writing sometimes

Heat spreads from your chest outward. You laugh, or try to, it comes out like a nervous sound of forced air, if anything. Tucking your hair behind your ear, you wonder, “I thought you were busy studying on Tuesday night.”

“Not busy enough to miss a handcuff party.” He sits up fully, leaning his chin into his elbows, arms hooked over the back edge of the couch. You creep closer after kicking off your shoes. 

“Is that what they’re called?” you ask, letting your purse fall from your shoulder to your fingers. “I’ve never been to one before.”

“They’re fun,” Soobin watches you carefully, like he’s reading your body language, or trying to. “If you’re tied to the right person.” 

“I was not,” you admit, pinning your arms behind your back, clasping your hands together. “Yunho made me shotgun, like, four beers. I don’t even like beer.” 

“Dirty martini, extra dirty, three olives,” Soobin recites from memory. “No, you’ve never been a Miller Lite kind of girl.” 

“Is Junie in his room?” You glance toward his closed bedroom door.

“He’s in there,” Soobin uncurls from the back of the couch, sinking into the plush leather again, focusing back on the cooking show. “He saw you with Yunho, too.” 

You took one step towards Yeonjun’s room before stopping in your tracks. Your neck snaps toward Soobin, “He was there?” 

“Weird, how you guys don’t talk when you’re in a relationship.” 

You don’t answer, already at Yeonjun’s door, pushing it open to see him exactly where you knew he’d be. At his desk, laptop open, headphones in his ears. Like he did to you Tuesday morning, you walk over to him and pluck one out of his ear. 

You skip greeting him. “So, I couldn’t come over Tuesday night because you were studying, but you could go to a frat party? That doesn’t interfere with your studying schedule?” 

He pushes his desk chair backward, looking up at you with a face that doesn’t read even the slightest bit of guilt. “I had been studying all day, I needed a break.” 

“And that involves frat parties, but not hanging out with your girlfriend?” You throw your purse onto his bed, hands landing on your hips. Anger brings your blood to a steady boil, skin steaming, a kettle ready to whistle. “Jesus Christ Yeonjun, you want to marry me but you can’t spend your Tuesday night with me?” 

“Hey,” he tries to soothe, eyebrows bent up in concern. He shakes his head before words can spill, “It was last minute, baby. I went with Soob and Gyu, I didn’t even drink.” 

“Did you get tied to anyone?”

“Did you?” he counters, and your mouth runs dry. He smiles, a small, soft grin, “I saw, but I’m not angry, am I?” 

Your lips bend downward in a frown, voice coming out quieter, like you didn’t want the answer as you ask, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you talk to me at the party? We could’ve gone together, been tied together.”

“Come here,” he soothes, holding his arms out. You look at him for a second before moving an inch. Sweats on his legs, a loose tee on his torso, but his hair is still styled from class earlier today. Nothing out of the ordinary. Your Yeonjun. 

You take a step toward him, and his hands land on your hips, giving you the okay to crawl onto his lap, feet dangling off the back of the chair as you settle over his thighs. Hands landing on his shoulders, you pout further, “They made me drink beer.”

He moves your hair away from your face, pouting with you, “How could they be so cruel?”

“You really don’t care that I went?” you ask, voice still small, partially guilty. “I didn’t even tell you I was going.” 

“I figured you needed to blow off some steam,” Yeonjun’s hands land on your bare thighs, warm palms smearing smooth strokes across your skin. “I haven’t been the most attentive lately.” 

“No,” you’re quick to answer. “You haven’t.”

“My pretty girl,” he reaches up for your cheeks, pulling you down to kiss him. A light peck, a greeting in the press of your lips. “Stay over tonight.”

You’re supposed to record tonight, an hour length episode on bondage. You should send Yunho a fruit basket for the idea. 

You hum, keeping your lips close to his. “Maybe.”

He kisses you again, one of his hands falling to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. He parts with your lips with his tongue, and you moan an almost silent noise into his mouth, a soft plea.

“Why maybe?” he whispers between kisses, teasing. “You’ve got a hot date? Choi San? Jeong Yunho?”

You smile, giggling into his mouth before pushing on his chest. “Shut up,” you press your forehead against his. “Your exam is tomorrow and I have a lot of shit to get done.”

You do, other than the podcast. His hands find your waist, slipping under your tee, warm against your skin. A shiver racks up your spine anyway, body giving into his touch, craving more, needing more. You don’t want to get your hopes up, even if he’s the one coming onto you. 

“Too much that you can’t make some time for me?” he’s smiling, voice too playful for the weight of his words. How did this get flipped on you?

Your response comes quickly. “That’s funny, coming from you.”

He frowns, voice suddenly sharp. “Do you think it’s easy? My classes? My assignments?”

“No,” you mumble, shameful. “I just think you can make more time than you let on.”

“So you think I’m a liar?” He sits back in the chair, leaving you with your hands on your thighs, disarmed. “You think that I enjoy spending all my time sitting at this desk, not doing the things you want me to do?”

Your cheeks feel hot, nails catching onto the skin of your thighs. “That’s not what I said, Junie.”

“You don’t have to say it,” he argues. “Do you think it felt good to see you tied to Jeong Yunho? Laughing with him? Smiling at him the way you smile at me?”

All the color drains from your face, leaving your skin feeling cold, your body stiff with discomfort and guilt. “I— you said you didn’t care that I went.”

“I don’t care,” he reiterates, voice still ridged with frustration. “I can’t care, because I know I’m not taking care of you the way I’m supposed to be. I was there to blow off steam, too, because all I can think about is cardiovascular hemodynamics when I should be thinking about you.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes his sentence. “You don’t need to be thinking about me, focus on studying. I’m here, I’ll be here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry.”

His lips bend in a small smile, hands landing on your thighs again, sliding his palms up and down reassuringly. “It’s okay, baby, I know, I just…” He glances at his laptop. “I need to finish this section.”

You swallow down your unease, mind drifting back to the party, to Wooyoung’s advice that you’ve refused to take for over a week now. Heat returns to your body, your hands landing over Yeonjun’s on your thighs. “Finish it in ten minutes.”

You can feel your heartbeat, moisture surfacing on your palms. You need this, you need him to lay you down, to remind you that he loves you. All of your questions from before the party have been answered: you clearly don’t respect him enough as a med student, you’re a shitty girlfriend for not giving him space, and you do fucking suck because all you can think about is still fucking sex. 

You pull your shirt over your head from the hem, throwing it to the floor beside you. Yeonjun watches, lips parting, eyes darkening to a moonless night.

“Ten minutes,” you whisper, voice coming out sultry, like a glass of red wine. Your right hand slides down your stomach until it passes the hem of your shorts, the only layer separating you. You hear Yeonjun’s breath catch in his throat. 

Two fingers find your clit, adding pressure, swirling a small, precise circle. You release a pleased sigh, head falling to the side, eyes locked on Yeonjun whose gaze is focused on between your legs. 

“Study me,” you whisper just as your hips rock into your own hand, fingers picking up speed between your legs. Yeonjun’s brows furrow, nails sinking into your thighs, body sinking into the chair, dazed. 

“Fuck,” he groans out, voice layered with arousal, deep and seductive. 

“I’m so wet,” you whine, like it’s a complaint. But it’s not, the relief is immediate, body thrumming with pleasure as he watches your knuckles through your shorts. “D’you wanna feel?”

Finally, he looks up, and you can’t believe there’s a full second of debate before he’s grabbing you by your thighs and standing on his feet. In one quick motion he has you on your back, on his bed, legs spread and back arched. 

He tugs both his sweatpants and his briefs down his legs at once, crawling over you, helping you get your shorts down your calves, over the heels of your feet.

“Fuck me,” you whisper as he settles between your legs, before his lips meet yours. Your tongue slides into his mouth as you reach for the hem of his tee, breaking the kiss only to pull it over his head. He presses his chest against yours, and you swear the feeling of his skin against yours brings you closer. 

You can feel him sliding between your thighs, spreading the arousal you’ve spent the last few minutes gathering, unsurprisingly slippery. “Junie,” you pant into his mouth, back arching up into him, “inside, please.” 

He grunts like he’s letting go of the last bit of his restraint. Looking between your bodies, he lines himself up, and you brace yourself for the stretch, sucking in a tight breath, limbs locking. 

He groans as he pushes inside, savoring every inch of your heat, slowly filling you until he reaches the hilt. He's slow at first, like he always is, rocking into you softly, letting you feel every inch, every vein, every ridge. 

“Feel so good,” your boyfriend grits out, chin tucked to his chest, watching himself pull out and fill you up over and over. You reach for his face, keeping your song of pleasure quiet, legs hooking around his back as you pull his lips to yours. 

He picks up the pace, fucking into you steadily, making your lips go slack against his, the two of you breathing into each others’ mouths, fighting to keep quiet.

“Not gonna last like this,” he mutters into your mouth, voice tight. You whimper, using your legs around his middle to lift your hips, angling him upward so his cock curves right into the spot you needed it to. 

“Fuck,” the curse is sharp, his hips stuttering. “So tight, ‘h my god—”

“Wait, wait,” you pant, nails clawing into his shoulders, ankles crossing over his back. You’re not close, you’re barely dipping your toes into the pool of pleasure. You thought it’d be easier to reach the finish line, so wound-up, you assumed after a few measly touches you’d be coming undone. 

“Can’t,” he whines, voice strained, pitched and tight like he was two strokes away from finishing. 

And he was, much to your dismay. 

His pace quickens, staggered, rough, chasing his release until he pulls away, pulling out, he takes his length in his hand until he’s painting the expanse of your stomach white. 

You lay there, catching your breath, hating yourself for being disappointed. Wooyoung’s voice rings in your mind as you watch Yeonjun run a hand through his hair— three minutes of missionary. Was that even three minutes?

Yeonjun hops off the bed, no doubt in search of a towel to clean you up. You should just be happy he finally fucked you, you could work on the specifics later. That was progress. That was sound advice you received, used, and it fucking worked. 

It worked. 

“Are you okay?” Yeonjun asks, wiping your stomach with a warm, damp towel. 

You nod, reminding yourself to smile, “Yeah, ‘m fine. Happy.” He grins, so wide and full it makes the guilt weighing on your chest feel ten times heavier. “Will you be upset if I go? I still have to work on my multimedia report, it’s due tomorrow.” 

He crawls over you, then drops himself on the bed beside you, planting a kiss on your lips as soon as he lands. “I could never be upset with you, baby. You’re gonna be a big-shot reporter one day, aren’t you?” 

“A big-shot journalist,” you correct, smiling before you kiss him again. 

“I couldn’t take time away from you reaching your goal,” he presses another kiss to your forehead, voice soft, even if the wording makes it feel like a dig. “Go.” 

Go, Virgin. 

You crawl off the bed quicker than you mean to, finding your tee, your shorts. Guilt, disappointment and despair are swimming in your gut, a cocktail for you losing your patience, your temper and your mind if you don’t leave his condo now. You should be grateful. You should be happy you’ve made progress. 

But fuck, your insides feel hollow. You don’t feel any better than you did before. 

He mutters something about seeing you tomorrow, and you smile, kiss him once again, then sling your purse over your shoulder and get the fuck out of there. You don’t speak to Soobin, you don’t look at Beomgyu on the opposite side of the couch, you keep your gaze straight ahead as you make for the front door. 

Once you’re outside under the sunset, you finally breathe, filling your diaphragm with air and hope. This can’t be forever. You can’t be one of those wives that men talk about under the AITA subreddit, the ones who won’t fuck their husband because he fucking sucks. 

You can’t be in a sexless marriage. 

You can’t marry him at all.  

S&M by Rihanna is blasting in Wooyoung’s headphones, and only God and Unscripted could possibly answer why. 

“Good morning, afternoon, or goodnight, whatever time you’re listening to this week’s episode of Unscripted. Today, we have an exciting topic that I cannot wait to dive into. Bondage. And I know what you’re thinking: am I secretly really kinky? Well, I guess it’s not much of a secret after over fifty episodes, is it?” 

“If you don’t know what bondage is, then I’ll give you the Merriam-Webster definition. Bondage is a sadomasochistic practice—hence S&M for the intro—that involves the physical restraint of your partner. Or of you, depending on what you’re into. I’d like to start off with a story, if that’s cool with you.” 

Wooyoung internally groans as he stares at the treadmill screen with a blank expression. He needs her to get to the juicy part and fast. 

“This weekend, I went to a frat party. I know, so sophisticated, but it was enlightening in a very physical way. My wrist was zip-tied to a random guy, someone I had barely even met, and it got me thinking— do we all have someone that we're zip-tied to, whether it’s a physical, or an emotional bond?”

Wooyoung almost trips over his feet. She was at his party this weekend? What other frat on campus could have had the same themed party on the same weekend?

“Even though I was physically tied to this beautiful, tall, random ass man I’ve never spoken a word to, there was someone else at the party who is tied to a vastly different part of me. By midnight, the alleged rules state that all couples are to finish a pack of alcohol together, and then you could get your zip-tie cut off your wrists, and enjoy the party. Six beers down, I was freed, and trust me, I enjoyed that tall man and the party. But now, a few days later, I’ve come to realize what was supposed to be such a simple party theme might have changed the trajectory of my life forever.” 

Wooyoung smacks his teeth. Boring. No one cares about hearing about her life if it’s not the sexy bits, especially him. He doesn’t reach for his phone.

“I didn’t even know he was there, the other guy, not the sexy one I was tied to with a strap of plastic. But now that I know, I’m wondering, was I really ever tied to Mister Tall? Did I even consider the fact that I could be tied to Mister Tall? Or was I tied to someone else the whole time, and I couldn’t even enjoy that I was physically attached to a tall, sexy ass man?” 

Wooyoung is confused. So many words, so many words repeated, he thinks he lost somewhere around strap of plastic.

“Do we all find ourselves, at some point in our lives, attached, bonded to someone we know we shouldn’t be, but we can’t do anything about it? We can’t stop because we’re scared of what it’s like to not have them in our lives, we’re scared of what it’s like to feel fully alone again.”

Wooyoung has never disagreed with anything more. 

“Sex should be fun. It should be filled with curiosity, comfort, laughter, and pleasure. You should try new things, like bringing zip-ties to the bedroom or having a woman on your face while another is between your legs.”

That's something Wooyoung can agree with. He loves it when it feels personal. 

“It shouldn’t be… it shouldn’t feel like a chore. Or like you’re a hole or something, sorry, that’s foul wording, but it’s the truth. Sex is between two people, and it should feel that way, whether you’re bonded to the person or not. If you’re a guy listening, please take everything I just said to heart, and if you’re thinking ‘is this about me?’ then it is.”

Damn. This isn’t the usual fun and flirty sex talk he usually hears from her podcast. He guesses women like Unscripted go through shit, too. And here he thought she was just as free-spirited as he was. Wooyoung guesses everyone goes through shit— he wonders if he’ll ever feel anything close to what she’s going through, or something like what you’re going through. 

He laughs under his breath at the idea. Or tries to, at least, his breath cleared from his goddamn chest thanks to the speed of the treadmill. 

“My bad, someone sent in a question asking if I’d ever experienced a situationship and I needed to let everyone know that even I get lonely sometimes, and sleep with a man more than once. But anyways, let’s move on to the good shit, right?” 

Wooyoung peels his headphones off his ears and cringes when he realizes they’re as sweaty as he is. Resting them around his neck, he turns the treadmill off, wipes it down, and throws his bag over his shoulder all while still trying to catch his breath. 

It didn’t feel like an hour running through podcast episodes, at the end of this one he’ll be all caught up, and by this point he feels like he knows her a little better. He relates to her, in a weird, hatred-filled way, it’s like she’s the female version of him, but he’d rather fall off the treadmill than admit that to someone else. 

Especially San. 

He feels even weirder now that he’s come to terms with relating to her, but knowing that even she’s felt a level of romance before when he’s never felt it at all, makes him feel like an oddball. He leaves it up to a strong case of FOMO, but in his soul he knows he doesn’t actually want to experience it. 

Everyone he knows that’s in a relationship hates it in one way or another. Or they’re too stubborn to admit it, like you, very obviously just showing up for your shift behind the gym counter. 

“Virgin,” Wooyoung says by way of greeting. You’re shoving your bag under the counter when he says it, and when you look up, Wooyoung nearly jumps where he stands on the opposite side of the black acrylic. You look like shit.

“Damn,” Wooyoung mumbles, taking in your dark circles, your zombie-fied, lifeless looking skin. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I don’t have the energy for you today,” you respond, voice curt. No playful tone, no sarcasm, just the honest-to-god truth. It kinda hurts his feelings. 

“What happened?” Wooyoung asks, his tone concerned, and it surprises him that he cares. Instinct, not choice. 

“Nothing,” you mutter, throwing your phone onto the acrylic, a little hard for someone who’s trying to play off their state as fine. “Go home, Wooyoung.”

Something tugs at his gut, telling him to go. Instinct tells him not to press, not to get involved, but by now he’s in too deep to not be intrigued. 

“Does it have to do with the husband?” He pries anyway, crossing his sweaty forearms over the counter. “You look like shit.” 

You deadpan, eyes pointed, jaw locked. “Oh, really?” you ask, sarcasm dripping from your tongue. Maybe the sarcastic part of you stays intact no matter what. “I had no idea, I guess running on no sleep and copious amounts of caffeine isn’t good for one’s appearance. Who woulda thought?”

“I’m serious,” he pushes, his front pressing up against the counter. He leans his cheek on his palm. “Are you sick or something? Why are you working?” 

“I’m not sick,” you mumble, changing directions, as if Wooyoung wouldn’t follow you. You should know him better than that by now. 

“Then what’s your deal?” He meets you at the opposite side, his sweaty arms leaving another mark on the acrylic. 

“God, Wooyoung, what if I’m just having a bad day?” Your voice is raised, basically shouting, sounding exasperated like he’s hit every single nerve he could reach. “And if something is wrong, maybe I don’t want to fucking talk to you about it!” 

His brows raise. Maybe he should have listened to his gut. It's never steered him wrong before, listening to his gut is how he hit his last personal record, six women in one day.

He can’t find it in himself to come up with a snarky response, so instead he taps the black acrylic twice in place of saying goodbye with his lips sealed tight, and carries himself back to his car like he never asked in the first place. He reminds himself he doesn’t care, not about you, not about your love life, he wouldn’t give a fuck if you never spoke to him again. 

He will admit that he kind of wants to know if his advice worked, though. A creeping thought has been breaching the walls of his mind lately, if he could really be the male version of Unscripted, if he started posting podcast episodes of himself talking about sex. Would he become as popular? Would he get as many listeners? Would people take his word as seriously as they take Unscripted’s?

The music playing from his speakers is a low hum all the way back to his house. His mind wanders, from you, the way you looked, to Unscripted, to himself. If sex is his singular, undeniable skill in this life, shouldn’t he do something with it?

“What’s wrong with you?” San asks from the kitchen as soon as Wooyoung closes the door behind him. Damn, did your shitty mood rub off on him?

“Nothing,” Wooyoung shrugs, crossing the living room. “I just left the gym. Did you know Virgin works there?”

“I feel like she appeared out of literally nowhere, and now she’s everywhere,” San indulges the topic while making a sandwich, which was really stuffing different meats and cheeses between two burger buns. Wooyoung thinks it’s Jongho’s turn to go to the grocery store. 

Wooyoung jingles his lanyard at his side, mindlessly listening to the keys playing a small tune. “She seemed weird,” Wooyoung mumbles, lost in thought again, staring at the makeshift sandwich like it's the most interesting thing in the world. 

Yunho walks in from the back door, eyes landing on San’s sandwich, too. “Ooh,” he perks up at the sight. “Can you make me one, too?” 

“Not enough bread,” San holds up the plastic bag that once held the burger buns, now empty. “Go yell at Jongho to go to the store.”

Yunho dips his chin toward Wooyoung, “Wanna go with me?” 

“Hell no,” Wooyoung makes a why-would-you-even-ask face. “It’s Jongho’s turn.” 

“He doesn’t follow the list,” Yunho walks to the fridge, peeling the blue sticky note from the stainless steel. Pinching it between two fingers, Yunho shows it to San and Wooyoung like it's a piece of treasure. “Do you see this list? We make this list for a reason.”

“We see the list,” San and Wooyoung respond as one, voices flat and monotonous. 

“You’re coming with me,” Yunho points at Wooyoung with his other hand. “You’re driving, let’s go.” 

He can’t even shower first? He still smells like sweat and whatever funk is left from your bad mood raining all over him. He doesn’t argue, though, Yunho’s a high-spirited guy and if there’s anyone who could fix Wooyoung’s attitude, it’s him. 

In the car, Yunho rambles about Tuesday’s party, the guy who warmed his bed that night. It's always been interesting to Wooyoung, how Yunho could play for both teams, how he never leaned toward one side over the other. If Wooyoung was honest with himself, he would have slept with a guy a long, long time ago. That day will come eventually. 

Somehow even that reminds him of you. Well, your possibly gay boyfriend, which isn’t doing great things for aforementioned eventually. He tips his head back until it’s leaning against the headrest, tuning Yunho out while he thinks about your sex life instead of his own. When he wonders if you’ve gotten the balls to suck his dick yet, he shivers, and decides to start listening to Yunho again. He fears eventually is nearing closer than he thought.

“Do you ever feel like that?” Oh shit, he wasn’t listening. “Like everything is already mapped out for you, but you don’t know if you’re following the steps? Or the road?”

“Like the yellow brick road?” Wooyoung quips with a sly grin. 

Yunho laughs, sinking further into the passenger seat, knees touching the glove compartment. He’s in workout clothes, sweatshorts, a loose tee, the same headband on his head he always wears. Wooyoung’s dressed in the same— perfect grocery store attire. 

“Why is everyone so deep today?” Wooyoung wonders out loud, turning into the parking lot of the grocery store. He needs to stop thinking so hard while he’s driving, he doesn’t remember getting here. 

“Who else? And deep in who?”

Wooyoung snorts at his lame joke. “I was listening to Unscripted earlier—”

“You hate Unscripted,” Yunho doesn’t let him finish, snapping his body sideways to look at Wooyoung. “Why the fuck were you listening to Unscripted?”

“I just was,” Wooyoung snaps. “And she was talking about the party on Tuesday, she was there.” 

“How many people away from her do you think we are?” Yunho asks, suddenly excited. “Do you think we know her already? Or do you think she’s a friend of a friend? Bro, you’ve probably fucked her.” 

“I have not fucked her,” Wooyoung argues while swiftly backing into a parking spot. The lot wasn’t too crowded for a Friday evening, everyone is probably out partying already. 

“How do you know?” Yunho unclips his seatbelt, folding his big ass to get out of Wooyoung’s low sports car. When they’re both out of the car and the door is locked, Yunho continues, “She doesn’t have an identity. She’s faceless, identity-less, she’s a sex ghost.”

“Sex ghost,” Wooyoung mumbles under his breath, and he’s reminded why the fuck he hates Unscripted so much. “That really bothers me, y’know, that you all listen to her and believe every word she says just because she’s a woman.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Yunho drags out. “I’ve heard it all already. You never mentioned how she got all deep.”

“She was supposed to talk about bondage, like cuffs and rope and tape and shit, but she started talking about this situationship she has, and how he was at the party, too. She seemed pissed or something.” 

Yunho hums, surprised. “I would have thought she was just like you, allergic to relationships of any kind.” 

“I thought that too,” Wooyoung nods while getting slapped across the face by the grocery store’s air conditioning. His nose crinkles, but maybe the air will wash off the rest of his Virgin funk. 

“That reminds me,” Yunho wonders out loud as he bee-lines toward the produce. Wooyoung grabs a basket and follows him. “That girl that almost passed out at the Penny, she was at the party, too.” 

“I know, she interrupted my threesome,” Wooyoung says, holding out the basket for Yunho to throw whatever was on the list inside. 

“So you’re friends,” Yunho turns, brows furrowed like it was a question. “Did you know her boyfriend doesn’t fuck her?”

“Unfortunately,” Wooyoung sighs. Is there no escaping you now? 

“She’s pretty,” Yunho turns again, holding up the blue sticky note, probably making sure he isn’t missing anything. “I’ll never understand staying in a relationship you aren’t happy in.” 

“She’s happy in her own strange way, I guess,” Wooyoung catches the vegetable Yunho throws into the basket. “I don't understand staying in a relationship, period. Could you imagine not having the opportunity to fuck two women at once, because you had a partner waiting for you at home?” 

“You’re twisted,” Yunho shakes his head. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re getting your whore-ism out now. When you find a partner, you’re going to be more loyal than anyone else on the fucking planet, I guarantee it.” 

Wooyoung laughs, “Sure, and Virgin’s gonna break up with her boyfriend and blow through the frat like a fucking freight train.” 

When Yunho turns to look at him, there’s a twinkle in his eye, and Wooyoung swears it’s hope. There’s a part of him that doesn’t like it, that look, that glimmer. 

He doesn’t know what that says about him. 

You decided to put together a basket. A good job basket, or a be proud of your hard work basket, or a congratulations basket, even if you know Yeonjun doesn’t have his exam results yet. Maybe you’ll just call it an I love you basket. You raced to three different stores after your shift in a panic, worried about not only the episode you posted this morning, but also the fact that you kind of fucking hate your boyfriend.

Okay, you don’t hate him literally at all, but having sex with him didn’t feel right and it’s really freaking you the fuck out. So you need something to do, something tangible your hands can create, something that will help ease the tension in your spine because Yeonjun is supposed to be your forever and you don’t know if you can handle anything other than that.

Were you being too direct on the podcast? What if he somehow ends up listening to it, recognizes your voice, and realizes all the things you said were about him? You suppose if Yeonjun ends up listening to Unscripted, hearing himself in your words is the least of your problems.

You stuffed colorful highlighters, his favorite gel pens, trail mix, protein bars, gum, a brain-shaped stress ball and a handwritten note you wrote about fifteen minutes ago into a wicker basket you got for four bucks at the convenience store. You shift each gift in the basket, making sure each one is visible, then make sure the basket as a whole is visually appealing in height and color.

You’re stalling. It’s past eleven at night and you have no reason to go to Yeonjun’s condo other than to drop off this basket in hopes that Yeonjun feels your appreciation for all his hard work. You’re stalling because it’s not about the basket at all. 

“That’s cute.” You shriek, jumping off the carpeted floor you’re sitting on. Your roommate, Yunjin is standing in your doorway, staring at the basket you can’t seem to finish putting together. “Gift for Junie?”

Her hair, a pretty, chocolate brown, is curled up and pinned in different places, framing her face perfectly. She’s always so put together, even with a bare face, even in the middle of the night. You wish you could say the same, but you still haven’t slept, so you’re pretty sure you still resemble death itself.

“Yeah,” you smile, proud of your basket. You look up and over your shoulder at her, “Think he’ll like it?”

In her matching pink pajama set, she walks into your bedroom and crouches down into her legs beside you, ignoring all the wrappers and price tags you cut off of each gift strewn across your floor. “What’s it for? Are you telling him you’re pregnant or something?”

You choke on your own spit. “You think I’d get him colorful highlighters and a brain-shaped stress ball if I was pregnant?”

“Stress ball for him to use when he freaks out,” she points as she explains. “Then after he’s accepted it, highlighters to document each trimester and what symptoms you’re feeling.”

“That’s actually pretty accurate,” you sigh. “He had an exam today, this is congratulatory or something.” Then on a vulnerable note, you ask, “If I was pregnant, would you be happy for me?”

“Probably not at first,” she shrugs like that was the obvious answer. “You’re basically fresh out of the womb, your womb isn’t ready to have anything in it yet.”

“Stop saying womb,” you scrunch your face, amused. “He told me the other day that he wants to marry me as soon as we graduate, then he wants to get me pregnant.”

“Who cares what he wants?” She sits back on her butt, elbows landing on her bent knees. “You’re always worried about what he wants. What do you want?”

“Can I be honest?” you ask, then add, “can I also be really vulgar for a sec?” She nods with a grin, eyes flaring interest. Vulgar is her favorite. “I want good sex. Like, really good, world-shattering, it’s insane that I just survived sex.”

She doesn’t laugh. Her brows furrow, “You’ve been dating Yeonjun for over a year. Give a girl more context.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, unease and a little bit of embarrassment creeping up your spine. You don’t know why it feels so hard to say the words to her, when you can tell Wooyoung and half his frat with ease.

“We had sex last night,” you’re basically whispering, your voice is so low. “I’ve been asking– basically begging for… rougher sex, I don’t know. Sex where I actually feel like he wants me. Last night we had sex and it felt like I accidentally got him hard and he just needed to get off or something. It's always like that.”

“How long?” she asks, her face bent in concern, her already soft features somehow softer. You feel a weight lifted off your chest, maybe it’s because you’re finally confiding in one of your friends, maybe it’s because she’s a woman. You don’t know why you thought that she’d make fun of you.

“A long time,” your lips flatten, scrunching to one side. Then your chest feels tight, and you can feel the tears forming, but you refuse to let them spill. “He just told me he wants to marry me, to start a family with me, but I can’t even get him to have sex with me half the time, and the other half he’s finishing after legitimately four strokes.”

She frowns, reaching a hand out to land on your arm. “I’m sorry,” her voice is filled with pity. “Can you see yourself marrying him?”

“I did,” you blurt, then correct yourself, “I do. I can, I mean. Or I did until last night, and now I’m freaking out, so I made this basket.”

She glances at the basket again, everything inside it with cool, calculated eyes. “One more question, and then I’m done quizzing you, I swear. Is the basket for you, or is it for him?”

“For him,” you answer, but your brows furrow. Why would it be for you?

She hums. “You’re smart, babe. You’re good at seeing people who aren’t used to being seen, you’re good at making them feel special, because you have a big heart, and you care. Shitty sex aside, does he do that for you? Does he see you? Does he make you feel special?”

You swallow, face falling flat, eyes a little wider than they should be. You should be screaming yes, yes, yes at the top of your lungs, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t made you feel special since the six month mark, when the honeymoon phase was over and your relationship flipped overnight into seeing each other only when it was convenient, scheduled dates made weeks in advance, or the two of you coexisting in the same place but not together.

You don’t like how this feels. You don’t like how every sign seems to be pointing in the same direction, you won’t accept it. You can fix this, you can make it feel like the first few months again, you can bring back the spark you lost. 

You won’t give up on him. 

“I’m gonna bring him the basket,” you avert, quickly standing on your feet, not meeting Yunjin’s gaze. 

She doesn’t move, you can feel her eyes on you from the floor. “We could have a girl’s night instead, I have face masks in the fridge already. We can make popcorn and watch a movie, you don’t have to go there.” 

“I want to go there.” You pick up the basket from the floor and grab your purse from your desk, throwing it over your shoulder. 

Watching you cross the living room, she stays standing in your doorframe, arms crossed. When your fingers touch the door handle, she calls out, “You’re too young to be this stressed out over a man.” 

“He’s not just a man,” you look at her over your shoulder. “I’m committed to him.” 

You quickly turn away, you don’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. You don’t know if this is the right choice, if your relationship is worth fighting for, if it should be this much of a battle. Yunjin seems to have the answer, and you don’t want to see it spelled out on her face. 

You keep your gaze straight ahead for the entire walk to Yeonjun’s condo, just in case the bushes along the sidewalk had some insight to add, too. It looks empty from the outside, all the lights are off, from where you stand it’s almost as if no one is home at all. Being a Friday night, three pre-med students should be home, asleep. You shouldn’t expect that of Tuesdays, though, you guess. You fish for your keyring from your purse before pushing the key to Yeonjun’s into the lock, turning it, then let yourself inside. 

The living room is dark. Eerily dark. The lights are off, even the corner lamp, the couch in pristine condition with the throw blanket folded perfectly over the back. You could see well enough from the moonlight pouring in through the windows, painting streaks of silver on the hardwood floor, on the furniture. The door beside Yeonjun’s opens, just enough for you to see Soobin’s dark eyes peeking through, then it opens halfway, and he leans up against the doorframe, his expression blank. No curiosity, no questions, as if he just wants to watch. 

It makes you panic. Blood surges through your veins, your breath picking up, you rush across the living room and open Yeonjun’s door, expecting to see anything but what was behind it. 

“No,” you whisper, taking in the sight before you, even under the blanket of night you could still make out both figures on the bed. The contents of your stomach fall to the floor, blood pounding beneath your skin, “No, no, this is a dream, I’m dreaming.” 

Beomgyu picks his head up first. Your name tumbles out of his mouth once in confusion, twice in panic, then he’s smacking Yeonjun’s bare back, his bare arms, pushing your naked boyfriend off of his own naked body like it’d somehow hide what you’ve already seen. 

“I’m dreaming, right?” you ask Beomgyu, who stares at you with terrified, wide eyes as Yeonjun blinks his eyes open. A little louder, your voice cracking on the word, you ask again, “Right?!”

“You’re cheating on me?” your voice cracks again on cheating. “You’re cheating on me with Beomgyu?”

Yeonjun sits up, confusion still sprinkled across his features, “Who? What are you doing here? What?” 

“Wake the fuck up,” you’re yelling now, and Beomgyu is scurrying off the sheets, trying to catch his footing on the floor. You point at him, “Don’t fucking move.”

Beomgyu stills like you froze him. Yeonjun comes to, glancing at you, then Beomgyu, then his face contorts in panic. “Baby, I can explain—”

“You can explain Beomgyu naked in your fucking bed?!” You’ve never yelled at him before. He’s never seen you truly angry. “You fucked me yesterday and Beomgyu’s naked in your fucking bed, Yeonjun?!” 

“You had sex with her yesterday?” Beomgyu interrupts, voice sharp, hurt laced into the question. 

Yeonjun sits up fully, pulling the sheets over his lap, and then he holds them over his obviously naked fucking body as he crawls toward the foot. “Baby, it’s not what it looks like— he’s just, we were studying, and then one thing led to another—”

You laugh, dropping the basket to the floor. Yeonjun stiffens, and you know it’s because he’s never heard that laugh before. “Studying for what? Did you even have an exam today?” You turn to Beomgyu who’s already looking at you, features still blown out with terror. “Answer me, you lying piece of shit.” 

Beomgyu’s head even stutters as he tries to shake it, “N-no.” 

“Gyu!” Yeonjun grits out under his breath, then he turns to you. “It’s not what it looks like, just let me explain.” 

You take a step closer to Beomgyu who’s hands are shaking as he covers his bare crotch. His chest is sinking and rising rapidly, you can smell the fear on him. “How long?” Beomgyu blinks. “How long have you been fucking my boyfriend, Beomgyu?!” 

“T-three months,” he stumbles over the words, taking a step away from you, his chest growing red in asymmetrical splotches. 

“Beomgyu!” Yeonjun is yelling now, panic ebbed in his tone, like he could have lied his way out of this. You think he might still try. “He’s lying, baby, listen to me. Listen to me, I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Is this why you won’t have sex with me?” you finally ask, reality becoming crystal clear. “Be honest, Yeonjun, I already fucking caught you, there’s no point in lying anymore. Is he why you won’t fuck me?”

Yeonjun’s face is beet red, color bleeding down onto his shoulders, his chest. Shame, panic, guilt, you couldn’t pinpoint what emotion has his clamped fingers shaking on the sheet. 

“Yes,” Yeonjun whispers. “But it’s just sex,” he defends,  “there’s no feelings involved. I love you, I want to marry you.” 

Beomgyu’s neck snaps, horror in his eyes, spilling from his dropped jaw. You would have already known he was lying even if you didn’t get the confirmation from Beomgyu. 

“I brought you this,” you pick up the basket from the floor, tossing it onto the bed, Yeonjun jumps backward as the contents spill across his baby blue sheets. His dark eyes turn glossy, a frown bending his lips as he glances at each gift. “You don’t deserve my effort or my kindness, you never deserved a second of the time I’ve wasted caring about you. Loving you.”

Your words come out even, almost practiced, as if you’ve been waiting a long, long time to say the words. Your chest aches, of course, but there’s a certain weightlessness to your body, something close to relief. You should be angrier. You should be tearing apart his bedroom, beating his ass and Beomgyu’s.

You can’t bring yourself to move an inch.You turn to the younger man, “I’ve known you since the day I met Yeonjun, you’ve been my friend all this time, Beomgyu. You’re just as guilty as he is.”

“I’m sorry,” Beomgyu squeaks out. “I’m sorry… I— I love him.” 

You give him a weak smile, “So do I.” Turning to Yeonjun again, silent tears stream down his cheeks now, his upper body slouched over, defeated. You keep your shoulders back, steady. “Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t come to my apartment. Forget I ever existed.” 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, his voice heavy from crying. He picks his head up, panic still webbed across his features, “I’m not— I’m not gay. It's just… Beomgyu. It’s just Beomgyu.”

Anger strikes, but instead it’s because Wooyoung was fucking right. Again. God— how the fuck are you gonna tell him? After you flipped the fuck out on him earlier, you don’t know if you’ll ever get the chance to tell him. You wouldn’t approach someone after they snapped at you, but it might be for the better, anyway.

“I don’t fucking care what you are,” you blurt, harshly. “I care that you cheated on me, especially after I've spent weeks trying to figure out what's wrong with us. I hope you two are happy together.”

“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun yells out when you turn on your heel. “I love you, I’ll call you— I’m going to fix this, please–” 

You close the door behind you, pushing out a staggered, broken breath from between your lips. Soobin stands across from you, leaning against the back of the couch, body slouched casually like he’s been listening to the entire ordeal. 

“He really thinks he can fix it,” Soobin says first. You can hear Yeonjun yelling at Beomgyu behind the door. “He’s been trying to stop sleeping with Gyu for the past month. Couldn’t bring himself to.”

“You knew,” you whisper your understanding, jaw locked. There’s venom on your tongue as you ask, “Was it entertaining for you, watching me try over and over?”

Soobin shakes his head. “Not necessarily,” he cranes his neck, sinking into his shoulders, fingers clamped over the back of the couch. “I didn’t think it’d take so long for you to figure it out. It wasn’t my place to say anything.” 

You push off the door, a laugh coated in sarcasm tumbling off your tongue. “Right,” you nod, “because your loyalty is to Yeonjun, not to me.” 

Soobin shrugs. “If a guy stops fucking a girl like you, there’s only one clear answer why.”

“You’re just as fucking guilty as they are,” you spit out, striding past Soobin, towards the front door. “I hope I never see the three of you ever again.” 

“I wouldn’t bet your money on it,” Soobin calls after you. “It’s a small campus.” 

“This might seem tame for someone like me to have just discovered, but I swear I’m seeing the world in a whole different light. Yes, walk ‘em like a dog, sisters, but holy shit, have we all heard the sound of a man whimpering? How about begging? Have you ever seen tears streaming down a grown man’s cheeks because you won’t let him cum? I’m seeing the light, guys.” 

“I’ve never really given a fuck about a man’s pleasure before, I won’t lie. Their pleasure is guaranteed while we have to focus for ours, we really have to work for it, y’know? So why put that much effort into making a man finish, when he won’t do half as much for you? At least, if you asked me a week ago, that would’ve been my honest answer. Today, I still feel that way, but I’m a little more inclined to put in effort to make a man finish because a part of me is obsessed with seeing him suffer first.”

“And it’s not even just the edging. It's the persona, the character you’re letting yourself sink into before you even get started. I’ve been dominant in the bedroom before, and I know I was just telling you guys to not be afraid of it— but I think, maybe, the times I thought I was being dominant, I was just ensuring I got the same out of sex that my partner did. Now, today, I understand dominance. I understand the responsibility, the effort, the fact that someone is literally putting themself and their pleasure in your hands, and honestly, I don't understand why some men don’t solely get off on making their partner finish. What's hotter than that?” 

“Having someone beg for you, wanting you so carnally, so shamelessly. Tears streaming down their fuckin’ cheeks, guys, it was serious, I’m still recovering, if you can’t tell. Hopefully next episode I’ll have an update with the reverse side of things, and we’ll see if I’m as excited about it. Right now I’m fucking geeked. I hope you all enjoyed this week's episode, and now you know a little more about toys, for your pleasure, for his pleasure, for their pleasure. I hope your partner goes out and buys one just to use on you tonight. Catch you guys next week, unscripted, as always.” 

Damn, you hate hearing your voice recorded. You sound different than how your voice sounds in your head, somehow more nasally, annoying, even. You don’t understand why people listen to you, and continue to listen to you week after week, episode after episode. It’s not like you actually know what the fuck you’re talking about, even with the episode you uploaded last night, all of that information, stolen from a Reddit thread. 

But yet, never once have you actually felt like a fraud. To you, you’re playing a character, an unscripted version of you, but in the way that someone else is playing the character of you. Or, actually, you’re playing the character of you in a different universe, with a different personality, different confidence level, different relationship status. 

“What are you listening to, baby?” Yeonjun asks, climbing into his own bed behind you, stealing your headphone from your ear. Pressing his chest against your back, his head fits into the pocket between your neck and shoulder like it was meant to be. 

You slide down on your screen, lower your brightness, pause the podcast, and turn off bluetooth. “Nothing,” you murmur, backing into him, letting your body mold to his. “What were you doing?” 

“I went to the gym early,” he answers before planting a kiss on your cheek. “I have to study all day today, I have an exam on Friday.” 

You turn, throwing your arms over his shoulders, pulling him down to kiss you. Pink, plump and soft, your boyfriend’s lips, his kiss was your favorite, it’s comforting, home. But you don’t want to feel like you’re home. You kick the sheets off of your lower half, hooking one leg over his hip, splitting his lips with your tongue. “I want you,” you whisper.

He kisses you again, shifting his hips between your legs, one hand trailing down your hip, your thigh, just to hold your knee still. “I have to study,” he reminds you. “I wasn’t kidding. That’s why I got up so early, I need the day, baby.” 

“You can’t spare ten minutes?” you ask, but it comes out more like a whine. Your arms fall from his shoulders, landing on the sheets beneath you. “Skip the shower and fuck me instead. It won’t even take ten, Junie.” 

“I already showered,” he gives you an apologetic look, and then you smell his body wash, bright and citrus like lemon, herby like sage, hints of aloe. He places your headphone in the center of your chest before crawling off you, “I’m sorry.” 

You let out a sharp sigh, legs falling back down to the mattress, spread out like a shriveled fucking starfish. You stare at the ceiling while listening to him rummage around his bedroom, and after a minute or two, you sit up on your elbows, ready to argue. 

“You do understand that we have sex, like, once a week, right?” you ask, bitterness in your tone, clipping every word. 

At his desk, already sitting before his open laptop, he doesn’t even look at you as he responds, “I know, I look forward to it every week.”

Like it’s cheat day and you’re a fucking donut, as if he can only have you on the weekend or something. Anger bubbles up inside you, jaw locking, but instead of fighting for it, you climb off his bed. 

Everything in Yeonjun’s room is pristine. Pictures on his dresser never have a spec of dust, the wood of his furniture always shining, his bed always made. Clothes are never strewn on the floor, always hung up, in his hamper, he doesn’t even keep water on his nightstand. He will get up at two in the morning to fill up a glass for himself, then flip it over when he clears it, and let it dry on the rack in his sink. 

Even your clothes were folded up on the opposite nightstand, even if you know you threw them on the floor last night. Not that you had sex last night, but because you slept naked. He doesn’t even sleep naked. He must have folded them this morning, or maybe when he woke up at two for midnight hydration. 

“Where are you going?” he asks from the desk, brows in his hairline. You refuse to look at his feline features, the dark hair that’s no doubt drying perfectly in place, or even at his desk that has two notebooks, different colors for different purposes, a textbook, and a set of multicolored pens perfectly in a line beside his laptop. 

“Out,” you respond, tugging your jeans up your thighs. “Home, I don’t know. I’m leaving.” 

“Baby,” he tries, and his voice is soft, pleading. “Don’t be mad, are you mad?” 

“No,” you finally turn to him, your lips bent in a sad smile that takes every ounce of strength to force. “I’m not mad, I understand. I just want to give you space so you can study in a distraction-free environment.”

His lips spread in a smile, “Thank you, baby, you’re so thoughtful. C’mere.” He turns in his chair, holding out his arms for you. Standing in jeans and a bra, you cross his room, running your hands through his hair when you land between his knees. “I love you,” he whispers, then leans forward to press a kiss to your stomach. “You’re so good to me, don’t deserve you.” 

It’s you who doesn’t deserve him. Your hands fall to his cheeks, lifting his head to look at you, and you bend down to kiss him. Just one, soft peck, a singular kiss that has no intention of asking for more. You weren’t in the mood to get rejected twice before ten. 

You throw your headphones in your bag after pulling your shirt over your head, and make your way out to the living room, where Beomgyu and Soobin were surprisingly awake, at the kitchen counter eating breakfast. 

“Hey,” you greet, eyes already on the food between them. “Feed me, I’m starved.” In more ways than one. Beomgyu’s always been sexy. 

Beomgyu slides his plate over, “You’re leaving early.” 

Shaggy brown hair shooting in every direction sits atop his head, a short laugh tumbles through your lips at his disheveled appearance. “You’re up early. Too early to brush your hair, I guess.” 

“I have to put it back for class anyway,” Beomgyu shrugs. “I like to let it do what it wants before I put it in ponytail jail.” 

“You should just cut it like the rest of us do,” Soobin says like he’s said it a million times before. 

“I’m allowed to keep it long,” Beomgyu argues, like he’s also said it a million times before. “I just have to keep it neat, which it always is, hence why it looks like this at home.”

Chewing, your eyes bounce back and forth between them. “I seem to have hit a soft spot,” you interject. 

“Just cut it, and I won’t have to slick it back for you anymore,” Soobin’s hands land on the edge of the counter, his height looming over where Beomgyu sat across from him. 

Beomgyu leans back at the display of dominance, but his eyes thin, his shoulders squaring. “I slick it back myself. I asked you to do it one time, Soob.” 

Grabbing a few more pieces of bacon from his plate, you slip away from the counter, leaving them to their own argument that you accidentally instigated. “I’ll be leaving with this. Have fun studying today, boys.”

Soobin turns his head away from Beomgyu, landing on you, already halfway across the room. “Studying?” 

“Junie said you have an exam Friday,” your grip tightens on your bag, head nodding in the direction of Yeonjun’s bedroom. “So study up.” 

Soobin’s brows furrow, lips parting to speak, but Beomgyu cuts him off. “Thanks, girl,” he’s grinning ear to ear, gnawing on a piece of bacon. “Will you be back later?”

You shrug. “If he wants me to. We’ll see.” You wave before slipping through their front door, letting a long breath you didn’t know you were holding loose. 

Your chest hurts. No, maybe it’s your heart that aches, a tiny part of it still beating with underlying fear at the idea of feeling like this forever. It’s not even ten in the morning yet and you’ve felt enough emotion to last you three days. You don’t know why you didn’t listen to Wooyoung, you had yet another opportunity last night to… edge him, or whatever. You had the opportunity to bridge the gap, to fill in the blanks, to make your relationship feel whole again, and you didn’t take it. 

Why not? Unscripted would have edged him until he was a whimpering, blabbering, crying mess. Why is she so different from you? You’re still asking yourself the same question you asked yourself a thousand times while laying in Yeonjun’s bed last night. Starting your walk back into campus again, you curse yourself for promising Wooyoung an update. 

You curse yourself for asking Wooyoung’s advice in the first place. You don’t know what it is about him that’s so intriguing, that makes you feel so ambitious, maybe it’s because Unscripted is basically the girl version of him. Maybe a part of you is jealous, wants his confidence, his shamelessness, maybe part of you wants to be him entirely. You shake off the thoughts, you do not want to be Jung Wooyoung. He’s so careless that he caught an STD— and what about all the women he supposedly got pregnant?

You hate that he’s even on your fucking mind. It was mortifying having him catch you in his bedroom the night of his own goddamn party, and yet you went back to that very bedroom to ask him advice. You have to be losing your mind, or maybe you’re so fucking pent up you’d do just about anything to get your boyfriend to fuck you. 

Coming to the crosswalk that would bridge you over to your complex, you huff, waiting for the hand to turn into a little stick figure. Not anything— you wouldn’t do anything, clearly, because if that was true, you would have gotten fucked the night Wooyoung gave you advice. You would have gotten fucked a thousand times since. 

Instead of crossing over to your complex, you turn to the right, the crosswalk taking you to a strip mall that consists of a coffee shop, a hair salon, a nail salon, and the gym you work at. It was the perfect strip mall for college students, sitting just outside of campus, a quick walk no matter where you are. The coffee shop is bright; floor to ceiling windows, it somehow feels brighter than outside as you walk inside, bells over the glass doors chiming. 

You have class in two hours, and you don’t feel like napping beforehand, so coffee it is. A small shop, a coffee bar and a set of three different tables, all already occupied with students wearing headphones, laptops open in front of them. 

“Virgin!” Your head picks up to the register, and your eyes thin at the person standing behind it. Smiling, dimpled and muscled. 

“Biceps,” you respond, laced with annoyance at the newfound nickname now two people use. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Honestly, I don’t know your name,” he admits from behind the register. He wears an apron over his broad chest, a dark wine color against the black of his shirt, his name is printed on his right pec. San. 

“Good,” your smile is nothing short of sarcastic as you look up at the menu. You hum, lips folding into your mouth before you decide, “Medium vanilla latte, please.” 

“Got it,” he’s still smiling, dimples showing as he types on his screen. Turning to show you the total, he tilts his head as he looks you over, “I would have taken you for a black coffee kind of girl. You’re all hard and mad and serious and shit.” 

Your brows furrow as you tap your phone against the reader. “You very clearly do not know me at all,” you mutter, shaking your head.

His palms find the counter, shoulders meeting his ears as he leans forward, smirk playing on his lips. “You should let me get to know you, then.” 

“What?” It’s a natural reaction. “I— you were there— you know I have a boyfriend, Biceps.”

 “You were about to vomit at the idea of marrying him at the Penny,” he counters, brows high. “I wouldn’t say it’s all sunshine and rainbows in your relationship, would you?”

Your top lip lifts in pure disgust, and you guess it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back because immediately you’re blurting, “What are you proposing, then? Cheating on him? Leaving him, since that’s what everyone else thinks I should fucking do?” 

San doesn’t falter, everyone else means Wooyoung and you both know it. His smirk widens, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes, “No one said anything about cheating, Virgin. What are you thinking about, huh?”

“Are you going to make my fucking coffee or am I going to be stuck here all day waiting for it?” you snap, and not a single word comes out kind. He deserves it, for insinuating cheating on Yeonjun, insinuating that you thought about it first.

San eyes you, then keeps his eye on you as he saunters over to the bar, he only pulls his gaze away when he grabs the top plastic cup off the stack of thirty. You’re fuming, steam rising off your skin, fingertips clasped around your phone so hard you might crack the fucking screen. 

You let it boil down to a simmer before your drink is ready, and San calls your name out, leaving you dumbfounded. You walk up to the pick-up section of the coffee bar with a quirk in your brow, “Thought you didn’t know my name?”

“I lied,” he answers simply, sliding your drink toward you. “We’re throwing tonight, come.”

“You throw a party every other night.” You grab a straw from the container beside you, plucking it into the hole of your lid. “I’m banning myself from your parties. And Wooyoung’s bedroom.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “You know how many women are banned from Wooyoung’s bedroom? I think you might be first to ban yourself,” there’s humor in his voice now, a different kind of humor from the flirty banter he tried earlier. “Come. Leave the boyfriend at home.” 

Your lips tighten, uneasy. Curious, though, you ask, “Why should I leave him at home?” 

Biceps just smiles like a Cheshire fucking cat. “Just leave him at home, Virgin.” 

You can’t believe you’re back here.

You can believe it, because what the fuck else were you going to do, sit at home and sulk over Yeonjun not fucking you? Reread the last text he sent you that said not to come over because he’s still studying?

The text pissed you off, then you went through every stage of grief wondering if you were the problem. Do you not respect him enough as a med student? Are you a shitty girlfriend for not giving him the time he needs to study, so he can succeed in his future? Do you fucking suck because all you can think about is sex?

All signs seemed to point toward yes, and then that pissed you off, too. You’re no better than any of the frat guys inside the tall, two story house in front of you, all of which who will probably fuck the first person they lay eyes on tonight. That’s never been you. Serious boyfriend after serious boyfriend, since you were sixteen years old. Even in the short periods of time when you’ve single you didn’t do the casual sex thing, even though everyone around you seemed ecstatic to participate.

What if Yeonjun finds out you’re here? Will he be angry? Will he even care, or did it not matter because at least you weren’t bothering him?

The last question seemed to answer itself, so you stare at the devil’s mouth from the lawn in an outfit you put too much effort into, the beige door bleeding bass and techno music, reminding you that Biceps is inside, and he actually wants you here. You scratch at your arm that isn’t itchy, shifting your weight from foot to foot, watching as everyone else your age barrels through the front door like they owned the place.

Your feet want to move, but the thought of facing the horde of people inside alone, without a soul at your side, was starting to feel more mortifying than being caught trying to fuck your boyfriend–and failing–in someone else’s bedroom. You could have texted any of your friends to join you, but you didn’t want them to ask any questions, so you didn’t. You didn’t even tell your roommate you were going out, but Yunjin isn’t stupid. She took one look at your outfit and popped a brow, then asked if there was a change in the status of your relationship. You ignored the part of you that wanted to say yes, and told her it was for Yeonjun. 

For Yeonjun. 

Your feet start moving.

Last week, it was packed like sardines, there wasn’t room to do anything between sweaty bodies, and if you could move, you were slipping on the floor beneath you, the dark hardwood covered in a layer of beer, vodka and grime. This week, it was just as packed, the floor was just as slippery, but everyone seemed to be… tied up. 

Is this some kind of sick joke? Did San ask you to come here, tonight, on purpose?

Every person inside the house was a couple, and each couple you saw had a black zip-tie holding their wrists together. Some were holding hands, others didn’t look too happy about who they were tied to, you even spotted a girl making out with someone else, while zip-tied to another who did his best to look the other way. Witnessing that made you smile, just a little, because the lead in your stomach gets heavier when you realize that if you don’t leave right fucking now, you’re going to get zip-tied to someone, too.

“Virgin!”

You haven’t even made it past the fucking living room. You don’t look up, because maybe there’s an actual virgin here, and Biceps wasn’t calling for you from the edge of the kitchen. A second of reprieve goes by before he’s calling out your name, so you curse under your breath, and follow the direction of his voice.

Shirtless. So shirtless. So… lacking clothes, but only clothes, clothes is the only department Biceps is lacking in. Maybe you should just call him Body instead of Biceps, because every single inch of his upper half is sculpted, golden, gleaming with sweat. He doesn’t deserve a body so perfect. He calls you Virgin.

“Like what you see?” He wiggles his brows, a smirk already playing on his swollen, cherry-red lips. “One night without the boyfriend and she’s ready to risk it all.”

The girl he’s zip-tied to smacks her teeth. You didn’t even notice he was tied to anyone. She leans into his side, a pout on her lips, whining, “Sannie, when can we go upstairs? I’m bored.”

“Yeah, Sannie,” you can’t help but tease. “Take the girl upstairs, I’m leaving before anyone else sees me here.”

“Why? What? Don’t go,” San takes a step forward, dragging the girl with him. He transfers his beer to his tied hand before clamping his free one on your forearm, “You didn’t even get tied to anyone yet.”

You shake his hand off your forearm, “I don’t want to be tied to anyone.”

He grabs onto your forearm again with a straight face and turns on his heel. Skipping over your own feet, alarm bells pound in your chest, “San! I don’t want to be tied to anyone, I don’t even want to be here! Let me go.”

“No,” San answers, and for a second you think there might be more. An explanation, at least. He pulls you toward the kitchen, your shoulder bumping the blonde beside you, the girl whose wrist is tied to his. You shoot her an apologetic look, but she doesn’t seem to forgive you for the intrusion. 

“Here,” San announces as he comes to a stop, setting your forearm free when he places you across from an unnervingly tall guy with beige, blonde hair. “Virgin, this is Yunho, he brought beer. Where did the zip-ties go?”

Your lips go flat, an embarrassed flush kissing your cheeks. San is already off searching, leaving you alone with this… guy. Tall guy. Cute tall guy. 

“Do you like Miller?” Yunho asks, holding up the twelve pack in his other hand. He has a comforting look about him, hair softly unstyled, other than the nineties-style headband pushing his bangs back. His body language is nowhere near as uptight as your rigid spine, bent and relaxed, like the house was his. The tee hanging from his shoulders is loose, but leaves a sliver of skin between the hem and his jeans, sneakers on his feet dirtied and scuffed. 

“Um,” you blink, and then keep blinking, trying your hardest not to look at the pocket of skin between his shirt and jeans. You don’t know what to say. “No, but I shouldn’t be here, anyway. I should go–”

“I need a partner,” he offers. “We just have to finish the twelve-pack by midnight. And it’s,” he looks down at the invisible watch on his wrist, “probably really close to midnight. I already drank three, you drink five and I’ll drink four.”

San returns with a black zip-tie in hand, singing, “Wrists, ladies.”

The girl’s wrist is limp, her arm following San’s like she’s a puppet and he’s the puppeteer. You frown, “Biceps, I really don’t want to do this.” 

“You’re gonna leave Yunho hanging?” San’s body suddenly straightens out, brows tied together in a pout. “He needs your help, Virgin, he has nine beers to finish on his own.” 

When you look at Yunho, he’s nodding his agreement, looking at you like it would be the end of the world if you said no. You know you’re not going to get away with saying no, so you loose a defeated sigh, look away, and hold up your wrist for San to tie.

Yunho’s skin is soft against yours. His wrist is smaller than it seems, his arm smooth like he’s completely hairless. San ties the zip-tie just tight enough for you to be able to wiggle your wrist, like a bracelet that’s big enough to fit two wrists. 

“The second issue is that I don’t drink beer,” you muse after San drops your wrists, yours hanging, Yunho’s arm bent ever so slightly. Damn he’s tall. “I’m a dirty martini kind of girl.”

Yunho laughs under his breath, “Are you thirty years old? Where the fuck are you going, drinking dirty martinis? Is that what you were drinking at the Penny?”

“You were at Lucky Penny that night?” you ask before the memory resurfaces. He was at the Penny, sitting to your left, he was the one who asked Wooyoung what he did to you. As if you’d ever sleep with– where is he, anyway?

“Watched your skin get some color back into it as soon as you were away from the guy who’s trying to tradwife you,” Yunho responds, a glimmer in his chocolate brown eyes, a sly smirk on his lips. Your cheeks burn. “Clearly, that’s going well, since you’re here.”

“I’m only here because San told me to come.”

Yunho laughs to himself, “That’s what they all say.”

“Shut up and hand me a beer,” you gruff, holding your free palm out. Wordlessly, he reaches into the box of cans, using both of his hands and yours to crack open the beer. 

He hands it to you with a proud grin, “Only five more!”

“You said–” you stammer, “you said I only had to drink five!”

“I pre-gamed,” he shrugs without a glimpse of remorse. “The only way to get us untied is to finish all of them, so drink up, buttercup.”

At least it’s cold, you think as you bring the carbonated yeast up to your lips. It’s a mild beer, compared to something heavier with more taste, like a Guinness or a Yuengling. Those you certainly can’t get down, especially six of them, even if you were being forced to, like you were tonight. 

Force is still up for debate. You could have put your foot down, and the sentiment sits with you as Yunho takes you for a lap around the frat. The last time you were here, you barely had the patience to look around, your agenda was to get Yeonjun inside the house, and then inside a random bedroom. You didn’t miss much, as it seems, an old paint job on the flag-covered walls, a clearly thrifted, hand-me-down couch in the living room, the speaker system might be the only expensive thing in the house.

“So, tell me,” Yunho finally says after showing you the dirty bathroom that was already out of toilet paper. He cracks open your second beer for you before asking, “Where is your husband tonight?”

“At home,” you admit, “he has to study. He’s pre-med.” It’s easier to get the drink down now, easy enough that you suck down a gulp of it. “All he does is study.”

Yunho sucks in a breath through his teeth, and you know what it means. He explains anyway, “School is his whole life now, then work will be his whole life when he’s in a hospital. If he goes that route.”

“Tell me about it,” you find yourself agreeing. “I can’t even get him to fuck me half the time.” You gasp after it leaves your lips, covering your mouth with your can instead of your palm. Wide-eyed, you look up at Yunho, “Don’t repeat that.”

Yunho laughs, “I don’t have anyone to repeat it to. Can I ask you a question that you don’t have to answer?” Your nod is delayed. “Why are you dating him? If there’s no sex, and the future freaks you out?”

“There’s sex,” you correct him, kicking a crushed beer can out of your way. “Just not as much of it as I want. And it’s not the future that freaks me out, it’s the speed of it all, the way he’s expediting our future, that freaks me out. He wants me to graduate and pop out a baby.”

Yunho’s body shivers. He shivers. For you. “That’s too soon.”

“Thank you,” you nod along, taking another long sip of your beer. “I know it’s too soon, and I’m scared to bring it up again. Wooyoung said he probably already has a ring.”

Yunho’s brows furrow, “You told Wooyoung?”

Your lips flatten, “It was a series of unfortunate events that led me to telling Wooyoung. Is he here, by the way?”

You finally get back to the kitchen, the lights bright, a layer of smoke in the air, dimming them ever so slightly. “He’s here,” Yunho looks over the crowd, and you’re sure at his height, he could see everything. “He’s not big on themed parties. Knowing him, he’s probably already upstairs.”

“I would have thought being tied to a woman would be right up his alley.”

Yunho leans in close to say, “How’s he supposed to fuck her if his wrist is tied to hers?” When you turn to him, clearly taken aback by the notion, he laughs. “I think he’d much rather have her wrists tied together, if you know what I mean.”

You do know what he means, and god, it’s gotta be the beer that’s making your body heat like a fucking furnace. You wish Yeonjun would do something half as kinky as that. That’s a good idea for Unscripted. You laugh anyway, and even if it’s forced, it sounds breathy and natural. 

Yunho’s cool, probably the only normal one in the entire frat, if the other brothers are anything like Wooyoung or San. It’s nice, comfortable talking to him, he’s someone you aren’t scared to confide in, it’s easy to trust him, with his smooth words, playful demeanor, he seems like he’d be someone that everyone tells their secrets to because everyone knows he won’t share them. That’s your favorite kind of person.

“Have you ever shotgunned a beer before?”

Your neck snaps. “Do I look like a teenage boy?”

Yunho grins, ushering to the crowd around you, the people who seemed to have quieted. You think you just got engrossed in the conversation with Yunho. But as you take notice, there’s more and more people untied, drinking, moving freely.

“Oh shit, we’re late, aren’t we?” you ask, then turn to look up at him. 

“We can shotgun the rest back to back,” Yunho offers, nodding like you’ll agree. You’re sure he wants to be free of you, to go find someone to warm his own bed tonight.

“I’ve never done it,” you admit. “But I can definitely try.”

Yunho grins from ear to ear, “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s go on the back porch.”

It’s a quick walk through the kitchen, the crowd seemed to part for Yunho, he’s so tall that maybe the mass of people really are his red sea. The back door is already open, the wooden half pressed against what you can only assume is the pantry door, he pushes open the screen door and sets the box of beers down on a full, messy, glass table.

Ash trays filled with squished cigarette butts, the filters of joints, even a few airplane bottles of liquor have made their way into the glass trays. There’s less people on the porch, smokers, a few couples looking for a quieter place to talk. Deep wood, old and stained by sun, cracks in the floorboards, you have to assume their house is old. Really old.

Yunho doesn’t seem bothered by it as he sets the box of beers down, then pulls out two. “I’m gonna poke a hole at the bottom,” he holds up a beer can, your wrist limply mimicking his as he explains. “You’re gonna crack the can and chug it down as fast as you can. Okay?” 

You nod, too optimistic for the objective at hand, “Okay, I can do that, that’s easy. This is easy, right?”

“So easy,” he nods, clearly just as optimistic as you. You feel like he’s your coach right now, guiding you through gameplay or something. “Crack it, chug it, crush it.”

“Crack it, chug it, crush it,” you repeat under your breath as he grabs a set of keys from his back pocket. One silver and pointy, he uses it to poke a hole at the base of the beer can, then pushes it toward you. 

You suck in a breath before taking the can from his hands, and holding the hole up to your mouth. Yunho’s hand follows yours as you crack the lid, and then you start chugging. The carbonation makes it hard, heavy in your stomach, it’s still cold enough that it kinda hurts going down. Your brows furrow, but you keep going, you can hear him cheering for you or something, too focused on actually getting the bubbles down to listen. 

When you finish, you throw the can to the ground, and crush it with your foot. Yunho’s already clapping his (and your) hands, “You did it! You fucking did it!”

“Fuck, I have to do that three more times?” you ask, free hand flying to your stomach.

“You’re gonna burp,” Yunho’s lips tighten to the side in apology. “No judgment, I will too. But yeah, three more.”

You chug another, then Yunho shotguns his last two while you’re releasing all the fucking air in your gut, then you can finish chugging your last two. When the box is empty, he’s immediately racing you both into the kitchen, looking for whoever has the responsibility of carrying around scissors tonight.

You already know you’re fucking drunk. 

Wooyoung thinks he might have become one of God’s favorites.

Threesomes were usually hard to come by, a few and far between godsent activity. To have two threesomes in the timespan of one week, with two different sets of women, was unheard of. Insane behavior. Even for him.

He thought himself clever, zip-tying his wrist to another woman’s, then zip-tying his other wrist to another woman’s. He spent all of thirty minutes letting them get to know each other while they took turns feeding him liquor until he was suggesting they go upstairs, instead. 

He had a beautiful hour, a generous, orgasmic, sweat-filled hour of fucking until there were knocks at his door. Quick, hurried knocks, as if there were a fire outside and he needed to get the fuck out. Wooyoung quickly decided he would die there, with a redhead riding his face, and a pixie-cut bombshell between his legs, sucking the skin straight off his dick. The two women didn’t seem to share the sentiment, both of them stopping, going rigid as the door that was still being fucking knocked on.

“They’ll go away,” Wooyoung keeps his voice low, but assuring. His hands slide up the backs of the redhead’s thighs, squeezing her ass, he lands one encouraging smack before she lowers herself down again.

Bliss, pure fucking bliss. His eyes flutter closed, fingers sinking into her ass, moving her until she’s grinding against his tongue. He moans, but he’s not sure what he’s moaning at, the taste of the woman on his face or the woman who just took his cock down her throat until he reached the hilt.

“Hello?” is all he hears before there’s a pitched shriek sounding through the entire second floor of his home. “Oh my god!” He knows that voice. “Fuck, I can’t even get one and you get two? This is so unfair!”

Wooyoung genuinely can’t believe this is happening. The redhead jumps off his face, landing beside him, doing her best to cover herself up with his sheets. The girl between his legs pops her lips off his cock with a verbal noise, then turns her head toward the intruder.

You. Drunk, in his fucking bedroom. Wooyoung immediately barks out, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m sorry!” you squeal, palms already over your eyes, backing yourself up into his wall. When you bump into it, one of your hands flies to catch yourself, and you shimmy to the side, clearly searching for your escape. 

Wooyoung sits up on his elbows, unphased, watching you. “To your right a little more.” You bump into his dresser. He snorts, “Oh shit, my bad. Your left, my right.”

You laugh a little, a tiny giggle that lets Wooyoung know how much you drank tonight. You turn around to face away from him in the doorway, complaining, “I have to pee, all the other bathrooms are out of toilet paper.”

“What are you even doing here?” he asks, and the girl between his legs smacks his thigh. He hisses, looking at her, and her face has fallen flat, as if to say get her the fuck out of here.

“Biceps invited me,” you respond, hands on your hips now, tone light like Wooyoung didn’t have two girls naked in his room right now. “Can I pee in your bathroom? I won’t look, you can continue.”

Wooyoung’s head tilts to the side. He notices your little skirt, short enough that it shows off the muscle in your legs, the tiny heels on your feet. The top you’re wearing doesn’t quite reach your skirt, your hair flowing across the dark fabric, a little messy and unkempt at the ends. If you weren’t drunk and your life wasn’t such a mess he might have asked you to join them.

“Are you checking her out?” the redhead accuses from behind him in a whisper-yell. 

Wooyoung’s head snaps, “No, what are you talking about?” His voice is too high. He’s a better liar than that. The redhead smacks her lips together, clearly offended, then rolls off his bed. 

Wooyoung, disappointed, tries to save face. “No, don’t go, you were close. She’s leaving.” He turns his head toward you, who’s stealing a glance over your shoulder. “You’re leaving.”

“But I have to pee,” you whine. Whine. You even tap your little fucking kitten heel against his floor. 

Wooyoung’s back hits his mattress, both of his hands roughly rubbing at his face, pushing a muddled groan through his lips. “This can’t be happening to me right now.”

“I’m sorry!” you repeat, then scurry across his bedroom like a fucking rat in the subway. “I’ll be quick!” you yell, closing his bathroom door behind you. 

The girl between his legs sits back on her calves and whispers, “Who the fuck is that?”

Wooyoung can’t believe she’s still here, he certainly would have left if he was her. He doesn’t even have an explanation. “She’s someone who needs serious fucking help.”

“And you’re helping her?” The girl asks, as if Wooyoung being the one to help was inconceivable. 

Wooyoung sits on his elbows again, and frowns at his cock that’s already falling limp. He glances upward at the girl with just his eyes, “I guess.”

“Shame,” the girl says, crawling off the bed. Wooyoung doesn’t even have it in him to argue when she starts pulling her clothes on. “I could have gone all night.”

“You and me both,” he mumbles, watching her leave. At least she closes the door behind her.

When you finally come out of his bathroom, you’re still pulling your shirt down. Or fixing it, Wooyoung thinks, because you lean your back into the doorframe of his bathroom, using it as leverage as you slide your top over, centering it over your torso. 

“Need help?” Wooyoung asks, and it’s genuine. You’re the last person he expected to see tonight, and to see you this drunk, stumbling across his bedroom? In no way could this be a good sign.

“No,” you mumble, chin tucked into your chest, still trying to slide your top over. Wooyoung watches you struggle with a flat, unimpressed face, the poster board for patience as your body slowly but surely starts sliding off the doorframe. At least you catch yourself with a, “Woah.”

When you finally get your top fixed, you look up at him, and there’s not a thought behind your eyes until you notice he’s still laying there butt-ass naked. “Wooyoung!” you screech, then turn around again, covering your eyes. “You had time to put some fucking clothes on.”

Good to know your personality is still intact. “It’s my bedroom,” his tone is dripping in nonchalance as he stretches on his sheets, sighing in delight. “You’re the one intruding.”

“I had to!” you shout, “there’s no toilet paper, I had no choice.”

Wooyoung decides to show you mercy by pulling the sheets over his lower half. “I’m covered, Virgin Mary,” he muses, sitting up until his back is pressed against the headboard. “You never updated me.”

“Oh!” you say as you turn around, all your features blown out, your voice high. “It went well, super well. It was a good idea, thank you–”

“You didn’t do it,” Wooyoung cuts you off.

Your face goes flat, “I didn’t do it.”

He smacks his teeth, “Why not, pussy? I gave you the step-by-step.”

You whine, walking around his bed, sitting at the foot like you did just a few days ago. “It’s hard,” your head tips back, “I don’t know how you do it, how you do all of this.”

“It’s just sex,” Wooyoung argues. “It’s not that hard.”

“You have enough sex for, like, fifty people,” you bite back. “Of course it’s not hard for you.”

“You’ve been dating him forever!” Wooyoung is amused now, because what the fuck is the point of a relationship if you aren’t trying new shit all the time? “You’re telling me you aren’t comfortable enough to suck his dick?”

Wooyoung can see the flush on your cheeks as you shyly mumble, “I am.”

“Why are you here, anyway? Other than San inviting you, there has to be another reason you’re here and not picking out wedding invitations or whatever the fuck.”

You whine again, a frustrated, dragged out annoying sound. “He told me not to come over because he’s studying.” Wooyoung thins his eyes. “I’m serious!” You sound defensive. “I even tried to have sex with him this morning and he rejected me. He has an exam on Friday.”

Wooyoung shakes his head, disappointed. “You’re gonna fuck the silicon off your dildo if you don’t get him inside you soon.”

You gasp, jaw on the floor as you whip your head around to look at him. “I don’t even own a dildo!”

“You need one,” Wooyoung quips. “Do you at least masturbate with your hand?”

“We should not be having this conversation,” you hiss. Quieter, almost under your breath, you answer, “Yes.”

“You should do that in front of him and see what happens,” Wooyoung is grinning now. “That shit is so sexy, if he doesn’t fuck you after that, then he plays for the other team.”

“Can’t he just be, like, not a super sexual guy?” you ask, shrugging. “Why is the immediate thought that he’s gay?”

“Because, objectively, you’re hot,” Wooyoung says, and judging by how your face contorts, he assumes that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Anyone who’s into women would jump at the chance to fuck you.”

Your brows raise. “Like San?”

Wooyoung’s brows furrow. “San? I mean, yeah, probably.”

“What about Yunho?” you try, head tilting. Curious. 

“Virgin,” Wooyoung warns. “You’re drunk. Go home and go to bed.”

You smack your teeth, standing up from his bed to plant your hands on your hips. “Who are you, my father?”

“No, I’m a guy who wants his bed to not be empty anymore.” His arms fly outward, emphasizing his very empty queen-size bed. “You emptied it.”

“I had to pee!” you whine again, kitten heel tapping his floor again.

Wooyoung points to his bedroom door, “Go.”

“Fine,” you stomp all the way to his door. Opening it, you turn your head, “For the record–”

“Go, Virgin.”

"Come on, just one drink," Yunho pleads. He's looming over your spot on the couch, offering you a sweating can of cheap beer as he sways on his feet. "It's Saturday night, ____. And I promise, it won't even be crowded. Mingi said the house only gets crazy on Fridays."

You scoot further back into the cushions, leaning away from his arm. Raising your glass of plain tap water, you shake your head. "You all know I don't do frats. Or beer, for that matter." You take a sip, pointedly raising an eyebrow. "Not gonna happen."

Your living room—usually at least somewhat presentable, despite sharing it with a gymrat like San—has been trashed tonight. The coffee table is buried under cardboard pizza boxes full of greasy pepperoni and sausage slices, and the whole room is doused in the stale tang of the lukewarm beer Yunho picked up from a friend's dorm on his way over. Your three best friends had originally told you they were pregaming at Yunho and Yeosang's place, fully aware you'd opt out to study but extending the courtesy invite anyway. Apparently, those plans had changed without anyone bothering to inform you, because the trio is now sprawled out around your couch, getting progressively tipsier by the second. 

Taking advantage of the short moment of distraction while Yunho doubles over laughing at something Yeosang yells from across the room, you quickly slide your phone out. You shoot off a lightning-fast text and bury it beneath your thigh before anyone notices. 

"It won't be that bad this time, I swear," San grins from his spot on the floor, where he's resting his back against the couch. While everyone is dressed to go out, San clearly spent a little extra time in front of the mirror, as per usual—he's wearing a fitted black tank top paired with matching jeans. His only apparent defense for the freezing temperature outside is an expensive leather jacket with a borderline ridiculous number of decorative zippers. Reaching up, he tosses a half-eaten pizza crust back into the open box beside you. "Tell her, Yeosang," he urges, jerking his chin toward you. "Didn't you say it sounded fun?"

You blink, your gaze shifting over the man quietly nursing his beer on the opposite end of the couch. "San, I really don't believe Yeosang would ever say that."

But Yeosang sighs, a defeated smile playing on his lips. "Look, Mingi swore tonight's going to be relaxed. The semester's almost over, so..." He shrugs. "I figured it wouldn't kill me to show face for a little while. But the second it gets crowded," he warns, shooting a pointed look down at San, "I have no shame in being the first to leave."

You snort, grabbing another slice out of the box by your side and handing it up to Yunho before he starts pacing around the coffee table again. "I hope that's true. Because I have a feeling Mingi is a liar."

"Hey! Don't call my boyfriend a liar!" Yunho laughs, throwing his head back as he tilts his can to drain the last stubborn drops. The moment he sets the empty aluminum down on the table, though, he freezes. You watch as a tipsy epiphany flashes across his face, your stomach sinking as he then points a finger right at your nose and snaps repeatedly, his buzzed brain scrambling to catch up with his mouth. "Wait—where's Hongjoong? He should be here!"

You choke on your water, sputtering a cough and wiping your chin with the back of your hand as Yunho whips around to face San and Yeosang with ecstatic eyes.

"I forgot to tell you guys!" he blurts. "She said yes! She's letting us hang out with him!"

Yeosang's eyes widen over the rim of his can. San's head snaps toward you so quickly you're surprised he doesn't accidentally give himself whiplash.

"No way, really?" he shouts, his zippers clinking as he nearly drops his drink onto the carpet. 

"Yeah!" Yunho beams, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I met him on Thursday morning, and he—"

"What? You met him before me?" San interrupts, looking betrayed. He scrambles to his feet, almost tripping over Yunho's discarded shoes, and jabs a finger at you. "____, what the hell?" he demands. "We live together! We share a bathroom! Why the fuck did Yunho get to meet him before I did?"

"Calm down, it wasn't like I planned it!" you shoot back, already feeling your cheeks burning. "Yunho trapped me! He cornered us on our way to lunch."

"Doesn't matter," San pouts, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "I'm your roommate. And the one who called it from day one. I knew this whole thing was gonna happen since Yunho's birthday."

"We all called it, San. You're not a psychic," Yeosang cuts in. He leans forward, setting his beer down on the cluttered table. "But seriously, ____. If you're finally ready for it, why isn't he here tonight? We're already pregaming. You should've invited him over."

"Because look at you guys!" you counter, throwing your hands up at the state of your living room. "Yunho can't even stand still for two seconds without drifting sideways. And we—we have work to do. We need to study. I'm, um..." You clear your throat. "I'm going over to his place. In a little bit."

Yunho's eyes narrow. "Studying?" he repeats. "Again? Didn't you study all night on Thursday, too?"

"Yeah," San nods, tossing the pizza box to the floor so he can plop down onto the couch beside you, wedging himself in. "I didn't hear the door unlock until almost three in the morning."

At that, you feel the tips of your ears burn. "Well... there's a lot I need to catch up on before the final!"

"Uh-huh."

You roll your eyes at Yunho.

"Maybe you don't have to study, but I do! There's an insane amount of grammar to review," you stammer. "And there were a few... specific chapters we didn't get to finish."

The second the excuse leaves your mouth, you regret it. The three boys fall silent. Slowly, a grin spreads across Yunho's face. Yeosang bites his lip like he's trying his hardest to suppress a smirk. It only takes San a second before he snorts.

"Well," he grins, "maybe the chapters didn't get finished, but I have a pretty good idea of who did—"

"San!" you shriek, lunging for a crumpled napkin abandoned on the couch and whacking him across the forehead with it. He ducks with a bark of laughter, throwing an arm up to shield himself. "This is why I'm scared of him meeting you!"

He only laughs harder, catching the napkin and teasingly waving it in front of your face while you try to swipe his hand away. "Weren't you two studying in the library?" he asks innocently. "Do flashcards make you guys horny or something?"

"No!" you shout far too quickly, cringing as you finally rip the napkin from his grasp and throw it to the floor. 

"Okay, okay," Yeosang chuckles as you both settle down. "Listen, ____. Tomorrow night, we're staying in. Bring him over to our place."

"But tomorrow is Sunday," you argue. "We all have early classes on Monday morning."

"Exactly!" Yunho says, nodding his head so vigorously that a few drops of his freshly opened beer slosh over the rim and splash onto the floor. "Which means none of us will be tempted to drink, and we won't do anything stupid! I promise I'll be on my best behavior. And you already know Yeosang will be, too."

You let out a reluctant sigh, your gaze sliding over to the third man in question, the wild card sitting right next to you. He's grinning mischievously, chewing on a rogue piece of pepperoni he plucked off a slice.

"I'll be an angel, I swear," he promises, pressing a hand on the center of his chest, right over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

You shove his shoulder, huffing. "Why do you always get so corny when you drink?"

"Is that a yes?" Yunho bounces in place, his eyes practically sparkling. "Tomorrow night?"

You glance between the three of them, weighing it. As tempting as it may seem, you know you can't keep Hongjoong hidden forever. And despite all their teasing, deep down, you know they'll love him—and he'd probably know how to handle them better than you could, anyway. Letting out one last sigh, you run a defeated hand through your hair.

"I'll... I'll ask him if he's free."

"And if he is?" San presses.

You roll your eyes, though now, it's paired with the faintest hint of a smile you'd rather die than let them fully see.

"Then... fine," you say at last. "Sure. Whatever. He'll be there."

The room erupts. Yunho and San jump up, shouting in victory as they clink their cans together in a toast, sloshing more beer to the floor. From the other side of the couch, Yeosang chuckles, raising his own can toward you. 

You stay seated, watching the tipsy trio with a resigned shake of your head. 

As always, their departure is anything but quick. It takes another ten minutes of mirror-checking, shoe-tying, and last-minute cologne-spraying before the three of them finally bundle up and head toward the front door. They tumble out into the hallway amidst loud, overlapping goodbyes, leaving the dorm deafeningly silent as the door shuts behind them.

The moment they're gone, you immediately scramble to fish out your phone from beneath your thigh. Your fingers fly across the screen as you pull up your texts with Hongjoong. 

You: Okay, they finally left. You can come up now.

You shove your phone in your pocket and immediately set to work cleaning up the mess your friends left behind. Within seconds, your arms are full of pizza boxes stuffed with abandoned crusts and a tower of empty beer cans. You're carrying the pile toward the kitchen, dumping everything into the trash when—not even thirty seconds later—a quiet knock rattles the front door.

Quickly shoving the last of the garbage into the bin, you pad across the hardwood in your socks and open the door. 

Hongjoong is waiting in the hallway, greeting you with a soft, slightly nervous smile. He looks ridiculously cute, bundled up in a hoodie and gray sweatpants layered under a comically large winter coat. A dusting of white snow clings to his dark hair, and you notice his knuckles, gripping the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder, have turned a frostbitten shade of red from the walk over.

You look him up and down and have to clap a hand over your mouth to smother your laugh. "Oh—It's already snowing out there?"

He nods quickly, his shoulders shivering. "It—It doesn't get this cold in Korea," he mutters through chattering teeth.

Laughing softly, you step back and swing the door wide to let him inside. The second he catches sight of the living room, he makes a beeline for the couch, dropping his backpack onto the carpet beside the coffee table. He starts rubbing his hands together, blowing warm air into his cupped palms to thaw them out. Watching him with a smile, you cross the room to reach for the collar of his damp coat and help him shrug out of it. After sliding it off his shoulders, you carry it to the kitchen and drape it over the back of one of the barstools to dry.

Shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, Hongjoong follows after you as you head into the kitchen area, his eyes curiously scanning your dorm for the very first time. 

"I like it here," he decides after a minute.

You scoff. "You don't have to lie, Joong."

"I'm not lying."

You shoot him a skeptical look over your shoulder as you pull open the pantry door, scanning the shelves for hot chocolate mix. "I know it's not as nice or modern as your big, fancy international dorm," you tease, "but it's cozy."

You shove aside a box of granola bars and locate two unopened packets tucked in the back. Grinning, you bump the pantry door shut with your hip and reach up to grab a small saucepan from the upper cabinet.

"Seriously, I mean it." He leans against the island with his hands still buried in his pockets, his gaze following you as you pull a carton of milk from the fridge—though you can't help but wrinkle your nose at the smell of leftover takeout San has probably left rotting in the back corner for at least three days. "See?" He chuckles at your reaction. "It's charming. But... where do you keep all your records?"

"I told you, I don't even have half as many as you do. You're gonna be disappointed." You pour the milk into the saucepan and turn the burner on. "Besides," you add, reaching into the cabinet for the bag of marshmallows, "they're in my room. Which you are not seeing today."

A little smirk spreads across his face. "Why not?"

"Because my tutor decided to keep 'rewarding' me instead of actually teaching me anything last time I tried to study," you say, emphasizing the word with air quotes. "So tonight, I need to take things seriously. And the couch is already bad enough. Studying on my bed would be the point of no return."

His eyes dance with amusement. "Don't blame me for that. It's not my fault you were being such a good—"

Ripping open the plastic bag, you pluck a marshmallow out and hurl it right at his head, hitting him squarely on the left lens of his glasses.

"No more talking about it!" you scold, though you can feel your own cheeks heating up. "I'm not failing my final, okay? We need to focus. Seriously."

Hongjoong just smiles, reaching to pick the marshmallow off the countertop and popping it into his mouth. "Okay," he hums, chewing happily. "Then we'll focus. Seriously."

You give him one last warning glare as you tear open the hot chocolate packets, emptying the powder into two ceramic mugs.

"How did you get up here so fast after I texted you, by the way?" you ask, keeping a watchful eye on the saucepan to make sure the milk doesn't scald. "They didn't see you, did they?"

"They didn't," he chuckles. "I was waiting outside the main entrance. When they left, I managed to catch the door before it locked behind them so you wouldn't have to come all the way down to buzz me in. Honestly, I think they were a little too tipsy to even register a stranger walking in."

You giggle, clicking the burner off and pouring the milk into the mugs. "They probably just thought you were any other student. San and Yeosang have no idea what you look like yet anyway."

Dropping a generous handful of marshmallows into each mug, you pick them up by the handles and walk over to him, holding one out. "Be careful, it's hot."

He takes it from you with a soft, grateful smile. His free hand naturally finds its way to your lower back, guiding you out of the kitchen and over to the couch where he'd dropped his backpack.

"I would like to meet them, though," he reminds you gently as the two of you settle down side-by-side, both blowing on the steaming hot chocolate.

"I know," you sigh, staring into the swirling marshmallows in your mug. "Actually... they brought it up before they left."

Hongjoong raises his eyebrows, silently prompting you to continue. 

"Um... if you're free tomorrow night... they wanted to know if you'd want to come over to Yunho's dorm. We could just order some food and hang out. No drinking or anything crazy, just..."

"That's perfect," he interrupts softly.

"Are you sure? We can always push it to next weekend if you're busy. I really don't want to mess up your schedule." You remember him mentioning last week that his Sunday nights are usually reserved for preparing his demos for the upcoming week.

He smiles, sets his mug down on the coffee table, and turns to look at you fully. "I'm sure, ____. I'm always free for you."

You nearly inhale your hot chocolate, sputtering a cough as a laugh bubbles out of your chest. "Oh my god, why is everyone being so corny tonight? I expect it from San, but from you?"

Hongjoong laughs loudly at your reaction, though the tips of his ears immediately turn red. "I have to practice flirting in English! I can do it in Korean. I learned from all the movies and dramas I watched growing up. But English is still hard for me."

You can't help but smile. It's undeniably dorky, but seeing how hard he's trying to be a good boyfriend completely melts your heart. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, which only succeeds in turning his face an even deeper shade of pink.

To make him feel less embarrassed, you lean back and fix him with a playfully serious look. "Well, Mr. Kim... if you're always free for me, I guess I'll just have to keep your schedule fully booked for the rest of the semester."

He lets out a flustered huff of a laugh, reaching up to nervously adjust his glasses. "I told you that you're not allowed to call me that, didn't I?" he asks, attempting to summon an authoritative tone, though he looks way too flustered for it to land.

"Why not?" you ask, blinking innocently.

Hongjoong's gaze drops to your mouth, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. "Because," he says, "I thought you said you wanted to focus tonight."

A nervous little giggle escapes you, your own face suddenly burning. You tear your eyes away from his lips, clearing your throat. "Right. You're right. I did," you manage, setting your mug down next to his. "Okay. Let's get to work. We still have two more sections to cover, don't we?"

Hongjoong nods, smiling fondly at you as he reaches down to unzip his backpack.

For the next half hour, true to your word, the two of you actually manage to stay on task. You fly through the remaining sections of the textbook with surprising speed, but despite your best efforts, neither of you can seem to fully shake the cheesy, flirty tension humming between you on the couch.

Every time you successfully conjugate a notoriously difficult verb, Hongjoong insists on leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek, murmuring that it's a "preview of your actual reward" and making your skin flare. And every time he gets a little too cocky, you sneak a "Mr. Kim" into your next question and watch him get just as flustered as you are. A few times, you catch his eyes dropping to watch the movement of your lips instead of actually listening to the vocabulary you're reciting. Whenever he realizes he was caught, his mouth curves into a shy, guilty smile before he clears his throat and tells you to start the sentence over. 

As you work together, you find yourself unsure how much grammar is actually sticking in your brain versus how many times you come dangerously close to throwing the textbooks to the floor and pulling your tutor down on top of you for a kiss.

Suddenly, a loud knock rattles the front door.

Both of you freeze. Hongjoong's pen halts mid-stroke over the lined paper of his notebook, and your fingers lock around the corner of the textbook page you were just about to turn. You stare at each other, wide-eyed and unmoving in the silence of the dorm. 

Are they already back? Did someone forget their wallet? Lose their ID? It hasn't even been an hour since they left. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The second round is louder, more impatient. 

You scramble to your feet, your stomach giving a sudden lurch. Hongjoong slowly unfreezes, setting his pen down onto the coffee table. He looks up at you from his spot on the cushions with a smile that is trying very hard to be reassuring but failing miserably.

"Well," he whispers as if the three men waiting outside might hear him through the door, "I guess I'm meeting the family a little sooner than expected."

Despite everything, you let out an anxious laugh as you glance toward the entryway. "Yeah... I guess you are." Taking a steadying breath, you look back at him. "Okay. Stay right here. Let me tell them you're inside before they come barging in and start yelling, okay? I don't want them to freak you out."

Hongjoong lets out a faint chuckle, but you don't miss the way he's subconsciously wiping his sweaty palms against the cotton of his sweatpants. He's nervous. And that only makes your pulse race faster.

Taking another deep breath, you force your legs to carry you toward the front door. With every step, the twisting sensation in your gut pulls even tighter.

Just as your fingers graze the handle, another loud, more aggressive knock bangs against the wood. You jump, tossing one last look over your shoulder at Hongjoong. He offers an encouraging smile, and you do your best to return one of your own before swinging the door open, plastering the most casual smile you can manage onto your face.

"Okay, before you guys come in, I really need to tell you—"

The words die in your throat.

Your heart plummets past your stomach, crashing somewhere near your shoes as an icy, paralyzing wave of vertigo washes over you. The fake smile vanishes from your lips, the blood draining from your face.

Because instead of your three best friends stumbling drunkenly down the hallway, you're standing face-to-face with the most terrifying sight imaginable.

The cruel, wicked smirk of Jung Wooyoung.

"I knocked three times," he says lightly, his eyes gleaming with malicious amusement as he looks down at you. "You busy or something? You know, most girls run to the door the second they hear my footsteps coming down the hall. But that's right..." He tilts his head. "You're different, aren't you?"

Your hands tremble as you grip the doorframe, your knuckles turning a bloodless white. "Woo—Wooyoung... what the hell...?" you manage to whisper, frozen in place.

He clicks his tongue, lazily shoving his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans. "Aw, nervous to see me again, baby? Don't worry, I'm only stopping by for a minute. Unless you want me to stay." A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. "I'm more than happy to cancel my plans tonight for a... third date."

Your breathing turns shallow as you stare at him, panic wiping your mind blank. "What—What are you doing here, Wooyoung?" 

Your eyes sweep over him. He's dressed for a humid night out in late August, not a freezing December evening. He’s wearing a black tee and jeans—the same outfit you've seen him in every time you've been together. His hair is gelled and styled exactly the same as always. Nothing about Wooyoung has changed in the slightest.

He catches your gaze tracing over him, and his smirk deepens. "So you did miss me. I knew you would." But when his eyes lock onto yours, the teasing edge vanishes: he's dead, chillingly serious. "I'm here for my jacket."

Your heart plummets into what feels like an endless freefall.

The jacket.

Your eyes flash to the kitchen barstool where that stupid leather jacket had rested like a cursed object for nearly a week—a week where everyone in the dorm had been too afraid to even touch it. But it isn't there anymore. Hongjoong's winter coat is draped over that very stool instead.

The wind is knocked out of you as you realize that Hongjoong is here, sitting on the couch right behind you. With how you've barely cracked open the door, shielding the entryway with your body, Hongjoong probably still assumes you're talking to one—or all—of your friends.

Terror grips your throat. You can't let them see each other. If Wooyoung sees Hongjoong, it's over. If Hongjoong finds out who is standing at this door, he'll discover everything. He'll know you lied to him about your past. Think, ____, think, you scream at yourself, your head spinning faster and dizzier by the second as you stare blankly at the man in the doorway.

Oblivious, Wooyoung laughs. 

"You know, I thought I'd lost the damn thing," he continues, his voice dripping with condescension. "I searched my place for days. I must've been too drunk that night to realize I let you take it. I thought someone stole it at the bar or some shit. Even went out and bought myself a new one before I finally remembered." His eyes filthily trace your body, from the top of your head down to your socks and back up again, making your skin crawl. "Yeah. It was stolen. By you."

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat making it impossible to breathe, but he keeps talking.

"You been wearing it? It's nice, right? I bet it looked so cute on you that night. If only I could remember anything that happened." The cruel curve of his lips returns. "I was just gonna forget about it. Let you keep it. A little souvenir to remember me by, yeah? To remind you of how much fun we had." He pauses, feeding off the way your stomach twists at his words. "But the new jacket's missing one thing. The inside pocket for my camera. And I plan on taking a lot of pictures tonight."

He suddenly takes a step forward, trying to peer over your shoulder and into the dorm.

"I need my jacket back, baby," he murmurs. "Let me in."

You remain rooted in the doorway, every muscle in your body locked as the panic finally spills over and chokes the breath out of your lungs. 

"Wooyoung, I... I don't know where it is," you stammer.

He pauses. One eyebrow arches. "You don't?"

You shake your head, your terrified mind scrambling to construct any lie that'll keep him out of your dorm and clinging to it for dear life. "San took it," you blurt out. "He put it away somewhere, but I have no idea where. Just—just come back later when he's here. He'll find it for you."

The lie sounds flimsy to even your own ears, and judging by the look on his face, he knows it too.

Desperate, you throw your weight forward and attempt to push the door shut, but Wooyoung is faster. His palm slams flat against the wood, stopping it dead in its tracks. Slowly, his eyes narrow.

"Well, if you don't know where it is..." His gaze snakes past your shoulder again, drinking in the narrow sliver of your living room visible from the hallway. "...maybe we should look for it together."

Wooyoung suddenly shoves the door inward. You stumble backward with a choked gasp, your socks slipping across the polished hardwood as he steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him.

"Wooyoung—"

He ignores you, already turning down the hallway, heading straight in the direction of San's bedroom. But on only the second step, he freezes.

Your hands are still suspended uselessly in the air from where you'd tried—and failed—to block him from coming inside. Your stomach drops so hard and fast that you feel like you're about to faint. 

Everything falls silent.

Wooyoung is standing in the center of your living room, staring straight at the couch. And standing perfectly still amid the messy notebooks and open textbooks, Hongjoong is staring right back. 

At some point, Hongjoong rose to his feet. His posture is rigid, his shoulders squared as he stands between the coffee table and the cushions. His eyes sweep over Wooyoung with a piercing glare. It's almost as if, in a matter of seconds, he's already deciphered exactly what kind of person this intruder is, all without a single word being exchanged.

You open your mouth, desperately trying to force a sound out—Hongjoong's name, Wooyoung's name, an explanation, an excuse, a plea, anything—but your vocal cords have been locked in place by the fear gripping your throat.

You can only watch, helplessly pinned in place, as Wooyoung's eyes drag over the man standing across the room. He takes his sweet time, lingering on Hongjoong's crooked glasses and tousled hair, before his gaze drops to the table. He stares at the scattered Korean textbooks, the vocabulary worksheets covered in red corrections, and finally, the two steaming mugs of hot chocolate sitting side by side in the center of it all. 

As the reality of what he walked into dawns on him, a horrible, bitter smirk curls at the corners of Wooyoung's lips.

"Holy shit," he murmurs, a breath of malicious disbelief.

For a moment, the entire dorm goes quiet.

Then an ugly bark of laughter rips from his throat.

Wooyoung throws his head back and erupts into a fit of dark, hysterical laughter. "Holy shit! Holy fucking shit," he cackles, clutching his stomach as he spins to look at you, eyes glittering with vindictive delight. "You're kidding me, right? Tell me this is a fucking joke."

Still laughing, he turns his attention back to Hongjoong, openly raking his eyes up and down his body with blatant disrespect.

Hongjoong's expression hardens. His breathing grows shallow, mirroring the rise and fall of your own chest, as he slowly tears his gaze away from Wooyoung and looks at you instead.

"____." His voice is practically a growl. You watch the gears turning behind his eyes: he knows. He knows something is wrong. "Who is this?"

You can't speak.

You stare helplessly back at Hongjoong, your vision blurring as tears begin to well in your eyes, stinging your lash line. 

It's over. 

You should've just told him the truth.

Hongjoong sees the shiny glaze of tears brimming in your eyes, and his posture stiffens. His lips part in a quiet breath of disbelief, a devastating combination of confusion and betrayal already bleeding into his eyes before he even fully understands what he's looking at. 

Wooyoung wheezes with laughter, bracing himself by slapping a hand down onto the nearest kitchen stool—landing right on top of Hongjoong's snow-dampened coat.

"Fuck, ____, this has to be the funniest thing I've ever seen," he gasps, shaking his head. "Seriously. Holy shit, you're actually with him? You're dating the fucking tutor?"

The first tear spills over, cutting a humiliating path down your cheek.

Seeing it fall, Hongjoong snaps his gaze away from you, his expression shattering. His eyes flick toward the wall, betrayal flashing across his features before he suddenly manages to bury it, squaring his jaw and turning back to Wooyoung.

"Who are you?" he demands when you can't work up the courage to give him the answer.

However, this only seems to amuse Wooyoung even more. "She didn't even tell you about me?" he laughs mockingly, pouting his bottom lip. "Damn. What a shame."

He closes the distance between them, swaggering over to the couch and extending a taunting hand for Hongjoong to shake. "Jung Wooyoung," he says, his grin widening. "Hongjoong, right? I can't believe I'm actually getting to meet you. I'm a big fan."

Hongjoong doesn't even glance at the outstretched hand, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone looks like it's ready to snap. 

"Not kidding," Wooyoung continues without flinching, dropping his arm back to his side. "I've been dying to ask you what your secret is."

The two men stare each other down from opposite sides of the coffee table. Wooyoung is grinning; Hongjoong looks ready to kill.

"My secret?" Hongjoong repeats.

Wooyoung nods, leaning in closer with a wicked smirk. "Yeah," he sneers. "How the fuck did a guy like you get her into your bed?"

A deafening tension crashes over the room. 

Hongjoong's eyes narrow as a furious, bewildered scoff escapes him.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

A cold shudder crawls down your spine, pinning you in place against the front door. You've seen Hongjoong angry before, you've seen him frustrated, and you've heard him mutter Korean curses under his breath. But you've never heard him swear in English. 

Wooyoung laughs again, cruel and bright. "Guess she really didn't tell you. Well, she's always been a little shy about these things. Haven't you, baby?" He flashes you another grin over his shoulder before turning his back on Hongjoong, sauntering toward San's room, still chuckling to himself.

You feel sick. The room is spinning so fast you have to press your hand against the doorframe just to stay on your feet. You need to get Wooyoung out of here. You have to stop him before he digs any deeper. 

"Wooyoung," your shaky, fragile voice manages to force out just as his hand reaches for San's doorknob. He pauses, glancing back at you with an arched eyebrow. "It... it's in the bathroom," you whisper. "In the storage closet. San... San put it there."

His hand drops from the knob. Turning around, he looks you up and down, taking in your trembling state before scoffing. "Thought you didn't know where it was?" he asks. "What happened? Suddenly remembered?" His mouth curls. "Or are you leading me on again? Huh, I guess some things really never change."

You flinch. Your eyes remain glued to his back as he changes direction and disappears through the bathroom door.

You don't look at Hongjoong. You can't.

You don't want to see the impending heartbreak taking shape in his eyes, don't want to witness the moment he pieces the ugly puzzle together and realizes how much you've hidden from him. So, like a coward, you decide to delay the devastation, to avoid his gaze, for as long as you possibly can.

From down the short hallway, the loud and destructive sounds of Wooyoung's search begin. You can hear him rustling through the cramped storage closet, carelessly shoving boxes aside and tossing towels to the tile floor as he digs around for his jacket.

You keep your tear-filled eyes locked on the empty doorway, nails biting into your palms. If you stare hard enough, maybe Hongjoong will disappear. Maybe the consequences of your own lies will fall solely onto your shoulders, sparing the man you finally managed to start something real with.

Wooyoung emerges a minute later, shrugging the leather jacket over his shoulders. He smooths the collar into place with a grin.

"Well, I'm heading out. Got a party to get to," he announces cheerfully. "You two enjoy your little date night, yeah?"

He nods mockingly in Hongjoong's direction, smirking as he makes his way toward the front door—the door you're still weakly barricading with your body. Stopping mere inches in front of you, Wooyoung looks down with an amused raise of his eyebrow. His fingers slowly wrap around yours, peeling your trembling grip away from the doorframe. 

A repulsive shiver rips through your body as he holds your gaze, his grin widening. 

"She's a great student, isn't she?" he calls out over his shoulder, addressing Hongjoong even though his eyes never leave yours. "I taught her a few things myself last month. You should ask her about the knife. Or the fork." Your blood turns to ice as the smile on his face turns mocking. "She really has a thing for cutlery."

Dropping your hand, he gives you one final, bitter sneer before yanking the door open and stepping out into the hallway. The door slams shut behind him, and he's gone, sealing you inside the silence of your own destruction.

You stand paralyzed in the entryway for what feels like an eternity.

You've always known Hongjoong to be a brilliant man—how could he not be, as someone who is quite literally paid to teach you? But the intelligence you're seeing now has nothing to do with grammar or vocabulary. From your spot against the door, you're forced to watch him click every single ugly, disjointed piece of the puzzle named Jung Wooyoung into place in his mind.

Slowly, as if he's fighting his way through water, Hongjoong lowers himself onto the couch. A stray pen falls off the cushion, onto the floor, without him even noticing. His previously rigid posture collapses in on itself as he sinks back into the cushions. The color drains from his face, leaving his skin an unrecognizable, sickly pale, and his hand trembles as he raises it to push his crooked glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You don't know what to do. You don't know what to say. You don't even know if there's anything you can say to make a difference. So you just stand there with a burning ache in your throat as shameful tears continue to well and threaten to spill over your lashes, watching your boyfriend sift through every last humiliating second he'd just been forced to witness.

After a long time, Hongjoong finally turns his head. When he speaks, his fragile voice breaks your heart in two.

"When we studied together for the first time... in the library," he begins shakily. "His name... Wooyoung... it came up on your phone. You told me he was just a friend. That... that was a lie, wasn't it?"

Your breath hitches in your chest as you stare at him. You try to explain, but your voice breaks on the way up. You can't answer him. You can't.

But your silence is answer enough.

Hongjoong inhales sharply. He rises to his feet, his entire body shaking as he takes a few steps forward, closing the distance between the couch and the entryway. The closer he gets, the clearer you can see the glossy sheen of unshed tears pooling behind his glasses.

"Y—You told me you've only ever slept with one person." His voice cracks as he stops just a few feet away from you. "You said you were seventeen. With your ex, back in high school." His eyes plead with yours to deny it, to give him the answer he wants. "Was that a lie, too?"

A single, damning tear slips down your cheek. 

Hongjoong watches it fall. He stares at you for a long moment, the last trace of hope draining out of his face. He gives a faint, defeated nod, breaking eye contact just as his own tears finally begin to spill over.

"He said he... he taught you. Last month. Last month, ____," he breathes, looking back at you with so much betrayal in his eyes that it hurts to meet them. "But you told me you liked me since the first time you saw me. Since the beginning of the semester. Was... was that another lie? While I was... I... you were... with him...?"

You frantically shake your head, your chest caving in. "Joong, n—no, I—"

"He asked me how a guy like me got you into my bed," he continues, cutting you off as more tears track silently down his pale cheeks. "I know... I know I'm not experienced. I know I've never done this before. I know I'm not the kind of guy who... who you would normally look at twice—"

"Joong, that's not true—!"

"But," his voice cracks, ignoring your pleas. "I thought... I thought..."

He stops, unable to finish the sentence. He shakily reaches up, pulling his glasses off his face to roughly press the heels of his palms into his eyes, wiping away the falling tears. When he finally lowers his hands, he turns away from you and stares at the wall across the room.

You don't try to speak. You gulp down your tears, giving up on trying to defend yourself. There's nothing that feels capable of fixing this. Not words, not explanations, not anything you could possibly say. 

"He said you led him on," Hongjoong says quietly. "Is that what you're doing to me? Am I just..."

A choked sob finally rips from your throat. Without thinking, you reach a hand out to grab his sleeve, to ask for forgiveness, to show him you care. But he flinches, jerking his arm away like your touch burns.

You freeze, your hand falling numbly to your side as the outline of his body becomes a blur.

"How many times, ____?" he asks, his voice cracking. He can't even bear to look at you anymore. "How many times did you sleep with him?"

Your heart stops. He stands there, holding his breath, waiting for the truth. 

"It... it was twice," you whisper.

Hongjoong lets out a gut-wrenching, wounded sound, biting down on his trembling lower lip as he squeezes his eyes shut.

"But... but the second time wasn't... I—I stopped it, Joong," you plead, willing him to just open his eyes, to understand what happened. "I only went out with him to end it. To... to tell him that I didn't want him, that the whole thing was a mistake—"

"He was your first, wasn’t he?"

The question is quiet.

You stop rambling. Hongjoong's eyes open, and when his gaze finds yours again, you watch the realization wash over his pale features. 

"It wasn't your ex," he whispers, his throat bobbing. "It was him."

You go silent, tears falling down your cheeks, unable to deny it. 

And for Hongjoong, that's all the answer he needs.

A strangled sob tears its way out of his throat. He abruptly turns away, hurrying back over to the couch, refusing to look at you again. Panic surges through you, and you hurry after him, your voice cracking as you beg him to listen.

"Please, just let me explain, Joong!"

Hongjoong grabs his backpack from the floor and starts shoving his textbooks inside, his eyes fixed blankly on the coffee table, avoiding your face at all costs. 

"Explain what, ____?" he asks. His voice is flat, and that emptiness is somehow a million times worse than if he'd turned around and screamed at you. "Explain which version of you is the real one? The one I started falling in love with... or the one who looked me in the eye and lied to me about letting him—"

He chokes on the words, his jaw clenching as he yanks the zipper of his backpack shut.

The one I started falling in love with.

The words shatter what little is left of your heart.

"I wanted to tell you!" you choke out, stepping closer, though you keep your hands glued to your sides, too afraid to try and touch him again. "I wanted to tell you the truth, but I was so scared! Joong, I... I liked you from the very first day we met. That was never, ever a lie. But... you were my tutor! I never in a million years thought you'd look at me as anything more than your dumb student who couldn't even pronounce her own name. I didn't think you'd ever look at me the way I looked at you."

Hongjoong stops moving. His hands clamp around the straps of his bag. He doesn't turn to face you, but you can see the tension snapping across his shoulders and can hear the uneven sound of his breathing. He's listening.

"I was so stupid," you confess, your voice cracking as you furiously wipe the tears from your cheeks. "I was... I was horrible. I tried to use him. Wooyoung. My friends told me he didn't do relationships, that... that hookups meant nothing to him. I thought... I thought maybe I could drown out my feelings for you by doing something reckless. Maybe doing something meaningless with him would make me forget about how badly I wanted to mean something to you."

You take a shaky breath, your tears blinding your vision. "But it didn't work. After that night... I felt terrible. About everything. I... I couldn't stop imagining what it would've been like if it were you instead. He told me he wanted more. I guess he actually liked me, or at least he thought he did, but... he couldn't give me a single, tiny fraction of what you already had, even back when we'd barely spoken outside of tutoring. I felt so much for you, Joong. So, so much. I always knew it, even if I was too scared to admit it to myself."

Hongjoong remains still, his back turned to you as he listens.

"That's why I went back the second time," you plead. "To end it. To tell him it was a stupid, one-time mistake because my heart belonged to someone else. But he... fuck, Joong, I was so stupid, and he was so manipulative. Yes, we did it again, but I... I cried. I pushed him away. I made him stop. And... and that's when he realized. He'd heard my friends teasing me about my crush on my tutor, and he... he realized they weren't joking. You saw it, just now: he's mad. His ego is destroyed. He thinks I chose you over him, but... it was never a choice in the first place. I was always yours. From the very beginning."

He doesn't move, his head bowed as he stares down at the bag crushed in his hands. You choke out another sob, desperate for something in your confession to break through to him.

"And then, in your bedroom..." you whisper, the memory tearing you apart. "When you said it was your first time... when you told me how scared you were of making a mistake... I panicked. How could I look at you, after everything you just confessed, and tell you that I let some asshole like him take my virginity only a few weeks ago? I wanted to be the perfect girl for you, just like how I tried so hard to be the perfect student. I was so ashamed of what I'd done, of how I'd been so reckless for the first time in my life! I was scared that if you knew that ugly, mindless side of me, you'd never look at me the same way again. That you'd hate me. So... I lied. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry, Joong. I... I wish I could change it. I wish I could take it back. I really, really do."

You wipe your face with the backs of your hands, but the tears refuse to stop falling as you stand there, staring at his back, waiting, praying he even has a response. 

After a long moment, Hongjoong turns to face you again. His face has gone completely still except for the single tear that breaks free, trickling down his cheek.

"An exam," he whispers. "Is that what this whole thing was to you? You had to be perfect? You wanted to get an A... in what? In me? In us?"

He takes a hesitant step closer, looking at you with eyes full of heartbreak. "You know I've never cared about your mistakes, ____," he says, his voice cracking as he points a trembling finger at the coffee table, where your textbooks and vocabulary sheets used to lie scattered. "When you mess up a conjugation, we fix it. When you mispronounce a word, I help you say it right. That's what we do. That's what we've always done. I thought you knew... I thought you understood that I was the one place where you didn't have to be perfect right away. That I'd help you get there, no matter how hard it would be or how long it would take."

He looks down at his shaking hands, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows the lump in his throat. When he finally looks back up, the disappointment in his eyes is almost unbearable. "You said we'd figure things out together. Those were your words," he continues. "But now I think you were so afraid of failing that you felt like you needed to hide the truth from me. What did you think? That if you hid all these parts of you, if you lied about your past, everything would just magically turn into reality? That you'd just get whatever grade you wanted without letting me help you get there?"

He shakes his head, taking a sharp breath in. "I don't care about him. I don't care that he was your first, or even that it happened so recently. Do you really think my feelings for you are so shallow that something like that is enough to make me walk away?" He drags the back of his hand across his face, but it's useless. His fingers are trembling so badly he can barely wipe away the tears before more take their place. "I care that you looked me in the eye, in my own bed, in my arms, and lied to me. You let me pour my heart out to you, ____! I told you my most pathetic insecurities, the most embarrassing secrets I've never said out loud to anyone, and you... you let me feel safe. You let me believe we were doing the same thing. That we were both being honest with each other, putting all our cards out on the table so we could start something real. How... how could you sit there, comforting me, telling me it was okay not to be perfect, all while knowing it was you who was hiding who you really were?" His voice finally shatters. "How am I supposed to trust anything you've ever said to me?"

"Joong, no, please—" Your voice breaks apart on his name.

You reach your hand out, but he pulls away again. Without another word, he turns his back on you and walks over to the kitchen island. He grabs his coat from the barstool, where you'd left it to dry barely a full hour ago, not even bothering to put it on. Your heart plummets as he swings his bag over his shoulder and stares blankly at the front door, refusing to cast a single glance back at where you're standing no matter how hard you're silently begging him to.

"I didn't ask about your past because I was looking for mistakes," he says quietly to the empty air. "I asked because I wanted to know the girl I was giving my heart to. The girl I wanted to create something real with... for the very first time in my life."

Another tear slides down his jawline as he shakes his head faintly, taking the last few steps toward the door. He doesn't speak again. When his hand wraps around the handle, your tears begin to fall harder.

"Joong, please, that's all I wanted too—" you choke out, your trembling legs moving on their own. You stumble after him, too terrified to touch him, but too desperate to let him walk away. "Please, Hongjoong, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry... I can fix this, I can—"

He turns his head, but he isn't looking at your face. His deadened gaze fixes on the floorboards right next to your feet as his shoulders tremble with the effort to hold himself together.

"You can't fix a lie like this with an apology, ____," he whispers, and you can tell he's given up. "You know that. You fix it with the truth. But I had to get yours from him." He takes a final, shuddering breath. "I... I never would've found out about this if he hadn't shown up tonight, right?"

You take a horrified step back, biting your lip so hard the taste of blood floods your mouth.

He's right.

You would've let this remain a secret forever. 

"Joong..."

But for the first time all night, you have nothing left to say.

Hongjoong shakes his head and pushes the door open. Without another glance back, he steps out into the hallway and gently pulls the door shut behind him, disappearing back into the cold.

@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33

“Why’d you turn it off?” San asks from Wooyoung’s passenger seat, his face knitted in frustration. “I was listening to that!”

“She clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Wooyoung argues, sinking further into the leather bucket seats of his car, downshifting as he comes up to a red light. “I don’t know why you insist on listening to it, she’s not giving you any tips you don’t already know.”

“Some of us aren’t as experienced as you, Woo.” He turns his head to see San staring at him with pointed eyes, the older man’s frustration hasn’t settled at all. “She’s a window into the female mind. Girls don’t talk about sex so openly.”

“They do if you just ask,” Wooyoung counters. “They say a lot if you just ask.” 

Unscripted. The podcast his entire campus is listening to, talking about, praising, worshiping, Wooyoung hates it down to his very fucking bones. The woman whose voice was just grating through his car’s incredible speaker system claims her pod is an open conversation, an outlet where viewers can send in their questions, topics, so that the ‘taboo’ topic of sex can be spoken about openly, shamelessly.

Wooyoung has no issue talking about sex. It’s far from taboo for him, it’s talked about every day of his life, every hour, he thinks about it every minute. While he gets shit for it from just about everyone in his goddamn life, this woman who he cannot stand is treated like a deity for it. Usually a podcast is paired with a video, some kind of face to the name, something that viewers can fact-check. But this woman is a no-face, no-name ghost. 

“You’re telling me if I laid a woman down and asked her to teach me to make her squirt, she’d do it?” San asks, back straightened, brows in his hairline. 

Wooyoung turns his head with a dead stare, “Yes, San. It’s really that fucking easy.”

San huffs. “Well, imagine how much cooler it was when I already knew how to do it. You know the reaction I got, after learning step-by-step from Unscripted? My hips were sore the next day. My hips, Wooyoung.”

“You would have gotten the same reaction if you just asked her.” Wooyoung upshifts, engine roaring as his frustration grows. “Women like that shit, teaching, showing you exactly what to do. And when you succeed? God, none of you listen to me, you listen to the no-face, no-resume, self-appointed sex god.”

“No resume?” San snorts. “Maybe we’d rather listen to a woman tell us what women want, and not the self-appointed campus whore.”

Wooyoung can’t even be mad at the jab, because at a different time, he gave himself that exact title. It was like wearing a crown, having women flock to him, his bed filled with someone different every night, learning how to please others with his mind, two hands and his cock. He learned it all himself, by asking, by doing the work, and now his friends were getting a tutorial by some nobody named Unscripted? It’s so corny it threatens to ruin the concept of sex for him.

“Maybe you should try actually asking a woman what she wants,” Wooyoung snaps back, pulling his car into the driveway of his frat. A long strip of blacktop big enough to hold six cars, he liked being parked at the back, not blocked in by anyone else. He could leave whenever he wanted, to fuck whoever he wanted. He throws his car in park and turns to San again. “Maybe you shouldn’t assume what all women want just because a random one told you her tips are universal.”

“I really don’t get why you hate her so much.” San is shaking his head as he reaches for the forty-rack from the backseat. “If you don’t need the tips, then you can simply not listen. Why shit on everyone who enjoys it?”

“I’m not– why are you so offended?” Wooyoung asks before sliding out of the driver’s side, closing the door behind him. Locking the car, starting the trek up to the two story house, Wooyoung continues, “Who cares if I don’t like it?”

“I care because I enjoy it and you’re shitting on my enjoyment.” San keeps Wooyoung’s pace as the sound of bass grows louder, cans of beer clinking together in the case hanging from San’s fingers. “Maybe I wanted to find out if someone is in love with me when they ask me for missionary tonight.”

Wooyoung stops in his tracks. “If a girl wants missionary, she wants your dick so far inside her she can’t breathe. That’s it. She’s not in love with you, she wants your dick to tear her apart. That’s Unscripted.”

San stares for a moment before bursting out in laughter. “Man,” he wheezes, “you should be a guest star or something.”

Wooyoung’s face stays flat, unimpressed. “I would never want my name attached to that shit-show of a fucking podcast. It’d tarnish my good name.”

“Your name has about four STDs and three pregnancy scares attached to it. I don’t think the podcast would tarnish that.”

“I had chlamydia once, San,” Wooyoung bites, walking up the brick steps to the house, voice louder to travel over the sound of bass. “And I took the fucking medication. Drop it, no one talks about that anymore.”

San is smirking as he rips open the door, “Everyone talks about it, Woo. Just not to your face.”

Wooyoung doesn’t even have a chance to respond before the music swallows their conversation whole. Inside the house was a mass of bodies, too many to count, too many to breathe between. But Wooyoung tries anyway, letting the bass cleanse him of his frustration, or maybe that was the brunette he caught out of the corner of his eye that made instinct grab the wheel.

He stores the information for later, when he’s ingested at least three beers and he’s ready to take the party to his bedroom. Her friend was cute, too, darker hair and a silver hoop in her nose, he wonders if they’d both be down for taking the party upstairs.

“You’re back!” Yunho beams from the kitchen, the older man’s head of blonde hair spotting him easily, his eye level above everyone else’s. “Where’s the beer?”

“San has it,” Wooyoung throws a thumb behind him, beside him, he doesn’t know where the hell San had gone. “He’s around here somewhere.”

Yunho smacks his teeth as he looks as far as his brown eyes can see, “Where the fuck else is there to go with a case of forty fucking beers other than the kitchen?”

Wooyoung eyes up the bottle of vodka standing tall on the counter. He wasn’t planning to get drunk tonight, just tipsy enough for his orgasm(s) to feel that much better, but the clear liquid beckons to him. Dares him. And Wooyoung never, ever backs down from anything, let alone a dare.

He pours a shot, then another one, then the jacket clinging to his shoulders feels suffocating. Not the seventy-five people in his house, no, but the leather on his shoulders that hangs off his body enough to feel a summer breeze on the back of his neck. It’s hot enough to swim outside, but Wooyoung was married to his leather jacket the way he was married to casual sex. Wooyoung, sex and leather go together hand-in-hand.

San finally barrels into the kitchen to pack the beers into the fridge, and Wooyoung grabs one before attempting to make his way to the stairs, up to his room where he could hang his precious baby in his closet. He’s stopped twice, a third time in the middle of the staircase, all by women who were wondering why he was going upstairs so early, and why he had no one at his side. Their eyes told him they wanted to take the spot.

After assuring all three of them he’d be right back downstairs, and offering them all a dance and a drink, voices on the other side of his beige bedroom door stop him from going inside. His brows furrow, irritation blooming because why the fuck are there people in his room? He starts to make out words, and the conversation makes his palm hover over the door handle.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” A guy. A voice he doesn’t recognize.

A woman’s voice follows, “Come on, we never do anything like this, it’s risky. Isn’t that fun?”

“What if someone walks in?”

“Let them see.” Her voice drops into something seductive, low and velvety, it makes Wooyoung’s already-warm insides ten times hotter. “Don’t you want to fuck me? We don’t even know who’s room this is.”

“I… we should go back downstairs. Let’s get a drink, dance a little.”

Wooyoung can hear his own bed creak. “So you don’t want to fuck me?”

“That’s not what I said–”

“Fine.” The word is sharp, angry. 

The bed creaks again, and before Wooyoung can move, his own bedroom door is ripped open, and a new, beautiful face he’s never seen before is staring at him like he’s a fucking pervert.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, voice edged with anger. No, that’s frustration– horny frustration. 

Wooyoung can’t help his grin. “Who are you?”

She cringes– physically cringes before gritting her teeth, “Were you listening? Waiting to hear us fuck so you could jerk off or something, you fucking creep?”

Wooyoung doesn’t let the cringe make him falter. His smirk grows, finally looking over her shoulder to see the pitiful, utterly boring man behind her. Tall, buff, but the face of a fucking baby. Someone who definitely wouldn’t fuck her in a stranger’s bedroom, and even if it was Wooyoung’s bedroom, he kind of felt sorry for her.

“I was putting my jacket in my room, actually,” Wooyoung brings his eyes back to her just to watch all the color drain from her face. Before she can offer her apologies, he quips, “But I would have stayed for the show. It’s a shame you didn’t put one on for me.”

Her face that had just read apologetic a second ago morphs into shame, embarrassment, then the sort of rage Wooyoung was expecting. But it wasn’t directed at Wooyoung, it was directed at the man behind her, the one she had her back to, and kept it that way.

Without a word, she pushes past him to rush down the stairs, and Wooyoung steps to the side to let baby-face follow. But before he’s completely out of reach, Wooyoung stops him with, “Hold on.”

The guy turns, hands folded together to hide the tent that Wooyoung couldn’t comprehend why he wasn’t acting on. Sharp jaw, full lips, hair shaggy and unkempt like she had just had her knuckles in it, he was an attractive guy. From looks alone, he seems like a keeper, a real score for the girl Wooyoung would have been trying to get balls deep inside of right now if he wasn’t here. 

He doesn’t know why he offers his advice. “When you have a girl like that, you take the risk.”

“You seem to take a lot of risks,” the man says coolly. “I know who you are, chlamydia.”

“Oh my fucking god,” Wooyoung groans, then walks into his bedroom. Stopping in his doorway, he turns to watch baby-face laugh down the stairs, and yells behind him, “That was a year ago, by the way!”

He can still hear the man laughing as he uses too much strength to hook his jacket onto a hanger, and then on the top rack of his closet. Frustration boils in his gut, and anger isn’t a party favor, so he makes his way to his bathroom, washes his face with freezing cold water, and lets his emotions reset before he even thinks about going back downstairs.

Wooyoung loves sex. He loves everything about sex, he loves giving, he loves receiving, he loves pleasure. Life is about enjoying, learning and changing and growing, and to Wooyoung, sex is the perfect blend of all life has to offer. He can’t imagine himself getting into a relationship, a pitiful one like that girl has, and sex becoming… regular. Boring. Not full of fantasy and shamelessness, being so carnally human, giving into your desire, but instead an activity, a routine, something you’re supposed to do so you do it.

No, sex to Wooyoung isn’t a routine, something to be fit into a schedule. Sex is fun, it’s about exploration, trusting someone else enough to be at your most vulnerable, and trusting them to carry you through it. Then trusting them to not call afterwards, or expect another night, or anything else from him at all, for that matter.

Maybe a skewed view on sex and relationships, but that’s Wooyoung’s fantasy, his life, his bible.

Just as he finishes his beer, there’s a knock at his door. He throws himself in-character, a lazy smirk on his lips, assuming it’s one of the girls he talked to on his way up here, in his heart he prays it's the best friends he spotted downstairs.

Much to his dismay, it’s neither. It’s the girlfriend from five minutes ago, still raging, apparently. Her arms are crossed, foot tapping against the carpet, eyes darting everywhere but on Wooyoung like she’s guilty. Already playing the part, Wooyoung leans into his doorframe as he asks, “Back to put on a one-woman show instead?”

She scoffs, “Like I’d ever fuck you.”

Wooyoung’s brows furrow. Interesting reaction. “Okay,” he starts, standing up a little straighter. “Then did you need a place to get yourself off or something? My bed has seen plenty of orgasms, don’t be shy.”

Her face morphs into pure disgust. “God, you’re disgusting, is sex all you think about?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but Wooyoung smiles anyway. “Kinda.”

“I’m here because I know who you are. I have about six friends who have fucked you, and I need your advice,” she says quickly, shamelessly, each and every one of her features flat and serious. When Wooyoung motions for her to continue, intrigued, she asks, “You would have done it, right?”

Wooyoung’s eyes thin, brows kissing. “Done what? Fucked you?”

“Yeah,” she nods. Talking with her hands flying everywhere, she rages, “Fucked me in a random room, in a random house, at a random party on a random Friday night.”

“I’m sensing there’s more to unpack here,” Wooyoung says with growing boredom, shifting his weight on his other foot before leaning against the other side of his dooframe.

“Just answer the question,” she urges, hands landing on her hips.

Wooyoung lets out a short huff. “Your boyfriend is boring,” he says simply. “If you’re already bored with your sex life, then the relationship isn’t going to last. Go shopping, there’s plenty of dudes downstairs that would slobber at the idea of fucking you in my room.” He holds up a finger. “Don’t fuck in my room, though. My room is off-limits.”

Her lips scrunch to one side, a flush on her cheeks. “Is there any way to make him more… adventurous?”

“It’s a personality thing, baby. He doesn’t have the fun-guy gene. Like I said, go shopping, that’s what I’m about to do.” Wooyoung takes a step forward, closing his door behind him. “Shall we?”

“Why do you say that like it’s easy?” she snaps, not moving an inch, leaving an awkwardly small amount of space between them. Usually, Wooyoung would be all over it, but he isn’t in the mood to pick up the pieces of someone else’s relationship tonight. But it seems she’s insistent upon him putting it back together completely as she explains, “We’ve been together for over a year, I can’t just break up with him because he won’t fuck me in a frat house.”

Wooyoung sighs, leaning his back against his closed door. “You’re, what, twenty? Twenty-one? You have your entire life to have shitty, boring sex. Why are you rushing?”

“I refuse to believe that,” she crosses her arms. “That the rest of my life will consist of shitty, boring sex.”

“I can’t fix delusional,” Wooyoung mutters, and to him, that's the end of the conversation.

He’s three steps away from her before she starts it again. “That’s not delusion, that’s optimism. Manifestation. I shouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”

He stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder. He retorts, “Someone like me?”

Her brows are high, hands on her hips, one leg bent. Full of attitude. “You never called any of my friends back. Not one. Why would I expect someone like you to understand what a relationship would be like, what it takes to keep one, when you spend your free time sticking your dick in anything that has a hole?”

Wooyoung snorts, a little impressed by the jab, but he’s more irritated that everyone seems to be on his fucking ass tonight. What did he do? He even took San to the liquor store to buy more beer, he should be drowning in pussy by now.

“Fair enough,” he shrugs, he’s more than bored of the conversation at this point. “Enjoy the three minutes of missionary tonight, or will it be forty-five seconds with you on top because he’s too drunk to fuck you properly?”

Her face blooms in Technicolor, and he knows he’s won. With a wide grin, he gives her a little wave over his shoulder, and makes his way down the stairs. He doesn’t have it in him to go back to the kitchen for another drink, or to find any one of his friends and have a conversation, his patience is running thin and his dick is starting to ache from lack of use.

“Hey, Wooyoung.” He’s greeted at the base of the steps by a blonde, he thinks he fucked her last week. Maybe two weeks ago. 

He gives her a smirk, “Hey, baby, good to see you.” What was her name again?

He keeps it pushing, searching for the staircase girls, or the two from the entrance that together resemble a monarch butterfly. If he can’t find any of them, maybe he’ll come back to the blonde. If he can remember her name.

Another beer miraculously finds its way to his palm before he finds one half of the butterfly, the one with dark hair, silver through her nose. He’s made out with her twice before the other half finds them, and to his satisfaction, it seems both halves of the butterfly had the plan to make it back to his bedroom tonight.

“One last topic for today: a little birdie asked me about threesomes, and in my heart, I genuinely can’t believe I haven’t touched on this topic sooner. I have a story, I know, surprise surprise, but this one is recent, so I’m excited to debrief it, because I think it’s too scandalous to even bring up to my friends.”

You throw your index cards on the bed. The rest would actually be unscripted, straight off the dome.

“This past weekend I found myself in a… compromising position. Well, several compromising positions, if I’m honest. Imagine you’re hooking up with a guy in a random bedroom of a house party, and the person whose bedroom it is walks inside and wants to join. Sorry– I paused, I was waiting for a gasp or something, but then I remembered I’m by myself.”

You laugh a little before continuing. “I was on my back, hooking up with this really sexy guy who I had met, maybe fifteen minutes prior. You know the house party deal, talk for ten minutes, the boring shit, but it’s the boring shit that gets you on the same page. We’re making out all the way up the stairs, and he pushes me inside this bedroom, undresses me, lays me out on the bed, his head is in between my legs before the door opens.”

“The second guy walks in, and there’s no moment of, what the fuck? Or, oh my god, get out of my room. He smirks, a sexy smirk, the kind of smirk that doesn’t need words, y’know? The guy who’s in between my legs doesn’t stop. He sees the other one, he knows he’s there, but he doesn’t even pause. The second guy takes my mouth, and then I’m being fed while the other one’s eating, and– you know the drill. It was overstimulating, but also… liberating, to be worshiped, to be treated like something holy by two guys whose names I didn’t even know.”

“I feel like MMF threesomes have become something for the male gaze, or maybe they always have been– actually, they always have been. In porn, the woman is treated like some kind of doll, thrown between two guys, used for their pleasure over and over, but what if it’s the opposite? What if it’s the woman who’s using two men for her own pleasure? Double the orgasms, double the penetration, double the foreplay, double the pleasure, what if it’s the woman calling the shots, like some kind of super-straight power bottom action? And I know I shouldn’t use gay terms for straight sex, but hear me out on this…”

“Some of us tend to fear taking control in the bedroom. With one man, with two men, it’s terrifying. But I’ve never been so satisfied or as confident as I felt in that bedroom, ordering pleasure and receiving it. Giving it because I wanted to, because sex is fun, and women are allowed to enjoy sex the way men do. If men can fetishize two women in the bedroom, why can’t we do it back? The only thing I wished for was that they would fuck each other, too. They only kissed. Boring. Sorry if you’re listening, there’s a reason I’m not saying your names.”

Because there are no names to fucking say.

“I need to dedicate an entire episode to exploring threesomes, positions, dynamics, everything. Unforch, there’s just not enough time today, but trust that I will come back to this topic and do a proper debrief of every single one of my thoughts, I just wanted to touch on the topic in case any of my listeners find themselves in the compromising position I was in mere days ago. Do it, enjoy it, and don’t be afraid to walk ‘em like dogs, girls. On the plate for next week are toys– for yourself, for your partner, the best ones for your partner to use on you, I’m diving into all of it. Stay tuned, and I’ll catch you next week, unscripted, as always.”

You press stop on your laptop, cutting off the recording, and take a deep, relieving sigh. Eyes catching the top right corner, you gasp, panic shooting up your spine as you read seven-thirty-two on the clock. Fishing your phone out from the duvet beneath you, you check your notifications, the fourteen texts from your boyfriend, and six missed calls.

You don’t even read them before pressing call on his contact.

“Where the hell are you?” His voice is gruff, angry. Which is fair, because you were supposed to meet him for dinner thirty-two minutes ago. 

You hop off the bed, grabbing your mic and shoving it into your closet. “I fell asleep!” you lie, and it rolls off your tongue like butter. “I’m so sorry, Jun, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“We lost our reservation, I’m at the bar next door.”

He hangs up. You curse, throwing your phone back onto your bed before scurrying to your closet to pick out something for drinks and dinner instead of dinner and drinks. You throw your hair up after turning your makeup from daytime to nighttime, and hop in the car with record time. Speeding through the city, thankfully finding quick parking, you’re late to your fifteen-minute promise by four minutes.

Your boyfriend of over a year doesn’t even care that you took the barstool beside him. You barely take in your surroundings, your tunnel vision focused on Yeonjun and only Yeonjun, wondering how the hell you’ll make it up to him. 

Wordlessly, he slides you a drink, a martini, extra dirty. Three olives. Your heart aches.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, eyes finding your lap. “I didn’t mean to miss our reservation, but we can still have fun tonight, right?” You look around you, at the dimly lit bar that seemed to have lost all its patrons to the sardine-packed dance floor. “We can go dance, you love to dance. I’ll get us a reservation for next week.”

His head snaps to yours, dark hair meticulously styled around his forehead, his eyes dark with irritation. “It took me three weeks to get that reservation.”

“Am I going somewhere?” You tilt your head to the side. “Are you going somewhere? I think we have the time to wait another three weeks.”

“That’s not the point,” he urges, watching as you grab the skewer of olives from your martini glass, biting one off the end. “The point is that I did something nice for us, and you didn’t show up.”

“It was an accident,” you say, muffled with your mouth full. Swallowing, you reiterate, “It was an accident, Yeonjun. Don’t let it spoil date night.” His nose crinkles, mouth bending downward. You pop a brow, “What?”

“You called me Yeonjun,” he says, so low it could be considered a whisper. His eyes are brighter when he looks back up at you, “My name is Junie to you.”

It makes a smile break across your lips, a giggle falling past. “You’re right, I’m sorry, Junie. I’ll make it up to you tonight. Or…” you look around, scanning the crowd of drunken people, all seeming in their own world. “I could make it up to you now.”

A deep blush paints his cheeks crimson. “Don’t even start.”

“No?” you tease, smirk on your lips, eyes sparkling as you take a sip of your martini. “You don’t wanna fuck me in the bathroom? So mad at me for missing our fancy, expensive date, you don’t wanna take out all your frustrations on me?”

He shushes you, body turning toward you like he might clamp his hand over your mouth, his shoulders caving inward. “You can’t say shit like that in public, oh my god– what if the bartender heard you, and kicked us out?”

“The bartender is focused on drinks and tips,” you say simply before taking another gulp of your martini. “She’s not worried about me taking my boyfriend’s cock down my throat in the bathroom.” His right hand covers his lap, and it makes you laugh, a snarky giggle. “Look at you, your body wants it, I want it. What are you so afraid of?”

He uses his other hand to count. “A public lewdness charge, or lewd conduct, or public indecency. I’m gonna be a doctor, I will not catch a charge to do what I can do at home.” Your eyes roll without you giving them the okay to do so. He sees it, and immediately he presses, “Why are you so obsessed with this? Why can’t we have sex at your place, or at mine? That’s normal.”

“What’s wrong with trying to spice up our sex life?” Your martini glass hits the bar harder than intended. “I just want you to want me so bad you can’t help yourself, Junie. I want you to fuck me, to really fuck me like it’s not even me you’re fucking.”

Your boyfriend’s ears go bright red, his eyes dancing all around you, and for a second you think he might really clamp his hand over your mouth. “Can you stop saying that shit in public?”

“Whatever,” you huff. “I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

After a moment of silence, another sip taken from his glass of whiskey, he runs both hands through his hair. Keeping his voice low, he leans into you so you can hear him, “Last weekend, after the party… I fucked you after, didn’t I? Like, really fucked you, like you weren’t even you or whatever.”

No. No, you didn’t.

“Yeah,” you smile, tight-lipped. “You did. Sorry. I must be ovulating or something.”

You’re not ovulating, you’re just fucking bored. You spend your free time talking about sexcapades, basically making up stories, soft porn on a podcast, but in reality, your life doesn’t even come close. The podcast is a dream, a fantasy, what sometimes you wish your life actually was. A sex life that was always new, changing, with one person who loves you as much as you love them, and wants to do new things just as much as you do. Someone who would never judge you for your wants, your needs, your fantasies that sometimes you’re embarrassed to think about, let alone bring up to someone else.

You want someone who you can tell all of them to. You need someone who wants to do them even more than you do, because they want to please you as much as you want to please them. 

But that’s not enough to break up with the man sitting beside you, the one who knows everything about you, the one who is the love of your life in so many different ways. How is it that such a huge part of you, such an important part of you, is the only part of him that isn’t a mirror?

“I’ve been thinking lately,” Yeonjun says, his voice uneven like he’s unsure of bringing it up. You raise your brows to let him know you’re listening. “After you graduate, we should get married.”

You blink. “M-Married?”

“I know we talk about it all the time,” he sits back in the stool, keeping his eyes on the amber liquid in his glass. “But I think we should get married. Have a baby.”

You lean forward. “A baby?”

Being pre-med now, he’ll be in school for a hell of a lot longer than you, and he knows it. He smiles to himself, like he’s leaning into his own fantasy as he says, “You can stay home, take care of the baby and stuff until I graduate, start working.”

“I’ll stay home… while you’re in school?” you ask, brows high. “Who’s gonna pay for me and the baby?”

His eyes meet yours, brows knitted together in confusion. “My parents?”

“Don’t you think we should be, y’know, financially secure before even thinking about marriage?”

“I’ll be in my residency program by twenty-six,” he counters. “That’s only four years that my parents will help us. I want to marry you, I want you to have my kids.”

“I don’t want to be married at twenty-two,” you answer, too fast for Yeonjun, too fast for yourself. He winces like you punched him. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you, I just… I don't want to be a married twenty-two year old.”

“What does age have to do with it?” he asks, and you’re stunned that age is what he’s taking from this. “Twnety-two, twenty-six, I’d marry you tomorrow, baby.”

Your head shakes before your mind can comprehend what’s transpiring. “Yeonjun, no. Absolutely not. Why are we talking about this now? Can’t we drink and dance? Have a fun date night like we planned?”

“Absolutely not?” he retorts, sitting straighter. “As if it’s a death sentence to marry me. I thought you’d be jumping up and down right now.”

“You think I’m the type to pop out a baby at twenty-three years old?!” you ask, bewildered. “Yeonjun, I… why would you think I’d be happy?”

“Hear me out,” he counters. “By twenty-two, we’ll have been together for over two years. We can have a long engagement, if you want, be married right before your twenty-third birthday. Technically, you’ll have the baby closer to twenty-four, and my parents only have to help us for two years.”

You’re horrified. What’s even more horrifying is that while you’ve been fantasizing about him fucking you right, he’s been fantasizing about you pregnant. And apparently working out all the logistics for it, too. “Yeonjun,” you whisper. “Let’s talk about this another time. Another day. In another year, or five.”

“This is what any woman would want,” he turns toward you fully. You can’t believe he thinks that’s true. “This is stability, a future. Why are you upset that I want a future with you?”

Your cheeks feel hot, the vodka in your stomach has long ago solidified. It’s heavy, pushing on your bladder, your gut. “I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt. “I need to pee, I need to think about… about all that.”

You don’t give him time to react before you’re sliding off the stool. Your head feels fuzzy, and it could be from the vodka, from you literally eating zero calories today, but you know it’s from the bomb he just dropped. You know in your soul it’s because that’s a future you cannot give him– that you won’t give him. You didn’t even eat today, and he wants you to be the mother of his child? It’s almost comedic. Or at least it would be if you weren’t stumbling across the bar in the direction of the bathroom, feeling nauseous enough that you might not even make it there.

You can see it, like the light at the end of the tunnel, the glowing, pink neon sign that reads Girls Room. But the walls are closing in, your chest feels heavy, your breaths even heavier, slower, and the sign dims like someone was turning down the brightness. 

“Woah.” An arm around your back, strong and thick, scoops you straight up. Were you going down? “Are you okay? Holy shit, you’re gonna pass out. Don’t pass out.”

Your eyes, half-open, can only see the man keeping you steady. Broad shoulders, absolutely insane biceps, slicked back, onyx locks, they show off his sculpted cheeks, his sharp jaw, his dimples. He’s cute, and he’s holding you up like you’re a fucking doll. 

“Water,” you croak. He slings your arm over his shoulder, and with his height he’s basically dragging you across the room until he’s sitting you down on a chair, crouching beside you, holding a glass of water up to your lips. 

“Slow sips,” he coaxes, his voice soft, pleasant. “Don’t chug it. It’s only eight, how are you hammered at eight o’clock? Guys, we need to be on her time.”

“‘m not hammered,” you mumble through sips. “I’m not even drunk, my boyfriend just told me he wants to tradwife me. I must be having an allergic reaction or something.”

Biceps snorts, you watch as his head tips back in laughter, his dimples showing. “You’re allergic to what, marriage?”

“Do you have any food?” you ask, stomach still feeling wretchedly hollow. Biceps ushers his hand to the table in front of you, and at that moment, you realize nothing in your life could be more embarrassing than this. There’s a table full of men, all with food and drinks in front of them, and you just… you just interrupted. Talking about being allergic to Yeonjun wanting to marry you. 

Directly across from you, with the most appetizing plate of chicken tenders and fries in front of him, sat Jung Wooyoung. With his eyes on yours, a humored twinkle swirling in shit brown, you start to stand. “Fuck no,” you shake your head. “I’ll be going now, thanks.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” the man who saved you from eating shit on the bar’s floor stands with you, hands out, palms facing you. His face reads concern, scrunched up, clearly scared that you’ll crumble to the floor again. “Eat something, drink more water, then you can go. I don’t want them to stop the music so they can put you on a gurney.”

You scowl. Even if he saved you, now Biceps is at the top of your shit list. 

You redirect your scowl at Wooyoung. Before sitting back in the chair, silently you reach across the table to grab his plate of chicken tenders, and place it in front of yourself. 

“Jesus,” another one at the table mutters under his breath. Tall, blonde hair. “What’d you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Wooyoung shrugs. You eat his chicken, satisfied. “I’ve never even seen her before.”

You laugh, a punched sound of sarcasm. “Right,” you mutter.

“Wooyoung, you asshole,” another one whisper-yells. Shorter than the blonde, golden skin, brown, wavy hair. “You slept with her and forgot? That’s fucked up.”

“I never fucked him,” you seethe. “I don’t want chlamydia.”

The table waits a second before roaring in laughter. Wooyoung thins his eyes, his gaze pointed from across the table. You can’t help your growing, prideful smirk. 

“I don’t have chlamydia,” Wooyoung announces after a second, jaw set, eyes dark and pissed. “She tried to fuck her boyfriend in my bedroom last weekend until I broke them up.”

You gasp, mortified. “You’re a liar!”

“Were you not trying to have sex in my room last week?”

“Okay, yes, but–”

“Exactly,” he smirks, satisfied. “So did you get three minutes that night, or forty-five seconds?”

“Wooyoung,” Biceps warns. “Stop it.”

“I got more than you did, I’m sure,” you counter. “Even if you’re disgusting and you.”

“Wow,” his hands come together in a slow clap. “Good for you. Has he gotten any more adventurous? I assume not, since he wants you, three kids, and a white picket fence.”

Your cheeks burn. Biceps, again, warns, “Wooyoung.”

You stand once more, and this time, Biceps doesn’t stop you. The table watches as you stomp all the way back over to Yeonjun, body shaking with irritation, trading one poison for another. You almost forgot what you were coming back to. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, cheeks still pink, face bent in concern. 

Sinking back into the stool, you reach for your martini, throwing the rest of it back. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you spit out, “Fine.”

Wooyoung wouldn’t be able to explain himself if someone were to walk into his bedroom right now. They would find him in his desk chair, listening to Unscripted, the podcast he hates, while staring out his window like he was debating the seven wonders of the world.

“Everybody loves a curved dick. It’s like a walking, living, breathing toy, designed to make you cum a thousand times. If it curves upward, missionary, being on top, is your best friend. If it curves to the left, have him fuck you on your side. If it curves to the right, have him fuck you on your other side. If it curves down, you’re lucky if he’s ugly, because you’ll never have to see his face while fucking him again.”

He laughs, then he catches himself laughing, and stops. God, he hates her with such an unimaginable passion, fuck her for making him laugh. His dick is curved, so maybe a part of him feels targeted, but how dare she put him, and what he can only assume is a million other men, into a box? A category? A you can only fuck this way bracket?

The part about ugly guys is funny, but only because he’s not targeted by that one, and he understands the joke. But who’s to say the women he’s with can’t enjoy backshots because his cock curves upward? He’s never received a bad review for it.

He huffs, shutting his laptop, then he smiles when her voice goes silent. Then his stomach drops, because why was he listening to Unscripted past eight at night? And why was he letting her voice dictate his emotions?

He picks himself up, shaking off the thoughts. He needed to clear his mind, think about something else other than the shape of his cock… he needed to fuck. He texted Haewon, no response. Amara, busy. Nadia, working. Daeun apparently transferred schools. Mira didn’t answer either. He had about twenty goddamn minutes before he lost his mind. 

Hissing through his teeth, he grabs his gym bag from the corner of his room and leaves. The guys in the living room playing FIFA didn’t ask any questions as Wooyoung basically sprinted through the front door. He always goes to the gym in the morning, at the brink of dawn, when the sun is spreading over the horizon, he’s never gone at night. He figures he’ll do cardio, sprint off the thoughts, the feelings, the ache in his dick that he can’t satisfy with his own hand. 

He plugs his phone in after turning over the engine, and the moment his audio connects, it picks up right where she left off.

“I feel like men are insecure about it, and they shouldn’t be. It’s like circumcision, women don’t give a fuck if you have foreskin, as long as you keep it clean. Please, for the love of god, keep it clean–”

He curses as he rips the chord out of his phone. Fuck that. He’ll drive to the gym in fucking silence.

The gym is busy, as he knew it would be, he despises the gym when it's busy. That’s why he goes in the morning, when no one else on campus is awake, only the really smart types who have days jam packed full of shit that require brain energy. That’s what an ass crack of dawn workout is for.

He barely looks up as he scans his ID, but when he catches a glimpse of the face that’s starting to bother him as much as Unscripted’s voice, it catches his attention. 

“Oh, hell no,” he groans. This is exactly the opposite of what he needs right now. “Why are you suddenly everywhere?”

You, behind the desk in your bright purple, collared shirt, scoff. “I’m everywhere? You’re everywhere.”

“Shouldn’t you be off getting married?” He can feel his smirk growing. “Pushing out babies and shit?”

“Fuck you,” you grumble, leaning back into the opposite side of the desk. “Shouldn’t you be off giving someone chlamydia?”

“You need to drop that now,” Wooyoung points at you. “I don’t have chlamydia.”

“Aw, is the big-shot whore bothered by my jokes?” you pout, using the worst case of baby-voice Wooyoung’s ever heard. His ears seem to frown, too.

“Big-shot whore?” Wooyoung repeats, face morphing into disappointment. “We need to work on your insults if bantering is going to become our thing.”

“We don’t have a thing,” you’re quick to answer. “There is no we, we does not exist. Go snort a line of pre-workout.”

Wooyoung grins, humored by your irritated expression. “Did he propose yet? Does he have a ring in his underwear drawer? Is he just dying to pop the question? Wait, let me guess: moissanite, set in sterling silver.”

“You’re an asshole,” you gruff, turning away from him like you had work to do. Wooyoung knows you’re not even reading the words on the paper you’re staring at.

He can’t help himself. He walks around the desk until he’s in front of you again and asks, “Does your boyfriend know you almost passed out when he told you his idea of your future?”

“No,” you respond without even looking up at him.

His grin widens. “Is it because he’s boring? Is that why you don’t want to marry him?”

“I do want to marry him,” you finally look up, eyes pointed, gaze angry. Wooyoung’s grin only spreads. “I just don’t want to marry him next fucking year. I think he’s insane for wanting to.”

Wooyoung’s lower lip folds over like he might start fake crying out of cuteness, “How sweet. He wants to lock you down after graduation so he doesn’t have to go wife-hunting while becoming an MD.”

Your face goes flat. “How do you know he’s pre-med?”

“I’m well-connected,” he shrugs. He just has Instagram. “Have you proposed that he doesn’t propose until he’s working?”

“Yes,” you turn again, ignoring his comedic wording, crossing to the other side of the desk as another gym-goer walks inside. You watch as they scan in their ID, what information pops up on the screen. When they walk away, you turn to him again, “Why are you so interested? Shouldn’t you be lifting by now?”

“I’m just absolutely perplexed trying to figure out how you’re going to marry a guy who doesn’t fuck you right.” Wooyoung’s leaning over the counter now, arms crossed, ankles crossed beneath it. Right at home. “Isn’t that, like, a huge part of being with someone forever? Great sex?”

You throw your hands on your hips, “Sex really is all you think about, isn’t it?”

“Humor me,” Wooyoung replies.

You sigh. “I’m wondering how I’m going to do it, too. You told me the night at the party that if I’m already bored with my sex life, then my relationship isn’t going to last. That’s kinda haunting me, even though you’re you, and a relationship is so much more than just sex.”

“Have you tried anything else, other than trying to fuck him in my bedroom?”

Wooyoung watches your cheeks flush in real time. You mutter, “I tried fucking him in the bathroom of Lucky Penny.”

Wooyoung laughs, genuine and true. “Everyone’s fucked at Lucky Penny. He wouldn’t do it?” You shake your head, and Wooyoung ties his lips to one side, shooting you an apologetic stare. “Man, I don’t think he’s fixable.”

“He doesn’t need to be fixed, Wooyoung,” you scold, running a hand through your hair. “There are so many other great, perfect things about him. Sex is the only area where— why am I even telling you this? I should not be confiding in you right now.”

Wooyoung stands, “What else are big-shot whores for, other than to fuck and give advice about fucking?” He’s smiling, but you both know there’s some truth to it.

“Go hit a PR or something,” you shoo him off with a dust of your fingers, turning around.

And surprisingly, he listens. He grabs his headphones from his bag, connecting his phone before putting them over his ears, walking towards the row of treadmills.

“I, personally, love a dick that curves upward. I know I said missionary is for lovers, but if a dick is curved—and even though you don’t love him—you’re going to finish more times in that one session than with your vibrators, and that’s my why.”

At the sound of her voice, he almost rips his headphones off and throws them in the trash. But now that he’s being spoken to personally, and being praised, he throws his bag against the wall, hops on the treadmill, and raises both the incline and speed.

“The reason why there’s different positions for curved dicks? Well, we never learned this in Sex Ed, and some of my listeners, I’ve come to find out, are seriously lacking in the female-genitalia knowledge department.”

Blah blah blah. It’s like he’s watching a repeat episode from one of those nineties sitcoms, he knows all the words, he can follow along like he’s reading the script. But even though his phone is in front of him, resting on the little ledge below the screen of the treadmill, he doesn’t reach for it to turn it off. 

“That little recap was for those who didn’t listen to my squirting episode. And if you did, you get a recap anyways, because I think everyone should have it burned to memory where exactly you should stimulate to get your partner off. If you’ve never had a penetrative orgasm, or your curved-dick partner has never given you one, have them listen to this, and you’ll never wish for anything again.”

He’s gotta give it to her, she does know her shit. Wooyoung wonders if he’s met her, if he’s ever fucked her before. He comes to the conclusion that he would know if he fucked her, he’s had some great lays before, even incredible ones, but she seems different. In the sense that it would be memorable, he’d come back to that night in his mind, those nights he only has his fist and his cock. Those nights would be dedicated to her, and her terrifyingly vast knowledge of human anatomy and orgasms. 

He stays on the treadmill for an hour, burning through the soles of his sneakers and yet another podcast episode. The topic was making out, which felt really adolescent, but actually had some decent tips that even Wooyoung hasn’t thought of before. Tucking the tips into his back pocket, he throws his headphones back into his bag, wipes down the treadmill, and chugs his water on his way back to the front. 

You’re still there, arms crossed, looking like you hate the world.

Wooyoung smiles as he leans over the counter. “I have an idea.”

You smack your teeth. “Great, I’m about to lose brain cells.”

“Shut up,” he quips. “Why don’t you have your boyfriend listen to that podcast that’s going around campus? Unscripted?” 

Your face falls impossibly further. “What? No, he doesn’t even watch porn, he would never listen to a sex podcast.”

Wooyoung snorts. “A man in his twenties who doesn’t watch porn? I can’t tell if you’re stupid for believing that or if this guy is secretly super religious.”

“Neither,” you snap. “Leave. Your workout is over.”

“How do you know?” He pops his brows, suddenly offended. “Maybe I’m taking a quick break.”

“Then do it somewhere else,” you shoo him away again, fingers sweeping the air. “And never talk to me about that podcast again.”

“Damn, are you super religious or something?” he asks.

“Wooyoung,” you warn.

“Fine, damn, fine.”

Wooyoung is home for exactly two hours before his night goes to shit.

He showered immediately upon walking through the door, which was a relief, but after laying in his bed and realizing he was in fact not getting laid tonight, the voice in the back of his mind started reminding him of every devious, terrible thing he’s ever done.

That was a strong contender for ruining his night. Instead, he picked himself up, went downstairs to the kitchen, and cleaned up. He did the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned every surface, even organized the top shelf of the pantry. The other guys knew not to talk to him– they knew when Wooyoung was in this mood, it was best to let him think on it, get it out of his system, rather than to bombard him with every question, every distraction they could think up.

He made himself food, allowed himself something comforting after all the extra cardio he did at the gym. That made it half better. But the real damning of his night happened about thirty minutes later, when he was in his bed, fist wrapped around his cock, fantasizing about the night he had a monarch butterfly in his bed, there were three knocks at his door.

“Busy!” Wooyoung called out, his voice shaky, so close to the edge he could taste it.

“It’s me.” You.

You.

He groans out his frustration, his orgasm that he could taste, now gone. Floating away in the wind, with the rest of his hopes and fucking dreams. Pulling up his sweats, sitting up in his bed, he calls out, “Come in.”

You spill into his room. Literally. You push the door open and it slams behind you, you waste no time throwing your bag to the floor and sitting on the foot of his bed. It takes you all of six seconds to put the pieces together.

“Why are you sweaty?” you ask. Wooyoung doesn’t answer, his face bored. “Why don’t you have a shirt on, and why are you sweaty?”

“I’m in my room, lights off, tissues on my nightstand,” he answers plainly. “What do you think I was doing?”

Like a skittish cat, you jump off his bed, yelping a disgusted noise. “And you just let me come in here? Oh my god, go wash your hands or something, that’s gross, Wooyoung.”

“It’s natural,” he shrugs, leaning back into his pillows. “It’s probably what you do immediately after fucking your boyfriend.” He made himself laugh with that one. You stay silent. His face drops. “Oh shit, am I right? I didn’t mean to be right.”

“Fuck you, whatever,” you snap. “I’m not here to bicker. I need your help.”

Wooyoung groans, head tipping back into his pillows, he already knows what that means. “God, go to fucking counceling or something, stop involving me in your relationship bullshit.”

“You were interested earlier,” you argue. “You brought this upon yourself the night you listened to me in the hallway. You should have told me to fuck off.”

Mumbling to himself, he repeats, “I need to stop being nice. I need to stop being kind.”

“You told me to listen to that podcast earlier, but she thinks like a woman, right? She is a woman, I mean. I need to think like a man,” you’re rambling, pacing at the foot of his bed. “You’re a man, Yeonjun’s mind is closer to yours than mine, like, biologically. I need to think like you. Or I need you to tell me what he’s thinking. I don’t know, but what I do know is that I can’t live my life like this, and I can’t be in a sexless marriage. You have to help me.”

“I am the last person on earth you want to help you,” Wooyoung announces. “I already told you to leave him, what the fuck else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want to leave him, asshole.” You’re finally still at the center of the foot of his bed, arms wide on either side of you. “I said he doesn’t need to be fixed, but maybe just a little… shaping.”

“To the salon,” Wooyoung responds, in the same singsong tone from the Barbie movie. When your face bends in confusion, he asks, “Oh, we weren’t quoting that sound?”

“I need to fundamentally change my boyfriend’s brain,” you say matter-of-factly. “No, I’m not quoting a stupid video.”

Wooyoung sits up. “So there’s zero chance of you leaving the Jesus freak?”

“He’s not a Jesus freak,” you bite back, but take a step closer to his bed. “But no, there’s not. I love him.”

Wooyoung groans his frustration in a short, harsh noise. “God, fuck,” he runs his hands over his face roughly before they land on his bedspread again. “Okay, what do you want me to do? What’s the quickest way to get you out of my fucking bedroom, again?”

You grin, accomplished as you sit on the foot of his bed again. “I think my first order of business is making sex fun again, like how it was in the beginning. The marriage and baby shit I won’t make you deal with.”

“Thanks,” he responds, tone dripping in sarcasm. “Making sex fun… are you sure you can’t ask any of the six girls I fucked to help you with this? They’re all your friends, right?”

“Do you know how embarrassing it is to tell your friends that your sex life sucks?” you ask, and it’s not rhetorical. You don’t give him time to answer. “You already know, you witnessed it first-hand. Just help me, Wooyoung, something simple, something I can do tonight–”

“Edge him or something,” Wooyoung answers like he’s shoving the words out of his mouth. “You want him to act unlike himself, right? Push him to the limit? Then actually push him to the limit, and see what he does.”

Your face softens. Mumbling, almost under your breath, you wonder, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Put yourself in control,” Wooyoung continues. “Make him obey you. Is he usually the dominant one?” You nod, coy all of the sudden. “Then you’re going to act unlike yourself, too. Show him what you want. Make him work for it.”

He watches you swallow, he can see the flush on your cheeks even under the dim lighting of his bedroom. His head tilts, a smirk growing, “Are you shy right now? Shy like a fucking virgin.”

“Shut up, Wooyoung,” you bark, but all the bite is gone into thin air, just like his lost orgasm. “I just… I don’t act like this with him. Loud and rude and stuff, I’m not like that with him. What if he doesn’t like it?”

“Like you said, you need to think like a man,” he finds himself soothing you, maybe he can consider this his one good deed of the day. “I’m a man, and I’m giving you sound advice. Try it. If he doesn’t like it, he won't leave you. If he does like it, he’ll probably grab the ring from his underwear drawer.”

You smile, the smallest laugh tumbling out of your lips. “I fucking hate you. If he proposes, you’re getting blamed for that, too.”

Wooyoung doesn’t even realize he’s smiling, too. “You’re really weird for coming to my house while I’m jerking off, by the way.”

“I know where you live, just felt easier to come here. Biceps let me in,” you shrug. “And I didn’t know you’d be jerking off.”

“Biceps?” Wooyoung pops a brow before realizing, “Oh, San.”

“I’m gonna go edge my boyfriend,” you announce, standing from his bed. Grabbing your bag from the floor, you give him a wave, “I’ll update you.”

“Please don’t,” Wooyoung calls after you. “It’s getting really fucking weird now, Virgin.”

“Expect an update!” you yell through his closed door, after you’ve shut it behind you.

It takes a minute before Wooyoung realizes he’s smiling, and he quickly wipes it right off his face. Getting cozy under his covers again, he reaches for the lube on his nightstand, and picks back up right where he left off.

The door remained open behind you. A small mercy perhaps, at least cruel one. His eyes flickered toward it once, then back to your mouth.

“Run, if you want to.”

You should have. You really should have. Perhaps some wiser version of you did, in another life. Perhaps she turned on her heel and left him with all his wealth, his danger, his impossible composure. Perhaps she lived gently after that.

This version of you however, stayed.

Amusement touched his mouth, a dangerous little curve, the one that made you feel as though he had already read the answer from your pulse and was only waiting for you to embarrass yourself by saying it aloud.

“That's what I thought.” He came nearer with the patience of a man who had hunted things far more vicious than desire. His coat hung open, black shirt, pale throat, the faint metallic glint at his collar. Nothing about him begged to be looked at, which made looking feel worse.

When he stopped before you, he still didn't touch. The restraint of the man unsettled you more than his hands should've.

“You've been avoiding me, sweetie.”

“I've been busy...”

“Lying already?” his voice lowered. “Careful. I might start enjoying this.”

Heat climbed your neck. You hated that he saw it, hated more that his attention warmed with it, sharpened around it, as though your embarrassment were a candle he meant to cup in both hands.

One finger lifted your chin. He didn't force your face up, merely waited there until pride, poor starving thing, gave out beneath want. When you looked at him, his gaze moved over you with maddening discipline.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, “and I will.”

Your breath caught.

“Tell me to continue,” he added, thumb grazing the hinge of your jaw, “and I won't be kind about making you ask twice.”

There it was, the little ruin, the place where your dignity gave a beautiful, useless shoulder.

“Sylus...”

“Mm,” his thumb stilled. “That sounded dagernously close to neither.”

The first button gave beneath his hand. There was no haste, no fumbling, he undid it as though he had all the hours in the world and had purchased each one with blood. The second followed, then the third. Fabric loosened over your chest, and the city's cold light slipped in to touch what his hand had yet to claim.

His eyes remained on yours.

“You're trembling,” he said.

“I'm cold.”

“Not for long.”

The next button opened.

Your pulse leapt hard enough to hurt. Sylus leaned close, mouth near your ear, his breath warm against skin made traitorous by waiting.

“I like you brave,” he whispered. “I like you difficult. I even like this little performance where you pretend...”

His fingers brushed your shoulder, the fabric slipped, catching at your arm before falling lower. Air touched bare skin. Then his mouth, barely. A kiss placed at the slope between neck and shoulder with such controlled delicacy that your knees nearly weakened from insult alone.

He felt it. A quiet laugh moved through him.

“That's it.”

“Don't sound so pleased with yourself.”

“I'm always pleased when proven right.”

Your answer fell apart as his teeth grazed your pulse, there was no bite yet, only the promise of one. Enough to make your fingers curl.

Slowly, he drew the garment down your other arm. It fell somewhere near your feet, forgotten before it settled. He looked at you then, and something altered in his expression. The playfulness remained, but beneath it came a darker reverence.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, as if the word displeased him by being insufficient.

You looked away, but his hand caught your chin at once.

“No,” gentle, absolute. “Don't rob me after coming all this way.”

The fastening at your waist surrendered beneath a practiced tug. He held the fabric there rather than let it fall, knuckles resting against your hip, gaze fixed on your face.

“Still with me?”

Your throat worked around the answer. “Yes.”

His mouth curved again, softer this time. “Good girl.”

The words struck low.

Sylus lowered the garment inch by infuriating inch, there was no cruelty in it, though the patience remained devastating. Cloth slid over your hips, cold air followed, his attention followed lower, then returned to your face with a discipline that bordered on obscene.

When only lace remained, his hands stilled. The room seemed to stop with him.

“Last chance,”

You could hear the city below, your own breathing, the faint shift of his shirt as his fingers flexed once at his side.

“If you leave,” he continued, “I'll let you.”

“And if I stay?”

His gaze darkened.

“Then you stop pretending you don't know why you came.”

For one unbearable second, your pride made a final attempt at resurrection.

Then you whispered, “I want you.”

Sylus closed his eyes, only for a moment. Only long enough to make the confession feel like a blade that had entered him too. When he opened them again, the amusement had burned down to something hotter.

“There,” he said, “was that so hard?”

“Yes...”

This time his laughter came low and real.

He moved behind you, heat gathering at your back. One hand settled at your waist, the other traced the line of your ribs, learning you through restraint. His mouth found the side of your neck. A kiss, another, then the slow drag of teeth, enough to make you gasp.

“Still so proud,” he murmured. “Even when you're shaking in my hands.”

Your head tipped back against his chest, the movement was small. Surrender often was. His palm slid lower, stopping just above the lace, and your whole body tightened around the absence of more.

“Sylus...”

“Mm.”

“Please.”

His breath warmed your ear.

“Better.”

The lace slipped beneath his fingers.

He turned you before it reached the floor, catching your waist as if he had felt the shape of your weakness before you did. The world shifted, the room behind him, glass behind you, Sylus everywhere else.

Then he kissed you.

His mouth took yours with a hunger made elegant by control, his hand cupping the back of your neck while the other pressed you close at the waist. He tasted faintly of wine and smoke, when your teeth caught his lower lip, he went still.

Slowly, he pulled back.

A bead of red shone where you had bitten him. His thumb touched it, his eyes lifted to yours.

“Oh, how bold of you.”

Your breathing turned uneven. “You like it.”

“I like correcting it.”

Before you could answer, he sank to his knees.

The sight ruined thought.

Sylus, lord of too many dangerous things, kneeling before you in the bloody spill of city light with one hand firm at your hip and his eyes raised like worship had always been a form of conquest. His mouth brushed the inside of your thigh, your fingers flew to his hair. He allowed it. Worse, he smiled against your skin.

“Look at me.”

You tried.

God help you, you tried.

His mouth moved higher, slow enough to be merciless. Every kiss landed with intent, every pause made you hear yourself breathe. When his lips finally touched the place that wanted him most, your body gave one helpless, shaking sound.

Sylus hummed.

“That,” he murmured, “I'll accept.”

Then he answered you. With his mouth, with both hands steadying you as your balance failed, with the kind of attention that made pleasure feel less like indulgence and more like interrogation. He learned what made you quiet first, then what made quiet impossible. The flat of his tongue, the careful pressure, the maddening retreat just as your breath began to break.

“Sylus,” you gasped.

He looked up without stopping, lashes lowered, eyes bright with the unbearable satisfaction of a man watching pride come apart exactly as promised.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. His grip flexed at your thigh in warning.

“Careful kitten,” he said against you. “Or I'll think you're trying to give me orders.”

“Please...”

“That one, you may keep using.”

The room tilted, your shoulders struck the glass, cold blooming along your spine. Sylus rose in a single smooth motion, catching you before you could feel the loss of him properly. His mouth covered yours again, and this kiss was crueler because you could taste yourself on him.

He lifted you with ridiculous ease. Your legs locked around his waist, his hands gripped beneath your thighs. The glass chilled your back while he burned through every point of contact, expensive shirt still between you, his composure fraying only at the edges. Enough to thrill. Enough to frighten.

“You came here to tempt me,” he said.

“Maybe.”

His mouth brushed yours.

“Or maybe I came here because I missed you.”

There.

A different silence entered him.

It didn't soften his face, Sylus had never been a man who wore tenderness plainly. It moved through him like a shadow passing behind red glass, brief and devastating.

His forehead touched yours.

“Then say that first next time.”

Your chest tightened.

“Would you have let me in?”

“Sweetie,” his smiled returned. “I knew you were outside before you knocked.”

Of course he did.

“Bed,” you whispered.

Sylus tilted his head.

“Asking now?”

“Demanding.”

That pleased him. Too much.

In one breath, the city vanished from behind you. He carried you through the room while kissing you like patience had finally become inconvenient. The bed caught your back, black sheets, low light, his body above yours, one knee between your thighs, his shirt ruined by your grip.

You reached for the buttons. He caught both your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“A greedy little kitten,”

“You're overdressed.”

“And you're impatient.” He leaned down, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “We'll work on that.”

“Sylus.” His name came out ruined.

That did it.

Something in his restraint gave a quiet, beautiful crack.

He released your wrists only to strip off his shirt, skin revealed in lamplight, the hard lines of him, the scars, the body of a man who had survived violence and made an empire out of the aftermath. You reached up before you could stop yourself, palm settling over his heart.

Beneath your hand, it beat steadily.

Too steadily.

“Does anything ever undo you?” you asked.

Sylus covered your hand with his, for once, he did not smile.

“You have a talent for asking dangerous questions at dangerous times.”

“Answer me.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“You do.”

Then he kissed you again, and this time there was no distance left for either of you to pretend into.

he looks up then, finally pulling his attention away from the screen. his chair rolls back slightly as he rests his arms on the desk. lifting his glasses, pushing them up onto his head, and you can’t help but take in his features … so beautiful in a way that feels almost like he came out of a fairytale. “miss (last name), please take a seat.” you obey this time, sitting while still staring at him, brows knitting together. “i understand your dissatisfaction. but if you received that assessment, then it was deserved.”

DILF!SEONGHWA watches you inhale slowly before speaking again, “i’m sorry,” you say carefully, “but there’s no way i earned that grade after knowing the material from start to finish. i couldn’t have made that many mistakes, and even if i did, can’t i at least see them?”

you expect a nod, professionalism and fairness. alas all you get is a big fat no.

DILF!SEONGHWA notices how your shoulders stiffen as you fight the urge to argue, or to beg. disappointment settles on you so quickly, and then his eyes drift to the matz skirt you’re wearing. your entire outfit is unmistakably from their spring collection. the white shirt and neatly tied necktie make it seem more sexual than academic.

DILF!SEONGHWA looks you in the eyes again, “miss, i know you are one of our honorary students. you’re at the very top of your major,” he says calmly, “but perfection doesn’t mean you’re exempt from mistakes. and i can assure you that a B is still a good grade.”

good, not excellent, that’s all you hear. resentment burns just beneath your ribs, tangled with the desperate need for his approval. you didn’t come this far to be good; you came to be undeniable.

DILF!SEONGHWA watches you swallow as you clench your hands, “what can i do to change it?” asking quieter now. “i still have time, so i’ll do anything. please, i can sew, i can design, or even model, if you need someone for that. just give me a chance, please mr. park, it’s important to me.”

DILF!SEONGHWA freezes when you mention modeling. “final grades aren’t something i compromise on,” he exclaims as your heart sinks. “however…” his fingers tap the desk. matz has an upcoming show, and they need one female model. if you’re willing to learn how to walk properly in rather high heels and perform like a pro, he could reconsider. practice would require privacy; his personal studio would do.

“the show is in a week and a half, if you would li–”

“yes,” you say immediately with no hesitation, or pride left to protect. “i’ll do it.”

DILF!SEONGHWA tells you to see him tomorrow to talk the details out. you nod, heart racing as you leave his office. he doesn’t clarify where to meet him, because he expects you to know exactly where to find him.

you arrive earlier than expected at DILF!SEONGHWA'S house. as you notice the signs of a family without them being present: small shoes by the door, a crayon drawing on the fridge, a bunch of make-up products that clearly aren't his.

he casually mentioned that his wife is still at work, his two kids won’t be back until the afternoon because of kindergarten and school. the sentence is innocent, the implication not so much.

DILF!SEONGHWA takes you to his studio, a building next to his house that feels more like a second home. he shows you the dress before you put it on, explaining how it embodies the show’s theme: angelic.

it’s a sheer ivory corset dress with visible boning that cinches the waist and sculpts an hourglass shape. the bodice hugs your torso perfectly, while the wrap-style skirt curves over your hips and opens into a high-thigh slit trimmed with soft feathers. sheer lace gloves are meant to match the delicate texture, completing the ethereal vision they aim for.

DILF!SEONGHWA guides you to the changing room, giving you privacy. when you emerge and step onto the small circular podium, he sees you fully for the first time, and is utterly speechless. glasses slipping slightly down his nose. the design fits you too perfectly; his gaze lingers, memorizing every line and curve.

he walks slowly around the podium, describing the theme: purity and light. his eyes never leave you as he quietly whispers, studying you like art. “it looks like it was made for you.” you don’t thank him, just meeting his keen designer eyes. remember, you’re here for the grade.

DILF!SEONGHWA adjusts your posture under the excuse of professionalism. hands settle at your waist, fixing the fabric at your hip. you wobble slightly, because the heels are higher than expected, instinctively reaching for balance. he catches your arm instantly, doesn’t let go until a few seconds have passed, correcting your walk by placing a hand at your lower back.

“careful, you should be comfortable before taking a step.”

DILF!SEONGHWA offers you water, something sweet, and hospitality above everything. then he suggests one more walk, another twirl, posing again with his hand still resting on your waist. he looks at you in the mirror as you meet his gaze there, too.

that’s when the realization hits. you’re not thinking about the grade anymore. you’re thinking about how you want his hands on you — you want your young, devastatingly hot professor to touch you, his fingers slipping beneath the skirt, feeling just how wet you are.

DILF!SEONGHWA steps up at the podium, his hand moves your hair over your left shoulder, exposing the right. he leans in, his head hovering close, and god, you look like an angel. a perfect, little pathetic angel willing to do anything to shine the brightest.

pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his lips brushing your skin to raise goosebumps, enough to steal your breath as he catches the hitch, and smirks. he notices how you don’t hesitate, don’t push him away or question him. if sleeping with your professor is what it takes to secure that grade, then sex is what you’ll have. and it’s not like he isn’t everyone’s crush, in your major and well beyond it.

DILF!SEONGHWA chuckles softly, pulling back only after leaving a second kiss. his hand slides beneath your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at yourself in the mirror, at your own eyes staring back. “so obedient, aren’t you, angel?” he murmurs. “willing to beg on your knees just to be popular.” all you manage is a soft, broken whine.

DILF!SEONGHWA slowly turns you to face him. you wobble again in your heels, but he catches you easily by the waist, pulling you closer. that same devilish smirk never leaves his face. “you’ll do everything i ask for that grade… right?”

you gulp: baffled, shocked, and so painfully aroused. “y-yes…”

it’s all he needs to have his mouth on yours, teeth catching your lower lip as you moan and gasp into the kiss. your hands fall uselessly to your sides because you don’t know what else to do.

DILF!SEONGHWA hooks the skirt up carefully, as he doesn’t want to ruin hongjoong’s hard work, but he wants to keep you in it. you look too beautiful like this, and seonghwa has always liked beautiful things. more than that, he likes getting his hands on them.

DILF!SEONGHWA sits back at the podium, jeans down, dressed only in his white tee and those glasses on top of his head. the surface beneath him is a little cold, but it won’t stay that way for long. you’re trying your hardest not to cry as you sink down on his length, and whether he helps you or you help yourself hardly matters, since you have to work hard for your grade. your hands grip his shoulders tightly because even if you’re wet and aching, it’s still too much: the pressure, not the size.

but once everything fits, you take him so well that you moan loudly. he breathes heavily, lets out a low grunt, then tells you to ride him. to show him how badly you want to graduate, how perfectly filthy a student you can be.

because the truth is, DILF!SEONGHWA has always liked you. but he liked you in ways that weren’t meant for teacher-student relationships. maybe it was love, or maybe it was lust for something young, pretty, and naive.

over the years, as your professor, he developed a nasty obsession — a fixation. what’s happening now is only one of many dreams he’s had about you. dreams where you wore something from matz, something made specifically for you. when he and hongjoong designed this angelic dress, you were his muse. he just lied and said he was thinking of his wife.

“come on, sweet thing,” he murmurs. “fuck yourself on me, yeah?”

DILF!SEONGHWA is in pure ecstasy as you ride him, bouncing up and down on his cock. you moan, whine, whimper as it feels so good fucking your devastatingly handsome professor as he watches and does nothing. your walls clench around him, squeezing him tight, eyes rolling back as you stop thinking of him as mr. park, the professor who denied you the grade you deserved, and started thinking of him as just seonghwa. the superstar model, sharp features and big cock.

he leans back on his hands as you dig your nails into his shoulders, dragging them down to his biceps. “mmm… feels good, doesn’t it?” whispering, and you can’t even process the words. “you’re always so… obedient. my perfect little doll.”

all you can do is mewl, hot tears spilling. even though you’re doing most of the work, his cock hits every perfect spot, and you feel like you might pass out. so he finally decided to fuck you.

DILF!SEONGHWA'S hands move to support you instead of himself as he slams into you, skin slapping loud enough to echo through the walls. you scream as the sudden intensity rips an orgasm out of you. you don’t know why, but you cling to him, arms wrapping around his neck, face buried in his shoulder as you cry, moans muffled against his skin. 

DILF!SEONGHWA chuckles softly. aren’t you just magnificent? his hands slide up into your hair, stroking gently as he asks, “what was that, angel? hmm? can you repeat it for me?”

“m-mo…” you sniffle. “m-more, please… i want more.”

greedy angel. never knowing when to stop sinning.

DILF!SEONGHWA gives you more. he pulls three orgasms from you, one after another, the dress still intact because he’s careful like that. then he looks at your ruined face: tears spilling, mascara smudged, and it turns him on even more. slamming back into you harder, cock abusing your hole, kissing you when you’re about to scream as he finally comes, spilling himself inside you.

DILF!SEONGHWA wants to keep his cum buried deep, letting it leak out slowly, until you beg him not to pull out, having time before his family comes back. it’s disgusting, he knows, but at the end of the day, he’s just a man who appreciates beauty, inside and out.

DILF!SEONGHWA continues to fuck you on every surface of the studio, then throughout the house, until you end up in his bed — completely spent, his cum still inside you, some of it sticky on your thighs. eventually, he pulls you into the shower and sends you home, even paying for the taxi, telling you to text him when you arrive at your dorm.

DILF!SEONGHWA will keep you a secret as he later dines with his family. just as he’ll keep one secret from you as well: the grade you received was never a B. it was always an A. he just needed a way to catch the attention of the little angel with devil wings.

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Wooyoung woke up to a stiff neck. He always slept in strange positions, often resulting in some body pains, but this morning, he truly felt like he had been hit by a truck. Slowly, he arose, stirring over his messy sheets, rubbing his tired eyes awake. His head was pounding from all the drinking the night before. He reached his hand out to the nightstand, relieved to see a half-filled glass of water waiting for him to drink. His hand stopped briefly when he noticed the photo frame sitting right next to it. He frowned. 

It was an old picture of him and San from their first day of high school. San’s eyes were scrunched up as he smiled, his arm hanging over Wooyoung loosely. Wooyoung had the same neutral look he always did, neither smiling nor frowning. He remembered that day. Their moms wanted a photo of them together to mark their big day. San was happy to comply, but Wooyoung was slightly annoyed. He hated taking pictures. 

And there it was. That pinch of regret stirred in his stomach as pieces of last night came into focus. He started to wish he had left himself a bottle of whiskey instead. 

San and Wooyoung had been best friends their entire lives. From elementary school classrooms to dorming at college together, they had been through it all. Everywhere San went, Wooyoung followed. They went to the same university, interned at the same firm, and received similar job offers upon graduation. On the outside, their friendship was admirable. But Wooyoung knew better. Something was rotting between them since the moment they met, something San was too naive to notice.

Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel competitive around San. He had spent his whole life trying to surpass him in every category. When San joined the high school track team, Wooyoung followed and won a silver medal. When San decided he was going to major in finance, Wooyoung double majored in finance and economics. When San got an interview with one of the Big 4 companies, Wooyoung made the recruiter cum on his fingers until she reconsidered his application. And when San got a brand new BMW, Wooyoung got an Audi (used, though he’d never admit that to anyone). 

Wooyoung never wanted to move so far away for college. He never wanted to study finance, nor did he ever picture himself slaving away for a private equity firm. The only thing he’d truly wanted, always, since the very beginning, was whatever San had.

San, who was always so beautiful without trying, so effortlessly charming and kind, and so disarmingly naive, walked through life with this radiant innocence that made people fall in love with him. The elders loved him. Professors adored him. Strangers trusted him. Lovers never forgot him. 

Wooyoung, of course, loved him. He would do anything for San. Even kill for him. But he also resented him. It was a cruel contradiction. How could so much love be wrapped up in bitterness? 

San had everything without trying. And Wooyoung, despite walking beside him every step of the way, always felt like he was falling behind. He could mimic San’s path, but he could never mimic San’s light. He questioned himself a lot about this. Was there a prize at the end of all this? Or was he just hopelessly chasing San’s shadow, ignoring the fact that he would never be as loved as him?

As the two grew into their late 20s, this silent competition of his had dwindled. Wooyoung didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care that San got a promotion or that he got the nice waterfront apartment lease everyone had been bidding on for the past 6 months. It seemed that the childish need to outdo him simply faded away. 

That was, until he met her. 

Y/N. San’s sweet, soft-spoken girlfriend who soon became his fiancée. She was one of the trustee’s daughters, someone San had met at a company party. The young lady had a smile that could stop Wooyoung in his tracks and a laugh that made his heart flutter. He told himself it was just a harmless crush, something fleeting and insignificant. But if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted her… Or if he just wanted to win.

Win over San? Win something that truly mattered? Something he wasn’t supposed to have but always wanted?

He tried to ignore the feeling at first. He was good at playing the loyal friend. But she made it harder with every laugh, every look, every accidental brush of her hand against his. Sure, they would flirt a little, as a joke, and sometimes he’d brush his fingers over her thigh during group dinners, but Wooyoung was always flirty with everyone; it didn’t mean anything. It was all just harmless fun. 

But then, his gaze began to linger longer on her than it should have. He’d stare at her glossy lips every time she talked about the wedding, wondering what flavor her lip balm would taste like on his lips. It got to the point where he’d think about her late at night, with his hand reaching down past his waistband, wishing it were her making him feel good. 

He knew it wasn’t all in his head. Sure, there were moments, quiet, almost too quick to notice, when she looked at him the same way he looked at her. Lips parted like she was on the edge of a confession, eyes pleading like she wanted more than a small conversation, as if there was something trapped behind them, something she wanted to say but couldn’t. Something she chose, again and again, to swallow instead.

Wooyoung’s attraction to her had reached a breaking point. It wasn’t a small crush. It was an obsession. It was about power. About proving to himself that he could take what San had and make it his own. Why did San get to have her anyway? He already had the apartment, the shiny new car, and the promotion. What else could he possibly need? The more he looked at them together, with her arms linked with his, lips curling up in soft laughter at his lame jokes, the more it enraged him. It just wasn’t fair. The line between desire and resentment had blurred long ago, and he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

It all came to a head last night, after too many drinks at a friend’s dinner party and too little self-control. The jealousy, the longing, it all bubbled up inside him, and before he knew it, he was in the venue’s supply closet with his hard cock stuffed deep inside the bride-to-be. 

He felt terrible. Not because he betrayed his best friend’s trust, but more so because he didn’t feel bad about it. He could still feel her on him, her soft skin slapping against his, how her shaky moans made his cock twitch inside her, how she kissed him so deeply and passionately as he came. He had never felt something like that before. They just made sense together, and he knew she felt it too. She was perfect in every way, yet she didn’t belong to him. 

Wooyoung grabbed his phone, checking his notifications for any sign of her. But there was nothing. He opened the messenger app and tapped her contact name, staring at a conversation they had three weeks ago that he couldn’t remember. 

Should I say something? He wondered. What would I even say? Are you upset? Do you hate me? Did San find out? Can I see you again?

Just then, a message bubble lit up his screen.

sannie >.<: hey, you still coming over for the game later?

sannie >.<: or is your ass still hungover?

Wooyoung groaned, rolling onto his side.

Right. Tonight was the housewarming. San had turned it into a game night, something casual with beer, snacks, and background noise from the TV, but clearly it was an excuse to show off the apartment he’d spent months putting together piece by piece. The apartment he now shared with her.

His chest tightened. For a moment, he considered saying no. It was Sunday after all. He could blame the hangover or the long work week ahead. He started typing out an apology, promising to come over another time, and hovered his thumb over the send button.

Then it hit him.

She’ll be there.

The thought cut clean through the nausea and the dull ache behind his eyes. He imagined her on that couch, walking barefoot across the floor, laughing at something stupid San said, trying her best to act like nothing had happened the night before. His thumb hesitated. Then he deleted the message.

Wooyoung typed a new reply.

me: yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.

me: give me a few

He stared at the screen after hitting send, his pulse picking up. 

Wooyoung arrived just as the sun was dipping low, the hallway outside San’s apartment already smelling faintly of beer and wings. He paused before knocking, adjusting his jacket and brushing out his hair with his fingers, preparing himself. For a second, he considered turning around. Maybe she’d find him shameless for showing up like this so soon after what happened between them. Maybe he is shameless. 

Suddenly, the door swung open, interrupting his thoughts.

“Woo!” San grinned, already holding a drink. “You made it!”

“Hey!” Wooyoung said easily. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the ring camera installed next to the door. Shit, did he see him playing with his hair?

The apartment was warm and lived-in. Shoes by the door that weren’t San’s. A throw blanket was folded neatly over the couch. Framed photos of people leaning against the wall, some of which he didn’t recognize. 

“Can I get you a drink?” San asked, already settling into his position as a good host. “There’s beer and soda.” 

“I’m good with just water.” 

San disappeared into the pantry. Wooyoung’s eyes caught her immediately. She stood near the kitchen island, pouring drinks, her hair loose, sleeves pushed up her arms. She looked like she belonged here, the missing piece to the apartment that made it whole and complete. When her eyes met his, she froze for half a second too long before resuming with the appetizers. Wooyoung frowned.

San returned to the living room, tossing a water bottle to Wooyoung. “Drinks are there, food’s on the counter, game starts in ten. Mingi and the rest should be here any minute.”

Wooyoung nodded, holding onto the bottle mostly to give his hands something to do. He stayed seated on the couch as San switched the channel. His eyes would drift to the side, curious to see if she was looking at him, but she stayed standing with her back to him, busying herself with snacks.

The TV filled the silence with noise. Loud commercial breaks, fake excitement from the sports commentator. None of them was really watching.

When Mingi, Jongho, and Seonghwa arrived, the apartment grew louder, which helped Wooyoung feel more at ease, like the attention could lay off him for a while. Jokes flew between the boys. Mingi complained about the team lineup. San resumed his role as host effortlessly, moving between rooms, opening bottles, and explaining where things were.

At some point, without anyone acknowledging it, she sat down, close enough that Wooyoung could feel the warmth of her leg burning through the sofa cushion. He so badly wanted to look over at her, see her red cheeks once more, but his eyes remained on the TV, nodding along as the boys talked over the commentator. 

But he couldn’t help it. Eventually, anytime San leaned over to shout at the TV, Wooyoung’s head tilted beside him just to spare a glance at her. He noticed the way she tucked her feet under herself, how her nose whistled with each inhale, the way she laughed quietly at Mingi’s dumb commentary, how she never once dared to even look at him. 

He leaned back, arm stretched along the back of the couch, careful not to touch her, but close enough that she’d notice. His head dipped towards her ear, voice low enough so only she could hear him. 

“You always this tense during games?” 

She stiffened slightly, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m fine.” 

He leaned closer. “Relax. I’m not gonna bite. Not here, at least.” 

For the first time that night, she shot him a look, a warning to stop before someone noticed how weird they were being. Wooyoung thought it was well worth it. 

“Chips are running low,” Jongho pouted at the nearly empty bowl. “Got any more?” 

Suddenly, she rose to her feet, as if she was waiting for an excuse to get away. “In the pantry, I’ll go grab some.” 

“I’ll help, think we need more drinks too,” Wooyoung said instantly, following her lead. 

The pantry was small; there was barely enough space for two people. Wooyoung nudged the door closed behind them, not all the way, but just enough to carve out a pocket of quiet. He waited. She didn’t look at him; instead, she focused on stacking bags of chips in her arms like they required full concentration.

“You can’t just ignore me,” he said softly.

She didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not ignoring you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You didn’t even say hi. Hurt my feelings a little.”

She shrugged and resumed her task.

He grew impatient. “Come on, Y/N. Just talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

She kept shifting around him, navigating the narrow space with precision, always just out of reach, like he was lava she had to avoid touching. When she brushed past him again, he caught her shoulder.

“About last night—”

She slammed him back against the shelves, her hand flying up to cover his mouth.

“Don’t,” she whispered sharply. “Not here. Not in my house. My fiancé is right outside. Are you insane?”

Right on cue, San’s shout echoed from the living room as their team scored. Wooyoung wrapped his fingers around her wrist and eased her hand away. Her skin was warm and soft. The kind of touch that lodged itself under his ribs.

“I doubt they can hear us,” he murmured.

She exhaled, visibly forcing herself to calm down. “Last night…” Her voice lowered. “It shouldn’t have happened. Everyone kept asking me about the wedding, the cake, the venue, the dress, and I was overwhelmed. San is overwhelming. I was drunk. I was alone. I was scared.”

She stopped and looked at him.

“And you were there,” she said quietly. “You asked if I was okay. I don’t know why I pulled you into that closet.”

Her gaze dropped down to her wrist. She noticed his hand still holding hers and pulled away as if burned, rubbing her knuckles, stepping back.

“I’m marrying San,” she said firmly. “We don’t need to talk about last night ever again. It’s best to forget all about it. For our sake…For San.” She said, her voice shaking. 

For a second, something bitter rose in Wooyoung’s chest. Being something she reached for in a moment of weakness, and then shoved away. It made him feel used. Like loving someone like him was something to be ashamed of. He didn’t know what he was thinking when he stepped into the pantry with her. Maybe he was infatuated with the idea that he could be wanted so badly, against all odds, but he realized now he was only a fool for letting himself chase this fantasy. She needed him to think straight, and he could see it now. Engaging with this further could hurt the two people he loved most in this world. But then again, he remembered her breath hitching. The way she clung to him. How she didn’t hesitate. There was something there, and she was too scared to admit it. 

Her eyes lifted to his, pleading with him.

“Right?” she asked. “Nothing happened?”

Wooyoung swallowed. He had a hundred things he wanted to say. But looking at her, cornered, terrified of her own honesty, he knew saying any of them would shatter her.

He cleared his throat.

“Right,” he said quietly. “Nothing happened.”

The bar was loud. Music thumped through the floors, people cheered at some game playing on the TV, and San and their friends were already half-drunk, laughing about something stupid, but Wooyoung barely heard any of it. He nursed his whiskey at the edge of their table, pretending to be part of the celebration, nodding at the right moments, smiling when he thought he was supposed to.

San dropped into the seat beside him, grinning, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the attention.

“Woo,” he slung an arm around his shoulder, “Two more days, man. Two days and I’m a married man.”

“Yeah,” Wooyoung forced a smile. “Crazy how fast it’s coming.”

San laughed, not noticing the way Wooyoung’s jaw clenched. “I’m honestly so excited to get it over with, you know? She’s been so stressed these past few days, and it’s been hard seeing her like that, worrying over every little thing. But it’ll all be worth it. You’ll see, she’s gonna look stunning. She had her dress custom-made.” 

Wooyoung nodded stiffly. “Right.” He took another sip of his whiskey, letting it burn down his throat. It had been over a month since he last spoke to her. A month since she stopped answering his messages, stopped reacting, stopped even pretending he existed. Every time his phone buzzed, his chest tightened before dropping again. He hated that he still checked. Hated how badly he wanted even one word from her. And now, he had to play the cheerful, supportive Best Man, and act like everything was okay, like his entire world wasn’t falling apart. 

San nudged him with his elbow. “You good? You haven’t talked much since you came.” 

Wooyoung set his glass down. “Sorry, man. I’m just…” He thought for a moment about what to say that could ease his suspicions. Not that San was a suspicious person to begin with. “It’s just crazy, you know? We were little kids playing tag, and now I’m the best man at your wedding. Time just really flies. It’s a lot to take in.” 

San smiled at him, soft and nostalgic. “Yeah, it’s wild…hey, you never really told me what you thought about her. So tell me. Is she best man approved?” He said with a wink. 

Wooyoung wanted to gouge his own eyes out. “Yeah, she’s great. You’re really lucky,” He said through gritted teeth. 

San beamed. “I really am.” Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he added, “And I really want this for you too, you know? One day, you’ll find someone. Someone who drives you crazy enough to marry them.” He chuckled. “Maybe we’ll even have kids at the same time. They can grow up together as we did. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Something sharp twisted in Wooyoung’s chest. He felt heat crawl up his neck, embarrassment mixing with irritation. He hated the way San said it, so casual and hopeful, like Wooyoung was just…behind. Like he needed reassurance that love would happen to him eventually. Like it hadn’t already happened and been ripped away without explanation.

Did San think he hadn’t tried? That he was incapable of being loved? That this was some missing piece he just hadn’t figured out yet?

His fingers curled around his glass. He swallowed hard and chased the feeling down with another drink. “Yeah,” he muttered, nodding like a good sport. “Maybe.”

San didn’t notice the tension. He never did. Mingi called his name from across the bar, and Seonghwa was already dragging him toward the pool table. San waved back at Wooyoung, shouting something about beer pong as he disappeared into the crowd.

Wooyoung was alone again.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. His heart jumped before he could stop it. He pulled it out too quickly, thumb hovering over the screen, then his face fell. Another useless app notification. Nothing from her.

He opened their message thread anyway. The screen glowed back at him, painfully empty on one side. His texts stacked neatly, unanswered, like proof he didn’t want but kept rereading. He scrolled, even though he already knew how it would end.

San’s laughter rang out somewhere behind him. Wooyoung clenched his jaw.

He chugged the rest of his whiskey, the alcohol doing nothing to stop the irritation buzzing under his skin. Couldn’t she even send one message? Just one? Instead, he was here, listening to people talk about weddings and futures, about finding someone, as if it were that simple. Maybe it was easy for people like San. But he wasn’t San. God, why did he have to fall for someone who wasn’t his?

Before he could talk himself out of it, he stood up, grabbed his jacket, and pushed through the crowd toward the exit.

His thoughts were already racing. He didn’t know what he was going to say to her, or if she’d even open the door. He just knew he couldn’t sit there anymore, pretending he was fine. He needed to know if he was just a moment of weakness or something more.

He was going to see her tonight.

Wooyoung stood in front of San’s flat, swaying slightly, breath fogging up the hallway air. He didn’t remember the cab ride, or leaving the bar, or the last three blocks he must’ve walked. 

His finger jabbed the buzzer again. And again, impatiently waiting for her to open the door. He knew she was home. 

Finally, the door cracked open.

She appeared in the doorway, hair messy from being home all night, eyes widening the second she recognized him. She stepped out into the hall, checking both sides like she expected San to be behind him.

“Wooyoung?” Her voice was soft and startled, as if she had just woken up. “What are you doing here?”

He swallowed hard, staring at her like he’d been underwater for hours and just found air.

“Where’s San?”

“He’s still at the bar with the others,” Wooyoung murmured, eyes never straying from hers. He took a step closer, the hallway light flickering above them. 

“You haven’t answered any of my texts,” he said.

She crossed her arms, trying to look composed. “Well, I’ve been busy. I’m getting married in two days.”

He nodded slowly, drunk but still focused. “Yeah, yeah, the wedding, I’ve heard…you don’t look busy right now.”

She didn’t respond. Wooyoung stepped closer again, enough so that she had to tilt her chin up to look at him.

“Wooyoung…” she warned quietly.

He leaned one hand against the doorframe beside her head, trapping her without touching her. His voice was low, rough from whiskey and need.

“I tried to forget,” he said. “I really did…But I can’t.”

“Wooyoung,” she whispered, “you shouldn’t be here.”

“Why do you keep lying to me?” 

She raised a brow. “What?” 

“What you said that day,” his voice slurred, “that you didn’t know why you pulled me into that closet. That’s not true. There was a reason you pulled me in there with you. Don’t act like you don’t feel it too. When we’re alone together…You trust me. You trust me more than him.” 

Y/n took a step back. “You really can’t do this here.” She warned, but it didn’t faze him. 

“You can marry him if that’s what you want. I’ll watch you do it if I have to.” His voice broke. “Just don’t...don’t stand here and lie to me. Don’t tell me you don’t want me…not when I’ve wanted you this much for so long.”

Her chest rose haphazardly as she stared up at him, dumbfounded. It pained her to say it, but he left her with no choice. 

“Okay, fine! I admit…there was a time when I maybe looked at you as something more…right before San, and I got serious. But Wooyoung, this is crazy. You can’t just show up at my doorstep like this. I’m getting married, and there’s nothing you can do to change that!” 

Wooyoung blinked, her confession hitting him like a heavy blow he wasn’t expecting.

“I don’t want to change anything, y/n,” he whispered.

Before she could react, he dropped to his knees in front of her.

“Wooyoung, get up!” she hissed, glancing nervously toward the stairwell.

He looked up at her with glossy, pleading eyes. “I’m not asking you to leave him. I’m not asking you to choose me. Just…” His voice cracked. “Just give me one chance to show you what this could feel like if you didn’t push it away.”

Wooyoung sat pathetically at her feet, with his deep, sunken eyes gazing up at her. It was strange to see him this way, so vulnerable, so destroyed; his usual confidence and cocky attitude evaporated. Slowly, he leaned forward, pressing his face against her crotch, the warmth of his breath seeping through the fabric of her sleep trousers.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Her voice quivered. She could feel the wrongness of it all. Despite the feeling, her feet remained planted where they were. 

Wooyoung's tongue flicked out, teasingly tracing over the cotton material, and a low, needy whine escaped his lips. He fluttered his eyes up at her, a blend of desperation and raw desire painting his features. "Please," he murmured, voice trembling. "I need it... Need to taste you, your sweet cum on my tongue."

All Wooyoung could feel was warmth. Warmth from her lips, warmth from her bare skin pressed up against his, warmth from being inside her all night. Just as he’d tire out, her legs would tighten around his hips and pull him in closer, encouraging him to keep going until he reached his peak. Then she’d pull his face in and kiss him sloppily until he started thrusting into her again, hips moving more needy and desperate the next time than the last.

“Fuck, Wooyoung!” She gasped, his cock milking out yet another orgasm from her. She had lost count of how many times she’s came like this, sprawled out on her back over the kitchen island while Wooyoung’s cock massaged into her over and over again. “P-please, don’t stop!”

Wooyoung chuckled into her neck, pressing soft kisses to her jaw. “You like my cock that much, baby?” 

She moaned a weak yes, eyes following Wooyoung as he straightened his back and lined himself up with her once again. He rubbed his reddened tip against her swollen, wet cunt, the sudden taps to her clit making her jolt. Her eyes pressed shut, and her head tilted back, a silent plea for more. 

For the first time in a while, she wasn’t thinking about San anymore. Her world, which he had engulfed, the wedding, their family, and their reputation no longer mattered. She felt so good, too good, and all she cared about now was Wooyong’s long, hard dick fucking her dizzy.

“..please..please, harder this time,” she croaked, her voice hoarse from dehydration. “Wanna cum on your cock.” She took his hand off her waist and guided it up to her neck, and Wooyoung immediately grasped around it, adding just enough pressure to make her lightheaded.

Wooyoung grinned. He’d always thought about what she was like during sex, how she liked to be fucked, since their initial encounter had been brief, but he never expected this from her. This classy, sophisticated little corporate princess, who secretly liked getting choked while she got fucked on her kitchen island in her perfect little apartment. He always pictured her and San having boring, vanilla sex, something he was never really interested in. It seemed they both had the same preferences.

He pushed into her once more, snapping his hips hard, just as she requested. He watched her eyes roll back into her head, smirking when a moan caught in her throat, as he gripped her neck tighter. 

“Look how good you take me, you’re so tight…I could have you like this every day, you know?” He said softly. Before she could react, his hand left her neck, and he dragged his fingers down between her breasts, over her stomach, to finally her wet center. His thumb toyed with her puffy clit, forcing her to arch her back. 

“Woo…don’t stop…I’m so close.” She huffed, her breathing growing more erratic the more he touched her. 

His thumb tugged her clit around in hard circles. He could feel her walls tighten around him, pulling him in more. “Cum, baby, I wanna feel you let go on me.” 

Sweat clung to her forehead, and strands of hair stuck to her damp skin. Her lips were parted as she caught her breath, chest rising and falling unevenly. There was a flushed warmth to her face that made her look almost feverish, worn out in the most beautiful way.

Wooyoung watched her for a moment, the sight pulling a quiet smile from him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

He leaned down and pressed a quick, soft kiss to her lips, but she didn’t let him pull away. Her hand slid behind his head, fingers curling into his hair as she drew him back in. This time, the kiss lingered, deepening slowly as if neither of them was ready to part.

They shifted together on top of the island, bumping lightly against its edge as they moved, laughing between kisses. Their hands roamed each other’s bodies, holding onto each other like they had all the time in the world. Wooyoung was so happy in this moment.

Eventually, Wooyoung broke the kiss, his lips drifting from her mouth to her jaw, then lower. He left a slow trail of warm kisses across her collarbone and down her chest, taking his time until he reached the curve of her hip, where he paused for a moment, lingering there as his hand traced gently along her side.

“Woo,” She called. 

“I’m right here,” He spoke softly. “I want to taste you.” 

She pulled herself upright, staring down longingly at him as he brushed his lips against her inner thigh. She combed her fingers through his blonde hair, breath hitching once she felt the warmth of his mouth. His tongue separated her folds, and he explored her soft center with a groan. 

“You’re so sweet,” he cooed, lapping at her wet, silky juices. It felt like a fitting reward, finally getting to taste the fruits of his labor. “I could spend all day between your thighs like this, if you’d let me.” As he sucked on her clit, he let her hold onto his hand tightly, helping to ground her.

The way he spoke to her made her feel butterflies in her stomach. She wanted to say that she’d like that, but the way his tongue danced around her sensitive clit made her a babbling mess, and instead, all she could think about was cumming on his hot tongue. 

Wooyoung loved the sound of her soft moans. They had always gone straight to his head, making everything else fade away. That was why he noticed the moment they stopped. The change was immediate, like someone had cut the sound from a speaker.

Her hand slipped out of his at the same time.

“Why’d you stop—”

He lifted his head, expecting to see her looking down at him with that same dazed expression she’d had moments ago, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Instead, her entire body had gone rigid. Her gaze wasn’t on him anymore. It was fixed on something in front of her.

Slowly, Wooyoung followed the direction of her eyes. The moment he saw him, something deep in his stomach dropped.

San stood in the doorway.

For a second, Wooyoung didn’t even recognize him. San’s face, usually so open, so bright, looked…wrong. Twisted with something unfamiliar on him. It was a mix of terror, disgust, and disbelief. And underneath all of it, something far worse.

Disappointment.

Their eyes met. Wooyoung froze. His mind went completely blank, like someone had wiped every thought from his head. He couldn’t move nor speak. He could hardly breathe.

San’s eyes lingered on him, taking in the sight of his fiancée’s cum smeared all over his best friend's lips.

Wooyoung’s heart started pounding in his ears. He waited for the explosion. For San to storm across the room and drag him up by the collar and punch him, scream at him. To call him every name he deserved. But San didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at him. And somehow that was worse. The look in his eyes didn’t hold any real anger. It held hurt. The kind of hurt that ran too deep for shouting.

San’s gaze shifted slowly from Wooyoung to his fiancée. Then back at him again. Like he was trying to make sense of something that didn’t make sense at all. Like he was asking himself if this was real, if his best friend could really betray him like this.

Fifteen years of friendship. And this was the moment it ended. San looked at them one last time before turning around and walking back out the door.

The quiet that followed was deafening. Y/N scrambled to pull her clothes back on, hands shaking as she cursed under her breath. A moment later, she rushed out after him, the door slamming behind her.

Wooyoung didn’t move. He was still on his knees, staring at the empty doorway like his brain hadn’t caught up to what had just happened.

His entire world had just detonated in front of him. San’s face kept flashing through his mind. That expression. The one he had never seen before, never in fifteen years. Not through the fights, breakups, stupid drunken arguments, or any of the messes they’d gotten into growing up.

Wooyoung had seen San angry before. But never like this. And the worst part was knowing he had put that look on his face.

Memories of their friendship started crashing into him one after another. San waiting for him outside their school when they were kids. San dragging him out for late-night ramen in college. San laughing so hard at his dumb jokes that he could barely breathe. San patting him on the shoulder earlier that night, talking about their kids growing up together as they had.

He had shattered the only real, meaningful connection he had in this life. All over his frail ego.

Wooyoung dragged a hand down his face, his stomach twisting in knots.

God. What have I done?

DILF!SAN sometimes asks his daughter about you, casually checking up on her, curious about her life and friendships, is all.

“oh… i thought (name) was coming with you?” he lets his daughter yap, nods along, pretends he doesn’t feel the quiet disappointment when she says you’re busy, or worse: “she’s hanging out with someone else.”

DILF!SAN never questions why you are here half of the week, but any friend of his daughter is always welcome, anytime, any day. you start coming over more often, and you tell yourself it’s nothing at first. just convenience, since their place is closer to campus. sarang always insists, and of course, you stay for dinner, and chuckle at her dad’s dry jokes.

you think about DILF!SAN more than you should. one evening, when he comes back from the gym, all sweaty with his muscles on full display, you find yourself watching the veins in his biceps instead of the movie sarang put on. you don’t realize when it stops being a crush.

you only realize when you start craving moments that don’t exist. imagining his hand on your body, how’d it feel to dig your nails on his back and biceps, how’d he feel. god this is so... wrong, but why does it feel so right? he really is a man, the perfect man, not like all those losers who try to get you by flirting and using awful pick-up lines, sending you three winking emojis in a row when texting.

DILF!SAN agrees immediately when one friday night, his daughter asks if you can stay over for the weekend, again. and when you are finally here for the girls’ sleepover, he’s looking at you instead of her:

“do you want takeout… or should i cook?” he masks it as just hospitality, pretending his heart isn’t going to burst at the thought of you staying.

DILF!SAN notices how you linger in the kitchen when sarang runs upstairs to prepare her room. you offer to help clean the dishes even when he insists he’s got it. notices how your laugh softens when it’s just the two of you in the room. he doesn’t say anything, but his eyes follow you longer than they should, memorizing every curve of your body and that pretty face of yours. you catch him looking at you sometimes, as if you don’t eye him in the same way.

DILF!SAN is again just sarang’s dad. telling yourself it’s stupid and harmless crush, embarrassing admiration, even. you love your best friend; however, just because her dad is broad-shouldered and looks unfairly good in a black compressed t-shirt doesn’t mean anything. and just because his voice drops when he says your name doesn’t mean anything either.

you don’t know when it stopped being nothing, but you only know it hasn’t become something yet. when his restraint feels less like courtesy and more like a choice he has to make every time to maintain composure and self-control, because…

DILF!SAN falls in love with you against every ounce of common sense he has.

DILF!SAN never touches you unless there’s a reason — and how those reasons seem to be happening more often. 

DILF!SAN looks at you like you are no longer just “sarang’s friend,” but a grown woman standing in his space. so beautiful and smart, well-mannered too, your parents must be proud of who you have become. however, he doubts that they will be proud of the fact that you left a pair of your panties in his room, tucked nicely under his shirts. safe to say, you are not getting them back or clean at all.

DILF!SAN pauses when he sees you in the kitchen in the middle of the night. hair loose, oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder, bare feet against the cold floor. 

“couldn’t sleep?” he asks quietly, and you shrug, embarrassed to be caught rummaging through like a thief, but you know this house like the palm of your hand. 

“yeah…didn’t want to wake sarang just for one tea.”

everything should end there, but it doesn’t. 

“what about you, mr. choi?” you ask, voice softer than intended. “why are you up?”

“couldn’t sleep either.”

DILF!SAN steps closer, instinctively lowering his voice, the kitchen suddenly feeling too small. you turn to put your mug down and realize he’s right behind you now, close enough that you can feel the heat from his body. so when you try to move past him, he places a hand on the counter beside you, unintentionally trapping you between his arm and the cabinet. he doesn’t touch you, at least not yet.

your swallow hard, painfully aware of how close his chest is to your back, how easy it would be to lean into him.

DILF!SAN wouldn’t make the first move. but if you did, he’d stop you — only to ask if you’re absolutely sure about this, since he’s someone who shouldn’t ever cross your mind like that. 

DILF!SAN hesitates, and you feel it with the way he inhales slowly, warm breath hitting your hair. “you should go back to bed,” his voice is somehow deeper than before, like it’s a warning more than advice.

the silence stretches, and it kills you because you are standing on thin ice. you can either run back to the more stumble ground, keep your morals, and forget about it, or deep dive into the unholiness and set this man on fire.

his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes, asking without asking by giving you time, most importantly, giving you a way out… you don’t take the chance to escape.

DILF!SAN settles his hands at your waist, giving your skin a light squeeze, as he presses himself fully to your back and you feel the throb in his pants. "this isn't–” you start, but he cuts you off with another gentle squeeze.

“i know, sweetheart,” he whispers, and that’s all it takes, already turning you to face him, “i know.”

pressing his lips to yours like a law he’s already broken, and doesn’t regret for a second. you are so incredibly sweet. the herbs from the tea add even more flavor to it. gasping into his mouth as his hands move to cup your face, keeping you steady. and yours stay still until they go to his chest and grip his shirt, pulling him closer.

you think about not making a noise, even if sarang was sleeping, knocked out cold, because of the tiring day she had, and playing games and gossiping until 3 am with you, made her take a massive k.o.

DILF!SAN bends you over the kitchen counter, your stomach pressed on the cold quartz, pants down on the floor, and his cock stretching you deliciously, as his hands muffles your moans and whines, "keep it down, pretty... we don't want another family drama." 

family drama… you remember the story of sarang's mother, and how she left them when your best friend was just four years old, making san a hot single dad in your area.

DILF!SAN, who has a big cock, big in width, and gosh ... he feels his palm getting wet from your saliva, as he slowly starts to thrust himself into you, doesn’t say sorry, just for you to be quiet… because he himself is trying his absolute best not to drown in the pleasure, and growl like a wild animal.

DILF!SAN is feral when he’s inside you. hitting every spot harder and deeper, like he can’t get enough. he fucks you with this overwhelming force that makes your vision blur, tears spilling down on your cheeks, his hand getting wet again. yet not wetter than your pussy that takes him so well. he liked the view: you on your stomach, back arched, your ass bouncing when his other free hand is gripping the soft skin to keep you steady, might have bruises the next day, because you sure do move a lot. must feel good, yeah?

DILF!SAN feels the way your walls are fluttering around him because of something so wide, his fat dick is stretching you in ways you’ve never imagined were possible. no boy, perhaps no man ever made you feel like this. you’re arching for him completely, feeling like you're going to break your back anytime soon. behind you, he’s panting and groaning, quietly, as if the sounds of skin slapping aren’t alarming enough. 

he leans down until his lips brush against your shoulder, leaving a sloppy kiss, before he whispers, “if it’s too much… show me to stop, and i stop.” and the problem is that you don’t want him to stop. nodding your head, eyes full of tears, back arching for him again, and your thighs are trembling when he thrusts deep and doesn’t pull out, he just continues to hit that spot that makes your stomach twist.

“greedy little thing, you’re taking me so damn well… so perfect, dripping all over me, fuck–”

he’s fucking you rough now, a little mean, and you didn’t expect him to do that, just like you didn’t expect to receive backshots from your best friend’s dad on a random saturday night. you are drooling, wetting his palm even more, wanting to scream so bad, and that’s why you are putting your hands that were gripping the counter over his hand, to muffle everything.

DILF!SAN can feel that you are so close, and when you orgasm, it’s so sudden that it catches you off guard, squeezing your eyes shut, pressing your hands over his even harder. legs shaking, as you sob when your pussy clamps down around him, juices spilling everywhere, down to your legs, making a mess on the floor too.

“shhh, baby… i’m here,” he fucks you through it, slow thrust this time, pulls you tight against his chest as he leaves kisses on your hair, “that’s it, doing so good for me, yeah? you are such a good girl.”

praise after a praise, burying himself too deep one last time, easing his final thrusts as he chases his own release, when hot spurts of cum spurted from his cock, flooding your gummy walls with thin ropes of white. it's warm, so incredibly warm that you feel it dripping down your thighs. 

DILF!SAN stays pressed close, his hand still warm over your mouth until your breathing evens out, until the shaking fades. only then does he make you finally take a breath, slowly giving you time to come back to yourself, but he still fucks his cum into you, doesn't want anything to go to waste.

you wait for the shame to hit, the guilt and the fear, but nothing. you feel good about crossing a line you know you shouldn’t even be standing near. you crave more of him, biting down on the urge to cry out loud and scream his name. he makes you lose interest in guys your age, because being wanted like that, and claimed without any hesitation, is something only a real man can do.

DILF!SAN leans in, lips brushing your ear, “so,” quietly he asks, a faint smirk painted in his face, already imagining things he shouldn't, but being inside your tight pussy that is still squeezing and milking him dry, doesn't exactly help. “you’re staying over next weekend again… right?”

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“I just don’t want you getting scammed, you know? Are you sure you should do that?”

“Why would you want to share your place with some… stranger? A man at that? Just doesn’t seem smart, honestly.”

“I thought your job paid well? You sure you’re not just being… overly picky?”

You couldn’t blame them for their ignorance if you never bothered to keep them informed. It is true that your job does pay you somewhat of a decent check, but decent wasn’t enough.

You had credit cards to pay off, a few meddlesome bills that took you longer to pay on than others, and things you wanted that you had to wait to purchase for longer than you’d like.

Help—while you tended to take awhile to recognize that you needed it—wasn’t something you were too proud to ask for, and where all other options and possibilities failed you, it was a miracle that a man you’ve never met before had yet to do so.

You instantly knew he would be the one as he walked in fifteen minutes early to the cafe where you both agreed to meet, sliding into the booth across from you with this air of a boyish charm about him and a warming smile. Not only had he brought you all the things you asked for to ensure him to be a dependable candidate, but he even made it a point to preemptively bring in a check that covered the first month of what his portion for rent and utilities would be with a substantial amount of persuading interest.

“Caleb…” you chuckled in amused bewilderment as you looked between the tempting number and his hopeful violet eyes. “You didn’t—I mean I am more than grateful, but you don’t have to tack on this much to secure anything. Are.. are you sure..?”

He nodded and grinned, sipping his steaming lemon & herb tea. You only remembered such a trivial detail because of how he looked at you over the rim of the cream porcelain—almost as if he wanted to take those few seconds to really gauge your kind of personality uninterrupted and get a good look at what he’d be getting into. To this day, you never truly knew what it meant, but you’d never forget it.

“I am, I promise. I just wanted to show you how serious I am about being the one you pick. Deal fell through with the place I thought I’d be movin’ into and I needed something fast before my current lease was up. Sooo, when I saw your listing only twenty minutes away, I just couldn’t let it slip, y’know?”

“That sucks… I’m really sorry about that. I mean, everything looks like it checks out and you seem really nice. And you said that you’d be working from home, right? Is it okay for me to ask what you do?”

“Oh, yeah of course.” You had to stop yourself from staring at how he licked his lips and pursed them in thought for a brief moment. Besides him being so likable, you weren’t blind to the fact that he was the most attractive man you’ve ever met.

But business was meant to remain respectable and keeping it cordial mattered more above all else. “I’m a content creator. It’s uh… it pays really well even though it can kinda fluctuate sometimes, but it’s still pretty consistent. And I swear that I won’t be a bother whenever you’re home. I can… show you what I do, if you want?”

But you didn’t want to see, you didn’t care to. You just weren’t curious enough. And Caleb didn’t know if he should’ve been relieved or disappointed at the time when you politely waved off his albeit hesitant offer while telling him that it didn’t matter to you as long as it let him pay his part on time. What he did know though, was that he more than understood your stance and didn’t make it a point to pry further than what you were willing to give.

It’s been a few months since you promptly made the decision to select him out of the surprising many as your makeshift tenant. In that time, you both finalized the roomate agreement and spent a weekend together making sure he and his belongings moved in just fine.

The positive differences you began to notice in your finances as well as your everyday was relatively immediate too, and it was a change that you hoped to keep around for longer than either of you anticipated.

Ever since Caleb settled in, he took it upon himself to take over many of the roles you once handled on your own, admittedly doing them infinitely better than any effort you’ve ever given them.

Breakfast and dinner? Always made and consistently delicious.

Your lunch for work? Packed everyday and ready to go.

Groceries got low? He went out of his own pocket to get them for the both of you.

Your car needed gas before the work week? He went out that Sunday evening to make sure you were fueled up.

Small repairs needed? With a man like him around, the landlord hadn’t heard from you since.

His care was intentional, a kind of friendly that showed you what genuine appreciation for the person they did it for looked like. He did it all with an eagerness to please and a smile on his face, both things that you’d never admit to looking forward to.

You were bummed though as you unlock the front door and step into your quiet apartment at twelve in the morning, chastising yourself for not staying home after somewhat convincing yourself that you wouldn’t mind a sleepover at your best friend’s house when you knew you preferred your own bed when it was time to climb into one.

Leaving Tara’s place was a last minute decision, one you almost regretted when you were driving down the highway at such a tiring hour. But the immediate relief of being back in your space rivaled all the prior grievances.

The sleepiness settling in your bones was heavy, almost oppressive. But despite the fatigue, you were still liable to drool from the smell of whatever delicious remnants were lingering in the air from what Caleb cooked for dinner. Even smelled like a new recipe.

It was almost enough to sadden you completely to have missed out on it for the first time since his integration into your life.

“Never doing anything spontaneous ever again,” you grumble to yourself, flicking on the kitchen light to find something quick to eat before exhaustion deemed itself more important than your appetite.

But to your surprise, instead of being forced to scan options you knew you wouldn’t be in the mood for, you’re greeted with a bright orange sticky note on top of a container filled with the most delicious looking dish your hungry eyes has ever witnessed. It was like trumpets started blaring victoriously and angels sang in harmonious unison.

You slid the glass out, careful not to be too loud and beamed at your name in Caleb’s handwriting with a little smiley face next to it.

Being so overcame with this irrepressible gratefulness to have a roommate who went above and beyond what it meant to be thoughtful, there was no way you intended on indulging without thanking him first.

On your brisk walk down the hall, you could hear the faintest sound of slow music and his softened voice coming from the other side of his closed bedroom door. It actually surprised you that he was still up, but you were glad for it nonetheless.

Knocking before you turned the knob suddenly became a courtesy you unintentionally forgot as you pushed the door open.

All that giddiness that brought you here in the first place? Gone and replaced with something else the second you saw the scene unfolded in front of you.

You wanted to move. You needed to. Desperately.

But your flight, fight, or freeze would decide to make the wrong choice in this pivotal moment as you stood there helplessly frozen and stared completely baffled at your roommate sitting in front of his computer monitors, sweatpants just barely lowered with a hand wrapped firmly around his stiff cock. He was illuminated by the dim blue light emitting from the screens that seemed to showcase him… live streaming?

It was unmistakably him on that computer with what seemed like a chat flying fast in the top corner with comments moving too quick for one to read when they’re as preoccupied as he is. And if this was live, then that meant…

Caleb was already scrambling to cover himself up once your sharp gasp interrupted his pleasure, cursing under his breath with all kinds of distress knitting in his brows. That and the frantic clicks from his mouse is what took you out of it and catapulted you back into the unfortunate reality.

“I—Shit, I am s-so sorry! I didn’t mean—I was just…” You had nothing to say, nothing that could possibly ease this level of embarrassment for either of you. So instead of looking for a way to try, your body finally released you from the shackles of stupefaction and allowed you to flee in the midst of him haphazardly fixing his pants.

“Fuuuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Caleb muttered, closing out all web browsers with a shaky breath and leaning back into his chair with an irresolute sigh. The sound of your door slamming was louder than the silence consuming him now, and it was with loaded indecision that he soon found himself standing outside of your bedroom.

Three careful knocks rapt against the wood and he called your name gently. “Hey… You okay? Can I come in?”

Relief washes over him when you faintly granted him permission. He finds you sitting in your bed, knee bouncing with anxiety and your gaze fixed on your lap instead of him.

“I’m really, really sorry…” you start, jaw opening and closing in your hapless struggle to find the right words. “F-for just barging in like that. I should’ve knocked. I didn’t even think. I promise I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever… that was. I only wanted to say thank you for the leftovers you left me, but it all happened so fast. Then I just stood there while you… while you were trying to—”

“Wooaaah, woah, relax,” he soothes, walking up and sitting on the edge to converse with you at eye level. “Eaaasy, okay? S’not your fault. I should’ve locked the door, but I thought you’d be gone ‘til tomorrow. Didn’t even know you came home.”

Facing him head on felt impossible. He was right there, taking up space and still shirtless with his uniquely fresh scent permeating the room in a way you secretly liked.

“I’m sorry you walked in on me like that.”

“You don’t need to apologize for me invading your privacy, Caleb.”

“But I do. I don’t live alone anymore, and you were kind enough to let me stay in your home. Even if it’s for work, I’ve gotta put in more of an effort to be more conscious about what I’m doin’ and when I do it.”

“Work?” For the first time since this morning, you give him your eyes. “That’s the content you create?”

He tilts his head slightly with a smug smirk on his face. “You sound surprised. What? Think I’m too ugly for it or somethin’?”

“No!” you rush out in defense, gnawing anxiously at your bottom lip. “It’s nothing to do with that. Just…”

“Juuust?” he urges with playful encouragement.

“I didn’t think… Like okay, I know people do what you do. I know people watch it. And I promise I’m not judging! It’s just sort of crazy to think that people actually pay to see someone in real time do those… things. And that someone is willing to do said things. I’m not making any sense—just forget it!”

You cover your face with your hands like that’ll suddenly render you invisible, but Caleb’s not allowing for disappearance to be a consideration. One of his own wraps around your wrist to remove the barrier you’ve put in place.

“It’s not hard to understand. Ever thought of the people who love the idea of bein’ seen? And the ones who love to watch them? Both parties get something good out of it.”

Your lack of an answer is enough to have him chuckling.

He analyzes your eyes first, then trails down to your chest. “Can I see somethin’?”

He hums in satisfaction with how swiftly you agree. It’s sudden when he rests his large palm to your chest above your shirt, grinning at his expected discovery.

“Feel how fast your heart’s racin’ in there? I think you like to watch, too. You just didn’t know until now.”

“I do not! I barely even… watch—”

“I always kind of wondered what sorta porn someone like you would enjoy,” he interrupts. “That weird?”

Every part of you should be mortified, absolutely disgusted with the things he’s saying and the husky tone he’s using to do it. But lying to him would be infinitely more complicated than surrendering yourself.

But see, Caleb? He’s living for this. That doe-like expression that you can’t disguise, that hitch in your breath that’s secretly hoping he’ll go further.

He never wanted to cross a boundary, didn’t care to risk your steady building dynamic for the sake of believing he was right. But you wanting him became a very obvious thing and although he wished you had it in you to tell him, taking the liberty of silent observation proved to be a patient game well played.

Being taken care of made your body hot and seeing him be the one to do it set you ablaze. Catching him how you did was truly unintentional, but getting you like this, getting you to admit, was a goal post he could only have hoped to reach.

“Can I show you somethin’ else? If you don’t like it, just tell me to stop. No harm, no foul. Yeah?”

You nod again, slowly this time, and watch as he tugs on his pants to give himself enough room and reaches into them to pull out his still hardened cock. A stimulating buzz surges in your gut when he hisses from the cool air that hits him, bucking his hips and rubbing his flushed tip teasingly with his thumb.

You’re too busy staring at his girth with this much clarity and imagining what it felt like to notice him fixated on you.

“See?” His muscles flex and his abs tighten with each tense inhale. The way he moaned, the way he would lose himself a little bit and let his head fall back between his shoulder blades from the sensitivity before reeling back. “It’s okay if y’like to watch. Everyone does. Even the innocent ones.”

He’s baiting you. It’s scary to feel how effortlessly it works.

“Want me to stop?” he whispers breathlessly, stroking himself with an agonizing slowness until a small bead or precum began to seep out and spill down the side of his shaft. There’s a pulse thumping in between your legs from what you’re witnessing, and you push out a broken half-embarrassed plea for him to keep going.

Instead, he does the opposite and stops, his hooded gaze piercing your dazed one. “Isn’t fair that I’m doin’ this by myself, don’t ya think?”

“Y-you… you want me to..?” Stuttering wasn’t what you were aiming for, but you’ve never been this turned on or been the center of someone’s attention this intensely.

“S’fine to be nervous, baby. I was too when I had eyes on me for the first time. But if it helps, I’d really, reaaally like to watch you, too.”

“You would?”

“I’d beg you to let me if you wanted me to.”

Whatever possessed you to stand and start pulling down your leggings wasn’t something you were willing to question. Not when he groaned and stared at the reveal of your plush thighs and simple black panties with unalloyed desire.

Perhaps it was the encouragement in his words and the lust written all over his face. But when you hooked your thumbs into the waistband, slid the thin material down, and stepped out of the small heap, watching Caleb’s dick twitch for you is the motivation you were fine with settling for.

“Let me see,” he coos sweetly. “Sit down and spread ‘em f’me.”

He followed your movements until you positioned yourself and opened your legs just like he told you to. You took your time to ease into obeying his firm commands and he let you until the pink of your pussy was looking back at him.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty. So much prettier than I imagined. And you’re fuckin’ dripping baby, god.”

Heat rushes to your face and down the entire expanse of your body. He's imagined this?

“What do you want me to… to do..?”

“Like to watch and being told what to do. Mm… I’ve been missin' out on a good thing, haven’t I?”

Your whimper with simmering sexual frustration as he reaches over to rub on your inner thigh, suddenly running a thumb down your wet slit to inadvertently cause you to jolt.

“Show me how you take care of her.” He gathers some of your slick on his fingers and savors the flavor of you on his tongue, sucking them clean until every ounce of your essence has graced his tastebuds. “Wanna see it for myself. And I want you to watch me, too.”

With your back braced against your pillows, you bring your hand down in between your legs and twitch when your chilled fingertips graze your clit. He wasn’t lying, you really were soaked.

“Cay…” you whimper, spreading your pussy lips and measuredly rubbing your swollen nub while he continues to pump himself in rhythm with your movements.

He pictures you beneath these same covers, silently playing with yourself while he was just one room away doing the same exact thing.

“‘M right here with you… So good, pretty girl. Just like that, let me see what feels good.” As he keeps the steady pace, liberated that you never once look away from him, all that fills the charged air is your soft mewls, his erotic whines, and the stickiness coming from your bodies still aching for so much more.

Caleb can see how your hole contracts uncontrollably, begging to be stuffed full with what’s right in front of you.

“You’d be so perfect for the camera,” he praises sincerely. “Even your sounds, just a sweet little wet dream that could drain anybody’s pockets. Bet you’d make more than me. They’d love you, baby…”

“I only l-like when you watch me,” you shyly confess with a shake of your head. “Just you…”

There definitely wasn’t any such thing as going back to normal now. You weren’t going to tell him this was some kind of fluke or that it’s best if you act like this never happened after the dust settles. You couldn’t say something like that to him and expect him to treat you like you never did.

“Tell me I can,” he implores vaguely at first, applying pressure to his base until the sensation shoots down to his balls. “Tell me I can fuck you. Please tell me."

Immediately you want to say yes. Instead you hesitate. “But we don’t have a con—”

“I’ll pull out,” he rushes eagerly—impatient. He's already proceeding to climb over top of you with the clink of the silver necklace you gave him as a housewarming gift echoing in your ears. “Let me feel how much you like it when I watch you.”

Your hands glide up his arms and slide into the hair at his nape as he waits for your approval. You were admiring him, mapping him out with every detail being memorized against your palms. They then rest on his broad shoulders before you hastily nod against your better judgment, moaning into his mouth from the welcomed caress of his lips.

Somehow with his tongue sliding against yours and his saliva becoming a new delicacy of importance, the bulbous head of his dick was guided and pushed past your puffy folds, completely swallowed until he was deep inside of you.

He inhales your cries and feeds you his own, smiling against your lips as you spread yourself even wider to let him reach your deepest depths.

Caleb keeps his body pressed firmly against yours as you wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his muscles and tanned skin as he doubles in his efforts to have your cunt properly shape itself around each inch stretching you open.

“How’re you this—hah—this fucking tight?” He slams into you with a whirling force, pulling out just enough to miss you but not long enough to feel like he’s gone too far. “Been walkin’ around with such a greedy pussy… she needed me, huh?”

“Yes… yes,” you wail, proving your words true with every desperate clench. “I’m so c-close… Please keep…”

“I got you,” he promises when your words fail. You grind up into him every time he sinks back inside with a lewd squelch, chasing that high that’s been relentlessly teetering on the edge for long enough now. “Look at that… I feel you, baby. C’mon, you got it, don’t run from it.”

It’s torturous for him to have to slip out of your warmth when he feels how much you gush around his cock, but he made you an unspoken promise he knows he’ll never be foolish enough to make again. Watching you fall apart, grasping at the sheets and letting hurried pleas mingle with the force of your orgasm, has Caleb’s cum spurting out in creamy ropes all over your belly and soft curls.

His dick jerks until he’s fully spent and has spilled every drop you pulled from him. He looks down at you with an expression nothing short of satisfied, then kisses your nose and lips like he can’t get enough of your taste.

“Are your fans gonna hate me for messing up their time with you?”

He presses another chaste kiss to your lips jutted out in a genuine pout of partial concern. “They’ll be fine. I’ll make it up to them.”

“And us…? What does doing this mean?”

“‘M not sure. Wasn’t exactly in the roomate agreement.”

You shove him in jest, but he can see past your light hearted laugh that you genuinely want to know. He knows you well enough by now to understand that disconnected relationships with some kind of benefits weren’t your thing. You were either all in or all out, but right now? He didn’t know where he wanted to be.

Yes, he liked you. No, he wouldn’t be against your relationship becoming so much more than what it meant to. But he didn’t know how soon he wanted it.

Losing you wasn’t an option, though. Selfish or not, what you gave him, what you let him see, he now deemed it his.

“We don’t have to put a title on everything, not yet at least,” he continues, shifting the subject skillfully enough to deter you for now. “I’m gonna clean you up, heat up your food, and we can watch somethin’ until we fall asleep. Then maybe, when we’re out of the fog and our special kind of honeymoon phase, we can really talk. Sound like a plan?”

“It does.” Exactly the answer he was looking for. “I forgot about the food, actually.”

“Wasn’t that how all this started?”

“Well, no. It was me finding you with your dick in your hand.”

He shrugs. “Tomayto, tomahto.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“Maybe. But I’m still the best roommate ever, riiight?”

You grab him by the necklace to guide him closer and whisper against his lips. “Best roommate ever.”

A/N: And omg… THANK YOU TO MY NOVA BAEEEE @deepspacenova bc without her… idk what would’ve became of this fic. Her beautiful mind helped me so much, you don’t even know. But once again, thank YOUUU to all of my baes who decided to stick around 🤞🏽 WE ARE LOCKED IN FOREVERRRR!!

Creds to @/chrisssiren for the random pink & winter themed pink dividers!! Got the photo from pinterest loolll

🍎🏷️: @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @meadowinthesky @nod4mnm3rcyy @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv @goochfiddler99 @torturedbabyapple @kiyadeleine @carcelswaifu @whattnanii @ashirelle @sylvieisoffline @saturnquartz @horanghaeegr @iconoclastoc @hilliserose @celestialhoneycaleb @jeansdoll @yanviioo

your head falls back, laughter bubbling up again, not realizing the tension between them. “nooo,” whining with your fingers slipping into wooyoung’s hair to play with it. “i think about you too... both of you like… always.”

then you’re kissing him, sloppy and eagerly, your chuckles breaking against his mouth as he swallows the sound. tongue pushes past your lips, greedy and oh so needy, as his hand slides under your skimpy shorts to press firmly against your heat. san shifts closer, unable to look away, the smoke making everything hazy. his hand lingers against your bare thigh, hesitant but aching to feel you.

you’re giggling again, hips rocking against wooyoung’s fingers through your panties, and he feels the dampness of how wet you are already. the couch creaks beneath the three of you. san’s breath catches when your hand blindly reaches back, finding his and tugging him closer, because you don’t want him watching only, you want him touching you too.

“feels so good...” you whine, words slurred with haze, it comes more out of a moan, and it's not that you haven't behaved like that with them before, but it was a whole lot different. two pairs of eyes are narrowing toward the empty plate on the table, and a shocked expression colors wooyoung’s face.

“oh, shit.”

san blinks. “what?”

“the cookies.”

silence stretches upon the realization. you’re rubbing your thighs together absentmindedly, skin warm, breath shallow. you are trembling, for one reason or another, making wooyoung look at san, and san looks at you, when it all starts to make sense.

“bro,” wooyoung mutters, voice strained. “we put aphrodisiac in those.”

“fuck." san winces, "we were high when we made them… i forgot.” and they didn’t tell you, not because they meant to hide it, but because they forgot about it.

that explains it. the way heat coils low in your stomach, blooming and spreading under your skin until you are flushed, feverish even. your body reacts faster than your thoughts can catch up — pulse loud in your ears, nerves wrecking, making you addicted. you barely have the time to think, maybe not because of the weed, or those yummy chocolate chip cookies you had, because what’s wrong with them? they were baked well. wooyoung always knows to add more chocolate because you like them more stuffed… you wish you were stuffed full instead, wouldn’t that be so nice?

“we made her extra horny now,” wooyoung says, and he is not even panicked; he is so chill about it that his dazed eyes are glued to the way you squirm. “shit... she’s hot though, but what the fuck do we do?”

“i dunno,” san shrugs, but he’s not really present, gaze locked on how you're trembling in his best friend’s arms. his hands are steady when his thumb brushes your waist. “she does feel… really warm.”

your bra digs into your skin, panties too tight, air against your neck making you shiver. the fabric suddenly feels unbearable; it’s getting so hot in here. even your own heartbeat feels intrusive and distracting as you whine softly, clutching at wooyoung’s shirt, as if it might save you from the sudden adrenaline rush.

you thought you learned your lesson, playing by the book, self-improvement, distancing from substances like that. all of it crumbles the second they look at you like this. holding you close just for tonight, wanting to last until morning light, and even in your dazed state, you know one thing, and that is — their affection is more addicting than any drug.

“so do you think i’m just desperate…” you ask, breathless and aroused, fingers twitching between keeping them to yourself or touching the one holding you. they choose for you, sliding up his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm. “or do you know that i’m obsessed with how it feels when we fu—”

he doesn’t let you finish when he kisses you hard, like he’s been holding it back for the last time he had you like this. mouth warm, insistent, teeth biting your lower lip until you melt into him. you arch, while his hands roam down your back, over your ass, squeezing like he’s memorizing, no matter that he knows every part of your body by heart.

then strong hands lift you, and your world spins, as the other black-haired man presses you against him, lips claiming yours next, slower but deeper, kissing you with his hands exploring already claimed territory, thumbs brushing over your nipples through lace until you’re whining into his mouth.

san sits you back down between them, and this time they don’t hesitate. wooyoung slips your bra off, throwing it somewhere, kisses a wet trail down your throat to your chest, tongue flicking until your back bows and toes curl. san’s fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down to your ankles until they hit the floor, spreading you open like he’s ready to enter heaven.

“we’re gonna take care of you,” his eyes searching yours, but they were closed from the pleasure. “okay?”

you nod frantically like a lovesick junkie begging for one more little puff of whatever this is.

they prepare you like an angel needing all the care and love, but your divine being seeks warmth from the devils instead. their fingers are slick, mouths everywhere, every touch feels magnetic, overwhelming in the best way, until you’re aching for more: who could blame you for that?

am i crazy for wanting us to be mutually obsessed? the thought barely forms before san settles between your legs, careful as he lifts them and puts them over his shoulders, adjusting until you’re comfortable. his kisses are hungry, and he can’t resist licking and biting your inner thighs. he got the urge to bite from his best friend, who just loved to mark and munch on your sweet skin.

everything is too much, and somehow, still not enough.

wooyoung’s breath is hot against your shoulder, his mouth following san’s example, biting where he knows you’ll feel it most. they’ve always had a thing for marks, bites, and hickeys: little reminders that are so hard to cover and linger for days. 

letting yourself want it all, when the man between your legs' mouth finally finds its place on your slick and wet folds, a breathy whimper slips out before you can stop it. the way his tongue pushes in, sucking as his hands tighten their hold on your hips, which twitch instinctively.

woo’s hand comes up from behind, as he toys with your nipples with his fingers, making your stomach twist, then wrapping them around your throat, squeezing gently, with you barely registering when they’re in your mouth.

“atta boy,” he murmurs, gazing down at his friend. “save some for me, alright?”

you can’t focus on anything else when san is completely gone. “sannie…” his name slips out softly from your lips, a muffled moan with wooyoung’s fingers still inside your mouth until he drags them out, so you can take a breather.

“baby, you’re so wet for me… look at you,” the beast down there glances up at you then, eyes filled with adoration, mouth curved like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and for some reason, you can’t look away. being extremely needy, and open in a way that feels overwhelming but pleasantly nice. god, his tongue. san doesn’t hold back. he licks, teases, and hums low against your cunt, as he whimpers, while his tongue plunges deeper. “so perfect, ah– so sweet too.” 

you’re trembling, thighs clamping around his head, your hand grips his hair, your hips bucking involuntarily, and he just keeps going, whispering filthy praises every second, accompanied by whimpers and groans. he is literally slurping, mouth and tongue impossible to stop because you are just so delicious, leaving no other way for him but to give in to the temptation to devour you all.

“that’s it, yeah? that’s my good girl… come on, let it all out for me,” his voice is low, and teasing all at once. then it happens. your breathing goes rigid, stomach twists, and your walls clench, pussy gushing over his tongue, spurting uncontrollably as your legs tremble, back arching, making wooyoung drag you back until you hit his chest.

“angel,” san groans, licking up every drop, chuckling against your skin, “look at you squirting for me… making such a mess.” he doesn’t stop moving his fingers and tongue, coaxing out every last drop, because he didn't expect you to squirt instead of just orgasm like normally… he is not complaining, not even a bit. you were already a hot mess, and san couldn’t pretend that you weren’t ready for him at this point.

maybe the cookies weren’t such a bad idea after all. or whatever they stirred in only made this inevitable heightened desire, the kind of want that makes them both cherish you and completely ruin you.

there’s a strange tug-of-war happening inside you. the weed wants you calm, to drift away, pulling you downward into something soft and floaty, like sitting on a cloud or melting inside a cotton candy. it hushes the noise in your head, tells you everything is fine, and you are fully relaxed.

the aphrodisiac does the opposite.

it lights you up from the inside, sparks racing under your skin and it's spreading fast. your body feels like it’s moving a second ahead of your thoughts, responding before you can decide anything. you’re aware of it, at some point, you think you are. it’s confusing and intoxicating, like being set on fire, but it doesn’t hurt at all, because you want to seek the warmth a little bit more.

and then there’s san. his presence alone makes you want to squirt again with the way he focuses on you, so devoted when every movement of his mouth makes you ache in places you can’t even name properly. thoughts scattering like puzzle pieces, and you can’t focus on anything, because it’s like you are hanging upside down, all the blood going directly to flush your face.

wooyoung is everywhere else. hands firm, teeth grazing, reminding you that everything is indeed real and not some wet dream or a figment of your imagination. his touch keeps you from floating away entirely, even as your head feels light and as if you have no thoughts behind those eyes, you know one thing for sure.

you love them — the realization is simple, stripped of overthinking. love in a way that feels consuming and addictive. you don’t know where the line is anymore, between friendship and this rather strange relationship: friends, best friends, maybe… soulmates, if you believed in something that big and unexplainable.

when they praise you, the obsession you pretend isn’t there, hits you straight to the core.

baby, one of them murmurs, doll, the other follows. angel, princess, pretty girl, dove, bunny, sweet thing. each petname is reserved only for you, sending little shocks to both your body and brain. it makes your chest ache, your eyes sting faintly, as you might cry just from being seen, loved and desired all at once.

feeling like you’re in outer space, glowing like the brightest star, as if nothing exists beyond their bodies and voices, that can either make you shine even more, or suck you like a supermassive black hole. and you don’t know what this makes you, just some girl with bad habits, or what it makes them; however, all you know is you never want it to stop.

your thoughts are still high in the endless vast sky when san finally pulls back. heavy breaths, lips still coated with the essence of you, as he settles beside you, shoulder brushing yours, staring up at the ceiling, needing a second to come back to himself. his hand doesn’t let go, though; it’s possessively gripping your thigh, thumb pressing at your still trembling body. the weed keeps whispering slow down, but your suddenly spiked up libido refuses to listen. 

you are needy, extremely needy, that you don't even know what to do, think, or say. should you cry or laugh? shaking all over, feeling the wetness under you on the soft cushion… did you make this mess?

for some reason, you wanted to cry — not because you disliked it, but because the feeling swelled up from somewhere deep inside, overwhelming you with nothing at all, and the show hasn’t even started yet.

wooyoung raises his eyebrow at you and how you’re suddenly zoning out with those pretty dilated eyes of yours, chest rising and falling as you try to catch your breath. poor angel, he thinks, you're so sweet and beautiful that he can't wait to ruin you. he shifts closer, knowing exactly what he’s doing, by wasting time with this mindless toying, watching you squirm and whimper without meaning to.

“feeling needy?” he sweetly asks, as you nod, turning slightly to him to nuzzle your head in his shoulder. cheeks burning, because you need more than being toyed with, more than the slow build that’s driving you out of your mind.

“look at you,” twirling a lock of your hair between his fingers. “so pretty when you’re like this.” the way he says it makes something snap in you when your own hand goes to clutch at his shirt without thinking, “woo, please…”

he tilts his head instead, looking down at you with almost apologetic eyes when it was nothing but a mocking stare. “hmm?” humming at the sound of you and how desperate you are. “what was that, princess?”

shaking your head, embarrassed by how badly you want him to do something, anything but his wandering fingers. “woo… i–”

“no,” he cuts in, fingers tightly pulling the locks he just twirled, and it didn't hurt, but it made you hide your face entirely, “come on, say it, use that pretty mouth of yours.”

you swallow, heart is pounding so loud you’re sure they can hear it. “please…” the word comes out shaky like you are begging for mercy, but oh dear angel, the fun part hasn't started for you to beg like this.

wooyoung leans in closer, his lips brushing your temple, leaving a quick kiss. “please, what?”

“please…" he makes a quiet, pleased sound, dragging the moment out on purpose, letting you sit in the want until it’s only him you can think about. "i want you,” his hand never stops pulling your hair, gently of course, but he will get to the point of being the meanie he is, reminding you exactly how little control you have right now.

“again,” he murmurs. “tell me what you want, don’t be shy… we are here to make you feel good, alright?

"please," each repetition of the words please strips you down further. "please, woo, i need you, i-i just..." your voice gets softer and needier, just the truth spilling out of you. san is at your right, as you didn’t even notice when his hand went up, fingers playing with your clit, massaging and toying with it, and you can only feel even more ashamed that you were so open for them.

wooyoung is closer to your upper body, and you turn into him instinctively, face still tucked into his shoulder, as your hands move on their own, drifting downward his body, finding what you were looking for without having to search. 

“yeah,” his voice low and teasing, almost cooing, as you even turned to him with wide eyes as if you were feeling him for the first time, “of course i am hard, baby… how can i not be?”

he’s entertained by how obvious it all is. really how could he not be, when it’s you? when you’re like this — pretty, horny, exposed, pressed between them. his hand comes up to your back, fingers caressing your spine as you shiver slightly, keeping you right where he wants you.

“our pretty doll,” he adds, mockingly gentle. you don’t even realize when san’s touch changes when he starts pumping slowly with two of his fingers, it pulls a quiet moan from you, and you try to hide by biting your lips, embarrassed by how easily you react. your legs are shaking, you're even more aroused, and you don't just want their fingers and mouths. you want the real sweet pink lollipops.

wooyoung notices the way you shake, how tears start to slide down your cheeks, and his hand slides up, fingers tilting your chin so that he can murmur against your mouth. “listen to yourself,” he pecks your lips, “it sounds even sweeter when you don't know what to say or do. isn't that right, san, don't you agree?”

between them, there’s no sense of being used, because they don’t take from you… they share you.

some days it’ll be just san, leaving you glowing and aching for hours. other days it’ll be wooyoung, all teasing smiles, watching the way you wobble afterward. and sometimes, like tonight, it’ll be both of them: messy and too much into it.

they spoil you like a princess, and ruin you like a slut.

san is somewhere else entirely. all he can think about is being inside you too, so while you weren’t looking, being distracted by wooyoung, who loved teasing and edging you… he’d been stroking himself, fingers slipping between your thighs at the same time. he’s leaking, fully hard, pre-cum sliding down his tip as he whimpers, cheeks flushing red and warm, answering only with a breathless:

“hah– yeah… yeah, i uh– what was the question again?”

wooyoung chuckles, turning toward his friend just in time to catch him with his cock out, then his gaze drops to you, eyes fluttering shut at the way san’s fingers work you, lips parting as you unconsciously lick them. that’s when wooyoung decides he’s done waiting.

“san,” saying calmly to his best friend, “just fuck her.” it’s not advice or a suggestion, it’s an order. between the three of you, he’s the control freak, the ringleader if anyone had to be given a role. then his attention shifts back to you, fingers already pulling your hands away from his pants.

“as for you, my pretty girl,” he adds, smiling wickedly at you, “i’ll find a good use for that mouth. just don’t try to choke, yeah?”

the zipper comes down as you watch the black denim pools at his feet, leaving him in boxers darkened with damp stains. he catches you staring, clicks his tongue, tells you to behave “eyes up,” and your gaze meets his. he’s about to explain the position he wants when san beats him to it.

suddenly you’re on all fours on the couch. san is right behind you, his cock presses against your soaked entrance. you swallow hard, breath catching, only to lift your head and find wooyoung right there — his length waiting at your lips.

san is slowly fucking you from behind, hands settling firm on your waist, your back arches instinctively, offering him everything, and the sight of your ass: plush, plump, bouncing every time he draws back, has him biting his lip hard. he has always been an ass guy, and always will be. “fuck…” he breathes, voice wrecked already, thumbs digging in to leave marks.

he doesn’t push all the way in at once; rolling his hips forward carefully, stretching you slowly, letting you feel every part as you clench around him, when he finds a rhythm that makes your eyes roll.

“you’re doing so good, angel,” grunting and growling, letting his breathy deep voice come to life. “so pretty like this… taking me so well.” your answer is a broken moan, walls fluttering around him, and he can’t help the soft whimper that slips out when you squeeze him even thighter, the sound of skin slapping making you think about how it’s been too long. you can feel it in the way he tries to find a pace, because it’s been what… four months, maybe? long enough that this feels like a reunion.

and then there’s wooyoung. you look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, lips parted and glossy, and he groans quietly as his hand tightens around his flushed cock, pressing the heaviness of it against your mouth, smirking down at you like he already knows you’ll take it all.

“look at you,” he scoffs softly. “open wide, princess.”

and you do, because being stretched open is the thing you are phenomenal at, best of the best.

he slides in, just the tip at first, dragging it slowly across your tongue, letting you adjust to it. “that’s it,” he mutters, thumb brushing your cheek when you relax your jaw. “good girl. you’re really made for this, huh?”

pushing a little deeper, watching your throat work as you take him, wet sounds filling the room. “don’t get shy now. you’re so good at being used.” behind you, san groans your name, throwing his head back, hips slamming hard when he feels the way you squeeze him while reacting to wooyoung’s voice.

“she’s so… beautiful,” san whispers, fingers rubbing soothing circles into your skin even as he starts to thrust more firmly. “taking both of us like this… god, baby, you’re perfect.”

your moans turn muffled around wooyoung, drool slicking his cock as he guides your head, hand gripping your hair for better control of your movements, “yeah,” a low praiseful whisper, fingers dining into your hair, “just like that, don’t think about anything else.”

san’s cock hammers into you from behind, hips rolling harder, pulling you against him as his hands grip your waist tight. every curve of your ass makes him bite his lip, low groans rattling out, “fuck… so tight…” he’s praising as he slams into you deeper and faster, loving the way your gummy walls love him. every moan that spills from your lips has him whimpering with you.

at the same time, wooyoung’s cock stretches your mouth wide, tip pressing past your gag reflex, making you cough and choke slightly. drool and saliva slide down your chin, your palms dig into the soft couch cushions, knees braced, tears spilling freely down your cheeks as you try to catch a breath.

“don’t start with your crocodile tears, you’re not fooling anyone,” wooyoung snaps, tugging your hair with one hand, while the other has his thumb pressing against your chin to keep your mouth open. “i won’t slow down just because you can’t take it… like you’ve never sucked a dick before.”

you’re not faking it; your body genuinely can’t handle it. he doesn’t like hesitation, and that just makes him smirk cruelly, pushing deeper, head brushing the back of your throat. “doll, don’t pretend you don’t want it.” his tone is so devilish, “it’s not every day i feel generous enough to give it to you directly instead of teasing.”

eyes rolling at the overwhelming sensations, at the slick heat filling both your pussy and your mouth. san’s thrusts are needy and hard, pounding into you with heavy sounds of skin slapping. wooyoung’s words sting even as he praises you, and it’s too much, making every nerve scream. you want more, crave both of them at once, but your mouth is already full, and your body is shaking from overstimulation.

san groans your name, your back arching, thrusts growing desperate. “(name)… baby, i–” he chokes out just before spilling inside you in thick, hot waves. your mouth freezes mid-suck around wooyoung as you squeeze san, pussy clenching him deeper, milking him as he moans, whimpers, whines through the pleasure, slowly fucking his cum in you.

wooyoung doesn’t like that — doesn’t like when you slow down or stop. his grip on your hair is tightening, cock twitching violently. “hey, hey,” he hisses, “you’re not done with me, little whore. you don’t get to stop just because he came inside you. open up.”

he pushes forward, pressing even harder against your throat, making your gag reflex spike, and the room fills with your muffled whines, moans, and the wet slaps of two cocks at once.

everywhere you feel it: inside, dripping on your legs, and on your tongue. you’re overstimulated, crying, whining, clenching, and still craving both of them. being used exactly like this, at their complete mercy, it’s too much, but you can’t stop, and neither of them wants you to.

san doesn’t pull out, not even after you’ve milked him dry. his hands stay firm on your hips, cock still buried deep, because your pussy feels too good to leave just yet. “look at you,” he pants softly, can’t get enough of the sight. “squeezing me like that.”

your body follows him with another broken cry spilling out as you come with him. slick heat dripping down your thighs while he slowly fucks his cum into you, shuddering through whimpers, staying buried in you.

wooyoung doesn’t have that patience. he’s already close, the grip tightening in your hair as he starts fucking your mouth again, meaner now. you choke, cough around him, tears still spilling, and he laughs under his breath. “aren't you a pathetic little thing?”

his thrusts slow suddenly, until only the tip of his cock presses past your lips. you barely have time to register it before he groans, cumming straight into your mouth. it spills thick and warm, hitting your tongue, your lips, dripping down your chin and onto the couch. he watches proudly of the mess you make. you try to pull back, just a little, however, he doesn’t let you.

“don’t you dare…you don’t spit,” wooyoung growls, fingers pushing under your chin, cockhead nudging your lips. he stuffs it back into your mouth, making sure you swallow every bit. “good, that’s it. take it.”

you’re too fucked out to fight him and be a brat, overstimulated, tears still sliding as you swallow, and it feels humiliating and too much all at once.

he finally pulls out, stroking himself lazily while still slick with his release, smearing it over his hand, adding to the mess already ruined on the couch. you sob openly now, choking on broken sounds, body trembling. wooyoung’s hand shifts from your hair to gentle strokes, fingers combing through slowly, almost tender. san’s hands follow suit, rubbing soothing paths over your hips and spine. 

that’s when you choke out, his cum still dripping out from your lips as you wipe with your hand, “m-more… i want more, p-please, i–”

they look at each other, because you really want more? usually that’s it, they both cum, and so do you, cuddles and aftercare follow. san’s about to ask you if you could really handle more because look at you… you're like a wounded rabbit, you can't move, you just tremble. with two bullets, they killed you good.

when wooyoung’s phone buzzes on the table, face down, it breaks all three of you from the trance, finally taking a breather, when san asks, still gently caressing your body to calm you down. “who is it?”

wooyoung scoffs. “don’t fucking care. probably yeonjun or changbin wanting me to give ‘em weed.”

he ignores it, doesn't want anyone to ruin the mood, since your body is still clenching around san. wooyoung exhales slowly, as he looks back at you, then at his best friend. “sannie” casually asks, “you wanna be under her?”

the man blinks, ready to open his mouth and say okay, and the other just smirks. “i’ll take care of her, don’t worry. i’ll be gentle, but no promises~”

the three of you already know what it means. san has to pull out, and even as he does, he murmurs promises, telling you he’ll be back inside you before you can even miss him. wooyoung makes him guide you instead, watching closely, eyes never leaving you for a second.

san pauses, holding your hand as you sit at the edge of the couch, having already switched places with the other stoner. “do i really need to lie down?” he asks, glancing at the mess. “it’s all dirty…”

wooyoung pulls his sweatshirt over his head, as he shoots a look to his friend, “you’ve got a shirt on. what’s the problem?”

san exhales, flustered. “i– nevermind then…” then his voice softens, sweet again when he looks at you. “(name), princess… come here.” that gentle tone makes you always follow without thinking.

you do exactly that, letting him guide you as you line yourself up again, sinking slowly onto his thick cock, until you’re seated fully, then lying back, feeling his toned body on your back even through the fabric. “good,” san breathes, arms wrapping around you. “that’s it, baby. so good, mm?”

you nod against his shoulder, when one of his hands slips up to your chest, squeezing your tits briefly before both hands move to your thighs, opening you wider for wooyoung.

when you finally lift your eyes to him, really look, your gaze softens despite everything. he’s beautiful too — toned, veins standing out, tattoos stark against his skin: the rose on his forearm, the latin quote along his ribs, the others you know by memory, tho you can’t see the matching one he has with san. his abs, his v-line, it makes you wet all over again.

“angel,” wooyoung says softly for once, “want you focused.”

dropping to his knees, the couch dipping under his weight as he lines himself up. you maintain eye contact, even when he hisses under his breath, cursing quietly because san’s girth already fills you so much there’s barely any room left.

but it’s fine. you’ve done this before, more than once. third time now, right? they say the third time is the charm.

your pussy is swollen, sensitive, still warm from before, but you stay open, and obedient. they’ll be gentle, at least… one promised so, you are worried about the other.

wooyoung finally slides inside you, and you scream at the stretch of it: too full with two cocks inside you at once. your body trembles, breath breaking as they start to rock into you together, slow at first, letting you adjust. your hands try to hold your legs open, but give up quickly.

the man above is already gripping one of your legs high up, holding you open as san mirrors him, his left hand spreading your other thigh while his right slides down your waist, fingers finding your clit. the touch pulls a sharp moan from you, blessing their ears, eyes and souls.

“woo… san– fuck, ah–” you chant their names, the only other words you know besided more and please. you are surely under some kind of spell, but the truth is, you are under some substances that you will definitely try out again.

san watches over your shoulder, breath hitching at the sight of him and his best friend inside you, making your body give out even as you take it. “such a good girl,” he murmurs, because you always take it, even if you think you can’t.

wooyoung tightens his grip, opening you wider, forcing you to take them deeper. you hiss at the burn, eyes squeezing shut; however, the pleasure crashes over it immediately, and it’s so overwhelming. “yeah,” a breathy grunt coming from him, “that’s it, pretty. keep saying our names like that.”

and you do, again and again, orgasm after orgasm, all night long. maybe you are a greedy little whore — because you let two men fuck you at the same damn time and you keep asking for more. wooyoung stays gentle only for so long before his thrusts grow rougher, more demanding, while san stays slower beneath you, forced to match what your body can take.

the sounds take over with the skin slapping, balls hitting, wet and obscene, when your moans mix with soft whines. then again, the phone couldn't stop ringing, but he ignored it, not now, he thinks to whoever decided to call him. san grunts and whimpers under you, fingers never leaving your clit, while wooyoung just groans low and deep, hips snapping harder. both of them praise you, voices overlapping, each trying to outdo the other, both in words and in how deep they push.

“i need to… woo, s-san please... ngh–” they both know what you need.

you’re already right there, their cocks leaking, heads pushing deeper as they pick up the pace just enough. then it hits you, hard and sudden, a blissful wave tearing through you, soaking their lengths as your body clenches uncontrollably.

wooyoung comes first, much to everyone’s surprise, cursing under his breath as he spills inside you. san follows moments later, fingers still working your clit until he finally grabs your waist, holding you down as he empties himself too.

you’re wrecked and completely full.

wooyoung doesn’t soften completely after, but the praise doesn’t stop. “that’s it, baby,” a little rough even as his hands steady you. his thumb presses lightly into your thigh as san continues, “easy now… we're so proud of you.”

they stay inside you until there’s nothing left to give, both of them shuddering through the last of it before slowly pulling out. san lifts you carefully as he helps you sit up. you hiss from the impact, lungs struggling to pull in air, body ruined in the most beautiful way, eyes are glossy from crying, and you don’t even know where you are anymore.

it’s warm, their release spills out of you in slow, obscene trails, dripping down your thighs. it’s so much that it almost makes you dizzy. they’ve never cummed like that before, never ever you have seen so much cum in your life or felt it in you.

and then they’re there again next to your sides, hands brushing hair off your forehead, thumbs wiping tears from your cheeks. kisses pressed softly to your shoulders, collarbone, and your face. san murmurs about a bath, clean clothes, and being tucked in bed. all the care and tenderness you’ve earned.

they’ll take care of you because their pretty doll always knows how to offer her heart, body and soul.

you don’t hear them talking over you, because you’re already halfway asleep.

“i’ll go prepare the shower,” san says, standing and stretching, and then it hits you that you are all butt-naked. “you get towels from her room.”

you sway slightly where you sit, exhausted beyond thought. wooyoung stays close, arm slipping around your shoulders, pulling you into him. water starting moments later, and you hear the sound, it’s a little calming actually. you’re exhausted, and for half a second, you smile and wonder about shower sex.

wooyoung reads your thoughts because he knows what that sleepy smile of yours is about. “angel,” he says, pulling you gently against his side, arm around your shoulders. “as much as i want to… no more sex tonight.” 

you hum instead of answering, eyes sliding shut, listening to the water run. “sorry for being mean,” he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another. “but i know you like it.”

after that, everything is warm water and gentle hands. you’re clean, wrapped in a fluffy towel, skin smelling like coconut and orchids. wooyoung dries your hair carefully, fingers gentle even as the dryer hums, while san prepares your bed by straightening sheets, making space for your plushies where you like them when you sleep.

they dress you in fresh panties and an oversized shirt, guiding you until you’re tucked in, plushie hugged to your chest. they kiss you goodnight, eyes, nose, lips as you murmur, “i love you,” and they say it back without hesitation. "we love you too, doll."

then your best friends leave you to rest and return to the living room that still smells like sex. the couch can wait to be cleaned; towels are thrown over it for now. they’ve showered too, changed clothes, and are playing something quietly on the tv not disturb you.

because monsters or not when they fuck you, aftercare is a must.

already sitting side by side, the half-lit joint from earlier rests between wooyoung’s fingers. he finally takes a drag and offers it to san, who hesitates before accepting, smoke curling lazily between them. only then does wooyoung finally check his phone.

“shit.”

“oh,” san frowns at his own screen. “looks like i’ve been spammed too.”

your phone lies abandoned on the table, and they pick it up, curiosity getting the better of them. when they unlock it, the screen floods with notifications and missed calls, far worse than theirs. they exchange a glance, the same thought settling between them without a word.

how the hell are they supposed to explain to your boyfriend, yunho, that some addictions you just can't quit?

happy valentine's day ♡

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