you even stopped at that boba place he’s obsessed with. the one he always drags you to after classes, with the brown sugar syrup that he insists is “better stirred manually,” as if you even care. but you went anyway, ordered his favorite just the way he likes it, extra tapioca pearls and everything. because you’re a good girlfriend, a thoughtful girlfriend. you showed up wearing one of his sweatshirts over your tank top that still smelled like him. sweet and sleepy, and vaguely like that weird lavender detergent he buys in bulk.

but what you didn’t expect to see when you turn the corner and spot him in the hallway, hands full of extension cords and tri-fold posters, all flushed, sweaty, adorable— was some random girl laughing way too hard at whatever he just said, standing far too close for your liking.

the smile etched on your face dropped instantly, you don’t even blink. just stopped mid-step and watched as she nudges him with her elbow, leaning closer to say something in his ear. and jisung, your jisung, laughs shyly, rubbing the back of his neck like the idiot he is, readjusting his glasses every few seconds.

now this girl has her acrylics on his forearm, giggling as if he’s the funniest person on the planet, and jisung doesn’t even push her away, just smiles cluelessly, not a single thought in that brain of his.

your jaw clenches. heat rising up your chest so fast it feels suffocating. it’s not even the flirting that’s bothering you the most, it’s that he’s letting her. standing there, nodding along at whatever the fuck she’s saying while she puts her hands on your man like she’s earned it. you felt a wave of emotions hit you all at once, sharp and low in your gut, this hot, twitchy anger that spikes so fast you almost laugh. it makes your blood fizz, and the possessiveness grabs you by the throat and won’t let go.

she’s touching him. her nails are on him. she’s acting like he’s hers, and the worst part? jisung’s too nice to even realize. you know that dumb, sweet smile of his, he probably thinks she’s just being friendly, and that’s what makes it all the more aggravating. because he wouldn’t even know if someone was trying to take what’s yours. not until you show him.

you walk up slow, a storm brewing under your skin, the harsh click of your heels echoing across the tile. jisung sees you halfway through uncoiling a cord, and his face instantly lights up.

“b-babe!” he stammers, voice cracking mid-syllable. “i-i didn’t know you were- wait, how’d you- i mean, hi!!”

he’s beaming. pink-cheeked. completely unaware he’s one second away from getting dragged.

you don’t even response. just stroll right up to him, grab him by the collar of his shirt, and pull him into a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that has him staggering a little on his feet. he gasps into it, already melting, his hands scrambling to hold your waist, dropping everything he was carrying just to steady himself.

when you pull back, his lips are wet, pupils blown, and he’s blinking rapidly as if he’s in a dream.

“i left my charger in your bag,” you murmur, low and sweet.

“o-oh! right! i- yeah! i’ll get it in a sec—”

you turn your gaze back to the girl still awkwardly standing there, frozen with some rolled up lab poster in her hand, all the color from her face practically drained.

“do you need something?” you ask, sounding way too calm but you know it was anything but that.

she flinches. “uh, no. i was just.. i think i have to—”

“go?” you say, finishing her sentence for her, still smiling.

and she gets the message, fast. her eyes dart nervously toward the floor, stumbling over her own feet as she scurries off, muttering something about “finding the markers.”

you don’t spare her another glance as she leaves, only tightening your grip around jisung’s sweater, making sure he stays exactly where he is.

he looks at you, still dazed and confused as ever. his lips red from the kiss, cheeks blushing a fierce rose, breath coming out harder than it should.

“you think she’s pretty?” you ask flatly, like you’re daring him to say the wrong thing.

his head jerks back. “what? no. no- what? baby, no, i didn’t- i wasn’t even—”

“then why’d you let her touch you?”

he freezes.

“i-i didn’t mean to,” he stutters, eyes wide. “i didn’t even notice, i swear! i was just helping with the tables and she came over and asked for help with her poster and- and- i didn’t—”

“so you just let her lean all over you like that?” you interrupt, tone completely deadpan. “didn’t think i’d mind, huh?”

“no! no, i wasn’t thinking that at all, i- i didn’t even realize she was doing anything, i was just focused on the outlet and the tape was tangled and—”

you let go of his sweater and take a step back.

jisung looks devastated, his hands twitching, unsure if he’s allowed to reach for you.

“you know,” you say slowly, eyes never leaving his face, “i actually stopped to get you this stupid drink from that boba place you love. the one you make me walk two blocks past my own dorm for because they ‘use the better milk.’”

his face falls.

“i was being nice. i was coming to surprise you, jisung. and that’s what i walk in on?”

he looks like you just shot him in the chest. “please don’t be mad,” he whispers. “i didn’t mean anything, i wasn’t even thinking about her- i didn’t even talk to her before that, she just- please, baby, please—”

you step into his space again and he backs up instinctively, bumping into the nearest wall with a soft thud. his eyes are big and pleading, his mouth opens as if he wants to say more, but nothing comes out.

you stare up at him. he stares down at you like he’s waiting for a death sentence.

“where’s the nearest empty room?”

he swallows hard. “uh- the chem lab’s still locked but- uh- across the hall, the um- the earth science room, the back one with the—”

you grab his wrist and start dragging him before he can finish.

jisung stumbles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet trying to keep up, stammering, “w-wait, baby, where are we- i-i didn’t mean anything, i swear! i didn’t even look at her, please—”

you don’t answer, don’t say a word. instead you shove the door open, pull him inside, and slam it shut behind you, flipping the lock.

his breath catches as you turn around slow, standing there awkwardly, lips parted, shaking. you take a step toward him but he doesn’t move.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers again, voice so small. “please don’t be mad.”

you smile at that, but it wasn’t sweet, unforgiving.

“i’m not mad,” you murmur, reaching for his collar again. “i’m just gonna remind you who the fuck you belong to.”

and then you push him back, hard, until his shoulders collide with the whiteboard, and you sink your fingers into his hair.

jisung’s breath stutters. his mouth opens like he’s expecting a kiss. he tilts his chin down, glasses slightly fogged, lips parted, waiting.

you lean in like you’re going to give it to him, slow and soft. close enough that your breath brushes his cheek. your nose barely bumps his. you feel the tiniest sound catch in his throat— some pathetic, breathy little whine, but you don’t kiss him.

you shook your head.

“you really let her touch you like that?” you iterate, brushing your lips along his jaw instead. “stood there and let her giggle all over you like you’re single?”

his hands tremble at his sides. “i-i didn’t mean to baby, i-i didn’t think—”

“you didn’t think,” you repeat flatly, dragging your palm down his chest. “you never think.”

your hand slips lower, slow, and you feel him tense up when your fingers hover right over his belt.

jisung whimpers.

“so fucking dumb,” you mutter, eyes locked on his flushed face as you finally cup his cock through his jeans.

his whole body jolts.

“nngh, b-babe, fuck—” his head hits the whiteboard behind him, hips twitching into your palm without permission, and you laugh under your breath.

“already hard?” you pout mockingly. “you’re disgusting.”

“i-i can’t help it,” he chokes out. “i-it’s you, fuck, it’s always you—”

you start rubbing him through the denim. slow, mean little strokes. not enough to give him anything real, just enough friction to make him squirm.

his jeans are tight. his boxers are already soaked.

“bet you were half hard when she touched you,” you hiss, squeezing just a little. jisung shakes his head frantically.

“n-no! no, i swear, i wasn’t! i didn’t even notice, i was just- i was just trying to fix the- ah- fuck—” he whines when you rub your thumb over the tip, teasing the outline through the fabric.

you lean in, press your lips to his neck, still not kissing him.

“you gonna cum in your pants like a loser?” you tease. “just from me rubbing you a little through your jeans?”

he nods vigorously, his whole face flushed deep pink.

“i-i’m close- ‘m sorry, please, please let me—”

before he even gets the chance to reach his orgasm, you let go of him completely.

jisung lets out a noise like you knocked the wind out of him. he looks down at you in pure heartbreak, hips still twitching, cock aching.

you smile sweetly.

“oops.”

his mouth falls open. his pupils are blown. he looks one second away from crying.

you pull back, drop onto the edge of one of the desks, and tilt your head.

“get on your knees.”

jisung complies without a second thought, dropping so fast you think he might crack something. his palms hit the cold tile, glasses slipping down, already panting, looking up at you like he’s waiting for instructions.

you reach under your skirt and slide your panties off with two fingers, spread your legs, and motion toward the space between your thighs.

“you wanna make it up to me?” you murmur. “put that mouth to use.”

he nods so fast it’s pathetic.

he starts licking with urgency. tongue slow and shaky at first, then hungrier, lips wrapping around your clit like it’s the only thing grounding him. his moans vibrate against you. his hands grip your thighs tight enough to bruise.

you reach down and grab his phone from his back pocket.

he doesn’t even notice.

you open it— he never changed his password after giving it to you. sweet little idiot. you swipe to the camera, hit record, and tilt it down at his ruined, desperate face between your legs.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you say quietly, glancing at the screen. “might keep this one for later.”

jisung lets out a broken moan against your pussy, tongue pushing deeper, nose bumping your clit, his whole body pressed against the floor just to keep eating.

you bring the phone closer to his face. focus on his flushed cheeks. his spit-slick lips. the way his lashes flutter when your hand tugs his hair.

“should i post this?” you hum, playful. “let everyone see how messy you get for me?”

he doesn’t answer, he literally can’t. he’s too pussy drunk. too far gone. his eyes are rolled back a little, drool smeared on his chin, his own cock probably leaking all over the inside of his boxers and he doesn’t even care.

you giggle and zoom in a little closer.

“good boy.”

he moans so loud you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing again.

and you just let the camera keep rolling.

your thighs tighten around his head, and you rock your hips forward again— grinding down on his face, slow and mean, not even treating him as a person, just a thing for you to get off on. jisung groans into your cunt like it’s the only thing he knows. his tongue is buried deep, licking so desperately, like if he just does it a little better you might forgive him.

you lean forward, one hand bracing on the desk behind you, the other still holding his phone. still recording. the shaky frame shows the top of his head, his hair messy from your grip, your thighs caging him in. the audio’s picking up everything, your moans, his sloppy mouth, how wet you are all over his face.

“look at you,” you pant, voice breathy and cruel. “on your fucking knees, making a mess, just because i let you taste me.”

his hands are gripping your thighs so tight, knuckles white, his face buried so deep, every grind has you catching against the heat of his mouth, clit aching from how much you’re giving him. he’s shaking.

“you like this, huh?” you breathe, dragging your hips down harder, making him moan again. “you like when i use your dumb little face to get off?”

he whimpers into your pussy and nods, nods while still eating, tongue still fucking you through your clenching walls like he was made for this. he can’t talk. brain too fuzzy to function.

“you’re fucking pathetic,” you hiss. “bet you could cum just like this.”

his body jerks under you.

you grin.

“wait- oh my god.” your voice turns sweet, mocking. “are you about to cum in your boxers?”

he nods again, face red, eyes barely open. he’s whining, literally whining into your cunt.

you start grinding faster. the slick sounds are filthy, obscene. your clit drags across his nose with every roll of your hips and his tongue keeps fucking into you so deep it makes your legs shake.

he’s twitching now and you can feel it.

his moans get louder, more frantic. he’s so close, hips bucking slightly, his whole body spasming, cock untouched and straining against soaked fabric.

“go ahead,” you whisper, smiling wide. “cum like a loser.”

and he does.

his body shudders beneath you, and he lets out this high, broken sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and you feel the way he cums untouched, cock pulsing in his ruined boxers, shaking so hard you have to grab his hair to keep yourself steady.

you don’t even stop.

you just keep riding his face, slower now, grinding through your own orgasm with your thighs locked tight around his ears, moaning into the classroom air like you don’t care who hears.

when your body finally stops trembling and the overstimulation passes, you gently lift yourself off his soaked, wrecked face, you look down at him— barely breathing, eyes dazed, lips swollen and shiny.

he’s still kneeling, chest is heaving, cheeks tear-streaked.

you don’t say anything at first. you just click the red button to end the video and toss his phone to the side, still unlocked on the camera roll.

then you drop down to your knees with him.

your hands come up to cradle his face, and he flinches, just a little. like he thinks you’re about to slap him, but you don’t.

instead, you kiss him. soft, slow, and warm.

his whole body sags into it like a whimpering dog. he kisses back instantly, desperate, lips trembling under yours, nose still wet with your arousal.

“you’re mine,” you whisper, brushing the hair from his forehead, voice suddenly so soft it makes him dizzy. “you understand me now?”

he nods. tears still in his lashes.

“you don’t let other girls touch you, ever.”

“i-i won’t,” he mumbles, voice wrecked. “i didn’t mean to, baby, i swear, i didn’t even look at her. i don’t want anyone else.”

“good,” you hum, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth. “because no one else is allowed to have you.”

jisung sniffles, arms winding weakly around your waist as he buries his face in your shoulder, still panting softly through his misty glasses.

you stroke his hair and kiss his temple like he didn’t just cum untouched with your pussy in his mouth, still trembling in your arms.

you kiss the edge of his jaw, and mutter, “next time you even breathe near another girl, i’ll fuck you in front of her.”

he nods, too fucked out to speak, lips parted like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is a tiny whimper as he presses his face to your neck and whispers,

You turn, and there he is—golden hair, freckled cheeks, a navy crewneck with the sleeves pushed up just enough to counter the innocence of his smile. “You look like you wanna run.”

You blink. “I’m debating it.” 

He holds his hand out for a shake, then switches it up and pulls you into a light hug like you’ve been dating for six months. “I’m Felix,” he says against your ear, voice lower now. “Just follow my lead, babe. We’re so in love it’s annoying.”

You chuckle despite yourself, like he’s given you a dose of serotonin just from meeting. “Okay then. Yeah.” Your eyes drift back to the cafe window when you pull back.

“Once we walk in, he’s gonna see us.”

Felix doesn’t ask who. Just opens the cafe door for you, hand settling at the small of your back as you step inside like he’s done this a hundred times. Like it’s not the first time you’ve met.

“Then let’s give him something to look at.” 

The bell jingles as the door shuts behind you two. Your ex looks up—and freezes. Felix clocks it instantly. “This place is cute,” he says a bit too loud, “It’s no British baking show but like... adorable in a trying too hard to be unique way.”

Your ex’s jaw tightens. You almost laugh. 

Felix slides up beside you and signs you both in at the registration table, arm draped comfortably around your shoulders. “Team name?” the volunteer asks.

Felix turns to you. “What do you think, baby? Sugar and Spice? Or Bad Bitch Bakery?”

You glance at your ex, then smile sweetly. “Let’s go with Bad Bitch Bakery.”

Your ex is the one who walks you to your station. Of course he is. Clipboard in hand like he’s running the Great British Bake Off instead of a glorified couples’ night in a cafe. Maybe Felix was onto something. His smile is too tight, the kind that you force to reach your eyes.

“So,” he says lightly, but you can hear the edge under it, “how long have you two been together?”

Felix doesn’t even flinch. “Six months,” he answers smoothly, slipping his hand to your waist like it’s muscle memory. You lean into it. “We met at the farmer’s market. She hated my taste in strawberries.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Because you were buying the watery ones. Who does that?” You laugh, tipping your head toward Felix. “I had to save him from himself.”

Felix plays along, grinning wide, freckles crinkling with his eyes. “And I let her. Haven’t been able to shake her since that sweet strawberry shortcake we made.”

Your ex’s jaw works, tight. Like his teeth are grinding behind tight lips. He writes something meaningless on his clipboard, exhaling hard through his nose before looking back up at you. You tilt your head, smile just sharp enough to cut. “Funny, right? How things just…stick.”

For a second, you think he might snap his pen in half. He clears his throat instead and stalks off toward the other couples.

“Babe,” Felix murmurs, leaning down, “that was brutal. I’m so proud.”

You bite back a grin, but it’s useless. This is already paying off. 

Felix picks up one of the aprons and dangles it between you, eyes bright like the sweet stuff is his favorite part. “Arms up.”

You blink, smiling despite yourself. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. 

“If you get flour on your shirt I’ll have to wipe it off. That means I get to touch that pretty chest of yours and I’m sure the very pleasant owner would crumble at the sight.” he grins, cutting a sarcastic glance to your ex.

Your smile turns into a laugh as you lift your arms, he steps behind you, hands careful as they tug the strings snug around your waist. “That’s the figure you’re hiding, hm?” 

He even smooths the fabric down like he cares how it sits. “His loss.” he says softly, close enough that his breath grazes your ear. “Now we look like a team.”

You swallow down the little flutter his words causes, clapping your hands to snap you out of the gutter. “Alright. Game plan. What do you actually know how to make?”

Felix brightens instantly. “Brownies. They’re my specialty.”

Perfect. Foolproof. You nod. “Okay. Then brownies it is.”

You grab a notepad from the counter. “So what do you need?”

He rattles it off, casual as anything. “Twelve eggs, two and a half cups of flour, six cups of sugar—”

You stop writing, smile dropping just a fraction. “Wait. Why do you need so much?”

“That’s how much I always use.”

You blink. “Are you baking for the entire block? That’s way too much.”

Felix frowns, genuinely confused. “This is a normal amount.”

You just stare at him. “Normal for who?”

Felix pauses, frowning like you’re the one being weird. “I mean… my friends. I’ve only ever baked for them.”

Now you stare at each other, both equally confused. Finally, you ask, “How many people do you bake for?”

“Eight.” He says it like it’s obvious.

You drop the pencil, staring at him in disbelief. “So you’ve been baking enough brownies to feed eight grown men for years… and you’ve never once thought maybe that’s not the standard recipe?”

He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “It worked fine every time.”

You throw your hands up. “Jesus Christ. You’ve been running a catering service and didn’t know it.”

“There’s eight of us at the company, and they eat a lot. Like—a lot.” Felix grins, finding the revelation amusing. Or maybe it’s just your reaction to it all. “Nobody ever complained.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, fighting the laugh bubbling up. “Okay, fine. Do you know how to convert it? Like, cut the recipe in half?”

He looks at you like you’ve asked him to recall laws of quantum physics. You nod once, clapping your hands a bit weaker this time. “Okay, uh…then we guess.”

He rolls up his sleeves and beams at you like a kid on Christmas day. “Guessing’s the fun part anyway.” 

Flour dusts the counter. Felix has a smear of chocolate across his cheek and doesn’t notice. You put it there. You can’t stop smiling, and you can’t remember the last time you had this much fun baking anything. He flicks flour at you, bumps you with his hip and calls it an accident. You strike back with a smear of chocolate on his nose, then cheek. He dared you to lick it off and you blushed hotter than the oven. 

Every time he laughs—loud, bright, like only you and him are in on the best joke in the world—you feel a flutter you know you shouldn’t. It feels too natural for a stranger. Guess he’s good at his job, or at least that’s what you keep telling yourself.

When your ex glances over again, Felix catches him, then turns to you with a glint in his eye that clearly means mischief. He scoops a dollop of batter onto the tip of his finger and holds it up. “Open.”

A chuckle bubbles up before you can help it. “What are you, five?”

Felix grins, leaning against the counter and batting his lashes in mock innocence. You sigh, lean in, taste it. It’s too sweet, cloying, but the way Felix beams like he truly has been falling for you the past six months makes you laugh. Shy with emotions that feel too big all at once. 

You push his arm, looking down at the mess before you to hide a blush. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” he says without hesitation. Loud. On purpose. You choke on your laugh, and when you glance up, your ex’s expression has soured completely.

Felix nudges your hip with his own, both of you laughing now, unable to help it. The sweetness continues—he brushes your hair back with flour on his fingers, you poke his ribs in retaliation, then you both laugh while you fumble with simple baking utensils. It’s stupid. Mundane. But the chemistry hums so loud it’s impossible to ignore.

By the time the brownies are in the oven, you’re both flushed, smiling too easily, like you’ve forgotten there’s an audience.

“Twenty minutes,” Felix says, glancing at the timer. “Think they’ll notice if we raid the supply closet?”

“For what?”

“Chocolate chips. Obviously.” He winks. “You know, for morale.”

You shake your head but follow him anyway.

The supply closet is cooler, dimmer, shelves stacked with bags and boxes. You actually look, digging through the labeled bins, tugging at a sack of flour. That’s how it starts. When you bend to check the bottom shelf, apron snug around your waist, Felix goes quiet behind you.

“You know,” he says after a beat, voice lower now, “he’s out of his mind.”

You glance back. “What?”

“Your ex.” He’s closer now, you stay bent, slowing your movements. “I don’t know what he was thinking, letting you go. But thank God he did, because now I get to stand here and…” He trails off, eyes lingering where your apron bows across your back, then lower.

You straighten slowly, turning your head, and he’s already looking at you. Really looking. 

He steps forward, chest to your back and then reaches forward. “Found them.” He holds up the chocolate chips you were looking for, but your eyes stay on his. And his go to your lips. 

Then he kisses you.

It starts soft, testing, but heat sparks quick. His hand slips to your waist, tightening on contact, turning you and pulling your chest flush against his. You kiss back, hungrier than you mean to, and suddenly it’s not soft anymore. It’s messy, needy, his lips parting yours, his tongue slipping past in a way that makes your knees threaten to give. The chocolate chips hit the floor. Felix anchors himself with a hand tangled in your hair. 

You laugh breathlessly into his mouth. “We came in here for chocolate chips.”

“Found something sweeter.” he murmurs against your lips, kissing you harder.

Your hands find his hair now, tugging just enough to make him groan, too loud for the small space. He doesn’t care. If anything, it eggs him on. 

“Do that again.” He murmurs against your lips, tongue slipping over yours before you can respond. His hands are everywhere now—palming your hip, sliding up your back then sneaking lower.

Your back slams against the door, the rattling thud nearly loud enough to give you away. Felix doesn’t even flinch. He groans into your mouth, clutching your waist like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

“God—” his words spill out between kisses, rough and unfiltered, “you taste so good. Been thinking about this since the second I slipped that apron on you.”

“You’re that easy?” you smirk, yanking his hair hard enough to make him whine.

“Yes,” he admits, breathless, like it’s something to be proud of. His hips rut against you once, sharp and unashamed. “You have no idea, baby.”

“What else is gonna make you fall apart like this?” Your hand slips down between you, palming him through his jeans, and he nearly doubles over with a strangled moan. Too loud. You clap your hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Felix.”

His eyes roll back, muffled whine spilling against your palm. He nods quickly, obedient, though the second you move your hand he gasps out, “I’ll be quiet, promise.”

You press the heel of your palm against him, and he’s already trembling, forehead pressed to your shoulder. Hands slipping down to your ass, squeezing like the touch just isn’t enough.

“Touch me,” you order, pressing your thigh between his legs. “Now.”

He doesn’t hesitate. One hand slips under your skirt, apron bunched, fingers sliding higher until they find heat. You gasp when he presses his palm over you just right, fingertips applying perfect pressure on his first try.

“Felix—”

“Shh,” he whispers, forehead against yours, smiling lazily while he watches. “I got you.”

One finger hooks and holds your panties to the side while the others slip through slick so wet that he groans. His eyes are on yours, brows furrowed either in disbelief or approval.

“You’re so wet already—fuck, you’re perfect. Can I?”

You grab his wrist and press him against you, grinding down hard. “Do it.”

Felix looks down to watch his fingers disappear beneath your skirt. He slips one in, gliding with ease. He adds a second and you moan. That’s what gets him. His hips cant forward, grinding his cock over your bare thigh. He groans, head lolling back as his fingers move, eager, messy.

“Oh my God—fuck, you’re—” he can’t even finish, too caught up in the sounds you make, trying to match your rhythm. Every moan you let slip only makes him match with one louder, desperate to pull another one out of you.

“Felix,” you warn, slapping his hip with a soft pop. “Too loud.”

He muffles his next groan into your shoulder, his hips still moving against you, fingers curling inside you when he slips in to the knuckle. “Can’t help it. You feel so fucking good. I need more of you, please.”

Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp when he curls his fingers just right, your words come out chopped between pleasure and composure. “Ask again.”

“You want me to beg?” he rasps, voice raw as he huffs, bright brown eyes shading darker with every desperate rut of his hips. “I’ll do anything, just please, baby. Please. Let me feel you.” 

His begging comes out rough, shaky. Like he doesn’t know what else to give you except please. It’s stupid and sweet and it makes your stomach twist just right.

“Beg better,” you tell him, testing. Teasing.

His eyes flick up, wide. He swallows, tries again, voice cracking as soon as he starts.

“Please,” he gasps. “Let me—just let me have you. I’ll be quiet, I’ll be good, I swear.”

You raise a brow. “That’s your best?”

His mouth opens, shuts. He swallows hard, fingers twitching at your hips like he’s hanging on by threads. “I’ll do better,” he blurts, quick, frantic. “Please. Gimme a chance to be good for you. I wanna be good for you.”

The begging’s rough, unpolished, almost embarrassing. But that’s what gets you. The fact that he’s not smoothing it over, not trying to play cool. He’s just spilling it, raw and too much. It’s desperate enough to make you laugh under your breath, meaner than you intend.

“God, you really are easy.”

He nods fast, doesn’t even flinch at the jab. “For you? Yeah. Always.”

The honesty of it is almost stupid. No polish, no charm. Just desperate.

Your nails dig into his hips, stilling the slow grind he’s been rocking into your thigh. His fingers slow inside of you, slipping out while he waits for your say.

“Go ahead.” He moves so fast it’s clumsy. He turns you towards the door, his hands skating down your sides before finding your wrists and guiding them up to press flat against the wood. 

“Here,” he mutters, pressing his palms over the back of your hands for a moment, pressing his hips into your ass. “Keep ‘em there, yeah?”

The command in his voice surprises you—messy as he is, he’s not fumbling now. His voice is deeper, a bass commanding the moment seconds before a string pops.

Fabric rustles behind you. A foil tear. You glance back, catching him rolling a condom on with quick, practiced movements, jaw tight with focus.

“Prepared, huh?” you say, breath a little uneven already.

His grin flashes, sheepish and bright all at once. “Of course. What kinda boyfriend shows up unprepared?”

The praise slips out mindlessly. “Smart boy.”

He groans. Actually groans—like the words hit deeper than they should. One hand fists in your hair, tugging lightly so you arch, the other steady on your hip. “Say that again,” he pants, already pressing forward, cock sliding against your heat before he pushes in slow.

Your mouth falls open with the stretch, and his head drops forward, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades as he lets out the loudest, neediest sound yet.

“Fuck. You feel unreal,” he gasps, hips jerking once, then twice. Shallow. “Tell me—tell me what you want. I’ll do it. Harder? Faster? Just say it.”

Felix rocks into you slow, waiting for your word. “Faster.” 

He picks up on command. Working himself up to a steady pace, driving into you fast enough that you’re both moaning in the small space.

“Holy shit, you’re so tight.” He murmurs with a strangled sound, hips stuttering forward like he’s not controlling himself.

“Shut up,” you hiss, but the way you clench around him only makes him cry out louder. It’s messy and eager, like he’s living out a dream he didn’t think he’d ever reach.

His hands grip at your waist, pushing your apron up until he gets impatient and undoes the neat bow he tied. “You feel too good. Too tight. Too wet. Fuck.”

His hands trail up the bare skin of your back then meet in the front to settle over your bra. Every thrust knocks a gasp out of him, high, sharp, uncontrolled. One of your hands goes down over his, prompting him to squeeze. “Feel me, wan’ you to touch me.”

Two fingers dip into the cup of your bra, pulling it down enough to feel properly. “Shit, such perfect tits. You’re built to ruin me.” he grits out the words right as you push back against him, the wood of the door rattling each time you meet his thrust. 

“Deeper.” your moan breaks louder than his, pleasure building too quick to care. “Please—Felix, please. So close.”

Felix whines, the sound raw, almost broken, and shifts the angle just enough for his cock to brush where you need it most. The spot that makes you grip him tighter, wringing another desperate sound out of him.

“Oh my God—like that? Is that good? Tell me it’s good.”

“So fucking good,” you pant, knuckles blushed where you brace against the doorframe. “You’re such a good boy. Such a good fuck.”

His whole body jerks at your words, a ragged moan spilling out before he can swallow it down. “Good boy—fuck—say it again,” he begs, hips stuttering hard against you. “Please. Please keep saying that. I’ll do anything, I’ll give you everything.”

His thrusts get sharper, deeper, like he’s trying to earn every word. He fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to expose your throat. His forehead presses to your shoulder, teeth catching skin as he whines through another roll of his hips. “You’re gonna ruin me. You know that, right? Calling me that…” he cuts himself off with a choked gasp. “God, I love it. I love being good for you.”

He rolls your stiff nipple between his fingers, kissing your neck sloppily when you mewl for him just right. He’s rutting now, fucking you like he’s in heat and you’re the only thing that can stop the burn. Groaning like he’s the one being undone. 

“Wan’ you to cum,” he nearly sobs the words, hips stuttering before finding a quicker rhythm that makes your legs tremble. “Wanna be good and make my baby leak. Let me, please.”

“Rub my clit.” He follows your breathless command as if his life were on the line. His hand drops from your tit and starts with slow circles between your legs. His grip on your hair tightens just enough to nearly have your back flush to his heaving chest. 

He’s deeper like this, so much deeper you can feel every frantic push in your spine. Each thrust grinds you up against his hand, his fingers slipping perfect circles over your clit like he’s memorized your body in seconds. You can’t fucking think straight. Your words slur and break into moans. 

“Felix—shit” Your voice cracks, hands barely pressed to the door anymore. Nothing but his arm snaked around your waist and your wobbly legs holding you up. You try to keep pushing back against him. You can’t. “So fucking good, baby, right there—don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

He groans into your shoulder, hips stuttering before slamming in harder. “I won’t. Never gonna stop, baby.”

Your words spill faster, tangled with moans. “Yes, that’s it, that’s my good boy. Fuck, yes yes yes. Give it to me just how I need—fuck, deeper, please—harder, faster, don’t hold back, I want it all. Wan’ all of it.”

Felix practically whines at the sound of you babbling for him, hips snapping quick, sloppy. His hand tightens in your hair, dragging your head back further while pressing your chest to the door. His mouth is hot against your throat, groaning into your skin after each sloppy kiss over your pulse.

“You’re perfect,” you gasp, broken, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “God, you’re perfect. Look at you, working so hard for me. You wanna make me cum so bad, huh?”

“Yes—yes, please, baby, I need it, let me, let me—”

The desperation in his voice rips you open. Your body locks, your moan comes out sharp and wrecked as you clench hard around him, making his own moan shatter with yours. Your words dissolve into choked praise—“so good, so good, you’re so fucking good”—as your orgasm drags through you.

Felix loses it at the sound, rutting hard, babbling into your skin like he can’t keep it in. 

You glance back at him, his flushed face, the way sweat dampens his golden hair, and mumble through your haze. “Don’t come.”

“I can’t, I can’t. Baby, please.” he begs, voice cracked and needy.

You reach back, still off balance, still hazy and heaving but you manage to push his hips back in the middle of a sloppy thrust. He pulls out, whining but obeying. He hand strokes the slick rubber, his angry red cock leaking into it, seconds from bursting.

“Take it off.” his brows furrow but he listens, watching as you clumsily shift to your knees. The condom snaps off with a pop and you barely give him time to drop it before taking him in. 

“Baby—oh fuck. Fuuuck.” he gasps, drawing out every moan and falling right into babbling praise into the air. His hips stutter, hand rests on top of your head. Not to push, just to guide you, just barely. 

It doesn’t take much until he’s shaking. A couple of bobs have him whining, then you take him all the way, and it’s over.

“I’m gonna—oh, baby, gonna—”  Felix falls apart with a sound that’s half-groan, half-whimper, hips jerking forward like he can’t control them anymore. His voice cracks, loud and frantic, every word spilling out unfiltered. “I’m coming, I’m coming, fucking, coming—”

His hand tightens in your hair but it’s not rough, just desperate, holding on while his whole body shakes through it. His thighs tremble against your palms, chest heaving as his release hits hard. Every thrust is messy, uncoordinated, but he can’t stop—his cock twitching in your mouth, spilling until he’s gasping for air.

His forehead knocks against the door like he’s seconds from collapsing, but you don’t let up until he’s whining from overstimulation. His knees wobbling so bad he has to grab the shelf for balance. Finally, you pull off with a wet pop, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

Felix looks down at you, wrecked, sweat plastering his golden hair to his forehead and freckles stark against flushed skin. His mouth hangs open, chest rising and falling like he just sprinted a mile.

“You’re…” He laughs breathlessly, voice wrecked. “…gonna kill me.”

Your laugh comes out ragged, breathless. “Good boys survive.” You push up to your feet. “Even the loud ones”

His grin is dopey, fond even, as he clumsily attempts to tuck himself back into his jeans, still catching his breath. “Then I’m your good boy.”

You two clean yourselves up as much as you can after an impromptu fuck in a cafe closet. Finally, once he reties your apron, Felix mumbles, “Timer’s probably screaming.”

Then, he peeks out like a kid checking if they’ve been caught stealing snacks. He pushes the door open once he sees the coast is clear, hand on the small of your back like this is real. His hair is messy, cheeks flushed, you both look like you just did something you weren’t supposed to.

Back at your baking station the oven dings like it’s been at it for awhile. Felix hurries over, grabs mitts and slides the pan out. You both just stare. It’s glossy, wrong. A dense glob of fudge that doesn’t pull away at the edges. You poke it. It jiggles.

“Uh,” you mumble. “Why does it look… shiny?”

Felix pokes it with a spatula. It jiggles again. “Did we forget something?”

You both look at the counter and the full carton of eggs looks back at you. 

“Oh.” You hum.

“No eggs.” Felix says, nodding seriously. Then looking over to you. You both burst out laughing. 

“So we made… fudge?”

“Pretty much.” You look up. The other couples have left. All forfeited and probably too scandalized by Felix’s not-so-quiet moaning. 

Your ex stands there, glaring at the pan of ruined brownies, then at you two. Face a color you’ve never seen before and jaw so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack. Finally, he forces a smile, holds out two medals and a cheap envelope with steakhouse vouchers. “Congratulations. You’ve won.”

Felix takes the medal, slips it around your neck, and kisses you. Not a peck. A kiss. Bold, messy, too real for how fake it’s supposed to feel.

The applause from the remaining onlookers covers the sound of your ex’s pen snapping in half.

a/n: I'm so excited to be back! I'm sorry for the wait. Things have been very tough but I'm fighting to finish this series and other projects! I hope you enjoyed! (and if it sucks, act like it doesn't. my brain is running on fumes I swear.)

Please have an age indicator in your bio if you want to be on the event taglist.

Event Taglist: @bunnies-only @chrisbangsass @puccaaak @beal-o @jinniesgirl @emilyywhyy @tsunderelino @innies-goth-gf @bbokaricentral @seunginz @rougegenshin @lomllino @akindaflora @scribblesnsketches05 @chrizzztopherbang @sweatyracoon @seunghyoverse @fairylix @chrisbangsass @broken-glowsticks

All Content: @wealwayskeepfighting @whokno-ows @stay-tiny-things @yaorzu-blog @krayzieestay @nxtt2-u  @armystay89 @kayleefriedchicken @compersian  @kibs-and-bits @whokno-ows @poppet05 @estella-novella @unbel1ve4ble @pixie-felix @catsforlife6864 @lisaskz @chloe-elise-2000 @jaeminie-cricket @gingerrracha @wickedbutlovely @lolareadsimagines @h00d-tr4sh @felixleftchickennugget @jeyelleohe @hanjiyunho @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @iminc0gnito @dreamingaboutjisung @lixiluvs @teddy-stay @baconcupcakes123 @soulsbbg @stay-bi @yzsqu @lghtdarling @joonkki @my_neurodivergent_world @tricky-ritz @linospetsitter @0sunshinecryptidd @miyaluvvsyou @chansfavoriterubberducky @felixleftchickennugget @babygay2005 @stellasays45 @corgilover20 @bx-lov3 @myrkhive @kttb @rockstarkkami

@cowboylikemalika @angellcvkes @caitlyn98s @camryn-haitani @felixsonlyrealwife @binnie-c @highkeyinlovewithhanjisung @bbokarismeow @hannahlue @nctdreamchaser @tangerineastronaut @lezleeferguson-120 @d4ily-s-nsh1ne @staytinyluva @iyenabi @sammhisphere @hhjlvr @geni-627 @thvsuga @staytinyluva @hanjifangirlie @breakmeoff

he kept glancing at it anyway, every five minutes to be exact. hoping that maybe a text would pop up and there’d be an explanation about you being busy, but there was nothing. nothing all day.

jeongin leaned against the doorway at one point, holding a bag of takis. jisung could feel him staring.

“dude, are you seriously ignoring me because your girlfriend didn’t say happy birthday?”

jisung didn’t answer. didn’t even look at him. he just mumbled, voice muffled under the hood, “she forgot,” and pulled his knees closer to his chest in the chair.

jeongin shifted, crunching a chip between his teeth. “maybe she’s busy,” he offered, but it didn’t sound convincing enough.

jisung’s only response was a dramatic sigh, the kind that made his whole chest sink, turning further away like that would block out the world. he refused to talk to him for the rest of the night, ignored every comment jeongin tried to throw his way, only moving when he cracked open another can of mountain dew code red. the can hissed loudly as he popped the tab, the cherry-syrup smell filling the room, and he grimaced but drank it anyway.

his brain wouldn’t stop looping the same thoughts. you forgot. maybe you didn’t care as much as he thought. maybe you were out with your friends, laughing about something he wasn’t invited to. he hated that it stung so much, hated that he was counting the hours and staring at his phone like some pathetic loser, but he couldn’t stop. he felt small, unimportant, stupid for even expecting something.

he was convinced you didn’t love him anymore.

so when there was a knock on his door close to midnight, jisung dragged himself up with all the energy of a dying man, fully expecting a food delivery gone to the wrong dorm. his heart wasn’t ready for it to actually be you.

standing there in one of his t-shirts you cut into a crop top and a tiny skirt, holding a bag in one hand and a cake box in the other, smiling at him like nothing was wrong.

jisung froze in the doorway, blinking hard. “…no way.”

“surprise, loser.”

his mouth opened, closed, opened again but nothing came out. his whole face turned red, stumbling back to let you in. he couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t make his brain catch up to what was happening.

“you really thought i’d forget?” you teased, setting the cake down on his desk.

he blinked rapidly, throat tight. “i… i thought you did. i didn’t want to be a brat about it, but i was… i was kinda sad.” his voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word, making him want to curl up and disappear.

“dummy,” you said softly, reaching up to ruffle his hair. then you pulled out a wrapped box from the bag and shoved it into his hands. “here, happy birthday.”

he took the box from you with shaking hands, staring at it for a moment before ripping the paper away. it wasn’t neat— it was frantic, his fingers tugging at the taped edges, the crumpled wrapping falling onto the floor without a second thought. when the cardboard was finally exposed and he saw what was actually inside, his knees nearly gave out right there, the weight of it hitting him all at once.

“no freaking way..”

his voice was barely above a whisper, high-pitched and uneven. sitting in his lap was the limited edition one piece lego pirate ship, pristine and untouched. jisung kept staring at the box, then looking up at you with wide eyes, then staring down at it again, repeating the motion as if double-checking reality itself.

a shaky laugh escaped his throat, then immediately dropped his face into his hands, covering it completely.

“how did you- these sold out in, like, an hour! did you wait in line? baby, oh my god.” the words tumbled out too fast, one tripping over the next. his voice was climbing higher with every sentence, breaking in places he couldn’t control. “i don’t deserve you. i love you. i love you so much. i’m gonna build this tonight. no, tomorrow. oh my god, i could cry.”

he wasn’t exaggerating. his eyes were glassy, threatening to spill over, his chest rising and falling quickly as if he was trying not to break down over legos. the way his fingers clutched at the box, like someone might snatch it away if he wasn’t careful, made your chest ache.

you giggled softly, leaning down to tug his hands away from his face. “yeah, i waited hours for some fuckass legos, so you better appreciate it.”

jisung’s mouth fell open slightly, lips trembling between a laugh and a sob, wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand like he didn’t want you to notice. “i do! i appreciate it so much, you’re the best girlfriend in the world. i swear i’m never letting you go.” his voice cracked again on the last part, and he looked down quickly, cringing at himself.

you leaned down, pressed a quick kiss to his lips, then without warning dipped your finger into the frosting on the cake sitting on his desk. you brought it to your mouth, licking it off slow, letting your tongue curl around the sweetness before pulling it back between your lips.

jisung’s eyes went wide instantly, locked onto your mouth. his breath hitched audibly, and you could see the way his cock strained against the fabric of his pants, already betraying him.

“you want your real present?” you asked quietly, pulling your t-shirt off your shoulders.

underneath was a set of lingerie so pretty it almost looked too soft for what you had planned. pale pink lace hugged your skin, delicate bows sitting just above the cups, the thin fabric barely covering your tits. the bra was see-through enough that your nipples peeked through, the lace more for decoration than functionality. the straps were dainty, ribbon-thin, one slipping off your shoulder as you shifted. the matching panties were low-cut with more intricate lace along the sides, a tiny bow right at the front where the fabric dipped.

jisung’s jaw dropped and his whole body went stiff. his face was already red from the legos, but now it was spreading all the way down his neck, blotching pink across his chest. his knees actually wobbled.

“oh my god,” he uttered, voice breaking into a whine. “baby, are you.. fuck, are you serious? you’re actually trying to kill me.” his hand twitched against his thigh, unsure if he should cover his mouth, push his glasses up, or reach out and touch you.

he ended up doing none of those things, just sitting there staring like he’d never seen you before in his life. the outline of his cock was much more prominent now, swelling beneath the cling of his sweats as he let out a broken inhale.

“i c-can’t—” he stuttered, words coming out all jumbled, “i don’t even know what to- holy shit, you’re so so pretty, fuck.”

you sat on the desk, spreading your legs, scooping frosting onto your tits and smearing it around in slow circles. “come here, birthday boy.”

jisung obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees, licking at the mess like he hadn’t eaten in days. his tongue dragged over your nipples, sticky and sweet, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise.

“mmh..so sweet,” he moaned, frosting on his lips. “you taste better than cake. i love you. i love you so much.”

you kept feeding him little bites of cake between kisses, coating more frosting on your fingers and letting him suck them clean. he moaned around them, eyes glazed over and lips shiny with sugar and spit. everytime you shifted against the desk, his cock jumped under his sweats, straining so hard against his pants. when you palmed him through the cloth the pressure was almost painful, he whined so loud you had to cover his mouth with your hand, giggling at how needy he sounded.

when you finally tugged him up and pushed him onto the bed, he went willingly, eyes wide and dazed. you peeled off his clothes piece by piece until he was flushed, trembling, cock leaking across his stomach. you wrapped your hand around him and started pumping slow, spreading his precum down the shaft, stroking him just tight enough to make his back arch, his head tipping back into the pillows.

“oh shit—” his thighs jerked, hips chasing your fist, precum already dripping down your hand. he tried to hold back, but his brain was spinning.

she’s touching me, she’s really touching me, no one else, just her. she chose me. i can’t lose it yet, i can’t—

“b-baby, wait- fuck, ‘m close already, please, i don’t wanna cum yet, i want- i want inside—” he babbled, hips bucking into your fist. his voice was thin and whiny, cracking every other word. you didn’t stop, squeezing him tighter at the base, thumbing his slit and grinning when his eyes rolled back.

“you like that?” you teased softly, leaning down to kiss his jaw. “so worked up over my hand? you think you deserve more than this?”

“yes, fuck, yes, i’ll be good, i’ll do anything, just let me, pleaseee, put it in, i need it so bad—” his panted, beads of sweat forming on his temple, hair sticking to his forehead.

you pulled your panties aside and straddled him, grinding down on his cock without letting him slip in. the fabric of your lace panties dragged against his shaft with every roll of your hips, wetting him with your slick but keeping him out. jisung practically sobbed.

“baby, please, just a little, just the tip, please? i’m losing my mind, you’re so mean to me—” his hands clawed at your hips, nails digging crescents into your skin.

you smirked down at him, grinding even harder, and he whined again, cock twitching helplessly against your folds. and finally, when you shifted and sank down slow, his mouth dropped open instantly.

“so warm.. so tight.. i’m gonna—”

you clamped a hand over his mouth before he could finish, and halfway down you stopped, holding yourself still. he let out a broken whimper, muffled behind your palm. his eyes were glossy, teeth gnawing at bottom his lip.

don’t move, don’t cum, don’t ruin this. i have to be good. i have to last for her.

“please, don’t stop, please let me cum, i can’t- i can’t hold it—” his words came out muffled and fast, hips rocking up against you in tiny thrusts.

instead you pulled back up, grinding over his length again dragging your clit against his cock until you were gasping too. jisung was wrecked already, his hair an absolute mess, lips swollen from biting down.

and then, without warning, you slammed down on him fully and started bouncing. jisung’s brain shut off completely, every thought drowned out by the feel of your pussy gripping him raw. his hands shot to your tits, frosting still smeared across your skin as he groped them desperately. you see his glasses tilting and your hand comes up to fix them back in place.

“baby, baby- fuck, i can’t, i’m gonna..oh my god—” jisung’s body tensed, cock pulsing as he spilled deep inside you. it hit him so hard he almost passed out, cum flooding your pussy in thick spurts.

you didn’t stop. you rode him through it until he was crying, sticky white dripping down your thighs, contrasting with the frosting that was caked across your chest.

he was shaking under you, overstimulated, cock still hard and twitching inside your soaked pussy. his voice broke as he clung to you. “too much- don’t stop though- please don’t stop, it’s so good, i’m yours, i’m only yours—”

when he came again, it was even messier, spilling over, leaking down his thighs, your skin sticky with cum.

when you finally slowed, he was shaking under you, panting hard, voice breaking into soft whimpers. you leaned down, kissed him sweetly, frosting and spit mixing on your lips.

his body went limp as he fell back, sweaty and ruined, cock still twitching from the aftershocks. his chest heaved, but his arms stayed wrapped tight around your waist. “best birthday ever,” he whispered hoarsely, “i love you. can’t believe you’re mine.”

you giggled, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, and he looked up at you, dazed and pink.

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

He always notices you.

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

He slides a drink toward you without asking.

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Why can’t I do both?”

You raise an eyebrow. He’s in a mood.

Good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only when you want me to.”

You swallow. Hard.

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

It’s foreplay.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips.

You didn’t tell him that.

Not out loud.

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

Minho’s too observant for that.

You look away, embarrassed, a little raw.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

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

“Didn’t think you would.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that makes you reckless.

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

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

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

Minho doesn’t deny it.

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

Your breath catches.

You can’t help it.

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

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

It’s something else entirely.

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

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

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

He knows what he just did.

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

Your tongue darts out again, a nervous reflex.

And that’s when he leans in.

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

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

Your stomach drops.

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

Minho doesn’t linger.

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

He simply pulls away.

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

Your bill.

Back to business.

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

Your hand moves on autopilot.

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

The reader beeps.

Declined.

You blink.

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

Declined.

The air shifts.

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

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

Minho doesn’t move.

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

Not annoyed. Not smug. Just still. Measured.

Then he takes the bill back without a word.

Folds it in half.

Tucks it beneath the register.

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

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

“I said it’s okay.”

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

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

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

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

It’s just kindness.

Uncomplicated. Unexpected.

From him of all people.

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

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

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

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

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

You nod again. This time it lands.

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

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

And you want to say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Did he grab you?”

Your spine stiffens.

Like someone cracked ice down your back.

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

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

Minho doesn’t flinch.

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

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

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

Minho says nothing.

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

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

Still nothing.

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

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

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

Minho’s voice is quiet. Even.

“But he did.”

You look away.

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

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

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

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

Someone who sees everything and speaks only when it counts.

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

“I know.”

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

That disarms you more than anything else.

He knows.

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

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

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

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

And then, gently:

“Text me when you’re home.”

You look at him.

Really look at him.

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

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

He doesn’t even blink.

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

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

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

You stare at the numbers for a beat too long.

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

You walk away before you can change your mind.

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

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

You step into it anyway.

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

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

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

Eventually, you type:

[you]: home.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Then nothing.

Then:

[bartender]: good. sleep.

You stare at it for longer than you should.

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

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

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

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

Because it’s not.

You set the phone on your nightstand.

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

The bass is too loud.

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

You wish you were having fun.

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

And for a while—it worked.

Until he showed up.

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

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

You turn. And there he is.

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

Your heart drops anyway.

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

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

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

It works for ten minutes.

Then a hand slides around your waist.

“You look good tonight.”

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

You shove his hand off. Step back.

“I said don’t.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, she’s got teeth tonight.”

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

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

A few heads turn. Not many. Not enough.

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

You take a step back.

He follows.

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

You gasp.

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

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

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

The blood drains from your face.

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

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

That little bartender.

Minho.

He knows.

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

Your stomach lurches.

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

This time, he stumbles. Actually stumbles.

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

But he recovers fast.

Too fast.

And now he’s pissed.

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

You don’t stay to hear the rest.

You turn.

You run.

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

You just run.

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s there.

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

He hasn’t seen you yet.

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

Then—he lifts his head.

And his whole body goes still.

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

But he doesn’t comment. Doesn’t move.

Just watches you.

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

“Did something happen?”

Your throat tightens at the sound of his voice.

Low. Measured. But not indifferent.

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

He doesn’t take a step toward you.

Doesn’t reach out.

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

He sees it.

“I…” Your voice falters. “No.”

You mean yes. You mean everything.

But the syllables won’t fit in your mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m just down the block.”

You blink at him, still catching your breath.

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

You hesitate.

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

Minho sees it.

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

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

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

Minho nods. “Three of them.”

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

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

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

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

And the cats… the cats are waiting.

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

You blink again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho shrugs. “He probably liked it.”

You snort, exhausted. “He’s purring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you see it.

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

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

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

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

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

And for a moment, you let him go.

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

You sit up. “Minho?”

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

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

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

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

You don’t mean to stare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare.

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

Your hand moves before you can stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t give it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s quiet for a second.

Then: “Freedom.”

You blink. “It’s broken.”

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

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

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

“You can ask,” he says softly.

“About the tattoo?”

“About anything.”

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

“That sounds dangerous.”

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

"Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

But it feels like both.

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

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

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

But then, soft and slurred, half-dreaming:

“You have a nice voice.”

You feel his hand twitch. Just a little.

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

You nod against the pillow. “Mhm.”

There’s a beat.

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

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

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

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

You do.

Of course you do.

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

You remember all of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gets him.

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

“I never lied,” he says.

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

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

And then, almost too soft to hear:

“I don’t want to scare you.”

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

“You don’t.”

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

“Not yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t stop talking,” you whisper.

He blinks. “What?”

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

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

Still talking.

Just in case you can still hear him.

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

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

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

The club. The hands. The words.

The running.

And then—Minho.

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t have to—”

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

You blink. “I… yeah.”

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

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

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

When he does speak again, his voice is softer.

“You don’t have to go back.”

Your fork stalls halfway to your mouth.

“What?”

Minho lifts his gaze. Steady. Calm.

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

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He doesn’t let the silence stretch far.

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

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

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

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

And terrifying.

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

Minho sets his fork down.

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

“You’re not.”

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

You want to believe him.

You almost do.

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

But Minho doesn’t let you.

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

“Let me see.”

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

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

His voice is low when it comes.

“I hate that he touched you.”

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

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

That hits you harder than it should.

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

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

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

Your next breath comes too fast. Too shallow.

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

“Say something,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

You take another bite of your eggs.

They taste better than they should.

You don’t move in all at once.

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

You never are.

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

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

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

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

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

Just watch him.

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

Then he grabs the pack from the counter.

You sit up.

“Minho.”

He pauses. Doesn’t look at you.

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

“You said you were trying to quit.”

“I am.”

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

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

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

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

“No,” he says.

Not harsh. Not clipped. Just final.

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

You wrap your arms around yourself.

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

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

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

“Was it something at the bar?”

His lips twitch. He doesn’t answer.

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

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

You frown.

“Minho—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

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

The silence that follows is cold.

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

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

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

Then, quieter: “It’s not you.”

“I know.”

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

His voice breaks a little on the next part.

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

You say nothing. Just listen.

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

You don’t interrupt.

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

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

You walk the last few feet.

He doesn’t stop you this time.

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

“You’re not that kind of man.”

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

That makes you pause.

He looks up. His voice is low. Bitter.

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

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

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

You squeeze his hand.

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

He rubs his thumb over your palm absently.

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

He stops himself. His jaw locks.

You swallow.

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

And he knows you know.

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

“Come to bed,” you murmur.

He doesn't move.

You tug on his hand again. “Please.”

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

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

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

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

He’s quiet for a long time. And then:

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

You close your eyes.

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

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

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

“What would you do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then another.

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

“Why not?”

“Because I’d scare you.”

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

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

“Tell me anyway,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t exhale.

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

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

A chill snakes down your spine.

Not fear.

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

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

You turn in his arms.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Face to face now.

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

You reach for him without thinking.

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

“You wouldn’t scare me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that’s what breaks him.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Just enough to make him move.

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

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

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

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

You don’t.

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

You just offer.

And Minho accepts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You give him a slow stroke, and he chokes.

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

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

Minho laughs—just barely. Just a breath.

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

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

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

“You gonna beg for it?”

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

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shit—don’t—f-fuck—”

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

He growls. “No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

You exhale shakily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touch me,” you whisper. “Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Minho—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Feel good?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minho kisses you before you can speak.

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

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

And then it’s all friction.

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

“M-Min—hah—Minho—”

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

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

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

And that’s all he needed.

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

You’re both so close. So close.

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

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

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

It’s not gentle when he comes.

It’s everything.

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

Not yet.

He just kisses you.

And kisses you.

And kisses you.

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

You lose track of how many times.

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

Now, the room is quiet again. Still.

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

Minho is gone—but only for a second.

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

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

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

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

Minho sees. Of course he sees.

And he smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But your smile falters anyway.

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

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

Minho stills.

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

“Hey.”

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

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

Your heart stutters.

“What?”

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

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

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

You swallow hard.

He watches you.

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

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

Your throat tightens.

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

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

He waits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he flops on top of you.

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

You laugh, startled. “Minho!”

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

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

He hums again. Doesn’t move.

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

You do.

You really, really do.

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

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

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

He snorts into your chest. “Hell no.”

“Good,” you whisper.

He hums again, content. Almost purring.

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

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

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

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

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

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

Your face heats instantly. “Oh my god—”

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

“You’re not serious.”

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

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

He chuckles. “I’m in love.”

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

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

“And you’re stuck with me.”

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

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

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

You close your eyes.

And you do.

It’s been a few weeks.

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

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

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

You said yes.

Of course you did.

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

And then it happens fast.

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

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

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

You weren’t expecting him.

The ex.

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

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

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

You meet his stare.

Voice steady. “Get out of my way.”

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

You don't flinch.

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

It doesn't.

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

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

Now it just makes you angry.

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

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

Too hard.

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

"Let—go of me—"

He doesn't.

His grip tightens.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me—”

And then it happens in a blink.

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

Minho steps between you.

Calm.

Controlled.

Lethal.

Minho’s voice is low. Measured.

“You have until the count of three.”

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

“Three.”

No warning. No buildup.

Just violence.

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

Your ex hits the ground hard.

But Minho’s not done.

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

The hand he used on you.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat.

Because you remember.

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

And now—

Now you watch it unfold in real time.

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

“No—no, fuck—stop—!”

Minho’s grip doesn’t waver.

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

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

Then he bends.

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

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

Just shifts to the next finger.

“Second.”

Another break. Another scream.

You don’t look away.

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

And breathes.

Minho leans closer.

Not loud. Not unhinged. Just cold.

“Third.”

Crack.

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

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

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

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

He pulls.

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

Minho still hasn’t raised his voice.

Hasn’t needed to.

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

It’s justice.

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

Minho shifts again.

“Fifth.”

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

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

And this time, he doesn’t say anything.

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

Then he snaps it clean.

The sound is sickening.

The scream is hoarse. Shredded. Barely human.

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

And finally—finally—Minho lets go.

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

He turns to you.

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

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

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

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

You nod—but it’s shallow. Fragile.

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

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

And you know it's true.

Because he is here.

By the time the show ended and the meet-and-greet cleared, you were running on fumes, your phone at 3% battery and your body running mostly on espresso and anger. You’d finalized hotel room keys, triple-checked the luggage manifest, made sure all the boys had post-show meals waiting.

And then—finally—freedom.

You could’ve joined them at the bar. Hell, Chan had even tugged your sleeve and offered you a shot before leaving the lobby with a slurred grin.

But your legs had already carried you into the elevator, eyes closing before the doors even shut.

All you wanted was a bed.

No bra. No briefs. No bullshit.

So you stripped the second your door clicked shut.

Your panties were soft and high-cut, practically invisible beneath the oversized T-shirt you’d planned to sleep in—until you peeled that off too and reached for the one thing lighter, cooler: a thin, cropped camisole you’d worn under your manager’s jacket earlier.

The fabric barely kissed the curve of your chest. No padding, no support, nothing to hide how worn-down and sensitive you felt.

But fuck it, you were on a private floor, not sharing a room with anyone. No one would see you.

You passed out across the bed in seconds, limbs loose, hair stuck to your cheek, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other kicked free.

You didn’t even register the first knock.

But the second—louder, clumsier—jerked you upright.

You blinked, dazed and crusty-eyed. The room was dark, the hallway light seeping in under the door like a spotlight.

Knock knock.

You groaned, grabbing a pillow to your chest and hauling yourself to your feet. You were half-asleep, brain fogged and skin warm from sleep, not thinking at all as you padded barefoot across the floor.

The camisole had ridden up.

Your panties clung high across your hips.

But none of that registered—not until you cracked the door open and saw him.

“Hyung?” Seungmin mumbled, brows furrowed, eyes red and shiny. “Is this your—wait.”

His voice dipped. His gaze dropped.

And then he froze.

“…Oh,” he said, small and stunned.

You blinked at him. “Seungmin?”

He didn’t answer.

Because his brain—tipsy as it was—had just realized two things in rapid succession:

1. This wasn’t Chan’s room.

2. You were very naked.

Not technically. But close enough.

Your bare thighs were on full display, the camisole barely grazing your belly button, your nipples visibly hard through the thin fabric. The hallway light behind him cast your silhouette against the room’s dark interior in dangerous clarity.

He swallowed.

You blinked, still not fully processing.

“Wait—why’re you here?”

“I—” he scratched his head, swaying slightly. “Lost my card. Everyone locked their doors. Thought this was—uh—Chan-hyung’s room. My bad. I’ll just—”

You stepped aside and yanked him inside.

Hard.

His shoulder hit your chest and your hand scrambled to slam the door shut before anyone saw. Your heart pounded.

“Are you insane? What if someone took a picture of you?!”

“I’m sorry!” he whispered, voice strangled. “I didn’t—fuck, I really thought—”

You turned to him, panting slightly from the adrenaline, your blanket long forgotten on the bed.

Only then did you realize.

You looked down.

Oh. Shit.

Full tits. Bare thighs. Tight panties.

Seungmin was right there—eyes wide, frozen like a deer in headlights, clearly trying to keep his gaze anywhere but on your body.

Too late. He’d seen.

And now he was actively malfunctioning.

“I—I didn’t mean to knock on yours,” he stammered. “I thought it was Hyung’s. I swear. You just—you opened and I saw and I—”

You covered your face with both hands.

He was still talking, tipsy and spiraling.

“—and I was gonna leave but then you pulled me in and now I’m here and you’re—you’re dressed like that—”

“Stop talking, Seungmin.”

Silence.

His mouth snapped shut.

You peeked between your fingers.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate.

Which might’ve been cute—if you weren’t acutely aware that your nipples were still hard and your underwear left nothing to the imagination.

You dropped your hands with a sigh and crossed your arms under your chest, trying to ignore how that only pushed them up more.

“Okay,” you said, exhaling shakily. “You lost your card.”

He nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“No one else answered.”

“Correct.”

“And now you’re in my room.”

He nodded again, slower this time.

Your heart was still thumping. His eyes flicked up to yours—then away again. Every few seconds they betrayed him, dropping back down, catching on your thighs, your waist, your chest before he forced them back up again.

His ears were flushed red.

He was trying so hard not to look—and failing.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or curiosity. Or the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, swaying slightly, hands tucked behind his back like a schoolboy caught in the wrong classroom.

You sighed, one hand dragging down your face, the other cradling the pillow against your chest again.

“Well,” you muttered. “You smell like you lost a drinking game.”

“I probably did,” he said, voice rough but quiet.

“Bathroom’s through there,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the door near the dresser. “Freshen up. We’ll figure out the room situation in the morning.”

Seungmin blinked at you, dazed.

“You’re letting me stay?”

“Well that’s a given,” you said. “I’m not about to throw a drunk idol into the hallway at 2AM. God knows what sasaeng would love that headline.”

He made a soft, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat and practically scrambled toward the bathroom. You heard the door click shut behind him, followed by the water running.

Alone again, you exhaled sharply and looked down at yourself.

The camisole still clung to your chest, the fabric wrinkled from sleep. Your panties had shifted during your rush to the door, one hip strap riding higher than the other. The damage was already done—he’d seen you, fully—and suddenly, modesty felt stupid.

You weren’t thinking like a professional anymore. You were thinking like a tired woman who just wanted sleep and had, quite unfortunately, let a very drunk, very awkward, very cute Seungmin into her room.

Not ideal.

You crossed to the bed and slipped under the duvet, this time tugging it up to your neck like a shield, every inch of your body burrowing into the mattress. You didn’t even glance back when you heard the bathroom door open.

The room was small—modest compared to the suite-style ones booked for the boys—and there wasn’t much in the way of extra space. One armchair sat in the corner, low-backed and thin, its tiny matching ottoman clearly not meant for sleeping.

You could hear him hovering.

Fidgeting.

Shifting on his feet like he was trying to make himself disappear.

You kept your face to the wall.

More shuffling. A pause. Then a tiny sigh.

You rolled your eyes, still not turning.

“The bed’s big enough for two.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Are you sure?”

“I legally cannot let you sleep on the cold floor, Seungmin.”

“…Fair.”

The mattress dipped a few moments later. You felt the careful weight of him as he climbed in—slow, hesitant, like the bed might collapse under the guilt of it. He stayed close to the edge, not even rustling the duvet as he pulled it over his legs.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

You could feel the silence settle in like warmth, like tension slipping between your shoulder blades. He smelled cleaner now—soap and mouthwash, the lingering sharpness of whatever cheap vodka the boys had probably downed earlier. But mostly soap.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Eventually, his voice came, hushed in the dark.

“…Thank you.”

You mumbled something in return, barely audible.

Another pause. Then, quieter—

“I didn’t mean to see. Before. I wasn’t trying to.”

You sighed.

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and you were surprised to realize you meant it.

Maybe because he wasn’t leering. Maybe because he was clearly still rattled. Maybe because your back was to him and your body had long since relaxed again.

But you were tired. He was tired.

And despite everything, the room felt soft again.

Safe.

You closed your eyes and whispered into the pillow.

“Goodnight, Seungmin.”

He swallowed, voice low and raw behind you.

“…Goodnight.”

And then—finally—stillness.

But neither of you slept just yet.

Because under the sheets, just inches away, your heart was beating too loud.

And Seungmin, with his flushed ears and twitchy fingers, was still trying not to picture what he’d already seen.

⸻

The room had gone colder.

At some point, maybe around 4AM, the air conditioning kicked into overdrive, and the soft hum of it stirred you from sleep.

You shifted under the duvet with a lazy frown, your body instinctively chasing warmth. And then—

You felt it.

Not the chill of the room, but the heat of someone behind you.

A slow, calm breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Warm, steady.

Then the arm.

An arm wrapped around your waist. A hand splayed low, fingers spread wide and firm across your stomach, half tucked beneath the hem of your camisole.

Your breath hitched—eyes fluttering open as your senses slowly caught up to what was happening.

Seungmin.

He was pressed flush against your back now, close in a way that neither of you had planned. Your ass rested snugly against his hips, your legs curved toward your chest in a soft tuck, his body following the shape of yours like he’d been molded to it in sleep.

The realization hit like a slow, hot wave:

Somewhere between drifting off and now, you’d gravitated toward each other. Maybe it had started with a brush of knees. A shared pillow. Maybe he’d pulled you in. Maybe you had backed into him without thinking.

But now?

Now, you were wrapped in him.

And he was touching you.

That hand—broad and warm—shifted slightly, fingers flexing in his sleep. His knuckles grazed higher up your stomach, a slow, unconscious movement that felt more like a caress than a twitch.

Your skin prickled.

Your breath stuttered again.

And that was before you felt the subtle, unmistakable pressure against your ass.

He was hard. Not fully, not completely, but enough that the bulge was there—thick and lazy, tucked against the dip of your curves like it belonged there.

You froze.

Every nerve in your body suddenly wide awake.

It was still innocent enough. He was asleep. Dreaming. He wasn’t doing anything on purpose. But the heat that licked up your spine didn’t care about intentions. It cared about the weight of him behind you, the way his fingertips had curled slightly, like they liked the skin they’d found.

Your thighs pressed tighter.

Seungmin murmured something in his sleep. A sound low in his chest. And then—

His hips shifted.

Just a fraction. But enough.

He pressed into you.

Your lips parted, breath shaky, heart slamming against your ribs as his hips settled again, snug against the curve of your ass like he’d wanted to be closer. Like his sleeping body knew what it wanted, even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

You stayed still, not daring to move. Not even blinking.

His fingers on your stomach moved again. Slow. Dragging higher. The edge of his pinky grazed the underside of your breast, just barely. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just enough to send a thrill zipping through your chest.

You swallowed.

Carefully, silently, you reached down and clutched the duvet a little tighter.

But you didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

You stayed frozen.

Not because you were scared. Not because you didn’t want it. But because the smallest twitch of movement might’ve broken the spell—and right now, with his hands on you, his body warming your back, and his breath soft and steady against your neck… you didn’t want it to stop.

Even if he didn’t mean it.

Even if he wasn’t fully awake.

Even if this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your body didn’t care about reason. Your body cared about the ache that had been living under your skin for too long. The way your thighs clenched when his fingertips brushed just under the curve of your breast again. The way your stomach fluttered when he pulled you closer, unconsciously grinding that hardening length against the softness of your ass.

A soft sound slipped from his throat—barely a hum, muffled into your hair.

Then his hand moved again.

Slow. Searching. Sliding downward over your stomach, like he was touching something delicate in his dream—fingertips gliding beneath the hem of your camisole, callused pads grazing skin that hadn’t been touched in months.

You held your breath. Every muscle tensed, every inch of you begging for more and terrified of it all at once.

Then the other hand found your hip.

It gripped you there—fingers digging into the flesh, like he was holding on. Like he needed to.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His hips shifted again. His hard cock pressed tighter against your ass, no longer just a ghost of a touch but a full, heavy presence—throbbing through the fabric of his sweats, thick and real and there.

A soft gasp caught in your throat.

And then—God—his hands started moving.

The one on your stomach caressed upward, grazing the underside of your breast again with just the backs of his fingers. Not a grope. Not rough. But reverent. Careful. A sleeping man worshiping a dream he didn’t know was real.

The other stayed firm on your hip, squeezing lightly, rhythmically, as if guiding himself into the curve of your ass with slow, sleepy rolls of his hips.

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt.

Because your body… it betrayed you.

Your nipples hardened, tight and sensitive beneath the thin fabric of your cami. Your thighs pressed together, desperate, seeking friction. And heat pulsed low in your stomach—building with every moan that slipped from his lips. Tiny, broken little things. Like he didn’t even realize he was making them.

You’d never heard Seungmin make those kinds of sounds before.

And you weren’t even sure he was fully awake.

Your breath shook. Your hand fisted into the duvet. You didn’t move, not an inch—but God, you felt everything. And you wanted more.

You wanted to press back into him.

You wanted his hands higher. Lower.

You wanted—

“…Hnn…”

A little whimper escaped him—almost helpless.

And then—his fingers twitched again.

Dragged higher.

This time brushing—accidentally, devastatingly—over your nipple.

But then didn’t mean to move.

Not really.

Not in a way you could blame on sleep.

But the ache had settled too deep now, thick and warm in your belly, and the feel of his hands on your skin—soft and curious and a little desperate—was unraveling your last thread of willpower.

So you gave in.

Just a little.

A slow, subtle push of your hips back into him—just enough for your ass to press tighter into the hard length straining behind his sweats. Your breath caught in your throat, chest tightening as the hand on your stomach twitched in response… and then slid up.

His palm cupped your breast.

Full, warm, heavy in his hand.

You gasped—a soft, broken little sigh—because the pad of his thumb grazed your nipple again through your top, and it was too much, too sensitive, too good. Your back arched into it instinctively, the quietest sound escaping your lips, and you felt him—

Stilling.

Breathing.

Then freezing.

Seungmin’s body went stiff behind you.

Like a man pulled straight out of a dream and dropped into a nightmare.

His hand stopped moving. His hips locked. His breath caught like he’d choked on it—and then dragged in sharp and tight, like he couldn’t even remember how to breathe anymore.

“…fuck.”

The word was barely audible. Choked. Wrecked. He jerked his hand away from your breast like he’d been burned, stumbling backward out of the bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, his body trembling with confusion and guilt and raw panic.

He stood there beside the bed in nothing but a loose tee and sweats, hair messy, eyes wide, lips parted, and face pale in the blue light bleeding through the hotel curtains.

“I—I didn’t—I thought—” he stammered, hands raised like he’d accidentally committed a crime.

“I was dreaming,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know—fuck, I didn’t know it was you—”

You sat up slowly, duvet still pulled tight to your chest, your body flushed and your heart hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said, breathless, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Shit, I touched you, I—God, I’m so sorry.”

He backed away, visibly shaking. “I swear I wasn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

You should’ve said something. Anything.

But you were still reeling—body buzzing, skin on fire, the ghost of his touch still etched into your chest.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Until he did—

You didn’t mean to stop him. Didn’t plan it.

Didn’t think it through.

But the second he took a step back—panic all over his face, like he was ready to disappear and pretend this never happened—your voice came out, small and raw, right before you could even breathe it back.

“…Seungmin.”

He froze.

Turned slowly. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

You just looked at him—bare shoulders rising and falling beneath the duvet, hair tousled from sleep, lips parted, heart thudding behind your ribs like it wanted to escape.

“I…” you started, the words thick in your throat. “It’s okay.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“I didn’t stop you,” you said softly, eyes searching his. “Maybe… I didn’t want to.”

The room went silent.

And Seungmin—sweet, shy, brilliant Seungmin—stood there like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“You—” He blinked hard, swallowing, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You didn’t want me to stop?”

“I should have,” you said, honestly. “But I didn’t.”

You sat up a little, the duvet sliding down with the motion—revealing the thin strap of your camisole slipping off your shoulder, and just the barest peek of soft skin beneath it. The hem had already ridden up, underboob visible, your thighs spread slightly beneath the covers, body warm and flushed and so real in the low light.

Seungmin’s breath hitched.

You caught the way his eyes flicked down—just for a second—before he snapped them away, fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his lean body tense.

“I’m your tour manager,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “If I hadn’t been so tired, I could’ve sorted your room. I should’ve gone to the reception or called someone. I should’ve helped you.”

You looked down at your lap, voice quieter now. “Instead, you walked into my room. I was basically naked. And I let you into my bed.”

Seungmin stayed quiet. Still trembling. Still hard. You could see it—his sweats doing nothing to hide the thick, straining outline pressing forward. He wasn’t even drunk anymore. Just dazed. Wrecked. Fighting something inside him that was so clearly losing.

“And I didn’t stop you,” you finished, eyes lifting to meet his again. “Even when I should have. I let it happen. So…”

You took a breath.

“…you don’t have to go.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

And fuck, the look in them—like every wall he’d carefully built was cracking, like he was fighting to be good, to be professional, but his body was screaming something else entirely. Something raw. Something needy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said hoarsely.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

The duvet slipped lower when you shifted—bare thighs now visible. And Seungmin’s gaze flicked downward again. Just for a second. Just long enough to see how your cami clung to the swell of your chest, how it had ridden so high your round underboobs were visible, soft and tempting and so close.

You tilted your head, slow. Careful. Still quiet.

“…What if I do?”

That was it.

That was the moment.

Because Seungmin’s lips parted—eyes flicking back to yours, mouth pink and breath shallow, his cock visibly throbbing behind his sweats. The hunger was there now. He wasn’t just hard—he was wrecked by the sight of you, sprawled out like a dream he hadn’t meant to touch, and couldn’t resist anymore.

You were still his tour manager.

Still the professional. Still the one with authority.

But in that moment, with your hair a mess and your thighs spread and your lips barely parted in invitation—God, you looked so soft. So warm. So fucking beautiful it hurt.

And he had such a crush on you. Always had.

Maybe now he didn’t want to pretend otherwise.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring—like he couldn’t believe what was in front of him. You, almost bare-chested and flushed, thighs pressed tight beneath you, nipples peaked and your chest rising with every slow breath. His eyes dropped to your breasts, and he swore under his breath, the tension in his throat thick enough to choke on.

When you didn’t move to cover yourself, he dragged his gaze back up to yours.

Like he was waiting for the world to stop him.

Like he was seconds away from burning.

You didn’t say anything. Just held his stare and reached for his hand, curling your fingers around his and guiding it to your face—pressing his palm to your cheek.

That’s when he cracked.

His hand tightened. His jaw flexed. And then he moved—fast and quiet, crawling onto the bed over you with one knee on either side, not touching you yet, just looking down like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he said hoarsely, voice thick. “Please.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because your body did—arching subtly, thighs parting slightly beneath him in silent invitation.

He bent down, mouth finding the slope of your neck like he’d been aching for it for years. You gasped, head tipping back, the heat of his breath dragging over your collarbone. Then his hands—those long, trembling fingers—finally reached your breasts. He cupped them like they were something sacred, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, reverent circles.

“God,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

His tongue found your nipple and you gasped, back arching under him. He was breathing harder now, grinding against your thigh through his sweatpants, restraint unraveling one touch at a time. His lips moved from one breast to the other, mouth open, hot and wet, tongue lapping and sucking until your thighs started to tremble beneath him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said against your skin, voice guttural.

You looked up at him, wrecked already, pupils blown wide. “Then show me.”

Something in his expression darkened.

And just like that, he sat back, pulled the duvet the rest of the way down, and let his eyes roam over every inch of you. His chest heaved once. Twice.

Then he dragged your panties down your legs, slow, savoring it, watching the fabric slide off your body like it was the last thing tethering you to decency.

He swore under his breath again.

You shifted, but he stopped you with a firm hand on your hip.

“Don’t move.”

He stripped his sweatpants in one motion, cock heavy and flushed and hard as it slapped against his stomach. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. He was beautiful, yes, but there was something feral now in his silence—something hungry and barely restrained.

You reached for him, and he let you. Let you wrap your fingers around him, let you guide him down to your mouth.

But just as you leaned in, he caught your wrist.

His voice dropped an octave.

“You do that and I’m not going to last.”

Your smirk faltered.

“You think I care?”

And before he could stop you again, you leaned down and took him into your mouth—hot, slow, tongue dragging along the underside as your lips slid down inch by inch. He let out a strangled sound, fists curling in the sheets on either side of him, chest rising fast.

“Shit—don’t stop—fuck—”

You didn’t. You moaned around him, letting the vibrations buzz through his cock. Your fingers curled at the base, your pace teasing at first, and then faster—your lips slick, jaw flexing as you swallowed him deeper.

He groaned, head falling back, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Fucking hell—how are you—” He choked, hips twitching. “You’re gonna make me—”

You pulled off with a gasp, a line of spit catching on your lip as you looked up at him, flushed and ruined.

Seungmin reached for you in a blur.

His hand wrapped around the back of your neck, dragging you up until your lips crashed into his. He kissed you like he wanted to memorize you, like he wanted to devour you—and as he pushed you back against the mattress, the last trace of hesitation fell away from him.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” he murmured against your mouth. “But I’m not stopping.”

And then he pressed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, dragging it slow, teasing, watching your body react—watching your legs fall wider, your breath hitch.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice low and ruined. “Say it.”

“Yes, I want it.”

His cock nudged at your entrance—thick, hot, pulsing. You whimpered just from the feel of it pressing against you. Seungmin’s eyes locked on yours, blown wide, hair damp, jaw clenched so tight it ticked beneath his flushed skin.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “But if I move right now, I’m gonna come.”

You bit your lip, your hips already rocking forward the slightest bit, aching for him.

“Please do it,” you whispered. “Slow. I want to feel every inch.”

He groaned like he was in pain and slid in—just the tip.

Then deeper.

And deeper.

You cried out when he bottomed out inside you, your walls stretching to take him, fluttering from the fullness. His head dropped to your shoulder as he trembled above you, trying so fucking hard to stay still.

“Fuck—” he rasped, breath hot on your neck. “You’re—Jesus, you’re tight. Warm. You feel so—fuck—I can’t—”

His hips rocked once, slow, thick drag of cock that pulled a breathless moan from your throat. He kissed your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for him as he started fucking you in slow, careful thrusts.

Each one sent shocks through your spine—steady, deep, possessive. He groaned every time he sank back in, voice rough with disbelief, hips shuddering as he fought not to lose it.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

“You’re not what I expected,” you breathed, already gasping as he set a slow rhythm, grinding in circles that had your toes curling. “You’re so—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Just moaned, softly, “Oh Baby…”

The effect was instant.

Seungmin froze mid-thrust.

His eyes met yours—dark, blown wide, almost dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, low, like a growl from deep in his chest.

You blinked up at him, surprised, breathless. “…Baby.”

He snapped.

His mouth was on yours, desperate, tongue tasting every sound you made. Then he grabbed your hips and started fucking you with rougher, sharper thrusts—still deep, but now filled with urgency.

“You feel that?” he panted, hips snapping forward again. “That’s mine. You understand?”

You whimpered, clinging to him, head rolling back as he fucked you like he was trying to brand you.

“God, you’re so good,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this. Can’t believe I’m inside you like this.”

You barely heard him—you were too busy writhing, body twitching under him, orgasm crawling up your spine like wildfire.

But you wanted more. You wanted to see him break.

You pushed at his chest, flipping him over and straddling him in one breathless motion. He let you, watching you like he was starved, lips parted as you lined him back up and sank down on him, slow and tight and trembling.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, gripping the sheets. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You started riding him, steady at first—hips rolling, eyes locked on his, both of you completely lost in the sight of your bodies moving together.

But when you leaned forward, whispering “You like this?” into his ear—

—he moved.

Fast.

One hand grabbed your throat, not choking, just holding—just owning. His other arm locked around your waist, and suddenly he was fucking up into you, lifting you off the bed with every brutal, delicious thrust.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled. “Wanted to ride me, make me lose my fucking mind?”

You gasped, fingers flying to his wrist, not to stop him—just to feel him. His cock hit deeper like this, angled right against your sweet spot, and your thighs started to tremble from the sheer power of his pace.

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me.”

You did—and his face. God, his face. Eyes locked on yours like he was watching you fall apart just for him.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna take it. All of it.”

Your orgasm was still crashing through your body when Seungmin moved again.

Without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, strong hands manhandling you like you weighed nothing. You gasped into the sheets, dizzy from the sudden shift—but the moment your cheek hit the pillow, you felt him behind you again, kneeling between your thighs, gripping your hips like he was about to lose himself.

“Fucking perfect,” he growled, voice low and wrecked as he stared at the arch of your back, your ass up high, your cunt slick and pulsing from how hard you’d just come. “You look like this and expect me to hold back?”

You whined into the sheets, pressing your hips up for him—begging without words.

He lined up.

And slammed into you.

You screamed.

It wasn’t pain—it was bliss. He was fucking deeper than before, harder, snapping his hips against your ass so roughly you could hear the wet slap echo in the room. You clawed the sheets. Your voice was a broken string of moans and gasps.

Every time he drove in, your ass bounced back against him, the sting of skin on skin turning into pure heat.

Then—smack.

His hand landed hard on your ass.

You cried out, back arching like a bow.

“Oh my god—Seungmin—!”

He did it again. And again. Spanked you until the skin burned and the sounds were too filthy to be real, and he was groaning behind you like a man possessed.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he gasped, watching the jiggle of your ass as he fucked you. “Touching you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

His hand slid forward, fingers pinching one of your nipples, twisting it, tugging until you choked on a sob.

“Please—please—” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore.

He leaned over your back, his breath hot on your ear. “Begging already?”

You were shaking. Crying out for more. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and wild, and his rhythm got even more brutal—like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else.

“You want me to break you?” he whispered, thrusting deep and hard enough to push you forward.

“Yes—Seungmin—please—”

He pulled out suddenly and flipped you again, your body pliant and trembling as he pushed your knees up and apart, exposing you completely. He hovered over you, eyes wild, jaw slack, body covered in a sheen of sweat.

“You’re mine right now,” he said, voice trembling from restraint, “and I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

Then he sank back into you and started pounding again—deep, rough, so good you couldn’t breathe. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and Seungmin’s hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, tweaking your nipples, palming your throat just enough to make your head spin.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Say I’m the only one who’s ever made you feel like this.”

“You are—fuck—you are—” you cried, losing yourself completely as another orgasm tore through you, clenching so tight around him that he finally let go.

He groaned—loud, raw—head thrown back as he spilled inside you, hips still moving like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

Even as he came, he kept fucking you.

Slow now. Deep. Letting it ride out as long as possible.

His voice cracked when he said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

⸻

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of your shaky breathing. Your body was limp beneath him, boneless, skin slick with sweat and heat and everything he’d just poured into you. He was still inside, still twitching a little, as if even his cock didn’t want to leave your warmth.

But then Seungmin exhaled—shaky and slow—and pulled out of you with a soft hiss. He moved so carefully, hands trembling a bit as he reached for the discarded duvet to cover your body, his eyes wide and stunned, his lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You watched him sit back on his heels, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lashes low. The confidence—the filth—the devastating way he just fucked you… it was gone.

Now he looked shy.

Almost embarrassed.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly, reaching for the tissues from the nightstand. His voice was soft again—barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be that rough. I just— I kind of lost it.”

You smiled, dazed and aching but full of warmth, watching as he carefully cleaned you up. He was so gentle, even shaking a little, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he didn’t know if he had the right.

You pushed yourself up slightly and cupped his jaw. “Seungmin.”

His eyes flicked up to yours.

“I’m fine. Better than fine.” You leaned in and kissed him—slow and deep, tasting the way his breath hitched in surprise. “You don’t have to be so scared. I wanted it. All of it.”

He let out a sigh, the kind that sounded more like relief than anything else.

When you broke the kiss, he hesitated, then bent to grab the shirt he’d worn earlier that night from the edge of the bed. “Here,” he murmured, helping you slip it over your head. It was soft and warm, and it smelled like him—clean laundry and sweat and the tiniest hint of cologne. He smoothed the hem over your hips gently, reverently, then looked up at you with those sweet, wrecked eyes.

“…I’ll shut up now.”

You laughed softly and dragged him into the bed beside you. He climbed in, curling behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling you into his chest, holding you so tight it was almost like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

And for a few minutes, it was just quiet. Breathing. His nose buried in your hair. Your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his knuckles where they rested over your stomach.

Then you whispered, “No one has to know, right?”

He stiffened slightly. “Right.”

“But…” you tilted your head back, meeting his eyes, “I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

Seungmin blinked. His voice cracked when he said, “You mean that?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “There’s no going back to pretending we’re just coworkers. Not after this.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “Because I don’t think I could look at you like that again. I want this. You. As much as you’ll let me have.”

And then he kissed your neck—so softly, so sweet—and whispered, “I’m yours if you want me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: The way Seungmin has been creeping up on me and wrecking me these days???? Then that cute abs reveal? Safe to say he’s stuck in my head and Ive been thinking about this scenario for a VERY long time🥹

Also, we’re almost at 2k guys! 😭😭😭😭 you guys are the best fr!

SEUNGMIN + JEONGIN

CHANGBIN + HYUNJIN

You laugh in response, standing up from your spot to make your way to the old mattress, dropping to your knees and sitting on the edge of it. It dips beneath you a little too much to be comfortable, the springs making an audible stretching noise as you sprawl your hands out behind you and lean back. Upon closer inspection, it’s littered with mysterious gray stains, and you bring your hands forward again to pull your knees to your chest, instead.

“Done,” a voice calls when it enters the room, and your head snaps up to catch a glimpse of Felix, who saunters in with a wad of cash in hand. “I have your change.”

“Keep it,” you say to him, brushing it off with a wave of your hand.

“Are you sure?” Felix asks, examining the crisp twenty he grasps between his fingers.

“Positive. You guys need it more than me.”

“Ouch,” Seungmin remarks, earning shared laughter amongst the three of you. Felix meets you at the mattress, dropping to his knees, too, climbing in beside you and sprawling his hands out behind him. He doesn’t seem preoccupied with the way it dips below him, or the presence of mysterious gray stains. Instead, his gaze meets yours, his lips pulling into an almost secretive smile, yet he says nothing.

“What?” You say to him, motioning for the joint from Seungmin, who leans in to pass it to you. “You look way too content right now.”

“Why do you like coming here so much?” Felix inquires, reaching forward to take the joint from you now. He brings it to his lips, inhaling generously before pulling it back again, and then he hands it off to Seungmin once more, cocking his head in your direction.

“I dunno,” you voice back shrugging carelessly. “Good company. Better weed.”

“That’s not the only thing you get out of us,” Seungmin chimes in with a soft chuckle. His eyes fall to your chest, your breasts pushed together suggestively as you keep an arm wrapped lazily around your knees. You eye Seungmin curiously, and then glance back at Felix, both of whom stare at you a little too intensely to not be indicative of their ulterior motives tonight.

“What if I told you we had a proposal?” Seungmin then says, leaning back against the couch with his arms spread over the back, his gaze not leaving yours. From beside you, Felix maintains an amused smirk on his face as he waits for Seungmin to resume his speech.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“You know the drill,” Seungmin responds. His legs remain spread in front of him, taking up a little too much space than he realistically needs to, as he nods once in your direction.

And you understand immediately, rising from your spot on the mattress to saunter toward his seated figure. Once you meet him where he’s sat, you part your thighs over his, hoisting yourself onto his lap and wrapping two arms around his neck. Seungmin cocks his head in a satisfied manner, his lips pulling into a smile, as his hands snake to your lower back and massage in gentle circular motions.

“That’s my girl,” he remarks encouragingly, and your heartbeat quickens in your chest.

From across the room, Felix watches the two of you, his jaw tensing at the sight, admittedly a little jealous, though typically not one to vocalize his disdain. He knows it was his turn to play the game just a week ago, Seungmin maintaining a comfortable distance so that it could be Felix with his hands all over you, lips buried in the crook of your neck as you fucked him for a half ounce of weed. But he’d still give anything to do it all over again, wishing desperately Seungmin’s turn at your shared friends with benefits arrangement would draw to a close.

“What is it?” You say to Seungmin again, tangling your fingers in his silky black tresses and forcing his gaze onto yours.

Except he doesn’t answer, simply tilting your chin up with the tip of his index finger, as he brings his lips to yours and kisses you. His lips part so that his tongue finds its way to yours, and he smiles as his hands explore every inch of your body now, chuckling lightly against you. He tastes like weed, and he certainly smells like weed, and it’s clear by the way his careless laughter echoes around the room when he finally pulls away that he’s a little high.

“Alright,” Felix voices frustratedly. “Let’s get on with it.”

“Get on with what? You two are making me nervous.”

“It’s nothing to be nervous about,” Seungmin assures you. “But I want an answer from you.”

“Okay… what’s the question?”

He chuckles lightly, and then his expression turns serious again, as he cocks his head in Felix’s direction.

“Me,” he begins. “Or him?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” Seungmin reiterates. “Which one of us do you prefer?”

“For your weed, or for a good fuck?”

The two of them share amused laughter, exchanging curious glances with each other, as you shift your gaze nervously,

“To fuck,” he clarifies.

An anticipatory silence falls over the room as the two await a response, paying careful attention to the way you scan both their expressions.

And realistically, there’s no correct answer to the question they pose- they’re both far more than just satisfactory, indulging you in some of the best orgasms of your life, always set on pleasuring you to your taste and allowing you to explore new interests alongside each of them.

Seungmin likes it a little rougher, usually keen on showering you in filthy conversation as he fucks you, often turned on at the sight of you gasping for air or screaming his name. And Felix is gentler, but passionate, his lips always attached somewhere along your flesh, guiding you to your release like it’s the last time he’ll ever do it. They’re both good, but to appoint a preference would be a nearly impossible task.

“Both of you,” you say plainly. “I like sex with both of you.”

He smiles again, a glint in his narrowed eyes as he deciphers your words.

“That’s not fair,” Seungmin states with a small pout. “I asked you to choose one of us.”

“But I can’t choose just one of you. You both make me feel good.”

Your hands fiddle with the loose strands of hair that fall into his face, and Seungmin’s expression grows completely serious as he reaches two hands up, pinning your hands by your sides again.

“What if we let you choose properly?”

He caresses your wrists with the pads of his fingers, shooting a knowing look to Felix across the room, as he cocks an eyebrow back in your direction.

“What do you mean?”

But you’re cut off abruptly by a kiss, his upper body leaning into you as his hands wrap around your lower back to then find your thighs, where he tightens your position around him and begins to stand up. His hold of you is effortless when he’s finally risen from his spot on the couch, hands finding the curves of your ass as he steadies you in his muscular hold. And then before you can question him any further, he’s at the foot of the mattress, gently placing you parallel to the dipping mass, as he climbs on and hovers over you.

“Let us make you feel good,” Seungmin begins, lips buried in the crook of your neck as he slides a hand up your shirt to caress your stomach. “And then you can decide for yourself.”

Your gaze falls to Felix, who now crawls over you, too, a smile on his buzzed expression as he reaches down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. He says nothing, yet he leans in to kiss you, as Seungmin’s hand trails down to part your upper thighs.

You can feel the weed beginning to take effect at the same time your dripping sex aches desperately for their shared touch, your heartbeat quickening in your ears as Seungmin’s fingers attach themselves to your clit.

He begins to rub you in gentle circular motions as Felix’s mouth finds yours a second time, his tongue slipping between your parted lips, emitting a gentle gasp from the back of your throat. The pleasure is almost overwhelming, and Seungmin’s proposal dances around your mind relentlessly all the while, as you search for the response to give.

“What do you say?” Felix asks when he pulls away, tucking another strand of hair behind your ears. Your eyes flicker between their figures as they loom over you, their eyes tinted pink as they wear contented smiles on both their faces. Felix’s platinum locks hang loosely in his glossy eyes, his freckles almost seeming aglow under the dim beam lights that hang overhead. Seungmin runs a hand through his ebony tresses, and you observe a single bead of sweat trickle down along his hairline, as he purses his lips curiously.

You reach up to wipe his sweat with your middle finger, gathering the bead of perspiration in one long swipe, before bringing it to your lips and pushing it past your pursed lips. Your cheeks hollow around your finger as your tongue coils around to relish in the salty flavor, and Seungmin lets out a sharp breath at the sight.

“Yeah,” you say finally, your finger departing your lips to fall at your side once more. “That sounds like a fun time.”

They chuckle in unison, and you watch as Seungmin’s hand finds the buckle of his jeans, swiftly unfastening it and letting it hang open at the sides.

His other hand finds your panties, rubbing you gently over the growing spot of moisture he’s already coaxed out of you, and then he loops two fingers across through the crotch panel, before tugging down and letting the cool air of the garage graze your soaking cunt.

Felix watches in amazement as you squirm helplessly beneath Seungmin’s touch, his cock swelling in his own jeans, as you sit up to capture Seungmin in a passionate kiss. You hoist one leg over his upper thigh, his hand skillfully tugging his jeans down, too, before he’s in just his boxers and a plain white t-shirt.

Felix would be a damn liar if he didn’t admit to himself that he’s fantasized about this one too many times- how you react to Seungmin’s touch instead of his, how the sex differs, especially if you have a preference for him. But observing the way you arch your back up into him, your hands finding the elastic waistband of his boxers, where you tug them down to now free his erection- the encounter seems to follow a familiar cadence. Your responses are just as satisfactory, just as expectant for passionate physical contact that will bring you to your release. And although the night started with a fleeting bout of jealousy, he’s well aroused at the view that provides him answers he’s previously sought.

It’s Felix who frees his erection next, snaking his belt out from the belt loops of his jeans to discard it beside your lying figures. His jeans find purchase among the same pile of clothes, and then his boxers, until his lower half is fully undressed. And when Seungmin wraps a hand around the base of his cock, prodding it at your soaking entrance, Felix begins to touch himself, working his cock in slow, rhythmic strokes.

Seungmin doesn’t waste another second before he’s pushing himself into you, steadying himself with a hand on the mattress beside you. His forehead is already sheen with perspiration as he begins to work in and out of your sopping cunt, his cock throbbing against your walls as he shuts his eyes in pure ecstasy. And Felix quickens his pace at the same time, a light sloshing noise audible from beside you as he strokes himself over your figure. Felix watches the two of you as he fucks his own hand, a groan escaping his lips when his eyes travel down to your breasts, which bounce lightly with every harsh thrust. You’re in nothing but a loose-fitting t-shirt, perhaps one that formerly belonged to him or to Seungmin. Realistically, your friends with benefits arrangements with the two have gone on for so long, he’s not entirely sure what’s yours and what’s theirs anymore.

Your nipples protrude through the thin fabric, erect as the cool air grazes your flesh, and Felix can’t help himself but to reach a hand out, bunching the fabric of your shirt up to expose your bare breasts. He leans down to capture your nipple between his teeth, causing Seungmin to part from your body briefly to observe the sight. It’s certainly fascinating to him, watching Felix moan softly around your chest, as he ruts against his slender fingers to fuck his own fist. Seungmin’s not thought much about your relationship to Felix, always maintaining a level of secrecy within your agreement to share the same girl. But watching Felix pleasure himself, he can’t help but quicken his own pace, quickly aroused at the sight of two men satisfying you at once.

“Seungmin,” you manage to breathe out softly, angling his face down towards yours.

“Yes, baby?”

“Was the proposal just for a threesome?” You inquire softly, your eyebrows furrowing up in pleasure as Felix continues to suck your nipple. “Or was there something else?”

Seungmin lets out a sharp breath when you clench around his cock just once, seemingly to coax a quicker response from him.

“Isn’t it obvious?” he then asks, beginning to thrust into you at a faster pace now. He grasps your waist firmly, leaving bruises when he digs the pads of his fingers into your flesh, and your nails glide along his back, leaving streaks of raised pink lines.

“We like you,” Seungmin continues, gritting his teeth when you clench for a second time around him. “It’s not enough to share you like this- fuck, I want you all the fucking time.”

Felix’s lips depart from your chest, a string of drool connecting to you still, as he slows the pace of his strokes along his glistening cock.

“You really couldn’t tell?” He asks, running a hand through his long blonde hair and smoothing it back.

You ponder his words briefly- perhaps you haven’t quite thought about the jealous looks they shoot each other, the sarcastic comments they make and their constant questions about the other’s skills between the sheets. But as Felix throws his head back in a blissful state, his strokes remaining slow, while Seungmin pounds into you, it makes sense to you.

You begin to utter a response to them, quickly unable to, as Seungmin’s slender fingers wrap around your throat to steady your shaky body. He comes down to press his lips to yours, allowing a wad of his saliva to trickle its way down onto your lips, and then he groans loudly, bucking his hips forward involuntarily.

“Gonna cum,” Seungmin breathes out, moving even faster now. The sounds of skin slapping can be heard when he pushes himself in and out of you, and Felix doesn’t miss the way Seungmin’s eyebrows furrow in concentration, as he nears his release.

He leans down to suck a trail of bite marks along your neck as he fucks you, and then before you can beg him to fill you, he throws his head back in a euphoric state of pleasure, as he shoots thick ropes of cum deep inside of you, thrusting it in to ensure you’re full of him.

Seungmin pulls out breathlessly, labored pants escaping his lips as he departs from your shaky figure. And then he nods once in Felix’s direction, granting him permission to finish the job.

Felix wastes no time crawling over your figure, his hand still wrapped around the base of his cock, as he prods against your entrance and attaches his lips to yours. He’s much gentler than Seungmin when he finally pushes himself into you, gliding along your folds with ease as Seungmin’s cum lubricates your flesh, and then he begins to thrust in and out of you, whimpered moans escaping his lips as he fucks you.

“You have no idea how much we think about you,” Felix confesses, glancing down to catch sight of your breasts again. “We love having you come around here. But we’re tired of sharing like this.”

“Like what?” You voice to him, quivering when he hits a particularly deep spot.

Seungmin catches his breath beside you, lightning up a joint once more to take a generous hit. He’s clouded in a shroud of thick herbal smoke, nodding in encouragement as he watches Felix bury his face in the crook of your neck.

“Separately,” Felix continues. “We want to make you feel good together.”

He shuts his eyes momentarily, squeezing them tightly as he fucks Seungmin’s release in and out of you. And then his breath hitches in the back of his throat when he feels you wrap your legs around him, pushing him deeper into you, until he’s effectively kissing your cervix with every stroke.

“Yeah?” You query, letting out an amused, yet shaky chuckle. “Cum for me, then. Show me how badly you want it.”

Felix groans at your command, knowing very well that you’re well tuned to all his weaknesses, bossing him around like this being one of them. He thrusts into you two more times, his eyes shut tightly as he relishes in the sensation of your warm cunt hugging his throbbing cunt. And then his head spins when he finally feels himself let go, filling you with his hot white load, which dribbles swiftly out of you, much like Seungmin’s had.

As he does, his fingers attach to your clit, rubbing in slow circles and finally coaxing your own orgasm, as you tremble around him gasping for air.

The pull out of you is messy, a mixture of your release, Seungmin’s and Felix’s load, and generous spots of sweat staining the already questionably sanitary mattress. Felix rolls over to lie on his side, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, as Seungmin’s gaze meets both of yours. He pulls a joint away from his lips, cocking an eyebrow before speaking.

“So?” Seungmin asks, chuckling lightly at Felix’s weary state. “What do you say?”

Your eyes shift to the ceiling, and then back to Seungmin, who looks as though he already knows you’re going to agree to this. Felix looks contented, too, when he finally sits up again, reaching for a freshly rolled joint and digging around the jeans of his pockets for a lighter.

“I want it messy,” you say finally, breaking the silence that falls over the three of you. “And I don’t want to pay for my weed anymore.”

“We can do that,” Seungmin clarifies.

Felix nods in agreement, shooting Seungmin an affirmative smile.

The room echoes with the light sound of stretching springs within the mattress, and you glance down briefly, before meeting their gazes again.

“And hold that thought about scrapping the mattress,” you say to them finally. “We’re not quite done with it yet.”

your bare feet shuffle against the carpet as you come to a stop before the vanity across from your bed. there’s a crisply folded card on the corner of it, sitting primly in front of a clear vase where a single red rose sits.

see you soon… ♥️

you set the card down to caress a blooming petal of the rose, soft and smooth under your fingertips.

“when is soon?” you question aloud. it’s more of a whine than anything, but seungmin just thinks your pouting is cute. it never gets him in a hurry.

your petulance gives you a stupid idea. a really stupid idea, a way you can tease him back for making you wait. it’s so stupid, but the more you think about it, the more appealing it is. seungmin loves when you play with him - his deep, inky eyes can look so firm, so resolute, but the corner of his lips twitch when you act up, his head cocks like he’s a sweet labrador puppy instead of a devil of the night.

the pillowcases on your bed are silk. the pillows they cover are just as nice, soft and comfortable, yet firm enough to not leave your neck hurting when you wake from sleep. they’re cool to the touch, so nice to rest your head on when you lay down and relax after a long day.

they feel just as nice when you straddle them, when you put one between your legs and fold it in half to grind on until you cum.

that’s where you’re perched now, in the center of the bed, seated atop one of your pillows. your clothes lie in a disheveled pile on the floor beside the bed leaving you beautifully bare. the only thing you’ve left on your body is something that manifested when you stepped into the room: a pair of cute little socks, as white as a dove, with lacy ruffles adorning the top. seungmin’s a sucker for them and you know it.

the room has darkened fairly since you first stepped foot in it, and the light of your bedside lamp casts a warm glow throughout your makeshift bedroom and onto your sweating skin.

“seungminnie,” you whimper. your fingers curl harder into the silk pillowcase bunched in your hand, yanking it closer to press the pillow deeper against your slick cunt. “fuck.”

you wiggle your hips, slip your knees apart on the comforter until your clit slides against the silk at a new angle. now that you’re not grinding against your wet spot, the new spot you’ve settled on is cool to your heated and sensitive skin. your hands move to the mattress in front of you for leverage, pressing your palms harshly against it to grind harder, rougher. your tits sway with the movement and you duck your head. barely even five minutes ago your movements were slow, collected, sensual. you caressed your breasts and stomach and thighs with slow hands until your cunt was throbbing wetly against the pillow. your seemingly undemanding start made way for frantically rutting hips and unfiltered moaning in the blink of an eye, heartbeat thundering and bed frame creaking in your ears.

your bottom lip is held tightly between your teeth. if seungmin were here, he’d thumb at the corner of your lips, keep you from breaking the tender skin while wordlessly assuring you that he wants to hear your noises. the thought alone has you dropping your jaw and keening into the air. your palms burn where they’re pressed to the bed, and they’re moving from the mattress to grip your heels instead. your back is bowed like this, something positively sinful. your tits still bounce, your cunt still throbs. you’re restless, body too keyed up with pleasure that your hands don’t know where to go. one flies to your cunt while the other stays gripping your heel - spreading your labia so that your clit rubs unobstructed against the silk.

“fucking-! seungmin, seungmin, please… please!”

you wish he was here with you, you wish he’d stop playing this game and come to you, talk you to your orgasm while he stands at the foot of the bed and watches you dirty yourself up for him. to him.

your knees shuffle forward until your grinding hips settle on the corner of the pillow, that cool little edge of the silk pillowcase. your clit catches on it and your eyes roll, and your fingers vee themselves wider to give your puffy clit more room to get all the stimulation it needs. your orgasm almost makes your legs cramp. it has your knees sinking further apart, it has your other hand scrambling under the folded pillow to push it against you harder. you cum with a wail, trembling all over until the aftershocks have your knees nearly knocking.

rubbing against something always makes your orgasms feel different, it makes your cunt more sensitive to the touch and your limbs feel like jelly afterwards from all the work. that’s how they feel now, and your thighs quiver as you slowly shift yourself until you’re laying down underneath your blanket. there are enough pillows in your bed that it’s not a loss for the soiled one to stay put at the foot of it.

you focus for several minutes on regulating your heavy breathing. it sends you almost into a daze, the repetitive up-and-down of your chest and stomach and the sound of your deep breaths. your hand falls between your parted legs for just a little touch, and even the gentlest rub of your fingertip has your wobbly legs fighting to slam shut. you’re so sensitive. you’re so tired.

your eyes are drooping when you manage one last glance around the room. you check all the hot spots: the four corners of your room, your closed closet, the hello kitty chair sitting at your vanity, and there’s still no sign of seungmin. you drift off to sleep before you can focus on how badly you miss him.

and you’re awake again in what feels like minutes.

but it couldn’t have been minutes because it feels like you’re in limbo, swimming through thick molasses, somewhere between deep sleep and consciousness. your eyes slit open before shutting again, and your head tilts slightly on your pillow as you begin to drift off once more.

a creak somewhere to your left has your body stiffening right before slumber takes you under.

your eyes slit open again, wider this time, still groggy but slightly more alert. a second creak has your heart beginning to hammer in your chest. you’re wide awake now. it beats so hard that it heats the skin of your chest until you have to fight the urge to pant. to panic.

the room is completely dark. did you turn your lamp off before you fell asleep? you must have. or the power went out? because how else—

another creak.

your breathing turns shallow then, and your eyes frantically look around as they try to grow accustomed to the darkness in the room. it’s so dark that you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face if you tried, but your body keeps you in place. you’re boiling hot underneath the covers, sheets sticking uncomfortably to your legs. your eyes shake as they continue to look around, and your breath hitches quietly when you spot the figure in your chair.

seungmin is here.

you can’t see his face, can only make out the dark mass of his body where he rocks himself back and forth in your vanity chair.

even though you now know who’s in the room with you, the beat of your heart is still frantic. adrenaline still courses through your veins as your fight or flight response tries to tamp itself down.

you make to call for him. you want to touch him, you want his arms around you after the scare he can’t help but give you, but your lips won’t move. all you can manage is a heavy breath, a hint of a whimper easing out around the edges. you try again just to fail, again and again, and your loss of voice has you panicking, wanting out from under the covers to find solace in seungmin’s lithe arms.

but you can’t.

because you can’t move.

no matter how hard you try, your limbs feel like lead. your legs, your arms. you can’t even wiggle your toes or your fingers. it has your anxiety skyrocketing, your breath coming out in short, ragged pants. you can’t speak, you can’t move, you can’t fucking breathe—

“you’re alright,” seungmin says. his voice is so soft. the chair creaks one more time as he stands, black mass creeping slowly to the side of the bed. you whimper again, slurred and quiet, and you feel like you’re about to pass out right here until seungmin flicks on your lamp.

the room is shrouded in warm, orange light and it blankets seungmin beautifully too. you can see him clearly now, a small smile on his face as he leans down to kneel beside your bed. he rustles the blankets until he can grab at the closest hand to him, and he lifts it to his chest.

“breathe with me,” he says, taking a deep breath and holding it for a moment before exhaling. your breath stutters as you try to copy his breathing pattern, but your lungs still seem to struggle. “good try, come on. do it again, alright?”

seungmin breathes with you until you’re calm, until your lungs aren’t working overtime and your heart isn’t burning in your chest. he presses a kiss to your knuckles when he’s done and lets your arm flop back down onto the bed limply. he stands then, dusting off his pants at the knee and kicking off his shoes. seungmin bends down to pick them up and grabs your previously discarded clothes too. he places his shoes beside your vanity and begins folding your clothes and sitting them in the chair. seungmin holds onto your wet panties though, lifting them to his nose for a whiff. only then does he place them on top of your folded clothes.

his steps are slow and calculated when he makes his way back to your unmoving body, and your eyes follow every step he takes. they still follow him as he places his knee on the bed and swings the other over you, successfully straddling your chest.

you know, some people say that sleep paralysis feels like something’s sitting on your chest, he had said once.

you feel it now, of course, the indescribable weight on your chest, the shock to your system. it feels good to have him on top of you like this; he’s not sitting with his full weight, but the thought of it gets to you regardless. he’s in complete control. your heart rate picks up again and seungmin coos.

“your heart’s beating so fast,” he breathes. seungmin caresses the wrinkle between your eyebrows, smooths it out. “are you afraid?”

not of seungmin. never of seungmin, not for a long time now even though he is what he is, so you can’t necessarily explain the feeling that overtakes you when he rouses you from your sleep like this. you grew up hearing stories of monsters in your closet and the bogeyman under your bed; little did you know they’d turn out to be real. little did you know the bogeyman would bring you roses and kiss your lips until they’re swollen.

you’re not afraid of him, but your mind puts up a fight every time. it fights to tell you something’s here, fights to pull you from the bed and keep you safe even though you’ve never been safer. seungmin always manages to keep you on your toes. you never know what to expect. it leaves adrenaline coursing through your veins with nowhere to go, only able to ping around in your motionless body like a pinball.

maybe it’s the complete loss of control that gets to you more, maybe that’s what gets your heart pounding the most. you’re the owner of your life, you have to be in control if you want things done right. you control the company you keep, what time you eat dinner, where you shop for groceries. you take the reins on every aspect of your life that you possibly can so nothing can catch you off guard, but seungmin… seungmin knows what you need, sometimes you think he knows even better than you do. seungmin knows when you need a break, when you need your control stripped away so that you can finally relax. that’s why he does what he does.

“no,” seungmin answers his own question. your heart thumps in your chest as he snaps the tongue of his belt undone and unzips his pants above you. embarrassingly enough, your mouth starts to water. a line of drool seeps down your cheek because you can’t close your mouth, can’t sweep your tongue against the corner to catch it before it falls. seungmin laughs then, bright and kind, and wipes the spit from your cheek. “my dolly’s not afraid.”

the fight leaves your mind completely. a serene calm washes over you until it feels like you’re facing the sun, a dandelion seed being carried by a gentle breeze. weightless on purpose.

there’s nothing to worry about here, not with seungmin. there’s nothing to focus on, nothing to control. nothing to be other than seungmin’s doll.

seungmin has his cock out. you don’t know when that happened, all you do know is that he’s jacking his cock above your mouth. his hand is slow, his fingers twist when they reach the head, spreading his precum down the base. he presses the leaky head to your lips in an imitation of a kiss. you’d pucker them if you could, loll your tongue out to lick him clean while simultaneously getting him even wetter. but you can’t. seungmin doesn’t mind; he wants to play with you anyway.

he uses you like that for a while, rubbing his cock against the soft skin of your cheeks, dipping the tip of it into your warm mouth to prod at your tongue when he grabs your chin and opens your lips. you can tell he’s close when his round nose starts to scrunch. seungmin pulls away with a deep breath, puffing his cheeks like he’s overwhelmed.

when he begins to slink down your body, he takes the blankets with him. you’d shudder if you could move, you’d rub your legs together and yank the covers back up to keep warm. his hard cock bumps against the valley of your breasts, your stomach, until it settles on the mound of your cunt as he straddles your naked hips. seungmin playfully bites at your shoulder before pulling away to move between your thighs.

he bends your legs and spreads them, but not before breaking out into a grin when he takes note of your socks.

“dollies usually wear pretty dresses, don’t they? looks like mine only came with socks…” he thumbs at the ruffle and promptly pushes your legs to your chest. he has to hold them there himself because they’d drop straight back down to the bed if not. “and what’s this?”

seungmin’s eyes may be a deep, boundless onyx, but you swear up and down if you look into them long enough you’d see the stars in the night sky. they’re expressive and open and honest, and they’re peering right at your soaked cunt.

he hums and licks his pink lips. “do dollies always have such wet little pussies?”

no. just you, just his dolly. you want to tell him so badly! it’s wet, warm, tight. fit for him to use.

but dolls don’t speak. dolls don’t moan or cry or move, so you lay there and let him handle you how he wants. even if you were fully capable of moving and speaking, you don’t think that would change a bit.

seungmin leans down then until he’s eye level with your pussy. his eyes snap up to yours, watching keenly as he ducks down to nose at your thigh. he doesn’t stay there for long though, trailing kisses to your puffy lips until his mouth is hovering over where you need him the most. he parts his lips and leans in, ghosting his warm breath against where you’re sensitive and leaking. seungmin’s eyes remain locked on your bleary ones, and he tilts his head away again just to tease. that’s all he’s doing, playing with his food.

you have no recollection of how long it’s been, but your cunt is still so sweetly sensitive from earlier and you know seungmin knows it. his hot breath makes you want to squirm, it makes you want to lift your hand and grip his hair and yank his face into your cunt so he can really eat, but you can’t do any of it.

a chaste kiss to your clit has a spark zinging down your spine, but you lay calmly against the mattress.

as soon as the touch is there, it’s gone again. seungmin sits on his haunches between your legs and lets go of one so that it falls back down onto the bed. he jerks his cock then, wrings the head as he shuffles closer so that it bumps the pudge of your clit.

he slips inside so easily. you’re so relaxed and pliant that he’s sitting balls deep in no time. seungmin fusses over you then, maneuvering your body where and how he wants so he can fuck you just how he likes. he wants your legs spread but wants your hips angled up. your soiled pillow from earlier does the trick as he slips it underneath your ass. seungmin spends several moments worrying with your arms. he puts them down flat by your sides then changes his mind and makes you cup your tits. it’s still not where he wants you, but his hips finally twitch when he takes hold of your floppy arms and rests them on either side of your head.

“ah,” he smiles. his ears are red, but his eyes are wild. “it looks like you have paws.” you can’t turn your head to the side to look. “puppy doll.”

you feel it then when seungmin’s big hands come up to cup yours. your hands are curled into loose fists, pathetic little imitations of dog paws resting by your head as seungmin begins to fuck you hard. it makes heat swirl in your gut. you’re still so sensitive from earlier, you’re so keyed up now, there’s no way you’ll last. he squeezes your fingers once before moving on to your thighs.

the only reason you’re not being bounced up the bed is because of seungmin’s harsh grip on them.

“you feel perfect, honey,” seungmin breathes. a droplet of sweat drips down his temple, and your eyes follow it down. he grits his teeth. “my fucking dolly. my little doll, my most favorite toy to play with.”

it’s so quiet, quieter than usual at least. seungmin likes to talk in bed, and his hips snap roughly against the backs of your thighs, but you can’t help but realize how stark the difference in volume is without your own voice. your moans, your responses to him, your pleas for more.

you want to tell him how good it feels, how much you love being his little plaything. you want it so much that you try again to speak, and all that comes out of your mouth is a hushed, strangled whimper.

“yes, come on,” seungmin goads. “i miss your voice. come on, you can do it, honey.”

so you keep trying, fighting with your vocal cords with renewed vigor now that seungmin said he misses your voice. it finally cracks when seungmin drops one of your pliant thighs to the bed and lifts the other up and to the side. his nudges closer, deeper, and that’s when your voice finally breaks through, along with a small twitch of your index finger.

“yes! that’s it, good job. there’s my dolly’s pretty voice. fuck.”

it’s like the floodgates have opened. you moan unabashedly, not bothering to hold your voice back at all with seungmin snapping his hips so roughly and his praise washing over you.

your finger continues to twitch, and the movement carries through to your hand. it suddenly feels like ants are crawling up your arm, like the tv static you always feel when a limb falls asleep. you circle your wrist, curl your fingers tighter and then straighten them out.

“s-s—”

seungmin. you want to beg for him, you’re so close you can taste it. you work your jaw, move your tongue around in your mouth until it starts to feel like you’re real again.

“that’s it. say my name. baby, say my name when i make you cum.”

he grunts when your arm flops down to hit him in the stomach. you want him closer, so much closer so he can kiss your neck and smell your skin and rut into you deeper. seungmin always knows what you want, even when you can’t say it, so he blankets you with his long body and snakes his arms under your tingling shoulders.

your arm flounders limply to his back. your fingers clench and unclench until you finally manage to reach his short, brown hair and card your digits through it.

“seungmin,” you slur. it’s wet with spit and mumbled. “seungminnie.”

“seungminnie’s right here,” he answers. seungmin presses kisses to your cheek and down your neck before he rests his forehead against yours. “why don’t you go ahead and cum, mm? i’m proud of you, fuck. fuck, you’re perfect.”

like he still has control of your body, your fingers curl tight in his hair when you begin to cum on command. your mouth opens as you let out a sinful moan that he catches with his own mouth, and he leans down to kiss the noise from your lips. he follows you there, cumming inside with a breathless grunt of your name. when you look into the depths of his eyes, they gleam bright in the darkness.

the rest of your body comes to as seungmin cleans you up. he helps massage your legs and laughs when you finally wiggle your toes in your socks, and he winces and covers his ears when you holler as you stretch yourself fully on the bed.

he pulls the blankets up when he notices the goosebumps on your arms.

“time to put my toy away,” he jokes. seungmin tucks you in bed so diligently that you can hardly move again, comforter tucked under every nook and cranny of your body’s outline that you’re sure you look like a wrapped mummy. seungmin laughs proudly at his work but loosens the blankets when you start to wiggle. he kisses your forehead.

seungmin lays down beside you on the bed and even dips one leg under the blanket so you can wrap yours around it. he runs hot, he’ll be sweating in no time, even more so now that he’s taken his clothes off.

﹙ 𐙚 : bangchan ﹚ .ᐟ

thought his eyes were deceiving him; surely you would wear underwear with a skirt that short. he didn't say anything until you slid into the booth and he could see your ass poking from under the skirt , he slid right in making sure no one saw you. “what the fuck?” he sat down next to your. “where are your fucking panties babygirl?” he gritted through his teeth , just as the waiter was about to make his way over to your table. “i didn't wear any.” he could see that , what he couldn't figure is why the fuck were you trying to turn him on in this restaurant right now. “you're we already paid for the reservations.” he said , kissing your temples because the server was close. “what can I do for you guys?” he waited for the boy to leave before turning back to you.

“daddy is gonna ruin you when we get home , trust baby.”

﹙ 𐙚 : lee know ﹚ .ᐟ

he knew you were up to something , the fact that you were a little too excited to get out of the car and into the restaurant. “you must be really hungry huh?” you didn't say anything though , but that glint in your eye and that smirk he swore he saw made him curious. “what are you up to?” he said. “nothing” you smiled “innocently” and he damn sure wasn't buying it. “i have to go to the bathroom.” you got up leaving the boy alone , not even 2 moments later his phone buzzed , he picked it up , your plans becoming evident. “i fucking knew it.” he cursed. you sat back down to a seething lee know. “fucking slut you aren't wearing any underwear.” you giggled , knowing he wouldn't do anything in public , but you knew you were also done for after the date , he leaned over so you could only hear him.

“let's see if you find it later when your pussy is battered from cock and you still haven't came.”

﹙ 𐙚 : changbin ﹚ .ᐟ

you knew changbin couldn't resist praising you. “binnie , binnie look at my new shoes.” he genuinely wanted to see the shoes , looking under the table , only to be met with your legs widened. his head shot up looking at you with wide eyes. “b-baby.” he was flustered , it made you giggle. “where are your panties?” he whispered , you shrugged. “didn't feel like wearing any.” he was bewildered honestly , turned on but bewildered , he didn't even give a fuck about those shoes anymore not the food. “give me a minute , gonna pay the bill.” he stood up. “wait what about the food?”

“I'll ask them to wrap it up to go , no way im gonna sit through dinner knowing how wet you are sitting across from me.”

﹙ 𐙚 : hyunjin ﹚ .ᐟ

you knew your man loved to take pictures of you during your dates , so it was perfect. you waited for him to get up from the seat to “use the bathroom” you knew he was just going to pay the bill so you wouldn't try and pay , but you let it be — quickly slipping into his seat , taking your panties off , looking around before slipping them into his jacket pocket. you smiled as you slipped back into your seat as he came back down. “how was the bathroom?” he smiled , knowing he was caught. “let me take a few photos baby.” he reached into his jacket , furrowing his eyebrows as he pulled out the lacy material. he smiled, shoving the panties back into his jacket. “you little minx.” you giggled. “my favorite pair too.”

“we should skip dessert so we can get home and i can take some photos of you laid out in bed all pretty for me.”

﹙ 𐙚 : han jisung ﹚ .ᐟ

you purposely dropped the fork on to the floor, and the poor boy just trying to be a good boyfriend crawled under the table to get it for you — only to be met with your legs wide open , your bare pussy on display. a small “fuck” leaving his mouth making you smirk as he came back from under the table , his face red as he sat the fork down. “yo-you're not wearing any panties.” he whispered , his hands coming up to his cock , fixing himself. “wh-why.” he whined , upset because he was unable to do anything because you had already denied his request to leave. “i want dessert , don't be selfish sungie.”

“why would you show me if you were just gonna torture me like this baby , im gonna cum just sitting here thinking about it.”

﹙ 𐙚 : felix﹚ .ᐟ

“i think i left my lipstick in the car.” know felix kept a spare always in his pocket for you. “don't worry baby i go it.” he reached into his jacket pocket next to him. “what is this?” he innocently took out the lace , eyes widened as he shoved it back inside. “baby when did you do that?” he said , he was sure you were wearing them when you left the house , he was in the room when you were getting dressed. “i took the off when you went to pay the bill.” he gulped adams apple bobbing. “baby fuck it's hard enough to see you dressed so pretty for me , but knowing you're pussy is probably dripping on to the seat is painful love.”

“let's skip dessert tonight , i got something else sweet i want to eat and i don't think i can wait until we get home.”

﹙ 𐙚 : seungmin ﹚ .ᐟ

you knew it would piss him off — that's why it was perfect to do it to him. your heart was racing as you hit send on your phone , your legs shaking as you watched him pick up his phone to read the message , his eye lifting up to yours , filled with a lust filled angry glare. he didn't say anything , lifting up the table cloth looking under , quietly coming up. “can't take a mutt like you anywhere can i?” he growled , you were dripping for him. “i want to go home.” you whined , needing him. “no , you're gonna sit there until the date is over.” he said , you rolled your eyes. “don't think because we're in public i won't embarrass you , i'll make you kneel right here.” you immediately stopped unsure if he was serious, but you weren't about to test that theory.

“act like a bad dog and i’ll treat you like one , let's see how funny you think this stunt is later.”

﹙ 𐙚 : jeongin ﹚ .ᐟ

was he already looking at your ass? yes , yes he was — but that was besides the point , he could easily tell you were missing your panties through the dress. “sit the fuck down.” he hissed , you pretended to be confused , tilting your head in fake innocence. “are you fucking joking?” he growled , leaning over the table. “you aren't wearing any fucking panties.” he wanted to wipe that smile clean off your face. “didn't want panty lines.” you shrugged him off. “waitress is coming.” he could care less about the waitress. “then you wear a thong or something , i don't know.” but you wave him off. “this look is much better.” the waitress coming closer , he leaned over whispering one final threat.

“laugh now baby , shit won't be funny when your ass is sore and pussy is begging for my cock and you don't get it.”

"Who is it?" your best friend looks up at you, a little breathless, still stroking his length slowly, squeezing it a little.

"Hyune." you chuckle.

"Answer him." Felix smirks diving back in, pushing his tongue between your soaking folds into your warmth.

You groan and accept your other best friend's call.

"Hi, beautiful." you can just hear Hyunjin's smirk by the way he says it.

"Hey, prince- ah!" you accidentally moan as Felix pinches your clit teasingly.

"Hi, Felix!" Hyunjin yells loudly, making you laugh as you move your phone away from your ear.

Felix chuckles, detaching his lips from you as you put Hyunjin on speaker so Felix can talk to him too.

"You're between y/n's legs, I presume?" Hyunjin teases.

"My favorite place to be. Care to join?" Felix claps back as you close your legs and flick his forehead.

"That's besides the point. I'm calling cause I need a favor from my two very beautiful and very horny best friends." Hyunjin announces as Felix rubs his forehead, his brows pinched together.

"I'm not filming a porn movie and putting it on the internet!" you chime in, making Hyunjin laugh.

"I wasn't gonna ask that but now that you said it-"

"Stop stalling, Hyunjin." you interrupt him and he giggles.

"Alright, since the two of you are at it anyways, I wanted to ask if you would let me paint you in different sex poses? I wanna make it aesthetic, erotic, raw... you know? You two would be perfect for it!"

Even though you and Felix messed around sometimes, you've never actually went all the way so both of your faces become red as Hyunjin explains his vision.

You've kissed Hyunjin too, as has Felix but it never went further than that so the thought of being naked with Felix inside you, while Hyunjin paints the both of you made your gut stir, arousal gushing out of your already wet pussy.

The three of you had an interesting friendship, and you know not many people would understand it or support it but as long as you have each other, you didn't care.

"Hello? Earth to my pretty people?" Hyunjin laughs.

"I'm down." you nod and then look at Felix whose face was as red as a tomato now.

"M-me too. Yeah. Why not." he shrugs, trying to make it look like it didn't affect him at all.

"Great, that's settled! Come to my studio tomorrow at 6pm." Hyunjin sounds excited.

"Sure, see you!"

"And loves?" Hyunjin adds, his voice dropping a few octaves.

"Y-yeah?" Felix speaks up first.

"Don't worry about anything. I'll take good care of you." Hyunjin almost purrs and you feel your pussy clench at his words.

After you hang up, Felix and you look at each other and then burst into an awkward laugh.

"This'll definitely be interesting." he says, a contemplative look on his face.

"Mhm. Let's think about that tomorrow, though. We have some unfinished business here." you smirk, spreading your legs again as Felix looks at you darkly, licking his lips.

Excitement runs through your veins that night as you curl up in bed, anticipating tomorrow.

Felix drives you to the familiar building and the two of you step into the elevator, letting it take you to the top where Hyunjin's studio sits.

Hyunjin lets you in, and as always when he paints, he is messy, his hair disheveled but somehow making him even prettier, his bottom lip is red as he probably bit into it with concentration, there's a streak of yellow paint on his left cheek, and more on his shirt and pants.

"You know the rules." he wiggles his eyebrows before twirling away like some fairy, making you and Felix laugh.

The rules were simple; no shoes because they're dirty (and probably because Hyunjin likes to take peeks at your feet, sometimes even rub them when the three of you cuddle) and no phones as he felt they were an unnecessary distraction in his sacred space.

You and Felix leave your shoes and phones by the door, before following Hyunjin, walking on the plastic that's covering the floor for protection, and Hyunjin looks at you, leaving his paintbrush aside before he skips to you, his long arms enveloping both of you in a hug.

"Oof." Felix huffs out air as he accidentally knocks into Hyunjin a little too hard, making Hyunjin snicker before he leans back, his hands splayed on the backs of your heads.

"My loves. Are you excited?" he asks as you swat at him which he dodges with a laugh, finally releasing you.

"Intrigued, I would say." you smirk, both of you looking at Felix.

"I'm - a little nervous." Felix admits, a blush coloring his cheeks.

"We shared a bath multiple times." Hyunjin narrows his eyes at Felix, a playful smile gracing his features.

"This is different!" Felix swallows and you chuckle, your hand on his upper arm in an attempt to comfort him.

"It's just us, I know you'll feel better as soon as we get into it." you say, knowing that Felix isn't as spontaneous as Hyunjin or you are and it takes a little convicing when he's on the spot, but ultimately he always caves in.

"You don't have to strip right away. Here, I prepared coffee and snacks for my models." Hyunjin beckons you to the table with a smirk.

"Hardly a model." you chuckle as Felix picks up a drink.

"Y/n, you're gorgeous and you're not allowed to talk badly about yourself in my studio... or like ever." Hyunjin nods, folding his arms on his chest.

"Damn, calm down, I was joking." you giggle, your face warming up.

"Oh my god, ew! What the fuck did I just drink?" Felix makes a disgusted face and the two of you laugh.

"That would be my coffee. Your hot chocolate is on the left, sugar boy." Hyunjin smirks.

"I swear-" Felix starts, his hand curling into a fist and you laugh.

"Anyways. How will this work?" you stop whatever banter they were about to have, because you know it can drag on, sometimes they don't know how to stop when they start joking around.

"So. The bed, right?" Hyunjin says, semingly a bit bashful himself.

You look towards the bed, one where the three of you spent countless nights watching some artsy european movies on Hyunjin's projector; Felix would fall asleep with his head on your chest and Hyunjin would end up putting his head on your lap, demanding of you dramatically that you need to caress his head and play with his hair or he'll die.

The three of you would end up falling asleep together, limbs all tangled and messy, and one of you would always be close to falling off the bed (that one would mostly be Hyunjin).

"Okay." you nod.

"I will instruct what poses you'll make and then paint them. Of course we will take breaks when it becomes too much. Or stop altogether if either of you feel uncomfortable." Hyunjin waves his arms around as he talks.

"Alright. Should we just start?" you shrug and Felix sputters a little.

"I'm not hard yet." he says quietly.

"That's no problem. I'm sure y/n can help you with that." Hyunjin smirks. "Or if you want, I can help you."

"T-that... y/n and I can just make out." Felix's deep voice is so quiet in the big space.

"Okay, if you need me I'll be here. I can turn around if you want." Hyunjin chuckles.

"N-no, you can... watch." Felix says and you smirk, taking his hand and leading him to the bed.

Hyunjin sits on his stool, his eyes darkened already, his tongue pressed into his cheek as you push Felix to sit on the bed, your body following his as you grab his face in your hand and press your lips on his.

His lips are sweet and familiar, albeit trembling a little in this moment so you press harder into them, his hands coming up to caress your waist.

Hyunjin watches with dark and curious eyes, his two beautiful best friends kissing in front of him.

Felix relaxes the more you kiss, his tongue darting out to lick at your lips, asking for permission to taste you which you happily grant him.

Hyunjin's heart speeds up as he observes you, his cock twitching in his pants.

He notices the way your hands tangle in Felix's hair and how you pull at the strands, he notices Felix's hands on your ass, squeezing and massaging the flesh as you get closer to each other, the wet sounds of your tongues dancing together bounces off the walls as spit dribbles down your chin.

He notices Felix's pants growing tighter, and he doesn't feel jealous of him, he feels exhilirated.

He wants to join.

Hyunjin stands up and makes his way towards the bed, which gets your attention as you detach from each other, a string of saliva connecting your lips.

Without any words, Hyunjin cups your chin and leans down to kiss you messy and sloppy, his tongue pushed in instantly to lap at you and you whimper, jolting a little as Felix grips your thighs.

Hyunjin leans away and turns to Felix, his hand big on Felix's head as he gathers his hair in it and yanks his head a little, making Felix whimper.

Hyunjin leans down and kisses him equally as messy and sloppy as he did to you, arousal gushing on your panties as you watch them making out.

"Fuck. I'm sorry." he shakes his head.

"It's okay, Hyune. You're always welcome to join." you lick your lips, your eyes traveling between his face and the obvious bulge in his sweatpants.

"I'll hold onto that invitation. But, right now, I need you two to strip. Okay?" he asks and both of you nod.

It's easy to be naked in front of each other as you have shared baths and one too many nightly escapades which ended in skinny-dipping, Felix always being a victim of yours and Hyunjin's jokes, where you would dive in and grab his ankles or try to scare him with stories of lake monsters.

Felix would nearly cry but you didn't want to be too cruel so you would hold him, as the three of you floated around naked in the cold water.

But, something about only you and Felix being naked while Hyunjin is dressed and observing every single move you make is new and exciting.

"So, what would be the first position?" you ask curiously as Hyunjin prepares his easel.

"What do you usually do?" he asks, not looking at you.

"We never... we never did that." Felix says, making Hyunjin look up.

"Really? I thought you for sure have. Don't you like - mess around?"

"Yeah, but we never went all the way." you nod and Hyunjin gasps.

"Oh my god, why didn't you tell me! Is this uncomfortable for you?"- he panics, his arms flailing, making you laugh at him because he's seconds from slipping on that plastic cover.

"Calm down, Hyun!" you say as you sit on the bed.

"I'm totally fine with it. Lixie?" both of you look at Felix.

"Yes. I'm okay to go." he nods.

"Alright, just prep yourselves then." Hyunjin says it like it's a command to obey and you can't help the way your pussy clenches at his words and the determined look in his warm eyes.

"H-help us?" Felix gets bold suddenly, batting his pretty eyelashes at Hyunjin and he lets out a delighted chuckle, only two long strides and Hyunjin is in front of you.

"Sweetheart, spread your legs for us." Hyunjin coos at you and you immediately obey.

The smirk on his face deepens as he brings his hand to Felix's lips.

"Spit on my fingers, angel." he taps his lips and Felix whimpers a little, gathering spit before letting it drip onto Hyunjin's long fingers.

You expected him to only finger you, but what you didn't expect is for Hyunjin to drop to his knees between Felix's legs and spit on his cock as he grabs him, making Felix squeal from the sudden action.

Hyunjin wastes no time, his wet fingers press into your clit and run down your folds, as his other hand starts slowly working Felix's length.

"Ah!" Felix moans, jolting into Hyunjin, you know it must feel quite different to have another guy jerk him off like that and you whine for more attention as Hyunjin stares up at Felix with a knowing smirk.

Hyunjin turns to look at you, eyes softening before he slowly pushes his fingers inside you, your warm pussy welcoming them and sucking them in.

His tongue darts out to catch a bead of pre-cum from Felix's tip and Felix gasps, his hands clutching at the covers under him as his thighs tremble.

Hyunjin doesn't stop smirking as his tongue swipes around Felix's tip before he takes him in, hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head up and down slowly, his fingers matching the pace of his lips as he fucks them deep into you.

"H-Hyune." you whimper, the tips of your fingers touching Felix's as he falls apart too, his head thrown back, a string of curses leaving his lips as Hyunjin sucks on him harder.

You admire how he seemingly has no gag reflex as he keeps sucking him in, his nose pressed into Felix's pubes as he swallows his whole length, while fucking your pussy skilfully, scissoring you open to take Felix's cock.

"There." he suddenly pops off of Felix, pulling his fingers out of you and immediately sticking them into his mouth to taste your sweet juices.

"Mm." Hyunjin moans around his fingers.

"T-thank you?" you bite your lip teasingly and Hyunjin giggles.

"Anytime."

"How do you want us for the first position?" you ask, your pussy throbbing and clenching, needing more attention.

"Okay, so..." Hyunjin pushes Felix to lay down and then moves him a little, making you chuckle at how Felix looks up at him cutely and almost innocently as Hyunjin adjusts his body however he wants.

"I want your arm lifted and kind of falling of the bed. And the second on will be on y/n's hip when she straddles you." Hyunjin motions at you and you nod, your legs on either sides of Felix and he squirms a little as you grab his cock and run it on your wet folds.

Felix gasps as you moan and slowly lower down on his length, Hyunjin observing his cock pushing into you with his lips parted.

You wiggle a little to adjust, feeling your best friend's cock filling you up perfectly and Felix whimpers quietly, bucking up into you.

"Where do you want my hands?" you ask, sounding almost breathless as you clench around Felix involuntarily, making his eyes flutter.

"Hm. Actually, let's change it up. I want y/n arching off you and holding your hand. So you can put this one-" Hyunjin takes the hand that was falling off the bed- "here." he lays Felix's hand on your hip.

"Your other hand here." Hyunjin takes your hand and puts it on Felix's abs but a little bit to the side so the point where you connect can still be visible to him.

"Beautiful." Hyunjin breathes deeply. "I want you looking at each other." he adds, messing with Felix's hair and then yours, making some of it cascade on one side, but not covering your breasts.

"Arch your back a little, sweetheart." you do as he says, any movement making both you and Felix moan.

"Now, stay like that as long as you can." Hyunjin smirks, almost evilly, the bastard.

He moves from the bed to blast some music on his speakers, whistling and acting nonchalant but you can see his cock struggling against the fabric of his pants.

Your eyes find Felix's and he licks his lips as he looks at you.

"You okay, Lix?" you ask, squeezing his hand a little.

"P-perfect. Feel so good. You're so warm and tight." he whimpers and you can't help your hips moving at that, your pussy clenching.

"Hey, no actual fucking." Hyunjin chimes in, knocking down a few paintbrushes accidentally. "Yet." he adds with a devilish smirk.

"Bastard." you mutter under your breath with a chuckle, making Felix smile.

"I heard that!" Hyunjin sits at his easel, and you look up at him, sticking your tongue out at him as he rolls his eyes playfully.

Hyunjin starts sketching quickly as you look back down at Felix.

The two of you lock eyes and in the sudden silence devoid of your conversation and jokes, you're aware of everything.

You're aware of Felix buried inside your warmth, throbbing and full, his fingers slotted between yours, his other hand gripping your hip, his dark eyes fixated on you.

Felix's eyes travel down to where he's filling you up and he groans deeply.

"Fuck." his hips buck just a little and you feel your arousal gushing and coating his cock.

"Lix." you warn but it comes out as a moan.

"You two have no patience." Hyunjin scolds as he continues sketching.

"You try being in my place." Felix huffs.

"Maybe later." Hyunjin winks at you as you flip him off.

"Hand back on Lix." he points with his pen and you make noises of protest but listen nevertheless.

You look into Felix's eyes again and he looks at you so softly but still full of lust and you find yourself getting lost in his gaze.

After he's done sketching, Hyunjin starts mixing his paints and you wiggle a little, making Felix moan under you, his nails digging into your hip.

"My legs hurt." you whine with a pout.

"Let's take a break." Hyunjin states, and you can see that he's adjusting himself in his pants, as his other hand holds the paintbrush.

"You have a sketch though," you start, sliding off of Felix and making him whimper. ",can't you like finish painting without us having to be in this position for so long?" you ask, your eyes falling down to Felix's cock, wet with your arousal.

Your face warms up and you tear your eyes away to look at Hyunjin expectantly, as Felix sits up, feeling a bit dizzy as he shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath in.

"I need you in the position just a bit longer. Just to get some shading done, then you can change positions." Hyunjin says, finally looking up at you.

His eyes rake all over your body and he licks his lips hungrily at the sight.

"What, you hate being on top of our Lixie that much?" he decides to tease to calm himself down.

"As much as I love cockwarming Lix, my legs are cramping." you state nonchalantly, making Felix cough behind you as he stands up.

"You okay there, angel?" Hyunjin asks.

"Perfect." Felix nods but you can see that his eyes are almost crossed from the need to be touched.

You laugh under your breath, drinking some water before sitting down and stretching your legs.

Hyunjin stands up abruptly, making his way to you as Felix sips on his chocolate.

You look up at him and before you can ask him what he's doing, Hyunjin kneels before you, his fingers wrapping around your ankle as he brings your foot on his thigh.

"W-what..." you start but he shushes you, his hands wrapping around your calf as he gently massages you, soothing out the tension in your muscles.

Your pussy keeps clenching around nothing as Hyunjin stares into your eyes darkly yet his touch is so sweet.

You smirk a little, sliding your foot on his flesh before gently resting it on the bulge in his pants.

Hyunjin sucks in a breath, closing his eyes for a moment as his hands squeeze you a little harder.

"Be careful, sweetheart." he warns you but you want to play, so you press harder into him, wiggling your toes against his tip, realizing quickly he isn't wearing any underwear.

Hyunjin looks up at you, narrowing his eyes with a smirk.

"Lix, come here for a sec." Felix makes his way to the two of you instantly.

"Entertain our sweetheart. Perhaps she needs a distraction." Hyunjin winks at Felix, and Felix returns the wink with a smirk of his own as he stands in front of you.

You look up at Felix and he puts his hand on the back of your head, gently caressing you as his other hand holds his cock, bringing it closer to your lips which fall open immediately, letting him gently push his tip inside your mouth.

It's not the first time you've done this, but you never tasted yourself on him or done this with Hyunjin in the room and it makes you moan around him, Felix's hips stuttering as he pushes in more.

Hyunjin whines quietly as he starts massaging your other leg and Felix holds your head in place, fucking into you slowly.

"See how good you can be for us, sweetheart." Hyunjin's voice is low and you struggle to look down at him as Felix slides his cock deeper inside you, your throat adjusting to take him.

Hyunjin's hands wander up towards your thigh, squeezing and massaging the flesh there, his fingertips dangerously close to your wet core.

By now you're dripping on the sheets, and Hyunjin subtly parts your legs just to take a look at your cunt and the sight of your glistening folds has him groaning.

Without a word he leans in and starts kissing up your thigh.

You jolt a little, whimpering around Felix's length as his eyes fall down to see Hyunjin kissing and nipping at your flesh.

The sight makes him twitch inside your hot mouth as Hyunjin comes closer and closer to your core.

He worships your inner thighs with his lips, tongue and teeth as Felix pushes his cock deep inside you, making you gag a little.

You know he's about to apologize so you start bobbing your head on his length just to prove to him that you don't mind, rather the opposite, you love it.

Felix's fingers grip at your hair as he lets you take control, wetting his cock with your spit as you close your eyes and get into it.

Just as you're beginning to lose yourself, Hyunjin suddenly buries his face in your cunt and inhales deeply, making you aware of him.

"You smell so sweet." Hyunjin almost growls. "Fuck the paintings." he mumbles against you and your legs tremble but be grips them, pulling them over his shoulders before his lips attach to your lower ones.

"Shit." Felix thrusts into you, the sight of Hyunjin's plump lips against your cunt as he kisses you and sucks on your clit, his tongue darting out to gather all your dripping juices drives him insane and he can feel the familiar build up inside his gut.

"I'm gonna cum." Felix whines as he continues fucking your face and you're a mess, drooling on his cock, your legs shaking from the way Hyunjin eats you out, like he's never tasted anything better in his entire life.

The slurping noises Hyunjin makes as he presses his lips and nose as hard as he can into you, his tongue fucking your clenching hole, bring Felix to the edge and he twitches inside you as you grip onto Hyunjin's hair making him groan into your pussy.

"Ah, y/n!" Felix moans loudly as he shoots his load down your throat and you swallow readily, not letting a drop go to waste as you milk him dry.

Felix pulls out of you, trying to come to his senses and catch a breath just as Hyunjin is about to lean away and throw some snarky remark but Felix is quick to grip his head and push him back into you, making him moan.

"Finish what you started, Hyunjin." Felix's voice is deep, his eyes sharp and electricity shoots through your body when he takes charge like that.

Hyunjin's eyes roll back in his head as he eats you out even more hungrily, palming his erection harshly through his pants, a wet spot appearing on them.

Felix smooths out Hyunjin's hair with a smirk.

"Good boy." Felix's deep voice rings out and Hyunjin groans deeply, bucking his hips into his hand, very obviously moaning into you and you whimper, you're so close to release.

Felix decides to help you feel even better as he sits down next to you and leans in to suck your nipple in his mouth, his fingers playing with the other one.

The combined stimulation proves to be too much and you cum hard, painting Hyunjin's face in your pleasure and he whines lapping you up and licking at his lips.

"Now I understand why you love being between y/n's legs so much." Hyunjin pants as he looks up at Felix, his hand shoved in his sweatpants.

"I'm right here, you know." you chuckle and he stands up.

"I know sweetheart. Ah, please help me." Hyunjin whines, pulling his cock out as it twitches miserably in his hand, pre-cum dribbling from the tip.

"Let me." Felix interjects, sensing that you need to come to your senses a little bit and let your throat rest.

"Be my guest." Hyunjin smirks as Felix sits right in front of Hyunjin's core.

You gasp quietly at the sight before you, Felix wrapping his lips around Hyunjin's dick and Hyunjin tangling his hand in Felix's hair making him take more as he guides him.

You get desperate all over again, your hand reaching between your legs to play with your puffy clit as you observe your best friends lost in pleasure; Hyunjin's head thrown back as he moves his hips purposefully, languidly, fucking Felix's mouth, his big hands gripping his hair and controlling him as Felix drools around him, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands digging into Hyunjin's thighs.

"Oh god." you whine as you push two fingers inside your pussy and start fucking yourself with the same speed Hyunjin is moving his hips against your friend's plump lips.

Hyunjin opens his eyes and looks at you with a smirk before he looks at Felix.

"Looks like you're the good boy now." he says lowly before snapping his hips into Felix harshly, making him gag as tears spill from his eyes and for a moment you get worried but you see that his cock is twitching against his thigh at the way Hyunjin is handling him, fucking harder into him, making the tip of his cock hit the back of Felix's throat.

You speed up with your fingers, your other hand coming up to play with your aroused nipples as Felix cries against Hyunjin, gripping his thighs and as his nails dig into his flesh and break skin, Hyunjin whines loudly and cums, painting Felix's throat with his cum.

"Don't swallow." Hyunjin warns and Felix sputters a little, some of the cum seeping out of his lips.

"Come here, beautiful." he beckons you as you stop what you were doing and come closer to Felix.

"Kiss her." Hyunjin commands and Felix grabs your face gently and you open your mouth to let Felix push Hyunjin's cum on your tongue.

The two of you make out, playing with his cum and Hyunjin joins in, grabbing the back of your heads, he leans in and kisses you first, tasting himself on your tongue then he does the same to Felix, wiping his tears as he kisses him.

"You've no idea how long I wanted you both." Hyunjin exhales, his eyes shiny.

"Kinda did. You are obvious, eye-fucking us whenever we're together." you smirk.

"You humped my ass while we were sleeping here once." Felix added with a flush on his cheeks and Hyunjin hits his arm as he got embarassed.

"Shut up, I was half asleep then." he mutters and the two of you chuckle.

You lean in and place a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"Are we gonna continue or what?" you smirk. "Or are you going back to painting? Was that just a ruse to get us naked and fuck us?"

"It wasn't! I genuinely wanted to paint you!" Hyunjin pouts.

"Okay no need to get defensive, prince." you wink.

"We can get back to painting some other time." Felix chimes in and you agree, leaning in to kiss Hyunjin to get him back in the mood.

It doesn't take long before he lays you down, with Felix on your left side and Hyunjin between your legs.

"I want to worship you, my beautiful sweetheart." Hyunjin grabs your foot and starts kissing your toes.

You whimper a little and Felix leans over you, pressing his lips into yours.

There are so many hands on you that you can't even think straight, your mind is cloudy, your pussy is soaking and you can't stop arching off the bed, your body begging for more.

Hyunjin worships your feet, kissing them and licking them, sucking on your toes, his lips pressing into your ankles gently; while Felix's face is buried in your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin and leaving purple bruises as he marks you, his hands slide all over your chest and stomach until he lets his hand settle over your pussy as he cups it.

"Ah!" you whine as Felix runs his fingers on your folds before stopping at your clit and pressing into it.

You moan quietly, your eyes closed in bliss as you play with Felix's hair, your other hand gripping the sheet.

Hyunjin kisses up your leg until his face is close to your cunt for the second time tonight.

"Need to taste you again." he mutters and you open your eyes to look at him as Felix retracts his hand and instead puts it on your breast, massaging it and playing with your sensitive nipple.

Hyunjin doesn't wait, he dives in, his tongue lapping at you again as you drip on him.

"Come, angel." he calls out to Felix, gently taking his hand in his and pulling him to kneel between your legs too.

You groan when they start making out, both of them battling for dominance but ultimately it's Hyunjin who lets Felix tilt his head with a fistful of his hair gripped.

When they part, a string of saliva connects them and they smirk at each other before leaning in closer to your core.

You almost yelp when both of their tongues start playing with your throbbing pussy, Hyunjin pushing his inside you and sliding over your folds, Felix flicking your clit with his and meeting Hyunjin in the middle where they move together against your cunt.

With your legs spread as they hold your thighs, your best friends continue to lap at you, their tongues meeting constantly as they make out, their spit and your slick making everything even more wet and naughty.

They both eat you out like you're the sweetest treat ever as Hyunjin keeps dipping his tongue into your hole, Felix concentrating on your sensitive clit, sometimes sliding down to lick at Hyunjin's tongue and your hole.

Your legs start trembling and you can't hold in anymore, you let go, gripping at the bed, your hips spasming as you squirt all over their faces.

"Fuck, she squirted for us." Hyunjin groans, lapping at you.

"What a good girl." Felix adds, looking up at you darkly as he kisses your inner thigh.

Hyunjin leans back and Felix grabs his face, kissing him hungrily and sucking on his tongue, making Hyunjin grind his cock against the mattress.

"I need you inside." you whimper when they lift up to look at you.

"Which one of us, sweetheart?" Hyunjin asks, as Felix gently caresses your thighs and waist.

"Both." you whine.

"Both?" Felix's eyes widen. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Please."

"Whatever our princess wants, she gets." Hyunjin smirks, fingertips teasing your clenching pussy.

"Lixie, get under me." you lift up and Felix lays down, his eyes becoming hazy instantly, his lips parting as he stares at you in awe.

You throw your leg over him as you hover, before grabbing his cock and sliding it inside you with ease.

Felix moans, arching off the bed as you adjust yourself.

You lean down, pressing your chest on his as Hyunjin shuffles behind you.

"Make some room for me." he almost whines, making Felix chuckle.

"Always." you say as Hyunjin presses himself behind you, the tip of his cock on your already stuffed pussy and you whimper.

"Are you sure you can take both of us?" Hyunjin teases, prodding at you with his tip.

"Y-yes. Don't make me wait anymore, please Jinnie." you moan as Felix caresses your head.

"As you wish, love." Hyunjin whispers, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he pushes in.

It's tight and it stings but you love the feeling of your best friends stretching your little cunt at the same time.

"Fuck, so tight." Hyunjin groans, pushing in slowly as you whimper, tears gathering in your eyes.

"You're doing so good, darling." Felix praises you, his hands gentle on your soft skin.

"Mhm, taking us so well." Hyunjin moans, pushing in as much as he could.

"Ah!" you moan, your pussy stretched and dripping on their cocks.

"Angel." Hyunjin looks at Felix, their hands finding each other as their fingers entwine.

Hyunjin's other hand is on your hips, while Felix gently holds your head, caressing the back of your neck.

"Tell us when to move, love." Felix kisses your forehead.

"You can move." you say breathlessly, as your pussy clenches around them eagerly.

Both of them start dragging their cocks inside you, opening you up with each gentle and languid thrust, their lengths rubbing against each other in the tight, warm space.

"F-feel so good!" you exclaim, your eyes crossing from pleasure already.

"Yeah. S-so good." Felix whines, fucking up into you.

"Ah, my loves. I love you so much." Hyunjin groans, his lips dragging on your skin, face buried in your neck.

"Love you too." you whimper.

"It's just the three of us. Forever." Hyunjin grips Felix's hand and your hip harder, nails digging into your skin.

"Mm yes." Felix groans as the two of them speed up, their cocks filling you up constantly, the squelching sounds so loud in the big room.

You've never felt this full or this wet as they fuck into you desperately, pressing into your sweet spot and stretching your little pussy just for them.

"Lix." Hyunjin moans, releasing his hand and lifting up a little to angle his hips better as he holds yours.

Felix smirks faintly, wrapping his arms around you before the two of them start fucking your hard, using you like a little fuck toy as you grip at Felix and moan, becoming putty between them, letting them have complete control over you.

"Ah, ah, ah, L-Lixie! Jinnie!" you whimper and babble as your orgasm builds up.

"Squirt on our cocks, sweetheart. Please." Hyunjin ruts into you desperately, making both yours and Felix's eyes roll back as he matches his pace and fucks up into you as hard as he can.

You dig your nails into Felix's arms and let go, cumming and squirting around them as you clench making them both groan.

"I'm gonna cum, ah!" Hyunjin whines.

"Are you gonna be a good girl and take our cum?" Felix asks, his lips brushing yours.

"Y-yes, please." you moan, your vision cloudy as your body burns up.

All three of you are on fire and slippery from sweat, holding each other tight as Hyunjin and Felix reach climax, both of them cumming inside you, filling your pussy up to the brim, making you cum with them again.

"Shit." Felix whimpers as Hyunjin pulls out first.

Felix helps you as he lays you down and you whimper, your pussy throbbing from the stretch you just endured, all of your releases gushing out of you.

"Are you okay, beautiful?" Hyunjin hovers over you, his hands gentle on your face as Felix slowly stands up to retrieve a wet cloth and some water.

"Mm. Perfect." you smile blissfully and Hyunjin giggles, leaning down to kiss you gently, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth before leaving more sweet pecks against your mouth.

Felix kneels on the bed and cleans you up gently and Hyunjin sits up, quickly kissing Felix too.

"I'm gonna go run us a bath." he says.

"Are you in any pain?" Felix asks and you can't help swooning at the thought of having two sweet men who care about you.

"No, I'm okay." you say and he smiles.

"Good." he kisses you too and before long, the three of you are in the bath together.

As always, you relax at first before one of you starts getting playful which is usually Felix who splashes Hyunjin's face with water.

It's not that different this time as you sit between Felix's legs, leaning your back on his chest, your legs on Hyunjin's thigh as he caresses your feet.

It's silent and relaxing for some time as you melt into the warm water with your two lovers until Felix decides to joke around, splashing Hyunjin's face and making him whine dramatically before he returns the favor, you being the victim in between them.

The bathroom fills with sounds of laughter, stupid insults and splashes of water for some time before you finally manage to calm down.

The three of you sleep naked that night, you between your two favorite boys, feeling like you have the whole world in your hands when you have them.

In the morning, you're tangled up with Felix, his face smushed into your chest as you hear the familiar clicks of Hyunjin's camera.

Your eyes slowly flutter open to see a still very naked Hyunjin holding his camera, a cheeky grin on his pretty face.

"Hyunjin. Were you taking pics of us?" you almost growl at him, making Felix stir.

Hyunjin giggles and then bursts into full on laughter as you sit up, grabbing a pillow and throwing at him.

Felix looks at you confusedly, his hair a royal mess and eyes barely open as Hyunjin dodges your attack only to twirl away laughing.

"You were too adorable not to!" he yelps.

"I swear I'm gonna kill you!" you yell out and Felix puts his arm around your waist, pulling you back down.

"We can kill him later, I wanna sleep more." he mumbles and you chuckle, your eyes still laced with sleep too.

"Hyun! Come join us!" you beckon and Hyunjin appears from the kitchen.

"Promise not to kill me." he pouts.

"Eh, you're safe." you say and he makes his way to the bed slowly and lays down. "For now." you add and he giggles, kissing your neck as he wraps his arm around the both of you.

You don't know where the three of you start or end, all tangled up together in the warmth of the sun and the soft sheets, but you know it would always be like that with them.

Just the three of you against the world.

Endlessly.

Forever.

off. that’s the best way you can put it, and it has you feeling uneasy where you stand. the arrowheads on the dual bows and arrows in the middle of the door look to be duller than usual, feathers fraying with use at the other end of the arrows as your eyes take in the carvings. you don’t have to give it much thought. even the slightly off-kilter feeling in the air could have clued you in. 

blood has been shed, and hyunjin is hurt. 

your heart thuds in your chest as you steady yourself in front of the door, resting your head on the cool oak to gather yourself before speaking. 

“êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn.” 

the sindarin words slip fluidly from your lips, and the runes at the top of the door flash a brilliant white as the door begins to rattle. there's no knob on this side of it because your voice allows you access in, but something inside clicks like it’s unlocking regardless. the door eases open a crack and you’re rushing to push it open fully so that you can slip inside. 

you rush inside and close the door with your shoulders, leaning back on the oak until the door clicks shut with your weight. 

you’ve walked straight into hyunjin’s bathing chambers, and that’s where you find him, soaking in the tub with his head thrown back against the wooden lip of it. there’s only one lantern on the wall that’s lit to leave the room shrouded in a peaceful darkness, mainly illuminated by the light from the window and the candles around hyunjin’s bath. his bows and arrows are stacked halfheartedly on the vanity that sits across from the tub — made of two tree stumps and a thick slab of wood — like he came straight to his bathing chambers after he returned home for the day.

“indeed it does!” he declares, lifting his head and smiling wistfully at you from where he sits. “join me, anna-nîn. glassen na chen cenin.” 

you look down at yourself. the house clothed you in a short, silk nightgown that barely touches your thighs. there’s white, frilly lace framing the hem of the cups around your breasts and a small green bow right at the dip in the middle. it’s beautiful; hyunjin loves you in silk. 

the tub is just as grand as the one relaxing in it. it’s made out of a large, carved out oak tree with an oaken spigot protruding from the wall for the water. it sits right in front of an equally-as-grand circular window overlooking the vast, dark greenery of mirkwood. the hazy sunlight backlights hyunjin in radiant, warm, orange light, and your feet carry you to him without thought. hyunjin lifts his hand to help you step into the tub, but instead of settling down in it like he would prefer, you sit comfortably on the sill of the window. he pouts. 

now that you’re closer to him, you can see the bruises that litter his torso, the nicks sliced into the precious skin of his arms. 

“you’re hurt,” you mumble, fussing your fingers at the tender flesh beside one of his bruises and frowning. hyunjin hums. he gathers your hands in his and kisses your knuckles. his are bruised and tender pink. 

“ungoliant-spawn. wretched beasts,” he hisses. the great spiders. even the thought of them makes you shiver, and your hands tighten when you think about your beloved hyunjin having to get up close and personal with one to kill it. “all is well now. a scout alerted us of one lurking and it put up a fight, that’s all. it’s just a few cuts and bruises; they’ll be gone by nightfall.” 

you know it’s true, but you still don’t like it. 

the water sloshes gently as hyunjin settles himself backwards between your legs. he uses your pelvis as a pillow and lets go of your hands, only to wrap his long fingers around your ankles to massage your legs. he can still look up at you like this, so he does, leans his head back against your thigh and crinkles his eyes when they make contact with yours. 

“would you please brush my hair?” he asks. it hits you then that hyunjin is needy. he may be the captain of mirkwood’s guard, but he’s tender-hearted and loving to his very core in spite of his military duties. he craves intimacy and benevolence after the scare he experienced earlier, so that’s what you’ll give him. 

his dark hair is thrown into a messy, loose plait and tied with a strand of twine. your breath catches in your throat when you untie the twine and begin to sift your fingers through the braid to let his hair down. it cascades down his back after you’re done, silky and smooth and strong, the ends of it dipping lightly into the warm water of the bath. he gasps when you gather it in your hand like a ponytail and use your other hand to comb your fingers through the slightly curled strands. 

touching an elf’s hair is an intimacy like no other, and the fact that hyunjin craves this with you never fails to make your heart fill with warmth. 

the bristles of his brush are soft because his hair doesn’t tangle. the intricate, carved handle is cool to the touch when you take hold of it, and hyunjin sighs as you gently run the teeth through his hair. your fingers help too, gathering the strands together or straightening it out when you’re done brushing. it’s calming for both of you, hyunjin because the pampering makes him feel loved, you because of the repetitive motions and the feeling that you’re taking care of someone you care so deeply for. 

hyunjin’s sweet, content sighs spur you on, but it isn’t until your fingers brush against the tip of his pointed ear that his noises turn raspier, more desperate. his body relaxes completely between the spread of your legs at the touch, nearly going limp at the treatment you’re giving him. 

you lean forward then, placing the brush down on the windowsill where it came from and wrapping your arms fully around hyunjin. hyunjin’s arms come to snake around yours. the sloshing of the water and his dewy, wet skin soaks the thin fabric of your nightgown. you’ll pull it off soon, but for now, you settle on placing soft kisses against the warm skin of his ear, starting at the lobe and working your way up slowly to the pointed tip. 

“s-s-sensitive,” he shudders. hyunjin tilts his head to the side to give you more room, and your bottom lip catches wetly on the point of his ear. he shivers when you make your way back down using your tongue, licking hotly at the pinkening skin. when you move on to give the same attention to his other ear, you cup your hand underneath his chin to move him where you want him. 

you pull back and hyunjin quivers; he immediately turns his head to look at you with furrowed brows. that’s when you decide to take the gown off. the wet parts of the fabric stick to your skin, but it goes over your shoulders easily enough to leave you bare for him. you toss the gown into the pile where his rumpled clothes sit as hyunjin’s greedy hands reach for your waist, tugging you gently from the windowsill and into the bath water with him. 

“cenedril af fae nîn… ‘law chîn thilia mi chinech,” hyunjin breathes. he moans when the skin of your stomach brushes against his thigh. 

the water is perfectly warm and smells like the oils and candles hyunjin has set up all around the edge of the oak. it’s an oasis, curated perfectly to his needs after a hard day and made even better by your presence. he pulls you closer to him and kisses the between your breasts. 

you cup his cheek. “let me bathe you.” 

your knees pop when you shift on them, sitting up straighter so that you can reach hyunjin’s body better. there’s a net cloth on the edge of the tub, but hyunjin’s hand stops you quickly when you go to pick it up. the eye contact you make with him always feels like too much, like he’s looking so deep into your soul that he can see all of your cracks and crevices. your eyes dip down to his full lips but they ultimately trail back up to the warm brown of his. 

“use your hands?” he asks quietly, and a small smile tugs at the corner of your lips. 

it would be easier to get the grime off of his body with the cloth, but you both know that’s not what he’s looking for. you lather your hands with the bar of soap in the wooden bowl on the corner of the tub and bring it first to his shoulders, massaging the tight muscles until he groans. he holds his hair out of the way so you can wash down his back, and he leans back onto you again when you wrap your arms around his waist to lather his stomach and chest. you’re gentle there, paying close attention to the large bruise sitting dormant where his ribs rest. 

you’re gentle with his hands too, doing your best to get the dirt and blood from underneath his fingernails and dabbing healing oil onto his cracked and bruised knuckles. 

“i’m already feeling so much better,” hyunjin says. he presses tender kisses to your neck and jaw as you work your lather onto his thighs underneath the water. “you take such good care of me, meleth nîn, will you let me take care of you too?” 

“but- but i’m… not done yet!” you fuss, scrubbing halfheartedly at his calf, but it’s so hard to focus with hyunjin tonguing at your pulse point. 

it’s hard to focus, so you don’t. you let hyunjin guide your limbs until you’re reclined back against the sloping lip of the oak tub, legs spread and bent slightly so he can settle between your feet. you’re expecting his fingers between your thighs, not for him to lift one of your legs from the water by your ankle and bring it to his lips. 

he starts at the bone of your ankle, eyes piercing into yours sensually as he slowly presses his lips there. the bath water drips off of your skin and hyunjin follows it with his tongue, lapping lightly at your ankle before kissing it again. he doesn’t stay there for long though; he teases at it with his teeth and noses to the bottom of your foot, pressing the ball to his lips so he can kiss you there too. your toes curl against his nose when he licks hotly at the wet skin, and it has a shrill whimper leaving your mouth. 

“more,” he breathes against you. more noises, more sounds. he loves when you moan for him. 

hyunjin closes his eyes in bliss. you watch him with your jaw dropped open, watching as he lets himself go completely, kissing and sucking and licking all across the bottom of your foot. he opens his eyes again only when his lips trail to your toes. they bore into yours then, fluttering and rolling back in his head for a moment when he sucks your two middle toes between his lips. hyunjin massages the sole of your foot while he works his mouth, licks wetly between the little digits and sucks them back inside again. 

your back arches as he takes the other foot in his hold and brings it up to his face too. your palms are braced on either side of you so you don’t slip further down in the tub because you have a feeling that hyunjin might just be a little too preoccupied to notice. he goes back and forth between the two, mouthing against your feet like he hardly knows what to do with himself. he rubs their arches against his cheeks and moans loudly in response. 

“they’re so soft,” hyunjin whimpers, before he sucks the big toe of your right foot into his mouth. 

your cunt is pitifully wet underneath the water, sticky-wet and untouched and throbbing with all the attention hyunjin is paying to your feet. it sends a lick of embarrassment down your spine that this is what’s gotten you so worked up, but it’s gone before you can think too long about it. no one’s ever paid this much attention to your feet, no one’s ever liked them this much, not until hyunjin. it feels good; you feel sexy. 

your fingers find their way between your legs as hyunjin continues to worship both of your feet. the first touch to your clit makes you sigh, it’s swollen and hardened with need, and rubbing your middle finger against it only makes your hips quake. 

“hyunjinnie,” you moan, fingers speeding up. he hums around your toes, and it turns into somewhat of a purr when he sees what you’re up to. “that feels so good.” 

he brings your feet down to rest on his shoulders so that he can watch you play with yourself for him. hyunjin rubs your ankles, caresses the tops of your feet with gentle thumbs. you can spread your legs a little more like this, so you widen the stance of your knees to give yourself more room. it spreads your labia, and the warmth tingles your clit when you feel the water directly on it. 

“up. up, on the edge,” hyunjin rushes. his hands find your hips and help to maneuver you until your lower body is suspended out of the water. you’re almost seated in a squat, but you’re far enough up on the lip of the tub that it’s comfortable. your cunt is spread open like this. there’s no hiding from hyunjin’s roaming eyes. “melethril nîn, allow me to taste you…” 

“fuck, please.” 

you hardly have the wherewithal for much else, especially not when hyunjin noses right against your cunt and inhales deeply. it makes you shy, has your legs wobbling as your knees try to kiss each other, but hyunjin keeps his hands at your thighs to keep them open. 

the first touch of his warm tongue has you mewling. your taste must be muted from the water, but you don’t think it will be for long with how much wetness you feel yourself steadily leaking. hyunjin spreads your lips with two slender fingers and licks right into your hole, wiggling it as deep as it’ll go so that he can taste you better. his silky hair falls around his face as he ducks his head to lap at your pussy; the soft strands tickle your already shaking thighs. 

you card your fingers through his hair, brush it back from his face and gather it in your hands in a loose ponytail behind his head. your hold is gentle, but hyunjin cries out at the touch regardless. his tongue becomes more insistent then, it circles your clit roughly before he sucks it between his plush lips and bats his tongue against it that way. his mouth is always so warm, his tongue always so slick. he slurps loudly, eyeing your reaction as his cheeks hollow to suck hard against your clit. it makes you squeal, and hyunjin keeps repeating that same motion like he wants you to make that noise again and again and again. his hands crawl underneath you to cup your ass cheeks and lift you even higher out of the water to get at you better. 

your fingers tighten in his long hair as hyunjin’s tongue rolls relentlessly against your clit. he grunts, eyebrows knitting when you use your grip on his hair to pull him into you just right. 

it always builds so quickly, the burning in your gut does when hyunjin licks at you the way he is. 

“s-stick your tongue out- yes, like that. stay there, stay right there, baby, oh my-!” you cry. hyunjin does as you say, sticking his tongue out and holding still so you can ride his face to your liking. your hips buck so harshly that water sloshes over the sides of the tub, but neither of you pay it any mind. your swollen clit brushes against the round of hyunjin’s nose when you grind forward and right back down onto his waiting tongue when your hips drop. it’s addicting, it’s maddening. you’re going to cum so hard. 

his strong, dexterous hands keep you above the water when your legs begin to tremble with effort. you’re panting, exhaling a pathetic moan in every breath from all the pleasure you’re feeling. it isn’t until one of hyunjin’s pinky fingers creeps in between your cheeks to prod at your smallest hole that your body locks in place and you cum, right against the flat of hyunjin’s waiting tongue. 

hyunjin picks up your slack when you stop moving, frantically bobbing his head to rub his tongue against you to help you ride out your orgasm. he moans with you, lets you grip his beautiful hair as hard as you want. 

“get- here. here, hyunjin, fuck me, please come here.” 

he scrambles forward on his knees until the head of his hard cock bumps against your pulsing clit. 

hyunjin grips himself in hand and fumbles for another vial of oil on the edge of the tub, eases the tip to your hole, but he pauses to look at your face. he smiles then, thumbs the corner of your lips and presses his forehead to yours, a particularly elven sign of familiarity and love. 

“thîr vain chîn darn thulen.” 

“thalion nîn,” you breathe, tilting your head so your forehead bumps against his again. “an ngell nîn, take what you need from me.” 

he doesn’t need any other convincing than that. hyunjin fucks himself inside and sighs deeply, leaning more of his weight on you like your body has soothed him to his very core. his hair curtains your faces. 

hyunjin rolls his hips until they’re pressed against you fully, cock so deep you think you might feel him in your lungs. he leans in to kiss you then, swallowing your whimpers and whines and feeding you his own to take their place. you cup his head in your hands, and hyunjin’s beautiful noises rise in pitch when your thumbs caress the sensitive points of his ears. 

“i will not last like this,” he rasps. not with the way your cunt squeezes him, not with your fingers touching his ears or playing with his hair. hyunjin takes one of your tits in hand and squeezes, jiggling the flesh before squeezing it again. 

the splashing of the water is loud enough that it almost covers the frantic sounds of your coupling. the slapping of skin, the moans of pleasure. you can only hope that the woodland realm’s iavas festivities are merry enough to block the pleasure filled sounds coming from their captain of the guard’s bathing chambers. 

hyunjin takes hold of your slippery waist to drag you down on his cock, and you watch as the thick veins in his arm bulge with the movements. hyunjin is so beautiful that it’s unbearable, unbelievable, he’s so elegant and capable that it has your eyes crossing in your skull. 

“you’re so fucking hot,” you cry. your eloquence is lost, but thrives off of your bluntness. “so- so big, so big inside me, hyunjinnie, wanna cum on your cock.” 

“yes!” hyunjin pleads. “yes, please- i beg, let me feel it!” 

you squeak when he doubles down and fucks you harder, caging you against the oak in his desperation to rut into you deeply and make you cum. he fucks you so frantically that you’re worried about the state of his knobby knees on the hard bottom of the tub, but hyunjin pays it no mind. he’s so responsive to the clenching of your cunt that it makes your head spin, always moaning loudly in appreciation or biting his sinful bottom lip. 

the muscles in your thigh tremble when his cock hits that special gummy spot inside, the one that makes your toes curl and your back arch. 

“there?” hyunjin asks, focusing all his energy on fucking you steadily to get you to make that noise again. “you like it best right there?” 

you can’t even speak. you want to tell him yes, you love it, you love him. you want to beg, plead for your own orgasm and for his, but you can’t make a sound. your breath catches wetly in your throat when hyunjin’s thumb nestles against your swollen clit and that’s it— he catches your thigh in his grasp as you thrash through your orgasm, each deep stroke punching pitiful little gasps from your throat. 

hyunjin continues to fuck you until his own pleasure crests, and he spills inside of you with a moan that rivals the sound of music. his fingers clutch the skin of your thighs as he shivers through his orgasm, curling in on himself and subsequently curling more into you in the process. hyunjin’s silky hair is coiling at the roots with sweat and the ends are soaked from where they were dipped in the water. 

there’s hardly any left in the tub. both you and hyunjin look over the edge of the oak to see water pooling all around the basin. he giggles then, something joyous and light, and places his chin on the lip of the oak to look fondly at you. 

“did you happen to bring any towels?”

sindarin dictionary!

êl síla erin lû e-govaned vîn - a star shines on the hour of our meeting

anna-nîn - my gift

glassen na chen cenin - it is my joy to see you

cenedril af fae nîn - mirror to my soul

‘law chîn thilia mi chinech - your radiance shines like the moon

meleth nîn - my love

melethril nîn - my beloved

thîr vain chîn darn thulen - your beauty took my breath away

thalion nîn - my champion

an ngell nîn - please (lit. for my joy)

iavas - autumn

changbin puts the beauty of his ethereal biome to shame. the blue-green, crystal clear lake, the lily pads floating in the water, the mossy trees that surround the bank, the tiered stones with a small waterfall cascading down the middle. none of it compares to him. 

he’s blissfully asleep, curled peacefully on his side right at the mouth of the little waterfall where his broad body splits the stream of water in two. it beats against his back and flows around his head, slips down the back of his resting tail. the pyramid shaped stone fixture is his favorite sunning rock, and you already know that changbin uses the bubbling waterfall as his own personal masseuse of sorts when he’s sore. he’s golden, tanned by the sun he naps underneath and surely warm and soft to the touch. 

changbin uses his hand as a pillow, unintentionally bunching up the swell of his cheek and causing his plump, juicy peach lips to pout as he breathes deeply in his slumber. your eyes trail from his face to his broad shoulders, his handsome chest and strong stomach. 

changbin’s belly ombres out into the most stunning tail you’ve ever seen. it’s not like you’ve seen many, but it’s not biased if you’re just telling the truth. it resembles that of a rosetail betta fish, side and caudal fins fanning out like magnificent curtains with brilliant, iridescent blue-greens and corals and golds entwined together. the light of the sun makes his scalloped scales almost holographic when you look at him from certain angles. there are two matching fins that perch on either side of his head where his ears sit, always billowing in the water like his tail and twitching with curiosity. 

the thin, wispy tip of changbin’s tail flutters with the flow from the waterfall. 

there’s a split second where you contemplate turning around and heading back through the door to let him catch up on his beauty sleep, but you know you’d never hear the end of it if he were to find out you left without waking him up beforehand. 

you left me?! all alone?! by myself?! did you even give me a kiss goodbye?! 

it’s with a smile on your face that you tiptoe over to the sandy bank of the lake. you’re naked underneath the nice little beach cover up you waltzed into changbin’s biome in. it’s cute; you think he’ll like it. it’s off-white and dips down to your thighs, something hand knitted and crocheted neatly, loose enough to let your skin feel the gentle breeze of the wind. 

he doesn’t get to see you in it yet though, only because you lift the garment above your head when the cool water laps softly at your toes. you’ll take a dip while you wait for changbin to wake up from his nap, explore under the clear water for treasures he loves to leave you and maybe see some of his fishy friends while you’re down there. the sun feels just right on your skin when you shrug the sleeves from your arms, and the cover up is tossed lightly onto one of the large rocks on the shore. 

the water welcomes you in. it bubbles a little bit around you, its very own way of saying hello, and helps you wade further into the depths to get your body acclimated to its temperature. 

the first thing you see when you duck your head under the water to wet your hair is changbin’s closest and dearest friend. dwaekki, the pink, pig-nosed fish, swims around you with a flurry. he bumps your side with his nose and swims forward, turning around and wiggling his tail fin as if he’s expecting you to follow him. he’s sweet but stubborn as a mule; you’d better follow him now before he starts to ram his nose into you again and again until you get the point. 

dwaekki doesn’t take you too far; the house has given you many gifts, but breathing under water sadly isn’t one of them yet. he’s only led you around the trunk of a sunken tree when he starts frantically nosing at the sand of the shallow section at the bottom of the lake, kicking up clouds of sand and sparkling algae until you’re swimming closer to him to see what he’s trying to show you. 

you reach your hand out and wave it in front of you to dispel the cloud before you, and resting in a bed of seaweed is a shimmering pearl necklace. dwaekki swims away then when his job is done, butting the side of your head with his nose in farewell and scurrying into the small alcove dug into the side of the sunken tree. it’s a beautiful necklace, if not a little wonky and uneven in some places, with shells hanging down from thin fishing line in the middle. you know right away that changbin made it himself, crafted it with his own hands with you in mind. 

it’s not the first time he’s made you jewelry and left it for you to find. your very own courting gift. you still don the stunning pearl anklet he made you months ago, and changbin grins as bright and as warm as the sun when he sees that you’ve never taken it off. 

you take it gently in your grasp and swim towards the surface of the lake to catch your breath. you wipe the trickling water from your forehead when you break the surface of the water, and with a quick survey of your surroundings, you immediately notice that changbin isn’t on his sunning rock anymore. he’s nowhere to be found, not behind the branches of the half submerged tree, not peeking from behind the waterfall, not even on the bank of the lake watching you swim. 

there’s movement out of the corner of your eye though, and you turn your head to the lily pads. 

there he waits, droopy lily pad hat and all. all you can see of him is his forehead and piercing blue eyes - the rest of his body is completely hidden underneath the water. changbin blinks and begins to slowly submerge himself, a predator stalking its prey, completely hiding himself from your view until he lifts himself up again, this time much closer to you than before. 

“oh no! a big, strong, handsome mermaid is after me,” you cry dramatically, using your arms to propel you away from him. “whatever will i do?!” 

he lunges forward and you squeal. water splashes everywhere as changbin takes you into his arms and twirls you around until you’re cackling. 

“kiss me.” 

your arms and legs wrap tightly around him while he twirls you in the cool water, and he only slows down when he notices your smile soften into something sweet at his words. you do kiss him though, unhurried and tender, and changbin giggles proudly when you pull away. 

his strong tail keeps you both afloat in the lake. changbin’s webbed fingers trail down your leg to stop at your ankle and caress the dainty pearl anklet that sits there. he smiles, downturned and sweet, and then promptly reaches down even further to squeeze your toes. 

you wriggle in his arms. he’s not even tickling you, he’s just curious and touchy, but his fingers tickle you regardless. 

“heh,” he grins. his eyes are full of mirth when he looks into yours. “baby sea cucumbers.” 

“baby se- they are not!” 

one of changbin’s ear fins flicks water at you as he laughs. it comes out as more of a chirp, over-toned and unique sounding due to his advanced vocal cords. he stops laughing though when he finally takes notice of your lack of clothes, the warmth he feels from between your thighs. 

“you’re naked!” he roars gleefully. you throw your head back and laugh. changbin’s ear fins flick again, flapping wetly on both sides of his head. 

“we’re skinny dipping,” you reply. 

he cocks his head. “skinny… dipping? what’s skinny dipping?”

“it’s when you swim naked. all i’m wearing is my anklet and my…” you dangle the necklace in front of his face and his eyes crinkle. “pearl necklace!”

changbin helps you put it on, tying it in a knot at the back of your neck and straightening out the small, dangling shells on the front. you love the necklace, it’s beautiful and thoughtfully made by changbin, but you love the satisfaction that pours from his entire being even more. he’s proud of himself, happy that you’re happy with the gift he made just for you. 

“it’s beautiful. i really love the angel wing shells you put beside each other. you’re clever, aren’t you?” changbin’s chest puffs again. he thumbs the two shells that sit right in the middle of the necklace. 

“angel wings for my angelfish!”  

you plonk your head against his shoulder to hide your smile. 

changbin wades you around the lake like that, with you safe and snug in his strong arms. it’s peaceful, the gentle sloshing of the water almost lulls you to sleep, and you’re still basking in the peacefulness of it all when changbin’s webbed hands sneakily creep to the swell of your ass. 

“what do you think you’re doing?” you mumble, leaning back from his shoulder to eye him with a quirked brow. 

“um. skinny dipping,” changbin says, but his voice lilts at the end like a question, like he knows he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. he blinks incredulously at you though after a few seconds, eyes wide and searching, before he rolls his neck at you sassily. “hey, you’re all naked! it’s right there! what else am i supposed to do?” 

“maybe not feel me up like a pervert?” 

his hands stay resolutely on your ass, but he squeezes your cheeks as if to make a point. 

“maybe you’re the pervert, huh? you’re the one who started swimming naked! in my lake!” 

honestly, he’s not wrong. you are a bit of a pervert when it comes to him, but how could he expect you to be any other way when he looks the way he does? when there’s so much warm skin and so many iridescent scales you can get your hands on, a plethora of beautiful sounds you can pull from his doll-like lips. 

“what if i was just waiting for you to come have your way with me?” 

“well, i- well. well, all you had to do was ask,” he sputters, grinning shyly and looking up at you through his dewy lashes.

despite the bulk of his body and his larger-than-life attitude, changbin is sweet and cutely coy when it comes to anything related to sex. it’s new for him, mating with a human for pleasure is, always piques his curiosity and makes him eager to learn and enjoy with you. he’s obsessed with the parts of you that he doesn’t have: your breasts, your legs, your feet, your cunt. everything about your uniquely human form is interesting to him, and he dedicates himself to earnestly learning the workings of your body. the first time changbin discovered how sensitive your clit was, he spent nearly all day eagerly asking to see it just one more time, begging to touch it or put his mouth on it so he could feel the way your legs trembled again, the way you cried out for him in pleasure. 

changbin is still as eager as ever, using his grip on your ass to pull you harder against the front of his tail. his arms are so strong, and you can’t help but reach for his biceps to feel the way they flex as he moves you. 

you feel it then, the little mound on the front of his tail that only appears when he’s getting ready to mate, when his cocks are almost ready to unsheath themselves. 

“yeah?” you whisper, biting your lip and snaking your hand between your bodies to rub at the mound. “you want me?” 

“always. i always want you,” changbin breathes. he ducks his head to watch the way your hand touches him underneath the clear water. 

changbin isn’t the only one that’s obsessed with your anatomy. it goes both ways; he’s fascinating, everything about him is. his advanced vocal cords that allow him to speak and sing using multiple notes at once or hit frequencies you can’t hear, his intricate, muscular tail, his webbed fingers, the gills on the sides of his neck that let him breathe underwater, the slit that his cocks protrude from. 

you feel it begin to slowly ease open with the constant pressure from your kneading fingers, and changbin’s shoulders raise to meet his ear fins. 

“oh, shellfish,” he whimpers, pitiful and keening. he’s so cute like this; it’s such a new feeling that you know it still overwhelms him. changbin’s never played with his slit before, never had anyone touch it until you came along and used your curiosity to your — and his — advantage. 

it’s silky inside, soft and sticky wet like a cunt from where his cocks secrete and ready themselves for mating. your fingers dip in shallowly at first, feeling his warm insides and nudging against the foremost cock when you prod them slightly deeper. even under the water you can tell how wet his slit and cocks are, and changbin’s chin quivers when you scissor your fingers inside of him. he’s so aroused that his cocks try to push your fingers out as they shift forward in their search to unsheath themselves and fuck into something tight. you can feel them throbbing inside of him, pulsing with need. 

“please,” he begs. “please, i- i’m going crazy. can we…?” 

you kiss his pouty lips and add another finger. it’s not too tight of a squeeze, you could fit your whole fist in there if you had the patience for it. “you want my pussy?” changbin nods his head frantically. “but what if i want to keep playing with yours?” 

your words make him whine. it’s so vulgar that his head is spinning, but he likes it when you talk to him like that. that’s not what his slit is; his slit’s only there to keep his cocks hidden and protected until they’re needed. it isn’t used for reproduction and isn’t biologically intended for penetration, but it feels good when you treat it like that’s what its purpose is. when you treat it like a pussy. it’s soft and wet like one, you fuck your fingers into it like one. 

the shifting of his cocks becomes more and more insistent as you continue to work him up, and that’s what finally makes you slip your fingers from the clutch of his body. changbin chitters when his cocks finally push themselves through the opening of his slit, bobbing thick and proud underneath the clear water. the one on top is the longest, smooth and spiraling and mouth-watering. both are packing more in the width department than the length, but he still manages to fuck you deep enough to have you shivering every time. his secondary cock is even shorter than the one on top, and it curves slightly upward at an angle that always gets your toes curling. they’re colored slightly different than his tail, smatterings of dark green and pearly white swirls all around the spiraling bases. 

changbin gives you another sweet chirrup when you take hold of his biggest cock. it’s warm, slippery to the touch with the slick he secretes. changbin’s hands knead your ass while you acquaint yourself with his cocks - he touches you desperately, grips you like he never wants to let go. you’re getting there too; playing with changbin always works you up just as much as it does him. 

“how do you want me, handsome?” you ask. 

changbin’s tail propels you forward before he even answers, but you know what he wants as soon as your back gently meets the sloping sand at the bank of the lake. 

“can you-? on top. i want you to… be on top of me.” 

you bite your lip when changbin uses his hulking arms to pull himself up on the bank of the lake beside you. his lower half flops loudly on the sand, but the fluttering tips of his tail remain in the cool water. he’s just as dreamy as you found him earlier, a sight for sore eyes. 

“you want me to ride you again, sweet boy? i know how much you liked that last time.” he liked it so much, watching you bounce on top of him. the sway of your breasts, the way you pressed your palms to his pecs for leverage. you could tell by the look in those mesmerizing blue eyes that changbin was utterly awestruck. 

“yes, i want you to ride me. ride me- ride me, please.” 

he moans loudly when you move to straddle his tail. you’re seated just below his weeping cocks, and they wriggle slightly like they know you’re near, like they can sense your arousal. 

changbin spasms when you grip his biggest cock. it always leaks the most, weeps like a leaky faucet and covers the smaller one in its secretion. he’s already wet, but you want more, you’ll need more if you want both inside. you start from the bottom of his cock, tightening your grip as you ascend and feeling each of his spirals until you reach the head of his cock. a glob of slick bubbles from the slit of it, and changbin frantically turns his head away like he’s embarrassed. 

he doesn’t stay that way for long, not when he can hear the way you begin to fuck yourself on your fingers to get ready for him. 

when he turns back, he’s expecting to see your fingers pistoning in and out of your cunt. he’s not expecting to see your arm angled behind you. 

“oh,” he breathes. changbin’s eyes widen as they roam from your face to the slight movement he can see from your arm. “t-there?” 

it’s a treat. it’s such a treat for him, fucking your ass. mating with a human is already somewhat of a taboo depending on the merfolk you ask, but when you told him that anal sex could be seen the same way… it made his stomach burn with white-hot desire. it still does, the knowledge that he’s participating in something so naughty, on top of just mating with you in general. it’s enough to have spit pooling in his mouth and his fangs fighting to elongate. 

“does it feel good?” he begs. “please tell me.” 

“fuck.” it’s grunted harshly through your teeth. he’s so sweet it makes them ache. “fuck, yeah, f-feels good. not as good as you feel though… god, i want it.” 

“me too. angelfish, me too, i- i want it, i want to feel you inside.” 

you’re desperate, three slick fingers curling into your asshole. your wrist hurts, your arm burns, you’re ready to pull your fingers out and get fucked, but the press of changbin’s fingers to your rim makes you halt everything. your cunt throbs at the touch. his fingers can’t reach far due to the webs between them, but even just the tips of his thick digits add deliciously to the stretch of your hole. 

“baby, oh!” you cry, and changbin keens with you. your unoccupied hand flies to his cocks, wrapping your thumb around the smallest one as best you can and your other fingers around the biggest. you can’t do much damage that way, but changbin chirps and coos regardless. you rush to slip your fingers out and your hole clamps shut around the tips of changbin’s two fingers. he slips them out too when he sees that you’re lifting up on your knees, settling instead on placing his hands right where your ass meets your thighs. 

you lead changbin’s smallest cock to your smallest hole, and you both moan in tandem when it reaches up just as you bore down. changbin’s cock fits snugly inside even though five fingers stretched you well just seconds ago. you grip him like a vice; changbin’s chest heaves at the feeling and you’re not faring much better. 

you’re not done yet though. 

you lean back until it almost feels like you’re going to fall, but changbin’s strong arms take hold of you for extra precaution. it bares the hole of your cunt, that’s all you wanted, and your fingers scramble for his biggest cock. it’s flexible enough to bend where you need it, immediately curling towards the slick heat of your cunt and plunging inside when you wiggle your hips. it takes your breath away, the stretch does. you’re both so wet that he slides in without a problem, and the ridges of his cocks already have you seeing stars behind your closed eyelids. 

“oh clams,” changbin whimpers frantically. you can feel his cocks slowly writhing inside of you, feeling the silky, warm walls of your cunt and moving against them. “everything about you is perfect.” 

it makes your hips rock. you feel like you’re moving in slow motion, brain slowly logging back on like all the pleasure you’re feeling short-circuited its synapses. you plant your hands on his chest for that leverage you need, and the first rise and fall of your hips makes you wail. 

“it feels so good!” you cry, “you feel so fucking good inside of me!” you’re so full, positively filled to the brim with him. every bounce sends pleasure zinging down your spine and heat coiling in your stomach. you drop down so hard on him that you’re sure you’ll have his scale imprints on the cheeks of your ass. 

“you feel good,” changbin counters. he’s breathing heavily. his pecs shake with the force of your bounces, and he uses all the strength he has in his arms to help you move. “nothing feels better than this.” 

“tell me how much you love being inside me, baby, tell me- tell me,” you beg. you want to hear it so bad, want to know just how good the grip of your cunt and your ass make him feel. your legs are starting to hurt, even your tits hurt from their bouncing, and the pearl necklace jingles with every one of your thrusts. 

all changbin does for a few moments is vocalize. nothing human, no, beautiful mermaidian trills fill the air around you, neck gills slitting as he fights for breath anyway he can get it. 

“it’s like heaven,” he breathes. “from the books you read to me.” utopia, nirvana, paradise. “i’ve never felt anything- anything like it, oh, angelfish, you’re perfect inside. it’s- it’s so soft, everything about you…” changbin heaves a frantic breath and it comes out as an over-toned whine. 

his chin ducks to watch the place where he spears you open. your combined wetness has slick stringing from your cunt to his tail every time you bounce, snapping in half and forming again over and over. 

“the-!” changbin keens. his eyes widen and eyebrows furrow as he watches the near frantic rutting of your hips. “the pearl. the pearl!” 

not the pearls on your necklace, nor the ones on your anklet. 

your little clit, your mermaid’s favorite, most cherished pearl. you know he wants you to touch it, and it’s easy to slip your fingers between your legs to rub messy circles on your swollen clit. the stimulation to your clit has your thrusts turning erratic, but changbin’s probing cocks do the job for you. you still completely when they begin to take turns thrusting, one fucking in while the other fucks out. 

that’s all it takes for you to cum, your desperate fingers on your clit and changbin’s thick cocks fucking you stupid. both of your holes clench on him so tightly that his back arches like he’s been shocked, but he hisses a throaty yessssss as you continue to spasm on him. 

it almost feels like the world is ending when you lift off of him, but you have an idea and it’ll be worth it when you’re done. 

you crawl backwards on your knees until you can lower yourself over his tail and use both of your hands to angle his cocks towards you. changbin bites his lip, and his webbed fingers pet your sweaty hair. 

“you’ll cum for me too?” you ask, jerking his cocks roughly right off the bat. that’s what he likes, that’s what makes him cum the hardest when he’s not buried inside of you. 

“i’ll cum for you,” he trills. changbin sounds more mermaid than anything now, like his human voice is glitching due to all the pleasure you’re giving him. “i’ll- i’ll cum. i will. your hands are so soft, i love you. ahh, it’s- oh.” 

thick cum spurts from both of his cocks, all across your neck and chest, just where you wanted it. you bend down to kiss the head of the smallest one, and it oozes more cum straight onto your lips for you to taste. you continue to jack them until they stop pulsing with waves of cum, slowly retracting back into his slit when your grip loosens after you had your fun. the slit throbs for a second before disappearing all together. 

when changbin manages to make his eyes stop rolling, he smiles softly at you. he’s so handsome, his chest is pink and still heaving from effort. 

“thank you for both of my pearl necklaces. i don’t know which one i like better,” you grin. pleased as punch. 

changbin just nods, head flopping back on the sand as he regulates his breathing. he pops back up after a moment though and tilts his head in confusion. 

you didn’t change clothes when you opened the door back into your home hallway after your time with chan, but like magic, your attire changes right as you step into this particular world. you don a white sundress now, something flowy and thin and comfortable enough that you might try to sneak it back into your own closet when you get back home. 

it’s midday here in the garden. the sun shines brightly, and the flowers lift toward it with reaching petals and growing stems. 

the hedges are neatly trimmed, as always, snipped finely into squares and circles and — cats? it almost looks like a totem pole. it’s cute, a new addition to the garden that you haven’t seen before but will certainly never miss. the tall bush is sheared into the shape of three cat heads. they sit on top of each other, peering into the garden with pretty petal eyes and neatly pointed ears. 

there’s a quaint garden table set placed next to it, and you can’t help but laugh. of course minho would want to spend his time relaxing next to the cat bush after a long day filled with gardening, sipping a cool glass of ice lemonade and kicking his feet up in the chair opposite of him. 

you sit for a moment at the cute little bistro set, plucking minutely at the hem of your dress and taking in the beautiful efforts minho has made in the garden. it’s his pride and joy, his life’s work, and you are always able to see his dedicated endeavors in maintaining the greenery before you.

the garden maze is your favorite thing he’s created. it’s breathtaking - made solely of rows and rows of pristinely clipped bushes. they wind and swirl until you find your way to the eye of it, the middle, where a great fountain sits. 

the only fountain you’re interested in now though is the one sitting right across the garden. you can see it plainly from where you’re resting in the chair, you can hear the splashing of the water where it flows serenely from the tiers and into the receptacle at the bottom. minho’s there, as always. stone still and frozen in a kneel as the watering basin he holds pours endlessly into the fountain. he’s handsome even like this; his cast stone features still manage to make warmth bloom in your stomach just like his human skin does. 

it’s with said warmth blooming that you decide to make your way to the fountain. you stare at minho from across the water, the flow distorting his features before you. it’s blissfully cool when you lift your foot to step into the fountain, rucking up the bottom of your dress and clutching the fabric to your thighs so it doesn’t get wet. you walk slowly across the fountain, feet splashing in the water, until you reach the edge of it where minho sits. 

you lower yourself onto your knees in front of him. it doesn’t matter that the bottom of your dress falls into the water now, nothing matters but the statue in front of you. your fingers trail along his thighs first, his thick thighs that already have your mouth watering. they trace his shin, the top of his foot, the smooth plain of his stomach. a giggle floats between your teeth because you know he knows what you’re doing; you know he can feel your touch. 

the water sloshes lightly when you lean forward. his cheek is cool and hard against the pucker of your soft lips, a juxtaposition you’ve come to be quite fond of. your lips kiss his cheek, his neck, and it isn’t until your hand reaches between his legs for his cock that you kiss his mouth. it’s something chaste and sweet, as sweet as it can be to kiss a statue. he likes this though - the naughty game you play together, the fact that he turns you on even like this.

his cock is soft, hard as rock between your fingers but naturally soft, even though you know he won’t be for long. his lips are the same, but the smallest shudder of breath coming from between the thin seam of them has you easing back on your haunches. 

minho begins to thaw under your fingertips. you can feel the stone transforming into something softer, something human. 

when you look up and into his eyes, they’re brown and filled with mirth. his pupils shake when they search yours, and you grin at him before standing to your feet. 

it takes a while sometimes, this process does. every ounce of minho’s handsome body must turn from stone back into human flesh - you can hear the stone cracking and shifting slowly as it does. you were worried it was painful at first, but minho reassured you once that it was more of a nuisance than anything else, more painful of a wait than actual pain. 

you take a step back as his hair turns dark and silky and falls over his forehead. 

“hi, minho,” you say, a toothy grin still spread wide on your face. “i’d kiss you again, but i think you’re gonna have to catch me if you want it…” 

that’s when you break off into a sprint, feet high-stepping over the wall of the fountain and carrying you quickly to the mouth of the garden maze. you risk one look back, one look just to see how far his transformation has come and how much of a head start you have, and you see a sharp grin spreading over his softening features. 

adrenaline is already pumping hard through your body, so you turn around to hightail it into the maze. 

you’ve been all the way through it before — several times even — but the maze always seems to change. it seems never ending, impossible. you make it past the first swirl of bushes before you hear minho’s water basin drop to the ground with a heavy clang. it almost makes you squeal, fear spiking and making your chest hot to the touch where your heart beats frantically. you slap a hand over your mouth to keep silent and remain on the path, sprinting around bushy dead ends and past the curves and endless angles of the walls inside the maze. 

it almost feels like a scene from a horror movie, something you’d watch huddled under a blanket with a bowl of popcorn in your lap and a hand half covering your eyes when the music picks up. a damsel in distress, running panic-stricken through the woods and tripping over nothing while the slasher walks behind, slowly and sinisterly. they always get caught in the end, don’t they? 

minho cackles when he reaches the entrance to the maze - it sends another chill down your spine, heart pounding in your chest. it’s only a matter of time before he finds you, but you’ll make him work for it until he does. you take another hurried turn and run right into a dead end. there’s no time to think, not with minho catching up with you. he knows this maze frontwards and backwards and with his eyes closed. he made it with his own hands after all. 

you sprint through the maze as best you can until you’re nearly gasping for breath. the grass is cool and soft underneath your feet, soft enough that the rustle of them through the blades is quieter than it would be anywhere else. 

minho makes his presence known though, and he does it on purpose because he knows how much it makes your heart pound. you can hear that joyous, maniacal laugh every so often; his hands shake the bushes so that you can hear him coming. he’s closing in on you, he’s closer than you thought, and you can’t help the broken whimper you let out when you meet another dead end head on. a split second decision has you dropping to your knees and crawling underneath the wall of the bush, scooting deep enough under it that minho can’t possibly see the white of your dress, the color of your sweat-slicked skin. 

your hand comes to your mouth to stop the gasp you want to let free so badly. his bare feet walk slowly around the corner and he pauses where he stands. all you can do is lay there and wait with bated breath. it catches in your throat and your body locks completely still when he steps towards the bush you’re hiding under. 

“blossom,” he sings, something airy and faux sweet. your eyes squeeze shut. “where did my pretty petal go?” 

he laughs. you’re almost expecting him to peek under the bush to really get you shrieking, but he doesn’t — he steps away from the bush and keeps walking, rounds the dead end to keep on his way. you hold your breath even after his feet move from your sight and the sound of rustling fades from your ears. 

it’s completely silent, eerily so, but you finally let out a shaky breath when you feel like he’s off your trail. 

you should know better than that. 

it turns into a shrill scream soon enough; there’s a rough hand on your ankle and you’re being tugged out from underneath the safety of the bush before you can even inhale the breath you just let out. you kick your legs, digging your fingers into the grass as if it’ll save you from your captor. minho just laughs and blocks the frantic kicking of your legs with his strong arms. he pushes at your hip until you’re turned over on your back and that really gets you flailing, legs still kicking and arms now joining in the mix. 

the look on minho’s face is positively wild. his smile is wide, his eyes are wide, and the laugh coming from his mouth would probably scare any normal person. the adrenaline spikes again, but you’re more excited than anything now. he’s got you where he wants you. a fly in the maw of a venus fly trap. completely, utterly caught. 

your arms tire quicker than you like, or maybe minho’s just that strong. he pins them to the ground with an ease that has heat swirling in your gut, has your cunt clenching desperately already. 

it’s then that your legs give out. they spread on their own, without his insistent coaxing. it’s hard to keep up with anyway, the facade you put up… like you don’t want to be exactly where you are. like you didn’t want him to catch you in the first place. 

minho cocks his head and it has you whimpering. if you pout hard enough, your eyes will tear up. you know he’ll love that. 

he coos at you when your eyes begin to glisten. 

“pretty dew drops,” minho sighs. “in those teary little eyes…” 

you’re beautifully pliant when he fusses with your dress. minho loves sundresses on you, loves the ease they give him to get at your body and loves how they look on you in general. the white makes you look more innocent than the two of you know you are, pure, virgin white. esteemed lily of the valley, radiant gardenia. 

minho’s devilish grin softens as your body is bared to him. he eyes the swell of your tits, the softness of your stomach. minho kneads at your hips, digs his fingers into your skin until you’re writhing. 

“why would you ever run from me when i would find you anywhere?” he hums. “i’ll find you every time, no matter what. all i wanted was my kiss.” 

he gets it — takes it. minho blankets you when he leans down, and your lips are parting for him before his lips even reach yours. he surprises you then, a small ounce of payback for the little game you played, by taking your bottom lip between his teeth and biting. it’s hard enough that your eyes squeeze shut; it forces a tear to trail into your hairline and a pitiful whimper to leave your mouth. he tugs at it meanly with his teeth until finally letting go to kiss you for real. it’s rough from the start, all spit and tongue and teeth, and minho takes charge of it completely. you kiss him back with all you’re worth, arching against his body and circling his tongue with yours messily until he’s patting your cheek to get your attention. 

minho grips your chin with two fingers and uses his hold on you to open your mouth. your tongue lolls out because you know he wants, and minho sucks it between his lips. your stomach clenches and your hips roll, bucking wildly against his thick thigh that rests snugly between your legs. minho’s cheeks hollow as he sucks sloppily on your tongue. heat builds and builds and builds in your stomach at the noises it makes. his plump lips are slick when he pulls back, and you know what he wants before he ever opens his mouth to speak. you stick your tongue out of your mouth further just for minho to slap it with two fingers. it doesn’t take long for a glob of frothy spit to land on your quivering tongue — no sooner than it lands does minho lean in again with his lips pursed, spreading the spit on the pad of your wet tongue with his lips. it’s sloppy, so fucking sloppy, and spit trails down your chin when he pushes more saliva through the pucker of his lips and onto your waiting tongue. 

you only swallow the mess when he pulls away to see what he’s made of you. you make a show of it for him too, swiping your fingers against your sopping wet chin and pushing the remnants between your lips, sucking on your fingers. 

“you put up such a fight, but look at you now…” 

writhing on the grass, dress pushed over your tits and your fingers fucking your own mouth. call it what it is; you’re whoring yourself out for him. 

“i just wanted to play with you,” you whine, fingers slipping from your slick mouth. 

minho eases onto his elbows and cubs your cheek in one of his warm palms while the other places itself on the crown of your head. he’s always so warm, as bright as the sun, that’s why the flowers trust him so much. 

“playful petal.” 

he nuzzles his nose against yours, kisses your top lip before gazing into your bleary eyes. there’s a tender, closed-mouth smile on his face that he only reserves for the things he loves, and you’re lucky enough to be one of them. his eyelashes are so long, you’d count them one by one if you only had the wherewithal. minho’s thumb taps a rhythm against your cheek that has you gasping, and you nod your head earnestly because you know what he’s asking. 

his hand doesn’t rear back until your eyebrows furrow with want. 

you register the crack of the slap before you feel its sting, and both have you moaning into the air between you. the hit would have had your head shunting to the side, but minho’s hand on your head keeps you in place. he breathes in your moan, kisses it softly from your lips as his thumb caresses the heated skin of your cheek. 

“yes!” you warble, voice catching in your throat. “fucking- yes! please, a-again?” 

“i’m so nice to you, giving you everything you want,” he sighs like he’s put upon, but he’s far from that. the hand from your cheek reaches down to grip at your hips, pulling at it until you’re grinding against his thigh again. once the circling of your hips picks up in a frantic rhythm, he slaps you again. you clutch at his shoulders like your life depends on it, like he’s the only thing that can ground you. it feels too good, too much, the pain and the pleasure he so willingly gives you. “do you want to know a secret?” 

you nod. that’s all you have the power to do, but you want to know. you want to know everything that comes to his mind. 

“i love you more than anything in this world,” minho whispers against your swollen lips. he kisses you then, a kiss so tender it makes your face crumple in a sob. 

“i love you,” you cry. your nails rake down his back as your hips swivel desperately against the meat of his thigh. “i love you, i lov- love you, minho. my minho, my- oh!” 

you freeze when you cum, body locking where you’re pressed tightly against him. you’re frozen still until he takes your hip in his hand again and forces you to move. you can feel the muscles in his arm bulging as you clutch at him, shivering apart with his help. 

“blooming for me,” minho coos, and he’s pushing the head of his cock inside your fluttering cunt before you’re done feeling the last of your aftershocks. you can cum again like this, you know you can, it’ll be so easy with minho’s cock spearing itself deep inside your soaked cunt. you can feel him all around you, you can feel him everywhere. inside and out. 

he cups both palms underneath your head so it doesn’t hit the ground when his thrusts sharpen. his teeth grit, and your eyes lock on his sweet, crooked front tooth. he’s so beautiful always but especially beautiful when he feels pleasure that your body gives him, that you give him. 

you don't have to reach down to touch your clit because the angle of minho’s dexterous hips has his pubic mound rubbing right against it. the coarse hair there gets your eyes rolling, and minho hums deep in his throat when your moans float into the air. 

minho ruts into you so deeply that you’re sure his knees will be stained green by the grass. 

“fuck me until you cum,” you cry. you want to get him there so badly after the chase you put him through earlier. you do everything you can, clenching your cunt until he’s sighing dreamily and running your hands over every bit of his body you can reach. somehow though, your efforts get you there first, along with minho’s cock bullying itself where you’re gummy and silky soft. you bloom for him again, like you always do, pulsing and throbbing on his cock that steadily pistons inside of you. 

that’s what ultimately gets minho there too, and he leans back on his haunches and pulls out far enough that only the tip of his soaked cock remains in the hold of your cunt. he jacks himself inside of you, twisting the base of his dick with a rough hand. 

“ask me for it again,” he grits. the knuckles of minho’s fingers lightly tap against your swollen labia as he polishes himself. “beg for my cum and i’ll give it to you.” 

your hips buck at his words. you reach for his arms, gripping onto his forearms desperately. 

“please give it to me!” he makes it so easy for you to beg. you want his cum more than anything, want him to empty himself somewhere warm and tight and wet. “please, i- oh, minho, my pussy wants your cum so bad. i want you to cum, i want it inside me- p-please, please cum inside me, baby, f-fuck!” 

you’re lucky he’s in a giving mood. he may have jokingly fussed about your little game earlier, but that’s all it was. he loves the chase, loves when you feel playful enough to mess around with him and have fun. minho dips his thumb into your mouth when he starts to cum, roughly jacking his cock until his cum spurts ropes inside of your clenching cunt. his stomach caves in and his thighs shake sweetly - they shake so hard that you move your hands to them to feel it, to feel the way you make his body react. 

his softening cock slips from your hole with a slick noise, and his cum follows when you make an effort to push it out. minho thumbs one of your puffy lips to the side to watch it drip slowly down to your asshole with a satisfied quirk to his mouth. 

you’re so focused on minho that it takes you several moments to notice something tickling at your back and sides. you only rouse from your daze when the feeling becomes more incessant, and that’s when you see that there’s a fresh bed of flowers blooming underneath and around you. beautiful reds and yellows and blues, whites to match your pretty dress that he likes so much. pinks and reds to match the flushing of minho’s cheeks. 

the heat kicks on, but it’s still silent. no scrambling of little paws across the hardwood floor, no dulcet humming, no droning of the television. he must be out. you know jisung loves taking walks this time of year, and bbama loves to play in the leaves at the dog park around the corner. 

his comfy couch is calling your name though. you grab a bottle of water from his fridge and make your way to the living room, plopping down on the soft cushions and making yourself at home. you sink into the cushions and toss your hand up to reach for the throw blanket he keeps on the back of the couch. you’ll just catnap until he comes home, close your eyes for a little while and relax, and sure enough, it isn’t long before the hum of the heating unit and the feeling of the chenille blanket against your bare legs lulls you to sleep. 

the click of the door rouses you from your slumber. you couldn’t have been out for too long because you’re still in the same position you fell asleep in, nestled snugly in the crack of the couch. you can hear jisung piddling in the kitchen and the tippy-tap of bbama’s trimmed claws on the floor as he presumably takes his leash off and hangs it up on the coat rack. bbama skitters into the living room and catapults onto the couch when he sees you there, wriggling and pawing at you for pets. jisung must have fed him before their excursion because you can see the hazily transparent shape of his cute and fuzzy little ghoulish body perfectly. his leg thumps against the couch when you scritch at his belly. 

the sound of jisung’s whistling fills the room as he rummages through the fridge. you sit up then and lean forward to watch him pick up the half-empty bottle of strawberry fanta from the second shelf. you can tell jisung has recently eaten too; just like bbama, you can see the shape of him, the slightly wavy, transparent disruption in the air that makes up his muscular body. he lifts the bottle to chug the remaining half, turning towards you with his eyes squeezed shut. 

“hi baby,” you say, and jisung yanks the bottle away from his lips to slap his hand over his heart. 

“guh—!” jisung yelps, blinking rapidly and breathing heavily. “holy- holy shit! you scared me!” 

it gets a good giggle out of you. you can’t help it, you shake your head with a fond smile. 

you scared the ghost. 

“don’t laugh!” he whines. “i could have had a heart attack and died… again! for the second time! dead as a doormat!” 

“you mean ‘dead as a doornail.’” 

“yeah, that’s what i said.” 

you roll your eyes but get up to meet him where he stands in the kitchen regardless, wrapping your arms around his neck and pouting at him until his arms wrap themselves around your back. 

“i’m sorry for scaring you, my little baby.” 

jisung fake-cries for a second but straightens up before you can even blink. “i’ll forgive you if you kiss me.” 

another roll of your eyes, but your lips quirk. you press them to the tips of two of your fingers and tap them against his cheek in a mock kiss. jisung deflates; you know he’s resisting the urge to toss his head back and holler dramatically at your teasing. his arms slip from around your waist as you take a step back, and another, and another, finally turning around completely to make your way to his bedroom. jisung seems to buffer for a moment before he catches back up, scrambling around the kitchen counter to follow you. 

you can roughly hear jisung speaking to bbama as he power walks to you. 

you stay in here, papa’s gonna get some. 

“says who?” you laugh. you can see the outline of jisung’s smug grin as he shuts his bedroom door. 

“says papa, baby.” 

he’s ridiculous, yet you’re already reclining back on his unmade bed. it’s warm from the sunlight that’s peeking through his blinds. you curl up on his pillow but eventually shove your feet underneath his downy comforter and rub them together like a bug. jisung doesn’t join you right away, he dawdles around the room for a bit, leaning against his dresser to take off his socks and throw them in the hamper, shucking off his sweats completely to leave him in what you can vaguely make out to be equally transparent boxers and a loose sweatshirt. 

you’ve asked him before why he even bothers wearing clothes, and he just looked at you like you were crazy. 

i’m a ghost, baby, not a nudist! 

life on The Other Side is similar to his life before. he has a job, a few good friends he keeps up with. he takes bbama on walks every day, orders delivery food too many nights a week, and hates doing his laundry. the biggest difference he tells you is that he’s just… somewhat, mostly invisible now. 

The Other Side is almost like a movie, that’s the easiest way you can begin to describe it. everything looks normal: the trees, the houses, the cars, but the people are just… different. they don’t all look like jisung. when jisung eats something hearty to fuel his energy, you can see the complete outline of him, can vaguely see his handsome facial features, the texture of his hair, the lettering on his clothes. if he’s tired or hungry, he fades in and out, almost completely impossible to see. some people appear as foggy apparitions. some look just like you with visible flesh and bright clothing, but you could walk right through them. 

you’re happy jisung has been eating well because you’d miss him even more if you couldn’t see him. 

he flops down beside you on the bed then, jostling your upper body and sighing up at the ceiling before turning on his side to face you. 

“missed you bae.” 

jisung’s head finds your shoulder and he throws his leg over your hips. it’s innocent enough, even when his hand sneaks under your shirt to find one of your tits, still innocent by jisung standards when he squeezes the fat in his hand and prods his thumbnail at your soft nipple. 

“oh yeah?” you hum, swatting at his thigh. “missed me?” 

he laughs, gives you that goofy, deep ha-ha-ha laugh right in your ear. jisung fondles your tit again until you squeak. he’s playing with your nipple, feeling it stiffen and peak underneath the gentle attention of his nimble fingers. he’s got your loose t-shirt rucked up to your chin before you know it, mouthing at the mound closest to him while still rubbing and tapping at the other. the second his tongue snakes around your nipple, your back arches. you cup his hand, squeeze his wrist. 

“missed you, bae. missed my honeys too though.” he doesn’t even pull away from your chest to speak, his words mumbled against your skin and slurred with want. jisung kisses up your chest, your neck, and he meets your lips in a heated kiss. his hand now fondles the breast he stopped mouthing at, but he pushes up on it when you’re kissing, so much so that the supple skin brushes your chin. your cunt clenches. 

jisung pulls away from your spit slick lips and licks at your nipple again, laving his tongue flat against it and snaking it up to your mouth once more. it wets your chin, but you meet his tongue with your own until he pulls away slightly to do it again. jisung grunts and pushes up on your tit until he can lick at your nipple and your lips almost in tandem. 

his grunt turns into a whine when you stick your tongue out to tangle with his. it meets the fatty skin of your chest first, and you tuck your chin uncomfortably to kitten lick your own nipple. jisung angles it upwards so you can have easier access - it’s nasty, it’s something straight out of a sleazy porn video, but you lap at your nipple together, coating the peaked little bud with your shared spit while your tongues dance together. jisung’s eyebrows are furrowed tight and his cock is hard against your thigh. 

“fuck, let me get…” jisung grunts again and jostles you as he moves. he pulls on your shoulders until you get the memo, lifting up and letting him tug your shirt off and crawl behind you so you’re relaxing against his sturdy chest, safe in between the spread of his legs. you lean your head back against his shoulder when he takes your tits in his hands, squeezing and kneading and pushing them together. “fuck, fuck- look at that, baby.” 

you look up then, eyes blinking dazedly until they laser focus on the only thing jisung could possibly be talking about. 

the standing mirror across from his bed. 

your mouth drops open when you see it, your sinful reflection in the mirror. the sunlight from the window nearly completely blocks the already hazy view of jisung, so it looks almost like your tits are moving on their own. you can see where his fingers indent the skin but not his fingers, you can see that you’re leaning up in the bed but not who you’re leaning against. 

jisung plays with you like that for a long time, until your nipples are so hard and sensitive that you writhe every time he plucks at them with needy fingers. it feels like you’re being edged, cunt so wet and desperate and pitifully untouched in your shorts that you’d angle your hips to hump his comforter if he didn’t have your thighs spread so wide. your hips kick when jisung takes both of your nipples between his thumb and index finger and pulls, using his grip on your poor nipples to jiggle your tits. 

“f-f-fuuuck,” you whimper. your back arches to chase his fingers and relieve the pressure. 

his hands smooth down your stomach to rub at the soft skin there. it’s bunched up from how you’re bent in half for him, and he moans when he feels it. 

“lemme at that pretty pussy,” he breathes, and finally, finally hooks his fingers under the hem of your shorts and panties to pull them off all together. his breath is hot in your ear and it makes you shiver, but he reaches farther around you so those dexterous, transparent fingers of his can dip between your legs. you can hardly bear to watch, but you can’t look away either, eyes focused on the way jisung’s fingers spread your lips to see you pink and pretty. you’d be embarrassed if it wasn’t so erotic, if the sight of your sticky wet cunt glistening in the sunlight didn’t have you biting your lip. he uses his whole hand to spread you, middle finger teasing at your pudgy clit. “hi, baby. hi, beautiful. shit, look at you.” 

he’s talking to your cunt, voice pitching in a coo that makes your eyes squeeze shut and your head turn to the side. you’re burning up, cheeks flaring hot. 

“no, no, no, baby, watch! please watch? so sexy when you take my fingers…” he cajoles, slipping his middle finger down to prod at your clenching hole as if that’ll persuade you. it does though, it does, your head turns back toward the mirror to watch the way jisung curls two fingers inside and spreads them. 

you can’t see his fingers with the glare of the sun, not really, but you can see the pretty pink of your insides where he fucks you open. it makes your head spin, and jisung continues to curl his fingers up up up until your foot is kicking outwards. he hits that special little spot so perfectly that your foot twitches continuously at the press of his fingers, so you hold yourself underneath your knees as if that’ll help. you look so sinful spread out the way you are, the deceitful mirror making you out to be alone and desperate in jisung’s bed. you know it’s far from the truth. desperate, yes. alone, not even close. 

your fingers tangle in jisung’s hair and you whine, pressing your face against his sweaty neck. he tilts his head so that his cute, full cheek can rest on your hair while his fingers fuck inside of you so good that you swear you’ll be moving straight into The Other Side by the time he’s done with you. 

“jisung, jisung- f-fuuuck!” you’re nearly vibrating with it, your whine wobbles and shakes as you do. your cunt talks too, almost as loud as you are at this point, letting jisung know he’s doing everything right. his fingers slip from your cunt with a sloppy noise, and he vees his sticky wet fingers to spread your lips like before. he rubs your clit with four fingers and spreads you open again when he’s done. 

“look how cute your little clit is,” he coos. jisung nuzzles his cheek against your hair and presses a kiss against your temple. your body lurches. “fuck, it’s so hard, baby. does it feel that good?” 

he’s fishing for compliments, but you’ll give him however many he wants if that’ll get him to fuck you sooner. 

“you know it does, han jisung!” you don’t know how you have the wherewithal to sass, but it makes jisung laugh. he swats at your clit just to rub it sweetly again right after. “it feels so— so, god, it feels so f-fucking good. want your cock though, baby. want it- want it all up in me.” 

it’s hard and leaking through his boxers where he’s pressed to your back, so you roll your hips against it as best you can. jisung moans at your words, even more so when you give him more pressure to rut into, cupping your cunt and your hip and using it to pull you back harder on him. you wish you could see him clearer in the mirror in front of you, but the sound of his shaky breathing and the feeling of his sweaty thighs around you is enough. 

with one last thrust against your back, jisung helps you sit up so that he can crawl out from behind you. he’s a good pillow, but it feels good to stretch out on your back like this. you can hear him toss his sweatshirt and nearly fall off the bed shucking his boxers down his legs, but all his movements halt when he watches you stretch. you stretch your legs, your arms, arch your back until your breasts are drooping to the sides of your chest. jisung’s hand comes up to caress the skin of your stomach and you preen. when you look up, his barely-there eyes are roaming your body and his jaw is slack. his attention always makes you feel so beautiful, so desired. 

“spread those sexy legs for me, gorgeous, yeah. fuck, like that. make room for me, baby.” 

you part your legs when he asks you to, reaching your hands up to welcome jisung when he eases between them. he kisses you deeply when your arms wrap around his broad shoulders, tongues tangling noisily as spit seeps down your chin. 

jisung reaches down to wrap his hand around his dick. he’s so wet you can hear it, can hear him polish the leaky head and fuck his fist before he taps it against your clit. you’re so wet that little droplets of wetness fly to your thighs when he smacks you like that again and again. you spread them wider to entice him more, like you’re not already picture perfect to him. 

“want you to watch me fuck you,” he breathes, and you bite your lip and nod, already glancing towards the mirror. 

your mouth drops open when he positions himself at your entrance. you feel yourself stretch open when he sheathes inside your cunt, and you can see it too. you watch your hole stretch slowly as jisung pushes himself inside balls deep. you can see inside again, pretty, pretty pink, but you’re stretched wider than you were on his fingers. it doesn’t look like anything’s inside even though you feel the heavy weight of him, the pressure of his hard cock. it makes your thighs twitch. 

jisung’s so desperate from fondling your tits and rutting against your back that he’s begging as soon as he settles. 

“can- can i move? oh, shit, baby. holy shit…” 

the only answer you give him is a purposeful clench of your cunt. jisung wheezes through it, and you’re almost there yourself, watching your hole contract in the mirror. it’s a lot. it’s dirty. it’s sexy. 

your thighs are picked up in jisung’s hold before you know it. he’s blanketing you completely, so they rest comfortably in the crook of his elbows while he rabbits his hips. he breathes shakily against the sweaty skin of your neck, kisses and tongues and nips at the skin there until you’re keening. 

you don’t know where to look; you’re overwhelmed in the best of ways. you turn your head to look at jisung. with his face tucked into your neck, all you can see are his broad shoulders, hazy but still there. he’s warm to the touch when your squeeze your arms tighter around him, raking your nails down his back in a way you know he loves but will inevitably complain about too, when he can’t look and see the scratches in the mirror. it makes him fuck you harder, his hips snap against you so roughly that it almost takes your breath away. 

“tell me what you see. tell me- tell me, baby.” 

his words are gritted through his teeth, desperate and frantic. 

your head lolls back to the mirror, and your breath really does leave your lungs then. your hole’s still speared open on his cock, but your eyes are taken by the rest of your body. your tits bounce roughly with the force of his thrusts, your dangling legs rock with his movements. the sun still blocks your visibility of jisung in the mirror, so it looks like you’re on your own, being railed up the bed by an unseen force. 

“i’m- you’re fucking me,” you warble, voice unsteady. 

“i need details!” jisung whines. he pinches at your hip. “tell me how hot we look! or how pretty your pussy looks on my dick. throw me a bone, give- give me something! fuck. fuck, baby.” 

you whimper. you do look hot together, even though you can hardly see jisung at all in the mirror. the second part, though. that gets to you. 

your pussy does look pretty on his dick, stretched out around his probing cock, swollen inside with how much you need him. cute, puffy lips and a hard little clit. your cunt glistens in the sunlight, a sticky wet sheen that coats you entirely and makes you tangy sweet to the taste, jisung’s favorite candy. 

“h-hannie, fuck! it’s-” heady, embarrassing, delicious. “my pretty pussy looks so good on your cock!” 

there’s something so erotic about watching yourself take it like this, something so gratifying about watching your body feel pleasure. maybe next time he can turn you on your stomach, get you face down and ass up so you can watch yourself get fucked from behind. 

“fuckme. fuck me, oh god. i’m gonna nut,” jisung grunts. your voice always works him up in bed, especially when you’re talking dirty. he does cum then, deep and warm in your pussy just like you both wanted. you can feel him throbbing, can feel yourself throbbing with need, so your hand slips between your legs to rub your clit. 

a look in the mirror shows jisung’s cum slowly leaking out of you around his softening cock. you swipe it up with your fingers and bring it to your clit until it’s so slick with your combined wetness and his cum that your fingers slip all over it. it’s messy, it’s perfect, but you whimper sadly when he pulls his cock out. you don’t stay empty long because jisung’s fingers curl themselves back inside as he sits back on his haunches, prodding insistently at your g-spot until your toes are curling and you’re gushing all over his fingers and yours. 

you’re laying beside each other catching your breath when the aircon kicks on, sending goosebumps down your arms. jisung rubs them and sits up abruptly in bed. 

“shit, you cold? here. take my sweatshirt.” he reaches down over the edge of the bed and tosses his previously discarded sweatshirt in your direction. 

“where is it?” 

“right here, baby.”