clit and pinning it with a heavy, steady pressure that made your vision go white at the edges. “I bet that suit didn’t even get close enough to know how sensitive you are right here. He didn’t know that if I press just like this, you start shaking, did he?” He began to move in a slow, torturous rhythm—not fast enough to bring you to the edge, but deep enough to keep the ache in your lower belly twisting into a tight knot. Every time you tried to buck against him to speed him up, he’d still his hand, or pull back entirely until you were whimpering for him to continue.

“Please,” you sobbed into his neck, your fingers digging so hard into his shoulders you were sure you’d leave marks.

“Please what, baby? Please stop?” He nipped at the skin of your throat, his fingers stretching you open as he added a second digit, sliding it in alongside the first with a deliberate, slow friction. “Or please don’t stop because you’ve been thinking about this as much as I have? Tell me the truth. While you were dancing with him, were you wondering if he’d touch you like this? Were you wondering if he knew how to make you fall apart?” He increased the pace just a fraction, his knuckles rubbing against your inner thigh, the heavy silver of his rings a cold, hard contrast to the blistering heat of your body. You were melting, your breath coming in shallow, frantic hitches as the pressure built, centring right where his thumb was grinding.

“You aren’t finishing in the back of a Prius. You’re going to wait until we’re home. You’re going to wait until I can hear you moaning my name,” he looked out the window as the taxi pulled up to the curb of his apartment building. He didn’t move his hand until the car came to a full stop. Then, with one final, deep thrust that drew a sob from your throat, he withdrew, the sudden loss of heat and pressure making you feel dizzy. He wiped his fingers on the seat beside him—or perhaps your dress, you couldn’t tell—payed the driver, and leaned over to open the door, his eyes burning with a promise that made the taxi ride feel like a mere appetiser.

“Out,” he ordered, his eyes dark with a promise that made your knees feel like water. “I’m done teasing.”

The lobby was a blur of marble and hushed silence, a stark contrast to the war zone in the back of the taxi. Mingi didn’t let go of your wrist, his stride long and jagged as he hauled you toward the elevators. His knuckles were still damp, the scent of you clinging to his skin, and he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze devoured the curve of your throat.

The chime of the elevator felt like a starter pistol. The doors slid shut with a heavy, mechanical sigh, sealing the two of you into a mirrored box of brushed steel. Mingi slammed his palm against the button for the 12th floor and then immediately pivoted, his arm lashing out to pin you against the handrail. The elevator jolted upward, the sudden gravity pulling your stomach into your throat, but Mingi’s weight was the only thing keeping you upright.

“Twelve floors,” he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating growl that echoed off the metal walls. “You have exactly twelve floors before I have you behind a locked door.”

His hand slid up from your waist, his palm flat and heavy against your ribs. His fingers splayed wide as he reached the underside of your breast. He squeezed—not a gentle caress, but a firm, possessive claim that made you gasp, your head thumping back against the mirrored wall. He leaned down, his teeth nipping at the sensitive junction where your neck met your shoulder, his tongue licking the sting away a second later.

His other hand dived low, his fingers hooking into the hem of your dress and yanking it up to your hips. He didn’t care about the security camera in the corner. He shoved his knee between your thighs, forcing them apart, his hand sliding over the silk of your underwear to find the heat he’d left behind in the taxi. He began to rub, a slow, heavy friction that made your knees buckle. “Look at yourself,” he commanded, nodding toward the mirrors.

You looked and saw the wreckage of your hair, the flush climbing up your chest, and Mingi—towering over you, his blonde hair a mess, his large hand disappearing between your legs.

“Floor six,” he whispered against your ear, his breath scalding. His thumb find your nipple through the dress and pinched, a sharp bolt of pleasure-pain that made you cry out. He caught the sound in his own mouth, kissing you with a bruising, desperate hunger that tasted of beer and obsession. His hands were a frantic map, sliding from the swell of your breasts down to the soft meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin.

“Floor nine,” he groaned into the hollow of your throat, his hand sliding back down to grip your thigh, hitching it up around his waist so he could grind his dressed hardness against your core. The friction was a slow-motion torture that had you sobbing his name into the quiet hum of the elevator.

The chime for the 12th floor was the loudest sound you’d ever heard. The doors slid open. Mingi didn’t let you down. He kept your leg hooked around his hip, his arm a steel band around your waist as he practically carried you down the hall, his keys already out and jingling with a frantic, metallic rhythm. He fumbled with the keys, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches that rattled in his chest. The lock clicked and he kicked the door open, dragging you inside into the pitch-black entryway. He didn’t turn on the lights and slammed the door shut behind you, the boom echoing through the empty apartment, and in the same motion, he shoved you back against it. The wood was solid and unforgiving against your spine, a cold shock that lasted only a second before Mingi’s heat incinerated it. He dropped his weight into you, his forearms slamming against the door on either side of your head, pinning you in the narrow dark. The only light came from the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, casting his silhouette in a jagged, silver outline. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. He reached down, his hands catching the hem of your dress and yanking it up past your hips, the fabric bunching around your waist in a frantic, messy pile. His palms were scorching, his skin a brand against your thighs as he hiked your legs up, his strong arms hooking under your knees to lift you off the floor.

You let out a broken gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the material of his shirt for balance. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels locking behind his back, pulling him flush against the aching, empty core. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. He didn’t kiss you; he claimed you.

“I’ve spent three months staring at this door, remembering the way you looked when you walked through it the last time. I’m not letting you go until I’ve had every fucking inch of you.”

He shifted his grip, one hand staying under your thigh while the other moved to his jeans, the metallic rasp of his zipper sounding like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. He was shaking—you could feel the tremors in his muscles, the raw, unhinged desperation of a man who had reached his absolute limit. When he adjusted his grip on your thighs and surged forward, the air didn’t just leave your lungs—it was stolen.

His cock was massive. A blunt, heavy intrusion that felt like he was rearranging the very architecture of your body. The initial stretch was a sharp, searing sting, a fire that made your eyes snap wide and your breath hitch into a tight, jagged sob. It was too much; it was the physical manifestation of ninety days of starved silence suddenly demanding entry all at once.

“Mingi—wait,” you wheezed, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, your knuckles white as you tried to find your bearings.

“No,” he growled, the word a dark, guttural vibration against the sensitive cord of your throat. He didn’t pull back. He stayed buried deep to the absolute hilt, his forehead thumping against the door next to your ear as he fought the urge to just cum right then. His muscles were coiling like overwound springs, his skin radiator-hot against yours. “Don’t you dare tell me to wait,” his teeth grazed your earlobe with a threatening pressure. “You’ve made me wait for three fucking months. So now, you’re going to take every bit of this.”

He didn’t ease you into it. He began to move—a shallow, punishing rhythm that forced your head back against the wood. Every strike was a blunt-force, pleasure and pain, the sting began to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache, a fullness that radiated from your core to your toes. You let out a long, shaky moan, your hips tilting instinctively to take more of him. Your hands, frantic and clumsy with adrenaline, fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, your fingernails grazing the damp, hard heat of his chest. You needed him closer. You needed the barrier of the fabric gone. As the shirt fell open, you pressed your palms against his bare skin, feeling the violent gallop of his heart.

“Take it off,” you whimpered into the hollow of his neck, your teeth catching on his skin. “Min, please.”

He let out a sound that was purely animal. He didn’t take the shirt off; he simply ripped it back, the buttons popping and skittering across the hardwood floor like hail. He caught your face in his hand, his thumb digging into your cheek as he kissed you—a messy, desperate collision of tongues and teeth that tasted of salt and obsession.

He hammered into you, his thrusts deep and punishing, pinning you against the door with a force that made the hinges groan. Every impact sent a shockwave through your frame, your head knocking back against the wood in time with his movements. The pain was gone, incinerated by a white-hot friction that made your vision blur into streaks.

Mingi pulled back just an inch, his eyes raking over the silk fabric of your dress. He didn’t reach for a zipper at the side. He didn’t look for a seam. He hooked his large fingers into the delicate neckline and pulled. The sound of the silk shredding was a sharp, violent protest in the quiet hallway. He hauled the fabric down, the material bunching around your waist and then falling to the floor in a ruined, expensive heap. He didn’t stop until you were completely exposed to the cool air of the apartment, your skin pale and shivering under the harsh focus of his gaze. He grabbed your waist again, his thumbs digging into your hip bones as he slammed you back against the door. Without the silk as a barrier, the contact was electric.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped, the words broken and guttural, hissed into the sensitive shell of your ear. “Fucking killing me... how much you want this.” His hand moved to your breast, his palm heavy and possessive, thumb catching your sensitive nipple and rolling it with a bruising pressure that made you cry out. Mingi couldn’t care less about the noise. He didn’t care about the neighbours or the world outside. He was focused entirely on the way you were breaking around him, the way your legs were locked around his waist, your heels drumming against the small of his back.

His pace became frantic, a blurring, heavy friction that pushed you toward a ledge you weren’t ready for. He was growling now, his breath coming in ragged, wet hitches, his mouth against your cheek as he felt the first tremors of your climax begin to ripple through you.

“Look at me.” You opened your eyes, your vision swimming with tears and pleasure. Even in the dark, his eyes were burning, fixed on yours with a terrifying, singular focus. “Tell me,” he gasped, his pace quickening, his chest heaving against yours until you could feel the frantic gallop of his heart. “Tell me who’s inside you. Say the name.”

“Mingi,” you sobbed, the name a shattered, breathless thing as you gripped his hair, pulling his face closer. You couldn’t even think; the sheer, thick volume of him was filling every corner of your consciousness, stretching you until you felt like you might split apart from the pleasure of it. “It’s you.”

He didn’t stop. His pace was a heavy, wet rhythm that echoed through the apartment. Each thrust was a blunt-force, pinning you so hard against the door that the wood vibrated against your shoulder blades. “Say it again,” he growled, his teeth bared, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose onto your cheek. “Tell me whose you are.”

“Yours,” you moaned, your hips buckling, chasing the friction as the pressure behind your navel tightened. “Mingi, I’m yours. Please—I’m close. I’m so close.”

His breath hitched, a jagged, guttural sound as his own control finally disintegrated. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his muscles corded like steel cables under your palms. He was trembling violently, his thrusts reaching a shallow speed that told you he was right on the precipice. “Where?” he rasped, the word barely a whisper, thick with a desperate urgency. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left white imprints on your skin. “Where do you want it? Tell me where, baby, before I lose it.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in as if you could pull him into your very soul. “Inside,” you choked out, your voice dropping to a raw, pleading whimper. “Inside me, give it all to me. Fill me up.”

The permission was the final blow. Mingi let out a low, primal roar that vibrated through your entire chest cavity. He surged forward one last time, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and stalled there. His entire body locked up, his head snapping back as he came, the sheer force of it pulsing through him in heavy, rhythmic waves. You felt the blistering heat of him flooding you—a thick, relentless spill that made your own walls contract in a violent, cascading climax. You cried out, your voice dying in your throat as your vision sparked with silver, your body sagging against him as the world tilted and dissolved.

For a long minute, the only sound in the entryway was the ragged, sobbing hitch of your combined breathing. Mingi stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against the door, his chest heaving as if he’d just survived a wreck. He didn’t move, holding you up as the mess of him began to trickle down your skin.

Slowly, he pulled his head back, his eyes searching yours in the dim silver light. He kissed you, his lips lingering as he let your legs slide down his body until your feet touched the floor.

Your legs were liquid, useless stalks of flax that buckled the moment your heels touched the hardwood. You would have crumpled right there in the entryway, amidst the ruins of your dress, his shirt and the lingering scent of sex. But Mingi didn’t let you fall. He caught you, his large hands clamping under your armpits with a strength that felt more like a crane than a caress.

He didn’t lead you. He hauled you up, his arm hooking under your knees and his other hand bracing your back. You were a dead weight against his bare, sweat-slicked chest, your head lolling against his shoulder as the hallway blurred past.

He reached the threshold of the bedroom and tossed you. You hit the mattress with a heavy whump, the air huffing out of your lungs as you bounced once, twice, before settling into the tangled, dark sheets. The bed smelled faintly of him but it was quickly being overwhelmed by the scent of the two of you, salt and sex.

Mingi didn’t join you immediately. He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette against the moonlight, his chest heaving as he stared down at you. He looked like a man who had just won a war and didn’t know what to do with the prisoner. He kicked off his boots, the heavy thuds echoing like stones hitting a grave, and then his hands went to his jeans.

“You think that was it?” he stripped the rest of his clothes off with a violent, impatient efficiency, throwing them toward the corner without looking. “You think I’m just going to let you sleep after what you did tonight?”

He reached out, his hand wrapping around your ankle with a grip that felt like an iron shackle. He unbuckled the delicate straps of your heels and tossed them aside like they were trash. Then, he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping dangerously under his weight. He didn’t come at you from the side; he moved over you like a shadow, his knees pinning your thighs down, his hands catching your wrists and pinning them above your head.

He was still hard—viciously so—the evidence of his release in the hallway still glistening on his skin. He looked down at you, his blonde hair falling over his eyes, his expression stripped of every ounce of the “best friend” mask.

“I’m going to make you stay awake until you can’t even remember that prick’s name,” he hissed, his face dropping until his nose was an inch from yours. “I'm going to mark every inch of skin he even thought about looking at.” He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties—the ones that were a soaked from your slick and his cum, a ripped mess from how he pushed them aside in the hallway with too much force. Mingi didn’t slide them down your legs. He buried his knuckles into your hip bones and ripped them. The sound of the lace tearing was a sharp, final punctuation. He shredded the fabric, pulling the scraps away and throwing them into the dark behind him. He dived down, his mouth catching your breast with a hunger that was borderline painful, his tongue swirling around the peak while his other hand slid down, his fingers spreading your folds open with a rough focus. You were still sensitive, still pulsing, and the sudden, heavy contact made you cry out, your hips jerking upward in a frantic, uncoordinated search for release.

“Min, please—”

“I told you,” he growled, his voice vibrating against your skin. “Don’t fucking ‘Min’ me. You wanted this version of me? You wanted the guy who needs to ‘get laid’? You’ve got him. At the club you had a lot of advice for me, didn’t you? You told me I was ‘wound too tight.’ You told me exactly what I needed to fix my mood.”

He let out a low, dark chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes.

“What were the words, baby? ‘Your dick needs a good sucking’?” He threw the phrase back at you like a slur, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before hooking into your mouth, forcing your lips open. “You were so worried about my stress levels. So eager to find me a ‘victim’ to take care of it,” he hissed. “Well, the victim’s right here, and I’m still wound pretty fucking tight. So, since you’re such an expert on what I need, why don’t you show me? No more talk. Do exactly what you said I needed.”

He didn’t wait for you to move on your own. He grabbed your waist and hauled you off the bed, his movements jerky and impatient. “On your knees, use that fucking mouth for something other than lying to me,” he commanded, “I want to hear you choke on every word you said tonight.”

Mingi didn’t sit back to enjoy the view. He stood over you, his legs braced wide. His hand didn’t just rest on your head; it clamped into your hair, his knuckles scraping against your scalp as he forced your face forward. “Do it,” he hissed, the word a serrated edge in the quiet room. “Show me exactly how you’d take care of a stranger. Show me what you were going to offer that suit.”

When you finally took his cock into your mouth, the sheer, thick volume of him was shocking. Your jaw ached instantly, the muscles straining to accommodate the heavy, pulsing heat of him. You started slow, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt and the lingering, raw scent of the night, but Mingi wasn’t interested in a slow burn. He groaned—a low, guttural vibration that you felt in your teeth—and his grip in your hair tightened until your eyes watered. You leaned in further, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base of him, the scent of his skin—musk, sweat, and adrenaline—filling your lungs until you were lightheaded. You were drooling, the slick moisture running down your chin and dripping, but you didn’t pull away.

“Suck it,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a dark, demeaning rasp. “Like you’ve been starving for it.”

He didn’t wait for you to find a rhythm. He began to move his hips, a slow, rhythmic surge that forced you to swallow him deeper. Every time you tried to pull back for air, his hand at the back of your head became a vice, slamming you back forward. He was fucking your throat, his thrusts reaching a shallow speed that triggered your gag reflex, making your chest heave against his thighs. You were choking, a muffled, wet sound dying in your throat, but Mingi didn’t ease up. He liked the sound. He liked the way your eyes were wide and shimmering with tears, fixed on his as he looked down at you with a cold, predatory triumph.

“That’s it,” he growled, his breath coming in ragged, animalistic hitches. “Choke on it, baby. Let me feel how much you hate that you love this. Tell me again how I’m just your ‘best friend’ while you’re down there on your knees like a fucking dog.” He increased the pace, his hands moving from your hair to your shoulders, pinning you down so you couldn’t move an inch. He was relentless, his cock sliding past the point of comfort, hitting the back of your throat with a blunt, rhythmic force. “You’re so pathetic,” he taunted, his thumb reaching down to rub a drop of moisture from your lip before smearing it on your cheek. “Acting all high and mighty at the bar, and now you’re desperate. You’re shaking.” He wasn’t close to being done. He was using you to vent every ounce of the ninety days of silence, every second of the jealousy that had been eating him alive. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at him as he continued to drive into your mouth. “Is this ‘fun’ enough for you?” he groaned, his voice breaking with the effort of his control. “Is this what you wanted to see? The version of me that doesn’t give a fuck about your feelings?”

Mingi hauled you back up by the roots of your hair, your head snapping back as he forced you to sit on your heels. You were a wreck—makeup smudged into dark halos around your eyes, your lips swollen and slick, a string of saliva trailing down to the curve of your collarbone. You looked exactly how he’d imagined you, and the sight of it seemed to strip the last of the humanity from his expression.

Mingi’s hand was a heavy at the base of your skull, his fingers deep in your hair as he set a rhythm that was purely for his own satisfaction. Every time he drove deep, the world blurred into a haze of white noise and the suffocating scent of him, your throat working desperately around the thick, relentless intrusion of his length. You were drowning in him, your senses overloaded by the friction and the raw, guttural sounds he was making above you. Unable to stay still, your hand drifted downward, your fingers seeking the slick, aching heat between your thighs. The moment you touched yourself, the sensation was a violent electric shock; you were so sensitive, so over-sensitised by the rough treatment and the crushing fullness in your throat, that the slightest pressure felt like an explosion. You were a drenched, pulsing mess, your fingers sliding through the excessive wetness you’d made for him as you began to work yourself in sync with his thrusts.

The sight of it—the way you were frantically helping yourself while he used your mouth—sent Mingi straight to the edge. He watched your eyes roll back, your hips twitching in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm, and he felt the frantic, wet heat of your throat tightening around him in response.

“Fuck, you’re so close,” he choked out, his voice a fractured wreck. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, a searing, white-hot tension that told him he was seconds away from losing control completely. “Three months of acting like you were too good for this. Three months of playing the ‘best friend’ while you were probably dreaming about being exactly where you are right now.” He didn’t want to finish in your mouth; he wanted to see the mess he’d made. Mingi didn’t let go of your hair as he pulled out, the sudden rush of air into your lungs making you let out a broken, wheezing sob. He watched your hand move frantically between your legs. You were too far gone to stop; the friction of his throat-fucking had left you on a razor’s edge, and the sight of him—hard, twitching, and lethal—was the final shove you needed. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a jagged, guttural snap. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Watch what you’re doing to yourself for me.”

You obeyed, your eyes wide and glazed with a terrifying level of pleasure as you worked your fingers against your swollen core. You were drenched, the sound of the wet friction loud in the quiet room. Mingi’s hand moved to his own length, his grip blunt and punishing as he matched your frantic pace. He was snarling now, his teeth bared, his eyes fixed on the way your hips were jerking, the way your inner thighs were trembling.

“That's it,” he rasped, his own rhythm turning into a blur of motion. “Come for me, you slut. Show me how much you want it.”

The world fractured. You hit your peak with a high, shattered scream that echoed off the walls, your body arching off the floor as your muscles convulsed in a violent, rhythmic release. Right as you shattered, Mingi let out a low, animalistic roar, his own body locking up as he finally let go. The first splash of his cum hit your cheek, a searing, thick contrast to the cool air of the room. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut for a second before you forced them open, watching him as he came. It was a heavy, relentless release, painting your skin—the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, your other cheek. Mingi didn’t stop until he was spent, his breath coming in sobbing, jagged bursts. You were still twitching from your own orgasm, your breath coming in sobbing hitches, when the final, hot spray landed against your forehead.

He looked down at the wreckage of your face with a mix of hunger and a terrifying, dazed possessiveness. “You’re nothing but a little cum slut, aren’t you?” He whispered, his voice a broken thread of sound. “Now you look right. Now you look like you belong to me.”

Slowly, your fingers traced the heavy, warm smear on your cheek, dragging the heat toward the corner of your mouth. When your tongue flicked out, catching the stray, salt-sharp drop from your lip, the sound that left Mingi’s throat wasn’t human. It was a low groan—a guttural vibration that started deep in his chest and broke against his teeth.

“Fuck,” he rasped, leaning closer, his shadow swallowing you as he watched you swallow him.

You tasted the raw, metallic tang of him. You didn’t just take it; you looked him dead in the eye, your tongue tracing the seam of your lips to make sure you didn’t miss a single drop. You were a mess—covered in his cum, your face flushed and ruined—and you were offering it back to him as a final, absolute surrender.

“You like it, don’t you?” his thumb slid into your mouth, dragging across your tongue. He let out another fractured, breathless groan. “You’re sitting here, looking like a fucking angel with my mess on your face, and you’re asking for more.” He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into your skin with a territorial, bruising intensity that made your breath hitch. He wasn’t just satisfied; he was re-ignited. The sight of your total lack of shame—the way you were devouring the evidence of his claim—was the final match in the powder keg of his restraint.

You reached up, your fingers trembling as you gripped his wrist, pulling his hand just far enough from your lips so you could speak. You were trembling, your chest heaving with a desperate, frantic need that hadn’t been satisfied yet. “Say it again,” you whimpered, the words sliding out in a high, desperate whine. “Please... Call me that again.”

Mingi froze, his muscles locking up under your touch. “Say what?”

“What you called me,” you sobbed, the desperation finally breaking through. You looked up at him, your eyes blown out and shimmering with tears, the salt of his release still stinging your cheeks. “Call me that again. Call me your slut. I want to hear it while you’re looking at me. I want to know that’s all I am to you tonight.”

A dark, visceral shudder ran through Mingi’s entire frame. He let out a sound that was half-choke, half-growl, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep in your hair to force your head back. He leaned down until his lips were a hair’s breadth from yours, his breath searing. “You want to hear it?” he hissed, his voice dropping into that terrifying, guttural frequency that made your insides turn to liquid. “You want me to remind you how pathetic you are? How you’re sitting here on the floor, covered in my cum?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your hips reflexively hitching toward him. “Please, tell me.”

“You’re a slut,” he didn’t say it with kindness; he said it with the raw, territorial hunger of a man who had finally claimed his prize. “You’re my little slut. My lying, beautiful, desperate slut who’s finally exactly where she belongs.” He watched the way the words made you shatter, the way your eyes rolled back and a high, broken moan tore from your throat. “You’re pathetic,” he rasped, his hand coming down to catch your jaw again. “A mess. Look at you, begging for it.”

“I am,” a small, broken sound. You leaned your face into his palm, your skin stinging where the stubble on his thumb caught. “I want... I want you to make me feel it. Slap me, Min. Do it.”

Mingi’s hand stilled against your jaw, his fingers curling into your hair as he stared at you with an expression that was both horrified and hungry. “What did you say?”

“I want... I want you to make me feel it,” you whispered, your voice a broken, jagged thread of sound. “I want you to make me understand. Slap me. Do it. Show me exactly what you think of me.”

A dark, visceral shudder ran through his frame. He didn’t hesitate. The sound of his palm connecting with your cheek was a sharp, heavy crack that echoed through the empty apartment. Your head snapped to the side, the force of it making your vision spark white for a split second. The sting was immediate—a white-hot, throbbing heat that radiated from your cheek down to your throat, making you moan.

Mingi didn’t let you pull away. He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into the bone to force your face back toward his. He was shaking, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a mile, his nostrils flared. “Is that what you want?” he hissed, his voice a jagged edge of pure, unadulterated menace. “You want me to treat you like a toy? You want me to leave marks so everyone knows what you’ve been doing behind closed doors?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, the word breaking against his lips. “Yes, please.”

He hit you again—shorter, sharper this time, the sound punctuated by the desperate, high-pitched whine that tore from your throat. He grabbed the back of your head, forcing you to look up at him. “You want me to treat you like you’re nothing? Like you’re just a place for me to put my dick in?”

He hadn’t even fully come down from the first two rounds before the sight of you, messy and pleading on your knees, had his dick surging back to life. “All fours. Now. I want your ass up and your head down.” His hand moved from your head to your shoulder, pulling you up only to shove you toward the mattress.

You scrambled to obey, your limbs heavy and uncoordinated, your knees dragging against the sheets. You pushed yourself up, your back arching as you lowered your chest to the pillows, leaving your hips elevated and exposed. The cool air hit your damp skin, making you shiver. Behind you, Mingi grabbed your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a bruising intensity that marked his territory. He positioned himself at your entrance.

“Don’t you dare move,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat against your spine. He surged forward, a deep, uncompromising thrust that felt like it reached all the way to your ribs. You let out a loud, echoing moan, your forehead thumping into the pillow as the sheer, thick volume of him filled you to the absolute limit, your walls contracting in a desperate welcome.He wasn’t being careful. He immediately started hammering into you, the sound of skin hitting skin a rhythmic, wet slapping that filled the room. He reached forward, his hand finding your hair again and pulling, forcing your head up so you had to see your own reflection in the mirrored closet doors across the room.

“Look at yourself,” he hissed, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. “Look at what a mess you are for me. Tell me you’re my slut. Say it while I’m fucking the life out of you.”

“I’m yours,” you sobbed, your voice breaking as he hit that one spot deep inside, over and over, with a relentless, territorial precision. “I’m your slut, Mingi... please, don’t ever stop.”

He let out a low, primal roar, his thrusts becoming shallow and frantic as he reached the precipice. Mingi’s palm slammed into the soft meat of your ass with a stinging, heavy crack that echoed louder than your own frantic breathing. The impact made your spine whip into a sharp arch, your chest pressing so hard into the pillows that the air was forced out of your lungs in a jagged, high-pitched sob.

He reached forward, his hand sliding under your jaw and clamping around your throat. He didn’t cut off your air, but the weight of his palm was a heavy, suffocating collar that forced your head back at a punishing angle. He leaned over your back, his bare chest a wall of heat against your spine. He didn’t kiss you; he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, a sharp, jagged bite that drew a muffled, pained cry from your throat. He held it there, his teeth grinding into your skin until you felt the sting turn into a white-hot, throbbing ache that radiated down to your toes.

He let go of your neck only to grab both of your wrists, pinning them into the small of your back with one massive hand while his other hand found your ass again, spanking it with a territorial, bruising intensity. “Is it too much for you? Is the ‘best friend’ being too mean? Tell me to stop, slut.”

“No,” you sobbed, the word a broken, pathetic whine that was lost to the rhythmic, wet slapping of his hips against yours. You were a mess—your skin slick with sweat and the evidence of his earlier release, your vision sparking with every deep, uncompromising strike. “Mingi... please... don’t stop. I’m yours. Only yours.”

“Good,” he growled, the vibration of the word traveling through your body. He increased the pace, his thrusts reaching brutal speed that made the bed frame rattle against the wall. He was hammering into you, his knuckles rubbing against your inner thigh, his thumb finding that one specific spot he remembered and grinding into it with a relentless, heavy pressure.

You were breaking. The walls you’d built over the last three months weren’t just crumbling; they were on fire. You were a moaning, begging, sobbing wreck under him, your hips stuttering in a frantic, uncoordinated dance as you tried to keep up with his aggression. Every time you tried to pull away from the intensity, he’d yank your hair or tighten, forcing you to take every inch of him.

“Look at yourself,” he shoved his fingers into your mouth, tasting the salt of your tears as he forced you to choke on them. “Ninety days I sat across from you and acted like I didn’t want to do exactly this. Ninety days of you pretending you didn’t need this. And now look at you. You’re pathetic. You’re shaking for me.”

He suddenly released your wrists, but before you could even bring your hands forward to brace yourself, he grabbed your waist and hauled your hips upward, his fingers hooking into the front of your hip bones and pulling you back so hard you thought you might snap. He dived deep, his cock hitting the back of you with a blunt-force that made your vision go black for a split second.

“Mine,” he roared, the word a primal, guttural sound that tore from his throat. He was close—you could feel the tremors in his muscles, the way his breath was coming in ragged, wet hitches that rattled in his chest.

“I’m coming,” he hissed, his voice a fractured thread of sound. “And I’m going to fill you so full you won’t be able to think about another man for the rest of your fucking life.”

He surged forward one last time, his entire body locking up as he came. He let out a low groan, his forehead thumping against your back as he flooded you with a thick, relentless heat. Mingi didn’t move, he stayed buried inside you, his heavy weight pinning you into the sheets, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. The silence that followed his release was suffocating, broken only by the ragged, wet sound of Mingi’s lungs fighting for air against your spine. He was a dead weight, his chest heaving, his skin slick and sticking to yours as the heat of him pooled inside you. But for you, the world hadn’t stopped. The friction, the bites, and the deep, territorial hammering had wound you into a tight, screaming knot of nerves that was now vibrating with fire.

You tried to shift, to grind your hips back against him in a desperate search for the friction he’d just stolen away, but he was too heavy. You were pinned, your face buried in the damp pillow, the salt of your tears stinging the raw skin of your cheeks.

“Mingi,” you whimpered, the name coming out as a broken, high-pitched sob. “Mingi, please... I can’t—I need to cum.”

He let out a low, vibrating grunt against your shoulder blade, his fingers still curled loosely into the hair at the base of your skull. The lack of response made the ache in your lower belly sharpen into a physical pain. You began to thrash weakly, your knees scraping against the sheets as you tried to find the ledge he’d just pushed you off.

“Please!” you cried out, your voice cracking, raw and whiny. “It hurts, Min. I’ve been so fucking good... I did everything. I let you... I let you do everything.” The memory of the hallway, the cold door, the floor, and the taste of him flooded back, making your pulse hammer in your throat. You were a mess—covered in him, marked by him, and utterly unraveled. “I need it,” you sobbed into the pillow, your hips bucking in a pathetic, uncoordinated jerk. “Please, don’t leave me like this. I was so good for you. Call me whatever you want, just—please, Mingi, make me cum.”

You felt him shift then. It wasn’t a gentle movement. He let out a dark, weary chuckle that sounded more like a growl, his head lifting from your back. He didn’t pull out; instead, he gripped your waist again, his fingers sinking into the bruises he’d already made.

“You’re still talking?” he rasped, his voice a jagged, exhausted thread. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath searing. “You’re still demanding things?”

“I have to,” you wailed, your hands clawing at the headboard, your knuckles white. “I’m going to die if you don’t... please, Min... I was your slut, wasn’t I? Take care of your slut.”

The word seemed to spark the last of the embers in him. He didn’t rise back up to his feet, but he shifted his weight, reaching one large hand down between your bodies. When he found the slick, swollen clit—drenched in the evidence of his own release—you let out a scream that was muffled by the bedding.

“You were good,” he muttered, his thumb finding that sensitive peak and pinning it with a brutal, heavy pressure. He began to move, a slow, torturous circle that made your vision go white. “So fucking good.” He increased the pressure, his other hand coming around to catch your throat again, holding you still as you began to shatter. The moment his thumb ground into that hyper-sensitive peak, the tension that had been coiling in your gut for didn’t just snap—it exploded. Your back arched so violently your spine felt like it might crack, a sharp, broken scream tearing from your throat as the first wave hit. It wasn’t a quiet release; it was a violent one. You felt the sudden, hot deluge as you squirted, the fluid drenching his hand and splashing against the sheets and his own thighs in a frantic, uncontrollable flood.

“Fuck!” you wailed, your head thrashing against the pillow, your vision blurring into white static.

Mingi let out a dark, guttural sound—half-laugh, half-growl—as he felt the heat of you soaking the bed beneath him. He didn’t pull back. He didn’t give you a second to breathe or let your heart rate settle. Instead, the sight of you finally breaking, drowning in your own pleasure and his mess, seemed to snap the last of his restraint.

“Look at this,” he watched the fluid soak into the dark fabric of the sheets. “Look at what a fucking mess I made of you. You’re soaking my bed, baby. You’re practically drowning in it.”

He didn’t wait for the tremors in your thighs to stop. He gripped your hips again, and surged forward. He was still semi-soft from his release, but the sheer, friction-heavy contact of your contractions squeezing him, combined with the sight of your total undoing, had him hardening inside you again with a terrifying, rapid gravity.

“We’re not done,” he hissed, his teeth grazing the back of your neck. “You wanted to be my slut? You wanted to stay on your knees? Then stay there. I’m going to make sure you’re still twitching when the sun comes up.”

He grabbed your waist, his strength uncompromising as he forced you to shift. He hauled you around until you were flat on your back, your hair fanned out against the cushions. The transition was jarring, the cool air hitting your drenched skin and making your nipples peak instantly.

Mingi loomed over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his chest heaving. From this angle, he looked even more massive, his shadow swallowing you whole. He reached down, grabbing your ankles and shoving your knees back toward your chest, pinning you wide open in a position that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The sight of you—flushed, trembling, and still glistening from your own climax—sent a fresh wave of heat through him. He looked down at your face, seeing the red mark on your cheek and the dazed, broken look in your eyes, and his jaw tightened.

“I want to see your face when I do this,” his hand slid down to guide his rigid, pulsing length back to your entrance. He was already heavy and leaking again. “I want to see your eyes roll back when you realise you’re never going to be empty again.”

He leaned forward, his weight crushing you into the bed, and began to sink back in. It was a slow deep stretch, his eyes locked onto yours as he watched the exact moment the air left your lungs. He began to move again, but the rhythm was different now—slower, heavier, and even more punishing. Every thrust was a wet, sliding impact, the sound of skin hitting skin loud and rhythmic in the quiet room. Because of how wet you were, he was sliding deep, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made you sob, your hands clutching the sheets as you tried to keep your balance.

Mingi watched your face with a predatory stillness, his eyes tracking every flicker of sensation that crossed your features. He didn’t move fast. He didn’t give you the frantic pace. Instead, he began a slow, deep grind, his hips rotating in a way that forced you to feel every single ridge, every throb of his pulse against your internal walls.

“Does that hurt?” he whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate inside your very bones. “Or does it just ache? Tell me how it feels to have me taking up every inch of you while you’re still coming down.”

He pulled back so slowly it was a torture of its own, the slick friction of his withdrawal making your breath hitch in a series of broken, stuttering hitches. Just as you thought he was going to leave you empty, he surged back in, a heavy, deliberate thrust that bottomed out with a wet, visceral thud.

“I can’t... Min, I can’t,” the words dissolved into a series of broken moans. You were a sobbing, twitching, mess under him, your body no longer your own, entirely at his mercy.

Mingi reached down, his hand clamping around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to hold you still, his thumb pressing firmly into the hinge of your jaw to force your mouth open.

“You’re clenching around me so tight,” he groaned, his forehead thumping against yours. “It’s like your body is trying to trap me inside. Is that what you want? To keep me here until the sun comes up?”

He moved again—a torturous, dragging slide that hit your G-spot with a precision that made your toes curl and your fingers dig into his forearms. Your hips reflexively tried to chase the rhythm he was denying you. Every time you tried to buck upward to meet him, he used his hands to pin you back further, keeping you wide, and exposed.

“Don’t rush me,” he hissed, his teeth grazing your jaw. “You’re going to feel every single second of this.”

He leaned down, his tongue catching a stray tear on your cheek before his mouth hovered over yours.

The slowness was stripping your nerves bare. Every time he dragged himself out, you felt a hollow, frantic grief, and every time he pushed back in with that heavy, unhurried deliberation, your vision swam with a desperate need. You were reaching for a peak that he was moving further away with every torturous rotation of his hips.

“Please... please,” your fingers were clawing at his biceps, trying to pull him down, trying to force a friction that would finally break you. “Not like this. Don’t... don’t be slow. I can’t take it.”

“You want me to stop being gentle?” he gripped your hair, tilting your head back until your throat was exposed and your eyes were locked on his. “You want me to treat you like the slut you are? To drive you into the bed until you can’t remember your own name?”

“Yes!” the word was a shattered, frantic plea.

“Damn right.”

He didn’t ease into it. He surged forward with a sudden, violent velocity that knocked the air out of your lungs in a sharp ungh. He began to drive into you with a rhythmic, bruising ferocity, his hips hitting yours with a sound like a physical assault. He leaned down, his chest crushing yours, his mouth on yours in a kiss that tasted of salt, desperation, and total victory. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them beside your head, his fingers interlacing with yours in a grip that felt like a permanent brand. Every thrust was deeper than the last, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, heavy sound that filled the room. He was watching you—watching the way your lips parted, the way your eyes rolled back, the way you were completely, utterly coming apart under him. He liked the mess. He liked that he was the one who had reduced you to a whimpering, begging slut.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he muttered against your lips, his breathing coming in jagged, animalistic bursts. “Broken. Messy. Mine.” He shifted his grip, one hand leaving your wrist to slide down, his thumb finding your hyper-sensitive clit again, grinding into it even as he hammered into you. The dual assault was too much. You felt the scream building in your throat, your entire body coiling into a tight wire.

“I’m—I’m going to—Fuuuck—”

“Go then,” he roared, his own pace reaching a blurring, frantic speed. “I want to feel every bit of it.”

As you shattered, your walls clamping around him in a violent rhythm, Mingi let out a low moan. He drove into you one last time, his entire body locking as he flooded you again, his forehead thumping against yours.

Mingi collapsed on top of you, his full weight crushing you into the bed, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he sobbed for air. He was shaking—truly shaking—the adrenaline finally leaving his system and leaving him hollowed out and spent.

The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the wet, rhythmic hitch of your combined breathing. Mingi didn’t pull away; he stayed buried deep, his forehead pressed against yours, his skin slick and fused to yours by a layer of salt and heat.

The bedroom felt different now—thicker, charged with the heaviness of the storm that had finally spent itself. The ‘best friend’ facade hadn’t just been cracked; it had been ground into the floorboards along with the buttons of his shirt.

Slowly, Mingi let out a long, shuddering breath that fanned across your neck. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes hooded and dark, searching your face in the dim silver light. He looked at the smear of himself on your face, the bruises blooming on your neck, and the way your lips were swollen and parted as you struggled for air.

He didn’t look sorry. He looked settled.

“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered, his voice still a fractured rasp. His hand moved from the pillow to your hair, his fingers gently—finally gently—tucking a damp strand behind your ear. “Don’t think about the morning. Don’t think about how you’re going to try to take this back tomorrow over coffee. It’s done.”

You let out a small, tired whimper, your fingers curling weakly into the muscles of his forearms. Your body felt like it had been hollowed out, replaced by a warm, heavy liquid. “I can’t take it back, Min. I don’t think I can even walk.”

A ghost of a smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth—the first glimpse of the Mingi you knew. “Good. You’re staying right here.”

As Mingi finally began to withdraw, the sensation was a slow, heavy drag that felt like he was peeling himself away from your very soul. The air in the room hit your raw skin, but the cold didn’t last long. Without the solid plug of him holding it back, the sheer, excessive volume of what he’d left inside you began to yield to gravity.

You felt a thick, warm rush—a heavy, creamy spill that leaked from your core and pooled in the dip of your thighs. It was a visceral, sliding heat, a pearly mess of his release mixed with your own frantic fluid, painting a stark, white map against the dark sheets.

Mingi stayed close, his knees still bracketed around you as he watched the evidence of his reclamation coat your skin. He reached down, his large hand following the path of the spill, his fingers dragging through the cream and smearing it across your hip in a slow circle. He wanted to see it; he wanted to see exactly how much of himself he had forced you to carry.

“I told you,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, satisfied hum as he watched the slow drip hit the mattress. “I told you I was going to fill you up. I told you I’d make sure you felt me for the next days.” He didn’t reach for a tissue. He didn’t try to clean you. Instead, he leaned down and licked a stray drop from your inner thigh, his tongue rough and hot, before looking back up at you with a predatory glint still simmering in his eyes. “That's exactly where it belongs,” he whispered. “Right inside you. Marking you so that every time you take a step tomorrow, you feel me sliding out of you and remember exactly what happened.”

The adrenaline was finally receding, leaving behind a heavy, aching lethargy. Mingi pulled you flush against his side, his skin still damp and radiator-hot against yours.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. The harsh, territorial side of him had softened, though his eyes still held a dazed, singular focus. He reached out, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lower lip before he leaned down for a kiss. It wasn’t like the others. There was no bruising pressure, no desperation—just a slow, deep, and devastatingly passionate press of his mouth against yours. It tasted of salt and total surrender.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “I love you,” he whispered.

The words hit you harder than any of the impacts against the door. You froze, your heart skipping a beat before hammering against your ribs. Your eyes were wide, searching the sharp, damp angles of his face for a smirk, a sneer, or the dark, demeaning glint he’d worn all night. You were looking for the punchline—the part where he told you that you were just a convenient place to dump three months of frustration. But his gaze was steady.

“What?” you breathed, your voice a fractured wreck. “What are you talking about? Min… I thought…” You swallowed hard, a sudden, stinging heat rising behind your eyes. “I thought I was just… a good fuck. I thought this was you finally getting me out of your system so you could stop hating me.”

Mingi flinched, his expression crumbling into genuine, hurt surprise. He let out a dry, huffed laugh, his hand sliding from your jaw to tangle deeply in your hair. “A good fuck?” he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “You think I’d turn into a fucking animal like that for just anyone? You think I’ve been sitting across from you for three months, dying a little bit, because I wanted a fuck?” He shook his head, his eyes burning with a raw honesty that made your throat tight. “I’ve loved you since we were eighteen, you idiot,” he rasped, his thumb brushing a fresh tear from your cheek. “Every thing I did, every time I stayed over to watch movies, every time I walked you home... it was because I couldn’t stand being away from you. Tonight wasn’t just about sex. It was because I was terrified I was actually losing you.”

The air left your lungs in a long, shaky sob. All the walls you’d kept up, the “friendship” you’d tried to protect while your own heart was breaking, finally shattered for good. You surged upward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.

“I love you too,” you choked out, your voice muffled by his skin. “I’ve loved you forever, Min. I just thought... I thought you only saw me as one of the guys. I thought tonight was just... yet another mistake you’d regret in the morning.”

Mingi let out a long, shuddering breath, his arms tightening around you until you were practically a part of him. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him so your heart was beating directly against his. “Never a mistake,” he promised, his voice dipping into that protective, low hum. “And you’re never going back to being ‘just a friend.’ You’re mine now. I’m not letting you go again.” He began to stroke your back, his large hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles that chased away the lingering tremors in your muscles. He leaned up, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before hovering over your lips. “I love you, you beautiful, stubborn girl. But don’t think for a second that means I’m going to be any less greedy with you.”

Mingi let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind that sounded like a man who had finally laid down a hundred-pound weight he’d been carrying for years. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the wreckage of your dress near the door and the literal state of his floor, and he let out a dry, breathy chuckle.

“Well,” he rasped, his voice still a bit wrecked. “I’m definitely going to need to hire a professional cleaning crew. And you’re definitely getting a bill for my dignity.”

You let out a weak, tired laugh, burying your face back into the crook of his neck. “Your dignity? You’re the one who turned into a feral animal because I wore a dress with a slit, Song Mingi.”

“A slit that went to your armpit,” he corrected, his hand sliding down to give your hip a playful, much gentler squeeze. “And don't act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’ve been a brat for years, Y/N. I was just finally fulfilling my civic duty to shut you up.”

“My legs are actually jelly,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his. “I hope you’re prepared to carry me everywhere for the next business week.”

“A business week? Please. With the way you were begging? You’re lucky if I let you walk by next Christmas,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with that familiar, mischievous glint you’d loved since you were teenagers. “And for the record, you were always a terrible ‘just a friend.’ You’re much better as a ‘terrifyingly loud girlfriend.’”

“I wasn’t that loud,” you defended, though your face flushed a deep crimson.

“The neighbours three floors down would disagree, but sure,” he kissed your forehead with a gentleness that felt like a secret, followed by a soft, lingering kiss to your nose. “We need to shower. But if you think I’m washing your hair without making fun of your taste in men—specifically that suit-wearing prick—you’ve got another thing coming.”

You rolled your eyes, “I love you, you idiot.”

Across the room in his dark suit, tailored to his perfect body, his shoulders sat squared, in perfect posture. Your dress matched, a long, navy gown, if anyone paid attention, they’d know you belong to him. You know you belong to him, Yunho knows you belong to him, Yeosang knows you belong to him, but somehow you think the message has been lost along the way. 

Deep red hair sitting perfectly over his cheekbones, hiding the birthmark beneath his eye you’ve seen a thousand times, Yeosang does look good. He always looks good, biceps stretching the sleeves of every shirt, filling out every pair of pants he owns like they were made for him, it doesn’t help that he has the most contagious laugh you’ve ever heard. A silly joke, a stupid one that left him snorting, made the laughter creep up from your chest and force its way out of your lips until you were folding forward, a hand clutching your stomach. 

He’s funny without even trying to be and you fall victim to it every time, every hangout, whenever you and Yeosang are in the same room. Yunho notices, of course he does, a sixth sense embedded in his veins that he says is named after you. Usually his jealousy with Yeosang is under wraps, he can see your friendship for what it is– but tonight of all nights, at the company gala where Yunho is receiving an award for his efforts, tonight is about him. And here you are, across the room, chopping it up with Yeosang instead of standing by his side so he can introduce you to everyone in the room. 

You can feel his stare, harsh eyes like blades cutting into your skin, it makes your spine straighten, your heels click together. Even without words you can feel his command, summoning you to him like there was a part of him inside your head, you excuse yourself from the circle of people you were conversing with and walk back to your boyfriend, a low rumble in your belly because you know exactly what’s awaiting you. 

Leaning over the tall, circular table dressed in a black tablecloth long enough that it touches the floor, one of Yunho’s knees is bent into it, his arms crossed over the surface. He watches you, eyes following your every step, aware of each person you pass like every one of them could be a threat. You keep your face innocent, your eyes big and doe-like, your hands politely holding your clutch in front of your body, a small smile on your face as you approach him at the table, nothing else on it besides two full glasses of prosecco. 

“Wipe that look off your face,” he says as soon as you can hear it, his voice low and stern, “damage is already done.”

Excitement blooms in your chest, you swallow down your smile. “What do you mean?”

He steps back from the table, picking up the flute of prosecco, holding it close to his chest. He shifts his view upward, examining the crowd, “You know exactly what I mean, stop pretending, you look stupid.”

You can’t fight the smile this time, throwing an elbow over the surface of the table with your clutch, leaning on it as you pick up the glass of prosecco instead. He turns to you, eyes slimming, “You’ve had enough.”

Your brows furrow, head tilting, “I’m not even tipsy–”

“I said you’ve had enough.”

Slowly, you set the glass back on the table, his tone was clean cut, no room for disobedience. You frown, ankles crossing beneath your gown, “I was just talking, Yunho.”

“Talking,” he repeats, a ghost of a smile clawing at his lips, “laughing, leaning into him like I don’t fucking own you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the word leaves his lips, it always ignites something deep in your gut, turns your mind to fuzz. Ownership, being his, so deeply his you don’t need to think if you don’t want to, Yunho can see the warmth spreading through your body like your skin was transparent. 

He takes a step toward you, leaning down, breath ghosting the shell of your ear, “You belong to me. Never fucking forget it.”

You swallow, heart picking up speed in your chest, your voice is a little shakier than you want it to be as you whisper, “I could never forget that.”

Standing up tall again, he smiles like he remembered there’s other people in the room, “Good.” Turning his head to examine the crowd again, coworkers, staff, people who have all praised him tonight, congratulated him on his hard work. You drink in his figure, long legs that stretched on forever clad in navy, his suit jacket unbuttoned, showing the white button-up beneath. The tie that laid in the center, snug beneath his collar, just from a few words your mind escaped to the gutter, brain drifting to the things he could do with it. 

“Let’s go,” he says simply, turning toward you again. 

“Already?” You look around, standing straight, dessert hadn’t even been served yet. “I don’t think it’s appropriate–”

“I don’t give a fuck about what’s appropriate.” You’re lucky there’s no one around you to hear the sharp words leaving his lips, “I don’t care about this, and clearly neither do you if you’d rather go talk to Yeosang.”

“Yun–”

“Come,” the word is firm, a wall splitting your defense. He grabs your clutch from the table, tucking it beneath his armpit, placing his glass of prosecco delicately on the table, “We’ll make our goodbyes, I’ll text the driver.”

He shoots a quick text before laying a heavy hand on the small of your back, bringing you on his round of goodbyes where you smiled politely, shook hands, gave small hugs to every person you made eye contact with tonight– except Yeosang. You didn’t even meet his eye, standing off to the side while Yunho gave him a tight hug, a wide grin on his face like he wasn’t planning on tearing you apart the moment you stepped foot in your apartment. 

You didn’t talk on the drive home, in the backseat of a black car you didn’t know the name of, your driver nodding his head along to what was playing on the radio. A small, muted hum, it stood as background noise for your raging thoughts, adrenaline ripping your tummy to shreds as you wonder about what comes next. It’s rare for Yunho to react like this, he’s generally a grounded, secure man, he knows you’d never leave him, he knows you’d never cheat. He’s asked you the same rhetorical question a thousand times: Who could possibly be better than him?

No one. That person doesn’t exist. You love him too much to ever even consider someone else, he was too engraved in your being, the blood in your body circulated for him, your heart beats to the rhythm of his name. Yunho was everything, everywhere, he was half of your body, your soul. 

But he doesn’t play nice when it comes to his toys. 

He punched in the code to your apartment with steady hands, opening the front door softly, holding his arm out for you to walk inside first. Hanging your coat on the rack, there’s a pit in your stomach, a blooming warmth of fear and adrenaline beneath your skin. You begin, “Yunho, we shouldn’t have left, I was just talking–”

He’s at your back, hands on your hips, head standing tall above yours, “You think I give a fuck about what you were doing?” His voice is rough, gravelly, tone bleeding dominance, it makes your toes curl in your heels, back straightening against his presence. “I don’t care if you were giving him the fucking heimlich, you’re mine. Do you understand what that means?”

Your breath catches, fingers tingling at your sides, eyes wide as you stare at the pale yellow wall in front of you, art covering the walls. The paintings seemed to stare back, snickering at your disobedience, saying you reap what you sow. 

“Yes,” you whisper, accompanied by one singular nod.

“Yes what?”

You fight the sound that claws at your throat, “Yes, sir.”

“This body is mine,” his hands trail from your hips up to your waist, squeezing the skin beneath your gown before traveling up to your chest, holding his palms there to prove a point. “It belongs to me. Your pleasure, your pain, your actions, your mistakes, they’re all mine.”

His palms leave your chest to unzip the gown at your back, you can feel the chill of metal all the way down to the base of your spine. Pooling around your feet, you don’t move, back straight, chin held high, heels clicking together, presenting yourself for him how he taught you. Every bone in your body begged you to turn around and kiss him, you ached to touch him, to wrap your arms around him, to feel him inside you, curved and pulsing and hitting every spot that made you scream. When he steps around you, fear simmers, you come to terms with the fact that none of which is on the itinerary for tonight. 

Shoulders squared, jaw locked, eyes dark, brooding. He watches you, still fully clothed, shoes kicked off, his suit remains. His eyes drink in your naked figure, already well aware of the lack of anything beneath your form fitting gown, watching how your upper body expands with each breath, the tremble in your legs, the glint of nerves in your eyes, how you’re already struggling to keep still under his heavy stare. He watches like he’s mapping out a plan, debating what he’ll do to you, how loud he should make you beg, deciding what he’s in the mood for. 

He always wants obedience. Expects it. You’ve learned to not expect anything. 

“What do you think you deserve tonight?”

The question sets your body aflame. Meeting his eyes, you swallow, “I don’t deserve anything, sir.”

He nods slowly, arms crossing over his chest, he hums. “Do you think you deserve my cock inside you?”

He watches how your spine bends, the slightest movement. It tells him the words out of your mouth are a bold-faced lie, “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

You can feel the heat in the tips of your ears, embarrassment, guilt, it curls into the flame of arousal flickering brighter in your gut with every second he keeps his eyes on you. “Because,” you pause. His brows raise, waiting. Your voice cracks, “B-because I was, um– talking. To Yeosang.”

“Why are you stuttering?” He tilts his head a fraction of a degree. “You know what you did. Say it with your chest.”

“I was laughing,” you continue, feeling the sweat forming at your brow, the light of the foyer too warm, too bright. You swallow, “I was laughing with him when I should have been with you.”

He hums again, debating. “Do you think you deserve to cum at all?”

“Only if you think I deserve it, sir,” there’s a shakiness to your voice, one he knows all too well, it means please. 

He looks you up and down once. “Bedroom,” is the only thing he responds, a sharp word that sends your heeled feet clicking over hardwood to the room at the back of your apartment. The lights are dim, soft, misleading; the way it lays over your duvet, your furniture, a streak creeping into the bathroom, it breeds comfort. You’re scared you won’t get any tonight. 

“Kneel beside the bed, face it.” 

You wince when your knees splinter the hardwood beneath you. Back straight, hands flat on your thighs, you sit on your calves, ass just meeting the heel of your stilettos. He doesn’t smile, he doesn’t praise you for following directions, following order, he watches. 

One second, two, five, ten. Sitting on your shared bed, suit jacket discarded, knees spread, heels of his feet edged on the base. He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows before they meet his knees as he leans over his thighs, giving you a full view of his size above you. A display, one that makes you shiver every fucking time. 

“You disappointed me tonight,” his voice is low but his tone is calm and it’s worse than loud, edged, spit-soaked anger. “You know how to behave, you know better. Correct?”

“Yes, sir,” you nod once. 

“Do you have anything to say about your behavior tonight?”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble. His brow arches. Louder, you repeat, “I’m sorry for my behavior tonight, sir.”

He stares, waiting, watching. One second, two, five, ten.

“Save the apologies,” he stands, fingers working at the prongs of the black leather belt, so close to your face you almost flinch at his movement. “You’ll make it up to me properly.”

You nod, words breathy, “Yes, sir.”

With one step he’s behind you, you can feel him squat down just from the heat of him, you hear the metal of the belt buckle dragging against the hardwood floor, it makes your thighs clench together. His palms are warm when he wraps his long fingers around your arms, just above your elbows, he pulls them behind your back. Silently he wraps the belt around your wrists, tying it off securely, tight enough for you to feel the restriction but not enough to cut circulation. 

With another step he’s in front of you, veiny hands tugging at his tie, loosening it before throwing it, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. He works the fastening of his slacks open, fingers tugging down his zipper, with thumbs in the waistband of his briefs, he pulls them both down over his hips until they reach mid-thigh. Your eyes flicker upward to meet his gaze, holding a question in your stare– he’s not even hard yet. 

“Why are you looking at me?” His brows raise, “Do you not know what to do with a cock in your face?”

Your cheeks burn as you lift up, the tips of your toes meeting the hardwood, adjusting your height to meet his flaccid cock, there’s no hesitation as you bring your head forward, tongue poking out to catch the tip of him in your mouth. You hear the change in his breathing, a small, sudden intake of air, if it wasn’t so quiet in your bedroom you’re sure it would’ve gone over your head. 

The breath is enough praise to take him into your mouth with confidence, to massage your tongue slowly against the underside of him, you feel him expand; length doubling in size, the width of him stretching your lips, the weight heavy on your tongue. Slightly salty, the taste of skin, bland and neutral, he mutters a curse when you take him deeper, but you don’t struggle bobbing your head, working up a rhythm, your movement quickening with each run of your tongue over his ridged tip. 

“You can do better than that,” his tone is condescending, it makes your stomach drop. His hips buck into your mouth, cock reaching the back of your throat, making you gag, an ugly noise; his small hum of pleasure is worth a thousand words of praise.

“Is this what I have to do? Fuck your throat so you take me properly?”

Your eyes fill with salty tears as his cock fills your throat, you take him deeper, faster, nose meeting the tuft of hair at his base, inhaling, moaning, gurgling around him with each bob of your head. He groans, a hand coming up to meet your styled hair, ruining it as soon as his fingers tighten in your scalp. “Don’t cry, it’s pathetic, suck my cock like you mean it. Or do you want me to think you’d rather have your mouth on Yeosang?”

Your brows knit together and you hope it’s enough, that he sees the answer you can’t communicate. He hisses when you swallow around him, “He couldn’t fuckin’ handle you, couldn’t put you in your place, he wouldn’t know what to do with you. Do you understand? That you’re something that needs handling?”

You can’t answer– he knows you can’t answer, he isn’t expecting one, he knows your response. He flashes his teeth in a nasty grin when your tears spill, hot on your cheeks, streaking your makeup. “You need to be owned, need to be used, tied up with nothing left to do but take.”

The noise you make gets muffled by his cock, he hears it, his hips roll deeper into your throat, fingers gripping tighter at your scalp. 

“You love it, don’t you? When I use your mouth? Turn you into a toy?” You whine around his cock, drool gathering at the sides of your mouth, you can hear the squelch of spit. “I know you do, bet your thighs are stickin’ together already. Should I fuck them instead? Cum all over your legs while your little pussy begs me for attention? Begs me just to look at her?” 

Your eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back behind them, your thighs squeeze, wrists tugging at the leather binding them. His chuckle is dark, patronizing, when he speaks the words come out tighter, “Look at you, already begging for it when you can’t even talk. Is this what you wanted? Is that why I had to watch you flirt with my fuckin’ coworker? You needed a reminder that this is all you’re worth?”

Tears flow, makeup stinging your eyes, blurring your vision, his cock so heavy, so deep in your throat, each gag around him breeds more. His other hand meets your hair, rocking your head at the same pace of his hips bucking into your mouth, you breathe through your nose, your nails cut into your palms. 

“Fuck,” it’s sharp, under his breath. “There you go, make me fuckin’ cum, ‘s all this mouth is good for.” 

Drool spills from the corners of your mouth, dripping onto your thighs that start to shake, knees burning where they dig into the hardwood. You’re clenching around nothing with every other thrust, wishing he was fucking into your pussy with the brutal pace he’s using on your mouth. 

“Don’t you dare waste a single drop,” his voice is ragged like his breath, the only proof he was enjoying this. His palms meet your cheeks, forcing your eyes open so he can ask, “Do you hear me?”

Your eyelids flutter, ignoring the sting of tears your gaze darts upward to see his face, veiny forearms in your peripherals. Jaw slacked, cheeks splotched with pink, eyes so dark they’re burnt, pleasure etched in each line of his perfect face. His button-up splits at the hem, showing you the pocket of skin between, the veins that swim from his hipbones up to where they disappear behind the v of fabric swollen, prominent. 

“Gonna ruin this throat,” he uses pressure on your flaming cheeks, holding your head still as he fucks into your mouth faster, harder, ignoring how you choke around him. “Mine to do as I fuckin’ please.” 

Your face is covered by saliva, tears and melted makeup, bubbles of spit popping before they sink down your jaw, down your neck, between your breasts. The sounds you make around his cock are brutal; loud, wet, unbecoming– they push him over the edge.

He cums with a strangled noise like it was caught in his throat, his chin dropping to his chest, his eyes squeezed shut. Ropes of warmth shoot straight down your throat and you’re disappointed you can’t taste the salt, feel the slimy consistency as if it were intentional, like you fucked up so bad he was keeping his cum from you, too. You whimper when he pulls out, sucking in a needed breath, swallowing down the spit in your mouth, feeling the cool air of the bedroom brushing against the streaks of liquid on your body. 

You don’t move without direction. You don’t speak without order. 

He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving beneath his shirt, he gives you no praise. He doesn’t even look at you kindly. He gives you a one-over, top lip lifting in distaste, “You’re a fucking mess. On the bed.” 

Your legs are wobbly beneath you as you climb onto the white duvet, hands still secured at the base of your spine, you lay on top of them, knees still burning, swollen, uncomfortable. He doesn’t get on the bed with you, he tugs you back down to the edge by your ankles, pushing your legs up until they’re dangling. Hands on your swollen knees, he parts them, ignoring the way you suck in a sharp breath. 

“Be quiet,” he’s staring between your legs, “I don’t want to hear a sound out of that mouth. Holes don’t speak.” You clench your jaw to keep it closed, thighs twitching. He continues, “Knew this slutty cunt would be soaked. ‘S all over your thighs, aren’t you embarrassed?”

You meet his eye, lips parted, but you don’t speak. His lips curve at the corner, “No? Proud of how wet you get from being used? Being nothing?”

He’s baiting you, you force your breath into submission, calm despite your heart pounding against your ribs, wild and arrhythmic. You clench around nothing, air catching on the wetness between your legs, coating your thighs, you’re not embarrassed. You could never be, not when his eyes light up, his lips curve, staring at you like he wants to do nothing less than devour you when you’re spread out for him like this. 

You’re built for him, by him, and he knows it. 

Warm palms sear your thighs, one sinking down your calf, fingers ghosting over one of your heeled feet. He pushes it forward, towards your chest, staring at the silver stiletto, finger following the shape of the arch, touching the pointed heel. Not even looking at you, keeping his eyes on your pedicure, he mutters, “These stay on.”

Your bottom lip quivers, trembles, fingers clawing at the mattress behind your back. His eyes find yours, “Being so obedient now, is this what happens when you’re guilty? When you know you fucked up? I get a sweet girl for once?”

Your entire body reacts to his words, a full-blown shiver that racks through you like a wave. His voice is a spell, his words are tantalizing, laced with sweetness, it throws your mind for a loop, you almost reply. Your lips open and then close, he grins like he knows he’s on the right track. 

His fingers wrap around your ankle, placing it over his shoulder, his other hand leaving your thigh to paint a finger through your folds. Your lips tighten, teeth clamping down, brows furrowing at the stimulation, noise climbing up your throat with claws bared. His touch leaves as quickly as he gives it, he brings his finger up past his lips, moaning at the taste, loud and obnoxious, “It’s too bad you don’t deserve my mouth, wanna eat her so bad. I think Yeosang would like the taste too, don’t you?”

Your jaw clenches, he stores the reaction. Bringing his hand back down to your center, he uses two fingers to spread your folds, watching as you clench around nothing, as your body begs for what your mouth isn’t allowed to say. He hums, leaning down, gathering spit in his mouth before shooting it straight onto your mound, your body jumps in response. With his thumb at your clit, he adds the smallest pressure to spread the slick, your lips part, a quiet gasp sneaking through. 

His eyes flicker upward, “Behave.” He rubs slow circles, barely any pressure, following your hips that buck into his hand, “Stop moving. Take it.”

Your face contorts, abdomen flexing, spine bending, teeth clamped down over your bottom lip. You try to keep your hips flush to the bed, you fail. His hand leaves your calf over his shoulder, falling to your belly, pushing down to keep you flat, “Right after I said you were being obedient, too. Shame.” 

His thumb leaves your clit to push two fingers inside and your elbows bend, hands sliding up your spine, pulling at the belt keeping you restrained. A desperate moan pushes past, hips jerking against his hand pinning you down, his name falls off your lips right after, “Yunho! Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Lips pursed, his head shakes slowly, disappointed. Your body burns, hot with embarrassment, blood carbonated, sizzling with fear, your eyes stay blown wide, watching him calculate what comes next. He doesn’t react further, instead his fingers work you open, pads of his fingertips massaging against the spongy spot inside you, your breathing becomes verbal. Shallow, chest moving rapidly, wrists fighting against the restraint, it feels too good not to move. Not to react. 

He knows your weak points, knows your strengths; he uses them both to his advantage. 

“Do you think I’m doing this for your pleasure?” He doesn’t look up, voice steady, he watches how your slick gushes around his digits instead, how your core takes his fingers so easily, greedily. “I should shove my cock inside you without prep, that’s what you deserve for being a whore. But I decided to be kind, and this is how you repay me? By being greedy?”

You keep your lips glued together until his eyes meet yours, “Speak.”

“I’m sorry!” Your voice is pitched, face scrunched together, he can hear the shame in your voice, feel how your body disagrees. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t deserve it, I- I, please just–”

“Shut up,” he cuts you off, “Forgot how fucking irritating it is to hear you whine.”

You feel the pressure in your face again, swimming up your sinuses, filling your waterline with salty heat. He doesn’t notice until your breathing breaks, tears already spilled, pleasure wound tight in the pit of your belly, below his palm that sits heavy and harsh. 

“You’re crying again?” He sounds bored, annoyed. “You’re useless, you know that? Can’t follow simple fuckin’ directions.” 

He sighs before he slips his fingers out, two hands finding the plush of your ass beneath your lifted thighs, pushing you up the bed. 

“Maybe you should fuck Yeosang,” he crawls on top of the mattress with you, fingers working his buttons open while you shake your head, tears falling silently, he stares at you with lifted brows like he couldn’t be more uninterested. “You’re nearing worthless at this point.” 

He throws the button-up off the bed, pulling his white tank over his head, his slacks and briefs already gone, discarded before your back hit the mattress. Face still reading uninterested, he grabs both of your legs by your ankles, throwing them over his shoulders as he spreads his knees, lowering himself until his eyes lock on your glistening folds. 

“You don’t deserve my cock,” he says it like it’s something you already know. A mewl stirs in your throat, you swallow it down as he wraps his fingers around the base, pushing it through your folds. “So fuckin’ wet, she’s begging for it. You think you deserve it?”

He looks up at you just to see you shake your head no, his eyes follow the way your tear-streaked cheeks shine in the dim light. 

Circling his tip over your clit, he asks again, “Not even the tip?”

You release a shaky breath, sniffing through your clogged sinuses, every bone in your body screaming yes, you’d beg for it, on all fours, you’d do anything for it. But that’s not what he wants to hear, so you shake your head once more.

“Alright,” he says it passively and it makes your brows knit together. Like if you said yes, he’d do it. 

Your lips part, face warped into confusion, voice coated in a cry, “W-wait.”

“No,” he moves one of your ankles to his other shoulder, crossing them, “You made your bed.”

“Yunho–”

His eyes flicker upward, warning enough, your lips smack together to silence yourself. The tip of his cock prods at the seam of your thighs, so thick and hot and wet it makes you squirm, ankles locking over his shoulder. He smacks the side of your thigh once, “Clench ‘em for me. Be a good sleeve.”

Your breath is shaky as you tighten your thighs, body rigid, wrists fighting their restraints. Tears spill hotter, heavier when he groans out in relief, cock passing between your thighs, so close to your aching cunt you can feel your composure getting pushed to its limit. One hand holds your ankles over his shoulder, the other squeezes one of your thighs, you watch how his abdomen flexes with each roll of his hips, how his throat bobs when his head falls back in pleasure. 

“Feels good,” his voice is gravelly, laced with arousal, his hips moving slow enough to draw out his own pleasure. You try to keep yourself tight, composed, enjoyable for him, but your patience is a thin band, one running taut too quickly. He picks up the pace, his hips smacking against your sensitive legs, they start to shake where they lay hooked over his shoulder.

“Stay still,” he gruffs out, “Stop shaking.”

A defeated cry escapes through your parted lips, mumbling a wilted, pathetic, “Please.”

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t address that you’ve spoken. You’re drifting as his grip turns tighter, fingers on your ankles, palm on your thigh, tight enough to bruise; his hips pick up speed, filling the room with the sound of skin smacking skin. You’re clenching around nothing again, so strung out and sensitive that the ripple of his cock between your thighs is close enough to friction. You can feel your pulsing clit, muscles tightening, heart picking up speed as it starts to feel somewhat pleasurable. Better than nothing, not nearly enough to get you off. 

He does a double take when he notices your brows knitted up, lips parted, breath layered. His laugh is punched, taunting, “You’re getting off on this?” A whimper escapes. “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut. This is a punishment, not a fucking position.”

You seal your lips together again, your lashes becoming a waterfall, his hand leaves your thigh just to land against your skin heavier, harder, the sound striking through the room, nearly blending in with the sound of his hips against your thighs.

 “I’d be inside you if you listened. If you didn’t speak, if you didn’t flirt with my friend in front of my goddamn face,” his voice is as rough as his movements, he watches where his cock disappears, grinds his teeth when your thighs clench. “Can’t believe this is getting you off. Nothing but a cockhungry whore, doesn’t matter where I fuckin’ put it, does it?”

Your thighs clench again and he cracks ever so slightly, a splinter in his demeanor. The sound he lets out is pitched, something of a moan, small and wanting as he chases his release, “Fuck, almost as good as your pussy. Maybe I don’t need to use her at all anymore, maybe I’ll tape her shut.”

Another sob falls past your lips, head tilting to the side, “No.”

“No?” His eyes meet yours, “No?”

“I need you–”

“You’re mine,” his voice is harsher now, like you’ve finally hit a nerve. He pulls out, throwing your legs to the side, one arm scooping under you to flip you onto your stomach. Pulling you upright, on all fours, knees together, your face is buried in the bed, another sob cracking through your shaking body. “I’ll do whatever I want, this body is mine, you belong to me. You’re my property, when are you going to get that through your thick fucking skull?”

When his cock pushes past the seam of your thighs again, legs on either side of yours, it's lower. Farther away from your slippery cunt, skin still lubed up with how much you’ve spilled, his voice is edged as he lands a harsh smack on your ass, biting, “Squeeze your fuckin’ thighs, you can’t afford to disappoint me again.”

He holds his hands tight on your hips, steadying you, groaning low and long when he picks up the pace tenfold, harsher than the rhythm he was giving you before. He plants a foot on the bed, choking out a moan, “Gonna cum all over these thighs, this ass, then I’m gonna make you eat it.”

You moan, it’s a soft noise, too soft for how unforgiving he was at your backside. Your mind is cloudy, in your head, his degrading words are close enough to praise, your body responds. He lands another heavy smack to your ass, sending you deeper into the plush of the mattress, into the fuzz, you moan. 

He sounds almost surprised when he says, “That’s not a fucking reward, you’re disgusting.”

Your wrists pull at the belt, thighs clenching, another shameless moan pushing past your lips. His hips stutter, fingertips tightening at your hips, “Fuck, nasty fuckin’ thing.”

He slips from between your thighs, leaving them vibrating and hot. You can hear how fast his fist moves over his length, slick and wet, lewd, his groan is a stutter as he cums, thick ropes of white landing over your ass, your thighs, warm, heavy, you can’t help but moan at the feeling. Being marked, owned, being his, however he wants you, however he’ll have you. 

You hear him panting, tight breaths pushed from his lips, you know he’s staring, watching it drip, admiring the mess he made like it was art. With one hand still on your hip, he uses the other to wipe his painting off your skin, gathering it on his fingers, a glob of wet sticky warmth, your mouth waters knowing he’s about to feed it to you. 

Your thighs shake as he knocks your knees apart for stability, reaching one arm forward to wrap under your belly, pulling you upward. You whimper at the force but your body follows without hands to help you. 

“Here,” he sounds like he’s giving you a gift as your back hits his chest. He moves your hair out of your face, your jaw already pried open, he stuffs his cum-coated fingers past your lips and your eyes roll back. Salty, thick, nasty, you moan at how fucking dirty it feels, abdomen flexing because he’s finally giving you something. Mouth closing, tongue sucking his fingers clean, your thighs squeeze. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, “Eat it all, lick my fingers clean.” You moan again, eyes opening, low-lidded as you stare at him from under your brows, swallowing. His face scrunches, lips parting, “Fuck.”

He watches as your spit-stained mouth opens when he presses down on your tongue, no evidence of his release leftover. His fingers move slowly, spreading inside your mouth like he wanted to feel the texture of your tongue, they drag down until your bottom lip folds over, your own spit hitting your chin.

“So pliant,” he whispers, watching, analyzing, “You’ll let me do anything right now, won’t you?”

You whimper, so soft and light you barely register it came from you. His other hand wraps around your front, two fingers dipping between your legs, adding pressure to your clit. You fold, or try to, his other arm wraps around your front, forearm between your breasts, fingers landing steady at the base of your throat, holding you flush to him. 

“Still.” Despite the order being direct, his voice is calm, sweet almost, eyes dancing over your features, watching how your face contorts in pleasure. He keeps his pace slow, circling his fingers lightly, “Cum, just like this.”

Your instinct tells you not to trust his kindness, pressure building steadily at the base of your belly, but he works you so easily, even with small circles and light pressure, your body responds like a live wire, as if two light fingers were a vibrator on its highest setting. Your moans mix with tiny gasps, body fidgeting at the pleasure, so sensitive you think you might be running from it. 

He cooes, “Come on, baby. I’m letting you cum, might be the only orgasm I let you have tonight. Impress me.”

The need to deliver, obey, appease him is too embedded in you not to listen, even if you know better. You choke on a moan, reaching your peak quicker than you should, sounds climbing in staccato, so close you could fucking taste it– he rips his fingers away just as you approach the edge and you sob, body lurching forward, “No!”

He pulls you back against him, keeping you locked in place. He shushes you, running his hands over your skin, your thighs, your stomach, comforting touches that pull tears from your eyes for the third time. You choke on a cry, crumbling into him, leaning your weight against him. 

“So good for me,” he praises, voice candy-sweet. Confusion makes you whimper a mumble of his name. 

He waits until your twitching subsides, still brushing his fingers over your skin, soothing the loss until you’ve forgotten it. When your sobs quiet, your breathing evens a little more, he dips his fingers between your thighs again.

“Yunho!” You gasp, bucking against him, “T-too much.”

“Shut up,” he grinds out in your ear, “Take it.”

His fingers work quicker, more pressure, pleasure builds inside you like it never stopped.

“I can’t–” You hiccup, “Please let me cum, sir, p-please let me, I can’t take it–”

The arm that’s wrapped around your front reaches farther up until two fingers push past your lips, sitting heavy on your tongue like stone. You gag around the length of them, knuckles hooked between your teeth while his other hand works quicker, tighter circles on your clit.

“Don’t remember telling you to speak,” you feel his breath on your ear, words chopped, rough, mean. “I remember telling you not to make a fucking sound.”

You’re gurgling around his fingers, more ugly noises, you’re too close to care. Electricity zaps through every limb, legs trembling, hips bucking away from his fingers because you can’t handle the pleasure even if you need it. 

You’re babbling over the weight on your tongue, looking up at him with pleading eyes, mumbling begs in-between every gag, he stays focused on his fingers between your legs, pulling you as close as he can to the finish line. 

“Y’gonna cum?” His eyes finally meet yours, searching your face for the answer before you can make a sound. You nod, tongue flexing under his fingers, pressure built up so tight and heavy in your body you might blow if he doesn’t let you release. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, so sticky sweet it makes you moan. His voice is sharp against your skin, “Slutty cunts don’t get to cum.”

There’s a millisecond to process his words before he rips his fingers away and that’s how long it takes for your sanity to slip. Sobs, real ones rip from your chest; ugly and booming, he lets your body go, lets you fall forward, flat against the mattress, wrists clawing at the belt, twitching and jerking so fucking shamelessly it makes Yunho smile. 

“Am I breaking you, baby?” He crawls on top of you, flipping you over like your dead weight means nothing to him. “Are you finally understanding what it means to be mine?”

The word yes leaves your lips between each sob like a chant, wrists aching beneath leather, your skin was probably inflamed and swollen by now from how much you’ve thrashed against the belt, but you don’t feel it, you don’t care. You need more. You need release.

He pushes your knees up, humming, ignoring your choked sobs like they didn’t exist. “You think Yeosang would want you like this?” He smacks his teeth, “A crying, begging whore? You think he’d touch this slutty, swollen cunt?”

“No! I’m s-sorry,” you hiccup, sounding so distraught it’s almost deranged, “Please.”

“Please what?” His cock lays heavy over your leaking cunt, reaching well over your pubic bone, it makes your trembling worse. “What are you asking me for?”

“I– I–”

“Shut up,” he lowers his grip down to your thighs, the sensitive part on the inside, rutting his hips ever so slightly against your folds. Your head tilts back, letting out a sound of tight pleasure mixed with frustration, his cock on you isn’t enough. You need him inside.

“He wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole,” he continues, wrapping his fingers around the base of his length, adding pressure as his hips rut against you again. “This pussy is used. I’ve ruined it for anyone else, ruined you.”

Your spine bends at his words as he works up a rhythm, pace combined with the added pressure, his cockhead runs over your swollen clit with each thrust, it’s almost enough for you to start climbing again. You moan out in relief, in euphoria, just from having him on you. 

His grip tightens on your thigh, “You like that? Being ruined? Like the idea of another man being repulsed by you?”

“Yes,” your face contorts, tears hot in the lines stretching across your skin, breath ragged, hips bucking against him when his rhythm slows.

He curses under his breath as he feels you clench, “Of course you do. This pussy only wants me. Trained to only respond to me.”

“Yes,” a little louder, laced with your climbing pleasure, “Only you.”

“Don’t cum.” You watch his knuckles turn white at the base of his cock. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

“Please!” You cry, so completely at his mercy, body shaking, heels piercing your thighs with each roll of his hips. “Please l-let me, I’ll be good– I’ll listen, I won’t ever look at him again–”

Your fingers curl into the duvet beneath you, pleasure, desperation, the stimulation you’re getting from his cockhead over your clit is enough, it’s fast enough, he said no. He’s focused on your core, how his cock slides against your slick, how it bubbles and swirls around your folds with each thrust of his hips.

 “Yunho,” you cry, a little louder, more severe, “Inside, p-please!”

He grits through tight teeth, “Shut the fuck up.”

Your body locks, bones feeling tight, stuck to each muscle like one look from him had turned you to stone. Small, stuttered breaths escape you one after another, rising in pitch, he can feel the stemming pleasure in your gut, he knows it’s building, he can see it on your face. 

You’re close, but he’s closer. He takes the chance, fucking into his fist before his cock meets the wet heat your folds, he grunts out a curse, fingers so tight around your thigh it hurts.

“You wanna cum?” His eyes flicker upward and your heart stops dead in your chest. 

“Y-Yes– Yes Yunho, please, I’ll do anything–”

“Beg for it.”

Incoherent babbles disguised as pleas, nothing more, a display of desperation that was music to his ears. His hips stutter with each whimper, each whine, the wetness on your cheeks, your body that’s steaming under his touch, it’s so hot his stomach curls with his approaching orgasm.

He chokes on a groan, “You’re so fucking stupid, you don’t learn. Nothing but a dumb, desperate whore.”

You moan and he gasps, thighs twitching as he ruts into his fist like an animal, fucking himself through the orgasm that leaves your cunt, your belly, your thighs covered in cum, his third orgasm. Your knees tie together, a sob so defeated and tired ripping from your gut, your cunt pulses, he can see it. He can’t stop himself from pushing his cock inside.

“Yunho!” You all but whisper, wrecked voice bouncing off the walls, body thrashing against him. 

He moans, small but there, it’s suffering and overstimulated. Your wrists burn, halfway up your back, arched so high the leather doesn’t touch you. You can feel your tears pooling in your ears, sobbing in relief and satisfaction and sheer fucking pleasure. 

He doesn’t move. He sits there, face tied together in overstimulation, lips caught between his teeth, fingers holding onto your legs for purchase like he might die if he didn’t grab onto you with all his strength. 

“Please,” you cry, “Move.”

His jaw clenches, breathing manual, chest rising and falling so heavily you regret the word as soon as it passes through your lips. 

“I can’t take it,” you continue through the regret, another mistake. “I’m yours, Yunho, I- I belong to you, I’m your whore, your sleeve–”

“If you were my fucking whore you wouldn’t disobey me,” he grits out, you can feel his thighs shaking, but he adjusts himself to fuck into you properly. “Say it if you need to, but you’ve taken it before and I know you can take it again.”

The word is nowhere near your tongue and he knows it. 

“Quit crying, then,” he moves his hands, fingers sinking beneath your back to hold your waist, thumbs sliding where they slipped through his cum on your sides. “I’m tired of hearing it. You’re getting what you want.”

“I want to cum,” you cry out, you’re sure you’ve broken skin at the heel of your palms from how hard your nails have cut into them, you can barely feel the sting. His fingers bruise your back, keeping you still, forcing you to take it as he slips out agonizingly slow, and pushes back inside. 

“I don’t think you deserve it,” he sounds unaffected by being inside you, like fucking your thighs really was the same, if not better. Your sobs reflect the thought, feeling so used, full of shame; the flame of desire that dwells within your gut is nowhere close to being smothered, you need more, you need to be full of him, you need to cum around his cock. 

“Ple– ase,” you choke on the word, “Y-Yunho, please.”

“Pussy missed me,” he sounds like he’s reminiscing, “Listen, she’s suckin’ me in.”

You hear it then, the squelch, the ungodly sound of his cock sliding into you fluidly. You wallow in it, the humiliating noise, the feeling of him running over that spot with every thrust, filling you up like he’s carved himself space inside you, whittled at your womb until you could take him and him only. 

“There you go,” it’s not praise, it’s relief, “Finally giving up. So much better when you’re easy.”

There’s nothing left inside you but sound, desperate and aching, it fills the room on top of the sound of his hipbones slapping against your thighs, the room sounding wet and disgusting. Pressure builds, steady and true, his rhythm daunting, pushing you closer to an edge you don’t know if he’ll let you fall off of. 

“This is all you need,” his voice sounds heavier, layered with pressure, “My cock fucking you full. You don’t need to think, don’t need to breathe, you don’t need to be.” 

You breathe out a noise, a babble about getting close, he doesn’t hear it. You sink deeper into the haze with each thrust, consumed by pleasure, cheek sliding against the duvet every time his cockhead kisses your cervix. 

“You all dumb for me?” You can hear his smile, “Fuck, are you finally broken, baby? Feel nothing but me? Thinking of nothing but me?”

The leather binding your wrists feels miles away. You’re reaching, he knows it.

His hips snap against yours, so brutal and unforgiving, pleasure is an unwrapped gift with how your orgasm hits, catching you off guard. The sound that rips through you is deafening, limbs thrashing against the duvet, your restraints, it’s too late for him to slip his cock out. He knows it, even if he does it anyway, you cry out, hips bucking against nothing searching for friction to extend your orgasm as long as you can. 

He doesn’t speak when he flips you over. His hands are rough, movements quick, his cock splits you open the moment your knees hit the mattress. You don’t get a second to feel relief.

“You’re nothing but a greedy fucking whore,” each word is punched, animalistic, angry and ragged; your spine bends toward him, cunt clenching around him, toes digging into the heels on your feet. He pushes you down with one hand, “Keep that fucking back down.”

“Again,” you cry, weak and desperate, “Again.”

He’s fucking you like he hates you, like your pleasure meant nothing to him. Brows furrowed, jaw sharp like a blade, he’s angry as his cock drills inside you, chest red and splotchy, sweat beading down his mismatched skin. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, “Stupid bitch, you’re only making it worse for yourself.”

“I’m sorry–”

He lands a sharp smack to your ass, “Don’t fuckin’ apologize. Deal with the consequences.”

“I’m sorry!” It’s louder this time, strained. Your hips fuck back, knees buried in the bed for stability, “I need you, I need it, I need to cum again, please– please Yunho, I’ll–”

He reaches down to push your face into the mattress, “I told you to shut the fuck up, listen for once in your goddamn life.”

Mouth meeting cotton, you can’t catch your breath, shins kicking against the mattress. His pace is angry, brutal, you can feel yourself falling apart, pleasure and pain melting together, desperation and satisfaction blending into one. Your head feels fuzzy again from the loss of air, cloudy in a way that means submission, your body softens.

He lets go of your head to grab onto the belt with one hand, pulling you up, back level with your hips, your sobs becoming verbal once again. Your head hangs low, deadweight for him to hold.

“Say you’re sorry.”

Light, airy, your cloudy eyes meet the duvet, “I’m s-sorry–”

“Say it like you fucking mean it.”

You wince, “I’m so sorry, sir.”

His voice sounds rigid, like he might cum again. “Tell me what you are.”

The answer comes easy, “I’m a whore.”

He lands a sharp smack to your ass, “You’re less than that.”

“I’m n-nothing,” you whimper, “A h-hole, a sleeve.”

He lets go of the belt and you fall against the mattress, a rough sound muffled as your chest hits cotton. He flattens you with his palms, lowering his weight over your back until his skin sticks to yours, he slides one arm beneath you, under your chest, cupping your jaw with one huge palm. He guides your head to the side to see him, sweaty and angled and fucked out, but he rounds out when he sees you– face flushed, wet with saliva, tears, splotched and messy, your eyes glossy and huge and somewhere else. 

He starts rolling his hips into you again, slower, just as damning, “You’re missing something.”

Your brows furrow, clenching around him, mewling out something incoherent before asking, “M-missing?”

He rolls his hips, cock brushing over that spot, you shake against him, body trembling. He bites his lip roughly like he’s forcing himself into composure before he asks, “Who’s hole? Who’s sleeve?”

“Y-Yours!” You’re scrambling to correct your mistake, “I’m y-yours. Your whore, your hole, your sleeve. Yours to use.”

He moans, soft and wilted and fucking angelic. His rhythm doesn’t falter, patient but aimed, like he wanted you to feel every inch, every vein. You can’t move, stuck under his weight, held in his palm, your face forms to gratification, lips open but silent, eyelids fluttering, you feel like you’ve given him all of you. Your pleasure, your pain, he holds it all in the palm of his hand, he holds you like you’re something sacred. 

“Made for me,” his voice is quieter, soft at the edges. “Only I could love you like this. Broken, small.” He drops into just above a whisper, “Ruined.”

“Please,” you whisper, a single tear running down your cheek, “Cum inside me.”

Hot salt meets his fingers, his grip tightens ever so slightly, cock twitching inside you. “Cum for me first. Show me how well you listen.”

Your brows furrow, instinct at war with his tone, his words. Even if you don’t know how honest he is, your body reacts, rutting against his thrusts, clenching around his length that sails over the front of your walls with purpose. Climbing, reaching, you stare into his dark, focused eyes, softly whimpering, “Yunho.”

“I got you, I’ll let you,” he encourages, his tone not fully sweet. “Just this once.”

Your body trusts him, enough that your peak approaches in a cloudy haze; you tremble in pleasure, choking on a cry, crumbling against his arm that holds you still, steady, safe. 

“Fuck,” it’s a hot word in your ear, “So fucking tight.”

His hips pick up and you move, tears falling hot again, overstimulated and forced in a cycle of pleasure, your wrists pull, your legs thrash, your whines pick up, his grip tightens on your jaw. 

“Want me to fill this pussy up?” His breathing is as verbal as his question, “You think you deserve it?”

“Yes,” you answer in a cry, “I do, I do, please– inside, sir, Yunho, please–”

He gruffs out a noise squeezed from his throat, hips smacking against your skin, stuttering. His fingers push up on your jaw until it closes, silencing you with fingers pressed in your face, his head dipping low as he chases his orgasm. 

“Slutty fucking cunt,” he growls out, lips just grazing your shoulder he lifted, “No you don’t.”

You don’t process the rejection as he lifts himself, you turn over with haste in the second it takes to settle, pleas on your tongue; he’s already crawling over you, knees beside your shoulders, fist wrapped around his cock. 

“Yunho, no–”

“Learn from this.” He pumps his length with fervor, knuckles white, hips bucking into his own hand. “Remember this the next time you think about giving my property away.”

You don’t know how you have any more tears to give. Sucking down air, body thrashing beneath his thighs that pin you down, you wail. He watches, lips parting, brows furrowing, like your face and your pain was getting him off, it doesn’t take long until he’s groaning, cock spilling ropes of white onto your cheeks, your nose, your hair, your chest. 

Heartbreak blooms. Chest cracking, you succumb to the tears, slipping from your half-open eyes down to the streaks of white on your face, mixing into salty, thick heat. You might be talking, repetition of no filling the air like it’d rewind time, convince him to fill you up again and leave his mark behind. 

He takes his time crawling off you, turning you halfway, one hand skillfully prying the belt undone. Your arms are free but you can’t feel the air on your wrists, even as he moves them in front of you. Sitting beside you he lifts your wrists, checking them, moving the pads of his thumbs over your swollen veins on the inside. 

“Fist,” it’s soft; a direct order, one without malice. You barely hear it over your cries, but you flex your fingers, make a fist, he nods once in approval, thumbs ghosting over the red, broken crescents in the heels that your nails left behind. 

Tangling his fingers with yours, it’s not a show of affection, he moves your wrists in a circular motion, clockwise, then counter-clockwise, watching your face for any sign of pain or discomfort. There’s none, other than your dejected cries, he knows you well enough to know the difference. 

Laying your wrists softly beside you, he crawls downward, lifting one leg, untying the buckle at your ankle. He slips your heel off your foot, pressing a kiss to the underside of your toes, another to your ankle. He moves to the other after gently laying your leg down, repeating the process, his lips soft against your skin.

He leans forward again, stretching his legs out beneath him, slinging an arm under your shoulders to tuck you into his chest. Your forehead meets his skin, wet and sticky with sweat, his cum, saliva; being eased into comfort after so long of not having it just makes you cry harder. He lets you release, one hand in your scalp, the other grazing your back, he doesn’t speak until your sobs lower, when you’ve reached a point that you have nothing else to spend. 

“You did so well for me,” he whispers, lips softly meeting your roots. “Took everything I gave you, I’m so proud of you.”

All you can respond is a whimper, soft and light, the only sound you have left inside. Exhaustion lays heavy like a blanket, its weight on your eyelids, on your legs, in the arches of your feet. 

“I’m gonna go get you some water.” 

Your shaky arms reach, neck bending, holding him close with your palm on his waist. Meeting his eye, seeing him, you hope he can see the not yet in your eyes. His face deflates into roundness as his thumb meets your cheek, wiping slick off your skin that’s gone cold by now. His eyes sparkling and soft, he’s in caretaker mode– the doing after he takes, you aren’t ready for it yet. You need him. 

His eyes flicker to your lips and he can feel the way you bend for him, into him, asking for it without saying a word. His lips meet yours with delicacy, a soft graze of his lips before you part for him, beckoning for more. He lets his lips mold with yours, open and sweet, no haste, gradual and slow, his hands exploring your skin, your palm reaching upward to cup his cheek. 

“One more,” you whisper into his mouth, using all your might to form words. Your ankle hooks over his back, a shaky breath escaping you when your body meets the cold slick of his spent length. He hisses at the friction, head beginning to shake, you cut him off before he can speak. “Please.”

His eyes study your face for a moment. “You can handle it?”

“I need it,” your voice cracks on the second word. “Need to feel that you love me.”

His brows furrow, “Baby.”

“Yunho,” you whimper in the same tone, “Please.”

He catches your lips in a kiss and you’re not met with any more haste than before. It’s slow, passionate, he’s burning words onto your tongue, making you feel it instead of him saying it. He reaches down between your bodies, pumping his cock once, twice, pushing a small sound into your mouth, one you swallow down, tucking it beside your heart. Running his tip through your folds, you brace yourself, legs already shaking, bruised and battered and still aching for more. 

You wince as he starts pushing inside, his lips meet your jaw. On your sides, facing each other, you throw your arms over his shoulders, his hands sinking down around your waist, from how close you lay there’s barely any room for him to feed you a full thrust. He tries, grinding his cock against that spot inside you, eating every soft, wrecked moan you spill. 

“I love you so much,” he finally says, “Every inch of you, every part of this body.”

You whimper, fingers curling into his hair with no force, succumbing to the pleasure, the slight sting of overstimulation. 

“You take everything,” he whispers, lips against your cheek, you feel his breath, the severity of his words. “Do so fucking well for me every time. I need you.” Your heart jumps, clenching around him, pressure stemming. He repeats, voice a little louder, “I need you, love you s’much, ‘d do anything for you.”

Your hands drop to his shoulderblades, nails sinking in, breath growing heavier, a soft moan slipping past your lips, into his mouth. You whimper, voice cracking, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” his fingertips curl into your back, “I know, baby.”

“I love you,” your voice cracks again, breath going uneven, he kisses you softly. 

Your hips move with his, meeting each roll, the slick sound of your still-soaked center a symphony in your dimlit bedroom. He hears when your breathing shifts, as you start to climb. “Yes,” he encourages, voice dripping in praise, “Cum for me, baby, you deserve it. Did so good for me.”

Your breath hitches, hips twitching against him, he rolls into you a little harder. He kisses you, tongue sloppy inside your mouth, tasting everything you’d given him tonight, taking responsibility for it all. He turns you just slightly, angling you onto your back a little more so he can piston his hips higher, against that spot inside you. Your leg dangles, leaving your body spread and open, so trusting it makes his stomach do a flip. He presses two fingers against your clit, rubbing quick, tight circles.

He knows you’re seeing stars by the loud, pitched cry from your throat, he curses under his breath, “C’mon, cum for me. Give it to me, let me have it, I need it.”

Your spine bends on command, thighs shaking, pleasure washing over you in tremors. Eyes squeezing shut, he kisses your unmoving mouth, fingers working your clit, fucking you through it, extending your release, pulling it deeper, hotter, longer. 

He kisses your cheek when a tear slips out, wiping his upper lip with his tongue. Your face is bent up in pleasure, eyes big and doe-like, pupils dilated. You mumble, voice little and weak, “Please cum inside me.”

His pace quickens, chasing instead of supplying, voice caught in his chest. You kiss him again, sloppier, moaning into his mouth as he fucks into you steadily, fingers curling into his hair while you fuck him back. He chokes on a moan, hand splayed across your abdomen, hips losing their rhythm before he stutters, legs shaking, spilling everything that’s left inside him to give. 

Winded, breathing heavy, Yunho’s spent. There’s nothing but the sound of your breath in the room, he keeps his cock inside you until it’s soft and even then you wait until discomfort knocks on your door to part. 

“Can I clean you up?” He asks into the silence, palm still heavy over your sticky stomach. 

You moan your disagreement. “We need to shower.”

He rolls over, pressing a soft kiss onto your cheek, “Are you strong enough to?”

Your head turns, meeting his eye, a smile curving your lips to a singular degree. “I don’t really have a choice. You came on me twice– three times?”

He plants his palms on either side of your head, eyes meeting the ceiling in thought. “Mouth, thighs, stomach, face, inside. Three.” 

You throw your arms over his shoulders, bringing him down to kiss you. A soft, quick peck, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he smiles into your lips, “I’ll carry you and clean you, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll change our sheets, we’ll eat something, watch our show…”

You nod slowly, brain drifting. From the most vulnerable part of your foggy mind comes a question, voice thin as you ask, “You know I don’t want Yeosang, right?” 

His eyes flicker over your face, searching for the emotion that asked the question.

“Of course,” he replies, full of confidence, already spitting quick reassurance, “We’re perfect. I’m not angry at you, I’m not upset with you, I don’t have any feelings that will fester over tonight. Are you okay? Did I push you too far?”

You shake your head, “No.” Biting your lip, they scrunch to one side. “I’m okay, I just… Don’t stray too far away from me tonight. Please.”

He leans down to press another kiss on your forehead, “I won’t leave your side. I promise.”