Nevershoutnever :3

The same memories have started getting bleaker, fading into your conscience. Though, the memoirs from that weekend are being replaced with the ones which flew in quite seamlessly with you and the others. You and Yunho got close; constant date nights, staying in each other’s room after a passionate night of sex, and a never-ending saga of stealing kisses. The dynamic shift between you and Yunho did not bother others, as much as you’d like to have your own doubts regarding it, but the others never made you feel they wanted to be a little less involved with you since you started dating Yunho.   

Lately, you had been sensing a subtle stroke of tension amongst them. Nothing much you could do about it, so you stood on the sidelines and watched it happen. It started with Mingi and Jongho first—the latter seemingly giving him the unkindly cold shoulder. Mingi, as recounting the time spent over the weekend, had become a loner. The roommates became distant friends, making occasional efforts to even talk to each other. Yunho knew how to hold a grudge, all the years of friendship meant nothing to him the moment he severed the tie between them without giving it much thought. To him, Mingi hurt the one person he actually loved and cared about, that doesn’t go unpunished by his principles. On the other hand, Mingi steered clear of you and the others likewise, though he found someone to confide in. Seonghwa didn’t judge Mingi when he needed some time off and needed someone to vent to. In some ways, in passing, you noticed Mingi had been struggling with something.  

You wanted to help Mingi. Maybe talk to him to know what’s been running through his mind. You would help him, that is if he ever lets you anywhere near him, or if you ever get the chance to talk to him. Mingi’s avoidance started the moment you returned home; you didn’t push him, thought it’d be your new normal, and eventually it did become your new normal. You really wish he’d let you talk to him. If there’s anyone as fickle hearted as you, it’s Mingi. The thought of him struggling with something doesn’t sit right with you. It’s only because he doesn’t have many people to rely on. Not when Yunho’s hostility and vexed temperament became a clear warning for anyone else to do the same as him. Yes, most of them would not talk to Mingi the way they used to before. Regardless of what happened at the cabin, Seonghwa and Hongjoong didn’t let it stop them from behaving cordially towards Mingi.  

It was a whole thing that day—that one particular night.  

You didn’t want to reminisce about it, at least not when you’re in the car with Yunho. The radio crackles back to life in your mind, playing a droning tune you’ve gotten accustomed to. Yunho’s car has its own comfort for you; it has that signature scent to it, lingering on every corner of the interiors, on the dash, and of course, from him. Zoning back in, as the reality collapses one brick after another, you turn to him with a weak smile fluttering on your lips.  

“Hey, can you—I think you should talk to Mingi.” You blurt out the first thing on your mind, having been quiet for so long.  

Yunho’s head snaps in your direction, grip tightening on the steering wheel. “What?”  

“Come on, Yunho,” you click your tongue, ire starting to rise in your stomach, “are you really going to let a small incident come between the two of you? You’ve been friends for a long time—moments like these don’t matter.” 

He lets out a troubled sigh, knuckles turning white around the wheel. “How can you even say it doesn’t matter, Angel? Of course it matters. It matters to me because it was you.” Taking a deep breath, he glances at you before looking at the road, “what he did to you, isn’t—it’s not right. Hating you is one thing. But deliberately acting on it, and—and, injuring you…”   

“I am fine, I was fine…” you try to reassure him, but he’s quick enough to cut you off, anger slowly seeping through, “fine. Fine? How can you be fine after what he did? That was close enough to being raped—look, he forced himself onto you, and I’m not sure how you—how you perceive it…”  

“Let’s not,” you shake your head, turning to stare out the window. “Let’s not bring it up again. I’ve got a long day at uni today.”  

Passing cars, drifting buildings, and the morning haze of sun, you admire the sky amidst the chaos of the city. Where everyone is rushing to get to work, or to school, you’re bewildered by the sky. The last few weeks of summer have become reminiscent of the entire season. It reminds you of the cabin, it reminds you of the good times and the bad times, and it also reminds you how much change everyone else has succumbed to.  

“Fine, we can talk about this when you’re back home in the evening.” Yunho mumbles, keeping his eyes ahead.  

“No, not tonight. I’ll be too tired by the time I come back—long lab hours today.” You mumble too, catching a glimpse of him in the corner of your eye, “I don’t want you to make him feel any less of a friend, Yunho.”   

“Do you even know what you sound like right now?” he growls, rage bubbling from his chest, “why are you picking his side?”   

“His side? I’m not picking sides!” you snap, moving in the seat to face him, “I’m making you realise…!” you lower your voice just by a notch, “...your friendship can’t be worth breaking over whatever happened between us. It’s better if you understand that before it’s too late.”  

“It is already too late, Angel.” Yunho whispers under his breath, then screams, “how can you even fucking think it’s okay! He fucking tried to—I can’t even get myself to say the fucking word right now, you know! So, stop being such a bitch about it!”  

You hold your breath, hot tears welling in the corner of your eyes as your chest rises and falls—you did flinch when he raised his voice at you, you felt the tremors under your skin, and your body cowered in despair the more you stared into his dark eyes. For the moment, everything blurs out. The city goes silent. The blaring horns fade out, the crowd goes mute, and the radio whirs to its own demise. Whatever tune that had been playing before becomes a boisterous mechanical buzz, stinging in your ears. Does it hurt more than him yelling at you? Probably not.  

“Angel—I—I didn’t mean—princess, I didn’t mean to—I didn't mean it—I…” he realises his mistake, words spilling past lips in a broken attempt to appease for what he’s done.  

“Stop the car.”  

“Princess, what…”  

“I said stop the car.”  

“And what? Are you going to walk all the way to university?”  

“I don’t know, just stop the car!” You scream too, tears rolling down your cheeks, heart shattering—just a little so you feel the searing pain coursing through your veins.  

“Angel, it’s not safe…”

“I said stop the car. I need some space. I need to be away from you.”  

Yunho clicks his tongue, annoyance creeping to his face; he looks for a spot, gives a signal, and pulls to the side. As wordless as you could be, you take a deep breath and swiftly step out of the car, slamming the door behind you. The straps of your tote bag cut into your shoulders, your skirt furls around you, inching up your thighs as you step onto the curb. You don’t spare him a single glance, looking for a taxi instead. Yunho doesn’t speak either—after he’s responsible for the situation. Despite himself, Yunho drives off, leaving you on a curb at the side of a road.  

You tug at the hem of your skirt, letting it fall around your mid-thighs; the summer heat drove you crazy, so you picked out a casual outfit which wouldn’t have urged you to rip it off. A short pleated skirt paired with a light coloured blouse, and the beat-up sneakers to complete the outfit. You didn’t put too much effort on makeup, knowing it’ll melt off and drip down your neck in the heat; accessories were kept to the minimum—a dainty silver chain, earrings and a couple of rings on your fingers. Before leaving the apartment, you did douse yourself in a good amount of perfume—which is most likely to evaporate by the end of the day and still make you reek of sweat. Not that it matters anyway.  

A dainty vibration hits your side, coming from your tote bag. You take shelter under the overhang of a café, squinting your eyes against the harsh sunlight as you rummage through the bag to get your phone. Once in your hand, with your eyes still narrowed to slits to adjust to the light, you check the notifications. You see text messages from Jongho, coming in one after another.  

Baby bear 🐻  heyyy, hun.   saw your location   where are you?   are you stuck?   lost? 

You curse under your breath, “knew sharing my location with them would bite me in the ass.”  

For a moment, you don’t think of replying to his texts at all, but panic settles in when you see him calling you. There’s no other choice besides accepting your fate and answering his call; the moment you press your phone to your ear, Jongho’s concern sounds sharp in his words.   

“What the hell, Angel. Where the fuck are you?” he asks, “weren’t you with Yunho? Didn’t he offer you a ride to uni in the morning?”   

You take a deep breath, chest clenching. Somehow, it makes you relive the situation with Yunho—in the car with him, his raised voice, his venomous words. Everything comes back to you, rushing through your head like it has made its home there now. You clear your throat, and bite your tongue.  

“Just a few blocks away from the uni,” you answer, making sure you don’t sound too out of breath, “I’ll be fine. I’ll just walk. It’s not too far.”  

“Not too far my ass.” Jongho seethes, “I thought Yunho was supposed to drop you off before he went his own way.”  

“Yeah, he was and I was with him…” you trail off, dragging your words to almost a whisper.  

“But…?” 

“But we got into this whole thing and I—and I couldn’t be with him—couldn’t tolerate being in the same enclosed space as him.” You blurt out and ramble, deflating like a balloon when silence is all you get from him. “I’ll be fine. And I’ll explain everything to you when I’m back home.”  

On the other side of the line, you hear the softest crackle of jongho’s lips parting. “Angel, why would you—how would you—how could he.”  

“Jongho, I told him to. It’s not his fault. Don’t pin this on him.”  

“Are you even listening to yourself, Angel?” Jongho scoffs, “what even—hun, listen. He didn’t have to do it just because you asked him to. What kind of—what kind of man is he?” the frustration in his voice reaches a peak, “it’s his fault, Angel. Whether you see it the way I do, or not.” 

“Jongho…” you mutter, lips trembling, “it’s not a big deal. I’ll just—I’ll text you when I reach uni. I’ve got a class right now and I’m running late, okay?”  

“Fine, but we’re having a good talk when you‘re home.”  

When he hangs up, you falter listening to the dismissal and threat in his tone. For all you know, going back to the apartment after your day ends, could be one of the worst nightmares for you. Too many confrontations, too many things to sort and deal with—first with Yunho, and now Jongho. Is there anyone else who’d like to take a chance?  

You put your phone back in your bag and look around; if your navigation skills are as adept as you promise them to be, then you know you’re only ten to fifteen minutes away from university. If you power-walk through it, you might get there in less than ten minutes, or so you think. The heat scorches off the ground when you step out of the overhang, wincing when it bites your skin and stings your eyes. At this point of time, you realise you should’ve grabbed your umbrella before leaving the apartment.  

Now here you were, already having the worst day of this week.  

Honest to gods, this day couldn’t have gotten any worse. Back to back hour long lectures, lab hours which sucked up half of your lunch break, and the extra lecture scheduled towards the end of the day just because the professor said he could. In addition to that, your personal life wasn’t looking any different either. If anything, the altercation you had with Yunho in the morning was like a drop in the ocean. But then you went on to disappoint Jongho too. It’s sad, honestly. Your life is sad.  

The lecture hall you were in, buzzed with chatters of students you never likely tried to be friends with; amidst it all, you were starting to get hungry and the constant grumbling in your stomach, pissed you off. You hoped the wait wasn’t too long—not when you were seconds away from exploding on anyone who’d cross you the wrong way. You sat at the very back, doodling in the back of your notes; haphazard squiggles tried to make sense the more you traced and retraced them. A bird? A butterfly? A puppy? A flower? Your mind played tricks on you, letting you believe whatever you wanted to believe.  

Right in front, on the whiteboard highlighted by the bright lights, read Botany 101 in big bold letters, followed by the name of the professor taking the class. Mr. Lee was surely late enough to keep you waiting and hungry, desperate to go home. Patience had run out a long way before you even made it to the lecture hall, you had no idea what had put you in such a terrible mood prior to the lecture. Terrible moods are supposedly reserved specifically for after the lectures.  

In the back of your mind, all you could think of was your comfortable futon—or maybe jongho’s bed—lying in it without a care and draped in one of the boys’ hoodies, while seeking the much needed pampering from someone. Jongho was definitely the first on your list, he was someone you could rely on even if the two of you had a row in the morning. Second came in San, most probably because he was a bartender and wouldn’t judge you when listening to you vent. Wooyoung might be third—he’s just someone you’d rather go to when you’re in need of some fun.  

A groan leaves your lips, knocking out the remaining strength in you as your body slumps forward on the desk. Falling face first onto a hard wooden board isn’t particularly all rainbows and glitters. The sound must’ve also alerted your fellow friends, who turned towards you the moment your head hit it.  

“Not sure what’s going on here.”  

You hear a familiar sound—pitched, saccharine—and lift your head up to find Wooyoung standing in front of you. He’s smug, holding a box of what seems like cookies, in his hand while he carries a small leather crossbody with him. The cut-sleeve shirt stands out the most, making his biceps bulge out and giving you a glimpse of his defined serratus muscles; the leather pants behaved like second skin, wrapping around his toned thighs—did he just walk out of a runway? His pitch-black hair—he dyed it last week if you recall correctly—was half tied up, while a few wispy strands fell over his forehead. A silver earring dangled from his ear, sunglasses pushed on his head, and a light cherry glaze on his lips.  

“You seem to be a big hit amongst your friends.”  

“What are you doing here, Wooyoung?” you whine, rolling your eyes, “you shouldn’t be here—hell this isn’t even your department.”  

“Relax, bunny,” he rolls his eyes too, dropping the box of cookies on the table before you, “I did not come here cause I wanted to. I was sent by someone…”  

You raise a brow at him, curiosity kissing every inch of your face. “Who?” 

“Your boyfriend,” he sings-songs, “something happened between the two of you? I mean—” you narrow your eyes at him, “—gee, calm down. I don’t know what you’re so mad about and why he’s so desperate to—nevermind—here, this is from him.”  

He slides the cookie box towards you. A pastel pink box with a little bow on top. With a huff, you pull it closer yourself and open the lid; inside, ten cookies lined in two rows and seven of them came together to read I’m sorry in colourful frosting on top of them. For a few seconds, you’re taken off guard, not realising Wooyoung had hopped over the desk and was now sitting next to you. The other students barely gave you any of their attention, most of them were fixated on Wooyoung anyway. Was it because he didn’t belong in your class? Or was it because he was a handsome stranger talking to you—the resident introvert of the class?  

“Fuck him,” you mutter under your breath. “Oh, he’s done it now.”  

“Why are you having a crash-out over a box of cookies? At least he’s apologising for something he did wrong,” Wooyoung shrugs, leaning back with his arms behind his head.  

“Do you know what he did?” you whisper and shake your head, turning to him as you close the box and set it aside, “okay, maybe I am overreacting. It’s just—it’s just…yeah I am overreacting.”  

Wooyoung heaves a breath and sits straight, looking at you, “honestly, still don’t understand what happened between you two, but you should cut that guy some slack. You got him drinking at fucking two in the fucking afternoon.”  

Your chest tightens. “I think you should leave. My lecture might start any minute now.”  

“Relax, the professor’s not here yet.”  

“But he could be.” You lean over to check on the others who sit next to you.  

The lecture hall stretches out before you like a shallow amphitheater, rows of scuffed wooden desks descending towards the whiteboard. You usually claim the spot in the very back corner, the one tucked against the left wall where the overheard lights weren’t too bright enough to annoy or distract you, or even induce a migraine on one of those days. From here, the tiered seating made everyone look smaller, distant, like you were watching a play you had no intentions of joining. Sometimes the air smelled of stale coffee from someone’s thermos, or a weird odour which wafted through the old AC ducts.  

This corner gives you an illusion of privacy—no one behind you, no one to your left except for the soft beige wall with a big poster about morphological modifications in plants, somehow peeling at the edges. A couple of empty spaces between you and the two rows down from you, always garnered less attention at times. Your slump lower, shoulders curling inwards—if you could disappear, you would. Your pleated skirt rides up as you shift a little against the wooden seat, foot tapping against the metal rung below the desk. Here, you could doodle to your heart’s content, without anyone noticing or without making you feel exposed. It was the perfect hiding spot for days, when you were overstimulated and overwhelmed from your personal and social life.  

Wooyoung, of course, has ruined the solitude the second he perched next to you. His leather pants creak softly as he shifts in his place too, turning to you with a brow raised high on his forehead.  

“Earth to Angel?”  

You flinch, almost, ready to make a sound when the professor’s voice booms through the hall. “Please take your seats, everyone and settle down. I apologise for the delay.”  

Prof. Lee continues to talk as the chatter around you dwindles to complete silence. Wooyoung leans closer to you and whispers, “guess I’m staying for botany 101 today. Wait—what’s botany anyway?”  

You roll your eyes so hard that you’re surprised they don’t get stuck in your head. “As if this day couldn’t get any worse.”  

“What?” Wooyoung whines, “I have zero idea what this class is. I’m not a science geek like you.”  

“Plants,” you mutter, flipping through your notebook to open a fresh page, “botany is the study of plants. Now, will you shush?” you glare at him, “I’m trying to hear what he’s saying.”  

“Jesus, relax.” He grumbles under his breath, “I was just curious…”  

In the next fifteen minutes, Wooyoung had his notes out, his black rimmed glasses on, and squiggled doodles on a page. He didn’t seem too bothered about attending a lecture that’s not related to his major at all; rather, you could tell he actually listened to what the professor was saying—the only difference between you and him was that he was allowed to forget it, but you weren’t. The class did drone, especially with prof. Lee’s sluggish baritone which he used to drag every word.  

His monotonous speech was starting to prove detrimental for you—the frequency at which his words hit the tympanum of your ear, it was surely aiding as a lullaby putting you to sleep. No matter how hard you tried to stay awake, you were tempted to doze off. The sudden warmth in the lecture hall, the utter silence from students, and the soft scribbles of marker on whiteboard were a concoction to a good sleep. Every muscle in your body loosened eventually, eyelids drooped, lips stayed parted and your vision turned blurry—you were almost ready to rest your head on the desk, close your eyes and let the slumber invite you to a far away land, or should you dream of getting railed by one of them tonight?  

It’s no sentiment to ponder upon, you’ve used your wild imagination in lectures before—fantasising about them, about them fucking you in ways which would be concerning to any other. But to you, they were normal. At times, during such boring lectures, you’ve replayed a long lost memory of Seonghwa and Yunho engaging in a threesome with you on the very first night you spent with them. The memoirs are hot and heated, steamy—every inch of your body remembers how both their cocks felt in you.  

You’ve been thinking about it though—for a long while now—having another threesome with them. Yunho was one of two, already burned in the back of your mind until the altercation that transpired between you this morning; for the other guy, you were thinking of asking Yeosang this time. Not that you and Yeosang didn’t have a good time, it was just that he never openly initiated anything, not unless you wanted it. Yeosang was an enigma you could never figure out, an impossible riddle you’d work yourself to bones to resolve. Regardless, he was someone you would trust your life with. Sure, his kinks are a bit unconventional, given you were never exposed to bondage, sadism, and masochism before. But there was something about him that never made you have second thoughts. You’re not sure if you could say the same for Yunho.  

Though before you could even fantasise of a world of comfort, an arm snakes around your waist and pulls your body closer to another warm presence next to you. For the next few seconds, you’re unable to comprehend what you were subjected to, until Wooyoung’s voice rang deep in your ear.  

“Dozing off, bunny?” he chuckles, “I know a way to keep you up.”  

Without any hesitation or warning, Wooyoung’s free hand grazes at the hem of your skirt, before his fingers dip past it and trace ticklish lines up your inner thigh. They keep inching closer to your heat, crawling towards your aching cunt—while he pulls back, his scent drifting with him and lets out a small hum of satisfaction. His fingers brush your folds through your soaked panties—thinking about having a threesome with Yeosang and Yunho had really aroused you beyond belief.  

“Wet already?” Wooyoung muses, fingers nudging your slick panties to the side and rubbing up and down your folds. “Makes it easier to slide them in.”  

You’ve mastered the art of biting your lips and preventing your moans from spilling past them by now. When his fingers, deliberately, push into your slit, you bite down hard on your lower lip, teeth sinking into the thin skin till you feel a gush of pain running through your mouth. You poke your tongue out, letting it prod against your lower lip to taste a metallic tang before it dissolves to something sweet. Bringing your free hand to Wooyoung’s wrist—you hold your pen in the other hand—you try to stop him by pulling his hand away.  

Wooyoung’s quite stronger than your grip on his wrist, because he doesn’t budge. He pushes his fingers deep within your slit, sliding up and down, coating the tips with your slick. You try your hardest to get his hand off you—not particularly because you didn’t enjoy it, but because you were supposed to follow a decorum. Getting fingered in a class full of students, while the professor was engaged in a lecture, surely gave you the thrill and riled you up. However, your rationality weighed in and told you it wasn’t the right thing to do.

“Wooyoung,” you whisper-yell at his direction, eyes fixed onto the professor, who now had his back to you as he wrote on the board.  “What are you doing?”  

“Can’t you tell?” he smirks, prodding the pads of his index and middle finger against your clit, grinding them in circles before dragging them down your slit again, “I’m keeping my bunny entertained, and apparently also from dozing off. Don’t slack in lectures, bunny. It’s not a good virtue for a star student like you.”  

Even though Wooyoung’s voice had merely been above a whisper, the girl sitting two rows ahead of you, whips her head behind, glaring at you both. Shame roils in your stomach, embarrassment creeps up your spine, and your cheeks turn as red as cherries before you look away and pretend everything’s fine. However, Wooyoung holds the girl’s gaze, lips curling into a devious, smug smile—he’s pompous, you’ve known it for a while now. But the way he never lets his eyes leave her, already tells you who’s going to win this match. The girl, who had been glaring at you, melts into a heap of humiliated rage and turns back around. Wooyoung chortles low in triumph, picking up the pace of his fingers in your slit.  

“What a bitch.” He comments close to your ear, only for you to hear. “Keep your mouth shut, bunny. I don’t want anyone to hear the beautiful sounds you’re making for my fingers…”  

The sudden emptiness and loss of his fingers from your slit, makes you whine loudly against the back of your hand. You glare at him sideways, latching onto his wrist to get his hand out from under your skirt. Wooyoung’s smirk turns to one of the most filthy and dirty ones he’s ever given you; as his intentions clearly speak through his eyes, you brace yourself by biting your lower lip again, muffling any sound which knocked out of your chest because his fingers plunged into your soaking cunt. Only the first inch of his forefinger and middle finger dragged across your walls, too short to be reaching anywhere, however effortless in stretching you out.  

You lunge over, falling face first into the desk while bracing yourself from the impact with your hands on the wooden surface. Wooyoung continued, discreet and gentle, eventually taking the tempo of his fingers up by a notch; every time he did it, every time the pace of his fingers increased by a few seconds, you felt them delve deeper. You don’t know how long you could go on without getting caught by the professor. Wooyoung let your walls squelch around him, with his fingers buried in your dripping and clenching cunt till the first knuckles. He precisely curled them inward, pressing them up against your pelvic floor—driving a beautiful moan out of you.  

“Ms. Moon?” Professor Lee addresses you, “are you alright? If you're feeling unwell, you should head to the infirmary. You’re distracting the entire class.”  

You raise your head, sitting straighter, easing up on the tension between your legs as Wooyoung’s fingers go completely still inside you.  

“She’s fine, professor. I believe she mentioned having a bad stomach cramp earlier.” Wooyoung answers for you, bowing his head with respect and continues politely, “I think it’s getting worse now. Would it be alright if I take her to the infirmary?”   

Professor Lee is silent for a few minutes before nodding sternly and turning back to the whiteboard. “Very well. She does seem to be quite uncomfortable.” He checks his wristwatch and sighs, “go, take her to the infirmary. I’ll wrap this lecture up in ten more minutes. Make sure she gets checked properly.”  

Wooyoung is already up, hands to his side, stuffing his book in his bag while he helps you gather and pack yours too; in blazing seconds, you’re out of the lecture hall, getting dragged by your wrist by Wooyoung. The hallway, quiet and empty, suddenly becomes too narrow for you, letting you suffocate on the delicious pleasure between your legs still lingering whether his fingers were toying with you or not. You could feel it in your bones, in your knees, as if you’d give in and drop to the floor, taking him down with you. Focused on not letting your bag slip off your shoulder, you don’t notice Wooyoung hauling you around a corner and entering a small office.  

You come to your senses when the door snaps shut behind you, plunging you both in utter darkness; the blackout curtains over the sole window by the desk, preventing any light from scattering inside. There was still enough time for sunset—maybe an hour more—yet, the sun rays which filtered through the curtains were merely doing anything to shed a light on the empty room. Maybe a few slipped in when the curtains fluttered lightly to the summer breeze, kissing the outline of Wooyoung’s face and shining through his eyes; his lips stay parted, his moles deliberately prominent yet hide when the darkness takes over, and his eyes remain trained on you, full of hunger. He pushes you up against the desk, wooden edge biting into your spine and the small of your back.  

“Whose office is this?” he asks, letting go of your wrist, “well fuck—that doesn’t fucking matter. Get on the desk, now.”  

You drop your bag on the floor with a silent thud, then hop on the desk, taking the leverage of your hands on the edge. Spreading your legs wide, Wooyoung steps between them with his hands cupping your knees to keep them apart; you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling yourself closer to him. In the darkness, you’re able to catch up on the intentions shrouding his eyes and mind; Wooyoung doesn’t waste any more time in pushing your skirt to your waist and pulling your panties down to your ankles. The cool air hits your wet folds, brushing just slightly against the flesh to entice a warm shiver tingle down your spine. He leans in, lips meeting yours in a fraction of a second, while one of his hands slides up your inner thigh, fingers tracing closer and closer till they graze your throbbing clit.   

The kiss stays messy, distracting and sloppy; spit drawls on your lips and chin, Wooyoung’s mouth tries to claim yours in a brutal yet grotesque hunger. His teeth sink into your lower lip, and his fingers deliberately drag down your slit to thrust into your eager and waiting cunt—your back arches, chest pushing into his. The pleasure growing in the pit of your stomach reaches a different high, pulling under its influence and forcing you to whimper. Between, your skirt uselessly bunched around your waist, and your panties threatening to slip off your ankles, the real concern which palpitated in your heart was someone walking in on you two. Maybe the thrill of getting caught made your cunt drip with arousal, it made you hornier and more eager.  

Wooyoung’s fingers weren’t of much help either—curling upwards inside you, pushing them towards your pelvic bone in the hopes of seeking one spot which drives you insane. He wants you closer to the edge before he ruins you—before he fucks you in one of the professor’s offices. Pulling away, he purposely tugs on your lower lip with his teeth and watches it wobble; he traces his lips down your chin, under your jaw, and gently peppers kisses till his face gets buried in the crook of your neck. Picking up the pace of his fingers, he goes fervent with the need to feel your walls flutter around him; you’re not too far away either, one more tug of his fingertips at your spongy walls, one more plunge deep into you, and you’re sure you’d let go. The tension really does coil with a relentless tremor, your walls clenching for a fraction of a minute before the muscles flex and spasm. Wooyoung groans nuzzling into your neck with another pathetic whimper, and you feel the wetness of his drool tickle your skin. 

Your arms tighten around his shoulders, clinging onto him as the waves of pleasure roll through your body, giving his fingers one last squeeze before they whisper and murmur around them. Emitting a grunt, Wooyoung lets his fingers slip out of your soaking cunt, your arousal and evidence of the orgasm coating his fingers with a thin layer of sheen. The emptiness makes you whine, followed by a stunned gasp the moment his hands are back on your hips, lifting you up the desk just slightly to have you perched more comfortably than before. 

“Much better than attending a boring lecture, right?” he smirks, joining your foreheads together while rubbing circles onto your skin with his thumbs, “you got a condom on you?”

You slide your hands from his shoulders down his back to rest then along the curve of his spine. “Why do you need one right now?” 

He clicks his tongue, the smirk never leaving his face, “don’t really want to make a mess here. And I don’t like doing it bare.” 

“Has it always been that way? Cause I remember Hongjoong telling me none of yall used condoms.” You chuckle softly, tracing your fingers up his spine. 

Wooyoung hums, lips twitching, mischief in his eyes, “did he, now? Well I never said it exclusively, did I?” his laugh echoes with you, “and honestly, accidental pregnancies are kind of my thing. Can’t blame me for having fast swimmers, ya’ know.” 

“For some reason, that assures me and makes me uneasy at the same time.” You remark, keeping your tone light.  “Did you forget?dd I’m on the pill.” 

With a soft nudge of his hand, he slides it between your bodies to unbuckle his belt and undo the button on his pants; an astonished hiccup chokes out of his chest. “Not to be that kind of guy, but isn’t birth control really…” he drawls, “…a little unsafe with its side effects?” 

“I haven’t felt any since I started taking them," you shrug, eyes drifting away from him to his hand; he pumps his hardening cock with deliberate strokes, gently grinding the hot red tip against your lower belly, “it regulates my cycles too, so I’m not really—” you’re clearly distracted by his hand, gliding up and down his cock—thumb pressing into his slit, and his fingers wrapping around the shaft. “—why are you—why are you concerned…” your breath hitches. 

He hums yet again, “and why shouldn’t I?” his voice drops lower, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “should I not be concerned about the woman who throws up every two weeks, or when she stays in bed all day because the migraines hit her hard?” 

Your chest tightens, eyes fluttering shut when his hips roll into yours, grinding his cock on your lower belly; precum stains and smears on your, creating intricate lines and curves which feel more like a prize than anything else. 

“It’s alright. I’ll manage.” You croak. 

“You’re taking them only because the guys are too arrogant and selfish to wrap it,” he chortles, his chest rumbling and eyes darkening with an inane level of anger and frustration, “I’m worried about your health. Stop taking them.” The firmness in his tone, and the weight in his words, strikes you harder than you realise. “I’ll handle the guys…” 

He pecks your lips, the constrained darkness breaking out slowly as his mouth delves and his tongue plunges into yours. Whimpering at the heat coiling back in your stomach, you wrap your legs around his waist to trap his body with yours. Wooyoung continues to stroke and grind against you, simultaneously, breaking away only for a second to pull out his wallet from the back pocket of his pants. A crinkle resounds, and you snap out of it, pulling away from his mouth to stare at him. He slides your hand from his shoulders and places the condom on the palm, flashing you a cheeky smile. 

“Put it on me, come on…” 

Bracing his hands on the edge of the table on either of your sides, he maintains enough distance for you to follow through with his command. All thoughts are vague notions debilitating somewhere in the corner of your mind. You don’t really have the strength to think twice, and before you know, you’re tearing the packet and rolling the flavoured condom down his shaft. Wooyoung’s eyes are on your trembling fingers, assessing them, noticing how unsteady they are as you tug the rubber down till the base of his throbbing cock. 

“Good girl.” He kisses your cheek, sparing a glance down for a mere second, just enough for him to guide the tip of his cock and align it with you; his arms around your waist, keeping you upright. 

With every push of his, you cling onto him tighter, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and nuzzling into the crook of his neck. Whimpers bubble from your chest, the tension in your stomach straining with an intense hunger, your walls stretch around his girth—even if he wasn’t as big as Yunho or Seonghwa, Wooyoung’s girth really made up for it. The deeper he plunged into your warmth, the louder your gasps got; your walls sting, starting to flutter around him already.  

“Fuck—ah fuck—that’s it, just like that…fuck, Angel.” Wooyoung grunts, his teeth clamping down hard on his lower lip, muffling the remnants of a broken moan. 

Your eyes flutter open at the fullness and the tautness of the stretch of your walls around him; heart hammering, stomach dropping, and your cunt aching for him to move. Buried deep in you, the tip of his cock catches just by the surface of your spongy walls, grazing the spot which makes your eyes roll into the back of your head for the second time. 

“Woo…woo…woo…” 

Wooyoung lets out a small titter, gripping your waist as firmly as he could, his fingers leaving indentations, burnt in blue and purple, searing your skin with his desires. “You sound like an ambulance siren,” he jokes, wincing when he feels you clench around him slightly. “Ah fuck, sorry…no teasing.” 

He doesn’t wait for your reply, or even considers you’d have anything to say; before you realise, he’s pulling back, just enough to drive his hips forward into yours. A thrust impacted with a single-mind focus on your writhing body under him. The friction is instant, an immediate flash of white hot pleasure and overwhelming warmth. Every heavy, weighted drag of his cock around your walls made your eyes water, vision blurring at the edges with him smirking in a certain victory you couldn’t fathom yet. His thrusts grow intense, rhythmic somehow, never missing to jab at your sweet spot, forcing your walls to squelch and quiver. The desk beneath you, moved to the tempo he’s set with his hips, creaking with a sharp sound echoing around you, breaking the trance of your huffs and his grunts. 

The pleasure builds with every plunge of his cock, every roll of his hips, every grunt sounding too good close to your ear; back arches, head thrown back, gaze still longing to be on him, yet the insistent passion of his body traps you in a haze you’re sure you can’t escape. You drag your hands from his shoulders to the front of his abdomen, nails catching on his shirt as you do, hoping it would’ve been his skin you were scratching, leaving a piece of you with him. Letting out a moan, you fist at the hem of his shirt and pull it out of the way; the other hand creeps to his v-line, tracing the flexions of his muscles and feeling the smoothness of his skin. Though, your fickle-hearted brain was forcing you to shove him away. No overstimulation so far, yet the knot tightening in the pit of your stomach is too close to coming undone. 

“Yeah, you gon’ come for me, bunny?” he slurs his words, drunk on the pleasure and unrestrained pining biting into his skin and yours, “don’t hold back, Angel. Not now…not…” a grunt parts his lips, chest heaving into yours, eyes, half-lidded meeting yours, “...let go for me, love.”

If that wasn't enough to tip you over the edge, Wooyoung picks up his pace, increasing the sharp cadence of his hips, skin clapping on skin, wet noises resounding in the room filled with scent of sex and sweat. The heat grows exponentially, trapping, deviously confining your senses to focus on nothing but his breath against your shoulder and his cock driving you crazy. Your body goes into an overdrive, a whiplash of emotions you had never felt before; dragging seconds collectively make droning minutes of passionate love, your walls spasming once, then again, reaching their peak, while the tension in your stomach unties, pulling your soul under a spell straight to hell. 

Every inch of your body shudders, spasms, goes numb to the simmering pleasure and release finally breaking out, clenching and clamping down on him, feeling every ridge, every throbbing vein on his cock. Wooyoung drops his head from your shoulder to your chest, resting it right in the valley between your breasts; one of his hands leaves your waist, fingers tracing to the hem of your top to pull it up and bunch it over the curve of your chest. It stays, undisturbed, unprovoked. His warm breath brushes your skin, tongue lolling out to lick up a stripe on your sternum before retrieving back into his mouth. 

“Oh lord,” he mutters under his breath, seemingly like a prayer before he breaks into a fit of breathless whispers, “so perfect…such a good little bunny…shattering so pretty around my cock…”

You throw your head back, again, to the restless sensation of his pulsating cock, and prodding tip with every long and deep thrust of him; your orgasm might’ve slowed him down, but it didn’t break his determination. Not yet. “Woo…” you pant, screwing your eyes so tight you’re blinded by the darkness, and the pure bliss of your high washing over you. 

His thrusts become short and curt, fucking you just with the tip, helping you ride out your high while he takes a moment to catch his breath. And just as he does, followed by your giddy laugh, you hear footsteps right outside. Silhouettes linger on the glass of the door, voices slowly drifting in through the crack under it; you could make out it’s a bunch of professors—from the sounds, you know it’s Professor Han and Professor Kang, the two most obnoxious people in the department you have a beef with. His head, which had been snugly resting on your chest, lifts up in a haste, with an intimidating realisation. 

“Shit…!” Wooyoung quickly slams his hand over your mouth, the other one holds onto your waist in a silent warning; his eyes are wide, lips pursed, hips still and cock buried deep in your cunt. 

You shake your head, heart pounding against the walls of your chest. You’d be so done for if any of them walked in right now. When Wooyoung dragged you in here, you didn’t quite catch the name on the door. Were you in Professor Han’s office? Or was it Professor Kang? You couldn’t tell. The voices weren’t sharp as before, a little distant, a little muffled. 

“Do you mind if I grab my phone real quick?” One of them says. 

The thrill, the rush of adrenaline and anticipation coursing through your blood, switches on a flip on you and your walls clamp harder around Wooyoung’s cock. He bites down on his lower lip to muffle the moan erupting from the back of his throat. 

“Do you really need it? I’ll pay for your coffee. I still have some balance on my cafeteria card.” There’s no mistaking it’s Professor Han. 

“Are you really offering to pay?” Professor Kang laughs. “It’s better if I did…” 

The doorknob rattles, the silhouettes growing darker on the glass panel of the door. Your heart has thrashed, wrung and twisted in your chest, testing the bounds of your bony cage; and so has your soaking and spasming cunt, clenched and closed tighter around Wooyoung’s cock. Fear of getting caught is bubbling right up to your throat, the anxiety pushing your body over a boundary you didn’t realise it had. Undeniably the pleasant tension between your legs palpitates from Wooyoung’s cock back to your stomach, skin tingling, back arching, eyes closing and body going limp. You spasm and flutter one more time around him, a silent, almost serene orgasm breaking you apart this time. 

Wooyoung groans loudly and drops his head on your shoulder, biting it to control his sounds. With great efforts, he tries to ease himself out of you, however, your greedy cunt is sucking him in deeper. One more tight wrench of your walls around his cock does it for him; his cock pulsates and throbs, warmth gradually filling up the condom, eventually sensed by your walls. 

He turns his head slightly on your shoulder to stare at you, hand sliding off your mouth as you both try to catch your breath. “Fuck—fuck—are they coming in or not?” his whisper dies on his tongue when the doorknob rattles again, followed by professor Han’s voice. 

“Ya, Hyunjin-ah. Are you disrespecting your senior? I said I’ll pay for you. Don’t be so stubborn.” 

Their strained laughters and reprimanding comments ring out to complete silence. In the office, the two of you are still trying to breathe normally, trying to get your bodies to cool down after such a stressful moment. Wooyoung pulls out with a grunt, stepping back still there’s enough space between you, dropping your legs gently so they dangle over the edge of the desk. While you straighten and pull your panties over your throbbing cunt, Wooyoung pulls off the filled condom from his softening cock, ties it up and throws it in the bin right next to the desk. Both of you tidy up your clothes, run a hand through your hair, and touch up your makeup; while doing so, you take the chance to spritz enough perfume in the room to hide the stench of sex and sweat. 

“Ooh, fruity. I like it,” Wooyoung comments, picking up his satchel and draping it across his shoulder. 

You hop off the desk, slide your bag over your shoulder and roll your eyes at him. “Do you live for the thrill, Woo?” 

“Guilty as changed,” he laughs, holding his hands up, “gets my blood pumping, you know. Facing the danger. Treading the riptide.” 

“You’re insane.” 

“Right.” He deadpans, but the cheeky smile never leaves his face. “I’m insane. If I recall correctly, someone just came from the idea of being caught.” He bumps his shoulder into yours, teasing, “are you sure you’re not into exhibitionism? I can tell you are.” 

Your cheeks burn with an acrid taste of embarrassment and timidity. Punching him in the ribs, you glare at him rather than admitting you are, in fact, into exhibitionism. “Yeah, that would be about right when the pigs fly.” 

Wooyoung pouts, taking your hand in his and intertwining your fingers together; he brings it to his lips to press a lingering kiss on your knuckles. “Don’t tempt me, bunny. I might take it as a challenge and prove otherwise.” 

The keen fire in his eyes is fierce as it was the first night you saw him, voice gravelly and deep to trace around the words which make your spine tingle. You don’t want to push yourself to think about the scenario where he really does prove you wrong and confirm your eccentric kink; however, the thought itself is really exciting. You wonder how long it’ll take for him to break you, pull you apart piece by piece and put you back together in a twisted way of his. 

Wooyoung clears his throat, tugging at your hand as he leads you out of the office. “You should really talk to the guys ‘bout the birth control, though.” 

“Yeah, I will.” 

The reminder breaks your train of thoughts like a cold bucket of water to your face. You understand where he comes from, understand his concerns are wholly justifiable since he has seen you at your worst for the past couple of months. The side effects didn’t show up immediately, they took time and they took their own sweet time with you. It was true, you threw up every two weeks in the morning, your migraines have gotten worse than before and your usual medication wasn’t working on them anymore, and your mood has been swinging like a sugar-rushed monkey swinging from one branch to another in a forest. 

It’s a possibility, you snapping at Yunho in the morning could’ve been the result of your unpredictable mood swings, although, your rationale speaks for yourself and tells you he was in the wrong as much as you. For now there’s no need to bring up what happened in the morning. As much as dwelling on pointless moments from the past has become your favourite hobby to pass your time, you really can’t afford to drown in regrets now. And if you are keeping a score of your regrets, then maybe there’s one you’re missing out on. 

Spending the remainder of your day with Wooyoung was probably one of the best decisions ever. With very few hours left after slipping out of your department, you two were trying to outrun the clock. Wooyoung took a little detour to his restaurant on the way home, cooked you a warm meal as a thank you, and a sincere apology for the way he behaved today. Halfway through the meal, he started talking about his day, and about the call he received from his grandmother asking him to come meet her over the weekend. He went on rambling deep about it—his grandmother, his family, his life back in the countryside. You offered him appreciative nods, a few words of encouragement and silence where it was necessary. 

Wooyoung can either talk your ear off or choose to seal his lips for once and for all. He speaks from his heart on most days, speaks some bitter truths no one wants to hear—clearly, Jongho didn’t want to hear the truth about his newly acquired habit of whistling while he peed, but Wooyoung had to give it to him straightforwardly. There were instances where he went absolute radio silent, barely coming out of his room, even when Hongjoong and Seonghwa tried to lure him out. All you could tell from his chatters this time, is that he’s a man with a heart of gold. Leaving the sexual tension aside, you could see why, albeit being annoyed, the others dote on him so much. 

The ride back to the penthouse is quiet and comforting; unlike the usual car rides with Wooyoung, where he’s screaming his lungs off singing to the songs on the radio, this one was more serene. Neither of you spoke much, and even if you did, it was a momentary conversation about San’s habit of walking butt-naked around the house when no one’s around. Naked Thursdays he called them once, or mentioned it in passing to you. It was a lighthearted effort by him to ease your mind before you walked in through the front doors of the penthouse. Not that Wooyoung knew the full extent of your situation with Yunho and Jongho, if it could be even considered a sticky situation. However, he was easily able to tell something troubled you from your slouched shoulders, the moment you neared the apartment complex. 

By the time you were in the penthouse, sliding your feet into house slippers, Wooyoung had already disappeared from your side. Stranded by yourself, staring at two men who you weren’t really expecting to see home first, makes your heart flutter with dread. Yunho and Jongho both squabble over the video game they were playing, controllers in hand, gaze locked on the tv screen, hollering and hooting every time something happened. Seonghwa sat on the couch, reading a book—blissful even in the chaos—his eyes momentarily flick towards you, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. With a swift flick of his wrist, he takes his glasses off, as if he’d see much clearer without them. 

“Hey, Angel.” He shuts his book close, keeps it aside along with his glasses, on the table next to the couch, and gets up to greet you with a hug. “I heard you had a long day today.” 

You nod, hugging him back tightly, melting into his warmth while your gaze drifts off to Yunho and Jongho in front of the TV. All of your worries dissolve into the heat between you two, eyes fluttering shut tightly, inhaling his homely scent with softer undertones of oud and sandalwood. You cling onto him, nuzzling your face into his shirt to bury yourself in more of scent; Yunho and Jongho stay on the floor, controllers in hand, screen flashing the lights. While Jongho and Seonghwa, seemingly appear fresh and well put together, you doubt you could say the same thing about Yunho. He looks like shit. He must’ve been beating himself up since the morning, or the afternoons when he started to drown his worries in glass bottles. 

“Yeah, I did. It was okay—Wooyoung helped me through it.” You pull back, looking up at him with your arms still loosely wrapped around his waist, “I’m really tired, though.” 

“Dinner?” he asks, brushing a hand through your hair, fingers twisting and tangling to get rid of the knots in them. 

“Ate with Wooyoung,” you state, smiling wide. “Did you?” 

“Hmhm,” he hums, tugging you towards the couch by your waist and pulling you down on his lap with him, “everyone ate. We were contemplating waiting for you. But Jongho mentioned you might eat out with your friends. I did not know Wooyoung was with you. Did you eat at his restaurant?” 

“Hmhm, he makes really good japchae.” 

You rest your head on his chest while Seonghwa pulls the strap of your bag from your shoulders and sets it aside. He continues running his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp occasionally, kissing the crown of your head way too often then you’d notice. Yunho clears his throat, getting his attention on you; he turns the game off, earning a deadly glare followed by a teasing scoff by Jongho. The TV is switched off, black screen reflecting you and Seonghwa on the couch, while Jongho excuses himself and leaves the room. Yunho gets up from the floor and settles down next to Seonghwa, maintaining some distance. He catches Seonghwa’s gaze, speaking with their eyes and confirming to each other’s needs. 

“Stay with him for a while, yeah? I’ll be right back. Need to check on Joong. You know he doesn’t bother eating when he’s in his zone.” Seonghwa unwraps his arms from your waist and picks you up with him; shifting you back on the couch, he leans and kisses your forehead before leaving the room too. 

Now, it’s just you and him. Suddenly the air grows thick, the tension between you two becomes suffocating. You lean back into the couch, avoiding meeting eyes with him while he drapes his arm along the back of the couch, stretching it out and long. From a single whiff of air, you could catch the minty notes on his breath, but it does so little to mask the stench of alcohol stuck to his clothes—a red plaid shirt over a simple black tee, the same grey shorts he wears when he’s far too wasted to wear anything else. His hair stays disheveled, sticking out in all directions; eyes bloodshot, cheeks flushed, even the tip of his ears were covered in a taint of shame and embarrassment. 

“So…” he trails off, words clamming to a whisper afterwards, “are we good?” 

You let a sharp exhale of breath, glancing at him, “I don’t know, Yunho. You tell me.” 

“Well, I think we are.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck with his other hand, “I apologised, didn’t I?” 

A dry, almost humourless laugh scratches along your throat as it makes its way out. “Cookies. Really, Yunho? Is that your definition of an apology?” Finally, you turn to look at him, eyes burning with anger and tearing up at the thought, lips quivering already, “you called me a bitch. You yelled at me! Do you know how that felt?” 

“Do you know what it felt like? Watching you stand up for a guy who literally tried to take advantage of you?” He scoffs, retaliating with an edge to his voice that makes you flinch at him; he leans in close, letting his breath fan your cheeks, “you cower and flinch away from me. But you’re treating him like some tragic victim who needs saving. How is that fair, Angel?” 

“I am not standing up for what he did,” you state, leaning in, staring at him with that fervent haze in your eyes, “I was trying to save your friendship, the same one you apparently don’t care about anymore.” The exhaustion of the entire day finally catches up to you, shaking every bone in your body that makes you slump over him, head resting on his chest, “I don’t want to come between you two. I don’t want to be the one who breaks two best friends apart. I want to save your friendship with him, Yunho.” 

Yunho’s hands grab you by the shoulders; any other time, he’d have had the heart to pull you closer to him, hug you close to his chest, but this time, he shoves you away, maintaining the same clinical distance he had before. “There’s no friendship to save, Angel. I killed him in my mind and heart the day he did something so unforgiving to the only person I care so much about.”

He brings his hands to his side, fisting them against the cushion until his knuckles turn white. With a belittling scoff, and a wide smile, he looks at you and grumbles in sheer anger, “if you still choose to take his side then maybe being us is a bad idea. I think I need some time away from you. And so do you.” He’s already off the couch before you could even make a sound, “come talk to me when it’s gotten to your head why I’m not forgiving him. Until then, don’t even try to get in my sight.” 

Helplessly you watch his figure disappearing down the hallway—the lights turn off when his bedroom opens and slams close. Rage simmers in your blood too, his words crashing down on you like waves of oceans that carry on with full force; tears stream down your cheeks, unstoppable, out of your control, the saltiness lingering on your lips from the ones that end flowing too close to your mouth. Every drop falls onto your skirt, soaking it up. Pit-Pat. Pit-Pat. Pit-Pat. Till you couldn’t take it anymore. 

You get off the couch and march toward the balcony, sliding the door shut with a force behind you. While you rubbed the tears from your eyes and cheek, the moonless night sang to your broken heart. Clouds drifting from one place to another, hiding the moon behind them, letting his shine break through occasionally. You sniffle and hiccup, trying to get your palpating heart under control, composing every bit of strain in your muscles and nerves from yet another altercation with Yunho. You’re consumed by his words still, his intentions and the bitterness laced to his tone like venom. 

“Well, that was something.” 

Your head snaps in the direction of the sound. There, leaning over the railing, stood Song Mingi—dressed in a black tank top underneath a wispy beige cardigan that probably doesn’t offer any warmth on a cold night as such, and simple black pants. His hair is neat and short now, back to its natural colour, blowing to the shallow breeze of the night. 

“How much did you hear?” you ask, turning your attention back to the sky, and the silhouettes of buildings sparkling at a distance. 

“Enough to know you might be expecting me to thank you,” he scoffs, turning back to the view as well—the distance between you was astronomical, yet you felt his warmth, or the slight vibration of his chest when he laughs, “I don’t know if you’re just plain greedy for everyone’s affection, or genuinely helping me out here.”

“Not my place to clear the intentions behind my behaviour.”

He claps his hands, laughing still, “that’s so saint-like, Angel.” 

“Fuck off, Mingi. Not now…” you grumble, closing your eyes shut, feeling the dam about to break again; your chest feels so heavy with all the irritation and love for Yunho.

“Not now, not ever…” he whispers, sighing deeply as you hear the ruffle of his clothes; when you look at him, he has a cigarette caught between his lips, smoke curling in the air and around him like a halo. “Why do you care so much about me?”

You shake your head, staring down at your hands clutching the metal railing, knuckles white, fingers curling too tight and going numb. “Why should I not? Is it not my place? If I got you two to fight, then why can’t I be the one to bring you back together?”

He blows out a cloud of smoke, shifting the cigarette to the corner of his mouth as he offers you the pack to take one yourself, “smoke one with me…” hesitantly, you pick one and press the butt between your lips, and Mingi leans even closer to light it up for you; the whiff of his expensive perfume catches in your lungs even before the smoke could, but as it dissipates in your chest, you feel the rush of heat to your cheeks. The distance he tried to maintain so hard is diminished within seconds over something so trivial. When he pulls back he doesn’t bother standing feet away from you like he did before. Rather, your shoulder brushes with his arm, creating a wispy whisper of your clothes against his. 

Mingi clears his throat, “caring so much about someone who tried to take advantage of you is utter stupidity, Angel. Do I deserve your kindness? Or anyone else at all at this point?” 

“Beating yourself up again over that?” you pinch the butt of your cigarette, pulling it out to blow the smoke that thins out in the air, “why can’t we move on? Staying stuck in the past is a brutal tragedy. So many catastrophes you could’ve avoided but what’s the point thinking about it when it’s already happened?” 

“Good point,” he hums, “but do you think he’s one of those to forget about it so quickly?” 

“If he doesn’t then that’s on him. At least I can try to pull him out of it.” You turn to him. “Is it so wrong, Mingi? To think you know what’s best for someone you care and love so much about?”

“It’s subjective, Angel.” He breathes in the flumes from his cigarette, the cherry red tip blinking against the night, “what you find to be the best for others, might not be the same thing for them. Each individual is entitled to have a thought of their own. Maybe he doesn’t see it through your eyes, and maybe he never will. How long will you continue to burn for him?”

“You have a way with your words,” you chuckle, putting out the cigarette on the railing and flicking it over, watching it fall through the air, “what’s a little bit of ash for the person you love. I can hold my own.”

“Can you really? Can you really have the heart to face him after he spat the most venomous words at you, Angel?” 

“I can’t…” 

“I know,” he takes a long drag and blows out the smoke, “come with me—I know you wanna be anywhere else but here right now…” 

“So?” you grow a little wary, “are you gonna take me to the woods and kill me?”

He blankly stares at you before putting out his cigarette on the railing too, “honestly I have better ways to get rid of you. That one’s too basic.” Clicking his tongue, he tugs at the back of his hair and groans, “will you just trust me for now? And I don’t want you to think I owe you something because you took my side.” 

In a haste he grabs your hand, dragging you with him; and the minutes slip past your grasp, when he takes you to the parking lot, to where his motorbike is. Flickering fluorescent lights, damp walls, and the ground beneath you breaks open. Your tear-stained cheeks sting to the warm and humid air in the lot and Mingi’s hand never lets go of you until you’re standing right in front of his bike—a Ducati Panigale, if you’re right. Your eyes track its silhouette, aggressive and forward-leaning, made of glossy carbon fiber and razor-sharp fairings that swallowed the overhead lighting. It was a high performance bike—sporty, jagged, intimidating—from the blacked out windshield to the exposed matte exhaust pipes, everything about it was dangerous, expensive and dreadful. 

Continuing to graze over the bike’s incline, the fuel tank is massive and angular, sculpted to fit a rider tucked flat against it at terrifying speeds. But the more your eyes drift, the more it concerns you, until it is the rear that catches your breath. The passenger pillion was a tiny wedge of black foam perched high on the sharp tail section, hovering well above the rider’s lower back. There was nothing you could hold onto. No handles, no frame. So, it meant you were literally forced to hold onto him. 

You swallow hard, eyes widening as big as saucers before you step back and whine, “I am not getting on that monster. What the fuck. I love my life.” 

“Seriously?” Mingi looks at you, unbuttoning his cardigan button by button, “I didn’t take you for someone that’s terrified of bikes.” 

“Well, I am not…” your cheeks heat up again and you frantically shake your head, “that’s not the point here. I mean to say, I’m not getting on that thing with you.”

“Oh baby, you don’t really have a choice now, do you?” he smirks, draping his cardigan over your shoulders and nodding at you, “button up, it gets cold when you’re cutting through the wind on that thing,” he winks at you before grabbing the helmet dangling from the handlebar and tosses it at you, “protection first. Come on now…” 

He gets on first, throwing one leg over the low front seat, merging well with the bike’s geometry; he does it with ease, a terrifying ease that causes your stomach to do a little flip from all the anxiety in your heart. You watch him become one with the bike—hunched shoulders, muscles flexing and ripping as he holds onto the handlebar, and somehow managing to appear ten times more intimidating than he really is. Shaking your head, you put the helmet on first then button up his cardigan in the front. You step up to him, reach out for his shoulders and using the high footpeg, you climb onto the elevated seat. The shift in gravity is heavy, dizzying. Sitting up so high, you are forced to lean onto him, over his spine to balance your weight. Your chest presses flush against the warm expanse of his back, knees bent tightly at his sides. 

When Mingi hit ignition, the bike roared to life; a high-pitched, mechanical whine erupted into a ferocious scream of the machine, ricocheting off the concrete walls. The sheer vibration of the engine rattles through the soles of your sneakers, and hums in your teeth, drowning out the grueling sentiments your plagued had towards Yunho. It drowns out every lingering echo of his words, every thought, and every once of your better judgement. As the bike surges with a flick of his wrist, your hands fly to him, wrapping around his waist, fingers digging into his abdomen, desperately burying into the fabric of his tank top to anchor yourself to him. 

Destination remains unknown. But the ride is pleasant. More than so. Wind parting way for you on the lonely road winding up a hill you had never seen before. Trees running out of your sight, breaking the moonlight as occasionally as it could, when the clouds let a bit of it pass through. Mingi’s warm body ground you to reality, your arms never once leaving his torso, not even flinching away from him. The rush of newfound thrill for life fills you up with a delight, making you forget about the long day you’ve had; at some point, your phone loses network, and the constant buzz of alerts, calls, messages dull to perfect silence, and the euphonium of breeze singing close to your ears. You didn’t pull the visor of the helmet over, didn’t want to miss out on the view of the city lights shrinking to twinkling stars on a canvas—with the lights diminishing to tiny dots, you left your worries behind, abandoning the sense of responsibility. 

The end of the ride leaves a hollow void in your heart, but the destination fills it right back in. Mingi had brought you to a hillside clearing, a steep cliff away from the city and crowd. You could hear more birds here than you could in the city; the night dwellers had their own tales to sing when they saw you two. Parking the bike by a tree, Mingi grabs your hand and takes you deeper into the woods surrounding the cliff. The darkness is comforting, the silence is blaring and jarring, and the scent of grass and nightly flora is addicting. He helps you throughout the path, dodging twigs and branches, picking you up when there is a stubborn and thick root on the forest bed. You had never seen this side of Mingi, the caring, doting hunk who seemingly didn’t hold any grudge against you. With the way this night is turning out to be, you don’t doubt you might do something stupid to ruin it all over again. Or maybe he would do it in the same way he did on the night you were locked in a room together at the cabin. 

“It took me a while to find this place, you know…” he chimes in, breaking your thoughts, “...I was mad at something or someone. Stormed off, took my bike and drove till the city was nothing but a few tiny dots to me. I don’t remember exactly how I ended up here, but if I look back at it, I think I was guided here by my own intuition and fate.”

He continues, intertwining your fingers a little tighter. “There are times in your life where you want to abandon everything and just—and just cease to exist. I’ve had these  thoughts countless times before. Leaving behind everyone you love, everyone you care about and just—and just living your life waking up with the sun and sleeping with the moon.” 

The thicket of trees clears up a bit, getting sparse just enough for one particularly sturdy and strong tree to stand tall. You stand under it, under its widespread canopy of branches and leaves; the dark of the night doesn’t let you know what kind of tree it is, but by its bark, you could tell it’s one of the strongest trees. Mingi tugs you with him, circling around the trunk until you’re standing in front of a rope ladder dangling from one of the branches; when you trace your eyes along it, you find a treehouse snuggled amongst the mess of branches and an umbrella of leaves. It’s not perched at a great height, it isn’t too close to the ground either; somehow, it’s placement gives you the perfect view of the valley and steep ridges of cliff. 

“After you.” 

A shallow breath knocks at your chest, making you lightheaded. “What…” 

“Just climb up, Angel. I swear it’s not a trap.” 

You nod slowly before testing your weight on the first rung of the ladder. When you’re sure it can hold you and you have nothing to worry about, you start climbing. The ladder swings yet stays steady to your weight; until you’re safe on the wooden platform, Mingi doesn’t begin his climb. When you are, the rope ladder starts swinging to his weight. The platform you stand on is made entirely of wood, a wooden railing to accompany it—the treehouse isn’t big, just spacious enough for four to five people to house at once. There’s a door, a roof, a window, all made from wood and glass. You wonder how he was able to do it alone, or if there was anyone who helped him with it. Did the guys know about this place? Did the guys ever come here with him? 

Too many questions. And the one to answer them is still a stubborn jackass who resents you. Or at least still pretends to. Mingi hops up next to you, pushing past you to open the door and leading you inside the space. A cosy, warm and welcoming space. The click of the wooden door behind you, seals out the rustling hum of the forest, plunging the two of you in a stillness that’s almost too sacred to be true. Mingi blindly reaches out to the toggle switch next to the door—the lights come on, not the sharp artificial lights you were used to, rather there were strings of halogen bulbs weaved around the beams holding the rafters. 

A soft, gentle on the eye, light glows on every surface, painting the entire interior in shades of honey and gold. The space carries a comforting scent of cedar wood and old paper, and somehow the sweet scent of dried lavender bundles hanging upside down from a corner beam, overpower the surrounding. Every inch of the house feels like it’s been built by hand, a little rugged but meticulously loved. Mingi had utilised the space wisely, nothing too flashy, just some mattresses, pillows, knit-blankets and throws, alongside some board games and other stuff lying around here and there. There was a stack of two mattresses in the centre, right where a stout, yet thin trunk of the tree penetrated through. The house was built perfectly around it though. 

There were few more pillows and mattresses against the walls; some part of the space was utilised as a seating area with pillows arranged in a circle around a ceramic chess set. Although, the true heart and soul of the house was the floor to ceiling window overlooking the valley. It cuts entirely through the wooden frame of the house on one side, acting as a massive glass canvas. From here, the sheer drop of the cliff is entirely visible, the distant city lights reduced to a silent, harmless constellation of white and yellow dots trapped beneath the heavy summer clouds.

Mingi lets you take everything in for a few minutes before he clears his throat. “Like it?” 

You shake your head slowly, then pinch your arm, thinking you’re dreaming. “Shut up, this is not real.” 

“It is, Angel.” He chuckles, tugging you by your hand to sit with him on the mattress laid out by the window. 

Both of you sit next to each other, knees brushing, thighs almost crawling onto each other’s. Mingi’s body is still warm and you realise you’ve had his cardigan for a long time now—you didn’t know whether he’d react to it smelling like you or you’d react to it because his scent is going to cling onto every inch of your skin. 

“Makes you feel small, doesn’t it?” 

You hum, “the view?” 

“What else?” 

“It does,” you bring your knees close to your chest, staring and admiring the view in front of you, “it really does. It makes everything else feel small too. Like maybe none of it actually matters at all.” The clouds start drifting to the wind and moon shatters its light in every dark corner of the valley, lighting up the trees and sky, “I don’t know why, but I’ve never felt so insignificant before.” 

Mingi doesn’t say anything for a while, instead, he watches your profile in the amber glow of the halogen bulbs. He stretches his legs in front of him, a slow, lazy smile hooking at the corners of his mouth. “See? Told you I have better ways of making you forget things than killing you in the woods.” 

You sigh, turning to him, legs crossed. “So, what do you do here?” a gentle movement of your body forces for a side of your cardigan to slip off your shoulder, “instead of playing games and brooding about existence?” 

“It’s my safe place, Angel.” Mingi laughs softly, reaching out to tug the cardigan back at its place on your shoulder, “wait…” he grunts as he leans over you to grab a knit-blanket from behind you and drapes it over your legs, “I don’t want you catching cold.” 

“I won’t catch a cold in summer, Mingi.” You roll your eyes at him, teasing him, yet you spread the blanket over your lower half from your waist. “But, thank you.” 

Mingi hums, rolling his shoulders out as he sits back down properly. “The guys don’t know of this place. Except for Hongjoong. He’s been here a few times before. When his thoughts get too loud. When his heart speaks for him on behalf of his mind. When he’s—he’s troubled about his love for someone.” 

You listen to him, nodding along and staring at the moonlit view. “I come here when I need an escape from my responsibilities. When life puts me through hell and brings me back—I need a break too, sometimes.” He clicks his tongue, “I wanted to come here when I heard you talk to Yunho about me. Taking my side. Standing up for me—there’s no fucking need for it, Angel. He’s not the man I fell in love with. He’s not the man I knew from our school days. He’s someone else. Yes, he sounds the same, he behaves the same, but it’s not him.” 

“Mingi…” 

He doesn’t let you speak, “it’s endearing, really, that you care so much more about us than the person who promised me he’d never let anything come between us.” He sniffles softly, “it hurts, Angel. It hurts so much. The last few days I’ve been walking around with my heart on my sleeve. And no one bothered enough to ask me what’s wrong.” 

Even if you wanted to voice the words piling on the tip of your tongue, you don’t and he continues in a softer voice, “I got dumped. She dumped me,” he states as a matter of fact, “Yunho was right. She only wanted to use me for my money. Only wanted me around just so she could…” 

You swallow hard; the situation is a lot worse than what you had originally thought about. Knowing the basics of comfort and offering comfort, you slowly wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug him sideways, while resting your head in the crook of his neck. 

“Fuck her. She didn’t deserve you.” 

Mingi chuckles, a rich and deep rumble echoing from his chest, “you don’t have to. I’m not fond of putting other people down just to make myself feel better.” 

You pout and pull back, “but there’s something I can do, right?” 

He hums, turning to look at you; his eyes are glassy, his lips quivering, but he holds it all back, deep within his chest. “Not really. I think—I think we’re both going through shit right now. Just keep me company, I seem to enjoy it.” 

Your pout grows as you slump back down on the mattress and pull the blanket over your legs. “Touché.” You eye the chess set again, a question bubbling under the surface of your skin, “so, you like to play chess, huh?” 

“Hmm, I do.” He shrugs. “Why?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, “I didn’t know that about you.” 

“There’s many things you don’t know about me, Angel.” 

“As if you know everything about me, right?” you scoff, staring off into the distance, rolling your eyes at him. 

“And what if I did?” 

“Not a chance.” 

Mingi takes a deep breath in, “your favourite colour is purple. You like anything that’s strawberry or watermelon flavoured. Your least favourite ice cream flavour is the red bean one. You have a habit of eating sweets when you’re on your periods, yes I know when you get them, it’s really predictable. You like all sorts of berries but aren’t really a fan of anything berry flavoured. You love white chocolate and even fought with Wooyoung, proving it’s a type of chocolate.” 

He blurts it all in one breath, then takes another one in, “you are very sympathetic about others. Have no heart to kill a fly, but would eliminate a cockroach on sight. You act cute when you want something and everything. You are selfless, and never really expect anything in return for the things you do for others—”

“—fuck, Mingi. Do you fucking love me?” you snap at him, terrified of how well he knows you—everything he says, is accurate. 

He stops, turns to face you and just stares at you while his chest heaves; you catch a glimpse of his hands, fingers twitching before he fists them one after another before doing the same to open them. Without any hesitation, he wraps the same hand around your neck and pulls you close to him, crashing his lips onto yours. It’s not a simple brush of his lips, no—it’s a hungry man devouring your lips and sucking out your soul through your mouth. You kiss him back after a few lingering minutes, resting your hands on his chest to shove him off in case it gets too overwhelming. However, before it does, Mingi latches his teeth onto your lower lip and pulls it back with him; he watches it wobble with a dark intensity before resting his forehead on yours. 

“Yes, I fucking do. I fucking love you.”