you are my light

You'd been at the party for approximately an hour, maybe less, when you feel his hands slide around your waist.

You startle at the touch at first, before the familiar warmth of Hongjoong sinks in. Your lips part from the words you'd been saying, brow raising as you take notice of the possessive edge to his touch—his fingers dig in, not painful but firm, and he splays his palm across your waist in a full, noticeable grasp.

Seconds later, you feel his chest press into your back.

"Hi pretty girl," he whispers, low and heavy, as if there's not another person standing in front of the two of you. The tone of his voice has a shiver crawling down the back of your spine, skin lighting up with goosebumps as he sets his chin on your shoulder.

"Hi Joong," you greet back, turning your head over your shoulder as you meet his waiting gaze. "I was just talking to—"

"Sangwoo," Hongjoong cuts in, sharp but not cruel. There's a note to his voice that you catch, something heavy as his eyes leave yours, darkening as he meets Sangwoo's waiting gaze. "I noticed."

That's all he says. No greeting, no real recognition of Sangwoo's precense at all.

You let out an awkward chuckle, feeling the awkward tension of Hongjoong's slight and his hands that continue to press against you. He plays with the lace of your dress, presses kisses along the length of your neck, touches every part of you he can get his hands on, unabashed of the one man audience in front of him.

"Joong," you call, voice a low whisper as you offer a small, polite smile Sangwoo's way before turning towards Hongjoong. "You're being rude."

And really, you don't mind. Not really. It's the principle of it, you figure. You feel like you should say something more than you care about actually doing it.

It seems Hongjoong doesn't care either. Even with your whispered plea, he's sending a rather nonplussed glance Sangwoo's way before slipping his hand into yours and pulling you along with him. His grip is gentle and firm, and you nearly lose your footing, not expecting the pull, until Hongjoong's steadying you with a hand against your hip.

"Oh, Y/N, we weren't done talking—"

"She'll find you later," Hongjoong cuts in, not even bothering to glance back at Sangwoo, before adding under his breath; "not likely."

You watch, stunned. It's not often Hongjoong's so blatantly... dismissive of someone.

He doesn't stop until he's found an empty spot, a little corner tucked away from everyone else. He takes a seat on the couch, his lips curling into a soft smile as he meets your gaze and pulls you directly onto his lap. You let him, straddling his waist as your hands fall on his shoulders, playing with the edge of his hair.

He just continues to smile up at you, bright-eyed and grinning as if he hadn't all but dragged you away from a conversation to pull you into his lap.

"There," he says, satisfied. "Just us."

You snort; "was someone jealous?"

"Yes," he says, completely and wholeheartedly honest. It makes you blink, but then you remember, Hongjoong's never been particularly fussed about hiding his jealousy. He knew when it was appropriate and when it wasn't, and if you had truly thrown a fuss, he wouldn't have bothered you. "He was making eyes at you."

"He was dreadfully boring," you laugh, biting your lip. "You seemed to know him though."

"Some staff member," Hongjoong shrugs. "I've seen him once or twice. He tried to make a pass at one of our makeup artists a few weeks ago, must've gotten moved to some other group."

You supress a shiver. "Gross," you frown. "Now I know why he was going on and on about all of his 'important work'," you snort, adding in the air quotes. "Clearly wanted to impress."

Hongjoong scoffs; "remind me to get him fired."

"Baby," you mumble.

"He deserves it," Hongjoong shrugs.

You sigh, not having really put up much of a fight anyway. "I guess."

Hongjoong shifts, pulling you closer as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your chin. "You didn't really mind me being rude, yeah?" He asks, voice soft and pliant. "Didn't like you being near him. Didn't like you being away from me in general."

"Of course I didn't mind," you grin down at him, kissing his nose. "You saved me an awkward conversation. And I'd rather be with you too."

Hongjoong's eyes sparkle. "Yeah?"

"Definitely," you confirm, nodding. "You were rather possessive, though, baby."

"You liked it?"

"Loved it," you smirk, licking your lips. "Love your hands on me."

"Ah," Hongjoong breathes. "That's good. Because I vote we leave this party early and I'll touch you all you'd like, wherever you'd like."

"Oh?" You quirk a brow, teasing and mischevious. "Is that so? Won't the boys be upset if you leave early?"

Hongjoong snorts; "truthfully I don't really care."

hongjoong

when you asked hongjoong to teach you how to dj, you didn’t expect to be thrown into a sound engineering crash course.

“so, you’re gonna want to make sure the bpms and the keys are both in sync,” he instructs you as he messes with the settings on his laptop before moving to the turntable console between you. “the camelot wheel can be helpful when you’re starting out to transition between songs.”

“the who?” you squint at him, growing increasingly frustrated as you try to follow along with his complex guidance. hongjoong looks up at you, a smirk etched across his features as he beckons you over.

“c’mere.” you follow his lead, allowing him to place his hand over yours as he guides you through a demonstration of operating the turntable. you watch carefully and listen as the speakers move smoothly from one rnb song into another. “see?”

only when you turn up to look at him do you realize just how close he was. his grip over your hand tenses slightly when he meets your gaze, something darkening in his eyes as he swallows. you part your lips to speak when he clears his throat and takes a step back.

“did … did you have any other questions?” he asks, his gaze flickering to your lips for a split second that you’re sure he doesn’t realize you notice. it was no secret that you and hongjoong had been dancing around the will-they, won’t-they of your relationship for months and you were starting to hit your limit with how patient you could continue to be.

“uh, yeah, actually,” you say, crossing your arms over your torso. “could you actually show me how to record and upload samples to use in mixes?”

“oh—! sure thing,” hongjoong answers with disappointment evident on his face as he shifts his focus back to the laptop. “do you want to send them over to me after so i can give you feedback?”

“i sure do.”

the next weekend, hongjoong is sat at his own desk in his dorm as he sifts through another mix for a campus event he was recruited to work on music for. he brushes a hand through his hair, sorting through files when a notification pops up from you with an audio file attached.

you: heyyy you: just got done messing with this, lmk what u think you: [1 attachment: audio file]

a smile tugs at his lips as he sets his headphones over his ears. he had been enjoying teaching you about one of his favorite hobbies, especially considering it gave him an excuse to spend more time with you. it impressed him how much of a fast learner you were, especially—

“fuck, hongjoong.”

hongjoong triple checks that his headphones were connected as he glances around his otherwise empty dorm. the sound of you whimpering fills his ears as he stares blankly at his screen, watching the timer on the audio file creep ever-so slowly. he shifts in his armchair with his fingers tightening around the handles as he feels a familiar heat rising beneath his skin and between his legs.

the sound of you nearly approaching your climax urges him to finally slam on the pause button before reaching for his phone to thumb a quick message to you.

hongjoong: you need to come over. now

seonghwa

“you’re distracting me.”

“i wouldn’t call this distracting.”

“i would.”

seonghwa peers up at you from where he sat cross-legged on his dorm room floor, nudging the frame of his rimless glasses further up the bridge of his nose. an assortment of plastic bricks surround him, neatly organized into piles by colors and shapes. the manual for assembling his latest starship is open in front of him detailing the next several steps to follow. even after several months of knowing him, it still astonished you that the campus-feared teacher’s assistant was a violently passionate lego enthusiast that spent his nights like this.

that is, when he didn’t have you bent over the edge of his bed while he fucked you senseless.

like many nights in the past, he sat on the floor fixated on his latest passion project while you observed him quietly from the comfort of his bed. there was something undeniably attractive about watching him as he worked. the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the muscles in his arms flexing with every brick perched between his fingertips. you spent these nights ogling him while he couldn’t spare you so much as a passing glance with his attention zeroed in on his legos.

he lets out something akin to a chuckle, the corner of his mouth upturned as he finally allows himself to glance back up at you. his eyes darken, at least for a split second, as he takes in the little black number you’d chosen to wear for the night. the lace lingerie clung to all of the right places, your thighs crossed over one another as you prop your head up in your palm.

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” you tease, sliding off of the sheets and onto the cool tile floors so that you could drape your arms over his shoulders. seonghwa works to remain unfazed as he fishes for another row of bricks but you feel the way his pulse quickens when your palms come to rest over his chest.

“baby,” he mutters in protest, rereading the instructions in front of him as his focus begins to falter.

“hm?” you draw long, languid strokes over his torso with your lips pressed to the shell of his ear.

“baby,” he repeats, his voice stern in warning this time. your gaze flickers down to where the legos clatter to the ground in front of him as they slip from his fingers.

“keep going,” you urge him, “i just wanted to get a closer look.”

“no, you just want to torture me,” he retorts, picking up the pieces where he’d left off and quickly losing focus as he flips to the next page.

“well, is it working?”

“no.”

“okay,” you say suddenly as you release him and move to stand back up onto your feet. seonghwa glances over his shoulder at you, his expression unreadable until you feel his fingers close around your wrist to tug you back into his lap.

“i guess i could use a break,” he hums, wrapping broad arms around your waist as you lean into him with a triumphant smile.

yunho

“i can’t believe you guys are missing spring break at the beach to go to comic-con,” you call out to your boyfriend as he hurries around the room to pack his suitcase. he fishes through his closet for the various accessories to his spider-suit. you don’t know why you’d even questioned who he’d want to dress up as, considering he was easily the biggest marvel fan you’d ever met.

“it’s not my fault that it falls on the same week!” he protests, still fixated on collecting his things. “this might be the last chance we get to see the full cast together on a panel.”

“oh, the agony,” you tease, raising your hands in surrender when he turns to pout at you. “i’m kidding! it’ll be fun. make sure to take plenty of pictures. i’m still mad you won’t let me see the costume you put together.”

“it has to be a surprise,” yunho scolds, leaning over to his bed where you lay to press a chaste kiss to your lips. and a surprise, it was.

the second you opened yunho’s instagram stories from comic-con, the last thing you were focused on was the party surrounding you while you lay on the sand with a drink in hand. when he said he was planning to go as spiderman, you expected a halloween-quality costume. he’d spent so much time focusing on studying for midterms and getting ahead on his thesis research that you assumed he had no time for anything else.

your thumb remains pressed to your phone screen as you take in every last stitch of his costume. the way the red and blue fabric clung to his muscles, his hair tousled and falling over his eyes as he smiles at his reflection in the hotel bathroom mirror. his large hands were covered with the webbed material, curled around the edges of his phone.

after that, you could barely focus on enjoying your spring break. days at the pool or nights at the bar were interrupted every time you got a notification from yunho’s account. one minute it was a video of him perched on the hotel rooftop, dangling from a light pole, the next was another onslaught of mirror selfies with his friends that had joined him in their own superhero costumes.

in the years you’d known him, not once had you ever entertained the thought of what it would be like to hook up with him as a superhero alter ego. then again, there was a first time for everything.

you’re fast asleep in your dorm when you hear a soft knock at the door, one that barely stirs you awake as you shove the sheets aside and welcome in a jet-lagged yunho.

“hi, baby,” you mumble sleepily when he pulls you into a tight embrace. his familiar scent comforts you, the weight of his body on yours warm. “how was it?”

“insane,” yunho answers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before pulling away just enough to meet your gaze. you recognize the look in his eyes immediately and arch a brow as he lowers his hands to your waist with a squeeze. “but, we can talk about it tomorrow. right now, there’s only one thing i really, really want.”

“oh?” you feign ignorance, tracing your nails over the nape of his neck and smiling when he shudders slightly. “and what’s that?”

“well,” yunho says as he presses a kiss just below your jaw, “i really want to show my girlfriend how much i missed her.”

“on one condition,” you reply, startling him as he looks back up at you in confusion. “the suit stays on.”

“the suit?”

“i need the friendly neighborhood spiderman to show me how much he missed me, too.”

yunho grins, already reaching for his luggage. “the suit stays on, then.”

yeosang

“you want to start streaming?”

yeosang stares back at you, partly without a thought and partly from the anticipation of your reaction. you glance between him and the onslaught of equipment he’d picked up at the department store—a mic, a new webcam, memory cards. everything was splayed across his desk that he’d often use for gaming instead of the assignments he needed to get done.

“i—” you stop yourself, thinking hard before you answer him. on one hand, your boyfriend was a naturally shy person that you couldn’t imagine being thrown into the pressure of becoming a popular web streamer. on the other, you knew he was the type that wouldn’t back down from the opportunity to become the best at yet another hobby. you finally sigh and mirror his smile. “i think it’s a great idea.”

“you do?” the elation that spreads across his face is unmistakable as he begins to fidget with the devices on his desk. he begins to ramble, much to your amusement as you settle onto his bed and observe him quietly. “oh, it’ll be so much fun. i can stream league and then when there’s competitions, i can do, like, maybe you can join, too! we can …”

it’d been at least a year since yeosang had introduced the idea of streaming to you. what was once considered a nerdy little hobby of his had become a near-full-time job in addition to your classes. truthfully, you had expected him to grow tired of managing a streaming account and move onto the next hobby. but, it consumed him and he became increasingly focused on it. almost, too focused.

it was to your misfortune that he was able to hit five hundred-thousand subscribers when you were planning to celebrate your third anniversary together. as much as you wanted to focus on spending time together—alone—you knew this was a huge deal for him and that it was a balancing act.

“why don’t you stream for a little and then we can head out for the night?” you suggest.

“are you sure? i’m totally fine with postponing and doing something over the weekend—”

“no, no,” you scold, a mischievous glint in your eyes when he tries to reason with you. “i insist.”

“thank you all so much for the support.” yeosang beams at the webcam later that night as celebratory comments flood the chat. “i couldn’t—hah—it means a lot.” he bites back a groan with his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, his hand gripping the edge of his desk until his knuckles turn white. “i have tons of new content—ngh—planned for the rest of the season.”

you try not to laugh from beneath the desk—although, it’d likely be impossible with your mouth occupied otherwise.

“huh?” he struggles to focus on the comments asking if he was alright. “oh—! yeah, yeah, i’ve never—ah—never been better.” you feel the way his thighs tense beneath your palms, a clear sign that he was close. he lets out a long exhale before he rushes to bid farewell to his viewers. “okay, i’ll see you all this weekend when the new skins drop, bye.”

the computer shuts off and yeosang shifts his chair away from the desk, bringing you with him until he guides you to your feet and onto his lap. he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes, his lips parted as he fights to catch his breath.

“you’re evil,” he scolds, forcing a smile out of you.

“i know.”

san

“i really need to rehearse these lines,” san grumbles as he flips through the script in his lap. he’d spent hours scouring through the material, his eyes dry and burning from staring at the words beneath the fluorescents. you had graciously agreed to listen and provide feedback—although, you weren’t sure how helpful you’d be considering you weren’t the one involved in theater on campus—while running through one of your assignments.

“you’ve sounded great so far!” you call out to him from one of the audience seats. he looks over from the stage, his face contorted into a near-permanent pout before he looks back down at the script. “c’mon, would it help if i helped you out?”

“maybe,” he replies, finally looking over to you. he gestures for you to join him on stage and points you in the direction of the extra scripts as you scale the stairs. you follow his instructions and turn to the pages he was reading off of, nearly stopping in your tracks when you see the scene he’s rehearsing.

“okay,” san sighs, rolling his neck and shoulders before standing across from you with his own script in hand. “ready?”

“uh,” you swallow, struggling to hold his gaze, “sure.”

you’d long been attracted to san, even since freshman year when you had orientation seminars together. by some stroke of luck, you became inseparable—something you found solace in, until you began looking at him differently against your will and noticing every last detail about him. the way his body flexed when he acted, the way his eyes disappeared when he’d smile.

“hello?” san waves his hand in front of your face with a laugh. “help me out here!”

“sorry, sorry,” you blurt out, shaking your head before taking a deep breath to prepare.

“past the point of no return,” san begins, his voice dipping lower as he slips into character. you hold his gaze and try to ignore the way your heart races at the sudden shift. “no backward glances.”

he takes a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “the games we’ve played until now are at an end.”

you swallow dryly, your eyes darting onto the page for your line before you return to him. “past all thought of ‘if’ or ‘when’.”

“no use resisting.” he lowers his hand to capture your wrist between his fingers and you feel your breath hitch as he draws you in closer. “abandon thought.”

you both lower your scripts entirely, your hand still in his as you notice the way san’s chest begins to shudder with every breath. he averts your eyes, instead focusing on your lips as he purses his with a hum. the auditorium becomes too hot, too quiet as you become painfully aware of how close you are.

“san?” you say his name quietly in question. he doesn’t respond, just reaches for your jaw to brush his thumb across your cheek and tether your gaze to his. the way he looks at you sends a shiver down your spine and your eyes flutter shut as he leans in to press his lips to yours.

the moment he pulls away, the tension between you becomes too heavy to ignore. he looks at you with pupils blown wide and a kind of desperation you hadn’t seen from him before.

“do you, uh … do you want to go back to my place to keep practicing?”

mingi

mingi pulls away from you in an attempt to catch his breath as you peer up at him through your lashes. textbooks are strewn across the dorm room floor, a stack of study guides piled high on his desk that you nearly knock over when he pulls you into his lap in his armchair. you swallow down air and brush the hair falling over your face before adjusting your hoodie.

“we need to get back to studying,” you grumble, finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the way mingi’s large hands caress the small of your back before settling on your waist. he snakes his way back under your hoodie, his fingers tracing soft, slow circles against your skin. “if i don’t do well on this test, i’m fucked.”

“i know.” mingi presses a kiss to your collarbone, shifting his weight in an attempt to quell the sexual frustration churning at his core. “it’s just—it’s a little hard to focus when you look so good.”

“mingi.”

“yes, baby.”

“i’m wearing a hoodie and sweats.”

“so?”

with a scoff, you roll your eyes and swat at him before sliding off of him begrudgingly to return to your study guides. it was a gift and a curse having mingi at your disposal. he was exceptional when it came to organic chemistry, which meant he made the perfect tutor for your weakest class. on the other hand, your little arrangement as friends with benefits meant it occasionally got in the way of your studying.

or, well—frequently.

“okay, let’s make a deal,” mingi says matter-of-factly. “let’s get through the organic reactions pathways and then we can take a break.”

“a break, or a … break?” you ask, arching a brow with a knowing smile in his direction.

“you tell me.” he shrugs, mirroring your expression.

the pair of you are sat across from one another shortly after, cross-legged on his bed as he begins to recite the material to you. he goes into a complex description of molecule structures that you try to follow along as you take notes, your mind quickly wandering when you think about the feeling of his hand on your throat from the night before as he fucked you into the mattress.

mingi snaps in front of your face and you blink rapidly, feigning attention with a dramatic nod. he narrows his eyes at you before pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh and setting aside his laptop.

“i know that look,” he says, folding his arms as he stares back at you.

“what look?” you ask with the most innocent expression you could muster. you pray that your mind stops wandering as you look back down at the notes between you. “i’ve been listening!”

“okay, then repeat what i just said.”

“you were talking about how addition leads to a reduction in saturation.”

mingi blinks in surprise, his mouth slightly ajar as he tries to stop himself from lecturing you to pay attention. “that was right.”

“and i might have been thinking about last night,” you mutter under your breath, barely loud enough for him to catch as he whips his head back up at you.

“oh,” he says, mindlessly scrolling through his notes before he sets aside the laptop and reaches for you with a resigned sigh. “well, come to think of it … we might need to take that break a little early.”

wooyoung

when wooyoung asked you out to go stargazing, you couldn’t imagine anything more romantic. laying beneath the stars beside one another, your head pressed to his chest and the rhythm of his heartbeat while you talked for hours on end. you could see it now—sprawled across a picnic blanket, enjoying one another’s company as you finally have the opportunity to have him all to yourself.

you didn’t anticipate just how much of an astronomy nerd wooyoung was.

“okay, so right up there is the summer triangle,” he informs you, peering through the viewfinder on his telescope as he gestures to the stack of reference books he’d brought along. “there’s three huge stars—vega, deneb, altair—you can’t miss ‘em.”

“i think i see them,” you say, although your eyes are fixated on wooyoung’s every move as his excitement grows from your supposed discovery. he adjusts his glasses and narrows his eyes, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his flannel. you glance up at the sky that was clear aside from scattered stars. he sighs contentedly, sitting back on his haunches.

“thank you for coming along,” he says earnestly, looking over to you with a broad smile. “it’s nice to be able to share this with someone.”

“of course.” you reach over and pat a hand over his, the gesture earning a flush of pink across his cheeks as he clears his throat nervously. “i think it’s cute that you’re so into astrology.”

“astronomy.”

“right.”

“well, i’m a sagittarius, in case you were wondering,” wooyoung replies as he bursts into a fit of laughter at your mistake.

you roll your eyes and shove his chest playfully, missing just enough to lose your balance and topple over onto him. his arms wrap around you instinctively, the scent of his cologne engulfing you as you grip the fabric of his shirt in tight fists. suddenly, the sounds of the night around you grow faint, nothing but your heartbeat thrumming in your ears while your breath escapes you, low and shallow.

“sorry,” you mumble, although neither of you move.

“i don’t mind,” he replies, his voice soft as his grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly. his gaze trails over your face, his lips parted as he thinks of something, anything to say in the moment.

“do … do you want to get back to stargazing?” you ask, about to shift your weight off of him when he holds you firmly against him with a renewed glint in his eyes.

“actually,” he says, brushing a strand of hair that had fallen over your face, “why don’t we take a break?”

“oh?” he turns you so that you’re laid back onto the picnic blanket, his arms on either side of you. he looked nothing like the bashful stargazing enthusiast from just seconds before, now staring down at you with a knowing grin threatening to break across his face. you take the opportunity to get under his skin and hook a leg around his waist so that he’s drawn closer to you. “and what did you have in mind?”

“i could think of a few things,” wooyoung hums before you hook a finger around the collar of his shirt and pull him into a kiss.

jongho

you had no idea what you were in for when you asked jongho out.

he always kept to himself; never stayed back when class ended, didn't seem to have much of a relationship with the other students. something about him intrigued you that you couldn't put your finger on. he seemed like he would be sweet under that rigid exterior and somehow it became your personal mission to uncover his personality, whether he liked it or not.

"hey, do you think you can help me out after class with this assignment?" you'd ask.

"sorry, i have somewhere to be," he'd answer, shuffling through slides on his laptop without so much as a glance at you. "but let me know how it goes."

"hey, would you be open to helping tutor some of the freshmen that are on track to take this class?"

"i don't think i have time for it," jongho would reply, dry as ever and making your blood boil. "but i think some of the others were mentioning being down to help."

it wasn't until one faithful evening when you somehow got him on the way to his car that you nearly cornered him in the parking lot. that is, if you'd consider flagging him down and running towards him with your heart nearly about to explode a subtle attempt. jongho stared at you through the lenses of his thick-rimmed glasses, his eyebrow arched in question as he observes you trying to catch your breath.

"would—hoo—look," you say, slamming a hand on the roof of his car. he doesn't so much as jolt. "i think you're hot. i don't know why, especially considering you never seem interested in hanging out. but, i do. and i've been trying to hang out with you outside of class and i'm tired of trying to drop subtle hints."

"oh, you weren't subtle," jongho scoffs, something akin to a smile etched across his features.

"funny," you huff as you watch him put away his backpack in his backseat before turning to you.

"i'm actually headed to hang out with some friends. you can join us, if you're free."

"oh, so you do have a life outside of class?" you ask as he rolls his eyes playfully and gestures for you to enter his passenger seat.

the ride to wherever jongho was taking you was silent, save for the baseball podcast he seemed to be intently listening to as he kept both hands on the steering wheel. you scroll through your phone absentmindedly, a small part of you wondering if you were about to be dragged to something that would bore you to death when you thought he might have been more interesting beneath the surface.

boy, were you wrong.

the second he pulls into the parking lot of one of the busier barbecue joints and a group of guys you recognize faintly from across campus holler at his entrance, you realize that he was the complete opposite of what you'd expected. it was as if he was swapped out with a clone, full of life and laughter and eager to accept a round of drinks. he sang at the top of his lungs, cracked jokes like it was nobody's business and downed beer like a forlorn sailor.

“so, you’re jongho’s girl?” one of the guys ask you. his question steers your attention away from the fresh bottle of soju you were about to crack open and you glance in jongho’s direction before answering.

“well, i—”

“yeah,” jongho interjects, “she is.”

“Pretty pretty pretty please?”

You sigh exaggeratedly, throwing your head back against the car seat.

“Min, I’ve told you three times - no! I’m not gonna lay there for hours. I have my own exams to prepare for, I don’t have time.”

“But-”

“No ‘but’ Min. Go find another girl to do it, I’m sure there’s tons who’ll wanna say yes.” You take a sip of your coffee before an idea pops into your head. “What about that girl in the library who’s always eyeing you like candy? I’m sure she’d say yes in a heartbeat.”

The corner of his lips curls into a scowl. “Nah, she’s not right for my project.”

You shake your head, adamant. “Uh-uh. Not happening Min. Sorry. I really don’t have time.” A little guilt eats at you. “If you want I can ask around?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, broken only by your occasional quips at each other.

Four years of friendship have made you and Mingi so comfortable with each other that you can easily sit in silence, just as much as you could chat all through the night. Communication isn’t always easy though - he’s stubborn when he wants something, knowing what buttons to push and pawns to play to make you cave.

This time, you can’t though. This is final year exams, and whilst you know his exam is just as important as yours, that’s just it. Your exam matters too. As much as you wish you could help him, you just need to put your foot down on this one - you have your own problems to focus on.

You’ve barely locked the door to the dorm when he blocks your path to the kitchen.

“You haven’t found a client yet, have you?”

“What, for my PT exam? Nah, not yet.”

Whilst Mingi needs a live subject for his art exam, you’re in desperate need of a client for your own. You’re training to become a personal trainer, and your exam requires you to train someone for four weeks. The problem is that everyone you know has their own exams, and you’re too shy to ask strangers.

“What if you train me?”

You look at him like he’s grown a third head. “Why would I train you?” Your eyes roam up and down his body for a moment. “You’re already built like a god, you don’t need it.”

His cheeks flush the slightest shade of pink at your words. You’re not blind. Of course he’s built to perfection. But it’s never affected you the way others would be. The body to you is a collection of muscles, bones and anatomy. It’s functional, and impressive, and full of power. But you’ve never drooled at men for being built like him. You can recognise the hard work, but you don’t really find it sexual. He’s always teased you about it.

“I haven’t been in the gym in weeks. I’m out of practice.”

You scoff, moving past him to drop your things on the couch.

“Come on, think about it.” He says as he follows you until he’s mere inches from you, forcing you to tilt your head up to look at him. “You need someone to train, I need someone to paint. We can help each other out. What matters is that you find someone and get results, isn’t it? It doesn’t actually matter who?”

You take a moment to think about it. He does have a point…

“Two hours each every week, minimum. That’s all we need anyway. It’s enough time for us to do what we need without sacrificing too much.”

You purse your lips, the pros and cons listing themselves in your head. He wiggles a little closer, like he’s forcing you to not think about it too much, and you give in.

“Okay, fine. Let’s do it.”

He starts smiling and doing a celebratory dance but you stop him. “Min, you need to be serious about this though. You need to actually show up to the gym. This is important to me.”

“Hey - that was one time, two years ago, and I really thought she was the one…” He sighs dramatically.

“Mingi!”

“I’m just kidding. I promise you I won’t blow you off. I know this is important to you, and so is my art exam for me. We won’t blow each other off.” He wiggles his eyebrows, leaning down against the back of the couch, caging you in. “Although if you wanna blow me I won’t say no.”

You turn around to grab a pillow, throwing it at him with full force. He doesn’t even try to duck, too busy clutching his stomach laughing to care.

Fast forward to three days later, you laying on the bench, whilst he hovers over you, barely focusing on your explanation of why his elbows need to be 45 degrees out and not 90 degrees.

You put down the weights, sitting up in frustration. “Min, I know her ass looks great but I need you to focus. I can still back out of our deal, you know?”

His eyes whip back to you, and you see them linger an extra second on your chest as a bead of sweat runs between them before they snap back to your face.

“I’m focusing. My elbows need to be at 45 degrees because I’m trying to maximise fiber activation and minimise excessive front delt movement.”

He smirks at the furrow in your brow when you realise that despite being frustrating, he wasn’t ignoring you.

“Fine. Then show me.” You swing your leg over the bench, getting up and motioning for him to take your place. “I’ll get the thirties.”

He starts to protest but you ignore him, bringing the weights one by one.

He does his best to not look at your cleavage when you lean over him to help him hold the weights. You can’t help it, making sure to hover a little longer, a little lower, just to tease him.

You’re not an idiot, you know he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking. But he’s Mingi. Your roommate, your best friend, and most importantly a bit of an idiot with a constant above average amount of testosterone coursing through his body. He’s perpetually horny, and you look good. It’s just science.

The first couple of sets are clean, you’ll give him that much. He wavers a little at the start of the last set though, and you immediately step in to spot him, like you’ve been training to. You don’t even think about it, it’s just safety, but he drops the weights instead, one of them bouncing off and landing close to your toes.

“Min what the fuck, you almost got my foot!”

He pushes you away, sitting up with heavy breaths. “Your tits were in my face!”

You turn away, hands on your hips, trying so hard to be annoyed, but you just end up laughing to yourself. You try to stifle it, but it grows louder and louder until you’re crouching down, unable to catch your breath.

“I don’t see what’s funny y/n.”

“You… Yo-” The words refuse to come out between your choked breaths, though you try your best to reign it in, long enough to speak. “You’re gonna paint me naked and you can’t deal with my boobs being in front of your face in a sports bra?”

His face drops and you resume your laughing fit, unbothered by the other gym goers giving you sideways glances.

It takes a few minutes to catch your breath, but you remember he’s not just here for the fun of it and you actually have an exam to pass, so you throw him an olive branch.

“Would you like me to wear a tshirt? Would that make you more comfortable?”

“Yes. Yes it would. Please.”

You shake your head but ultimately decide to be the bigger person, reaching in your bag for your favourite band tee.

“Alright big guy. Pick those weights up, I want another full set since you never finished the last one. Let’s go.”

To his merit, he finishes the session perfectly, not making any comments or getting distracted by your body. You get back to the dorm, both a little sweaty, but energetic - him from getting a good workout in, you from realising he can actually be right for your exam.

“I’ll go take a quick shower now and then meet you at the studio. What do you want me to wear?”

Your question is innocent but his cheeks turn crimson immediately as he scratches his neck. “Well, you… You’re kind of supposed to be naked for it.”

The realisation dawns on you and you snicker. “Right, oh my god, sorry. Genuinely forgot about that part. All good, I’ll just wear some lounge clothes?”

He nods, relieved that you’re so comfortable with all of this. “Yeah that’s perfect. Thanks. I’ll see you in twenty at the studio.”

“See you in twenty!”

You watch as he looks around for a moment, trying to remember what he was going to do, before a light goes off in his brain and he goes into his room to shower.

Boy is this gonna be fun.

————

The room is empty, lest for a brown armchair and a cream pillow positioned in front of a blank canvas where Mingi is preparing his brushes and paints.

“Oh, hey. Didn’t hear you come in.”

He stands up awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands, deciding to tuck them in his pocket.

“So… this is my studio. Well not mine, but, like, I use it often, and I have it booked for the rest of the day. So… yeah.”

You drop your bag next to the armchair, taking in the small room.

It’s odd, when you think about it. His personality is loud, and certainly eccentric enough to be considered artistic, but you’ve never actually seen him in his environment. You’ve seen him sketch and doodle at the dorm, he’s shown you some of his work - you even went to an exhibition he took part of outside of college. This is different though. This is… intimate. Like you’re seeing a part of him you’ve somehow never seen in your years of friendship. It feels almost uncomfortable - knowing that the man you thought you knew so well has this side of him that’s been completely hidden from you. Well, it’s not like he hid it on purpose. You’ve just never asked.

“It’s your area Min, you tell me what you want from me.”

He chokes slightly but recovers.

“I’m gonna need you on the armchair.” He starts, laying down to demonstrate. “The subject is boredom, so I was thinking you could lay across like that, and be kind of looking towards me but not fully, like when you spas out.” You laugh at his quip. “Here, give it a try and I’ll guide you so you know what it feels like when it comes to the actual thing.”

You do as he says, trying to replicate what he demonstrated. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel weird to lie down like that in front of him. The way he looks at you is completely professional though, and you’re mesmerised by this new facet you’re finding out about.

His hands adjust your legs, bending one to rest against the back of the armchair whilst he shifts the other slightly so it can swing off the arm. He grabs your hips and pushes them up on the seat and you try to ignore how it felt to be moved like that, as if you weighed nothing. He continues adjusting your position, moving your arm exactly as he envisioned so it lays in your hair whilst your head hangs off the chair lazily. He hooks a finger under your chin, adjusting the tilt of your face until it’s perfect. You can’t take your eyes off of him and his furrowed brows, noticing the slight shade of pink decorating the apples of his cheeks.

When he’s finished adjusting you, he takes a step back to check it from his seat, and there’s a moment of silence. Your heart is beating just a fraction faster, something you realise has never happened in his presence. Well, maybe at the very beginning of your friendship, but it certainly hasn’t happened in a while.

He clears his throat, rubbing his sweaty hands on his sweats.

“Okay, umm…” He looks around before pointing to the corner of the room behind the easel. “You can leave your stuff there. We don’t exactly specialise in live art so I’m afraid we don’t have changing rooms…”

You shake your head. “Don’t worry about it, I’m fine changing here - or, well, you know, stripping or whatever.” You laugh.

You sit up, already passing your shirt above your head and he whips around, looking at the corner of the ceiling to give you some semblance of privacy. The air is colder than you anticipated and goosebumps decorate your skin as you take off your underwear. Maybe it’s the fact that you know your best friend is about to see you naked, although that idea’s never bothered you before.

So you push the thought aside, making your way back to the couch and laying exactly like he just showed you.

“I’m good Min.”

He takes a deep breath before turning around, slowly, dramatically despite his best intentions. And when his eyes land on you…

That’s when he realises his mistake.

Not because you’re not what he wants for his project, but because you’re exactly what he needs. He doesn’t know what exactly pushed him to beg you to be his subject, because he can’t tear his eyes off of your body, and now he knows that’s all he wants to look at forever. He had his idea of what you looked like - you’ve been friends for years, he’s seen you in bikinis and tight dresses. But this - this is so much better than what he imagined, which in turn makes it so much worse…

Your skin looks so soft, your curves are heaven, and the way your eyes are watching him - he knows you’re studying him and that he’s failing whatever test you’re categorising him in in your mind, but he can’t stop.

“Are you gonna paint, ever?” You tease, and he chuckles, low, though it’s more breathless than he intended.

“Sorry sorry yeah. I just… you look good.”

“Thanks. Make sure that shows in your painting.”

It’s a lame joke given his talent, but the intended effect still lands and the atmosphere lightens in the room. Slightly. You don’t chat, letting him do what he needs to do, but when he looks at you, examining you for his sketch, you can tell he’s still tense. It’s like he’s trying not to look, and it makes you laugh inside.

Of course you understand it - he’s a good looking man, you’re a good looking woman, you’re both young and free to do what you want, explore connections. But… it’s Mingi. Where he sees sexuality in you, you see hard work in him. The body to you is an amalgamation of muscles, tissues, joints and bones, all working in one way or another to keep us alive. If it wasn’t for your sensitivity to blood and gore, you would have loved to go into the medical field - probably surgery. Personal training was the closest thing next to that to you. Understanding how the body works and helping people become a stronger version of themselves is your way of doing good.

So when you look at someone like Mingi, whose muscles are well defined and who obviously takes great care in how he looks, you don’t see the sexual appeal first. You see the work he put into it to get there. You think about which exercises he would have done to get each muscle, if he prefers running or swimming, if he’s an arms or abs guy.

Mingi is the opposite. He sees everything with an art lense. Bodies are a mix of intricate lines, like a giant fingerprint - every one is unique, and he likes to study them. He’s a ladies man but he never got a bad rep for it. He treats every woman with respect, because as fleeting as they are to him, they’re a work of art, and he treats them as such. At least from what you’ve heard from them. Inside the dorm, it doesn’t sound very respectful.

You laugh to yourself, making him look at you with a questioning look.

“What’s so funny?”

You shake your head, attempting to concentrate on the task at hand.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Come on, tell me. I’m painting but I can chat. It helps, actually.”

You sigh, looking at the ceiling but he clicks his tongue. “Don’t move.”

You bite your lip to muffle a smile. “Sorry.”

“So? What made you laugh? Was it me?”

“In a way, yeah.”

His brow lifts, curious.

“I was thinking about how differently we see bodies. How I see it as functional and you see it as art. How you always treat the girls so respectfully, as word on the streets would have it.”

“And that’s funny because…?”

“Because I hear so much screaming and crying and begging when they’re over that I was wondering if you coerced them into spreading these rumours.”

You can’t help it, breaking into a new fit of laughter.

“Are you jealous?”

“Huh, what? No! Of course not. I just thought it was funny!”

“You’re not so quiet yourself miss ‘oh god please please please fuck yes’” He mocks in a high pitched voice, making you laugh even more.

“Is that supposed to be me?”

He nods, smiling to himself at your reaction. “This is, like, your go to phrase.”

“Okay, what else do I say?”

You’re genuinely curious now - you really thought you were quieter, but how loud exactly are you?

“Your second favourite is just crying. You cry a lot - whimpering to be specific. I gotta say, sometimes it gets to me.”

You scoff. “You perv!”

“It’s not my fault you like to let the entire dorm know when you’re about to cum!”

You both laugh at first, but then it settles into silence, his eyes trying not to look at you too closely.

“I’m sorry, I’ll try to keep it down next time.”

He opens his mouth to say something but decides not to. Curiosity points its nose but you push it down - now isn’t the time.

Time stretches, quiet, heavy, and you start to slip into sleep. You try to stay awake as much as you can, but exam season is kicking your ass and you accidentally fall asleep, awakened by your foot slipping off the arm a little.

“You okay?” He asks, genuinely concerned.

You shake yourself, putting your foot back in its original place. “Sorry - yes. I nodded off. Sorry.”

He puts his brush down, pulling his phone out. “Shit, I didn’t realise how long I’d been painting. It’s been three hours.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. We can just… let’s stop for today. I’ve done enough and you clearly need rest.”

“No no, come on, keep going I’m fine.”

“Y/n. There’s no point in continuing to paint if you’re gonna jolt every two seconds. I’d rather we pick it up another day.”

You consider arguing with him to continue what he’s doing but he’s right. “Yeah, okay. Can you pass me my clothes?”

“Of course.”

He walks to the armchair with his eyes closed, arm extended holding your clothes and you chuckle once again.

“You’ve just spent three hours looking at me naked but you can’t look anymore. Is that your limit, three hours?”

“Shut up.”

“Come on Min, don’t be ridiculous. How many women have you seen naked before?”

“Many. But you’re different. You’re y/n. Behind my canvas it’s fine. Up close it’s… weird.”

You click your tongue, offended. “Gee, thanks.”

“No, I-”

“Hey, it’s fine, I get it. I’m like one of the guys or whatever. But calling it ‘weird’ isn’t very nice Mingi.” You finish putting your clothes on, standing up and grabbing your bag.

“I’ll see you at the dorm.”

“Y/n don’t take it like that it’s not-”

You don’t hear the end of his sentence as the door slams behind you. 

You don’t know what’s gotten into you.

Usually you would have been able to give it back to him, like your usual back and forth, but this time it struck a nerve. Sure there’s probably hotter than you out there, but you’re proud of your body. You’ve worked hard to get to where you are, and you have curves, but you love these curves. And no one you’ve met or been with has ever had an issue with them - because if they did, you never have let it get anywhere.

Maybe that’s why Mingi’s words stung.

As usual, you decide to deal with stress the best way you know how to - by smashing a workout and a cupcake within the space of two hours. When you return to the dorm, your mood is considerably better, and you opt to follow that trend with another shower. You just didn’t expect to bump into him with just a towel around you.

“Oh, sorry - I, umm…” He doesn’t know where to look, turning around to leave your room, but you’ve had enough.

“Hey!” You shout as you run after him, yanking him by his t-shirt. “What’s your problem?”

“What do you m-”

“Don’t play dumb Mingi. You know exactly what I’m referring to. Why can’t you look at me?”

He scratches his head, unable to look at you still. “Wow, two ‘Mingi’s in one day, huh? Must’ve really struck a nerve…”

You cross your arms in front of you, unamused. “You called me being naked ‘weird’, and just now you couldn’t even look at me. What’s the deal? I need an explanation and I need it now. I’m not leaving until you spill.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have a choice. Talk. You know how I am when I get angry. You don’t wanna be the reason for it.”

“No, no I don’t.” He winces. “In my defence, you completely took my words out of context at the studio. I never called you weird. Or your body. I meant…” He sighs. “I meant that with the canvas in front of me I could pretend it was just for my exam. Being right in front of you when you were naked was weird be-”

“There it is again!” You scoff.

“It was weird because it didn’t feel like it was for my exam anymore you idiot! And right now, I can’t look at you because you’re all wet from your shower and all I can picture is you naked and wet. You’re my best friend. I’m not supposed to do that!”

You stand there for a moment, taking in his words, before a smile breaks out on your face. “So… you were being extra awkward because you think I’m hot?”

He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well yeah, I have eyes!”

“Okay, but, Min, it’s nothing new. You’ve seen me almost naked more times than I can count in the last four years. And same goes for you! Except that one time where I actually caught you naked with that girl but all I saw was the back so I guess it’s dif-”

“Your point being?” He interjects.

“My point being that this shouldn’t be weird. And it is still for your exam, whether the canvas is between us or not. You’re not gonna see me naked outside of that room, and that room is only for your exam, therefore I’m only naked for your exam. That’s it! And remember - you’re the one who begged me to do it.”

“Urgh, don’t remind me…”

“But I will remind you.” You take a step closer, looking up at him under your lashes and letting your towel fall a fraction lower on your chest. “That’s what makes it fun.”

His breath hitches, eyes glued to the water beads decorating your skin, before you turn around, satisfied that the issue is resolved and you can be back to teasing him as usual.

The few days following this go off almost without a hitch. For the most part, the awkwardness is gone, but he does seem a little distant this morning after you both went out clubbing and you brought home a guy. You really tried to be quiet, but maybe you weren’t as quiet as you thought.

“I have some free time this afternoon Min. Maybe we can get a studio session in?”

He barely looks up from his phone, mumbling. “Yeah sure. Just let me know whenever.”

“Damn, was I extra loud last night or did you just wake up being mister cranky pants?”

“Didn’t sleep well from the workout, I’m fine.”

You study his face, knowing there’s more to it, but knowing also that you’re not getting anything out of him when he’s like that, so you just sigh.

“Let’s go now in that case.”

“‘kay.”

You get to the studio only a few minutes later and sit on the armchair whilst he gets everything ready, observing him. You didn’t get a good look last time, but his apron looks good on him - it cinches his waist in a way that reminds you how well proportioned he is. It’s easy to forget it when he mostly wears loose or oversized clothing.

“You’re staring.”

“Your waist is smaller than mine. I’m lowkey jealous dude.”

He looks at you from under his lashes, snorting to himself. “Your waist is perfect as it is.”

“I know.”

You act all confident and cocky, but somehow that compliment made your stomach flip. He often compliments you, but this one stuck.

“I’m all set, so whenever you want.”

“Cool.”

You jump off the chair’s arm, moving to the corner to strip, and you notice that this time he doesn’t turn away like before. He doesn’t look either, but his eyes do wander towards you, making you smile to yourself. He’s not nearly as stealthy and smooth as he wishes he was.

When you get on the armchair, you struggle to find the position again, shifting multiple times, before you huff from exasperation.

“Min, I’m clearly struggling here. A little help would be nice?”

He clears his throat, taking a second before getting up, making his way to you. If you thought seeing him tower over you last week was weird, seeing him do it whilst you’re completely naked is on another level. You’re not quite shy about it, but more… aware. He’s trying not to look, but it’s almost like you want him to? He adjusts your knee, making sure his eyes don’t dip down between your legs and your breath hitches ever so slightly. 

“You need to, umm. Arch… arch your back a little more.”

You do as you’re instructed, keeping your eyes on him and his on yours, and there’s a beat of silence and tension that has your thoughts racing too wildly for comfort.

“G-great. You look perfect like that.”

You nod, licking your dry lips - a movement he catches - before he goes back to sit on his stool.

That was… interesting.

Just like last time, you proceed in silence - him sketching, painting, observing, you laying, breathing, observing.

Your back is starting to grow stiff due to the upper body workout you did this morning - and the ‘workout’ you got last night - and you shift for a moment, groaning as your muscles spasm. He notices instantly, brush stilling in the air.

“What’s wrong?”

“My back.” You mumble. “It kills.”

“Do you want us to stop?”

You shake your head. “No, I think I just need some water and to sit for a minute.”

“Of course. I’ll go grab you some, don’t move.”

He opens the door carefully, slipping out into the empty building, and you take a moment to breathe, sitting up into a relaxed position. It can’t have been more than thirty minutes since you started, and you need to make it at least an hour or he won’t ever finish this.

You decide to sit on the edge of the armchair with your arms closed for focus, hands behind you, stretching. The relief is immediate and you sigh with relief, moving your head side to side to loosen the knots.

The door closing makes you jolt.

“Here’s your water.”

You take it with a smile, humming despite yourself when the cool water flows through your oesophagus. Who knew being the subject for a live nude painting was such hard work.

“Better?” He asks, looking at you weirdly.

“Much. Thanks Min.”

He grimaces. “Don’t call me that when you’re naked. It’s weird.”

You roll your eyes despite yourself. “What is it with you and our relationship suddenly being weird when I’m naked? It’s not like I’m calling you some terms of endearment while we’re having sex!”

The way he’s side-eyeing you hard right now would have you believing otherwise.

“Is that what you’re thinking of when you paint me? Because I gotta tell you,” You start jokingly as you get back into position, “that’s not very professional of you Song Mingi.”

“Okay, that’s even worse.”

You laugh. “If I can’t call you ‘Min’ or ‘Song Mingi’ then what the hell can I call you. ‘Mingi’? No.” You answer for yourself, settling comfortably back into your designated position. “That’s only when I’m mad at you, which I’m not.” A smirk tugs at your lips as the idea forms. “How about ‘Sir’?”

His head whips up so fast his bangs lift a little. “Absolutely not. You’re not calling me ‘Sir’ whilst you’re naked. Or ever. Just - call me ‘Hey’ or ‘You’. That’s good enough.”

You shake your head in disagreement. “No no, I like ‘Sir’. It feels professional, which, after all, you are. Right?”

You’re pushing it a little, completely aware of it, but it’s just too fun to stop. He can give it back as well as he takes it, but you do often have an edge on him. Maybe he just goes easy on you sometimes, but right now, you don’t think that’s what it is. He just looks flustered, out of his depth, outplayed.

Another idea pops into your head, even more devilish than the last. The hand that was resting lazily against the front of the armchair comes up, slowly, caressing the path between your breasts, making its way further down your stomach.

The moment he notices you move, he stops, staring at the movement, breath suddenly growing shallow and pupils dilating. You don’t look away from him, completely absorbed by his reactions.

“Stop that.”

You ignore him, continuing to trace your fingers down to your core. It’s only to annoy and tease him you think, not at all because you’ve been pulsing there for the last almost hour of his eyes roaming over your figure.

It’s weird, because he’s been your friend for the longest time, and objectively you know he’s good looking. But that thought never crossed your mind.

You like sex, and you like men, but you never bothered too much about the physical aspect of them much. You appreciate the human body, and can recognise when someone has put work into it, but if a guy is nice and fun, then yeah, you’ll take him back to yours for the night. Not two of them have looked like each other, and Mingi’s always teased you about how you’re trying them all out.

But right now, having his eyes examining every inch of you with so much intensity, and being forced to look back at him, you notice the way his jaw clenches when he looks at certain parts of you, the way his leg is bouncing up and down with nerves, how he’s gripping his brush extra hard. And in this moment, seeing just how taut his muscles are at the sight of your hand travelling closer and closer to that space between your legs, it makes you want to try him out.

“Y/n stop it. Now. You can’t move while I paint, you’re gonna ruin the lines.”

You let your hand fall back down on the side of the armchair. A chuckle escapes you and he looks away from the way your breasts move.

“Sure Sir, whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Y/n I swear to god stop calling me ‘Sir’.”

“Or what?”

“You don’t wanna find out.”

“Maybe I do.”

He just stares at you dumbfounded and you hold his gaze. You can’t pretend to not be affected anymore. His presence in the room makes him feel bigger than he already is, and the space feels so small, like oxygen is lacking - like it’s pushing you towards each other.

You get up before you can do something you’ll regret, putting your clothes on in a hurry and leaving without a word. He just watches you walk out, the image of what you almost did burned in his mind.

You stay in your room the rest of the day, desperate to avoid him. It was wrong of you to suggest what you did, wrong of you to feel attracted like that, and so wrong of you to toy with him in that way. You’re best friends, but this was blatantly inappropriate. There’s no excuse for it, and you can’t bear to face him.

But you also can’t get the image of his dilating pupils out of your mind. How his muscles tensed, the veins on his forearm popping out from the effort, his thick lips slightly parted as he panted, watching your hand move further down.

Before you know it, your hand is right where it left off, except that this time, you satisfy the urge you had earlier. Your fingers desperately circle the bundle of nerves that was pulsing before and small cries fall from your lips. You slam your hand on your mouth - he doesn’t need to hear this. It’s wrong to even be doing it.

Except that the images playing in your mind as your finger moves faster feel so right. It’s both a blessing and a curse to have seen him with that girl, because it ruined the image of your best friend, but gosh, imagining yourself instead of her feels so good…

The coil is getting tighter in your stomach as you think about the way he’d fill you up - how you’d be the one he makes cry and scream, how you’d beg him for more and how he’d give it to you. Your orgasm washes over you before you realise it, gushing out of you as your body convulses. You try to stay quiet but a cry or two pass your hand, and you hope for your friendship’s sake that he isn’t home.

You continue to ignore him as much as you can for the next couple of days, only interacting when needed.

Unfortunately, you had a PT session scheduled for this afternoon, and you can’t cancel it yourself as part of your exam - only the client can. And god you wish he would’ve. But he’s loyal and a good man, and you have an agreement, for which he’ll show up to no matter what.

That hour and a half is torture for you. You try not to engage with him unless giving him instructions or explaining things, and he can tell you’re being weird. You can’t look at the way his veins pop from the exertion without thinking back to what you did, or hear his grunts as he pushes through every exercise you give him without thinking that’s how he’d sound burying himself inside of you.

Your body is on fire even though you’re barely doing anything, but you can’t take your top off. You can’t think of the way he’d look at your cleavage the way he usually does like he wants to bury his face in it, because with the state you’re in right now, you might just let him.

As soon as he finishes his workout, you grab your bag and are about to leave when he holds on to the strap, wiping his forehead with a towel at the same time. You try not to look at the beads of sweat running down his face and neck, averting your eyes. Gosh, the irony - it makes you feel worse about teasing him about it the other day.

“Y/n, what’s going on. You’ve been weird since the last studio session, and we’ve got another one in two hours. I need to know if I did something because it’s too late for me to find another subject and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable and drop out.”

You shake your head, still unable to look at him. “You didn’t do anything. Don’t worry about it - I’ve made a commitment, I’ll be there. I promise.”

You try to offer him your most comforting smile, but it lacks sincerity when you can’t look him in the eye for it.

He lets go of your bag, grabbing onto your wrist instead and you jolt, which he notices.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

You stare at his hand for a moment, before wiggling yourself free, leaving him behind once again as you mutter under your breath. “Not about this.”

The nerves you feel as the minutes tick by make you wonder if you can do this. You’ve done it twice now. You know how it goes. But this time feels different. Nothing’s changed about the situation. What’s changed is the way you see him. And he can’t know that. He won’t. You promise it to yourself. For the sake of your friendship, of his exam - for your own sake - he can’t know.

You hover in front of the door for a moment, staring at the handle like it was laced with poison, before finally turning it.

He’s sitting by his canvas, shoulders slightly slumped, and you notice instantly that he’s wearing a tank top underneath the apron. Of all the days, it had to be today.

“Would, umm… would it be okay if I kept my underwear on today? Or does that prevent you from painting me right?”

His brows furrow, confused by your question.

“Well, y-yeah, you can. I guess.” He stands up, coming towards you despite your clothes already having been discarded. “What’s wrong?”

His question almost sounds like a statement, like something you know you need to answer him for, but your throat is dry. You feel more exposed in your pale yellow set than when you’re naked, and the feeling of his eyes roaming with deliberate slowness over your body sets your skin on fire.

“I told you. It’s nothing. I’m having one of those days where us women feel a little self conscious.”

He takes a step closer and you back up, the back of your knees hitting the chair. “You’re lying through your teeth. I’m not painting until you tell me.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Yes, you can. We tell each other everything. So spill. Now.”

“Urgh! You wanna know? Fine. Until last week, you were just Mingi. My best friend who’s always horny and who I tease about it and about a million other things. Then I went and pushed things too far. I made things awkward, and uncomfortable, and now I…”

He’s stepped even closer now, closing the gap between you until you’re forced to tilt your head up impossibly high to look into his eyes.

“Now you what?”

Your voice is small and breathless as it comes out. “Now I want you.”

Time stops.

His eyes stay locked onto yours like he’s absorbing the information, occasionally flickering to your lips. Your chest is heaving, too aware of the importance and irreversibility of what you just said. That’s why his words are unexpected, barely above a whisper.

“Kiss me.”

“W-what?” Maybe you heard him wrong.

“If you want me, I need you to kiss me.”

Your mind is blank, the words repeating on a loop in slow motion inside your head. All you can see are his perfect plush pink lips, the way they’re slightly parted for you, and you know without a doubt you need to taste them.

Carefully, you bring your hands up his arms, slowly shifting them to his neck as his whole body shivers, breath hitching at your touch. Your lips are so close to his now but you hesitate for a second, wondering if you’re doing the right thing.

Except that you don’t care. If this is wrong, then let it be right for a moment.

The moment your lips touch his, you know it’s over for you.

The swarm of butterflies inside your chest erupts without mercy at his taste. His hands wrap around you instantly, the direct contact on your waist feeling like electricity coursing through your bones.

He’s gentle, letting you guide the rhythm, but there’s an edge of desperation in his restraint. Tiny whimpers escape him with every kiss and they have your head spinning - so much so that you feel the need to break away, his lips chasing yours for a second more.

You’re both panting, your forehead leaning on his chest as you try to come to grips with what you just did.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

He pulls away, grabbing your chin so you’re looking at him.

“Why?”

You bite your lip. “All of this is so inappropriate… I shouldn’t have done any of it.”

His groan is loud as he throws his head back, before pushing you down to sit on the armchair. He leans down to your level, his hands now moving to your legs, and you shiver.

“I wanna see you finish what you started last week.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

You move to close your legs from the shock but his grip on them is strong, keeping them anchored right where they are.

“I want to see what you would have done if I hadn’t stopped you. What you did that night.”

His voice is breathless but steady, and you suddenly feel hyper aware of everything - his hands on your legs, his eyes on your body, his proximity to your core.

“I wasn’t actually going to… wait, how did you know?”

“I heard you. I heard how you breathed, how you sounded, I knew. And yes, you were going to. I stopped you because… because I know you don’t see the body like everyone else. To you that’d have been nothing. To me it would've been catastrophic.” He swallows thickly. “But now I’m begging you. Please, let me see you finish what you started.”

Your chest is moving fast in shallow breaths and you feel too exposed, but you can’t quite bring yourself to cover up.

“I thought it would ruin the lines?”

There’s no bite to your statement, as badly as you wish there was. Because right now, the only thing you can think of, is how much you wish he’d move his hand higher and do it for you.

“It did. It ruined the line between us.”

You gulp at the realisation of what he means.

“You’re smart. You know the effect you have on me. You know how long I’ve loved you. Four years is a long time y/n.”

Your mouth hangs open in shock. “I - no. I didn’t. I mean… I knew you liked my body, but I just - I figured I just looked good, I… You love me?”

He sighs, sitting back on his heels, practically kneeling at your feet. “I’ve always tried to keep a distance, let you have your fun with other guys - as if I wasn’t dying to be the one making you cry my name at night. But you pushed that line when you did that. And now I need to know - I need to see it.” His pleading eyes look up at you with so much heat. “I need you so much more than you want me.”

Your hand travels closer to your core like it has a mind of its own, goosebumps rising wherever your fingers graze.

“You asked me to be the subject. Practically begged me. You pushed the line...”

He chuckles lightly but there’s no humour there. “And you obliterated it. We’re both guilty.” He bites his lip as your hand stops momentarily. “Please - I can’t stop thinking about it since that day, can’t stop picturing it in my sleep, or when I hear you through the walls... I - I need to know.”

His eyes are glued to your hand, inhaling sharply the moment you slide it beneath your panty line and make contact with your clit, his hand gripping your leg with bruising force.

Your back arches, head thrown back against the furniture, pleasure washing through you. Each pass of your fingers makes your breath hitch, and he devours you with his eyes. None of his fantasies ever came close to what’s in front of him.

“Tell me what you thought about that night.”

You open your eyes, lids heavy from pleasure as you try to form a coherent thought.

“Y-your eyes. How you looked at m-me.”

“What else, baby?”

The pet name has you whimpering. “Your hands. How your veins popped and h-how they’d f-feel inside me.”

His fingers tighten on your leg, making sure to keep them spread.

“I th-thought about the time I caught you and mmh what it’d feel like if that was me inst-tead.”

Your jaw hangs loose now as you look at him, pressure coiling low in your stomach. His own face is flushed from your words and seeing you, and it makes you burn with need.

“P-please Min.”

You don’t need to ask twice - his free hand is already moving to push your underwear aside, rubbing two fingers over your slick before pushing in. He can’t help a moan at the sight of your face. You feel so good, so perfect, and the fact that he’s touching you like this feels like he’s stuck in a dream. There’s no way you’re actually letting him finger you.

And yet, when you grab his wrist, for support, lifting your leg onto the arm of the chair, pinning him into place, he knows this is real. The woman he’s been desperately in love with for the past four years finally sees him for the desperate fool he is, and she wants him back.

“Need to taste you baby. Please?”

His voice is broken and needy, making you even more eager. “Yes, yes fuck need your mouth so bad.”

His smile is almost devilish as he lowers to your core, replacing your fingers with his thick lips and tongue. Your cries increase in pitch at the feeling, your body contorting at the pleasure. No wonder you would hear the girls cry and beg through the walls - and that’s just his mouth and fingers.

“Oh m’god Min - mmh fuck right just like th…”

This is probably the best day of Mingi’s life.

He’s lost in the only pussy he’s ever cared to know, tasting it, lapping it up, coating his fingers with its juices - this is what heaven tastes and feels like. The best part is how he’s only just gotten started and you’re already crying his name.

“Fuck baby so good. Cum on my face, please.”

His long fingers hit that spot inside your walls and you come undone, back arching off the couch in the most beautiful way.

This is art. This is beauty. You and your body. Your natural curves and the ones he creates.

He doesn’t waste a single drop of you, making sure his tongue catches every bit of it, delighting in the slight flush on your chest.

When he’s done, he pulls away, catching your eyes as you follow his every movement, pleased but far from satisfied. Yet one thing keeps replaying in your mind.

“You’ve loved me? All this time?”

He nods, wiping his lips with his thumb and licking it clean.

“Why did you never…”

“You’re my best friend before anything.” He kneads the inside of your thigh absentmindedly. “I’d rather have loved you from afar than risk losing you.”

“B-but…”

What can you even say to that? It must have been torture to love you and be treated as nothing but a friend, seeing you parade all these men around. The girls he brought home probably only a filler for his ache to be with you. You realise he hasn’t properly dated once in those four years. You always thought that was just the player in him, but what if there was more to it?

Guilt gnaws at your insides and you grab his face, pulling him into you. He doesn’t fight the kiss, taking every opportunity he can to have any piece of you while it lasts.

You sigh. “I love you. Not - not in the way that you love me, but I love you. And I’d… I’d like a chance to try seeing if maybe one day I could. It’s a lot to ask, I know, but I-”

“Yes.”

“Wait, Min, just think about it. You don’t have to ans-”

“I don’t care. If this is the one chance I have with you, I’m not taking time to think about it. Four years y/n. That’s a long fucking time to be in love with someone who has no idea. And if it doesn’t work out…” He swallows like he doesn’t want to think about it. “If it doesn’t work out, you’re still my best friend. That won’t change. I’ll still love you, but the same way I do now. Except,” he chuckles to himself, “this time I won’t have to wonder what it’d feel like to show you how much I love you.” He looks at you, pleading. “So try. See where this goes.”

“I don’t want to hurt you if it doesn’t work out.”

“Just try. Don’t think about the consequences. I’m a big guy, I can take it. Let me love you the way I’ve been dying to - the way you deserve.”

“Okay.”

Simple, uncomplicated.

There’s fear of ruining what you already have, but the desire to try is so much stronger. It’s not just about desiring him or his body, it’s about trying to see if your best friend can become even more to you. He’s the one person you trust more than yourself, the one you can count on when you need someone. He’s reliable, and funny, and caring, and so much more than his body - this is what you always look for in a man. Why you never looked at what was right in front of you, you have no idea.

“Show me how much you love me.” You whisper.

It takes a second for it to sink in, and he just looks at you like you’ve spoken binary to him. But when it does… the smile on his face is more heart warming than any you’ve ever seen on him - on anyone. You’ve just given him the one thing he’s always wanted but could never have.

His lips crash into yours, violently, starved. There’s none of the restraint he had earlier. The walls are down, the gates are open. You asked him to show you love, and he has so much to give you.

His hands don’t know where to touch first, exploring every inch of you he can reach. No part of you is safe - not your legs, not your hands, not your back, or waist, or hips, or hair - not even your ears, which he takes great care in sucking on once he finally decides to leave your mouth. Your entire world is spinning on its axis, and right now that very axis is the six foot tall blonde sitting between your legs, trying to make up for the last four years.

You try to hold on to him as best as you can but he moves too fast, and all you can do is let him. You can’t keep up with a man who's been dying to taste you since the day you met, whose only fantasy he can remember is calling you his. It’s a wonder you never realised how down bad he was for you, but that made him love you more, somehow. Because despite the ache of not having you, you always treated him the same. Maybe you would have taken a step back if you had known, even moved out, maybe you wouldn’t have. He counts himself lucky he never had to find out.

He traces his tongue on your collarbones down to your chest and your body responds to him automatically, arching into him. Your hand runs down his chest, and the clothes suddenly feel too much.

“Off. Off, please.”

He doesn’t resist, skilfully untying the apron and passing it over his head along with his black tank.

For the first time since you’ve met, you look at him. Really look at him.

You run your fingers down the ridges of his abs, around the soft skin of his chest, squeezing his shoulders lightly. Taking him in. And for the first time in your life, you see someone as more than just a collection of carefully worked parts held together by muscles and skin - you see the beauty in it. The art. The craft.

He lets you touch him, head thrown back and hands gripping his thighs in undisguised pleasure. Oh the nights he dreamt of this. He’d stay on his knees forever if you kept venerating him like this.

“Mingi.” You start, but he cuts you off, shaking his head at the ceiling.

“No Mingi. Mingi’s for when I did something bad.”

You smile at him as you sit closer on the edge of the chair. “Mingi.”

His eyes snap to yours and he gulps.

“You’re beautiful.”

If he wasn’t thinking of burying himself inside of you right now, he would have cried. But all he wants to do is worship you and the ground you walk on for being so incredibly perfect.

His head dips to your stomach, kissing the soft supple flesh, leisurely making his way up towards your chest. He rubs his thumb over your breasts before looking up at you. How much sweeter can he be to ask for permission when he’s stared at you naked for hours now? You bite your lip as your fingers play with his hair and nod, letting him undo the clasps and slide the garment down your arms and off your body.

His tongue swirls on the painfully hard peaks, sucking and nipping at them in tandem, delighting in being able to touch them after so long spent trying not to look. Your tiny breaths as you tug a little harder on his strands bring him closer and closer to losing control. It’s almost painful now, how hard he is, but it feels wrong to jump the gun when he could take all the time in the world memorising every inch of you.

He reaches between your legs again, wrapping his fingers around the lace, once again stopping to look at you for approval, which you give without restraint. You’re throbbing now, aching to feel him there. He slides the fabric down your legs, rubbing over your core like he did earlier, and a satisfied moan passes your lips.

He continues kissing your skin, sucking on your breasts as his fingers work their way inside you, a slow, maddening rhythm that has you seeing stars.

“You don’t know how badly I wanted to do that last week when you teased me.”

He kisses your neck, angling your face away for better access. At this point you don’t know what feels better between his words and his touch, but you know you need him, in any way he’s willing to give himself to you.

His rhythm grows quicker, hitting that gummy spot in your walls and you start losing your mind, tears welling up in your eyes from pleasure.

“Fuck, Mingi…” You bite your lip to not scream, the shaking in your legs making it difficult.

“Go on baby, scream my name.” He whispers in your ear.

The sound of his low, gravelly voice undoes you and you cry out his name as you cum again, your head thrown back against the chair whilst he continues to finger you through it.

Your first instinct when you regain some clarity is to just grab his face and kiss the shit out of him. Your tongues dance around each other with need, exploring and tasting what you’ve both been missing for so long, whether you knew it or not.

“I need your cock Min.” You moan between sloppy kisses, reaching your hand towards the tent in his sweats. “Need you so bad.”

He pants in your mouth as soon as you palm him, even through the fabric.

“Slow down baby or I won’t last.”

“I don’t care. Fuck me over and over if you need. Whatever you need.”

He grunts, fingers gripping your waist with bruising force. “You can’t say that to me.”

You pass your hand past the waistband and whimper when you feel how hard and big he is. You can’t help looking down at it before looking back at him under your lashes, jaw dropped.

“Please?”

He didn’t realise you’d be the death of him, but that’s exactly what looking at your doe eyes when your small hand is pumping him feels like.

He grabs your hips, sliding you further down the chair and pulling his bottoms down until they pool at his ankles, before lining himself up with you.

Your heart is beating out of your chest with anticipation when he grabs your chin til your eyes meet his. That’s the moment he starts pushing in and your eyes roll to the back of your head. He takes his time - for both of your sakes - knowing his size needs adjusting to.

“Breathe baby, you need to relax - I c-can’t get in otherwise.”

He grunts between gritted teeth. You do your best but your entire body is stiff from the stretch and your hand is clamped down on your mouth to stop the screams threatening to burst out.

He stops moving for a moment, chest heaving, hooking your leg on his arm to open you up more. His thick lips find yours, distracting you from the pain, and he resumes pushing in the last couple of inches until he finally bottoms out.

He caresses your cheek, moving hair out of the way to kiss your neck, showering you with praises at how well you’re doing for him. You can barely hear him, too absorbed by the incredible feeling of fullness.

When he moves, it’s slow, deliberate, rolling his hips with precision. He’s not fucking you, he’s loving you. He could just pound into you until you were nothing but a whimpering, crying mess for him. And he absolutely will do that if you give him the chance. But for your first time together, he needs it to be special. He wants to take care of you, make you feel good before anything. Show you exactly what you’ve been missing all this time, even if you didn’t know it.

“So tight… Y’feel so good, my perfect girl.”

His words make you levitate as much as his veins grating against your walls. You wish you could reply, but the words are lost somewhere in the room.

“How’d you feel baby? Is my cock making you feel good?”

You nod frantically, biting your lip and pulsing involuntarily around him.

“Mmh yeah, you’re squeezing me s-so hard, greedy lil thing.”

“M-more.” You finally manage. “Harder.”

He chuckles breathlessly. “You want more, huh?” His thrusts become a little rougher at your command, the sound of his thighs slapping your ass filling the room. “Think you can take it?”

“Y-yes.” You gasp, high pitched.

He’s losing control, slowly but surely. You’re just perfect. The perfect woman, with the perfect body, taking him so perfectly, asking for more.

He’s hitting even deeper now and you practically feel him in your throat. You try to breathe but only manage shaky, broken gasps. It’s a sound he’s sure to reply over and over in his mind.

“Oh m’god Mingi fuck.” You cry out, a tear falling from your eye.

Your nails are etching red lines in his back, the sting only encourages him to keep going. One hand on the back of the chair and the other gripping the side of your neck, he tries his best to prolong it. But when you wrap your legs around his waist, the angle is just too good.

“I’m not cuming til you do baby.” He states, almost more as a promise to himself than to you.

He lets go of the armchair to reach between your sweat drenched bodies, finding your clit, already sensitive to his touch. You can’t hold back your whimpers as he circles it in synchronicity with his thrusts.

“Yes yes yes don’t stop ah.” You babble between your tears.

Your fingers slide to the nape of his neck, pulling his face down to yours. You’ll be damned if you don’t kiss him when he makes you cum.

Both of your moans and whimpers mix into one in the space of your mouths. Your legs are shaking as his hips start to stutter, and the pressure finally snaps in your stomach with a scream that rips through the room. He can’t hold back anymore, spilling everything inside you. His whines and slowed thrusts carry you through the orgasm a little longer, until he halts, his lips kissing your neck to no end.

So this is the “post-coital bliss” people talk about.

Laying on top of each other, trying to catch your breaths, scratching his back mindlessly whilst he peppers your skin with kisses and looks up at you with sparkling eyes, his sweaty bangs sticking to his forehead…

“Explain to me how exactly I never thought of you like that and missed out on the best sex of my life hands down?”

He laughs, resting his chin on your chest. “Because I never told you, and you’re too good a woman to think of your friends like this and cross the line.” He leans forward to peck you with a smile. “Worth it though.”

You ruffle his hair gently and he all but purrs against you. “I never knew you were such a softie.”

“I wanna paint for a living. How did that not give you a clue?”

---------

"you can't keep doing this," he says, voice rough. "disappearing for hours.. ignoring me.. i'm not gonna be your little babysitter."

you kick your shoes off harshly, one of them hitting the wall. "i don't need one! i'm sick of you breathing down my neck every time i step out.. acting like i can't handle myself."

"yeah? maybe you need someone to call you on your shit when you're being a fucking brat. need to learn how to be a good puppy," he snaps, stepping closer to you.

the second the words left his mouth, heat explodes across your inner thigh, burning like someone just pressed a warm iron to your skin. you gasp loudly, one hand flying down to press over the spot through your jeans, the burn settling deep into your skin.

seonghwa freezes, eyes dropping to your hand clutching your thigh, then snapping back up to your face. "what the fuck," he breathes, anger draining out of him.

your fingers shake as you shove the waistband of your jeans down, exposing the soft skin of your inner thigh. there's a mark forming, dark ink blooming into a small paw print entangled with a crescent moon. the edges glow faintly, still warm to the touch as your pulse hammers through it.

silence stretches between you, seonghwa looking horrified as he tries to find the words, "i didn't mean it like that- it was just sarcasm- i was pissed-"

"well it's there now," you say, voice tight. the mark throbs in time with your heartbeat, sending waves of heat straight between your legs.

seonghwa takes a shaky step closer, the both of you staring at the fresh mark. a soulmate bond, a permanent lock between two people.

your skin felt too sensitive, every shift of fabric against the mark made you bite your lip. seonghwa's kept dragging back down to your exposed thigh, his pupils going wider with hunger.

"i can feel it too," he mutters, "like a pull in my ribs."

you reach out, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him in. his mouth crashes into yours, his tongue pushing past your lips as you shove his jacket off his shoulders. seonghwa's hands slide under your shirt, his palms warm against your bare waist as his fingers dig in hard enough to bruise.

he backs you toward the couch, mouths still locked. your jeans come down fast and seonghwa breaks the kiss just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, the skin of his chest meeting yours.

seonghwa drops to his knees, spreading your thighs wide, his breath ghosting over the new mark. his lips press to it softly, the contact enough to make you moan as his tongue traces the lines of the paw print slowly, every stroke sending sparks straight to your clit.

"fuck, seonghwa," you gasp, fingers threading through his hair.

he groans against your skin as his mouth moves higher, kissing a wet trail up your inner thigh until he reaches your pussy. he licks a broad stripe up your slit, causing your hips to jerk. seonghwa smiles, pressing his tongue between your folds before circling your clit with enough pressure to make your thighs shake.

two of his fingers push inside you without warning, curling instantly to stroke that spot that makes your back arch off the couch. seonghwa's mouth sucks on your clit while his fingers pump steadily inside you, making the mark on your thigh burn, pleasure coursing through you.

you cum hard, thighs clamping around his ears, a strangled moan falling from your lips as he keeps licking you through it.

seonghwa stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. his cock strains against his pants and you reach for him, palming him through the fabric, pulling a hiss from his throat.

you tug his pants and boxers down together, letting his cock spring free, flushed red and glistening. you wrap your hand around him, stroking a few times before he's climbing over you, settling between your spread thighs.

he pushes in slowly, stretching you open inch by inch. the fullness is overwhelming as his hips sit flush against yours, the mark on your thigh flaring with heat and sending a new wave of pleasure through you.

"shit," he breathes against your neck, voice ragged, "you feel so fucking good."

seonghwa rolls his hips against yours, dragging his cock along every sensitive spot inside you. the sound of skin on skin fills the room as sweat builds between your bodies, the friction of your mark against his skin enough to drive you crazy.

his hand slides down, fingers pressing right over the paw print as he fucks you fast, the pressure making sparks shoot up your spine.

your second orgasm hits suddenly, your pussy clenching around his cock as your thighs shake hard. seonghwa fucks you through it, hips losing rhythm as he nears his own high.

"gonna cum," he groans, thrusting a few more times before burying himself deep. his cock pulses inside you, warm spurts filling you up as he thrusts through it, making you oversensitive.

he collapses on top of you, tucking his face into your neck as his fingers trace the edge of the mark. "we're really stuck now," he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and tired.

you were older, more resolved, more used to the weight of things. he was lighter, softer around the edges, still figuring himself out in ways you had already gone through years ago. and eventually, somehow, he had become your person.  if anything, it showed in the way he listened more carefully than most people your age, in the way he paid attention to details others brushed off, in the way he stayed when conversations got too heavy for everyone else.

so that night, when the conversation drifted the way it did, it didn’t feel strange at first.

you were already a little tipsy, the warmth of the alcohol sitting comfortably in your chest, loosening your thoughts just enough that you stopped filtering them so carefully. he was sitting beside you, legs stretched out, head tilted back against the couch, listening in that careful way he always did, like everything you said mattered more than it probably should.

“you know what’s the worst part?” you said, staring at your bottle, turning it slowly between your fingers.

“hm?” he hummed, not even looking at you, but you knew he was listening.

“breaking up,” you continued, your voice softer now, more honest than you usually allowed yourself to be. “everyone talks about missing the person, or the routine, or whatever… but no one talks about missing the sex.”

that made him glance at you.

you didn’t look back. you just kept talking, because once you started, it felt easier to let it out than to stop. 

when you finally turned your head, he was already watching you, brows slightly drawn together like he was thinking too hard about something.

“what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes a little.

he hesitated.

and that was new.

chan didn’t usually hesitate with you.

he looked down at his hands for a second, then back up “i mean…” he started, voice uncertain. “i could help you with that.”

and for a second, you thought you had heard him wrong.

you blinked. “what?”

he let out a small breath, like he was already regretting saying it, but he didn’t take it back. instead, he looked at you properly this time “i’m just saying,” he continued, slower now, choosing his words more cautiously. “you don’t have to… miss it. if you don’t want to.”

you stared at him, trying to process what he had just said, but your mind kept getting stuck on the same thing. he wasn’t joking. there was no teasing tone, no playful smile, no easy way to brush it off and laugh like you usually would.

he meant it, and suddenly, you were very aware of how close he was, how his knee was almost touching yours, how his arm rested along the back of the couch, just behind you, how his eyes hadn’t left your face since he said it.

“chan…” 

he swallowed, and you noticed it “i know it sounds weird,” he said quickly, a small, nervous laugh slipping out. “i just— i thought… you know. we trust each other. and it wouldn’t have to be a big deal or anything.”

you let out a slow breath, your heart beating a little faster than it should, because the thing is, he wasn’t wrong. you did trust him, more than most people.

“you’re serious…” 

“yeah,” he answered, just as quietly.

you looked at him again, and it hit you in a way it hadn’t before. chan had always been attractive, in that effortless, boyish way you had never let yourself think too much about. it had never mattered, because he was yours in a different way, untouchable in that sense. and it unsettled you, not because it felt wrong, but because it didn’t feel as impossible as it should.

“and then what? we just… go back to normal?”

he hesitated again, but not for long “if that’s what you want,” he said. “yeah.”

you studied him for a moment, searching for something in his expression; doubt, hesitation, anything that would make this easier to dismiss. but all you found was sincerity, because now the choice was yours. you leaned back against the couch, your head resting where his arm was stretched out behind you, and neither of you moved away.

“you’re insane,” you murmured, but there was no bite to it.

he huffed out a quiet laugh. “i’ve been told.”

you closed your eyes for a second, trying to gather your thoughts, but they refused to settle into anything clear. then uou opened your eyes again, turning your head slightly until you were looking at him.

“you really thought this through?” you asked.

he gave a small shrug, “more than i should have, probably.”

and just like that the air between you two shifts thick and heavy like the room itself is holding its breath, waiting for you to say yes or no. but you dont say shit, you just look at him this easy boy who’s always been your safe place, and something in your chest cracks open. because it feels too real too ordinary to be this charged.

the way his eyes drop to your mouth, then lower, like he’s been thinking about this longer than he let on. you swallow hard heart hammering stupid in your ribs and mutter “okay chan fuck it show me what you got” your voice casual but your thighs press together a little, because you’re already wet just from the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing that matters right now.

he doesn’t waste time, doesn’t make it weird or movie perfect, he just leans in slow his hand sliding up your thigh under the hem of your loose shorts. the calluses on his fingers rough in the best way scraping lightly over your skin, making you shiver and think; shit this is chan,  your chan, the one who brings you coffee without asking.

and now his breath is hot against your inner thigh as he tugs your shorts and panties down in one go, leaving you bare on the couch cushions the cool air hits your pussy, and you feel yourself clench around nothing, already dripping a little because your body’s been waiting for this even if your brain’s still catching up.

he settles between your legs on his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pushing your thighs wider with those big hands, his thumbs digging in just enough to keep you open and exposed, and you watch him watch you. his eyes dark, but still soft around the edges, like he’s checking if you’re okay and that does something stupid to your inside.

he dips his head and drags his tongue flat and slow up your slit, collecting every bit of your slick in one long lazy lick, the wet heat of it makes your hips twitch, and a low “oh shit” slips out of you, because fuck it’s better than you imagined.

the way his tongue feels smooth and warm pressing against your folds, parting them like he’s savoring the taste of you. he moans right into your pussy, the vibration buzzing straight to your clit, making your breath catch.

he does it again, slower this time, circling the tip of his tongue around your entranc, teasing the sensitive skin there before sucking gently at your folds. the soft wet pull of his mouth creating this obscene little suction sound, that fills the room louder than the music still playing low in the background.

and you can hear how wet you are already, the slick sounds of his tongue lapping at your juices like he’s drinking you down, not rushing, his lips seals around your clit and he sucks harder, the pressure building perfect, and filthy the way your clit throbs under the suction like it’s being pulled into the wet heat of his mouth, makes you feel that familiar burn starting low and sharp. the good kind that makes your toes curl against the couch.

he flicks his tongue fast, then slow, alternating between tight little circles, and broad flat strokes that drag over your swollen nub. leaving you gasping as your hand flies down to fist in his hair tugging hard, because chan knows exactly how to work you, like he’s studied every little reaction you might give, and the strangled moan that rips from your throat is nothing like the ones you’ve made alone.

your mind’s spinning, because this is supposed to be just helping out, but it feels too fucking good. the constant schlick schlick of his mouth slurping up your arousal that’s leaking down your thighs, makes you drip onto the couch, but you don’t even care because he’s humming against you like he loves the taste, and it vibrates through your whole pussy making your walls flutter around nothing.

in a blink, his fingers are there. two of them thick and calloused sliding through your folds easily, he pushes one in first slow and deep curling it just right to rub against that spot inside you, that makes your vision blur. the sound it makes is so fucking wet, a loud squelch as he pumps it in and out lazy at first, letting your juices coat his hand completely before adding the second finger.

he's stretching you open, and the burn is perfect, that slight sting mixing with the pleasure as he scissors them apart then curls, both hooking them deep and dragging back out over and over. the rhythm matching, the way his tongue’s still sucking your clit like he’s trying to pull an orgasm right out of you, his fingers thrusting faster, the wet squelching sounds getting louder and messier every time he buries them to the knuckle. 

you’re grinding down on his face without thinking, hips rolling chasing that pressure, because it feels too real, too good, the way your pussy clenches around his fingers, dripping down his wrist, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull back, even when you tug his hair harder. 

“chan fuck right there don’t stop” your voice all broken and desperate.

he gives the kind of head that ruins you for anyone else, the kind that’s messy and real and so fucking intimate you feel it in your chest too, not just between your legs.

he pulls back just enough to breathe, hot against your soaked pussy, his chin shiny with your juices and he looks up at you eyes half-lidded, you can see the bit of tiredness in his breath, but he looks like he is far from stopping now. 

“you taste so fucking good…” he murmurs, before diving back in tongue fucking into you now alongside his fingers, the combination making your back arch off the couch a choked moan tearing out of you as the wet sounds turn even filthier the constant slick slide of his tongue and fingers working you open.

he pushes you closer and closer and you’re lost in the way your body’s reacting so honest, the burn in your clit from his relentless suction, the deep ache building low in your belly from his fingers curling just right, every thrust dragging more of your wetness out with those loud obscene squelches that make your face heat up, but ends up turning you on even more.

why?

because it’s him doing this to you, your chan, making you fall apart on your own couch like it’s nothing. and you know deep down, this isn’t going back to normal, not after the way he’s devouring you like he’s been starving for it. 

your body locks up tight without warning. the orgasm crashes through you like a goddamn wave you didn’t see coming. your back arches clean off the couch, thighs clamping around chan’s head as that deep burn in your clit explodes into white-hot sparks. 

his tongue still suctioned hard around your swollen nub, pulling every last drop of it out of you, and you cum messy and loud, a broken “oh fuck, chan—” ripping from your throat while your pussy clenches and flutters hard around his fingers, gushing warm slick all over his chin and mouth. 

he moans right into your cunt, loud and deep, like he’s the one falling apart too. his voice vibrating through your pulsing walls, making the aftershocks hit harder. you feel every lick, every swallow as he eats you through it, greedy and filthy, not pulling away even when your hips jerk and twitch, because he’s drinking you down like he can’t get enough. 

the way your mind blanks out completely, just pure heat and mess, and the thought that this is your easy safe chan, now tongue-deep in your pussy moaning like he’s starving for your cum. that alone makes you cum a little harder, he keeps licking you soft and slow through the comedown, his moans turning into these satisfied little hums while your chest heaves and your thighs tremble around his ears.

the second he feels your body start to relax, the tension easing out of your muscles, he’s already moving. no time for you to catch your breath or float down gentle.

he sits up quick, his chin shiny with you, his eyes dark and blown wide, and you watch hazy as he reaches down, unbuckling his belt with one hand, the other still stroking your soaked folds like he can’t stop touching you. the metal clink sounds so ordinary against the wet mess between your legs. 

he leans sideways, grabbing his backpack off the floor beside the couch, rummaging fast until he pulls out a condom, tearing the wrapper open with his teeth while his free hand shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, thick and hard and already leaking at the tip. and you’re still blinking through the fog of your orgasm when he rolls it on quick and messy, not even giving you a second to process before he’s back between your thighs, lining himself up.

your eyes fly open wide the moment you feel the blunt head of his cock push against your dripping entrance, and you arch hard, a needy mewl slipping out as he's right there, pushing in, stretching you open while your pussy’s still fluttering and sensitive from cumming. 

the continuity of it hits you so fucking hard, that full heavy slide right after your orgasm making your walls clamp down around him, greedy and wet. you look up at him then, and his perfect abs are clenching tight with every slow thrust, his shirt rucked up just enough to show the way they flex and roll under his skin. his eyes rolling back a little as he bites down hard on the inside of his mouth, trying to keep it together, and you feel it all, the burn, the stretch, the way he fills you so good it makes your toes curl again.

you mewl at him all sly and breathy,  “let me feel you, channie.” 

he doesn’t even hesitate. he grabs your hand quick, sliding it up under his shirt right over those warm clenching abs, letting your palm drag across the hard ridges of muscle while he leans down over you, his chest pressing close. 

his mouth is on yours, swallowing the loud moan that rips out of you the second he bottoms out deep. the kiss is messy and desperate, muffling how fucking loud you get because the stretchand the way his cock throbs inside your still-spasming pussy is too much, balls deep buried inside you, while he's kissing you stupid while your nails dig into his abs and your hips roll up to meet him like you never want this ordinary night to end.

every second surprises you,  like he’s reading your body better than you ever could. right when you think you’ve caught your breath from that first deep thrust, chan grabs both your wrists in one big hand and locks them above your head against the couch cushion, pinning you down easy and firm. his other palm slides flat over your lower belly, pressing hard right where his cock is buried inside you, and fuck the pressure skyrockets.

you feel him thicker, deeper, the head of his dick dragging against that spot with every tiny movement, like he’s molding your insides around him on purpose. your eyes squeeze shut and a broken sob slips out, tears already pricking hot at the corners because it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“chan— oh my god,” you choke, voice cracking into nothing but wet mewls. 

you can feel it in the way his hips snap harder, grinding that perfect pressure against your belly from the outside while he rails you from the inside, like he wants to erase every lonely night you spent missing this exact feeling. every thrust punches the air out of you, wet slaps echoing loud between your bodies, your slick coating his ballsack and dripping down your ass with every pull back. your pussy flutters and squeezes around him so tight it almost hurts.

he leans down close, lips brushing your ear, and gives you that pretty white smile you’ve seen a thousand times, only now it’s filthy and soft at the same time. “i know, baby,” he murmurs in the prettiest voice, all low and sweet and a little breathless, like he’s savoring the way you fall apart for him. “i know it’s good. gonna make sure you never miss this shit again.”

before you can even try to answer, he pulls out sudden and smooth, flips you over like you weigh nothing, and yanks your hips up so you’re on all fours. your knees sink into the couch, ass up, back arched, and he’s sliding back in before you can whine at the loss.

the new angle hits even deeper, his cock dragging along your walls with every brutal thrust, your pussy taking him so loud it fills the whole room. 

you can only mewl, over and over, face buried in the cushion, tears slipping free now “s’good— chan, s’good, please— s’good—”

he laughs soft and fond behind you, that same lovely voice wrapping around the words as he rails you harder, hips snapping in strong rolls  “yeah? that’s my girl. just take it, baby. let me fuck all that missing right out of you.” his abs clench tight every time he bottoms out, balls slapping wet against your clit, and you’re crying into the fabric, body shaking, this night just turning into the kind of sex that rewires your brain, and chan’s the one doing it with that stupidly sweet smile and those relentless hips.

you don’t even remember what you were complaining about anymore. all you know is his cock, his hands, his voice telling you he knows, and the way your pussy keeps gushing around him like it never wants him to stop.

it tightens in your belly again without any warning, that familiar coil pulling so fast and so fucking tight you’re actually impressed by how quick another orgasm is already building up, like your body’s been starving for this exact feeling and chan’s the only one who knows how to unlock it. 

you don’t even moan anymore. your mouth just drops open in a wide, silent ‘o’, eyes squeezed shut as hot tears slip down your cheeks and you sob without sound, the pleasure so overwhelming it steals every noise right out of your throat. your whole body shakes on all fours, knees sinking deeper into the couch while chan keeps railing you from behind.

his hand sneaks under you then, sliding between your trembling thighs, and he sinks his fat cock completely inside you in one hard thrust, bottoming out so deep the pressure in your belly spikes even higher. his fingers find your swollen clit and start flicking it fast, tight little circles that make your vision spark white. “that’s it, baby, cum on my cock, let me feel you.”

you can’t even answer, just sob silently into the cushion as the orgasm rips through you hard and sudden, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice, squeezing and fluttering so tight it drags him right over the edge with you. he groans deep in his chest, hips stuttering as he cums hard inside the condom, thick pulses you can still feel through the latex while your walls milk him for everything he’s got.

your arms give out completely after that. you can’t even keep yourself on all fours anymore, you just collapse belly-down onto the couch, face buried in the cushion, ass still slightly up because he’s still buried inside you, breathing hard against your back. 

chan stays there for a second, chest pressed to your spine, then he lets out a soft little scoff under his breath, quiet enough that he thinks you won’t hear it, like he’s trying so hard not to make you feel embarrassed about how fast and how hard you just fell apart for him. 

but you do hear it, and it makes something warm bloom in your chest because it’s so fucking him. he pulls out slow and careful, already reaching for something to clean you up like this was never supposed to be a big deal, even though both of you know it just changed everything in the best goddamn way.

[...]

after the quick bath you two took, with chan’s arm wrapped tight around your waist the whole time because your legs were still wobbling like a damn newborn deer, you both ended up freshly showered and completely naked under the fat, hot, white duvet. the room smelled like your coconut soap mixed with his skin, and the only light came from the stupid little lamp on the side table that you always forget to turn off. 

you were curled into his chest, one leg thrown lazily over his thigh, his arm heavy and warm around your back, like he couldn’t stop touching you even now.

you felt boneless and floaty while kssing him, pussy still tingling from everything he did, a lazy throb between your legs that made you shift a little closer. the kiss slows down naturally, like neither of you is in a rush anymore. his mouth moves against yours with a patience that makes your chest ache. you can still taste him, still feel the warmth of him. by the time you both pull back, it’s only enough to breathe, your foreheads brushing, noses barely touching, lips still ghosting each other like neither of you wants to let go fully.

“hey,” 

you tilt your head slightly, just enough to look up at him. “hm?”

his fingers pause for a second, then resume, slower this time. “i need you to know something.”

you don’t say anything, but you feel your chest tighten a little, your attention sharpening.

“this… tonight,” he continues, searching for the right words, “it wasn’t just me trying to help you feel better… or distract you or anything like that.”

you study his face.

“i care about you,” he says, more quietly. “a lot more than i probably should.”

you let out a small breath, your cheek still pressed against him, but your eyes don’t leave his.

he gives you that small smile, the one you’ve seen a hundred times, his hand comes up to brush a damp strand of hair away from your face, his thumb lingering just slightly against your cheek.

“i’m not… using you,” he adds, almost like he needs to make it clear. “that’s not what this is for me. you’re not just… this.” he gestures faintly between you, then lets his hand settle back against you.

you swallow, your throat tight in a way you weren’t expecting.

“you’re the person i go to,” he continues, “when my day’s bad. when something good happens. when i don’t feel like being around anyone else. you’ve been that for me for a while.”

you shift slightly, your fingers curling lightly against his side, grounding yourself.

“i like you,” he says, more simply this time. “not just like this. just… you.”

there’s a pause, but it’s not empty. you lift your head a little more, your faces closer now, your breath mixing with his. your nose brushes his, and for a second neither of you moves. “i just didn’t want to go back to pretending,” he adds, almost under his breath.

your chest tightens again, but this time it’s warmer.

“and what are you asking for?” you ask.

he looks at you properly now, his expression open in a way that makes it impossible to look away.

“more than just tonight,” he says. “if you want that too.”

your gaze drops for a second, your thoughts catching up to you, then you look back at him.

“you’re serious,” you say.

“i am.”

you let out a slow breath, your hand shifting slightly against him. “and if i say no?” you ask, not because you mean it, but because you need to hear it.

his expression softens even more. “then nothing changes unless you want it to.”

that answer sits with you. you lean in without overthinking it, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. it’s slower this time. when you pull back, you stay close, your forehead resting against his. “you make this very hard to ignore,” you murmur.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” you finally say. Your voice comes out steadier than you expected, a calm that doesn’t match the storm inside.

Wooyoung blinks, processing your words through the alcohol fog. “Sorry, we were out at the bar. The project…” He waves his hand vaguely. “It went really well. Everyone was—”

“Celebrating,” you finish for him. Your eyes drift to the table behind you, the two plates still set with the meal you spent three hours preparing. The anniversary cake you ordered sits untouched in its box, the words “One Year” now barely visible through the condensation that’s gathered on the lid.

It hits you then, with a clarity that makes your stomach drop. He doesn’t remember.

“Look, I know I’m sorry that I’m late again,” Wooyoung says, finally noticing your expression. “Things got crazy at the office. You know babe, the promotion, it’s—”

“Do you know what day it is?” you ask quietly.

He frowns, clearly trying to think through his drunken haze. “Uhh Tuesday?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You watch the realization slowly dawn on his face, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his mouth opens then closes without sound.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Oh fuck…”

“You forgot our anniversary.” It’s not a question.

“I didn’t—”Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair, his movements still uncoordinated. “The project deadline was today. We’ve been working toward this for weeks, you know that. And then everyone wanted to go out, and I couldn’t just—”

“Couldn’t just text me? Couldn’t just call to say you’d be late?” Your voice rises slightly, despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I sat here for hours, Wooyoung. I thought something happened to you. I called your friends, hell I even called your office phone.”

“I’m fine,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, defensive. “I’m right here. Everything’s fine.”

“Everything is not fine.” You stand up, needing the distance between you. “You’ve been working non-stop for weeks. You come home exhausted, barely speaking to me, and now you can’t even remember our anniversary?”

Wooyoung sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion and frustration. “I’m doing this for us, you know that—”

“Stop,” you cut him off. “Stop saying that. I’m not asking you to quit your job, Wooyoung. I’m asking you to be present. To remember that I exist when you’re not at work.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment you see the man you fell in love with—the one who used to notice when you changed your hair, who used to call just to hear your voice. But then his expression hardens again.

“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under,” he says, his voice tight. “This isn’t just about me. It’s about our future.”

“Our future?” You let out a humourless laugh. “What fucking future? I barely see you anymore. When was the last time we had an actual conversation that wasn’t about how tired you are?”

“I’m trying to build something for us.”

“No, you’re building something for yourself and calling it ‘us’ to make yourself feel better.” The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and honest in a way that makes your chest ache. “I feel like you only love me when it’s convenient for you. When you have the time and energy.”

Wooyoung’s face darkens. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You step closer, needing him to see, to understand. “When was the last time you asked how I was doing? When was the last time you noticed anything about my life that wasn’t directly related to yours?”

“I’m under a lot of stress right now, baby.”

“We’re all under stress, Wooyoung. That’s not an excuse to disappear on your girlfriend.”

The room falls silent. Wooyoung’s shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched. You can see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, the dark circles under his eyes that have been there for weeks. Part of you wants to reach out, to comfort him, but the hurt is too fresh, too deep.

“I’m doing my best,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’m trying to balance everything.”

“Your best isn’t good enough.” The words hang in the air between you, sharp and painful. “Not when your best means I spend our anniversary wondering if you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere because you couldn’t be bothered to send a text.”

Wooyoung flinches. “That’s not—”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” Your voice breaks. “To sit here, watching the clock, imagining all the worst possible scenarios because the man I love can’t remember I exist?”

“I do remember you exist,” he says, and there’s frustration in his voice now. “I think about you all the time. I’m doing all of this for you.”

“For me?” You laugh, the sound hollow. “This isn’t for me, Wooyoung. I never asked for any of this. I asked for you. Not this stressed-out stranger who comes home at midnight and falls asleep on the couch.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and you can see him struggling, the alcohol and exhaustion making it hard for him to find the right words. When he finally speaks, his voice is strained.

“Maybe this is the real me,” he says. “Maybe this is who I am now and you just don’t like what you see.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. You take a step back, your breath catching in your throat. You shake your head, denying the words that came out of his mouth.

“That’s not true,” you whisper.

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice rises, matching your earlier statement, fuelled by frustration and alcohol. “Because it seems like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. I’m either working too much or not making enough money or not paying enough attention—”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face every time I come home late. Every time I’m too tired to talk.” He runs his hand through his hair again, the gesture agitated. “Maybe you should just find someone who can give you what you want, since apparently I can’t.”

The silence that follows is absolute. You stare at him, unable to believe the words that just came out of his mouth. Wooyoung looks just as shocked as you feel, his eyes widening as he realizes what he’s said.

“Wait… shit no that’s not what I meant…” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You want me to leave?” Your voice is barely audible.

“No, I didn’t mean…“ Wooyoung takes a step toward you, but you back away. “I’m sorry, I’m drunk and exhausted and I didn’t—”

“You meant it,” you say. There’s no anger in your voice now, just a deep, bone-weary sadness. “Maybe not all of it, but part of it.”

He doesn’t deny it. The silence stretches between you, filled with everything that’s been left unsaid for weeks.

“I need to be alone,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between you, a barrier neither of you has the strength to cross. “I can’t do this right now.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already moving, already turning away from the wreckage of your anniversary night. You don’t look back as you walk down the hallway to your bedroom—the bedroom that was supposed to be shared, not a place of retreat. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes your chest ache.

In the darkness of your room, you press your back against the door and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. Your shoulders shake with silent sobs you refuse to let him hear. The anniversary card you’d written him earlier sits on your nightstand, the words inside now feeling hollow and foolish.

Time passes. You don’t know how long you sit there, but eventually, you stand on trembling legs and change into your sleep clothes. The bed feels too big, too empty. You lie on your side, staring at the empty space where Wooyoung should be, and wait for sleep that doesn’t come. An hour passes. Maybe two. Your anger has cooled to a dull ache in your chest, but sleep still eludes you. Finally, you slip out of bed, needing water, needing to move.

The living room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. And there he is—Wooyoung, slumped on the couch, still in his work clothes, one arm thrown over his eyes. Even in the dim light, you can see the tear tracks on his face, the dark stain on the cushion beneath his cheek.

Your heart constricts. Despite everything—despite the anger, despite the hurt—you still love him. You still care.

You move silently to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and grabbing the bottle of aspirin from the cabinet. Your movements are careful, deliberate, as you place them on the coffee table beside him. You don’t wake him. You don’t say a word.

Instead, you stand there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Even in sleep, his face is troubled, his brow furrowed. You want to smooth the lines away, to tell him everything will be okay. But you can’t. Not yet.

So you do the only thing you can. You take care of him, silently, the way you’ve always done. Because even when he forgets, even when he’s lost in his own world of stress and ambition, you remember. You remember the man you fell in love with, the one who’s still in there somewhere, buried under exhaustion and pressure.

You pull the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it carefully over him. Your fingers brush against his hair, just once, so lightly he doesn’t stir. Then you turn and walk away, back to the bedroom that feels emptier than it should. You climb into bed alone, the space beside you cold and untouched. You wonder if this is how relationships begin to break—not through lack of love, but through all the ways people fail to hold onto each other when life becomes too heavy. Sleep comes eventually, but it’s fitful, troubled by dreams of a future that feels increasingly uncertain.

══════════════════ Wooyoung wakes slowly to the dull throb of a splitting headache and a sharp ache running down his neck. The couch digs painfully into his back, one arm numb from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in. For a few disoriented seconds, he just stares at the ceiling, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the apartment. Then last night hits him all at once. The argument. Your tears. The look on your face when he realized what day it was.

With a quiet groan, he pushes himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. That’s when he notices the blanket draped carefully over him. The glass of water sitting on the coffee table beside two aspirin. His chest tightens. You took care of him anyway. Even after everything.

Wooyoung stares at the medicine for a long moment before letting out a weak, humourless laugh under his breath. “Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely, guilt crawling up his throat. 

He swallows the aspirin dry before forcing himself to stand, exhaustion still heavy in his limbs. The apartment is quiet as he makes his way toward the bedroom, each step slower than the last, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of the door. He eases it open carefully. You’re asleep, curled toward his side of the bed even though it stayed empty all night. In the soft morning light, he notices the tear tracks dried against your cheeks immediately, and something inside him caves in at the sight. His own eyes still burn from last night, raw and swollen in a way he knows mirrors yours. For a moment, he just stands there in silence, looking at you. At the woman who still tucked a blanket around him after he forgot about your anniversary. After he hurt you. Wooyoung closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

He closes the door to your shared bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen. He quietly reaches for his phone and silences the alarm for work before typing out a lengthy message to his boss with determined fingers. Nothing at work feels more important than this anymore.

He had to fix this.

══════════════════

Your eyes open to the empty space beside you, the pillow still perfectly fluffed, untouched. Of course he’s already gone. The realization settles in your chest like a stone. You lie there for a moment, the events of last night crashing back with brutal clarity. The forgotten anniversary. The heartbreak that ensued. The fight. The words that can’t be unsaid. You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, forcing the tears to remain at bay.

Then you hear it—the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen.

Your heart stutters. You freeze, listening. There it is again—the unmistakable sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. The one that should be empty right now. Panic rises in your throat. He’s still here. Wooyoung is still here, and you have no idea what to say to him after everything that happened. After everything you both said.

You sit up slowly, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you pad toward the bedroom door. Your hand hesitates on the doorknob. What will you see when you open it? Will he be packing his things? Will he be waiting to tell you it’s over?

The door creaks as you pull it open. The hallway seems longer than usual as you make your way toward the kitchen. With each step, your anxiety grows, a tight knot in your chest that makes it hard to breathe.

And then you see him.

Wooyoung stands at the counter, his back to you. He’s still wearing the same clothes from last night, rumpled and wrinkled. His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles. He moves slowly, methodically, as if each action requires immense concentration.

“Aren’t you going to work?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice hoarse from crying.

Wooyoung turns, and the sight of him makes your breath catch. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, like he’s been carrying the weight of your argument with him through the long night.

“I told them I wasn’t coming in today or for the rest of the week,” he says simply.

The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, trying to process what this means. Wooyoung never calls in. He’s the type who goes to work with a fever of 102, who works through weekends and holidays without complaint.

“What? Why?” you ask, the question barely audible.

Wooyoung sets down the cup he’s been holding. His knuckles turned white as he gripped onto the glass tighter. “I already lost enough time with you yesterday. I’m not about to just leave you here alone, again.”

The simplicity of his words hits you like a physical blow. You lean against the doorframe, suddenly weak. The kitchen table is set—two plates, two mugs, the breakfast you used to make together on weekend mornings. The silence that follows is thick with everything left unsaid. You watch as he turns back to the counter, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. There’s a vulnerability in his posture you haven’t seen in months—the confident, ambitious man you’ve been watching slip away replaced by someone unsure, someone hurting.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, still facing away from you. “For everything I said last night. For making you feel like you don’t matter to me.” He turns to face you, and the raw emotion in his eyes makes your chest ache. “You matter more than anything, and I’ve been acting like you don’t.” You want to go to him, to bridge the distance between you, but your feet feel rooted to the spot. “And the rest?” you ask. “What you said about me finding someone else?”

Wooyoung’s face crumples. “I didn’t mean any of that stupid shit. I was an idiot and said the most hurtful thing I could think of because I was angry at myself, not at you. What I said to you was inexcusable.” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “I was so terrified of failing you that I ended up failing you anyway.”

The truth of his words settles over you. You step into the kitchen, moving toward him slowly, giving him the chance to retreat if he wants to. He doesn’t. “I don’t want someone else,” you say quietly. “I want you. Not the version of you that’s so caught up in work he forgets we exist. That I exist.”

Wooyoung’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been so focused on building a future for us that I forgot to be present in our now.” He takes a step toward you. “I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away or ever but—God, I fucked up so bad.”

You look at the breakfast he’s prepared—eggs perfectly set, toast golden, the smell of coffee already doing something to the tension in your shoulders. He’s always been a better cook than you. You’d forgotten that, somehow, in the wreckage of last night.

“Come here,” you say softly.

He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, and then his arms are around you, holding you so tightly it’s almost painful. You can feel him trembling, feel the way his heart hammers against your cheek. Your face tucks just under his chin, and you feel the warm wetness of tears landing soft in your hair.

“I love you,” he whispers, the words muffled against your hair. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.” You hold him just as tightly, your own tears spilling over. “I love you too,” you mumble against his chest. “Don’t shut me out like that again, You know I’m always here for you.”

Wooyoung pulls back, his hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush away your tears with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. “I know,” he says. “I’ll do better for you. For us. Today, tomorrow, and however long as it takes.”

He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. “Can I show you something?” You nod. “I got you something,” he says. “I remembered that I had a whole elaborate plan to give this to you.” He exhales, something between a laugh and a sob. “Then I got the promotion news and I just—I let that take over everything. Your gift has been sitting in my bag for two weeks while I was out celebrating myself.” He shakes his head. “I made our anniversary about me. I’m such an idiot.” “Yeah, the biggest idiot of all time.” He lets out a small chuckle, a hint of guilt and sadness follow the hollow laugh. A flicker of something hopeful crosses his exhausted face. “Can I still give it to you?” You look up at him. “Of course.”

Wooyoung’s face lights up with a small, tentative smile. He takes your hand and leads you to the living room. You both sink into the couch where he spent the night, your shoulders touching. His work bag sits on the floor beside it. He reaches down and pulls out a small velvet box.

Your breath catches.

“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, seeing your expression. “Not yet, anyway.” He opens the box to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, with a small charm hanging from it—a tiny compass.

“It’s so you always find your way back to me,” he explains, his voice soft. “Even when I’m being a complete dumbass.” You look from the bracelet to his face, seeing the hope and fear mingled in his eyes. This is what you fell in love with—not the ambitious, driven man who works too much, but this man who’s vulnerable enough to admit when he’s wrong, who’s brave enough to try to fix what he’s broken.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, holding out your wrist.

As Wooyoung fastens the bracelet with trembling fingers, you realize that healing won’t happen overnight. There will be more conversations, more difficult moments as you both learn to balance his career with your relationship. But as his hand finds yours, the bracelet cool against your skin, you know you’re willing to try.

Because some things are worth fighting for. Some people are worth the struggle. And this man—flawed and imperfect but trying, always trying—is one of them.

“I should have called,” he says finally, his voice quiet in the morning stillness. “I should have texted. I kept thinking about it, but then someone would pull me into another conversation, and I’d get distracted, and then...” He trails off, shaking his head. “That’s no excuse.”

“No, it’s not,” you agree, but there’s no anger in your voice now. Just bone-deep weariness.

Wooyoung’s shoulders slump. He looks smaller somehow, diminished by his own guilt. “I’ve been so focused on proving myself at work that I forgot to be present here. With you.” His eyes find yours, red-rimmed and sincere. “I’m drowning, and instead of asking for help, I’ve been pulling you under with me.”

Your chest tightens at his words. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own hurt that you haven’t fully considered his perspective. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling?” you ask softly.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Because I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who had it all figured out.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want you to see how overwhelmed I was. How scared I am that I won’t be enough.”

The admission hangs in the air between you. You reach for his hand, your fingers hesitantly brushing against his. He turns his palm up, letting you take it.

“I’m sorry too,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “For being so accusatory last night. For making you doubt that your best wasn’t enough. And for dismissing the fact that you work so immensely hard to provide for us.”

Wooyoung looks up, surprise evident in his eyes.

“I was angry,” you continue, “but I was also terrified. Every time you came home late without calling, I imagined the worst. And then I’d feel so stupid when you finally texted, like I was being dramatic or clingy.”

“You’re not,” he says firmly. “You were right to be worried. I’ve been a completely inconsiderate asshole.”

You squeeze his hand. “And I said things I didn’t mean. About you not loving me.” The words are hard to say, hard to admit. “I know that’s not true. I just... I missed you. I missed us.”

A tear slips down Wooyoung’s cheek. “I’ve missed us too,” he admits. “I’ve been so caught up in work that I forgot how to be a person. How to be your person.”

You shift closer to him on the couch, the gap between you narrowing. Your free hand reaches up to brush away his tear, your touch tentative, questioning. He leans into it, his eyes closing briefly.

“I’m going to do better,” he promises. “I’ve already talked to my boss about setting better boundaries. About leaving work at a reasonable hour, about not checking emails at home.” He opens his eyes, looking at you with such intensity it makes your breath catch. “You deserve more than the scraps of time and attention I’ve been giving you.”

“What if you can’t?” you ask, voicing the fear that’s been haunting you. “What if work pulls you back in?”

Wooyoung’s expression turns determined. “Then I’ll walk away. Find something else. Because nothing is worth losing you over.” He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Nothing.”

Your vision blurs with fresh tears. “I don’t want you to give up your career for me.”

“I’m not,” he assures you. “I’m choosing our relationship. Choosing you. The career is just a job. I can be replaced at any given moment but you? You’re my whole life. You’re irreplaceable.”

The words wash over you, healing some of the hurt that’s been festering. You move closer still, until your knees are touching, until you can feel the warmth of him beside you.

“I love you,” you say simply. “Even when you’re being an idiot and forgetting our anniversary.”

A watery laugh escapes him. “I love you too. I’m your idiot, though.”

Your hand finds its way to his face, cupping his cheek. His stubble is rough against your palm, grounding you in this moment. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice raw with emotion.

You nod, unable to form words around the lump in your throat.

Wooyoung leans forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. When his lips meet yours, it’s like coming home after a long journey. There’s relief in the touch, and longing, and a deep, abiding affection that transcends the hurt of the past weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips. “I’m so sorry.”

His kisses move to your cheek, to the corner of your eye where tears still linger. “I’ll do better,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You tilt your head, giving him access to your neck, where he presses soft, apologetic kisses. “I know you will,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his hair. 

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he says. “But I’m going to spend every day trying to be worthy of you.”

You shake your head. “You already are. You just got lost for a while.”

He pulls you into his arms, holding you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear. His hand strokes your hair, gentle and soothing.

“I was so scared,” you admit, the words muffled against his shirt. “That we were falling apart, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”

His arms tighten around you. “We’re not falling apart,” he promises. “We’re just... learning how to be together in a new way. With new challenges.”

You look up at him, seeing the determination in his eyes. “Together,” you repeat. “That’s the important part.”

Wooyoung nods, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Together. Always.”

The breakfast he made sits forgotten on the table, growing cold. But you don’t mind. There will be other breakfasts, other mornings. Right now, all that matters is this—the two of you, holding onto each other, finding your way back to what matters most.

“I think,” Wooyoung says after a while, his voice soft with sleepiness and emotion, “that since i took a few days off we could spend more time together. Just us. No work, no distractions.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Taking time off? Who are you and what have you done with my workaholic boyfriend?”

He laughs, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I’ve been replaced by someone with better priorities.” His expression turns serious. “I mean it, though. We need this. I need this. To remember that I have a lot of making up to do.”

The idea is tempting. “And how would you do that, hm?”

“I could think of one way right now,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can respond, Wooyoung stands and scoops you into his arms, his movements surprisingly fluid despite his exhaustion. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you toward your bedroom—your shared bedroom that’s been missing his presence for far too long.

“Wooyoung,” you breathe, your heart racing as he pushes the door open with his foot. “Put me down! I could’ve walked to the bedroom too, idiot.”

“Sorry princess. I couldn't help myself,” he says, his eyes dark with desire as he lays you gently on the bed.

He climbs onto the bed beside you, his weight making the mattress dip. For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression a mixture of reverence and hunger that makes your breath catch.

“Missed you,” he whispers, his hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw. “So much.”

You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss that’s deeper than before, more urgent. His lips move against yours with a desperation that speaks volumes about the distance that’s grown between you. You can taste the salt of dried tears on his skin, feel the slight tremble in his hands as they slide down to your waist.

You fist your hands in the crisp fabric of his shirt. The buttons press sharp and insistent against your chest, and you tug at them, desperate, fumbling until the first one gives. He groans, shifting so he can help, pulling away just enough to make quick work of the rest. The shirt falls open, exposing him to the morning light, the edges of his collarbone flushed and vulnerable.

Your breath hitches—you’d forgotten, somehow, how beautiful he is like this. His body is lean but not slight, muscle hugging bone and sinew in all the right places. You drag your hand along the inside of his forearm, tracing the thick black lines of the rose inked from his wrist to the curve before his elbow. You glide over the leaves and thorns, half-expecting the tattoo to prickle beneath your touch. He shudders, eyes hooded, drinking in the sight of you devouring him.

You slide your palm up, across his biceps, his shoulder—mapping every inch, reacquainting yourself with the geography of him. His chest heaves, the faint dusting of hair there rising as you scrape your nails down to his abs. You can’t help but smile a little at how his stomach tenses, how he jerks when you reach the sensitive dip above his hips. He grabs your hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in apology and in thanks. He’s trembling with wanting, with relief, and you want to swallow it whole.

You pull him closer, reaching up to slide the shirt off his shoulders. It pools at his elbows, then falls away, leaving him naked from the waist up. He presses you into the mattress, his lips everywhere at once—your jaw, your neck, the hollow at your collarbone. His hands are greedy, slipping under your shirt, seeking skin, worshipping you as if you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

Wooyoung’s fingers curl into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt as though he’s gathering every ounce of courage in his body to peel away not only the fabric but the distance he’s put between you. The morning light filters through gauzy curtains, illuminating the swirl of dust motes in the air and casting a gentle glow over your skin. He pauses, breath catching as he drinks you in—every freckle on your shoulder, every rise and fall of your chest—before tugging the shirt up and over your head in one smooth, practiced motion. The cool air of the room grazes your bare skin, sending a shiver through you as the light catches the gentle pebbling of your nipples and the subtle flex of your stomach muscles.

He chases away the chill, warm palms gliding up your sides, fingertips tracing the lines of your ribs, thumbs circling the soft shadows beneath your breasts as if to reassure himself that you are real—solid and here. “W-Wooyoung,” you breathe out, barely more than a tremor in the air, but it hits him like a bullet: his gaze snaps up, blown wide and hungry, jaw tensing so hard you can see the cords in his neck stand out. “Hmm?” He sounds dazed, already gone for you. He searches your face for a clue, a hint of what you want, even as his hands keep moving—roaming your waist, palming the flare of your hips, stroking reverent up and down your spine. You shudder, skin prickling everywhere he touches. Then, with a slow, deliberate shift, you arch your back and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear—your last layer—and drag them down, inch by inch, teasing yourself as much as him. You kick them off, letting them flutter to the floor, and stretch out on your stomach, arms reaching above your head, pressing your cheek into the pillow. You tilt your hips up, highlighting the bare swell of your ass, lush and expectant, every inch of you primed for him. The effect is instantaneous. He groans, low and feral in the back of his throat, his cock straining visibly against the thin grey of his sweats.

“What are you doing, baby?” he chokes, voice ragged, eyes glued to the sight of you so shamelessly presenting for him. 

You glance back lazily over your shoulder, lips parted, smile hazy and filthy. “Lay on top of me.” Your voice drips with need, teasing, coaxing, as your ass shifts again, the jiggle intentional, sinful.

His adam's apple bobs, eyes glued to the way you’re presenting yourself to him, pussy glistening and waiting. He sits frozen for a second, maybe trying to get his breath back, maybe just marvelling at how good you look, spread out and waiting.

“Bet."

Then he’s on you, crawling up the bed with a focused intent that sends another thrill through you. “Up,” he murmurs, tapping your hip. You lift obediently and he slides a pillow beneath you, angling your hips up off the mattress before he kneels behind you, pushes your thighs apart with strong hands, trapping your legs beneath his as he blankets your body. His heat, heavy and suffocating in the best way, seeps into your skin. Your cheek sinks into the sheets; you can smell your own slick in the air, feel the pulse of anticipation between your thighs. He leans in, lips skimming up your spine, worshipping every vertebrae, every goosebump and dimple, before he settles his weight against your back, pinning you down and making you feel tiny beneath him. You can’t help it: you reach back, grab at the waistband of his slacks, desperate to feel more of him. Your fingers brush the rigid outline of his cock and he shudders, hips jerking, the tip already wetting a dark stain into the fabric. He lets you tug down his pants, lifting his hips just enough to help you get them over his ass, down his thighs, clumsy and urgent. As soon as they’re off, he kicks them away, a brief chill racing up your legs before he covers you again, hotter and needier than before. You’re both trembling—maybe from nerves, maybe from how badly you need each other. 

“Please,” he moans, the word nearly a whimper, as you wrap your hand around the bulge beneath his boxers, feeling him throb in your grip. He’s so hard it almost hurts, and when you pull the waistband down and finally set him free, he gasps, forehead dropping onto your shoulder. His cock springs out, thick and flushed, the head angry red and already leaking.

“Jesus,” you hear yourself say, voice thick with awe. “Someone’s a little eager.” He laughs, shaky, like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.

“You have no fucking idea.”

His hand traces your thigh, kneading your flesh, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to bruise. You feel how much he needs you in every trembling touch. He cups your ass, squeezing and spreading, and then lets his hand drift lower, fingers ghosting along your slit. You’re soaked—embarrassingly so—and he groans when he feels it, slicking his fingers through you, teasing your entrance with featherlight touches. Your hips buck back, desperate for more, but he holds you firmly in place, taking his time, savoring the way you writhe under him.

“Are you gonna make me beg?” you pant, rutting against his hand.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, voice thick and broken. “I want to hear you say you need me.”

“You already know I do.” 

“Say it anyway.” His tongue flicks your earlobe, his words vibrating in your chest. “I need you, Wooyoung. Please.” The words tumble out, more desperate than you mean them to, but you don’t care. You want him—need him—so bad it’s physically painful. He lines himself up at your entrance, the heat of his cock a brand against your skin. But he doesn’t push in—not yet. He grinds the tip against your folds, smearing his precum through your wetness, teasing you with shallow thrusts that never quite give you what you want. You sob into the pillow, body arching, entirely at his mercy. “God, look at you,” he whispers. “You’re so perfect. Fuck, I don’t deserve you.” “Yes you do.” The words are a gasp, but you mean them. Even after everything, you want to give him this. You want to give him everything. He’s shaking, whole body vibrating with the effort of holding back, not just rutting into you like an animal. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice so weighted with emotion it almost makes you cry. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.” “I want you,” you say, “I always want you. I want you right now, more than anything.” He lets out a choked breath, as if you’ve released him from a terrible spell. “Fuck, yes.” He buries his face in the curve of your neck, breath hot and ragged. You feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance, stretching you slowly, inch by inch as he slides in. The stretch is sweet, burning, perfect. You moan, the sound loud and raw, echoing off the walls of your shared bedroom. He fills you up, deeper than you remember, and it feels like coming home after a long, cold exile. You clench around him, savouring the drag, the friction, the pulse of his heartbeat through the thickness of his cock. He starts to move, slow at first, drawing out each withdrawal and thrust so you feel every centimetre, every ridge and vein. His hands on your waist are trembling, sometimes gripping too hard and then letting go, as if he’s afraid to hurt you, afraid to let go of this moment. You arch your back, pushing yourself up into him, greedy for more. “Harder,” you urge. “Fuck me harder."

He whimpers, hips stuttering, and then sets a punishing pace, hips snapping forward to drive into you with every ounce of pent up longing he’s been carrying. The mattress creaks, the headboard smacks the wall. He’s so big, so deep, so desperate, and you love it.

“Don’t… fuck– say that shit,” he whines, his voice cracking. “Y’feel so good, so fucking tight.”

You arch back, meeting his thrusts, loving the way he loses control. His need for you is unfiltered, all-consuming, and you drink it like oxygen. He sets a rhythm, fast and merciless, hips slamming into you so hard it feels like a punishment, but you crave it, need it, want him to fuck you so hard you forget the argument and only memorise the feeling of him inside you. The slapping sound of skin on skin is obscene, even over the creaking of the bed and your shared moans, but you don’t care, don’t care if the whole apartment building hears you. Wooyoung is not gentle, not now; he’s desperate, driven by weeks of withheld affection, of loneliness and longing. He covers you, bites your shoulder, fucks you like it’s the last time, every thrust a plea for forgiveness and a pledge of eternity.

He leans more of his weight into you, his hand snaking around to your front, fingers seeking your clit. The first touch is electric—you jerk, stars bursting behind your eyes. He circles your clit with the pad of his finger, fast and hard, no finesse, just pure need to make you cum.

In a cruel twist of fate, his hips slow suddenly—the rhythm of his hips bullying yours breaking. You whimper at the loss, your body clenching around him, so desperate for more. But he pulls out completely, leaving you empty, aching.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice rough with need.

You crane your neck back over your shoulder, cheek still pressed into the sheets, and find him watching you with that dark intensity that makes your breath catch. His cock glistens with your combined wetness, the head swollen and flushed as he drags it slowly up and down your entrance, the angle making you feel every torturous inch of the tease—just enough pressure to feel but not enough to satisfy.

“Please,” you gasp, hips tipping higher. His lips curl into a wicked smile from somewhere above and behind you. “Not yet.” He circles your clit with his slick tip before sliding back down. Your thighs tremble against the pillow he placed under your hips. “Spit,” he commands, reaching his palm around to your mouth.

You obey without hesitation, gathering saliva that he uses to coat himself again, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. He returns to his maddening teasing, the new slickness making his cock glide effortlessly against your swollen flesh.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, the words punched out between ragged breaths. “Look at you—taking everything I give you.” You’re beyond words now, reduced to desperate sounds as he continues his exquisite torture. When you can’t stand it anymore, you reach behind your body, guiding him back to where you need him most. He lets you, but only for a moment. With a growl that vibrates through your chest, he pushes your hand away and positions himself again, his eyes locked on to the way your body is so responsive to his. Then he leans down, lips pressing soft and slow into your shoulder, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck “Princess” he whispers, voice cracking open at the edges, his cock still dragging slowly and torturous against your entrance. “You can forgive me right? Shit…You can forgive your Wooyo right?” “Yes,” you gasp, hips rolling back into him helplessly. “Yes, yess—fuck, I f-forgive you… Wooyoung, I need you so bad, please!" Something breaks in his expression—all restraint shattering. He thrusts forward in one powerful motion, burying himself to the hilt with a sound that borders on a sob, hands clutching your hips—his grip bruising but full of desperate love. “God, you feel so good,” he croaks. “I missed this. I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”

The force of it knocks the wind out of you, the fullness so shocking you can only moan, the sound muffled by the pillow but loud enough for him to hear—maybe for the neighbours to hear too. He doesn’t care. Neither do you. The words degenerate into a string of curses and pleas, all dignity and composure long abandoned. You’re reduced to this: the shudder of your hips, the filthy slickness on your thighs, the way you beg for him with every inch of your body.

He’s lost to it now, rutting into you with a violence born of weeks—months—of wanting, of regret, of all the shit he’s made you both suffer through in his absence. Every motion is a contradiction, a punishment and an apology, as he fucks you harder than he ever has, hips snapping so fast you barely have time to catch your breath between thrusts. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, yanking you back onto him, fisting in your hair, ghosting along your ribs and then down to your clit. His fingers rub you with the same desperate rhythm as his cock, no finesse, just pure, animal drive to make you cum first, to make you remember what you are together.

He doesn’t say a word at first, just grunts and breathes your name into your hair like a prayer. But when you look back at him, head turned over your shoulder, you see his face twisted in something rawer than lust. Love. His eyes are wet. He thrusts in, deeper, grinding the head of his cock against the spot inside you that makes your vision white out at the edges.

“God, I missed you,” he whines, the words hitching on the upstroke. “I missed you, princess, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—” He laces his apology into every movement, every thrust, trying to convince you with the force of his body how much he means it. “No one else can have you, fuck, never anyone else, not ever, you hear me?” His hips stutter, losing rhythm, and you know he’s close, so close, but he won’t let himself finish until you do.

He snakes his hand around your throat, the gentlest squeeze, just enough to remind you who’s in control. The pressure is perfect; you arch into it, into him, hips rocking back greedily to milk every inch of his cock. He bends over you, mouth against your ear, breath hot and frantic: “Cum for me, princess. Wanna feel you cum all over me.” And you do, splintering apart around him, pleasure ripping through you so hard it borders on pain. You scream, you swear, you claw at the sheets, and he fucks you through it, pace relentless, never slowing, never breaking.

He’s shaking above you, groaning your name, his hand still tangled in your hair as he thrusts a few more desperate times and then comes, deep inside you, with a guttural wail. The heat of his release is almost shocking, the way he fills you leaving no doubt that he’s yours, utterly and absolutely. He stays pressed to you, sweat-slicked and trembling, for long, silent seconds, his cock twitching with aftershocks, his breath turning softer, steadier. You can feel his heart thumping against your back, the wild rhythm slowly synchronizing with yours.

He never lets you go, not even as he softens inside you. He just wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck. You can’t move, can barely breathe, but the only thing you want is to stay like this forever—his weight, his warmth, his love, every bit of him pressed into you until you forget where you end and he begins. He’s the apology and the forgiveness, the punishment and the reward, and you take every last bit of him, all over again, until neither of you has anything left to give.

You’re both gasping, boneless, ruined, but it’s the best kind of ruined—like you’ve been put back together again, better than you were before. He kisses your neck, soft now, lazy, like he can’t help himself, and when he finally pulls out, both of you whimper at the loss.

You shift, rolling onto your side, facing him. His face is damp—sweat, tears, who even knows—but his eyes are clear and bright as he looks at you. He traces your jaw with a shaking finger. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “and I’m never letting you go, you got that?”

You laugh, delirious, and pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that’s slow and deep, the kind that says I forgive you, I want you, I’ll never be done with you. He sighs into it, like he’s waited a lifetime for this, like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.

And then his hand is between your legs again, gentle now, and you realize he’s not done with you yet. Not even close.

But you weren’t done with him either. “Wait,” you mumble against his lips, pulling back just enough to see his eyes. “Let me watch you.”

Wooyoung’s brow furrows, a question forming in his gaze. You slide your hand down his chest, over the damp skin, until your fingers wrap around his still-sensitive cock. He hisses, body tensing at your touch.

“Wanna see you touch yourself,” you clarify, your voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Understanding dawns across his face, followed by a slow, wicked smile that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah?” he asks, already shifting position. “You want to watch me jerk off, baby? Naughty girl.”

You nod, your own hand moving between your legs as you settle back against the pillows. Wooyoung sits up, kneeling between your spread thighs, his eyes never leaving yours as he wraps his hand around his length. He’s already hardening again, his cock responding eagerly to your gaze. You watch, transfixed, as his fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip that makes his breath catch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head falling back slightly. “Play with yourself too, princess.”

You’re touching yourself now, circling your clit with teasing pressure, your other hand squeezing your breast. The sight of him pleasuring himself while watching you is intoxicating—his muscles flexing, his lips parted, his eyes dark with desire.

“Show me…shit," you urge, your voice barely audible. “Show me what you think about when I’m not around to suck you dry.”

He moans, his pace quickening. “I’m always thinking about you, ” he admits, his voice rough. “About your pretty mouth, your perfect tits, the way you feel when I’m inside you.” His hand moves faster now, his breathing growing ragged. “I think about making you cum—fuck, l-love thinking about watching you fall apart because of me.”

Your fingers move faster, matching his rhythm, the sight of him pleasuring himself pushing you closer to the edge. The room fills with the wet sounds of your mutual pleasure, your soft gasps mingling with his deeper groans.

“I’m c–close,” you pant, your hips rising off the bed. “Baby, I’m so fucking close.”

“Me too,” he gasps, his hand moving furiously over his cock. “God, the way you’re touching yourself—fuck, I can’t—"

“So fucking good… haah—” you whimper. “Cum with me.”

His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same desperation, the same need reflected back at you. Your fingers move faster, your thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure as you watch his hand fly over his length, his body tense with impending release.

“Wooyoung,” you cry out as the first wave hits you, your body arching off the bed.

“Oh god, yes you’re so hot fuuuck,” he groans, his release spurting hot across your stomach as he watches you come undone.

You’re both panting, chests heaving as sweat trickles down your bodies and Wooyoung’s cum glistens wet and hot across your stomach—but even as you come down, the air between you only grows thicker. His eyes linger on your face, hungry and soft all at once, and you know before he says a word that he isn’t finished with you yet. He swipes his thumb through his mess, smearing it across your skin, and then lifts his hand to your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, voice already roughening around the edges, and you open obediently, tongue laving over his skin, savouring the salt and the faint sweetness of him.

He watches you, transfixed, and then the hunger snaps back into focus. With a sudden, fluid motion, he grabs you by the hips and guides you onto your back, landing you with a gasp and a bounce that sends aftershocks through your spent body. For a second you just lie there, limp and loose-limbed, but Wooyoung is on you before you have time to recover—his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and desperate, greedy possession. He devours you, biting your lower lip so hard you nearly yelp, but then he’s soothing the sting with a velvet-soft lick, fingers already roaming, cupping your jaw, winding into your hair, squeezing the back of your neck until you’re gasping into his mouth.

“Last one baby,” he rasps, voice vibrating right against your teeth. “Need to breed your pretty pussy one last time.” He’s already sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin—your throat, your collarbones, the peak of your tits. He bites down gently on your nipple, then flicks it with his tongue, the sensation sharp and electric and so fucking precise. He lavishes both breasts with attention, sucking bruises in places only he will see, then lets his tongue trace a hot, wet path down your torso.

He stops at your belly, swiping a finger through the sticky mess on your skin. “Look at you,” he says, voice thick with pride and awe, and you feel your cheeks flame even as you spread your legs wider for him. He dips his head, lapping at where his cum has pooled in your navel, and you shiver at the lewdness of it, the way he worships every part of you. When his mouth finally moves lower, you’re already shaking with anticipation, your core clenching tight, desperate for more even though you should be wrung out.

He dives between your thighs, licks a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you nearly come off the bed from the shock of it. He laughs, low and dark, and buries his face in your cunt, eating you like a man starved. His tongue is everywhere. Circling your clit, plunging inside you, mixing slick and spit and the faint metallic taste of his own release. You fist your hands in his hair, grinding your hips against his mouth, shameless in the way you beg, “More, more... please, fuck, don’t stop—” and he doesn’t.

He works you with ruthless precision, two fingers thrusting deep while his tongue flicks rapid-fire at your clit. You feel the pressure build, so much faster than before, your legs trembling, your thighs clamping tight around his head. He holds you open, arms braced under your knees, keeping you spread and helpless as he brings you right to the brink and then eases off, just enough to drive you insane. He does it again, and again, pulling you apart, making you plead for it.

“Woo—” you whimper, your voice thin and shaky. “Please, please—”

He lifts his head, lips glistening, and you see the wild satisfaction in his eyes. “You’re so fucking pretty when you beg,” he says, and the praise sends another rush of heat through your veins.

“Please,” you say again, and this time he relents, sucking your clit into his mouth and moaning around it. The vibration hits you like a lightning strike and you come hard, arching your back, crying out his name so loud you know it will echo in your ears for days. He keeps going, licking you through it, not stopping until you’re sobbing with oversensitivity and shoving at his head to make it end.

He crawls up your body, cock already hard again as he rubs it against your thigh, your stomach, the sticky aftermath on your skin. He lines himself up at your entrance, and you’re so wet, so open for him, that he slides in with barely any resistance. The stretch still hurts—just a little—and he winces with you, kissing your cheek, your ear, whispering, “Shh, you can take it. You’re so good for me.”

You rake your nails down his back, desperate to pull him deeper, and he obliges, ramming into you with a force that makes the whole bed frame rattle. This time, he doesn’t pace himself—he fucks you with abandon, every thrust a fierce apology, a vow, a plea for forgiveness. “Pretty cunt was made for me, wasn't it baby?" he growls, the words muffled against your skin, and you believe him, every time.

He shifts your legs, bends you almost in half putting you into a mean mating press, and the new angle has him thrusting right against your g-spot. You claw helplessly at his arms, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps, and he just grins, sweat beading at his hairline, loving every second of your unravelling.

"'M not going to last... I'm g'na cum holy fuck Wooyoung," you moan out, feeling yourself edging closer to your own climax.

You feel him getting close—his rhythm falters, his hips jerk, his breath comes in ragged gasps. He slides a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit, determined to take you with him. “Oh fuck—Cum f’me princess, make me proud.” And you do, the orgasm ripping through you so violently that black spots dance at the edge of your vision. You scream, you sob, you babble his name like a prayer, and he follows, spilling inside you with a strangled cry. He shoves in deep, holds you there, and then collapses, pinning you to the mattress with the full weight of his body.

You lie like that for a long, breathless moment, your bodies trembling and tangled, sweat sticking you together, his cock still throbbing inside you as he pants in your ear. For a second you think he’s fallen asleep, but then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, eyes shining, lips parted as if he might start crying all over again.

He rolls you onto your side, still joined, and wraps an arm around your waist, spooning you so tight you can barely move. You reach back and stroke his hair, feeling the way his whole body melts into your touch—the tension draining from his muscles, the way his breath evens out. The world feels impossibly far away, like it’s just the two of you floating in a bed-shaped universe, nothing but heartbeats and skin and the mess you’ve made of each other.

The room falls quiet, your breathing gradually slowing in tandem. Wooyoung’s arm tightens around you, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. “Don’t move,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from use. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulls out gently, and you whimper at the loss, feeling suddenly empty. But he’s already sliding from the bed, his naked body glistening with sweat as he pads to the bathroom. You hear water running, and then he returns with a warm washcloth in his hand.

“Let's get you cleaned up yeah?” he says, his eyes soft as he kneels beside you.

His touch is reverent as he cleans between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of your passion with gentle, circular motions. The warm cloth feels heavenly against your sensitive skin, and you sigh, your body relaxing into his care.

“Better?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, too blissed-out to form words. He disappears again, returning with a glass of water that he holds to your lips. You drink greedily, not realizing how parched you were until the cool liquid slides down your throat.

“More?” he asks, and you shake your head.

Wooyoung sets the glass aside and moves to his dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. He rummages through it for a moment before pulling out a faded blue t-shirt that you recognize immediately. It’s one of his oldest, the fabric soft from countless washes, the university logo barely visible anymore.

“Arms up,” he murmurs, and you comply, letting him slip the oversized shirt over your head. It falls to mid-thigh, enveloping you in his scent—that familiar mix of his cologne and something uniquely him that makes your chest ache with tenderness. He adjusts the collar, his fingers lingering at your neck, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Perfect,” he whispers, his eyes warm as they take you in.

You watch as he pulls on a pair of boxers and a simple white t-shirt, his movements languid, unhurried. There’s something intimate about watching him dress—the way his muscles flex beneath his skin, the casual grace of his movements. He catches you looking and says nothing, just gives you a small, tired smile before he climbs back into bed, pulling you against him. His fingers begin to trace lazy patterns on your arm, up and down, the touch so light it makes you shiver.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hope you know that I adore you so much.”

You turn in his arms to face him, finding his eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. There’s something raw and vulnerable in his gaze that makes your heart ache.

“I know,” you say, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. “I love you too.”

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I’m going to do better. I promise.”

“I believe you, I know you will,” you whisper, and you do.

He pulls you closer, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. The bracelet he gave you catches the light, the tiny compass charm glinting. He brings your wrist up to his lips and places a kiss on the charm, a silent reminder for you that’ll he’ll always be your north. No matter where you are, he’ll always be there for you.

“I’ve got you,” he coos, his voice dropping to that impossibly soft register he only uses in these moments. “I’m here, I'm not going anywhere.”

You hum in acknowledgment, too far gone for words. He softly chuckles at your sleepiness. His hand resumes its journey down your spine, each vertebra a landmark he maps with infinite patience. Another yawn overtakes you, your eyes watering at the corners. Wooyoung brushes away the tears with his thumb, his touch reverent.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers. “My whole heart.”

A melody begins to form beneath his breath—something soft and wordless that you recognize from nights when sleep wouldn’t come, when anxiety gripped your throat. His chest vibrates with the sound, a lullaby composed of nothing but his love for you. Your consciousness begins to drift, the edges of your thoughts blurring like watercolours on wet paper. The scent of him—clean sweat and that cologne he’s worn since the day you met—wraps around you like a second blanket.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple. “Happy anniversary, my love. I promise to make every one from now on better than the last.”

The words follow you down into darkness, a tether to the world you’re leaving behind. The future for the both of you still holds challenges—his career won’t become less demanding overnight, and you’ll both need to work to maintain the balance you’re rebuilding. But as Wooyoung’s arms tighten around you, as you feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, you know you’ll face those challenges together. Because love isn’t about never making mistakes. It’s about having the courage to admit when you’re wrong, and the strength to keep trying, even when it’s hard. And as the morning light spills across the tangled sheets and your intertwined bodies, you know that’s exactly what you have—not a perfect love, but a real one.

“Hi,” you mumble, shy. Your shoulders are set, your back straight, your eyes pointed but your glossy, bottom lip is tucked between your teeth. Yeosang’s brows furrow, the pulse point in his neck throbbing, he hopes you can’t hear it like he can, a steady rhythm of bass pounding in his eardrums.

“Hi,” he mutters, confused, starstruck, and relieved all at once. 

“Can I come in?” you ask, eyes sliding behind him, peering into his apartment. Baby pink sweatpants sit low on your hips, your white, strappy tank barely meeting the waistband, showing a sliver of your skin that makes Yeosang’s short nails curl into his front door. 

He steps to the side, allowing you entrance as he mumbles, “Sure.” 

There’s flip-flops on your feet, showing off your toes always lined with white, thin, silver rings clamped on the middles. A miniature pink purse sits on your shoulder, you let it fall down to hold it loosely between your fingers as you glance around, taking in the sight of his apartment that hasn’t changed. 

“I thought you would’ve gotten rid of the football posters,” you say absentmindedly, as if it’s normal for you to be here, as if you didn’t shatter his heart to shrapnel six weeks ago. 

“I still like football,” Yeosang closes the door behind him, but he lingers, fingertips still touching the oak. “My priorities are the only thing that changed.” 

“Changed,” you repeat, turning to face him, blowing annoyed amusement through your nose. “You ruined your future, that’s what you did.” 

Yeosang sighs. “If that’s what you believe.” 

“It’s what I know.” You throw a hand on your hip. “Why haven’t you texted me? You haven’t reached out once.” 

Yeosang lets his bare shoulderblades touch the door, letting the cool wood seep into his skin as he counters, “You broke up with me. What did you want me to say?”

You shrug, hands waving in the air on either side of you, purse swinging as you all but whisper, “Something.” There’s an edge to your voice, one that makes his gut rumble, something deep and low. “You could have said anything, Yeosang.” 

“You made a choice,” Yeosang keeps his tone calm, soft. “I respected it.” 

Your top lifts in distaste, taking a step towards him. “God forbid you actually disagree with me on something.”

“Isn’t acceptance better?” Yeosang’s voice goes shallow, airy. He can smell you and it’s making his head fuzzy, his knees weak. He wonders how long it’ll take to get the smell out this time. 

“Define better,” you take another step towards him, eyes flickering over his build. The shorts on his legs, hanging too low for company, the lack of a shirt on his upper half. You drink him in like you missed him. 

“Why are you here?”

“I need,” you start, full of confidence, but you cut yourself off. Standing just a foot away from him, Yeosang’s head is angled downward to see you, the first thing he notices is the shift in your breathing. Quicker, shallow breaths, you conjure as much certainty as you can to say, “I want you.” 

Yeosang’s brows raise, length opening an eye in his basketball shorts. You don’t give him a chance to respond, running your fingers through your styled hair, voice pitched with impatience. 

“No one else gets it,” you mutter, stress bleeding through your words. “You’re different. You get it, you get me.” 

“What do I get?” Yeosang’s whispering, he needs to know, even if he’s scared you might change your mind and push past him if he asks. He’s terrified that giving in will alter his brain chemistry. “Why me?”

“Yeosang,” you say his name like it relays everything. He keeps your stare even if he wants to look away, like he was facing a bull, dressed in crimson and there was no way in hell he’d win, but something forces him to stand his ground. Maybe it’s because he knows you just as well as you know him.

“I know your priorities have changed,” your voice lowers, but you keep your eyes on him like you know his defense is already stripped. Like all you had to do was say the magic word and he’d be putty in your palms once more. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants me at all, I need a favor. I need… I need to… I want to fuck you.”

Yeosang can hear his own heartbeat. He can feel the sweat prickling his skin at the back of his neck, on his pecs, at the base of his spine. His eyes blow wide, swallowing down his shock, hesitance making him blink at you, lips parting. 

You groan, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, covering your eyes. “Please say something,” you mutter, “it’s humiliating enough that I’m even here right now.”

“I,” Yeosang starts, but his voice cracks on the singular word. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head a little, “I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?” Your arms stretch out on either side of you, bewildered that Yeosang didn’t immediately respond yes, that he wasn’t on his hands and knees begging for it. “We had one good thing, Yeosang.” 

It hurts his chest, like your manicured hand pierced his skin, reached right for his heart and squeezed. You had plenty of good things, several good things, your relationship was damn near perfect before he quit football. Before he joined Jay’s band. 

You take a step towards him and he can see the last six months flash before his eyes.

“You don’t miss me?” Your voice is softer now, dripping in a fake sweetness that makes his breathing manual, he can feel the heat of your body. 

Low, almost a whisper, Yeosang says, “I do.”

Your lips curve at the corner, glossy, sparkling and edible. Like he’d given you the green light, your voice coated in candy, you ask, “Can I take care of you?”

Yeosang’s brows knit together ever so slightly, a sign of want, of need. All he can muster is a tiny, whimpered, “Please.”

You don’t kiss him.

You drop to your knees, eyes on his, staring up over your forehead. Slowly, your purse falls to the floor beside you, your fingers reach up to the waistband of his shorts. Yeosang’s brows are already tied together, back arched, hips bent toward you while his shoulders stay flush to the door.

“Do you want to cum in my mouth, or inside me?”

Yeosang sucks in a sharp breath, hollowing out his stomach, abdomen flexing. “Wherever you want me to.”

Your smile is wide and true as you tug his shorts down to his thighs, his cock springing out, slapping against the skin between his veiny hipbones. Pupils dilating like you were starved, like Yeosang was your last meal, you licked your lips, muttering a curse under your breath. 

Yeosang’s hips twitch toward you, “Please.”

“Don’t beg,” your eyes flicker upward again. “The fact that you’re this hard when I haven’t even touched you is pathetic.”

A small, tight moan slips from between his lips, cock jumping, face scrunched up in pleasure. Your soft, dainty hand finds the base of his length, sliding up over his tip, your palm rolling against his slit, spreading the slick that’d already begun dribbling down the side. The sound he makes should be embarrassing, it’s deafening, laying over the silence of the room, loud and sharp and needy. 

“Quiet.” The order isn’t harsh, but it’s not fully confident, either. Your eyes flicker upward again like you needed to see if he’d listen, like it’d give you confirmation to continue. His lips fold between his teeth and your knees part further on the floor, other hand wrapping around his cock, the two holding him in full. 

He fights his own instinct to rock his hips into your hands. His breathing is verbal, heavy, chest rising and lowering, muscles contracting as you squeeze, but don’t move. You stay there for a second, testing him, his restraint, his control– he assumes he passes when you guide his tip toward your glossy lips, tongue poking out to lick over his slit, soft and flat and wet. 

Your lips wrap around him and the dull thud of the back of his head hitting the door sounds through the room. Taking him into your mouth, hands falling to his hips, he groans as your tongue massages the underside of his length, sliding down until your nose meets the tuft of hair at his base. 

“S-shit,” he grinds out, “s’good.”

You hum around him, vibrating his cock, his hips twitch into your mouth. He glances downward, but you don’t react, you start bobbing your head, working up a rhythm. His hands dig into the wood behind him, whines escaping from his lips one after another, pitched and loud and embarrassing, but he doesn’t care. 

It’s been six weeks. 

Gagging yourself on him, he whimpers, thighs shaking from how hard he’s trying to keep himself composed. You can feel the way he’s climbing, reaching out for euphoria, silently begging you to let him paint your throat white, you bring him as close as you can to his peak before you’re pushing off him with a pop. 

His hips follow, a muddled curse rolling off his tongue, two fists banging against the door behind him. You huff a laugh, licking your lips that curve into a sly grin, “That quick?”

His chest is heaving, golden skin splotched with shapes of pink, his face angled and sharp with denial. “I–, I don’t–”

“Go. On the couch.” You don’t move from where you’re planted on the hardwood, ass on your calves, staring up at him. He listens, still trying to catch his breath, pulling his shorts down to his ankles before he sits back on the deep brown couch, waiting for you. 

Standing before him now, you don’t waste any time pulling your sweatpants down, leaving the pink, lacy panties with a bow at the center of the waistband on your hips. Yeosang’s eyes flock to it like a moth to a flame, his favorite. So cute, so dainty, so you, absentmindedly he almost reaches for his cock that leaks onto his abdomen. 

“Last longer,” your voice is firm, direct. “You don’t cum until I do. Okay?” 

His nod is eager, “Y-yes.”

You kick your sweats and your panties off before you swing a leg over his lap, a manicured hand finding the base of his length again. Yeosang hisses out a curse, you lick your lips, watching him react. Tummy flexing, muscles still just as defined as they were six weeks ago, you note that he’s still going to the gym. Nothing’s changed except his hair color, what was once a pretty blonde was now a neon green, ends tipped with black, a foul pair of hues. You look at his pretty face instead, his pecs that sit flexed, his cute, pink nipples that pebbled in the open air of his living room. 

You lift yourself to line him up with your core, bracing yourself for the stretch, it’s been over a month since you’ve sat on his length and fuck you weren’t prepped even a little. Sliding his tip through your folds, wetness coating him, dripping down the width of him, you take your time guiding him inside you, letting yourself feel every inch, every vein, each twitch of his cock that pulsed as you sank down. 

Yeosang’s head tips back, groaning, hands finding your hips. “Oh my god.”

You moan as your thighs meet his, fully seated, mounted onto him like he was your throne. Clenching around him, breath picking up, your heart pounds against your ribs at how good he feels inside you. You missed this, you missed him, the way he feels, the sounds he makes, how easy and compliant he is, always. 

His fingers squeeze, “T-tight, baby. So tight– shit.”

Yeosang feels like he could bust at any second. Six weeks without sex, without you, it was blowing his fucking mind and you haven’t even moved yet. It feels so good, it’s so wrong, you aren’t together, he doesn’t even know who else you’ve been with. He doesn’t care; he still loves you. The way you look at him, the way your skin feels on his, the way you can read every single one of his expressions, he doesn’t have to say a word. He loves how you take care of him. He loves how easy it is for you to make him cum. 

He missed your smell. He missed your smile. He missed the way you order him around and the way his body responds without his brain. 

“Gonna move,” you whisper. “Take it.”

You start rocking your hips and Yeosang’s head snaps forward again, eyes wide, jaw slack. It’s so good, you feel so fucking good, clenching around him like he was nothing but a toy. He watches your chest bounce beneath your tank, no bra, your nipples poking through the thin, useless fabric. 

His hands follow his thoughts, pushing the hem over the peak of your breasts, cupping them in his palms, thumbs running over your peaked nipples. So fucking pretty, his mouth waters, he needs–

“Go ahead,” you sigh, moving your hair away from your face, over your shoulders. 

He leans forward, lips wrapping around your nipple, his hand massaging the other, brows knitted together like he’d died and gone to heaven. Satisfied wasn’t the word, pure bliss, his mouth occupied, your hips moving in a dirty grind against his cock, beautiful, pitched noises leaving your lips, music to his ears. 

He feels alive again, it’s so easy to ignore that this is wrong. He shouldn’t be doing this. The ramifications of his actions will be too heavy to bear, a weight on his shoulders for the weeks to come, he doesn’t care, not when your moans grow louder, head tipping back, core clenching around him with every other drag of your hips, chasing an orgasm he’d never deny you. 

He’d never deny you anything. 

Your hands find his hair, pulling his head backward, you stare into him, his eyes glossed over, his swollen, pink lips parted, so beautiful you want to lean down and kiss him. You don’t, though, it feels too intimate, like it’d send the wrong message, like you wanted him for something more than his cock poking at your cervix. 

“Please,” he mumbles, voice lagged and heavy with arousal, “need to feel you cum around me, want– need to fill you up.”

You moan a curse, lifting your hips, dropping them down against his cock harshly, picking up your pace to chase the pressure that’s steadily building in your gut. So pretty, so beautiful, so yours, you mumble a question you don’t register asking, “Have you fucked anyone else?”

He’s quick to answer, “No.”

You’re glad you asked. You laugh a little, a small, tiny breath of amusement, “Of course not.”

He grunts when you clench around him, like it gets you off knowing that in the six weeks you’ve been apart he hasn’t even looked at anyone else. He’s spent the last six weeks in class, in Jay’s garage, or here, on his couch with his bass on his lap, playing the same song over and over. Practicing, thinking, debating on whether or not he made a mistake– he never thought quitting football would make him lose you, too. 

But here you were, back in his apartment, wrapped around him like no time had passed, as if you never ended things with him in the first place, like you didn’t ghost him for six weeks. It’s not like he reached out, either, you made it clear that if he wasn’t on the team, you had no business being together. Who was Yeosang to argue with you about what you wanted?

The captain of the cheerleading team and a running back, you liked him in uniform, with shoulder pads and cleats and his fingers wrapped around brown leather. You liked it when he was practicing on the field and the cheerleading team was in the corner, rehearsing, doing stunts on the turf. You liked it when you were both sweaty and high off adrenaline and you’d meet eyes across the green, thinking about what came later. You liked it when he won games, when you could run over and jump in his arms and kiss him stupid, then fuck him in congratulation afterward.

You built a routine together, one that wasn’t official–because that seemed to be the norm on this campus, at this age–and a routine built off instability rarely had a happy ending. Part of Yeosang saw it as a ticking time-bomb, one that met its inevitable end. 

Skin wet like you were dripping in condensation, your body moved against Yeosang’s like you were built for him. Like no one else in the world could make you feel this good, he could hear it in how you sang for him, how reactive you were to his touch, to him. You were the one that missed him, that’s the only explanation for you showing up unannounced, mere days after he heard the rumours about you and Jaemin. 

Now you’re here. And he let you in so easily.

“Y’feel so good,” you moan, fingers curling into his shoulders. His hands find your hips again, guiding you on his length at the pace that always made you cum quick, his hips angled to curve into the spot at the front of your walls. “Yeosang!” You clench around him again and he bites down a curse. “I’m close.”

His brows knitted together, jaw slack, middle flexing over and over, he focuses on angling himself at that same spot, moving you at the same pace, a fixed rhythm, using your sounds as motivation to keep himself anchored. 

You reach down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit and he’s thinking of anything he can to stop himself from coming. A whimper escapes him, pitched and needy and pathetic, he knows it is. You gasp before clenching around him, hard, your body trembling, legs shaking on either side of his body, Yeosang smiles. 

“Yes, cumming f’me,” he sounds ragged, rambling out of arousal. “So pretty, so sexy, missed you s’much. Let me fill you up, please? Please let me.”

Your hips pick up in pace on their own, it drives him crazy. He’s moaning, fingertips pressing into your hips, his mouth unmoving because his orgasm is so close he can taste it. 

“Cum for me,” you soothe, voice encouraging and full of praise. “Made me feel so good, you deserve it. Wanna feel you, Yeo.”

It’s enough to push him over, stuttering a groan as he empties himself inside you, hips bucking up into yours as he feels every second of release. Six weeks without sex is a long time. 

You stay there for a moment, hands warm on his skin, controlling your breathing until your heart rate slows into something regulated. Yeosang keeps his eyes on you, watching, feeling, etching the memory into his mind because he doesn’t know if it’ll happen again. He doesn’t know how long he’ll go without you this time. Maybe forever. 

Then you’re lifting yourself off him, standing on his rug before the couch, fixing your white tank, reaching for your panties and your sweatpants. He waits for you to speak. 

Your lips flatten as you tug your clothes up to your hips, “Can I use your bathroom before I go?”

A slow nod from Yeosang, a small mumble of of course. 

He fixes his clothes, pulls his briefs and his shorts back over his hips, then leans back into the couch, letting himself relax into the plush. Letting himself feel. It feels like his birthday to have you in his apartment – but to sleep with him? Because you missed him? There’s a rush of giddiness inside him, one blooming from his chest to the tips of his fingers, you missed him as much as he missed you. 

His heart beats to the sound of your flip flops smacking through his apartment, he opens his eyes to you grabbing your tiny little pink purse from the floor, reaching inside for your lip gloss. 

He feels like he should say something. Ask something. He’s scared you’ll leave without a word if he doesn’t. 

“Hey–”

“Look,” you cut him off, screwing the cap back onto your gloss, shoving it in your miniature purse. “I’m sorry I came over unannounced, it won’t happen again. I just… I needed that.”

“It can happen again.” He doesn’t want it to be over. “I get it.”

You sigh, a hand on your hip, “It shouldn’t happen again. We aren’t ever going to be anything, Yeosang.”

“Then why come back?” He sits forward a little. “Why fuck me? And not Jaemin?”

Your eyes widen like he caught you red-handed. You stand a little straighter as you swing your purse over your shoulder, “Leave Jaem out of this.”

“Okay,” Yeosang nods, shrugging, internally despising that you just called him Jaem. “I will. Whatever makes you happy.”

Your eyes find the floor, shoulders slouching ever so slightly. “I have to go,” you mumble, not meeting his eye. “I have practice early tomorrow.”

He watches, he hears you as you leave, as your flip flops smack down the hallway outside of his apartment. He wishes he had the balls to ask you to stay. He looses a breath he didn’t know he was holding, running a hand through his sweaty hair, cursing under his breath when he looks at his fingers and sees green. 

He smacks his teeth together, the box the neon-green dye came in said it wouldn’t bleed. Disappointed in the hair dye, disappointed in you, disappointed in himself, he knows in his soul he shouldn’t have fucked you. It restarted all the progress he’s made the past six weeks, coming to terms with the fact that you and him were over, that he had a new life now. He’s different now. 

He terminated his contract and bleached his head. He dyed it green, texted Jay, asked if he still had the spot open in his band, to which Jay responded hell yeah and Yeosang hauled his ass to his garage with his bass strapped over his back. 

In six weeks, he’s played two shows. Everything was just starting to feel right.

There’s fear stemming at the base of his spine, that thirty minutes of his life, thirty minutes of sharing saliva and being inside of you would destroy all the work he’s put in. Everything he’s already changed. Everything he already loves. 

Because in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his heart, he knows he loves you more than all of it. 

He doesn’t see you again for another three weeks. 

You made good on your promise, not swinging by his apartment again. It took days to get the smell of you out of his living room, again. He still smells the couch cushions daily just in case. Maybe a part of him wishes it lingered. 

He doesn’t reach out, though. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t DM. He doesn’t go anywhere near the places you frequent on campus. If you miss him, you’d let him know. You’d show him. Somehow.

Yeosang thinks maybe this is your way of saying it, in the Arts Building, nowhere near the lecture hall majority of your classes are in. Did you change your schedule? Forced into taking another elective for the sake of credits? There’s no reason for you to be walking towards him in a denim skirt so small he can almost see the lacy pair of panties beneath it. 

Your face is pointed like you had an agenda. All Yeosang can do is sit there, in the common space, on the same cushioned chair he always sat in, sketch pad on his lap, waiting for you to approach him, to speak. 

But you don’t. 

You walk past him, heeled feet somehow clinking against the carpet-covered floor. Your head doesn’t move but your eyes stay on him until he’s in your peripherals, your chin up, shoulders squared, back straight, Yeosang can’t take his eyes off you. Denim kissing the crease where your ass meets your thighs, the shadow above your waistband showing the indent of your spine, the muscles in your calves flexing with each step, he swings his legs around to the front of the chair just so he can watch you leave.

Moth to a flame. 

He curses himself for how easily he gives in to you. You let him see you because you wanted him to see you, you wanted yourself on his mind, you wanted him to go home and sit on his bed with a fist wrapped around his length, recalling the last memory of it being your mouth, instead. 

He shoves his sketchbook into his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and hauls himself outside. Screw his last class, he’d look at the notes online, maybe. He doesn’t really care what he’s about to miss. He needs to grow a backbone, needs to strengthen his mind so you can’t penetrate his mental walls so effortlessly. Already he’s stirring beneath his cargos, he needs to go somewhere, he needs to do something, he refuses to go back to his apartment and lose time thinking about you. 

Impulse brings him outside of campus. Hours walking through busy streets of the city, listening to music and chatter from restaurants, the traffic rushing between them, he finds comfort in the sunshine on his skin, making his head feel hot, his cheeks feel pink. 

Impulse brings him to a piercing shop. Brow quirked, lips pursed, there isn’t much thought in his head as impulse pushes his legs inside. 

By ten he’s at home again, throwing his bag on the couch, turning on the speaker in the corner of the room just to fill the silence while he lights a joint. In the kitchen, he makes himself dinner, the thought occurs that he was out for so long and didn’t eat– routine and discipline embedded in his veins makes him pull out meal-prepped food from his fridge.

Half a joint burned to ash and a meal digested, he’s only half-satisfied, he wonders when the practices that years of playing football have embedded in him will fade. If he’ll ever just be Yeosang again, instead of an ex-running-back, or the guy who dropped football for a bass guitar. 

He debates checking his phone, calling Jongho, calling Aven, someone to occupy his fucking time, to ease his thoughts, so his fuzzy mind doesn’t hyperfixate on everything being different. So he can forget that he saw you today. 

Three knocks sound at his door, loud, angry noises that make him jump where he stood beside the counter. He runs to the front door, swinging it open, about to open his mouth when you barrel past him into his living room like a fucking fly buzzing past his ear. 

“You looked at me today.”

You’re angry. Eyes pointed, chest puffed out, brows chiseled and furrowed, Yeosang looks behind him like maybe he isn’t on the receiving end of this. Seeing nothing but an empty hallway, he closes the door behind him, and turns to you again. 

“Okay?” He asks, says, it’s genuine. What answer is he supposed to have?

You’re in a sports bra and shorts that cling to your body. They reach high, over your belly button, but the hem squeezes right at the tips of your thighs, painted onto your skin. Yeosang’s breath turns manual as he takes in every detail, how your outfit doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, not that it’s anything he hasn’t seen before.

“Don’t do that,” you huff, hands on your hips, a wristlet hanging from your silver-covered forearm. Three bracelets, bangles, sparkly, they hang off your wrist, still dancing together, sounding like wind chimes on a summer day. 

“Okay,” Yeosang’s brows furrow ever so slightly. “I won’t.”

“God, you piss me off,” you start pacing, hands on your forehead, walking back and forth in his entryway, if he could even call it that. If you open his front door, you’re already inside of his living room. “You do understand that I want nothing to do with you, right? That we’re not together?”

Yeosang nods, slowly, brows still furrowed like there are a million points he’s missing. “I’m very aware.”

“Then don’t look at me like that!” You finally stop in the middle of the room, voice loud, accompanied by the wind chimes on your wrist and the music coming from Yeosang’s speaker. “Don’t look at me like you still have some sort of feelings for me. Especially in public, Yeosang, I don’t need anyone asking me questions about you.”

His arms cross over his chest, once again dumbfounded, unsure of how to reply. 

Your arms fall to your sides, eyes slimming. “What’s in your ears?”

His head cocks to the side, fingers coming up to touch his ears, suddenly reminded when it stings that he filled them with metal today. Simply, he responds, “Earrings.”

Then you’re marching up to him, manicured hands in his hair, pushing it off his face. You’re so pretty, skin soft, eyelashes long, coated in black. Sunkissed, like you’d just come from an outdoor practice, a little flushed with exertion, as if it wasn’t just after eleven. You’re talking, he can’t hear you, lost in your features, wondering how it’s possible for someone to exist this beautifully.

“Yeosang,” you urge, it’s a warning, stealing his attention. His brows raise in question. “The green hair was enough. What else are you gonna do to ruin yourself?”

“Are you my mother or something?” It slips out of his mouth, instinctive, he smacks his lips together. He blames the weed, the lingering smell of sweat on your skin, your face so close to his, his head is fuzzy. He short-circuited.

Your eyes darken, thinning, your hands fall to your sides. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I wanted earrings, so I got them.”

“Don’t change the subject,” you bite. “What did you just say to me? Say it again.”

He swallows, eyes meeting the floor. Voice quiet, under his breath, he answers, “I asked if you’re my mother.”

You laugh, a short, chopped sound of feigned amusement, it makes goosebumps rise on his arms.

“Did you finally learn how to fight back?” Your arms cross, pushing up your chest in your sports bra, Yeosang averts his eyes elsewhere. “To me, of all people. The one person you shouldn’t argue with.”

His eyes flicker upward, meeting your irritated stare. “Why not? We aren’t together, are we?”

From annoyed to impressed to angry, Yeosang watches your face morph into each emotion, a dance of your eyebrows and a scrunch of your lips. He can’t believe he said it, and neither can you. 

“No,” your voice lowers, quieter now. “But if there was any chance of us fucking again, it’s gone.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicker down to your chest then, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty for it. If he doesn’t know when he’s going to see it again, then he might as well etch it to memory now.

“You know,” you start, eyes twinkling with mischief, a snag in your smile. “It’s funny you used that as an insult, of all things. Am I your mother.” 

Yeosang doesn’t respond, but his chest feels heavy. Like he already knows where this is headed.

You take a step forward, close enough that Yeosang can smell the lingering sweat on your skin. He can see the remnants, too, a gloss on the highest point of your cheekbones, over your brows. It melts into your perfect skin, skin you care for daily, every morning, every night. He’s watched you complete your routine enough times to know it was time-consuming and expensive; he knows each and every step, the ingredients in each product, how much they cost. 

“There was a time you used to call me something… similar,” you pop a brow, the snag in your grin widening to a smirk. “Remember?” Yeosang gives you a ghost of a nod, barely a twitch of his head. You cock your head, “Remind me, it seems to have slipped my mind. Weird.” 

Yeosang’s jaw clenches, embarrassment flaming in his cheeks. He can feel his Adam’s apple move as his throat bobs, like a lump of shame he can’t pass. Quietly, almost under his breath, he mumbles the word. The reminder.

“What was that?” your voice is playful, a sing-song tone. Like you’re eating up every fucking second of this. “Say it louder. With your chest, Yeosang.”

His eyes find the floor, his pale, bare feet a contrast to the hardwood. He says it quicker, louder, a one-syllable confession like he despised the curve of his lips as he said it, “Mommy.”

You smack your teeth, and your grin spreads from ear to ear. “Right, that’s it, can’t believe I forgot!”

Yeosang glares from under his brows, despising the rush of adrenaline he knows is coursing through you at the title on his tongue. A word he used to say proudly, more often than he should’ve, a word that used to push you past the finish line if he said it coated in a desperate whine. Right now, all it’s doing is feeding your already-huge ego.

“Are you finished?” Yeosang asks, and the question is honest. Without remnants of a snide tone, no snarky attitude, he’s over the humiliation ritual. If you were just going to stand here and tease him, you could leave. Even if every fiber of his being wants you to stay.

You shake your head before answering a smooth, “No.” Shifting your weight onto one leg, you ask again, “Do you remember when you used to call me that?”

Yeosang pops a brow, unsure of the correct answer. “When I was fucking you?”

You blow amusement through your nose. “You never fucked me, I fucked you.”

And maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the half of him that’s still in love with you. Some part of him stands a little straighter and responds, “So do it again.”

Your face scrunches for half a millisecond. Taking a half-step back, you ask, “What?”

“Do it again,” he says with his chest this time, taking a half-step forward, closing the distance again. He searches for the reason inside himself and he comes up with nothing. You came here to tell him to stop looking at you, even if you put yourself in his line of sight. You insulted him, his hair, his earrings, his appearance. You made fun of him for what he used to call you at his most vulnerable moments with your chest puffed, chin jutted upward, making you seem six feet tall. 

Is wanting you some kind of incurable fucking disease? Should he go to the goddamn doctor?

“Remind me why I used to call you that,” he leans down, his voice low, smooth. “Give me a reason to do it again.”

Possibly for the first time ever, you seem speechless. Eyes wide like saucers, he can hear your breath catch, an accidental sound between a gasp or spit getting stuck in your throat. You stutter, “N-no, I told you last time was the last time.”

“Then why’d you come here?” he’s too quick to ask, it spills out of him. “Where were you? Working out? On a run, trying to get all this pent-up shit out, when you know the only thing that works is me?”

Your heels come together, back rigid. Your eyes dance around his face, even the shake of your head stutters, like you were desperately trying to control the instinct driving you. He feels like he’s vibrating, electricity threading from his thighs to his fingertips that linger millimeters beside them, body begging to touch you so he could share the lightning.

“Admit it,” he whispers.

Your jaw clenches. “You can’t fucking bait me.”

“I’m not baiting you,” he quips. “I just know you.”

“Fuck you,” you bite, baring your pearly, white teeth.

Yeosang grins. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

You lunge for him. Not that there’s much space to clear, you nearly jump onto him, into him, his arms catching you underneath your thighs swiftly, holding you tight as your arms wrap around his neck. Your lips hit his and all he could taste was your anger, frustration, all pent up in your sickeningly perfect body, he can’t believe he’s tasting you again. He can’t believe he’s kissing you. 

He walks you to his bedroom himself. You don’t even process that you’re moving, he doesn’t break the kiss, he could walk around his apartment without a singular misstep in pitch black darkness. Smooth, effortless, he only breaks the kiss to lay you down gently on his bed.

Still perfectly made from this morning, thank god, you’d have a fit if it wasn’t. Another thing that's stuck. Meal-prep, hydration, shaving, his gym routine, making his bed… Yeosang is a man of practice.

“This is what you wanted,” you growl as soon as your back hits his comforter. “You wanted me here. On your bed.”

“You wanted me,” he pops a brow, words easy. “You came here for one reason, and one reason only.” 

Your jaw clenches, “Take my shorts off.” It sounds like your best attempt at coming off icy, but Yeosang hears the burnt edge of arousal, the impatience on your tongue. Your hips twitch against the bed, legs dangling in open air. 

Yeosang doesn’t listen. He watches you, taking his time with each sneaker, unlacing the bunny ears before throwing them to his floor. He barely waits to hear the sound of foam and rubber hitting the hardwood before his thumbs are tucking into your socks, sliding them down your smooth, strong ankles, taking his time rolling them off your feet. He doesn’t care where they land on his floor, he hopes it takes time to find them later. 

Your cheeks match your chest, both flushed and bleeding impatience, your upper half rising and lowering rapidly like you also couldn’t believe this was happening. Again. 

“Yeosang,” you say when he takes a moment to press a knee into the mattress. “My shorts. Now.” 

His palms find your knees for leverage as he leans down, eyes catching on the dampened spot on your shorts. A deepened, asymmetrical shape of teal, darker than your turquoise shorts, your matching sports bra. He swallows, mouth filling with saliva, he could feel his eyes fucking dilating and he knows you can see it, too. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, using might to pull them down your lower half. With the way they were painted onto your skin, the slight gleam of sweat still sparkling in his dim bedroom, the curves and muscle on your body…

And you have nothing on underneath. He nearly moans. 

“Fuck,” he utters under his breath. “So pretty.”

“Shut up, Yeosang,” you huff. “You’re taking too fucking long.”

He doesn’t know how you switched places. Swift movement had Yeosang on his back, your knees pinned to the mattress on either side of his head, and faced with the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, impulse has his forearms curling over your thighs, pulling you down onto his tongue.

Your pitched moan pierces his bedroom. You peel your sports bra over your chest once your hips start their rhythm on his tongue, fingers flying to your boobs, pinching your peaked nipples. He keeps his tongue poked out, eyelids fluttering, savoring the taste of your soaked folds that coat his tongue in candy.

He takes a moment to inhale, to bask in your scent; natural, mild, a little tang from sweat. Has he ever been this hungry in his life? Can he blame any of this on the weed anymore?

Your hips roll over his flexed tongue, head tipped backward, filling the air of his bedroom with a song of your pleasure, the bass-line the jingle of your bangles dancing down your wrist as your fingers grab for his hair. He can’t hear the music coming from his living room anymore, each one of his senses enveloped by you, and he’d gladly die right here, right now, his last meal being you.

“Yes,” you moan out, and the word is so full of sheer relief it makes Yeosang grip your thighs harder, makes him moan into your core. He focuses on licking over your clit, the rhythm only broken up by his lips swirling around the bundle of nerves, sucking without making it overwhelming, too much too quickly. A pace you love, the pressure he knows pushes you further down the line, Yeosang’s only goal is getting you over it. 

You tilt your hips up, clit grazing the tip of his nose, and the way your abdomen flexes has his own hips bucking upward. An abrupt jerk of movement you feel, you know is happening, even if it’s behind you.

Eyes low-lidded, glazed over, you take a peek over your shoulder before asking, “You’re getting off on this?” Yeosang can’t answer with a mouth full of you. You try to laugh, but you suck in a sharp intake of air as his teeth ghost your clit. “You want to be used. Does anyone know what a bitch you are? That you get off on just tasting me?”

Yeosang moans into your center, hips bucking again.

“I’m sure they don’t.” Your eyebrows are tied together as you reach one arm behind you, palm landing on Yeosang’s abdomen for leverage, using the strength of him to give free movement to your hips. You grind yourself onto his mouth harder, faster, a quicker rhythm as you say, “Do they know about me? Or did you get rid of our history when you got rid of your own?”

His fingers sear your thighs, knuckles bone-white. You croak out a whine, “You’d never be this pliant for anyone else. No one else can make you feel this way without even fucking touching you.”

Yeosang moans his agreement, tongue plunging into your entrance, he hopes it’s answer enough. Your head falls back, chest heaving, free hand squeezing your chest, “Shit, I’m close.”

He’s never felt so motivated before. Nodding his head in rhythm with your hips bucking over his mouth, he keeps himself focused, brows furrowed and brain clear. When your moans grow in pitch, when your hips stutter, he keeps your pace fixed by his grip on your thighs. He keeps his tongue flexed, focused on rolling over your clit, using the same pressure, the same speed, never once faltering.

Then you’re crying out, hips seizing, body rolling, the muscles in your stomach clenching and unclenching; but never once do you say his name. Never once do you praise him for being the one to push you over the finish line, to bring you to orgasm.

Sitting back, nearly putting all your weight on his chest, it’s a comfort to him, even if you already look disappointed in the fact that you let this happen again. He can see your heavy breath, upper body expanding, caving in, lips parted and brows upturned ever so slightly. You take a moment to stare at him, to put the pieces together.

“Give me a shirt to go home in,” is all you say before climbing off of him like he was a fucking ride at an amusement park.

Yeosang sits up on his elbows, his own chest heaving, covered in slick from the bridge of his nose to his chin. He licks his lips, whatever skin his tongue can reach, just to savor the taste.

You’re pulling your bra over your chest, grabbing your shorts from his hardwood floor. “Are they in the same drawer?” You ask, not even looking at him. Then you’re before his dresser, opening his tee shirt drawer, grabbing a random white one, pulling it over your head.

It swallows you, down to mid-thigh. Yeosang’s head feels fuzzy, he searches for words inside of himself, he can’t find any. You turn to him, face tight, eyes blown, pupils dilated enough to swallow the color.

“This was the last time, Yeosang,” you say, but you don’t look like you mean it. “I mean it.”

All he can do is grin. He can smell the lie from where he lays.

“You guys don’t have to come.”

Aven and Jongho flanked him, his two best friends, the only two to understand Yeosang down to atoms and particles. Other than you, he supposed; but that was neither here nor there, and he knows you shouldn’t be on his mind, anyway.

“I want to hear your new song,” Aven, on his right, walks in-step with him, while Jongho trails just a step behind. 

The latter adds, “This is the only day this week I have off from practice.”

Yeosang’s giddy. He was just being nice, saying they don’t have to come, but the truth is that he’s elated that his friends are coming to his band practice with him. Really, he has plenty of things to be happy about.

You’ve shared his bed twice since the last time. The first time, you’d come over under the guise of giving him his shirt back, just to leave in a different one. The second time, you didn’t have much of an excuse. You’d walked inside his apartment like you owned it, then fucked Yeosang like you owned him. And, in a sense, he supposed you did. 

The air feels warmer, the sun feels brighter, the grass looks as green as his hair. Pink and orange flowers blooming on trees wafted sweet-smelling air straight into his nose, as if a reminder to appreciate all that he came across, that everything was okay and will be okay. His life is going back to normal, even if he’d uprooted all of it.

“We have three original songs for our gig at Eonian in two weeks,” Yeosang says, turning the corner that Jay’s house sat on, an older two-story home on the corner, just outside of campus. An easy walk from his apartment, Aven’s apartment, Jongho’s apartment. “The rest are covers.”

Yeosang can hear Jisung shredding, Jongseob on the drums, even from around the corner. Jay’s voice becomes clearer the closer they get, a rough, heavy tone; perfect for the punk genre of music they make, perform.

The garage door was wide open, the inside refurbished into a make-shift studio. Not really. It was the same worn-down garage that came with the home, posters on the walls, the same shelves sitting at the far corner holding mechanic supplies and tools of the sort. Jongseob’s drum set sat at the center of the room, mic stands and amps scattered around the space, Jay’s garage was a cookie-cutter neighborhood’s worst nightmare.

The music died out when the three men caught Yeosang’s head of green hair rounding the corner. Shouts of about damn time, finally, and get in here all met his ears at once, making him flinch. 

“I’m sorry!” Yeosang threw his arms up in defense, then threw a thumb pointing behind him. “I had to stop and get these two.”

Jisung’s cheeks went pink at the sight of Aven. “Oh– oh. Hi, guys.”

Yeosang rolled his eyes, pulling on the strap of the nylon guitar bag to get it over his head. Jisung wore a baseball cap on his head, the hood of his zip-up laid on top, his cheeks and white smile the only things visible in the shadows of his hood. Fender strapped around his front, his fingers holding the neck, his body language morphed to something smaller. He’s always had a crush on Aven, and Aven’s always allowed him to.

“Hi, Hanji,” her head tilted, lashes fluttering.

“Hey,” Jongho smacked her arm. A warning.

Yeosang snorted. He pulled his bass from the bag, slinging the strap over his head, and played a few chords just to check the tuning as he made his way toward his spot, just beside Jay, opposite of Jisung.

Jay, lead guitarist and lead singer, took a step forward as Yeosang plugged the chord of the amp into his bass. “You’re happy today.”

Short, cropped hair, midnight-colored and gelled into spikes, his outfit was everything punk. Yeosang lifted a brow, “Yeah? It’s nice out.”

“It’s nice out everyday,” Jay slims his eyes and Yeosang feels his stomach tumble. Fuck Jay for knowing him so well already. “What’s new?”

“You have that freshly-fucked look about you,” Jongseob gleams from behind his drumset. Sitting centered behind the toms, cymbals surrounding him, he twirls a stick in one hand, his blonde hair tied up and braided into an upstyle that made him look feminine. The youngest, a freshman, but he was the fan favorite.

Yeosang’s laugh is nervous, he can’t help it. “What? No.”

Everyone’s face falls as they land on Yeosang. From Jongseob, who looked somewhat surprised, to Jongho standing just over the lifted line of the garage entrance, silence had fallen over the open space like a weighted blanket.

Jongho was the one to interject, “You’re lying and nervous.”

“Holy shit,” Aven mumbles under her breath, eyes sparkling with discovery. “It’s her.”

“No,” Jisung stands a little straighter, eyes going wide. “Yeosang, no.”

Yeosang’s heart is in his asshole. He starts with a rebuttal, shaking his head rapidly, “No it’s not, no it’s not. I don’t know what you guys are talking about.”

“Do you not remember what state you were in when you joined the band?” Jay asks, face angled in disappointment. “You’re like a fucking girl, going back to a shitty ex. I’ve been the shitty ex that girls have gone back to, Yeo, and it doesn’t fuckin’ end well.”

“Okay, well, you suck,” Yeosang’s lips form a line. “We’re seeing each other again, big deal.”

He knew you were not seeing each other again. He knew that it wasn’t anything more than sex.

Yeosang catches Aven throwing a hand over her mouth from the corner of the garage, he sees Jongho shaking his head slowly. But it’s Jongseob who asks, “I thought she was fucking Jaemin now?”

“Jaemin doesn’t fuck her like I do.” Yeosang quips, catching himself smiling, giddy as hell. But his face falls immediately when he takes in the five pairs of eyes on him, all staring with heavy disappointment. Clear distaste. 

“Has she stayed over?” Jongho asks, arms crossed over his chest. Long shorts, a black tee tucked in, hair styled over his forehead, he wore the silent accusation in the thin line of his lips. Yeosang swallows. Shaking his head, he tries not to let the shame show in his eyes. Jongho smacks his teeth, “I thought so.”

Yeosang can feel the heat on his cheeks. “It’s not a big deal–”

“She hurt you,” Aven continues, “because you pursued your passion. Do you really want to be with someone like that? Who wants to be with you for looks, the image it portrays, instead of liking you for you?”

Yeosang can feel the frustration bubbling up inside him, overflowing before he has the chance to close the lid. “Are you in any place to give me shit? You’ve been fucking the same guy for four months, and he won’t even–”

Jongho cuts him clean off, “Do not finish that sentence.”

Yeosang didn’t even realize that he stepped forward, that his chest was heaving. For years they’ve bickered like siblings, saying the truth even when it hurts. Yeosang nods at Jongho, taking a steadying pause, silently thanking him for interrupting before he said something he’d regret. Wooyoung was the touchiest subject of them all for Aven, four months of back-and-forth, a relationship hidden in the shadows. He supposed he couldn’t give her shit, anymore, either.

“We just care about you,” Jay admits from beside him, the center of the makeshift-garage-stage. “And we don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Yeosang’s jaw ticks. “I know what I’m doing.”

He can feel the phantom stretch of his nose growing an inch longer. The lie burns. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

Yeosang hears his door open, then close. He doesn’t even look, he knows it’s you, no one else would be barging into his apartment after the sun goes down, it’s the entire reason he left his front door open. 

Tuning his bass on the couch, he’s sitting hunched over it, eyes on the heads, thumb on a string. He hears you come closer, stopping on the other side of his coffee table, he’s willing to bet a thousand dollars you have your hands on your hips, weight beared on one side of your body.

When he looks up, he makes a mental note that he owes himself a thousand dollars. Standing in his hoodie, it comes down to mid-thigh, swallowing the shorts he wasn’t completely sure you were wearing. He blinks, you’re staring. Hard. 

“What, you don’t care that I’m here?” You finally bark out, arms crossing over your chest. “I could have been, like, a murderer or something.”

“I knew it was you,” Yeosang answers, then brings his attention back to the instrument on his lap, playing a chord. His top lip lifts, he tweaks the head. “I know your footsteps.”

There’s a pause before you kick your shoes off, walking towards his kitchen. He eyes your flip flops sprawled across the rug beneath his coffee table, making yourself at home, when this wasn’t your home. At one time you’d treated his apartment just like this, walking in unannounced, leaving your shit wherever because you could, because you shared just as much of Yeosang’s space as he did.

He looks over his shoulder, watching your head of hair bop around his kitchen, silently. After a moment, you hold up a laptop charger and turn to him. “Who’s charger is this? It’s not your laptop charger.”

His lips flatten, a sigh threatening to escape. “It’s Aven’s, she was here earlier with Jongho, studying.”

Your brows raise a millimeter. “Aven’s,” you repeat. “They were here studying.”

“Here we go,” he says under his breath. 

You cross the kitchen, back into his living room, eyebrows tied together as you make your stand beside the couch. “She’s here often, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Yeosang says, voice flat. “Just like she always has.”

Your eye twitches. “And she just leaves things here, often?”

“No, she has a lot going on right now.”

Your face blows into surprise, disgust. “Oh, and now you’re making excuses for her.”

“She’s literally dating Mingi,” Yeosang argues, hating the taste of the lie on his tongue. “Why is this a big deal?”

“It’s not,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance. You walk back to the kitchen, putting the laptop charger back where you found it, white chord glowing atop the charcoal granite. You used a little more force in dropping it than necessary. You keep your voice steady as you say, “Jaemin asked me to go get drinks tomorrow after his game.”

He can hear the control you’re reaching for as the words leave your lips. He asks, “Yeah? You going?”

He wasn’t sure what you were doing in his kitchen now. He plays another chord, and it sounds smooth. “I think so,” you respond. “Probably.”

Yeosang doesn’t know what kind of strength he has in his soul that made him respond, “Good, you should go.”

There’s a pause, he doesn’t hear your bare feet moving across the tiled floor of his kitchen. His fingers pick at the strings, strumming a small, melodic, funky rhythm. Then he hears your feet slapping against wood as you trudge into the living room, beside his couch again, face twisted up in confusion. “You don’t care if I get drinks with Jaemin?”

“Why should I?” Yeosang asks. You wouldn’t be telling him if you were actually going, you wouldn’t be telling him if Jaemin had actually asked you, but his heart is below the hem of his shorts, anyway. “You’re not my girlfriend, are you?”

“No,” you answer simply, happily, almost. Yeosang plays another beat, another strum of chords, his finger catching the wrong strong, the entire melody clashing. He didn’t realize his fingers had started shaking. You grin, “I knew it.”

Yeosang’s head snaps to the side, “Knew what?”

“You’re jealous.” You’re smirking, arms crossed, accomplished.

All five of Yeosang’s fingers point toward the kitchen, “You just flipped shit over a laptop charger.”

“Because it’s hers!” You argue, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You have a girl over here every other day, leaving her shit here, her hair-ties, her charger. What’s next, her clothes? Tampons in your bathroom?”

“It’s Aven,” Yeosang reiterates, like the mention of her name was enough explanation. “She’s been my best friend for years, you know this.” You blink at him, and his lips curve in a grin. “You’re jealous.”

“Why the fuck would I be jealous?” you spit out, arms uncurling from where they sat twisted over your chest. “I’m the one that’s fucking you.”

Yeosang can’t help but laugh. Head tipping back, bass and body slumping into the couch cushions, his laugh is genuine, straight from his belly. “You–” he tries to get out, head turning to the side, laughter still barreling out of him. “You tried to make me jealous with Jaemin, the fucking kicker.”

Your body feels hot. You’re positive your face is flushed, arms crossing right back over your chest again, you could stomp your fucking foot in irritation. “You’re so fucking aggravating, Yeosang.”

“Yet you’re here,” he responds, his laughter dying down to a breathy giggle. “Look at where you’re standing.”

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, body ignited, growing hotter by the second. Just his stare, chocolate eyes, long lashes, knowing they were fixed on you made you feel two feet tall. You don’t answer, not as he pulls his bass off his body, setting it down beside him on the floor, the neck leaning against the couch. You can hear your heartbeat, feel the heat on your skin, sweat prickling beneath your hoodie. His hoodie.

“We’re not dating,” you finally announce. “We aren’t exclusive.”

“I know,” he nods once. “Which means you’re free to go do whatever with the kicker.”

You hate the way he mocks him, the way he says kicker like it’s an insult– he doesn’t even play anymore. Jaemin’s nice; a little stupid, he definitely doesn’t let you rough him up, and he certainly doesn’t know any of the kinks you keep buried, revealed to Yeosang and Yeosang only.

“I do,” you lie. “And I’ll continue to. Just wanted to make sure you were aware.”

Yeosang sits up a little straighter. “Aware of what? The possibility of getting an STD?”

Irritation only makes you burn hotter. “He’s clean, Yeosang, and so am I.”

“You sure?” his brows lift. He’s taunting you. “When’s the last time you got tested?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked me that,” you pull your hands out from your sleeves to count on your fingers, “a few weeks ago, before you fucked me raw, came inside me, let me sit on your face? Or how about when I had your cock down my throat? Shouldn’t you have wondered before that?”

He shrugs, a small thing. “Forgive me for having trust in you.”

“Trust,” the word makes you laugh. “Because there’s so much trust in what we have.”

Yeosang stands, his bulky build swallowing you, height towering over you. You can’t believe your body forced you to swallow.

“We don’t have anything,” he uses emphasis on the last word. “As per your choice. You come here to fuck, blow off steam, you come here to get what no one else can give you. You tell me that only you can make me feel this way, but what about you? Who else is fulfilling every little thing your nasty fuckin’ mind gets off on?”

Your breath catches. He continues, “And you want me angry over Jaemin? Did you forget I know him, and know him well? That I was on the same team as him? Lived in the same house as him?” You don’t answer, eyes widening, you can feel your pupils dancing below your lids, trying to gauge his next move. “You don’t think I know that he drinks whiskey like it’s water, and can barely get it up half the time? That when you fucked him—which I’m sure was, what, once or twice?—he busted after three strokes and was already asleep by the time he rolled off you.”

You can feel your heart beating, an unsteady thrum in your chest. “You’re wrong, Yeosang.”

He’s right.

“Does he let you call him names?” He asks. You notice that his green hair has faded a little, framing his sculpted, flushed cheeks. His birthmark seemed brighter, more opaque, a spot you’ve kissed a million times, it beckoned you to do it again. “Does he let you slap him? Does he let you choke him? Does he call you mommy?”

You gasp. It’s small, but it’s clear, slicing through the air between your faces. Every ounce of you wishes you could suck it back in, retract it, feign that his words were doing nothing to you. It would be useless, anyhow, he knows you down to the bone, keeping any sort of emotion from him proved futile time and time again.

“Answer me,” Yeosang urges, and there’s nothing in his voice that’s calm. The subdued, submissive man you’ve spent countless hours with is nowhere to be seen. The muted hum of adrenaline swimming through your body zaps at the base of your spine, like it’d been woken up, branching off to every nerve ending.

“No,” you whisper, hating that you’re admitting it, but what choice was there? “He doesn’t.”

“I know,” Yeosang grins. There’s no warmth in it, it’s sly, mocking. Like all of that was just to get you to say it. “Remember that, the next time you want to make me jealous of the goddamn kicker.”

His chest is flushed pink beneath the white tank he wore. Heaving, rising rapidly, lowering just enough to suck more air in. He’s pissed, and you don’t know why the sight is going straight to the throb in your panties. Never once has Yeosang been dominant, never once has he been mad at you, never once has Yeosang not been the submissive man you trained.

“When he does fuck me,” you start, and you genuinely have no idea where you’re going with it. “He’s… rough. He does to me what I do to you.”

Lies. You’re lying through your fucking teeth. To anyone else, Yeosang would seem unbothered. But you see the flash in his eyes, the deepening of chocolate to coal, how his lips peeled back from his teeth ever so slightly. 

“And I like it,” you breathe. “I like it better.”

There’s a semblance of amusement in the curve of his brow. “Yeah?”

You nod, “He’s better than you. Bigger than you, too.”

The snag in Yeosang’s grin, you’ve never seen before. Mischievous, like he was already planning the million-and-one ways he’d break you apart. It makes your toes curl into the hardwood beneath your feet, your fingers twitch, your heart double in speed. Excitement, thrill, that’s what was passing through the air between you, a stand-off of sorts.

Do it, you think, hoping, praying he can hear you. Do it, Yeosang.

And he does. 

His lips find yours in a hasty crash, his right hand reaching for your throat. Unsteady, uncontrolled movements, not entirely full of confidence but not insecure, either. You moan into it, the sound desperate and relieving all at once, and his fingers tighten. Pressing against the sides of your neck, weight on your veins, your eyes flutter beneath your lids, knees trembling. 

“This what you want?” He asks into your mouth, breath heavy, panting like he’s been waiting for this. 

Your knee hooks over his hip, “Yes, Yeo, yesyesyes.”

His hand leaves your throat, grabbing at the leg you threw over his body, using just that one fucking hand under your thigh to lift you off the floor. You answer with your other leg, he catches it swiftly, moving your bodies backward, toward his bedroom. Never breaking the kiss, your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging at his roots with enough force that he hisses into your mouth.

He throws you back on the bed instead of laying you down delicately, and as your back hits the mattress, your eyes peel open to catch the sight of him. Pupils dilated, cheeks splotched, forehead kissed with moisture, he looked at you with such hunger it made your back arch off the fucking bed.

“Teasing me,” he mutters, and you think he’s talking more to himself than to you as he climbs over your frame. “Dangling him right in front of my fucking face like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“Yeah?” you push his hair off his face, throwing your legs over his muscled thighs. “What are you gonna do about it, then?”

He studies you for a cool, calm second before moving. Sitting back on his calves, he pulls your body flush to him, then he flips you over in one swift movement. With a yelp, you’re on your stomach, eyes wide and legs parted, hips lifted off the mattress.

“What can you take?” He asks, and instinctively, you weren’t sure if it was rhetorical. “What’s he do when he fucks you rough?”

Without you answering, he pushes the back of your hoodie up, fingers digging in the elastic of your shorts, pulling them over your ass. You whimper, pushing yourself up by your knees to help him get them off you. 

Elastic rolled around your thighs, he lands a harsh smack to your ass. You barely get a cry out before he’s repeating himself, “I asked you a question.”

“Fuck,” is all you can get out, nails curling into the duvet beneath you. “H-he fucks– he fucks me hard.”

You don’t have time to wonder if he’s buying the bullshit you’re spewing, not when he gets your shorts down to your knees, then down and off your ankles. Two strong, callused hands lift you by the hips, hiking you upward until you’re on your knees. 

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he hisses from behind you, painting a finger through your folds. A moan forces itself through your lips at the stimulation, thighs already shaking. Did he know you were lying from the jump? Was he doing it anyway?

“‘m not lying,” you whimper in response, knees spreading further, needing more. 

“If you wanted me rough, you could have just asked.” You can hear the ruffle of his shorts sliding down his thighs, the elastic of his briefs snapping against his skin. Then you feel his length, his tip, sliding against your folds, spreading the slick that’s already gathered. “Aren’t we past the point of pretending I wouldn’t do anything for you?”

The question lights you up like a Christmas tree, but sends a pit of something other to your gut simultaneously. You weren’t sure how to break down the feeling, you didn’t have the brain power to try, not when his tip was prodding at your entrance without prep, without stretch, without anything. 

“Yeosang!” You squeal, turning your head to the side, trying to catch even a glimpse of green over your shoulder. But then he’s pushing in, and the feeling sucks all the air from your chest, forcing your eyes to squeeze shut. 

“Baiting me,” he gruffs out, like he was talking through his teeth. “Telling me Jaemin’s bigger than me when I’ve seen his fucking cock. We lived together. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“N-no,” you whine, head in the clouds, somewhere else entirely. His hips snap against yours, a rough, nasty pace; sliding over the front side of your walls, massaging you deliciously, all you can do is shake with pleasure. 

“You talk so much shit, run your fucking mouth,” he says, fucking into you like he was strumming along to a beat. “What happened to you didn’t fuck me, I fucked you? Huh? Look who’s getting fucked now.”

You think you might be crying, face hot, mouth pried open. Your fingers lose their grip on the duvet, body completely at Yeosang’s mercy, to his hips that snap against yours brutally, relentlessly.

“Quiet now?” He asks, then his thrusts stop completely. His hands grab for your arms, pulling you backward, up toward him. He grabs your hoodie by the hem, pulling it over your head, throwing it elsewhere; then one hand splays across your stomach, the other up at your throat, and he fucks into you again like he never stopped. “Did I break the fucking bitch inside you?”

Your body folds. Or tries to, a loud, uncensored cry ripping from your throat. He holds you steady, two hands keeping your back pressed to his chest, his mouth on your ear.

“You liked that, huh?” He asks, amusement playing in his tone. “Good to know, for the next time you want to make fun of me because I call you mommy, I’ll remind you of today. Of tonight.”

“Yeosang,” you whimper, eyelids fluttering again, your hands searching for his, clasped around your body. Tugging, pulling at them, nails clawing into him, he doesn’t budge. 

“Mm,” he moans into your ear. “I don’t think so. Should I make you call me daddy? Call me sir?”

Your head tips back, falling limp against his chest, the pocket of skin between his pec and his shoulder. “Yeosang.”

His hips switch into a nasty grind, cock dragging against your walls perfectly, his hand drops from over your stomach to between your thighs. Two fingers rub at your clit at the same pace his cock fucks into you, and you nearly fold again.

“Shit!” you gasp out, “shit, shit, shit.”

“Ask me,” he says from behind you, voice clear like you were the only one losing your mind. Pressure looms, pleasure building steadily with each circle he traces. “Ask me if you can cum.”

You think you might have whiplash. It makes sense, you think, in all the months you’ve dommed him, all the times you’ve said nasty shit, for him to pocket every single movement, every single sentence.

You whimper, “Please.”

He grunts. “Ask. Me.”

“Please, Yeosang,” you urge, eyes finally cracking open. And thank god you did, because the sight before you threatens to rip the breath from your lungs all over again. Green hair stuck to his forehead, bleeding down his cheeks, over the red mark beside his eye. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and crazed; you nearly cum on the spot. Instead, you ask, “Can I cum? Please?”

He kisses you, forgoing a response, forcing you to hold it. His tongue slides into your mouth, teeth clashing against yours, so messy and hot you find yourself teetering scarily on the edge, thinking of anything to delay the inevitable. 

“No,” he says into your mouth, the word final.

Despair seems like a tangible thing. A sob cracks from your throat as he lifts his fingers from your clit, sliding out of you, and pushing you face-first onto the mattress. Your body might be jerking, twitching, twisting– you weren’t exactly sure, because too quickly his hands hook under your legs again, flipping you onto your back. 

“Denial sucks, doesn’t it?” he asks, grin wide. You wished you had the brainwidth to wonder how he was so good at this, where this experience came from. The easiest answer would be from you. He pushes your knees up to your chest, settling between them, callused palm leaving your skin only to line himself up with your entrance.

Pushing in smoothly, he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, muffling his moan of pleasure. You reach for him, his face, his shoulders, his hair, and he gives you all three as he leans down, elbows bracketing your head. His lips find yours, tongue and teeth and spit, another messy conjoining with the slick sounds of his hips hitting the backs of your thighs. 

“Want you to cum, just like this,” he says, voice quiet, barely more than a ragged breath. His bottom lip stays on yours, sharing breath, sharing space. And for a moment, staring into his eyes, you’re scared.

It’d be easy to get addicted to this, you think. To him, all over again. When you were together, it was addiction; it was daily, sharing spit, sharing space, him inside you like that was his first home, then the apartment surrounding you. With Jaemin, with anyone else, on the field, you performed. You acted, you were someone other than yourself, living outside of your skin.

You’ve never had to perform with Yeosang. Other than the acts you enjoy putting on, the displays of dominance– submission now, too. It was natural, fitting, like water and ice, matchstick and flame. Running back and captain of the cheerleading team.

Staring into his eyes, panting into his mouth, clenching around him as euphoria swallows you whole, there’s a part of you that damns him for quitting football. For stretching the gap between you, ruining routine, forcing you into having feelings for a fucking bassist of a garage band.

He had everything. He had it all. He had a future, he had stability, he had routine– he had you. 

And he ruined all of it. For what? 

He kisses you as he empties himself inside you, spit warming your tongue, filling the space where your breath had dried it. You push the feelings down, the wave of dread, the feeling of everything crumbling around you. You let his weight on your chest be a comfort, the smell of him, a little weedy, sweaty and Yeosang. 

There was no one else on the planet who understood you like him. There was no one else who could satisfy you like him. There was no one else who could handle everything that you are.

The thought haunts you, that he might accept you for all of it. Pom-poms, glitter, bi-weekly manicures, a nasty personality and a sex drive that challenged a virgin’s. He might even like the parts of you that you consider a nuisance, the parts that even you can’t comprehend.

Would anyone else pay so much attention? Would anyone else learn you down to what’s at your core?

“Why are you crying?” he asks, face warped into confusion, concern.

You blink. Once, twice before your hands are flying to your face, wiping at your tears. “Subdrop, maybe,” you laugh a little, nervous. Embarrassed. “Happens sometimes. Never been on this side of it before.”

He moves your hair out of your face, swiping his thumb under your eye. He shakes his head once, “Can I get you anything? Water? Food? A shower? Clothes?” 

“Jesus, Yeosang,” you laugh again, the sound fully forced out of your chest as you push him off you. Sitting up, you can feel the rumbling of emotion in your chest. You push it down, down, down. “I’m fine.”

He stares at you for a long second, and you shudder under the weight of it. Moving, your legs aching, you swing them over the edge of the bed, running a hand through your hair. Sheepishly, you look over your shoulder, “Maybe water?”

“Lay with me,” he says, naked and flushed, chest still heaving. Eyes softer now, less terrified, a comfort. “Five minutes.”

This wasn’t right. Usually it was you offering comfort, you’ve never been the one having the come-down after a release of emotion. Of control. 

You swallowed, face heating. But you nodded, and then laid back down.

And as his body engulfed you with sticky, sweaty heat, it terrified you that there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

He didn’t mean to pass you. 

Not really. 

But on the way to the Arts Building, if he took the long way, especially if he really needed to get his steps in… it’s for his stamina, he swears, to keep his lungs strong onstage. That's the only reason he passed the field, rounding the corner of the one-hundred-twenty yard turf. It just so happened that he passed by your side, catching a glimpse of your black, tiny shorts, your black sports bra, white Nfinity sneakers on your feet. 

Hands on your hips at the top of the formation, stood opposite of the rest of the team, your team, nodding your head with each beat of the actually kinda sick song. Heavy bass, guitar riffs, vocals dim and monotone. Not a competition mix, then. 

He hears your voice yell over the turf, bold and dominant, a captain’s voice. “Five, six, seven, eight. Tight! Tight, strong, clean. Get it right!”

Yeosang pauses for a second, his own head nodding along to the beat, watching the twenty-something girls with their hands balled in fists burst into quick, clean movements. Over their heads in a V, hands on their hips, knees bent as they damn near glide into their next formation, fluid with the song. 

He kicks his feet into motion as you bark out another order, a girl’s name. He’s lucky he played football instead of being a cheerleader, he thinks, he doesn’t know if he’d survive you as his captain.

But it’s sexy nonetheless, seeing you in your element, guiding, controlling, watching with a calculating eye, picking out mistakes as soon as you see them. A perfectionist, someone who thinks good isn’t good enough, a captain who cares about her team, how they’re perceived. How they rank. 

You don’t see him, thank god. But that means he still has to pass his team—his old team—and he wonders if it was worth it to catch a glimpse of your boobs tucked into your bra or your ass peeking out of the legs of your bloomers. 

He snorts to himself. Of course it was.

Eyes trickling down to the field, opposite of where you practice, he recalls all the time he’s spent on the turf. Drills, sprints, positional work, formations, it’s weird looking down to the green, the guys on it, and feeling nothing. He could cling to nostalgia all he wanted, the feeling he had when he scored, when he won a big game for his team. 

But he didn’t miss being down there. He didn’t miss those guys at all. And he feels guilty for it, because they never did anything bad to him.

He spots Mingi, the quarterback, his hair dark, long and sweaty, visible without a helmet on. He’s dancing on his cleat-covered toes, football between his gloved palms, watching Haechan run down the field, waiting to throw the ball. He can remember the days when it was himself sprinting down the field, adrenaline pushing his legs harder, faster, readying himself for Mingi’s no-doubt perfect pass. 

His mind wanders, thinking of Aven, thinking of those two, together. Part of Yeosang worries that she’ll get hurt in her plan to hurt Wooyoung, that Mingi would crack the last bits of her that still wanted to try, that still had hope of a relationship, of love. 

He shakes his head, ridding himself of the thoughts. If anything, Aven will eat him alive. 

His ears catch onto a particularly loud yell, and his head snaps backward, watching as you saunter out on the turf, fingers pointing, voice lashing. He laughs to himself as he watches you correct someone’s form, physically fixing her arms into place, throwing your hands over hers to strengthen her fists. 

Yeah, he wouldn’t survive you as his captain. Thank god he played football. 

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he dials Jay, wondering if the younger man was in class, or home. With a seven-second long conversation, he turned on his heel, and headed home to grab his bass, instead. 

Twenty minutes before he ended up in Jay’s garage, he was thankful his lead singer didn’t press him about the reason he was there. Jay didn’t question Yeosang at all, the two understood each other differently than the other two– what music meant, how it shaped a person. Jisung and Jongseob were in class, leaving Yeosang and Jay standing on opposite sides of the garage, their instruments plugged in, and in complete verbal silence, they played. 

Finding each other’s melodies, adapting when the other switched, trying to keep in-tune with one another, it was a game. A challenge. A fun one, Yeosang quickly realized, sweat kissing his brow, his tongue poking out between his lips in focus, listening to Jay while simultaneously moving his own fingers, slapping his bass to the tune of the younger man’s electric guitar. 

This is what Yeosang lived for. Music has always been vital; morning workouts, evening workouts, a playlist he had plenty of songs forced into ringing through the speakers during practices. When he was younger, his parents had music playing almost all the time. He woke up to soft rock, ate lunch to metal, played in his backyard to pop, ate dinner to jazz, fell asleep to classical.

He first picked up an acoustic guitar when he was eight. His first song might have been Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but as soon as he learned the chords, the strings, how to move his fingers along a fretboard, it was over. Yeosang came home from school and picked up his guitar like it was the only thing he cared about— the only thing he lived for. 

And for a long, long time, it was. The first time he picked up a bass he was twelve. Different from guitar, the neck was longer, the strings were thicker, Yeosang quickly became obsessed with how if you aren’t listening, you can’t pin-point where the bass is in a song. But if you really listen, if you look for it, you’ll know that bass is vital. 

Rhythmic precision, in-sync with the beat of the drums, the sounds coming from a bass guitar are low, but not any quieter. A song without bass is hollow, depthless. For whatever reason, Yeosang became infatuated with the idea, with the fact that if he played bass, if he mastered it, he’d be as vital as the instrument.

Then he learned he was really good at catching a football, and at that point Yeosang had so many hobbies he still to this day wonders how he made time for them all. Keeping up with guitar, with bass, and with football was a lot easier when he was twelve than when he was seventeen, getting scouted for college. Long talks with his guidance counselors, with his parents, and Yeosang knew that football was his choice. It’d put him through on a scholarship, and he could still play, he could still shred, but football was his top priority.

And for the first two years, he loved it. Life was easy— he lived in the football house, he had friends, his team, a shared routine with all of them, he’d found a family. He spent countless hours in his bedroom on the second floor, playing for no one. He’d bring his bass downstairs during parties, play it like it was his hidden party trick. No one knew what his bass meant to him, what music meant to him. He had Jongho and Aven for that, the two people he fully confided in, that knew the feelings he kept in the small corner of his conscience. For those first two years, that was enough.

The end of his sophomore year, when he met the younger man beside him, Jay had heard through the grapevine that Yeosang played bass, and approached him in his lecture hall looking for a bassist for his band. Jisung, Jongseob, two younger guys he didn’t know at all, Yeosang almost laughed in his face, almost asked Jay if he knew who he was. 

When he met you, for those first few weeks, everything in his life cracked open. He started playing more, he became addicted to it all over again, the weight of mahogany on his lap, strapped over his shoulder. Slapping his callused fingertips on strings and being mesmerized with the sounds that it made, he played often, any moment he could find, with you always at the forefront of his mind. He cared less about football, only that you were on the other side of the field, or on the sideline. He didn’t really care about his teammates, was it so terrible that the only weight they held for him was surface-level friendship? He started focusing on the things that mattered, whatever brought him joy.

You, and his bass. Jongho and Aven, too, when they weren’t a pain in his ass.

It was hours now that he’d spent in Jay’s garage, but thankfully, Jay didn’t bring you up once. As if the younger man knew Yeosang was plunging balls-deep in his own mind, and didn’t want to bring it to the surface. They talked about their show instead, in a week and a half, at the bar they frequented on Fourth Avenue, just outside of campus. It wasn’t their first show at the dingy dive, but they had more original songs now then they did last time they performed there, and pressure was a weight he gladly bore. 

“I have an idea,” Yeosang told Jay, the pair in beach chairs on his driveway now. A pizza sat on a folding table between them, two brown bottles of beer on the cement beside their chairs. 

Jay popped a brow, “Yeah?”

“A song to cover,” Yeosang says, reaching down to grab his beer bottle, bringing it up to his lips. Swallowing, flushing down the pizza, he continues, “For the show at Eonian.” 

“The show is in like, a week.” Jay shook his head. “Fuck no.” 

“Come on,” Yeosang leaned forward in his beach chair. “Do you trust me?” 

“Fine, I’ll bite.” Jay says, reaching for his beer. Bringing it up to his mouth, his bottom lip touching the rim, he asks, “What song is it?” 

Yeosang’s lips pursed. “I don’t know. Yet.” 

“You don’t know?”

“I just heard it,” Yeosang explains, cheeks flushing pink. This is what he gets for speaking without thinking. “I’ll find out tonight, play it for you tomorrow.”

“I don’t doubt that, you fuckin’ weirdo,” Jay laughs to himself. “It creeps me out when you do that, learn a song just by listening to it.” 

Yeosang shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.

When he gets back to his apartment, immediately he's on his couch, sitting over his bass, on the couch, trying to play the melody from memory. He thinks he has one section down, maybe, possibly, by the time you’re bursting through his apartment, right on-time.

His front door slams behind you. You’re still half-dressed, but at least you had a shirt on now. Even if it was his, and the bottom hem was tucked up into the band of your sports bra, showing off the stretch of skin from your upper abdomen down to the waistband of your shorts. 

Your hair was still tied up, off your face, white sneakers still on your feet. Fresh off the field, then. “I’m irritated.”

Fresh off the field and pissed. Yeosang sits a little further back on the couch, readjusting himself, waiting for the explanation. 

“Those girls have no fucking respect,” you throw your wristlet onto his coffee table, arms crossing over your chest.

“Karina?” Yeosang asks, remembering when you were appointed captain at the end of the previous captain’s, Jihyo’s, reign. Karina is the only one on your team who never accepted that you were captain, and not herself. 

“Karina and her evil fucking minion, Giselle,” you snap, eyes big and raging. “I think they’re doing it on purpose. Either to get me to step down or get my rank removed, but the joke’s on them, because neither is going to fucking happen.” 

 Walking from one side of his rug to the other, you keep going. “We’re doing a pep rally next week, and I was told about it a week ago. I only had a few days to choreograph a routine before we needed to start practicing, and I did, now I don’t know if it’s because of where Karina is placed in the formation, but the ones that are watching her are copying her. These girls have been cheering for years, Yeosang, we’re a D1 fucking school and they can’t learn a routine in a few days?”

Yeosang’s lips flatten. “You’re putting in the work and they aren’t.” 

You stop in your tracks. “You’re right, it’s literally only me putting in work, isn't it? I need to talk to my coach, I don’t know how half of these girls made it onto the fucking team.”

“I could probably learn the routine quicker than them,” Yeosang shrugs. 

You nod ecstatically, “You could. You literally fucking could, Yeosang. You should see these girls, it’s like they’ve never cheered a day in their life.”

“Show me the routine,” Yeosang says.

You pop a brow, standing still, palms finding your hips. “What?” 

“Show me,” Yeosang shrugs, then smiles. “Let me see if I can do it.”

“No!” You shake your head like the idea was ridiculous. “I’m not cheering for you, that’s embarrassing.” 

“Okay, fine,” he huffs. “At least let me hear the mix.”

“It’s not a mix,” you say, quieter. Voice small, like you were even embarrassed of that. “It's a song.” 

Yeosang tilts his chin up. “Let me hear it.”

As you pick up your wristlet, unzipping it to pull out your phone that somehow fits in the tiny, skinny thing, Yeosang’s grip tightens on the frets of his bass, fingers steadying over the strings. 

It takes you only a moment to pull up the song, to press play, like you hadn’t even checked your phone after finishing practice, you had come straight here. He doesn’t let the thought linger as the beat starts playing through the small speakers, Yeosang’s ears straining to pick apart the melody like he could see the sheet music in front of him. 

He nods his head as you nod yours, your limbs moving like you couldn’t stop yourself from micro-performing if you tried. Counting in his head, gauging the sound, the rhythm, the beat, Yeosang’s fingers start moving. 

Your eyes fly to his bass, wide, then back up to him. He starts playing, flawlessly, as if he’d heard the song a million times before. 

“What?” You mumble under your breath, eyes locked in on where his fingers smack at his strings. “How the fuck are you doing that?” 

Yeosang smiles, pride in the display of teeth, head nodding along as his fingers pluck the strings. A monotonous beat, his other hand barely moves on the frets.

He gets it now. The song takes shape in his head, his lips scrunch in satisfaction, tongue poking out, nodding to the beat he plays without even looking now.

You look starstruck. Unblinking, stuck in place, eyes wide, jaw slack. You take a step forward, like you couldn’t believe it, like Yeosang was a fucking hologram or something. 

“Yeo, that’s really fucking cool,” you almost whisper. Your eyes meet his again, finally blinking, fast enough that Yeosang thinks you might’ve actually convinced yourself he was an illusion. “How do you do that? Can you do that with any song? How do you know how to play it?” 

Yeosang shrugs off what he takes as compliments. “I’ve kinda always been able to,” he explains. “I started playing guitar when I was eight, bass when I was twelve.”

Your jaw drops further as you round the coffee table, taking your spot next to him on his couch. “That long? Like, over a decade?” 

Yeosang snorts, “Yes, over a decade. It’s about time that I did something with it.” 

The song ends, you bury your phone in the couch cushion absent-mindedly, eyes twin saucers as you stare at him like he was a completely different person. “Is that what you want?” you ask, leaning into the back of the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest. “To make it your career?”

He nods without hesitation. “I thought I wanted football… obviously, going to a D1 school and all. But then I met Jay, and realized that I only played football because I had to, then everything felt like it was moving in the same direction, y’know?”

“Like it was meant to be,” you offer. He nods. Your lips purse, scrunching to one side before you admit, “You seem happier.”

“Really?” He grins, teeth showing. “I guess I am, I like being onstage, I’ve always liked performing, actually.”

“I never thought that about you,” your eyes find the couch, a string of fuzz ripped from the seam. You pick at it with your manicured fingers, mumbling, “Outside of football, you seemed content being… hidden. Quiet, like a mouse. I guess that makes sense, though, you were kind of a star on the field.”

“Mingi’s the star,” Yeosang says. “He gets all the glory.” 

“Well, I was always cheering for you.” You finally look up at him, eyes sparkling, and he can feel his breath catch, hear it. So pretty, so perfect, he’s never loved anything in his fucking life the way he loves you. Maybe music. Maybe his bass. But there’s still the part of him that knows neither compared to what he feels for you, that you were the reason he fell back in love with music all over again.

“Would you still cheer for me?” He finds himself asking, but to him, it feels like a different question entirely. “When I’m onstage. Would you cheer for me in the crowd?”

Your head tilts, a playful smile taking over your entire face. “Wait, like, actually come to one of your shows?”

“Yes, actually,” he teases, shifting his body so he faces you a little more, bass still taking up space between you. He doesn’t mind it, though, barely notices it, not when your gaze fixed on him is hotter, brighter than stage lights. “Next Friday. Eonian.”

Your lips scrunch again, a cute flush spreading across the apples of your cheeks, your nose. “I don’t know, Yeosang.”

“You don’t have to be front and center,” he urges, “even though I know that’s where you love to be. Just…come see me play.”

You stare at him, eyes dancing across his face, contemplating. Your smile falls a little, and he knows you’re running through the events in your head, what could go wrong, what people would think, what it’d look like if you showed up for him. 

“I’ll think about it,” you nearly whisper, and he knows that not giving him an answer, avoiding yes or no, was intentional.

You’ve already made up your mind. He knows you won’t come. He can feel it, an icy chill spreading through his blood, prickling his scalp. Rejection.

All you have is sex. That’s all it’s been from the jump. 

He stands, placing his bass carefully in its stand, deciding that he didn’t want to stare at your perfect face anymore. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he asks, “Have you eaten?”

“No,” you admit. “I came straight from the field.” 

That, he knew. He knew you didn’t eat before he even asked the question. Without thought, without words he aims for his kitchen, sorting through his fridge for something that wasn’t prepped already, his cabinets for anything in-line with your diet which was just as extensive as his own.

“What are you doing?” In the entryway of his kitchen, your shoes are gone, you probably kicked them off somewhere on his rug.

He doesn’t look for longer than a millisecond. “Trying to find something to feed you with.”

“You can feed me something else.” Your voice lowered into velvet, he can hear the want lining your tone, slurring the words together. “I’m still irritated, and I’d rather fuck it out than eat right now.”

“Should I act surprised?” He quips, leaning his hip into the counter, brows flat.

You step closer, confusion spreading across your features. “Where’d the attitude come from?”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing as your feet land before his, your arms swinging around his neck. “I don’t have an attitude.”

You raise yourself on your toes to bring your face close to his as you say, “You do, and if you keep it up, I’m gonna redirect my irritation to you.”

Your fingers find his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, and his eyes close, lungs emptying. He can remember when you first came to his apartment, vulnerable and needy, asking to fuck him. You told him you had one good thing. He wonders if you were right.

Your lips press into his, soft, questioning, searching for the taste of yes on his mouth. His hands find your waist, lips parting, tongue slipping into your mouth to answer your silent ask. Always yes, he’d never deny you anything, he ignores the way his chest aches, how his throat constricts.

He can remember the day he picked up his bass from the corner of his bedroom at the football house, sitting on his bed, and playing the same measly love song he’d memorized years prior. He hummed the lyrics as he played, fucking up chords, his bass completely out of tune. He didn’t care, though, he could barely hear it over his thoughts swarming, every single one about you. The cheerleader he’d just started hooking up with, the one with a loud mouth and a pretty smile, the girl that made him feel whole again.

For a while, you just kissed. You turned him until his back hit the counter, hands in his hair as you kissed him breathless. Your tongue licked into his mouth like there was new space to cover, land to explore, like he felt new. He let you, mind wandering, hands falling under the tee shirt that swallowed your body, touching every inch of skin he could find, wondering if he’d ever feel the rush of picking up his bass from the corner of his bedroom like it was the first time again.

When you broke away from him, panting, fingers still curled in his hair, you kept his face close to yours, mouths barely an inch apart. He spoke first, though. “Thought you wanted to fuck it out.”

Your lips curve, a breathy laugh tumbling into his mouth. “Me too.”

You kiss him again, palms sliding across his chest, down to his abdomen, nothing about your touches felt impatient, or stemming from frustration. Like you were basking in him, as if he were the anchor bringing your temper, you back down to earth.

In the times that you’ve fucked since you knocked on his door those weeks ago, you’ve never just kissed. He isn’t sure if you’ve ever just kissed. The lack of heat, without promise, just exploratory, easy. Intimate, in a way, more intimate than his most vulnerable moments with you.

A man he is, with disgusting, primal, masculine instincts, the blood rushing below the hem of his shorts is anything but voluntary. He gasps when your front brushes against him, your body warm, your scent in his nose, stray hairs tickling his cheeks. You’re all over him, part of you lives inside him, it’s second nature that your spit on his tongue gets him hard. You smile into the kiss, and he can feel the shape of pride in it, the arrogance.

Your palm drops, ghosting over his length in his shorts and he moans. It’s pathetic, really, how easy he is, how fucking worked up you get him without even doing anything. Your palm lays flat, adding pressure, and he groans.

“Work for it,” you whisper, palm curving over his length, fingers gripping the width. Yeosang’s hands leave your waist to grab the edge of the counter behind him. “You know what to do. Make me proud.”

His hips rock once, experimentally grinding his length into your palm. His head tips back when he’s met with a wall of pressure, your hand unmoving, a surface for him to get off on. He can’t fight the high-pitched whimper that crawls up his throat, pleasure igniting each nerve ending in his body, the apples of his cheeks on fire because he can’t believe he’s getting himself off on your hand.

You make a small sound, maybe in awe, Yeosang isn’t sure. He rocks his hips faster, harder, broken moans and ragged breaths slurring together, completely unbothered by the fact that there were two layers of cloth between skin.

“So pretty when you’re like this,” you murmur, palm made of stone, warm like a boulder basking in the summer sun. “Thinking with your cock, doing anything I tell you to. Do you always get this hard when you kiss me?”

He forces out a breathy, “Yeah.”

“My pretty boy,” you coo, then smack your lips. “So good for me. Y’gonna get on your knees after I make you cum in your pants?”

He moans, head rocking forward again, features twisted tight. “Fuck, yeah, yes.”

“You want it? Don’t wanna fill me up?”

He bares his teeth, your question slicing through his pleasure, not enough to get him to fuck up his rhythm. “Where– wherever you want– want me to, mommy.”

You gasp, and he opens his eyes to see your brows furrowed in pleasure, eyes dark and focused. His cock twitches at the sight of your swollen, kiss-plump lips, parted, glossy with spit. Pressure builds in his gut, knowing what the title does to you, that it tumbled off his tongue. 

“Cum,” you demand, the word coated in arousal. “Cum for me, wanna see you make a mess.”

He grunts, gasping out a desperate, muddled moan, but it takes no more than three more humps of his cock on your hand to spill hot, sticky release into his briefs. He hisses at the feeling, uncomfortable, messy, humiliating. When his hips slow to a stop, you don’t move your hand, you don’t lessen up the pressure. Your fingers wrap around his cock over his shorts instead, and Yeosang curses so loudly he prays the entire complex can’t hear him.

“Shut up.”

He shudders, backing into the counter impossibly further, lowered down to his elbows, knees trembling. Whines, whimpers and moans spill from his lips, bucking away from you, jerking rapidly under the weight of your hand. “I can’t take it,” he shakes his head, sucking air down to the base of his diaphragm. “I can’t– I can’t–”

“You can,” you move closer, caging him in. Eyes locked on his hips, how he shakes beneath you, he can see the grin on your lips from above you, the curve of your cheeks. “Wanna see how much.”

“No,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut, his body in fight or flight. The overstimulation burns to the point of ache, his mind going fuzzy, all you do is laugh. “Please– please.”

“One more,” your eyes glance upward, round and doe-like as if you weren’t pushing him past the breaking point. You still haven’t even taken off his shorts. “Can you do that for me?”

There’s a demon inside him that loves to obey you. That gets off on doing what you ask of him. It erases his refractory period like it didn’t exist at all.

“Y-yes,” he whimpers, tongue lolling out of his mouth, swiping over his bottom lip. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes–yes mo–mommy.”

“Kiss me, baby,” your voice is so soft he blinks to make sure he heard it right. “Come here.”

Lifting himself up, your wrist twists over his shorts, palm rolling over his tip and it’s just enough pleasure to get him building again. He pants into your mouth, the kiss not much of a kiss at all, exchanging breath and spit, teeth clashing together. Yeosang’s babbling into your mouth, begging for something he isn’t sure of, reprieve, maybe. But he’s close and you taste so sweet and your hand feels so fucking good and it’s not even touching his skin. 

Your other hand finds his hair, fingers tugging at his roots, with a sharp hiss from his lips and a stuttered, staggered grunt, he’s spilling into his shorts all over again. You coax him through it, praises, compliments, sweet words he only got to hear when he was obeying you, it makes his brain all fuzzy, makes his abdomen twitch and his cock jump like he had more to give. He knew in his soul that he didn’t.

You kiss the corner of his lips, his chin, his jaw, then pepper short, soft presses of your lips down his neck. “You’re so good,” you whisper into his sweaty skin, “always so good for me. So proud of you.”

His chest is still heaving, eyes barely closed, but your praise gives him clarity. “Need to clean up.”

“Wanna see,” you whisper, soft, delicate hands traveling down his abdomen, over his tee. “Let me see.”

Your fingers dip into the elastic of his shorts, pulling them down. He can feel the heat of shame, his head tipping backward, eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t want to see the mess he’d made.

He hears you gasp, the trickle of awe falling past your lips. Maybe he does want to see what you see. “You’re so perfect,” you whisper, and he looks down at his light gray briefs, the shattered splotch of wetness darkening them into charcoal. Marvelling at the sight, you mumble, “Look at you.”

“Stop,” he whines, hips twitching, “‘s embarrassing.”

“It’s hot,” you counter, fingers tugging at the waistband of his shorts, pulling them over where his soft length hangs heavy. “So messy, you’d do anything for me if I asked.”

His cheeks burn. He doesn’t answer, tucking his lips between his teeth, eyes finding the ceiling once more. “C’mon.” His briefs snap against his hips again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Confused, he fixes his gaze on you again. “Wha–? Do you–”

“Bathroom,” you hum, already turning. “Come on, messy boy.”

He follows, like a moth to a flame, a dog to his owner. You clean him, though, a warm towel to his pelvis, his wet clothes thrown in his hamper. In silence, the hum of the bathroom fan sound enough, he watches you move, the fluidity of your movements, brows crooked in focus, with care. You care about him.

You walked through his apartment like you were angry at god himself and somehow, he diffused it. His head tilts, sitting on his bed, watching you sort through his drawers for new clothes as if he were incapable of doing it himself. Thinking out loud, he says, “You really should talk to your coach.”

Your head snaps to the side, black briefs in your hand. Your face reads calm, but your answer is short, “I know.”

“If they’ve been torturing you this long, they’re not going to stop.”

You sigh, and he knows you’re trying to find your favorite pair of his shorts. Gray, soft, long, they reach below his knees. Finding them, you close his bottom drawer and turn, crossing his bedroom to hand the fabric to him. “What kind of captain does that make me? That I can’t handle two girls.”

He stands, “It’s not that you can’t handle them, you shouldn’t have to.”

You watch him tug his briefs over his hips, his shorts. “The other girls, my girls, I don’t want them to think I’m some kind of dictator. That if you don’t like me, you’re out.”

Yeosang grins, “That sounds like a very you attitude to have.”

You roll your eyes, sitting on his bed, then deflate as your back stretches over his duvet. He can see the hint of a smile tugging on your lips as you argue, “Not when it comes to them. I don’t want them to hate me, or hate cheer because of me. They felt that way with Jihyo, I felt that way with Jihyo, and she chose me. I wanna be different.”

Yeosang lays down on his bed beside you, flat on his back, lungs emptying as he stares at his ceiling. “You’re different from her, you’re strict, but you’re not unfair. Just because you don’t condone bullying doesn’t mean you’re a dictator.”

He can feel your eyes on him, so he turns his head, meeting your stare. “What would you do? If you were me.”

“I’d give it right back,” he answers, without a second of thought. “You’re not the kind of person who backs down. Remind them who you are.”

You stare at him for a second, unanswering. Then your head turns, eyes finding the ceiling, and Yeosang mimics you, staring at the beige wall above him. 

Minutes might have gone by, maybe hours.

You finally turn to him, “I’m hungry.”

His brows lift. “It’s late.”

“I think we both know by now that your bed’s big enough for two.”

The pep rally was rough. 

In the locker room, chatter filled the air, high-pitched giggles, yells, conversation swarmed the hallways, bouncing off the metal lockers, directly into your fucking ears. 

The Birds put on a beautiful show, which you assumed they would, probably the outcome of a pep-talk by the one and only Song Mingi. The team revered him as if he were a god or something, desperate to impress him, like if Mingi said the word, they’d be drafted to the NFL alongside him. It helped you out, though, it left the crowd distracted, focused on them, a thrum of adrenaline passing through the stadium as you ran onto the turf with your girls.

You don’t think the crowd even looked at you or the team once when you were in the middle of the field, fucking up each step of your goddamn choreography. 

Your friends weren’t there, there wasn’t a familiar face to look at, to keep your focus on. Not that it specifically bothered you, there were plenty of away games you cheered at where you had to stare at random faces, maybe an older man’s bald head, and used it as a beacon. Somewhere to look. Something to keep your eyes on while you performed outside of your own fucking body.

But the team still didn’t have the routine down, and the last-minute tweaks you made to make the routine easier, to dumb it down, failed. The team couldn’t keep their heads on straight, Karina couldn’t remember what you had just taught her two days ago, and had been rehearsing since. It was frustrating, to know that you failed, to accept that all that you had done still wasn’t good enough. You shuddered thinking about getting a call from your coach later. 

Enduring all of it, feeling all of it, you knew in the pit of your gut there was something else. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, what’s wrong. A sense of dread was consuming you head-to-toe, like something was off, something was missing. You couldn’t put your finger on it. 

Maybe it was just a rough week; you’re sure the girls hated you right now, with how hard you pushed them all week, they must feel relieved to know the pep rally’s over. Even if you have to start preparing for competition tomorrow. 

You caught Jaemin’s eye on your way to the locker room, just a glimpse over the kelly green pom-pom in your hand that held the door open for the rest of the girls. He winked at you, smiled with every single one of those beautiful, white teeth, and you felt nothing. Nothing. 

You never have felt anything for Jaemin, if you were being honest with yourself. If you were being really honest, if you came to terms with what you felt, you’d remind yourself that every time you catch Jaemin’s eye on the field, after practice, all the times he’s sauntered up to you when you were cleaning up on the turf, flirting with you shamelessly… you remembered when it was Yeosang. You wished it was Yeosang.

Your stomach aches. Twists, churns, like cramps on the second day of your period. You slammed your locker shut a little harder than you meant to, jaw settled in frustration, palms sweating. 

“You good?” Karina asks, black hair still tied at the crown of her head, curled and framing her face, laying on her shoulders. The massive, bright green bow glimmered, lined with gold and white, bringing out the red in her cheeks. 

You grimace. Feigned concern, Karina doesn’t give a fuck if you’re okay, she doesn’t care about anyone except herself. 

“Fine,” you respond, a short, curt reply. It meant don't push it. 

Karina huffs a laugh as Giselle comes up to her side, the brunette twin smirking as if she could read Karina’s mind. You think maybe they could read each other’s minds— where one goes, the other follows. Your eyes bounce between the two with growing confusion, your upper body jerks as if to ask what. 

“Nice hickey,” Giselle giggles. “Jaemin?”

Your hand comes up to clasp around your neck, the spot where Giselle’s eyes were locked. You didn’t even know it was there, you don’t know how you didn’t notice when you were putting your makeup on. 

“No,” Karina makes drama of the word, dragging it out, head tilting to the side, body leaning into Giselle’s. The two had dressed already, back to denim shorts and microscopic tank tops, flip flops on their feet. “She’s not fucking Jaemin anymore. Right, Captain?” 

Your cheeks flush, an embarrassed heat flooding you. Maybe the reminder of Yeosang is what you needed to fake a laugh, one icy, mean. “And since when are you two so interested in who’s inside me? Are you waiting for your turn?”

Giselle nearly gags. Karina huffs, “That’s disgusting, why would you even say that?”

You shrug, a nasty smirk tugging at your lips. “Seemed like where it was headed. If you asked nicely, I might have said yes.”

“I wanted to know because I fucked Jaemin,” Karina stands a little straighter, arms crossing over her chest. “He said you haven’t called him in weeks. Ghosted him. Guess it’s ’cause you’re gay now?” 

You grab your duffel bag from the bench, a rectangular, heavy bag beaming hues of green and gold through the locker room like a kaleidoscope. “Were you talking about me before, or after you fucked him? Or was I on your mind during all three strokes?”

Karina’s cheeks redden, face morphing into something horrified. Her eyes dance, searching for something to argue with before she flat out asks, “I— you— are you still fucking Yeosang?”

You hate the way his name sounds on her tongue. Your hand grips your bag strap tighter, knuckles changing color with strength. “No,” you hiss.

“We know you are,” Giselle crosses her arms, like Karina’s mini. “Are you going to his show on Friday? To watch your little garage-band boyfriend?”

Your jaw clenches, ears moving with the grit of your teeth. Karina laughs, head tipping back, “It’s a shame, you know. He had a bright future, but now he’s a loser. Do you think he quit football to get away from you? Just for you to follow him like a lost puppy dog?” 

“I wonder if he’s thinking ‘damn, I can’t get rid of her’,” Giselle sighs, a finger poking her cheek like she’s mid-thought. “Or maybe he’s so fucking high from all the weed he smokes he just doesn’t care who he’s fucking.”

“You don’t get to talk about him,” you hiss, stepping forward, dropping your duffel to the floor in a harsh smack. “Keep his name out of your filthy fuckin’ mouth.”

“Or what?” Karina steps closer, meeting your broadened shoulders, her chin jutted upward. “Go ahead, do something. I’ll be made captain so fucking quick it’ll make your head spin.” 

You laugh, and it’s vile. Low, coated in malice, it takes everything in you not to spit on her. Tipping your chin up, looking down at her over your nose, you say, “You wish you had someone like Yeosang. The only guys you can get to fuck you are the ones so fucking drunk they can’t see you.”

You snap your head to Giselle, “I’ll be at his show, proudly watching my garage-band boyfriend while you keep plowing through the lacrosse team, praying one of them will actually text you back this time.”

You bend down, grabbing your duffel bag from the floor. “I’m captain because I deserve to be, I worked my ass off for that title. What have you accomplished, other than living in my shadow?”

Karina counters, “Those girls watch me, not you.”

“I wouldn’t be able to look away from a trainwreck, either,” you bark back, teeth bared. “I’ll make sure to keep you in the back from now on.”

Karina gasps, eyes blowing wide like that was a death sentence. “No.”

“I’m the captain,” you respond, leaning forward, making her shrink where she stands. “You’ll be lucky if Coach doesn’t kick you off the goddamn team after I call her.”

Steam is radiating off you as you barrel out of the locker room. Chest heaving, jaw locked, fingers shaking around the strap of your duffel bag, your mind is roaring as you nearly sprint down the hallways dripping in gray. Flickers of green and white beckoned for your sight, posters, banners, streamers, you couldn’t see until you were out of the stadium. And then began your trek to him.

He wasn’t home, though. His apartment door locked. You knocked, you banged, you called his name. No answer. You thought about calling him, your phone buried somewhere in your duffle, when you looked down you realized you never even changed. Still in uniform, a green and white tank, Birds printed diagonally across your middle, your matching mini-skirt reaching just mid-thigh.

You needed him, you needed him, not to blow off steam, not to touch him and feel like you had a semblance of control over something. You needed him to tell you again, that you’re strong, you don’t back down, that you’re worthy of your title and you aren’t just like Jihyo. You wanted to hear him say that he was proud of you for sticking up for yourself, that you’re right, only his reassurance could ease the raging war in your chest. 

You needed him. You’ve never needed anyone in your fucking life.

“Hey,” you hear from behind you, a voice so comforting and warm your body twists.

Your eyes widen, taking in his outfit. Green tee, oversized, white long-sleeve covering his arms. Denim on his legs, boots poking out, hair styled over his forehead, silver gleaming in his ears. You’re slapped with the memory of waking up beside him, the both of you naked, bodies molding together like you’d both been dreaming of it.

You blink, “Where were you?”

His cheeks go pink. Sheepishly, he admits, “The pep rally.”

It steals the air from your lungs, relief flooding you, rendering your body hot. “You came?”

“You were stressed about it,” he shrugs. “I skipped band practice for it. You were right, that bitch was smug, she knew exactly what she was doing–”

You drop the duffel bag, throw your arms over his shoulders, and steal his lips. He smiles into the kiss, holding you tight, laughing a little at your enthusiasm. “Why?” 

“You came,” you’re smiling, pressing your forehead against his. “I didn’t think you were there, I didn’t even think to ask you to come, Yeosang.”

“I thought you would’ve spotted me,” he’s laughing, his smile silly and happy. “Green hair and all.”

Your hands find his hair, soft between your fingers, “So much team spirit.”

He kisses you again. “You caught me, I dyed it so everyone would know I was there for you.”

You laugh, head tipping back, arms tight around his shoulders. Words thrum under your skin, floating through your limbs, climbing to the tip of your tongue. Your smile falls. Swallowing all three of them down, you admit, “I fought with Karina in the locker room. I think I won.”

“Like, fist-fight?”

“Strongly-worded verbal argument.”

“That’s your forte,” he makes a face like that was obvious. “No shit, you won.”

Your smile returns tenfold. “Can we go in?”

“Does that mean you’re going to change out of your uniform?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, no.”

You feel like you’re living outside of your own body.

You aren’t a dive-bar girl, you were lucky you had your ID in your purse, you didn’t even think about needing to show it to the tall, bulky brunette guy standing outside the front door. He let you in, and you mentally thanked god he got you away from the guy smoking the disgusting cigarette out front that nearly choked you. Who even smokes anymore?

Reality hits you, and you remember you're at a bar. Not a nice one, either. Neon signs hang from the walls, license plates and dollar bills scribbled on with black marker stapled to the deep brown oak lining the roof over the bar, music played through the speakers, rock music, heavy music, you fought not to cringe. The smell– the smell, tobacco and beer and sweat, there were college kids fucking everywhere.

All people your own age, but fuck, each and every single one you laid eyes on, you gave a stare of disgust. You didn’t understand the point of coming here on weekends, drinking until you blacked out, kissing randoms in the corner, the idea of you doing it had you gagging. The bar was packed, brown leather stools topped with people in denim, a guy with a shaved head behind the bar juggling bottles.

You felt scarily out of place. You think you might turn around and leave.

You had too much to make up for. Too much to prove. Too much to fix. 

Conventional relationships weren’t for you. Your taste was different– what got you off, what you searched for in a partner, wasn’t something you could find in just anyone. When you met Yeosang and realized you could be yourself, that you were free, you dug your nails in and refused to let go.

When he quit football and ripped your world from under your feet, you hated him. You hated him for a long while. You were embarrassed that you felt so deeply for someone who was comfortable with climbing down the social ladder instead of up. You felt shameful that you were so attached to someone who didn’t mind upending his entire life, without even considering you or how you felt about it.

You can remember the night he told you he was quitting football, how you screamed at him, you can still count how many times you said no. You’ll regret that night for the rest of your life, because how free you felt with Yeosang, how everything fell into place, how comfortable you’d become being yourself, is what he became after he quit. When he committed himself to his passion.

He was comfortable changing his entire life because he felt safe enough to be happy. He assumed he had your support, that you’d be by his side through it all, and you let him down. You left him. And for what? What the fuck did you leave him for? What shame did you think you’d carry, if your boyfriend was no longer on the football team?

You ordered a drink from the bald guy and ignored his face when Aperol Spritz left your lips. Yeosang showed up for you, after he asked you to show up for him, and you basically said fuck no to his face. Were you really so ignorant that you couldn’t see yourself cracking each and every layer of his confidence? Were you so shallow that the only thing that’s real to you, is how other people see you? Did that make it reality?

It’s pathetic. He’d give you the world if you asked him to, and you’ve never done anything for him. You’ve never given him any reason to be kind to you, any reason to love you. And yet he still trusts you with every ounce of himself, trust you’ve never, not once, deserved.

You’re simmering in rage, self-loathing as you take the seat of a high top table in the back corner. Bare legs crossed, one knee over the other, the toe of your heel sits on the bar of the chair, your mini-skirt covering only what it needs to. You feel eyes on you, on your low-cut top, and the part of you that still clings to being perceived, wonders if they’re judging the streak of green you clipped into your hair. The one that matches Yeosang’s shade exactly. 

You keep the skinny black straw attached to your lip, the orange liquid in the tall glass bitter. Your eyes find the stage, still dark, the head peeking out of the side. Olive skin, dark eyes, ebony hair spiked atop his head, you think that’s Jay. You’ve never met him, only heard about him from Yeosang, but from the description you remember receiving, it matches him. Your back straightens when you realize his eyes land on you, the two of you wide-eyed, staring at each other. You couldn’t be sure, the stage on the opposite side of the bar, but how his body seemed to freeze, you think he might know you, too.

You poke at your phone that laid dark on the table-top. They were supposed to go on any second now. Your leg starts bouncing, lips sucking on your straw, guzzling down liquid. Impatient, nervous. You scan the bar, muscleheads, girls half-dressed, people dressed in all black, silver sparkling on their wrists and necks.

You spot Mingi at the bar, and for a second you feel relief seeing a familiar face. His eyebrows are tied together, mouth moving, hands splaying with every word like he’s mad. Then you spot Aven beside him, chin jutted upward, shoulders back like she could will herself into being taller than him. Your brow pops in curiosity.

Eyes sliding to the corner, you spot Karina, Giselle, standing with another girl that looks semi-familiar. Then you notice cigarette-guy at her back, arms wrapped around her, and you cringe as you remember the smell of tobacco. Says a lot about your two teammates, if that’s the company they keep.

It feels like fucking forever until the music shuts off, the lights go dim, and the stagelights burn warmth. Jay walks out first, you think the brunette is Jisung, the small blonde boy Jongseob. Yeosang’s last, and your glass nearly falls from your fingers.

He’s in leather. Black, on his legs, hugging each and every muscle in his thighs. On his bicep, a band, leather and tight, it squeezes him ever so slightly, his bicep bulging out above and below it. On his left hand, a loop around his pointer finger, covering the stretch of skin on the outside of his palm.

The tank on his upper half is cotton, you think, low-cut, showing off his pectorals, the hint of purple from the hickey you’d left days ago still bruising his skin. His hair is messy, freshly dyed, bright and neon and attention-stealing. His smile is wide and sure, his grip on his bass firm, you’ve never seen him look so confident. So assured.

His eyes scan the crowd, the people who flocked to the stage. Jay’s speaking, you can’t hear him, it was as if there was a tunnel between yourself and Yeosang, the two of you on opposite sides, all you could see was him, all you could hear was him.

And like he really was on the opposite end, his eyes landed on you. They stay there, widening ever so slightly in surprise, maybe happiness? You hope it’s happiness. You can feel your heartbeat pick up, heat on your cheeks like you were the one beneath the spotlight, you wondered if you made a mistake in coming here.

Jay strikes a chord, and Yeosang’s muscles flex as his fingers find the strings of his bass. For too long, his eyes stay on you, like he couldn’t believe that you were really there, as if he’d made it up. You throw him a little wave, a small smile, and he beams.

The first song was original, you recognized it, something punk, loud and rhythmic. Your head nods, your foot bouncing against the bar on the chair in tune with Jongseob beating on the drums. Halfway into it you know they’re talented, better than good, and you curse yourself for never asking Yeosang to play for you. For never caring about this side of him, never showing interest, never wanting to know. 

It’s not until the third song that your cloud of self-loathing dissipates, because you recognize it. Last week, he sat on his couch, bass in his lap while you played it from your phone. Just days ago, you performed with this song as the fucking track. 

You stand from the chair, his eyes find yours. Smirking, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. Then you’re fighting through the crowd, kitten heels stepping in puddles of liquid, arms pushing people out of your way like they were nothing but obstacles. You were sure people cursed at you, yelled at you, you didn’t hear them, not when you were feet away from the man you love and he was playing a fucking song for you.

Bodies jumped at the front, arms swinging, people singing along. You stood there, eyes wide, trying to catch your breath, hand over your pounding heart in your chest. He’s beautiful. Sweat kisses his skin, his pink-splotched chest, hair already wet and sticking to his face. You’ve never seen him look this way before, confident, more than confident, arrogant, even– fingers plucking at the strings like he could play it with his eyes closed.

You love him. You love him. 

Overcome with emotion, adrenaline pounding through you like Jongseob’s sticks hitting the drums, you let go. Jumping, singing along, your arm swings over your head, the sound of your heels hitting the floor completely drowned out. You keep your eyes on him, completely and utterly ecstatic, and Yeosang smiles back, refusing to take his stare away from you like he didn’t want to look away, either.

You love him, you love him, you fucking love him. 

You loved the structure of your relationship before he quit football. You loved him in uniform, in cleats, a football in his hand– but was this that much different? Was this not better, doused in black and leather, his fingers creating instead of catching? Did the rush you felt when you kissed him on the field even compare to the rumbling in your chest right now? Why the fuck did it take you so long to give it a goddamn chance?

For the rest of his show, you stayed up front, and to your surprise and his, you knew some of the songs. Old music your dad used to play when you were growing up, but that kind of nostalgia sticks with you, glued to your spine. Much like your eyes stayed glued to him, swaying back and forth, jumping out of your skirt when Jay and Jisung started shredding. What the hell have you been so afraid of?

After they bow and leave the stage, you’re moving with them, pushing through bodies to the left of you to try and get yourself where Jay had poked his head out earlier. You weren’t thinking, you didn’t even consider if you were allowed backstage as you pushed yourself forward, forward, forward.

You needed to see him, needed to touch him, you needed him. You needed to tell him you fucking love him, that you’re proud of him, that nothing makes you happier than seeing him happy.

He meets you at the curtain. Dark eyes dilated, body doused in sweat, clothes sticking to him, you didn’t care. He pulls you behind it and you don’t say a word before you throw your arms around his neck and crash your lips onto his. 

He holds you steady, one foot stepping backward to keep you both upright, he’s laughing into the kiss, giggling like he still didn’t quite believe you were here. Pulling away, your hands fly to his hair, “I’m so proud of you.”

“You came,” he says, voice breathy, he still hadn’t caught it. “You’re here.”

“You’re insane.” You laugh, pushing the stray hairs off his face, your feet not even touching the ground. “You’re fucking insane, Yeosang, I didn’t know– I didn’t know you were so good.”

“Damn, what about us?” 

Your smile drops, eyes blowing wide as you lift your head up. Jisung stands with a brow popped, Jay’s face flat, Jongseob’s face blown into full surprise, hands half-gripping his drumsticks like even he couldn’t believe you were here. It was a sorry excuse for a backstage, or a green room, you weren’t sure. You were at a dinky dive bar.

Yeosang slowly lowers you back down to the ground as you swallow, “Sorry. Hi guys.”

Jay’s lips stay flat, he waves, just a movement of his fingers. Jongseob blinks. Jisung grins, “Hiii.”

“That was incredible,” you force a smile, it’s nervous. “You’re all so talented.”

“We put him back together,” Jay says, tone flat. Yeosang jumps, trying to interject, but Jay cuts him off, “We were there when you destroyed him. Do you even know what he went through?”

You swallow, cheeks flaming. You shake your head.

“Jay,” Yeosang warns, his voice tight. You’ve never heard it before, but you barely notice, you can’t when Jay’s eyes thin further.

“Don’t force us to do that shit again,” Jay barks. “It took too long, and we’re too busy.” You loose a breath at the amusement playing in his tone. “And we better see you at our show next week.”

Nodding, you immediately agree, “I won’t, I’ll be there. I promise.”

Jisung’s hands find Jay’s shoulders, nudging him forward, “Come on, father Jay, Jesus Christ. Let’s give them some space.”

Jongseob follows the pair, eyes still wide and sparkling, head never once turning away from you as all three of them walk through the curtain. You release the rest of the breath you didn’t know you were holding as you turn back to Yeosang, “Did he mean that?”

Yeosang starts to shake his head, mumbling reassurance, hands searching for your waist, but you stop him. “Sangie,” you urge him, “did he mean what he said? Did I hurt you?”

“Can I say something without freaking you out?” Yeosang asks, and your hands find his shoulders as you nod. “I was, like, balls-deep in love with you. When you ghosted me, I went off the deep end a little.”

Your bottom lip curves, pain slicing through you. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“That’s in the past,” he shakes his head. “Long time ago.”

“Not long enough,” you whisper. “I’ll regret hurting you forever, Yeosang. I’ll never do that to you again.”

His eyes dance across your features, reading in-between the lines. He doesn’t respond.

“Do you still love me?” you ask, and fear curls in your gut. 

His lips perk upward, “You know I do.”

A smile dares to swallow your face. “Is it okay that I love you, too?”

He answers with his lips on yours, both of his hands on your back, kissing you so hard it dips your body backward. You squeal into his mouth, arms flying around his neck, holding him tight as he lifts your feet off the ground.

“You showed up for me,” he says into your mouth, before kissing you again. “You cheered for me. That’s all I could have ever wanted, ever asked for.”

“Start thinking of new gifts,” you say as you land back on your feet. “There’s a lot I need to make up for.”

He presses his forehead to yours, fingers squeezing at your hips. “The fact that you love me is enough.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands, heels lifting off the floor to press another kiss to his lips. “You make me a better person, Yeosang. You let me be me. I want to be that person for you, too.”

“You are–”

“No, I’m not,” you shake your head, your smile weak. “But I will be, if you let me.”

He kisses you again, and it’s answer enough. He pushes you backward by your hips, five steps before your back gently hits a wall, arms closing around his neck. You throw one of your legs over his, pushing your tongue into his mouth, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Say it again,” he says into your mouth, pushing his hips into yours. 

“I love you.”

He moans, quiet, but telling. “Again.”

You roll your hips against him, “I love you, Yeosang.”

His palm finds your thigh, gripping tight as his other hand tilts your jaw upward, kissing you deeper, harder. Your hands search his abdomen, his chest, sliding up to cup his cheeks, using the smallest bit of force to pry his lips off yours. 

“You’re not fucking me here,” you breathe out, taking in his dilated pupils, his red cheeks. “This place is disgusting.”

He snorts, head dipping forward, “You’re gonna have to get over that, what if I go on tour one day and wanna have a quickie backstage?”

A full-body shiver racks through you, and it only makes him laugh harder. He kisses you once more, then peels himself off you. “I love you, too, even the high-maintenance.”

“You don’t even know half of it,” you bring your leg back into yourself, both feet finding the floor, fixing your skirt. “How high-maintenance I actually am.”

“I assume I’ll be learning.”

“Yes, you will.”

Hands running up and down his neck, mingi felt his breath catch in his throat. the need coursing his veins, fingertips tingling as his clothed hand slightly tightened around the skin of his neck.

he missed being touched, missed the way you talked to him. missed the way you’d boss him around, tell him what to do. he couldn’t possibly wait any longer, other hand now running down his bare chest.

had he set it up earlier, the camera in front of him had its light blinking red, anticipating his every move.

running along the shapes of his toned torso, skimming past the hairs on his lower stomach. his hand ghosted over his pulsing cock; screaming for something, shit, anything at this point.

fingers tightening on his upper neck, near his jaw, mingis breath hitched. plump lips slightly open, some spit trickled out the edges. he felt so desperate, like he was set on fire. his chest rose and fell with heightened pressure as his left hand gripped the root of his leaking cock.

“oh- angel-“ mingis voice rumbled through the air, eyelids fluttering.

moving his hand along the length, the fabric of the leather sticking to his skin, he leaned slightly forward, spit covering his hand. his right thumb was tightly pressed against his pulse point, making his head spin with that familiar daze.

he wasn’t going to last long like this, he knew it. and that could only end him up in one scenario; your vile punishments when you'd return. and that only drew him more ravenous.

hand fisting his cock, the pre-cum smearing all over the black leather, his moans and whimpers bled into the air.

“mmmgh- please”

his attempts at speaking came out as nothing more then pathetic little noices. his airway was becoming smaller and smaller at his tight grip, and letting go for just a second, he took in a deep breath. mingi could’ve cried, everything felt like so much, too much.

his mind was playing pictures of your moments alone in his room, your room; that one night at the club. everything was so vivid as his cock twitched in his tight grip.

“such a filthy boy aren’t you min?”

it was like he could hear your voice, feel your hands on him, mouth on his neck alongside his own groping touch. eyes snapping open for a moment, he let his gaze fall down, lip tugged between his pearly teeth.

he watched as his cockhead pushed up between his fingers, the big smear of his pre-cum creating a white ring on his hand. the sight was intoxicating, his body shuddering suddenly in a whirring feeling, his mouth hung open but no sound escaping.

the leather burned against the tanned skin of his neck, sure to leave behind red marks. picturing you in his head, imagining your hands instead on his thick neck, he felt his release coming. mingis cheeks flamed red of embarrassment, having no control over himself.

opening his eyes for just a second to meet the camera, he loosened the grip on his neck just that short minute, a deep moan ripping from deep within as his release tore itself out. his cock was twitching hard in its containment, the milky liquid splattered on his lower stomach, running down his thighs.

some had flewn even further, splashing on the lens of the camera. mingis cheeks glared red, purple and red stains on his neck as he removed his hand.

chest heaving hard, he sat there shaking, in the warmth of his bedroom. the scene felt so nasty. he had just recorded a video of himself, alone, acting like some desperate slut. his body felt worn out so easily, limbs sluggish against the edge of the bed he sat on.

leaning forward to stop the recording, he pressed his lips against the camera for a peck. and for a final note he spoke;

After receiving such lavish gifts which included shopping tours, yacht rides and an impressive visit to his personal vineyards, the CEO’s last gift to you was an opera performance you could’ve only imagined to experience in your dreams. 

“It’s called La Traviata”, your polished and tuxedo-clad date spoke into the shell of your ear, just as you arrived at your destination earlier that night.

He had guided you up the white marble steps of the entrance, offering his arm to you as he stood tall and unfairly handsome against the crowd. Many other similarly dressed men filled the space. A whole sea of them stood with their wives— for some, their mistresses— flaunting expensive clothing and freshly botoxed faces. 

In similar timing, an uncomfortable thought momentarily entered your mind: 

Were you too, just another shadier and even more disposable reflection of these upper class elites?

You glanced over to stare at Yunho, lingering on the idea of how ridiculous it may appear to someone who knew you were a former Hollywood Boulevard stripper attending a high-society opera performance with her billionaire date. 

However, the flash of anxiety disappears and reshapes itself as soon as you feel the intimidating stares and hear the hushed whispers. Gossip swirls around the crowd of esteemed guests who wondered about who you were— the lady in red accompanying their most well-known and eligible bachelor.

Yunho’s voice saves you from your worries once again.

“I think you’ll like tonight's performance,” he admits, softly calling to your name. He looks down, holding eye contact with you and only you, disregarding any other individual that distracts him from admiring your beauty under this antique chandelier tonight. 

You’re reminded again of how easy you become lost with Yunho.

Lost in his world, even if it didn’t always accept you.

All it takes is a sweet look and you seem to fall right for his stupidly charming manners and protective presence. You smiled back nervously, the rubies embedded in the diamond necklace displayed on your collar bones, rising upwards as you inhaled to swallow back your nerves. 

“There’s a lot of people here.” you muttered the obvious, biting your rouge coloured lips as you looked a little intimidated. 

Yunho chuckles and holds onto your hand tight, leading you effortlessly. 

“Let’s go find our seats then.”

The talk dies down as you arrive on the upper floors, a private balcony reserved with comfortable seats and complimentary opera glasses too. 

You quickly turn to Yunho.

“You hate heights though,” you pointed out, brows furrowing. 

The businessman chuckles, taking a seat and crossing his legs as you stand to admire the balcony. 

“But they’re the best ones.”  

When the curtains rise a few minutes later, revealing the opening act alongside booming orchestral music, your heart nearly jumps out of your chest.

It’s easy to become so immersed from the beginning, eyes glued to the stage for the next two hours as you sat the longest Yunho thinks he’s ever seen you go without fidgeting. 

It felt too soon for the night to transition into what was now the final scene— the trembling voice of the baritone’s final words to his dying lover, as she succumbs to her tragic death in his arms. 

Your heart pounds at the sight, the stage becoming blurry as the music grows stronger for the finale. 

And all at once, the curtains close and the opera ends.  

You clap the loudest out of everyone sitting near your area once it’s over, and Yunho is pleased nonetheless to see your vivid reaction to the performance. 

Carefully, his hand slides over to hold your own. 

“I believe you enjoyed it then?” he teases, taking out a handkerchief and offering it to you as you sniffle on the way to the elevator. An unforgettable ache settles in your chest from the beautiful tragedy, quickly nodding back with no other words to say except how beautiful it was as tears filled your eyes. 

Your first introduction to the world of opera ended that evening with an arm latched onto Yunho’s, following the crowd out into the street of waiting cars and limousines. 

“What was your favorite part?” Yunho asks, the corners of his mouth already raised as he wants to hear more of your thoughts, anticipating an enthusiastic response. 

“God, it has to be the moment from the garden,” you gushed, your cheeks aching from smiling too much. “There’s no other scene that was more romantic!”

He wrapped his coat around you as you spoke on and on about the singing and the storyline, ensuring you weren’t cold as a night breeze swept past. 

“Thank you, Yunho,” you turn to him and say once you finish, reaching the tips of your heels as you try to peck him on the cheek. He leans down to meet you halfway.

“I’ll never forget tonight.” 

Your smile causes Yunho to exhale shakily, trying to calm his beating heart and come up with a proper reply back, before something catches your attention from the corner of your eye.

You do a double take to realize a brightly lit hotdog stand was running just across the street. He follows your line of vision.

“Let’s go,” you grinned, tugging on the sleeves of his suit without sparing him another glance. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Yunho chuckles, judging the dingy street food stand as his brows knit together in a rare display of stubbornness. 

“Yes, but not for that.” 

You almost scoff in his face. “Oh c’mon, Yunho,” you say, interlocking your hands together and insistently dragging him towards the mouth-watering smell.

“You said you were hungry!” 

He had no defense against you. 

When you reach the hotdog stand, the billionaire stands stiff beside you, hands tucked into his pockets in clear hesitation at the questionable sanitary conditions.

“Sweetheart,” he bends down, muttering into your ear whilst pointing towards the unchanged grill.

“That is not safe, nor fine dining.”

Rolling your eyes, Yunho watches helplessly as you step towards the vendor whilst fishing out a few bills from his own wallet in the pocket of the coat draped over you. 

“Two hotdogs with a bit of everything on them, please,” you asked the man, glancing back to the billionaire with an excited smile. 

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little weiner, Yunho.”

He frowns, having kept his arms crossed since he entered the vicinity of the cart. 

“I’m not scared,” he replies calmly. “I just don’t see why anyone would willingly consume something made… from here” he pauses, interpreting the picture of a giddy animated sausage on cart sign.

The vendor being a much older man, shuts your sweet date up with one good stare. 

Two hotdogs in hand, you thank the owner sweetly and bring Yunho off to the side so you can eat. If he was skeptical at first, hopefully he’d be more convinced by the smell of caramelized onions and smoked sausage wafting through your noses as you handed him one. 

He looks at the greasy foil.

“I can have my staff make you something on the jet. Something with actual nutritional—”

But you’ve already beaten him to it, taking your first bite of sausage and bun and drowning out his words as you smiled in bliss. 

“Oh god,” you groaned dramatically, eyes shut as you consumed the satisfying food. 

Yunho watches you carefully with reluctant amusement, one hand still buried in his pockets that has yet to unwrap the silver foiled hotdog. 

Seeing how happy you were makes him reconsider. 

All jokes aside, what was he waiting for? If the taste was that special to you, he wanted to experience it as well. 

Yunho takes his hand out from his pocket and unwraps the foil, bending down to take a big, solid bite encasing sausage, condiments, and toppings. 

It was quiet for a moment, both of you chewing slowly before your date reluctantly smiles with full cheeks, nodding his head.

“It’s good…” 

You grin proudly, swiping a pickled jalapeno slice off of his hotdog.

“Not so bad, right?”

And just like that, you and Yunho shared a casual yet comfortable dinner before heading back onto the private jet. Two hot dog combos and many shared conversations later, fast food wrappers laid scattered across the glass table. A bottle of champagne and fresh white peaches present for dessert. 

“So,” you grinned proudly, shuffling your bare feet closer on the seat as your heels laid discarded somewhere. 

“I just introduced you to your first hotdog, then?”

The bowtie of Yunho’s black tuxedo is long gone, draped carelessly over the armrest, as the older man leans back into the leather seat. The dim cabin lights cast a soft golden hue across his jawline as he gestures to the mess on the table. 

“I’ve had them before,” he corrects, like it’s a fact of deep importance that he’s not that bred in upper class luxury. 

You suspected the opposite.

“Well the ones you had probably weren’t even real,” you argued with a roll of your eyes, imagining hor d'oeuvre cocktail sausages or something else ridiculous. 

“If a ‘real’ hotdog comes from a dingy little stand on the corner of a street, then sure,” he says with a bite of amusement. “I'll let you educate me then.” 

You hold down a smile. “See! You’re learning!”

Yunho shakes his head, revealing a full smile which tells you he’ll let you have this one. 

Who knew this would be so natural with someone like him. That despite the expensive tours and shopping sprees, what fulfilled you the most these past few days was sitting here, barefoot, eating three-dollar hot dogs, discussing life and the events of your separate pasts. 

It’s true that the world you're flying above right now belongs to people like Yunho. People with money, wealth, and unlimited freedom. But right now, up here in these clouds, it feels like this tiny corner of the sky belongs to you too.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asks while sitting across from you, eyebrows raising as he takes another swig of champagne. 

Your head rests against the fabric of the leather seat, eyelids shutting closed as you ponder. 

“It'll be my last day,” you mumbled carefully, the clarity of your words catching you off guard the second they leave your mouth. 

Yunho stills for a moment. 

“That can’t be.” the billionaire murmurs back, holding his gaze on the rim of his wine glass. It doesn’t settle with him well either. 

The cabin goes quiet all of a sudden. Empty, yet filled with realization neither of you wants to name. It was all according to your agreement.

Four days.

Eight thousand dollars.

That was the deal. 

To think you’d place so much weight on a job that was always meant to be short-lived. It was hard to believe time had gone by so quickly.

Very soon, this fairytale lifestyle you’d been living with would disappear with a simple goodbye, and you and Yunho would return to your respective places in the world. Him, conducting meetings, flying in private jets, and bargaining billions over company titles, while you remained as a waitress, barely making enough to afford milk that was past its expiration date.

The chain of events set into motion the night that armed gunman tried to rob the convenience store, had led you somewhere you’d never imagined possible. Meeting Yunho, spending time with him—having him care for you so effortlessly and spoiling you with money, but also more warmth and tenderness than you knew what to do with— felt unreal. 

You’ve spent your whole life yearning for someone like Yunho. But it's hard to consider whether someone like Yunho could ever need or be satisfied with someone like you.

Imperfections and all.

“I feel as though I still know so little about you,” he says, breaking your inner monologue as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. 

“Tell me, what was your past like? I’m curious to know what you were like in your early twenties” he grinned, amused at the thought of an even more bold and unafraid image of yourself.

You find yourself looking away.

Young, dumb, and dancing naked for money. That’s what you were doing in your early twenties. 

“...I used to dance.” you responded with a tinge of hesitation, swallowing lingering discomfort down your throat that always followed when you brought up your past. 

It wasn’t entirely a lie. You just left out the part that you danced to entertain people waving wads of cash that would keep you from resorting to worse situations awaiting you on the streets.

For you, and for countless girls like Miko you’d met during those nights at the club, it had all been about survival. You weren’t completely ashamed of your previous job, and that’s because it was more than just how others saw it and because you knew that it isn’t something anybody can do. 

Sure, at first you thought the experience was manageable. Fun even. Though that was probably because you were young and uninformed. But with no real backup plan and no proper college degree, dancing was a way to get by. Convincing yourself the sore muscles, unfair treatment, and wandering hands were simply things you had to endure. As though your entire existence was for anyone’s taking, disposable and easily forgotten. 

After obtaining your current job, you realized how important it was to make choices that didn’t force you to go back to that life. 

“A dancer?” Yunho repeats. “I never knew you danced,” he smiled warmly. 

“I work as a waitress now” you replied back, unknowingly picking at the nail of your thumb in habit. “It’s not much, but it’s better than what I was doing before”

It was at this moment you found yourself standing on the edge of something you didn’t know how to step into, words staying stuck behind your teeth. Telling Yunho about your past felt less like honesty and more like setting yourself up to be judged—like another lap dance you weren’t sure you had the guts to finish.

Yunho doesn’t rush you. He never does.

Instead, he studies you in that observative way of his. Like he already knows everything you can’t bring yourself to say. He exhales softly, standing from his seat to shift closer beside you, pulling a soft, folded blanket from somewhere.

Without asking, he drapes it around your shoulders, tucking it in as though he’s trying to keep you from slipping too far into your own thoughts. Then, you feel his hand come up to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch careful enough that it felt almost like permission.

“You know, people like to create stories out of what they can see.” His gaze drops for a moment, deciding how much of himself he can give you in return.

“In my case, it’s a bit ironic. Everyone sees the heir. The family name. The brand that can become just another financial asset…”

You stare back into his eyes, listening carefully. 

“People think they understand the shape of my life just because they can name it.” Yunho states laced with a heavy tone.

“But what most people don’t see… is that I was adopted. And a lot of what I’ve been called—what I’m expected to be—was decided long before I even understood what any of it meant.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, unadorned and leaving you in a bit of shock. You think back to the conversation with the Chairwoman, the night Yunho had that business dinner. 

“No one can learn much when they're surrounded with shadows, darling. But in truth, that’s all that Yunho has had up until now.”

“Business makes it worse,” he continues quietly. “Because it’s never really about truth. It’s about perception. About what people choose to believe is true. And sometimes that perception gets twisted—by ambition, by greed, and…” his words die off, knuckles clenching around the fabric of his pants as if he’s recalling a distasteful memory.

“... by people you thought would know better. Even family.”

There’s a brief pause, something heavier flickering behind his expression. You already know what he means by your conversation with Madame Choi.

She hinted towards something about Yunho's past, the strained relationship he had with his relatives clawing for the title of heir.

In an act of support, you reach and grab his shaking hand, taking it away from digging itself in him and interlocking fingers with his own. 

It was your way of telling him you were here. That you were listening. 

“I’ve always had people close to me try to take pieces of my life like it was just… up for claiming,” he says, more factually than bitter. “And I learned early that no one is really what they look like from the outside. Not completely.”

Panic settles in as you worry he's caught on.

Instead, his eyes return to you now softer, shifting the weight away.

“I’m not telling you this because I’m perfect. I’m telling you because I’m not. No one is.”

A small breath leaves him, like he’s releasing something he’s held for too long. Yunho leans closer, careful with what comes next.

“Y’know, I think everyone is deserving of a bit of grace. To be given another chance. Even that stupid boy, Choi San, who won’t let me buy his grandparents company” he jokes flatly, gaze flickering over your face when you let out a small chuckle. 

He thinks he could crack a million more bad jokes if it means he’ll hear that sound again. 

Yunho pulls you much closer, his nose almost hitting your own as he refuses to let your strict self-judgment distort the image you carried of yourself.

“So if you feel out of place, like you’re an imposter in this world, let me tell you I’ve been doing the same all my life. I feel as though I’m living a lie every single fucking day” he mutters, the two of you sharing breaths now from the close proximity. 

Your breathing changes, feeling the warmth of his body close to your own. 

The billionaire’s voice softens, keeping it steady. 

“As someone who lies to live, and works among people who lie just as easily, I’ve learned to value authenticity. It’s not about what others think." he states.

"People will always see what they want to see anyway.”

Suddenly, his eyes flicker down to your soft lips, parting with a distinct type of desire. But he doesn’t kiss them just yet. 

“And what I see is a very bright…”

First, a gentle kiss to your forehead. 

“Very beautiful…”

A kiss to your nose.

And he stops in front of your lips before whispering softly. The truth he's starting to believe in more than his painstaking business deal.

“...very special woman.”

Silence fills the space between you, the sounds of the plane engine whirring as you look into the eyes of the man sitting in front of you.

Yunho releases a small breath when you lean forward to collide your lips with him, connecting your mouths in yearning and full vulnerability. The air in his lungs is knocked out, hungrily reaching and grabbing at each other just to feel the sensation of your lips connecting in undwindling passion. 

A squeeze and grope follow here and there with each other's bodies, tongues swirling with utter obsession.

Yunho immediately reciprocates your bold move by pulling your body closer to his, fighting a straining feeling that builds in the confines of his pants. It doesn’t feel like it’s enough for Yunho, so his two strong arms grip around your waist, pulling your lips apart momentarily in a surprised, breathy moan, as you’re now maneuvered to straddle thick, strong thighs. 

“I meant everything I said,” he whispers breathily, a large hand coming to stroke the back of your head softly as the other grazes your face so you look at him properly. 

“You are special."

An overwhelming sense of gratitude floods your emotions. You didn’t notice it at first, but fresh tears have escaped your eyes, coating your eyelashes as you look back at Yunho.

The older one brings a thumb to cascade over your wet cheeks. 

“C’mon now, don’t cry sweetheart” he grins softly, feeling the need to protect yet also tease the sight of you becoming all teary eyed and begging for his touch.

He presses a quick kiss back to your lips once more, pulling back to whisper tantalizingly into your year.

“You haven't even taken my cock yet.” 

That’s when you realize tears weren’t just dripping down your cheeks, but now also down your legs.

Yunho was determined to show just how hungry he was for you. Just how much he wanted to love you, to fuck you, to taste and share only the good things in life with the women he just met four days ago in a dingy convenience store on Hollywood Boulevard.

That night must've really changed both your lives.

Whimpers escape your throat as you attempt to taste Yunho’s devotion. Your knees struggle to support your body weight, keeping you hovering over his crotch with carefulness not to sit down on the aching mound just yet, though you’re curious of the sensation it'll bring.

Yunho lets his hands settle around your waist, grip firm as he releases tension you were holding on to, pulling apart to finally give you both some breath.

“C’mon sweetheart. You can sit on it.”

He was starving for a taste of you. 

“Yunho.”

Your breath hitches as his hands wander, pushing your thighs to relax and spread even more so your wet core settles over the gigantic mound of fabric hiding his leaking, hard cock. 

“Fuck,” he stutters, his breath tickling your neck and he inhaled your scent deeply. He was unstoppable, he just had to feel you. 

“I want you,” he mutters, coming out muffled against bare skin. “Want you so bad.” 

You were no different. Pawing at the buttons of his crisp white shirt that was becoming wrinkled with every passing second you gripped and released the material, finding something to hold on to as your hips rocked back and forth slowly, nudging your leaking bud against imposing layers. 

“Ah- Yunho-” you gasped, feeling him kiss the crook of your neck, his mouth growing wider and more insatiable as he trails further down, drool forming near the corners of his mouth. 

Never of you had been this needy before.

“You’ll let me have a taste, won’t you sweetheart?” he groans, letting a large hand smack the flesh of your ass covered by your dress. A whine rolls off your tongue, echoing in the quiet passenger cabin as you nod fervently, disoriented sounds leaving you while clutching onto his shoulders to keep your soaking cunt attached to his pants. 

Yunho brings a hand to slide over your shivering bare thighs, exposed to the cool air because of the small leg slit you had on the side of your dress. With every touch, the slit stretches wider in your position, making you weak to the billionaire’s greed. 

He grits his teeth, staring at your breathless expression when he shoves your lace panties to the side and lets the long digits of his index, middle and ring finger slide against the slick of your cunt. 

“Jesus, you’re fucking soaked.” he grunts, throwing his head back as his digits do all the work in opening you up for him. Then all at once, he dives all three in, stretching you out perfectly like no had ever done before.

You scream, overwhelmed by how full you already feel with his two thick fingers. 

“Oh p-pleaseee- fuck! s’too much Yunho!” you pant like a whore, making him stretch his fingers even wider to feel you suck him in so lewdly. 

“Slow down—” 

“Do you feel how deep I am, sweetheart?” he cuts you off, his hips jutting up so he too can achieve some sort of relief. You notice, a hand reaching down, traveling through the tight web of limbs help him by laying your palm over his hardness. Just a simple touch and—

“Hands off.” Yunho quickly orders, bringing your hand away as he holds onto your wrist tightly. 

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” he scolds, his business tone coming out as he orders you to only take his fingers, planning to save his cock for the one thing he wants most:

Your swollen, puffy cunt.

It’s incredibly unfair, how helpless you feel as his right hand pummels his digits faster into your hole, the sound of filthy squelching noises filling the room as he doesn’t even mind your cries of ecstasy.

“How many d’you think I’ve got inside you, hm?” he toys with you, getting off on your shaking body and quivering nub like the perverted CEO he was. You can’t even answer from the moans you’re releasing.

And here you thought Yunho was going to fuck you gently after all that talking. 

“Fucking tight,” a breath escapes his lips without even knowing.

You squirmed, eyes squeezing shut.

It seems as though there’s been a huge misunderstanding on the type of man Yunho was.

The businessman won’t waste time treating you like the queen you were— showering you with gifts, bags, clothes, and jewelry that can make you start to think he wants to put a ring on you and have you carry his babies. 

Which, with the way you’re taking him right now— quivering and crying out his name in broken little whimpers, even as his wrist starts to ache from how long he's been bullying his fingers in and out— he’s starting to genuinely consider it.

But you’ve been expertly deceived.

Yunho isn’t a gentleman. He’s one sick, obsessed bastard that longs to touch, finger, and fuck your gummy walls to a state of complete ecstasy.

“I… I really can’t hold on much longer—”

He loves that. Loves that you’re broken down to a mess of slick and sweat like this. He latches his mouth back onto yours as he feels you clench harder with every passing minute around his digits. 

“Gonna cum for me? My sweet, sweet girl is gonna cum?- hah fuck-” he coos, holding back and focusing on making you spill first.

He was almost there. He just needed to make you cum first and prep you real good so you could take him raw. 

“Yes Yes fuck- ngh Yes, Yunho–” you sobbed, too overstimulated to say anything else. Yunho releases the wrist he’s been holding onto since before, letting his hand come up to swipe some spit from his mouth before he shoves his wet fingers into the open cleavage of your dress, thumbing your sensitive tits with his drool.

Oh god, now he’s really done it.

“Cum for me, sweetheart.” he grunts in one final thrust.

That’s what sends you over the edge completely, shoving your cries and open mouth moans into the fabric of Yunho’s dress shirt, hiding your face in the crook of his neck as your body convulses from the intense orgasm. Soft praises reach the shell of your ear.

“Look at you..” He coos proudly, kissing you gently on your cheek.

“Took my fingers like a fucking champ.”

You wince at the sudden emptiness as he pulls out, despite him trying to slide his fingers slowly for your sake. 

You lean back to watch the man with tired eyes, feeling a shiver run down your spine as Yunho maintains full eye contact while bringing his tongue out to lick at your slick. Closing his eyes and groaning pathetically at how sweet you tasted.

“Fucking pervert,” you exhaled, ignoring the deep laughs proudly leaving the CEO’s sweaty chest under his unbuttoned dress shirt.

It’s not long before the rest of the buttons are opened, revealing his toned chest as the top of your dress gets shoved down to spill out your soft tits for Yunho to latch on to. 

“Yunho!” you reply in shock, not realizing how fast he was going to dive into them. “Slow down!”

“But I’m in love with your tits.” he confesses though it comes out muffled. As if justifying his hunger.

You’re still straddling Yunho’s thighs, though now, you’re in an awkward stage of being partially naked, partially clothed, with only the essential barriers out of the way for you to take his cock properly now. 

He unbuckles his pants to free his member, letting the long, girthy tip slap you against your abdomen as your dress has become ruined with the way it’s scrunched so high to reveal your ass completely. 

Yunho takes a hold of his shaft and pumps himself a couple times. You watch him as he does so, a spark shared between you two just as he taps his tip against your puffy folds. He’s ridiculously proud of the way he’s prepped you so well for him. 

“Ready?” he stills, taking a moment to hold back from the obsession to really make sure you wanted this. Wanted him. 

You nod, grinning softly. 

Long forgotten is the conversation you were going to have with him about your past. Now replaced with a bodily confession that was more important to you and him right now. 

You figure you’ll tell him later…

“Just take me, Yunho,” you pleaded softly.

He smiles, kissing you again as he finally swats his cock in between the leaky opening.

All at once, you feel his incredible girth that you were waiting for this whole time, stretching you out, and throwing your head back as far as it would go.

You nod, eyes clasped shut at the delicious feeling you craved. No one could fuck you this good again. 

“F-Fuuck, gorgeous…” 

Yunho keeps his strokes against your pulsating walls slowly but so precisely it drives you to the brink of insanity. And yet, he can’t seem to stop watching you in awe the entire time. The way you let out soft screams when he hits so deep, right in the perfect spot. The way your hair is let loose, messy and free while your back arches so sinfully yet beautifully. 

Your body felt holy. A temple for him to worship.

And he's purring in your ear, telling you how good you are to him, how well you're taking his fingers and how beautiful you look taking them

The squelching sound from before comes back, even louder this time as it accompanies each skilful pump of Yunho’s cock instead of his fingers. 

As you’re babbling upon his sheer length, Yunho clasps onto one side of your hips. Using the rest of the energy and strength he has in him, he helps you bounce on his dick, riding your godforsaken high through the shaking of your thighs. 

You squeeze around him, making him curse wildly. It’s enough to also whimper from the stinging feeling that comes back each time. 

“Please—”

You tense, feeling a familiar feeling creeping up on you.

“Please what?” He held firm even as you glared weak little daggers down at his face, looking up with his shirt open and a burning desire behind wild eyes. 

“Yunho I’m not kidding, I’m g-gonna–”

He’s too distracted, too lost in the intoxicating sight of his cock drilling through your hole, having not taken his eyes from where you were connected. He already knows what you mean. How close you were to finishing. So he changes his pace, rutting relentlessly, hips snapping harder as he chases the view of your tits shaking in his face, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck—yes.”

“Gonna cum?” He asks with baited breath. “Gonna let loose for me, my love?

You just whine, crying and bouncing and nodding and nodding because that was all you were capable of doing right then and there.

In a complete mess of sweaty limbs and hot, flushing cum, you both reach your pinacles. The pace turns slower, enough for you to hug Yunho closer and whisper words of chastisement for how rough he was with you. When Yunho calmly kisses you and asks if it was too much though, you can’t help but shake your head and sink your pussy deeper, showing him that you still loved every second of it. 

Just as he’s about to grab a tissue from nearby and clean you up, a soft bleep of the intercom echoes a slightly discomforted voice, stilling only Yunho’s body who has enough consciousness to register the current situation. You're too far gone, using a small remaining amount of energy to grip onto the fabric of his shirt for dear life.

“Um—Mr. Jeong,” the pilot’s voice crackles awkwardly through the speaker, followed by a brief pause that feels far too long to be professional. 

“We’ll be arriving at the hotel in about ten minutes, so I, uh…” another cough. “I ask that you please observe the seatbelt sign and fasten your seatbelts as we prepare for landing.”

A beat passes, raising your head to look drowsily up at Yunho when you hear a much quieter, comment from the pilot: 

“And—um. My apologies for the interruption.”

A small smile creeps upon your tired face, relief washing over you as Yunho holds you close and reassures you.

“Don’t move. I’ll take care of you.”

The promise sounds as soft as he’s ever been. He leans forward and grabs a glass of water for you to take a quick sip from, followed by a cloth to clean your slick.

“I’ll give you everything, all the money I have,” Yunho mutters in a state of hypnosis, eyes glistening as he looks down at you lying against his chest so peacefully.

You wonder if your ears deceive you when you hear a quiet plea that borders on begging.

“Just stay with me longer…” 

The last thing you remember is warmth.

And releasing a soft “Okay”.

When you come back to your senses, you find yourself stirring awake in a large, familiar bed, a vast cold area of mattress greeting you from beside. The empty sheets of cotton and silk surround you with a bare feeling of comfort as you squint at the clock on the bedside table. 

Four am. And Yunho was nowhere in sight. 

Your bare body shivers as you sit up and the covers fall down, exposing you to the empty room. Your head spins a little, probably from all the drinks you had earlier in the plane.

The plane.

Suddenly, it comes rushing back, the events that happened on the jet. Yunho’s confession — his way of telling you that you didn’t need to feel ashamed of yourself to him. The way you were going to tell him about your past and the reasons that led you to this point. 

And then the sex.

Your core almost tingles at the memory with Yunho. Fucking you so good you passed out unconscious. 

Sighing as you rubbed your temples, you reach for the nearest piece of fabric that could warm you up— his navy robe that sits on a chair nearby. 

The soft material weighs you down, it's sleeves clearly too big for you but not minding much as you step over the soft, carpeted hotel floor. When you shuffle out of the room and down the steps to the first floor, the wide city view through the windows captures endless buildings glowing against the night, showing a city that never seemed to need sleep at all.

Quite similar to someone you trying to find. 

As if on cue, your body does a little jump back in surprise when you turn and catch Yunho leaning against the marble countertop of the open kitchen, bare chested as a pair of blue gingham pajama pants hung low on his waist. 

“Jesus!” you muttered, squinting when you saw the tall man turn with what appeared to be a tub of half-eaten vanilla ice cream. The metal spoon was warm in his hands from grasping it for so long. 

“Did I wake you?” Yunho replies calmly, paying you no mind.

“I’m sorry,” he coos, like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

You sigh, gently paddling over cold tiles as your hands reach and grasp the ice cream like it was yours. You inspect the container, brows quirking.

Yunho lets you do as you please, as if everything belonged to you. 

You sigh as the chilling taste of creamy rich vanilla hits your mouth, using his spoon to dig a shallow crevice in the melted dessert and feed on it. 

“You didn’t wake me…” you pointed out, feeling the man dip his head into the crook of your neck and leave kisses all along the area. You shivered from his cold lips.

“What are you doing up so late?” You asked, enjoying your ice cream whilst Yunho enjoyed you, inhaling your soft scent once more.

“You seemed so peaceful, I didn’t wanna disturb you” he mumbled. You smile quietly to yourself, realizing how this big, intimidating CEO of a powerful business corporation could easily mimic a lost puppy just by being in your presence.

“Yeah right. You probably just wanted this whole tub for yourself.” you muttered, feeling his lips turn upwards against your skin. 

Yunho raises his head to face you properly, caressing your face as he focuses on your features. You swallow carefully as you ask the next question.

“What happened after we landed?” 

His face is illuminated by moonlight. Yunho’s lips slowly grinned at the memory. “I cleaned you up, buckled you in, and we landed on the rooftop of the hotel where I brought you to my room to rest” he stated, bringing his right thumb to brush away the corner of your mouth as ice cream was left smeared. He brings it to his mouth, sucking the sweetness without breaking eye contact.

“Was I too much?” He can’t help but ask with caution, leveling with you as he gazes deep into your eyes. A look of concern flashes over his face. 

You shook your head, amused by his protectiveness. He brings his arms to connect around your waist, hugging you closer to inspect the hickies littered all over your neck. He almost gets hard again from the sight and hearing your answer at the same time.

“Nope. I liked it” you assured him, whispering seductively to his ear.

You break into laughter as Yunho playfully tickles the sides of your body in response. 

To be fair, your hickies weren’t that bad compared to his shoulder and back muscles left with various bites and scratches. Lingering evidence of hanging onto Yunho as he fucked you so well.

“Of course you did.” he sneers at you proudly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips as you swallow a bite of cream. 

You both taste incredibly sweet, and you fear it’s not just from the sugar. 

“Yunho..” you began as you pulled away, watching his eyes narrow in on your lips as he leaned forward in greed of another kiss. You stopped him as you put the ice cream container down the counter and rested your hands against his bare chest.

“Did you mean what you said on the plane?”

His eyes soften. 

“Of course I did. I think you’re a very spec—”

“—Not just about me. But about wanting me to stay… longer?” you drawled out carefully, looking up at him for an explanation.

Yunho pauses for a moment.

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” you confess, breaking a wonderful illusion with realistic questions you knew you couldn’t just ignore.

Yunho furrows his brows.

“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?” he says, scanning your expression. 

When you look down, refusing to meet his eyes, Yunho gently hoists you up to sit on the counter, coming closer to look at you as his hands lean against the kitchen countertop and cage you in. 

“Talk to me, sweetheart” he pleads, his tone gentle and calm.

You inhale once and exhale quietly, waiting with baited breath to think of how you wanted to say this. 

You slosh the spoon around in the tub of melted ice cream beside you, searching for a distraction.

“I really don’t think I belong here,” you uttered softly, reality hitting you. 

Your thoughts are elsewhere—back to the history of judgement and outcasting you’ve experienced from so many people when they found out you were formerly a stripper.

How easily affection can be conditional.

Like the moment they all learned the truth, you stopped becoming human and started becoming temporary. Disposable. Something to indulge in quietly, then look down on openly.

Your own family, friends back home, even previous partners as well.

The worst thing about it was that they’re right. In their eyes, how could you not be easily discarded?

You believe Yunho would eventually think the same as well.

Cause at the end of the day, all you were was an escort that was paid for the sum of four days, just to provide him with company and sex that was hidden in various contract terms, that could never actually amount to more than what was agreed upon. 

He stills, as if he can listen to what you were thinking.

“But I think you’re exactly where you should be,” he says with such certainty. 

Your heart clenches from looking up and seeing Yunho continuously shower you with this endless affection you didn’t deserve. 

In habit, you begin to deny him first for your own sake. Refusing to get your hopes up as you tried to pull the billionaire from the outrageous idea. 

“I’m not,” you swallowed back, shaking your head. “I-I’m really not because if you realized what I’ve done, Yunho, you’d feel disgusted like any other-”

“Why should it matter where either of us are from or what we’ve done?” he protests, not holding back. 

“We’re together now, aren’t we?”

You exhale uncomfortably from his words. Probably because you know he’s being so sincere with you like he's always been, even when you haven’t done the same with him. 

Yunho takes the ice cream carton from out of your hand, placing it gently on the counter and slotting his body in between your spread thighs. You gasp, flinching when the cold marble comes in contact with your skin.

“I’ll prove it to you.”

It's not long before Yunho is eating you out, bare ass against his kitchen counter, grabbing onto cold marble for support as his jaw opens and closes with feverish tasting.

The conversation can’t slip away like this again!… you plead, brain fogging as Yunho presses compliments against the skin of your thighs.

“Don't bring yourself down, love.”

He pulls back, smooth, strong chest rising and falling as he captures the image of you spread out for him, moonlight catching on your wet, shiny bud as he gathers something in his mouth.

You jump when a forceful contact hits your sensitive mound.

Yunho just spit a dollop of saliva onto your pussy, watching with baited breath and pure obsession as it drips down your slit and into the deeper crevice. He shudders when your hole instinctively sucks it in.

Fucking. Hell.

“Yunho...” you muttered with a firmer voice, trying not to let your temptations distract you from what you’ve been meaning to tell him. 

If he has to hear the truth, it needs to come from out of your own mouth.

A faint ringing noise echoes from across the marble counter, a corded telephone echoing as a call comes through.

You look up, neck straining as you question the ringing so early in the morning.

“S’fine. Probably just front desk” he hushes, closing his eyes as he laps up your juices, his arms bulging as he grips your thighs open to prevent them from closing.

“Shouldn’t you answer it still?” you squirmed, moaning as Yunho shook his head, causing his sharp nose to brush against your nub too.

“Nope.” he mumbles, utterly lost in between your legs. It just doesn't sit right with you still.

“YUNHO” you breathed out loudly, finding the strength to push him back and grasp his wet chin, staring back at pussy-drunk eyes. 

“I think you should answer it” you huff firmly, growing weak when he sighs and pecks you on the mouth, sharing the taste of slick.

With a groan, his long upper body reaches for the phone, picking it up as he presses one last chaste kiss to your lips, sliding his hand on your spread thighs to grope you in the ass.

You slap him hard, yelping as he smirks evilly and brings the receiver to his ear.

“Jeong Yunho speaking”, eyes never leaving your own as he continues to kiss your legs. 

You shuffle, biting your lips at the ticklish feeling, unaware of the storm waiting on the other end of the line.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

It was his lawyer, Patrick. And he sure didn’t sound as happy Yunho was at the moment.

“Busy” he hums, continuing to tickle you with his obnoxious kisses. 

You scold him, softening when he intertwines his hand with your own.

“I can tell.” His lawyer’s voice comes out flat, hiding a grim, menacing tone. Papers shuffle aggressively through the speaker. 

“Tell me something, Yunho—was this weekend supposed to secure the Marinex corporation, or was it supposed to become a vacation?”

Patrick has finally earned his attention because Yunho’s expression immediately cools. 

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Patrick says bluntly. “You skip one of the most important acquisition meetings this quarter, leave the Choi family sitting there questioning whether you’re capable of rebuilding their company, and suddenly nobody can get a hold of you.”

Your smile leaves as you watch his expression fade, clutching Yunho’s robe closer to your body.

The CEO straightens slightly, forgetting his playful demeanor and replacing it with his business side he had coexisted with for all of his adult life. 

“I’ve talked to their grandson,” he argues. “The contract wasn’t finalized because of hesitation on Mr. Choi’s part, not because of me. I clearly pushed the agenda that we could rebuild his family's company and remake it into something triple the price he was offering–”

“No, Yunho” Patrick cuts him off coldly. “His grandmother made him hesitate because they think you’ve become distracted.”

A tense silence follows. 

“And we both know why.”

Yunho’s jaw tightens.

“It’s because of that girl, isn’t it?” Patrick mocks condescendingly into the phone. 

His eyes flick toward you instinctively. You stare back, a lump forming in your throat.

“Patrick,” he warns quietly, jaw clenching. But his lawyer continues.

“Well guess what? While you were off playing with your playboy bunny in Beverly Hills, the Choi family did their own digging.”

Yunho’s grip on the phone stiffens. 

“And I think you’re going to want to see what they found.” With a sigh, Patrick leans into his office chair and lights a cigarette while speaking into the phone.

“I sent a package to your suite and had them leave it on your kitchen counter.”

His eyes dart toward the thick brown file that’s gone unnoticed, sitting by itself on the edge across from you both. 

Your eyes slowly followed, grasping Yunho’s arm carefully as an ominous feeling fell upon the room. 

“Yunho, what is it?”

He leans forward and turns the cover.

The moment he opens the file, the air leaves the room. Photographs stare back at him instantly.

You beneath neon lights. Onstage. Lines of white powder served on your chest. Contorted into a vision of pure sex for hungry clients to see. 

Patrick puffs out a cloud of smoke as his voice lowers. 

“She’s a stripper, Yunho. You paid eight grand to let some washed up, crack-whore stripper spend the weekend with you.” Patrick snickers, venom laced in his voice. 

It all comes crashing down in an instant.

Because no matter how warm Yunho had made you feel, the truth of who you were finally followed you here too.

And suddenly, you feel so entirely exposed. Even while wearing a robe with his initials on it.

The carton of sticky vanilla ice cream somehow becomes spilled upon the marble countertops, leaving one giant mess.

At least this one could be solved. Your’s was a bit more complicated to say.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Yunho states quietly, calling out your name. 

It’s frightening how calm he is. Not a single expression of disgust, resentment or anger building upon his face despite knowing how badly he must want to throw those awful photos in your direction.

Yunho would never. He’s too good for that. 

His question cuts deeper than it should. Typically, you would have retaliated with a bit more emotion. Confess with tears and beg for forgiveness as you explained your reasons. 

Instead, your laugh comes out hollow. This was the end of your contract either way. 

“Would you have looked at me the same if I did?”

His brows pull together immediately. “That’s not what I asked—”

“You didn’t know,” you interrupt, stepping back from him. “That’s the only reason any of this worked.”

Yunho exhales sharply, rubbing a hand across his jaw as the remaining pressure from the call still hangs over him like smoke. 

Patrick's quiet threat was more than just targeted to you. His words also held importance to that fact that if Yunho wanted to secure his highly expensive grand scheme of business relations he’s been building upon since his parent’s death — particularly by avoiding a news scandal with a former stripper— he would have to pull himself together and take care of his image with Marinex corporation first, as they had the upper hand in this case. And that meant surrendering to the Choi's.

“You liked me because you thought I could help you play it safe.” you fought back. "To relieve your needs and make you feel better."

“This isn’t about that.”

You look at him in disbelief. “Then what is it about?”

“The Marinex deal has completely fallen apart,” he says, frustration finally slipping into his tone. “Patrick’s losing his mind, the board’s probably already heard about this, someone has been investigating you, and now that bastard San is probably reveling in the fact that he’s gotten the best piece of dirt on me to give the press if I don’t—”

“So I'm the dirt.” you realize.

Yunho’s expression shifts slightly. The room falls silent again.

He sighs, rubbing his face as he retracts his words. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, it is,” you mutter. “You’re just trying not to say it directly. Just admit it Yunho. I fucked it all up. Your business deal, your family image–”

“Fuck the image!” he barks as he steps towards you abruptly. “If anything, I want to know exactly why you hid this from me.” His eyes widening as he grasps your wrist.

“Clearly you’ve debated telling me even before I asked about your past, meanwhile I told you my own fucked up story with complete truth” he breathes heavily.

“When you told me you ‘danced’ —jesus christ— I thought it meant at parties or events!” Yunho states in disbelief.

“Well that’s not exactly a lie, Yunho.” you spit back, tears forming in your eyes. 

“I did dance. I just did it in heavy ass stripper heels and not pointe shoes.” you snapped, standing straight as you walked closer to his face. It’s dangerous how much he’s letting you run your mouth at him. 

“Why? Does that turn you off?” you challenged. “Do I make you disgusted? As if you’ve I’m used goods?” you plaster on a fake smirk as painful tears release from your eyes.

The vein on the side of Yunho’s neck bulges as he clenches his jaw, hands coming to rest on his hips as warns you in a tone you’ve never heard him use before. 

“Stop that. You can be a real piece of work when you’re angry, you know that?” he snaps, voice sharp enough to cut through the glass window of the city skyline. Slivers of gold and orange dance around the nightly blue as dawn begins to break, signaling the day has only just begun.

Yunho’s chest rises as he stares at you, confliction flashing across his face before frustration wins again.

“You think this is about me being disgusted?” Yunho breaks bitterly, dragging a hand through his hair. “You really think that’s the part I care about?”

“Well what else could it fucking be?” you fire back immediately.

“It’s the fact that you never trusted me enough to tell me the truth!”

The room falls silent with thick tension. You even have to look away for a moment, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. 

When you begin to understand how Yunho feels, a wave of indignation washes it back.

“Do you think it was easy for me?” You grit as you turn your head back. “The times I felt like I had to be someone else just to be in the room with you?” you raised your voice, fresh hot tears streaming down your face. 

The CEO blinks softly, guilt filling his chest. 

You shake your head, walking away from the conversation and towards the bedroom to retrieve your things. You’ve had enough of Beverly Hills and stupid high society.

But Yunho still follows, hot on your trail. 

“No. I never wanted you to change. I wanted you. And if I ever made you feel that way…” he begins, clenching his fists as he owns up to his mistake.

“I’m sorry.” he apologized, wanting you to look at him. But you couldn’t handle his apology, nor the painful fact that it came so easily for him. That unlike any other partners you’ve previously had, Yunho was the first to chase you after hearing you were a stripper, providing the bare minimum and more. 

With embarrassment, anger, and your dignity on the line, you rush to grab your items, looking for the worn out bag you arrived here with and ignoring the boxes of luxury clothes and shoes Yunho gifted you this weekend.

“Listen to me” he states, frantically calling for your name to set the record straight, 

“I’m not angry because you’re a stripper. I’m disappointed because you lied.” he emphasizes, using a tone of voice that makes you want to barf from how grown-up it is. 

Perhaps it was also because secretly, deep down in your heart, you know that what Yunho is saying is far more productive than the childish show you’re putting on right now, hiding and running away with embarrassment of getting caught. 

“You looked me in the eye and told me you were a dancer.” he states, pointing a finger at you as he lays down the facts. “You built a version of yourself just to keep me from seeing the real you.”

“Well, of fucking course!” you snap, voice cracking despite yourself. “Because this is what always happens! News flash, Yunho, this is LA. People lie here all the time. They sell whatever version of themselves they need just to claw their way higher up the chain.”

Your gaze hardens as you step closer to tell him.

“And I’ve seen you do the exact same thing.”

Yunho stiffens, towering over you as he watches you suddenly shove off the suffocating robe to change into your panties and underwear laying on the ground beside him. Not caring if you have to change in front of him mid-argument. 

If anything, the arguments just come hurdling back even stronger this time. 

“Well what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He presses, voice rising.

“Oh come on, Yunho. You think the corporate men of America are any different than what I did? That dancing naked is any different than the bullshit you put on everyday while pretending you’re doing something noble and important? You screw people over for their money! You’re a capitalist dickface that attacks smaller businesses!” 

“If you even understood a fraction of the things I’m responsible for — the companies that depend on my management of their shares, the people that work for me—“

“ —And I would know because I was one of them.”

A look of hurt flashes across his face. 

“You meant more than that.” He responds quietly.

You bite down on your lip, scoffing. 

“If I meant more than that then why are you angry at yourself then? Why are you holding back on the blame you want to put on me for ruining your deal and for scandalizing your entrepreneur image?” You’ve reached a tipping point. A point where you find yourself spiraling with anger and resentment at both Yunho and yourself. 

“Just admit it, Yunho. I’m disgraceful. I’m the one who’s embarrassing. A liar for trying to survive in a world that was always meant for people like you.” 

His voice is strict, calling for your name to slow down and listen to his words but you don’t.

Your bra strap snaps against your skin as you adjust it aggressively, looking around before snatching a random slip-on dress from the pile of clothing to wear as you collect your bag and leave the room in a hurry.

Shouts of your name echo again.

Yunho rushes behind, taking far fewer strides than yourself to keep up with the pace. 

“I get that you think there's a difference between someone like me and you. That there are different titles we are associated with in society.” he says as you roll your eyes.

“But that’s not what I saw during the time we spent together. I always tried to treat you equally.” he points out. 

“I told you things. Things I’ve never told anyone else. You made me feel like I could trust you. But then I find out you’ve been keeping this part of you locked up like it’s something ugly. Like you’re something ugly—“

“Because I am, Yunho! What is the point? That I took my clothes off for money before I ever let you touch me? That I didn’t fit the fantasy?” 

He runs his hands through his hair, trying to reason with you through gritted teeth. “I’m telling you I don’t fucking care about a fantasy! I care about you. Your safety, and the fact that you looked me in the eye and didn’t trust me with the truth. That I’m just one more guy you had to perform for.”

You exhale with a shaky breath. How could you tell him right here that that was the problem. He’s turned into someone with far more value than the guys of your past. It was too much to imagine how he’d react to that piece of news in this situation as well.

Shaking your head as you walk away overwhelmed from the conversation, a hand suddenly reaches out and grabs you with a solid grip. Yunho pulls you to look at his face properly, practically seething as frustration wears his serious expression down. 

“When someone older speaks to you, you listen, do you understand?” he mutters quietly, holding firm but not hurting you. 

You look up stunned. Your throat tightens, tears threatening to spill as you immediately throw his hands off of you.

“You don’t get to act as betrayed as you are right now. You have no idea what people become the second they hear what I was.”

Yunho’s expression hardens, but not in anger this time.

“And you decided I’d become one of them before even giving me the chance not to.”

You can see the conflict in his face now—the exhaustion, the pressure, the disbelief at everything unraveling all at once. But instead of comforting you, the hesitation only confirms your fears.

Your chest tightens painfully. Sighing as the hot, molten anger melts to reveal the cold truth you always come back to after surviving in this world and by forgetting your fairytale books.

“You paid for four days, Yunho.” you force a sore voice out. 

“That was all this was ever supposed to be.”

His eyes slightly widen in alarm when you throw the towel into the ring. 

“Don’t say it like that. Don't do what I think–”

“But that's exactly it, Yunho. I’m not gonna do anything.” you say, straightening the strap of your bag on your shoulder as you turn. You reach for the door handle despite his calls of your name. 

“We’re not done with this conversation!” he swears, eyes glistening as he holds back tears in panic. But you ignore it all.

“You know the worst part?” you begin, voice breaking as you finally tell him through quiet sobs. 

“I really did want to tell you. A hundred times, I really did. And I’m sorry Yunho, but every time I looked at you… I panicked.” 

“Why?” Yunho immediately asks as he walks further, tears falling as the stupid facades you’ve both put up with now crumble. “Fear of money? Of being disposed of?” He answers, guilt shooting through his heart at the flawed way he’d been living. The companies he's broken down. The people he’s cornered for their titles and shares. 

Money meant nothing to him anymore. Not if you were threatening to leave.

But it wasn’t any of those things.

“It’s because you started to make me think I wasn’t disposable.” you responded back, staring at the man in front of you. Your expression softens. 

“I don’t know how to be someone who gets chosen, Yunho, because being chosen doesn’t last forever. You could spend the rest of this month with me and still find that you grow tired of me, and things would fall apart just as easily as this contract was formed.” you predicted through bitter tears.

Then why don't you let me choose you forever? Yunho asks himself. 

In reality, he should’ve said it out loud to you, but he too was clouded with fear. Fear of moving too fast. Of being too sudden and scaring you with a hasty decision that didn't read the room or considered you.

Your body moves first, inching closer to the door.

He calls your name firmly, trying to stop you. For a second, you almost do. But looking back to see Yunho standing with his hands by his side — revealing momentary hesitation, as if contemplating what move he should make next — that tiny moment of hesitation makes your heart sink completely. 

So you walk past him, rushing a goodbye and leaving the penthouse in silence as Yunho remains the only one standing.

Alone. Back to how it was before you entered his life.

LA was one of the stranger places to call home. 

It wasn’t always welcoming, but it wasn’t completely foreign either. Years of survival had changed the bright-eyed, determined young woman you were when you first arrived, to slowly adapt to the fast-paced life that brought more disappointments than fairytale stories. 

Perhaps that’s why you felt the need to cut your story so short. For a city filled with people chasing dreams so desperately, it was important to know when things have gotten out of hand. 

Back in your run down flat shared with your roommate Miko, you realize how long four days can feel when you've been away.

Her cheerful greeting dies down when she sees blotchy eyes and your front lip quivering as you barely make it through the front entrance, holding only your run down bag in hand, pockets empty of any type of money or compensation.

You left the gifts back at the penthouse. You couldn’t bring yourself to take anything that would remind you of what happened.

“Oh, honey…” your roommate hesitates, carefully coming to catch you as you collapse onto your knees when the door closes. The stream of tears follows quickly.

“I left him...” you mumbled softly in choked cries.

Your best friend reassures your heartbreaking sobs by patting your back in slow beats, shushing you despite your eyes continuing to water and seep into the old t-shirt she woke up in. 

“It’s okay, honey” she softly mutters, not having to ask too many questions to know why you were in such a state. She takes a quick inhale and sighs, trying her best to convince you. 

“Everything will be okay.”

But you couldn’t find the courage to imagine it would be. How could it? When you feel as though you’ve made a sacrifice for Yunho — to better his life and free him of your messy past — that puts your own affection and liking for him on the line. 

“But you don't get it, I left him, Miko” you hiccuped, eyes puffy as you pulled back to emphasize the word to her face. “I was the one that couldn’t stay after seeing him react to my past. If only you saw the look on his face, fuck- h-how shocked he looked and how tired I felt of feeling like I was in the wrong to have stepped into his life and–”

“Hey, shhhh. It’s okay.” Miko tries her best to calm you down, carefully helping you up from the floor and guiding you toward the couch with peeling leather cushions. She wraps a blanket around you, the one you both stole from a laundromat months ago because neither of you could afford heating.

“You wanna tell me what happened?” she asks with a pointed look.

You shake your head immediately, watching as she doesn’t change her expression. Then you nod, breaking slowly once again.

“He looked at me like…” Your throat tightens.

“Like he wanted me to stay.”

“Then why didn’t you?” your roommate asks utterly bewildered, brows pulling together slightly.  “I thought everything was going amazing?”

“His lawyer told him about me being a stripper. He beat me to it. And once the conversation started, I realized how much of his life could change because of the picture I painted for him. Of someone who definitely didn’t belong in his world,” you recalled painfully. 

Miko pulls back. 

“But did you stop to think how much your life changed after meeting him? The positive things that came out from the both of you being in this relationship?” 

"There was no relationship. It was just business." you say sounding like you were trying to convince yourself more.

You raise your head to look at her crossed arms. Your roommate's image defensive as she sighs with a shake to her head.

“Listen carefully babe. What I’m trying to say is that careers are able to be rebuilt. Money ultimately comes and goes. But that connection? The one you told me over the phone that you shared with him? The way you said he looks at you? Now that doesn’t just come from nowhere.” 

She helps you recognize that regardless of what happened towards the end, the past four days with Yunho had to have meant more than just business to the both of you. Especially with the way Kumiko thinks Yunho was trying to hold on to you based on your retelling.

“He still hesitated.” You dismissed her. “It was only for a second, but I-I knew what that look could mean–” 

Your roommate sighs in response, rubbing her temples at your somewhat hasty and stupid actions.

Your cries of frustration come out miserable. “Okay whatever! I know how it sounds like because normal people hesitate all the time, right? But with him, Miko…” You wipe harshly at your face, reminding yourself that Yunho hardly ever hesitates.

"He probably felt the exact way I predicted he would feel towards me. Regret. I just couldn’t stand it staying there and waiting for his say on anything else. If I was actually 100% worth choosing or not.”

Miko’s judgement softens as she raises her brows.

“Well damn.”

A breath escapes you, leaning back against the seat as you shut your eyes in fatigue. 

Miko eventually reaches over to tuck your hair behind your ear, the same way she used to after exhausting late-night shifts when the two of you would stumble home with aching feet. Her voice is smooth. “For someone terrifying enough to make grown men cry, he sure made you cry a lot too.”

“It feels exhausting...” you responded, biting the inside of your mouth.

“But…” She emphasizes, glancing toward the apartment window that reveals early morning sunlight to peeking through.

“Isn’t that what love is?” she tells you, making you open your eyes to look at her properly.

“You loved him. I can tell because it's written all over your face and explained through the way you acted.”

The ache in your chest sharpens instantly.

Loved. Past tense.

You don’t want to correct her. You find it would be easier to just shut out the part of yourself that repeats perhaps you still do love Yunho.

The rest of the morning is taken to lay around at home, swallowing down all your emotions and thoughts of regret by rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, hoping to find some sort of leftover alcohol to help. Kumiko warns you about daytime drinking, but she decides to leave you in peace as she heads off to her day job.

“Listen, I know you’re wallowing in your pain right now, and I completely support it, but I left Hime with the skinny convenience store kid for him to watch when I was gone.” she confesses, putting in her left earring as she shows up in her waitress outfit. 

You stop rummaging through the pantry and look up in her direction at the mention of the scrawny black cat. 

“Will you do me one favour and pick her up? The kid's probably done with his night shift about now.” she comments hesitantly, looking at her watch.

Through the pile of food items, you barely manage to shove a weak thumbs up in her direction, saying nothing more as you can’t find the energy to do so.

All you can do is sigh, standing up properly to grab a t-shirt from your room to change into. Kumiko rushes over and hugs you from behind as you walk, trying to cheer you up in her usual, clingy fashion.

“Thank you, I literally love you and promise to bring leftovers for you on the way back.” she says, knowing that it was a usual routine of yours that always made you feel a bit better. Yet still, her expression falters when she sees you're unable to give a full smile.

“Give it time, honey” she pats your back, wishing you rest.

"Give him some time too."

She hands over the keys and wipes a few stray tears from your puffy eyes when you mumble back unconvinced.

“I highly doubt it.”

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as you wander through half-empty aisles in the dingy convenience store on Hollywood Boulevard, exhaustion still sitting heavy in your chest from the breakup hours earlier. 

It’s unusual to find yourself here so early. Usually you’re visiting during midnight hours, when you’ve finished your night shifts.

Just outside, the city of LA has barely awakened. Police sirens echo somewhere in the distance while the sky hangs in that pretty orange-blue color with a smell of burnt coffee and cheap cigarettes lingering in the air.

It’s funny, you think as you grab the cheapest can of beer out of the back fridges. Out of all the places you could’ve gone to after leaving Yunho, you ended up here— back where you first met him.

Your fingers curl around the metal can, the lukewarm aluminum far from cold enough for your liking as it brushes against your skin. Exhaustion drags through your limbs while you sluggishly make your way to the checkout counter, placing the single drink onto the table with a quiet clink.

“It’s not even noon, y'know," Timothy comments dryly, the teen boy yawning as he still helps you checkout. After pressing a few buttons on the cashier, he peers outside the window, looking out for the next employee to swap with him.

“Surprised you didn’t grab the half-priced milk this morning,” he comments, absentmindedly brushing through the dark fur of Hime as she sits atop the glass checkout counter, peacefully enjoying her final few minutes with him before his shift ends.

"Your cat practically hangs near the milk section every time she's here."

You shut your eyes, cursing quietly under your breath as a frustrated groan leaves you. With your chest still heavy from everything that happened this weekend, you realize you haven’t been paying attention to anything around you at all. Not even to the fact that you have to feed your cat, and not even when the bell hanging on the doors chimes, signaling another person has come in. 

“One second,” you mumble with your back to the part-timer, walking towards the half-priced refrigerated goods section to grab the carton you always purchased.

The fridge doors hum softly as you pull one open, leaning down as lukewarm air brushes against your flushed face instead of the cool chill you were waiting for.

“Seriously, you guys need to fix the thermostat in here or someth—”

The words die instantly in your throat the moment you straighten back up.

Because the moment you lift your gaze, a head of messy jet-black hair and a Burberry coat come into view near the register.

Your breath catches instantly.

Yunho’s hair is disheveled, strands falling messily over his forehead like he’d been dragging frustrated hands through it all morning. Dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes as exhaustion is written plainly across his face while his coat hangs off him carelessly.

The state of his eyes catch your attention the most. Red-rimmed and restless. Desperate in a way that makes your stomach turn.

You doubt you look much better yourself.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. The buzzing sounds of the fridge and freezer sections feel so deafening. But if anything, this hurts more than yelling ever could. To stand here in complete silence with someone who once knew almost nothing about you and now knows too much.

When your name leaves his mouth, you swallow hard, instinctively taking a step back until the refrigerator door presses cold against your spine.

“What are you doing here?” you ask in disbelief, though the question sounds far more accusatory than angry.

Yunho exhales heavily through his nose. “I caught your roommate before she left your apartment.” he responded, eyes never leaving yours for even a second. 

“She said I'd be able to find you here.”

You shut your eyes briefly, silently cursing your friend for being too honest for her own good.

Before he can answer, you hurry toward the checkout counter, desperately needing something else to focus on besides the look in his eyes. Your fingers fumble for a crumpled ten dollar bill before abruptly dropping the carton of milk onto the counter hard enough to make poor Hime jump at the vibration beneath her paws.

“Keep the change,” you mutter quickly, shoving the bill into Timothy’s hand before reaching over to gather Hime against your chest and collecting your purchases.

The feline lets out a small confused meow, Yunho stepping closer.

“Please, let me say something” he calls your name softly, shortening the distance and immediately making you set the drinks back down with a sharp clink. 

The cat watches in silence as she’s put down back onto the counter as well. 

“What is there even more to say, Yunho?” you retort back. “I’ve said everything I needed to and left your life so you could fix this mess I made and forget this even happened.” you break, reaching a tipping point when you remember the sacrifice you made to move on.

But for him to come back so quickly, to go out of his way to find you back here in this area of town makes it so much harder. 

“But I haven’t told you everything I wanted to say,” he argues firmly, brows furrowing as he walks closer. 

“I fired Patrick and canceled the Marinex deal,” he reveals.

When you ask him in utter disbelief why he did such a thing, his response only comes back even stronger with disposition.

“Because last night I held you in my arms while you told me you’d stay, and then this morning you disappeared like I imagined the entire thing up,” he recalls, his voice breaking at the edges now, disbelief bleeding into more raw, unguarded emotions.

“I realized I needed to get rid of the people that were in my way. The things that were preventing me from what I really wanted," he explained.

"Which is you.”

Your throat physically burns. “Well,” You bite back, clenching your fists. “Don’t you know people say things they don’t mean when they’re drunk and fucked until unconsciousness?”

The young cashier standing only a few feet away, blinks between the two of you awkwardly. Yunho doesn’t even spare him a glance, nor does he react to your attempt at deflection. Your sharpness and effort to maintain a distance is just absorbed quietly with unflinching patience.

“You're not allowed to erase us like that,” Yunho demands, steady despite everything he wants to say. “Because I remember exactly how you looked at me when you said it.”

Very slowly, Timothy sinks back behind the counter, giving you some space.

Your jaw tightens instantly, sighing loudly.

“Yunho, you can’t just—”

“No.” he repeats, firmer this time. “I’m not doing that again. I’m not leaving just because you’re scared. I spent the last few hours thinking about everything you said to me. Reanalyzing the past four days we spent together in this fucked up proposal I offered you where I exchanged your comfort and presence for money. And I realized what you said about LA was true. People sell pieces of themselves every single day just to survive. They lie. They cheat. They pretend to be things they’re not. I probably do it best. But you? All you did was survive without becoming cruel. You did what you had to do when nobody else was there to save you. And even after everything, I can't believe you can't even realize that you’re still kind. Still smart. Still brave in a way I don’t think you even understand.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a strained breath that sounds like pure awe laced with disbelief. "You do realize you threw yourself in front of an armed gunman for two other people, right?” he asks incredulously as he refers back to the first night you met.

Your mouth goes dry. Stunned silence makes you unable to retort back with any response this time. 

“So I’m telling you this for the last time because you deserve to know.” he says firmly.

“I don’t care that you used to strip. I don’t care who touched you before me or what job you have or what anybody else thinks they can call you. I don’t care who you had to become to survive before me. I care about who you are when nobody asks anything from you. The person you are now. I care that somewhere along the way, it somehow got into your pretty little head that surviving something difficult could make you any harder to love.”

Tears finally spill down your face. No one has ever looked at the ugliest parts of your life and treated them like wounds instead of evidence.

Yunho notices your expression crumble and immediately wraps his arms around you.

You never knew how meeting this man would’ve changed you. In front of him, you wanted to be the absolute best version of yourself. To please him in return for the gentle love he offered to you so easily and humbly. But now you understand it was because there was no extent to his affection for you. For someone you couldn’t imagine a future together if he found your secret past, he’s proved wrong by coming back for you. To tell you properly face to face that he still wanted you. 

As he daringly encases your body within his arms, Yunho embraces you in a firm yet gentle manner.

“How could I not be scared when I didn’t know how to believe you?” you admitted, muffled against his strong chest as hand cradles the back of your head. His heart breaks at how easily you turn your pain inward and how quickly you become your own sharpest critic.

“Will you believe me if I tell you that I love you?”

It leaves him so simply this time. No hesitation present. It’s not needed when it’s his pure, unfiltered truth.

You pull back shakily, looking up at him.

“Y-You can’t just love someone after four days!” you shake your head, though your heart races from reciprocation.

Yunho scoffs faintly, looking down at you as you stumble over your words.

“We had a contract, a deal that—” 

“I love you not despite your past and not because I pity you, but because I just do.”

For many years, he’d drowned life under business calls, endless contracts, and nights spent in boardrooms instead of surrounded by warmth. The idea of love was so distant in the CEO’s mind. But with you, it was as though a whole new life was restarted. 

His eyes glisten as rays of morning sunshine poke through the dirty glass windows.

A soft exhale escapes you through your tears, the words finally cutting through all your resistance that he’s chosen you. That he’s already chosen you long before you were brave enough to accept it.

Yunho brings his lips down to share a slow, grounding kiss. Not like he’s giving you the chance to pull away, because the second your hands grab the front of his jacket closer, you melt completely.

The mild can of beer and weird-tasting milk slips forgotten on the checkout table behind you as hands rest steady around your waist, pulling you against him like he’s terrified to lose you again. Hime meows softly, licking her fur as if entirely unimpressed by the emotional collapse happening nearby.

Outside, sirens still scream somewhere far down the street.

Inside the tiny convenience store, under flickering fluorescent lights, a horrified expression clouds Timothy’s face behind the aisle of potato chip bags.

It doesn’t matter. Because when the two of you finally pull back, tears still caught in your lashes, you say something quieter and far more important than any billion-dollar deal signed by a man like him.

Yunho always had money. He just never had someone who could give him something even more valuable. 

“I love you too.”

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄:

“Have you got everything?”

You nod, nervously sucking in a deep breath as you gripped the straps of your tote bag. The newly purchased textbooks felt heavy in your grasp, their covers glistening with newness. But that didn’t intimidate you as much as you thought it would. 

It served as a firm reminder of why you were here and why you wanted to do this. 

“Notebooks, pens, pencils?” Yunho lists, brows furrowing as the billionaire himself gets nervous for your first day of university. “Did my chef make you your lunch like you wanted her to?”

You nod, feeling so loved and well prepared thanks to your fiance’s care. “Mhm.”

He nods, letting out a deep sigh as he pulls you in and presses a gentle kiss on your forehead, reminding himself that you were. 

“Don’t be too nervous making friends, everyone is going to love you. If anyone says anything to hurt you, you have my legal teams number plus a list of all the top lawyers within the county-”

“Yunho,” you gently called out. 

The corners of your mouth lift as you reassured him by interlacing his fingers within yours. 

“I’ll be fine.” you smiled, nervous but still nonetheless excited to go back to university and finish your studies like you always wanted to. The new support system around you brought the courage to pursue a higher degree than just a highschool diploma. 

Yunho watches his fiance standing in front of him, an excited smile on her cheeks as bright eyes look up at him. He has half the heart to just ditch the office and spend the whole day with you on campus, not wanting to spend a single second apart. But seeing as other students independently walk pass on their way to class, he simply caresses your face.

“I’ll be waiting for you when you finish, alright?” he promises softly. “I want to hear everything about your first day.”

You nod and grin.

“Have a good day at the office.”

“Have a good day at school.” 

And with one last kiss, full of warmth that lingers long after it ends, you finally slip from his arms and take your first steps onto the fresh green campus grounds. It may be nerve-wracking, but it’s not frightening.

Because even as you move forward on your own, you know someone who loves you is still there behind you.

Rooting you on. 

His first thought is that you’re a just a hybrid bunny, and he doesn’t realise just how ill you are quite yet. He kneels down to you, fingers curling around your arm, “Hey, can you hear me?” He asks quietly, shaking you slightly. When your body tightens, curls inward even more, he relaxes a little. “I’m here to help you, okay?”

He huffs, looking around his property before he scoops you up into his arms. It’s not until now that he gets a whiff that familiar scent, thick and lustful as you nuzzle into his chest. Your eyes are still tightly shut, but now he can feel your hot, clammy skin. He’s quick to bring you inside, suddenly glad for the crows that woke him before nightfall.

You groan when he places you gently over his couch, your eyelids cracking open only in the slightest to get a look at your saviour.

He’s big, and he looms over you in an intimidating way, or maybe it’s the long, rugged antlers that stick out from his forehead that make him seem so. His features are soft, and he’s still as not to startle you— he knew how rabbits could get.

You blink, forcing your heavy eyes to open as much as they possibly can. Your head is pounding; your vision is blurry and you’re so incredibly hot. Your ears flop backwards when you try to sit up, a whimper leaving your lips as he hurries to your side. “Easy, sweetheart.” He hushes, his grip on your arms keeping you steady.

It’s only now that he realises, you’re no ordinary bunny rabbit. Your skim is pale and well, he did wonder briefly why your ears were slightly smaller in comparison to the rest of you. You’re sickly warm to the touch, and you shiver cold sweats in the middle of summer— you’re used to the cold.

Jungkook acts quickly, rushing around his home, rustling noises come from behind when you sat made it known he was searching for something. You’re too tired to peak over your shoulder, so you slump weakly against the couch instead.

He returns with a gel-like pad that’s been frosting over in his freezer, and a lemonade icicle in his other hand. He hands you to ice pack, and you hug it close to your face with a sigh of relief, melting into the cold. He unwraps the sweet treat from its wrapper and hands it to you. You bow shyly in thanks, bringing it close to your mouth where your tongue poked out in small licks. He smiles— it’s cute.

“Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?” He asks gently, kneeling down to come eye level with you. You peak up at his from behind your frozen treat, melting cold and sweet on your tongue, only to look away just as quickly.

“Okay…what about where you came from?”

You don’t answer, and he doesn’t push you to. He can tell by your posture and the state of you that you haven’t had the best moments before you wound up barely awake in front of his home. You’re lucky it’s his lifes work to help those who seek aid in the midsts of the forest, those such as yourself.

He’s particularly well versed in hybrid care being one himself, but because there just wasn’t enough healthcare provided to the ones who lived amongst other species of animals, wild— non domesticated hybrids. It’s what secludes his well-versed and educated self to this very place.

Without another word he digs into the kit on the table behind him, rummaging through to find the things he needs to help get you cleaned up. When he turns back to you, you’re shivering again, eyes blown out and wide as you stare right at him.

It’s not a look of fear, either. No, definitely not; not when your eyes are dark and flittering over his face, roaming down to the sight of his taut, muscular body.

You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut, gripping onto the popsicle stick, uncaring of the way it melted down your fingers and dripped down your arm. He reaches to take it from you, and when his fingers brush yours, you sigh a little too keenly.

Jungkook had initially thought you had come from a colder climate and the adjustment in habitat had made you unwell.

He sees now just how terribly wrong he was.

When you open your eyes, he tilts his head to meet them, but your ears are flopping over to hide your eyes. They’re only just long enough to cover them sheepishly. He can’t help but smile at how sweet you were.

He looks down are you trembling legs, watching the way they clench and push further together.

Your heat.

The reason you’re in this man’s living room in the first place. It hit you the moment you broke free from the walls that confined you to a place you could only describe as hell.

Although you had no qualms about the cold walls that kept you isolated from the other hybrids, the separation and lack of socialisation had eaten away at you. It had fed that lonely feeling in your heart, the one that convinced you that you could never be wanted, would never belong anywhere.

Your furrowed brown and the way you gnawed at your bottom told him that you barred pain. What he didn’t know it was in so many more ways than one; it wasn’t the superficial kind that showed up on your skin in nicks and bruises.

What scares you most of all is the fact that you’re not scared at all.

“Your heat, huh?” He’s speaking mostly to himself now, maybe you can’t understand what he’s saying. “Do you prefer your baths cold or warm?” He asks kindly, blinking at you in hopes that you’ll finally reply.

Your ears lift slowly out of your line of sight, blinking shyly at him as they curtain over your eyes, prepared to hide yourself behind them again. You lift the gel ice pack in your hands shakily, and he nods enthusiastically when you provide him a real reaction to his words.

He gets up to disappear down the hallway, leaving you alone in his living space. “Baths?” You whisper to yourself so quietly, that he doesn’t hear it. Your ears twitch in curiosity, and you soundlessly follow him down the same path you saw him go down.

The sound of running water leads you to the door toward the end of the corridor, and your fingers grasp the door frame before you peak around the corner. You blink at the way his arms tense when he picks something up, and the way his lips when they pucker as he whistles a light tune have your ears sticking out straight to hear it more clearly.

When he turns around, he clutches his chest, gasping in surprise when he doesn’t expect to see half of your face shyly watching him. Your ears flop to the side, flinching but instead of fleeing your fingers grip tighter against the frame of the door. “Just making you a cold bath, as per request.” He smiles so politely it makes you swoon.

Your foot pounces against the floorboards impatiently, on instinct. “Do you usually settle your heat cycles with a partner?” He asks casually, ushering you into the bathroom when your feet don’t seem to move on their own.

“Yeah,” you answer, it’s meek and small but it’s progress. Progress reigned above all else in his line of work. “Hurts.”

Jungkook hums in confusion, his small ears flickering as he tilts his head. “What hurts, sweet?”

“They hurt me.” You frown, sitting on the edge of the tub, your fingers dipping into the water to check the temperature. You can’t remember the last time you had a bath that wasn’t anxiety inducing— with so many eyes watching you. “They were very rough with me.”

He’s starting to understand now; you’re not from the arctics, you’re from a hybrid homing centre. Think of it as the most damaged kind of foster system, where all sorts of shifty people sold and bought hybrids for all the wrong reasons; you could only be so lucky if someone with a kind heart swung by and took a liking to you, but they were mostly cat or dog hybrids that had such chances.

Did they take you from your mother? Were hybrid traffickers searching the arctics for rare arctic hybrids like yourself? He can’t bring himself to ask, not when you’re still so shaken.

“What kind of partners did you have?” He asks, hoping it’s not what he thinks, but it’s evident in the way your eyes water at memories you most likely want to forget.

“Predator ones, big ones–” You sniffle, “they always tried to make predators mate with prey.”

You hiss, when you feel the wetness begins to drip mercilessly out of you, staining your underwear. You fought it, as much as you could, but it had been about two days since you ran away, and you’ve been untouched and aching for the same amount of time. Instead of fading away like you expect it to, the moment this deer hybrid takes you into his home the aching only increases.

“Take your time in here, okay? I’ll be just outside if you need me, okay?”

Your brows pinch together as you watch him back up toward the door, grabbing the handle to pull it shut, giving you privacy. Just before the door closes, you whisper, “Okay.”

It doesn’t take very long for you to grow bored of being cramped in this space on your own. Your fingers clutch the edge of the ceramic tub, too afraid to touch or brush against anything that would make you cry out in pleasure and humiliate yourself in front of the deer outside the door. You don’t even know his name.

You always struggle to decipher whether or not it’s safe to trust a man— all they’ve ever really done in your life is hurt you for the most part.

But he’s not a predator, that was refreshing; and he wasn’t rugged or damaged like the other prey hybrids did where you came from. He was warm, and he had a lot of things in his house that was going to help you heal. A nurse, a doctor?

You think back to the only kind pair of eyes from that place; he was a nurse, a human nurse that sought your safety came to your aid whenever you fell sick.

Namjoon was his name.

You thank him internally for everything he did for you, but you hoped that you wouldn’t need him anymore.

Preferably, you’d never see him – or anyone else from that place for that matter – ever again.

You shut your eyes, breaths beginning to deepen and fasten, your entire body shakes whenever you clench, your aching hole flutters around nothing; empty yet needing to be filled.

Relenting, one of your hands breaks free from the tub’s edge, and roaming your body, you sigh when you grab harshly at your breast, but you’re too impatient to leave your clit waiting. You rub, too fast and too eager and you just can’t satiate your hunger.

You groan, throw your head back and your hips rise slightly above the water, chasing something, fighting with your subconscious

You call for him.

“D-doctor?”

From the kitchen his ear twitches, glancing in the direction of your soft call. He puts down the knife, mid chop and runs his hands quickly underneath the tap after having lathered them with soap.

He dabs the moisture off on his sweats, and the loud thudding of his footsteps rushing down the hallway thump in rhythm with the heavy beating in your chest.

“You okay in here?” He speaks carefully through the door, knocking lightly. “Do you need something?”

His antler knocks against the door the closer he leans towards in, and he grunts at the collision. He’s still so clumsy with them, they had only recently grown back to their full length after having fallen off a few months back and he was still trying to get used to them. Unfortunately, it never got easier. In another couple months they’ll fall off again and leave nubs in the wake of the root.

He rubs the back of his head as he waits for you to answer, but a particularly high gasp has him opening the door in fear that you might have hurt yourself.

But it’s far from it.

You’re far from hurt, in fact, you look like you’re in pure bliss.

Your head is thrown back, ears flopping lazily above your head as you drag your heat against the cool ceramic that holds the water, you’re not longer submerged in. Your skin is dripping, droplets of water still clinging to you; one leg inside the tub and one out, your hands propped behind you as you ride the bathtub.  

You don’t even stop when your head turns to look at him, you just look at him with a half-lidded gaze, too far gone into the apex of your heat cycle that’s come back to you in full swing. You can’t, won’t, hold it in anymore. It was too much.

“Ah~” You cry, one of your hands slipping from behind you, reaching out towards him in invitation to aid you in your feeble attempt to ease your throbbing pussy. “Need–“ you swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth, but some still drips from the corner of your lips. “Need your help, Doctor.”

Jungkook is caught looking like a deer in headlights.

“Just Jungkook is okay.” There he goes, being polite again. His eyes haven’t even looked down at your naked body, the face you’re making at him is enough to make him stir in his boxers anyway. “Will you tell me your name?” He asks patiently, inching closer to you, holding out his hand to capture yours, helping you balance as you continue to rub yourself against his bathtub lazily.

“Jungkook…” you test the way it rolls of your tongue first, and it does with ease. It feels comforting— everything about him felt comforting. “It’s Y/N.” You tell him.

“That’s pretty.” He hums, sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes. The scent of you completely fogging up his train of thought and filling up his senses like a vice. His hand squeezes yours, and your small moans as you look up at him with lustful eyes is doing nothing to keep him calm or controlled.

He’s a professional, he’s dealt with the heats, and ruts, of many of his patients in his career. It’s simple, a little herbal tea, breathing exercises and self-care and he sends them on their way as happy as ever. But…

“It’d be unkind of me to let you deal with this all alone, wouldn’t it?”

He caves.

Because how could he not? You’re stunning, one of the rarest living creatures to roam the earth, and you’re here with him. In his home.

Your scent is stronger than any hybrid scent he’d ever come across. Your wetness coats the area beneath you, and it is sticky on your thighs. He dares to look down at see the way it glistens in your path, and he doesn’t anticipate how badly he wants to taste your sweet nectar. Your thighs are tense, wobbly and he can tell you’re growing impatient, because you’re starting to grind your teeth and you smack your foot against the tile. Just once, in warning.

“That would be unkind, Doctor.”

The tone of your voice doesn’t match up with your words. They tremble as if you’re on the verge of tears, shy but your point is firm. You’re starting to feel dull in what you’re doing, because it’s nothing compared to what a partner can give to you.  You look up at his antlers, they stand proudly in the same way his shoulders remain straightened, his posture a fair representation of the bravery in his heart. He may be a prey hybrid by nature, but he was strong and well equipped, he had the muscles and the build to show for that.

You want to touch them— grab them.

You’d never seen a deer hybrid before, not a male one, anyway.

“Are you done with your bath?” He asks, his voice is low and raspy, and you can see in real time the way his soft brown eyes shift darker and blown out with intention.

You nod lazily, blinking slowly up at him as he reaches for your other hand, helping you up on shaking legs. They had gone numb, and you had stumbled into his chest. You giggle drunkenly, “Oops.”

“Clumsy little thing.” He laughs with you, but he’s chewing on his lip when he leads you to his bedroom, sitting you down on the edge of his bed.

You smile happily, backing up onto the mattress until your back is resting against the pillows. You spread your legs slowly, inviting him closer to you. He does, just as slow on his hands and knees like he’s hunting you down. Ready to pounce. He keeps a fair distance, lips parting with heavy breaths as he admires your naked body for the first time. Splayed out, all for him to pleasure and please.

You flutter your lashes at him like you’re not trying to lure him in, and you smirk because you know it’s working in your favour. Your hips move eagerly upward chasing feeling. Waiting for him.

“Your scent is everywhere.” You sigh, inhaling deeply as you sink down into his sheets, nuzzling your face against the pillow that smells strongly of him. “You don’t have a mate?” You wonder aloud. He shakes his head, he doesn’t think too much about it despite the matter weighing on him at times.

Jungkook was almost 30, and without a mate. He knows it’s normal, sometimes it takes a little more time than most, but it wasn’t exactly common. There are all sorts of reasons why some hybrids take a little longer to find a mate: rash decisions being one of them.

His mate has always been out there, but he’s isolated himself for so many years now that he hasn’t allowed to universe to bring them to him. It was a rash decision to run away from the city, the place he was born to a deer-hybrid father and a human mother. He had run away not because he was estranged from the life he was so graciously given, but because of prejudice against hybrids within society; the pure judgement from educators and professionals alike against a hybrid becoming a doctor had put a huge strain on the life he chose to lead— the life he wanted since he was just a fawn.

Instead, he indulges himself when his hands take purchase on your thighs, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your inner thigh.

You shake, a little too much for such a small gesture, tonguing at your upper lip with desire. He purposefully avoids your glistening cunt, nosing at your thigh to rub his scent all over your skin, the same scent that marries through his house— his home.

“Your skin is soft.” He determines, words muffled as his lips brush against you, kiss you so soft you think you’re maybe imagining it; but the way his fingers dig a little deeper into your thighs tells you that this is real. “You smell like rainfall.”

His favourite scent. Was it his mind playing tricks on him? Because you smelt exactly the way the earth smelt after heavy rain came and went. It’s fresh, comforting and a little bit nostalgic. You carry that scent so heavily he his eyes roll back, his tongue comes out to swipe against the gap between your leg just beside your pussy, and he tastes your wetness whilst doing so. What’s gotten into him? He had never crossed a line with any patient of his, not like this. It was wrong to take advantage of a poor hybrid in heat like this, but he knew it was more than just his animalistic need to fuck something.

It was far more intricate of a feeling.

You choke on a moan when his tongue presses flat between your lips, dragging it up slowly as he completely consumes the taste of you. He’s pulling your legs closer, hands trailing down your legs and holding your ankles down, feet flat on his mattress. He gives your cunt a sloppy open-mouthed kiss, his drool pooling into you, mixing with your own fluids. It’s loud, and it’s lewd and you could cry.

So, you cry.

You’re mesmerised by the man between your legs, so gentle but certain in his movements and the way he took care of you. His antlers brush against your stomach, almost as if they’re asking to be admired. Your hands reach out on their own accord, and your mewls of pleasure don’t falter as you ride his sloppy kisses to your pussy. Your fingers wrap around the hard bone, and he stops his movements for a moment, but he doesn’t look up at you or move his face away. You use him as leverage, thrusting into his face, your clit brushing his nose and the groan he lets out courses through your body like an electric pull.

“Jungkook, I’m g-gonna–”

“Mmhm.” He hums against your pussy. “Let go for me.”  

He demands it of you, and who were you to disobey when he licked and sucked on your clit like a starved wolf?

You cry, your eyes blurring up with tears that have threatened to spill the moment his mouth touched you. Jungkook sucks up you’re cum as it spills from your hole. The wet, sticky sound makes you blush. You sniffle when you begin coming down from your high, but remnants remain and you shiver harshly beneath him as he climbs up and over your body, his warmth the one kind that you craved. His lips are made to ease you, His hand cupping just beneath a breast as he melds into you, kissing on your neck, hushing you in hopes that it’ll help you relax.

It does.

You throw your arms round his neck and pull him closer, and you wrap your legs around his waist and shamelessly buck into him, searching for the bulge weighing heavy in his sweats. He appeases you, rocks his clothed dick into your sopping wetness, uncaring of the fact that you’re staining the clothing with your juices.

“You did so good, pretty girl.” He praises, kissing your cheek tenderly, “came so well for me.”

Your purr, your fingers carding through his hair, tugging his face back so you can look at him. You learn that to be the most dangerous move you’ve taken today. The way looks at you, exerting feeling you can’t quite pinpoint when your mind is so fuzzy, how his lips glisten when he darts his tongue out to moisten them. There’s a natural tugging that happens that has both of you leaning in, your lips meeting in a moment of purity.

Your body feels loose, the lightest it’s ever felt when he kisses you. It feels electric, like it was meant to happen and that his lips were made to meet with yours. You’ve had lips forced upon you too many times to count, but this was a feeling you only heard about in fairytales. Sparks flying, hearts pounding.

There’s no sense of urgency, his lips were soft, and almost shaky whenever they connected with yours. You could feel the furrow in his brow, like he’s wondering too, but you’re past that now, and when your hand travels down to his chest, it stops just above where you can feel his heart thrumming heavily beneath his shirt. His hands detach from you, pulling back, leaving a string of saliva connecting you. Your tongue flicks up to collect it, and his nose twitches when he lets out a gentle laugh.

He moves back onto his knees, and you will yourself not to shut your eyes in the moment he removes his shirt, revealing just how big and buff he was beneath his clothes. Broad shoulders, a wide chest— he was bigger than some wolf hybrids you’ve seen.

You can’t help but think that whoever gets to be this man’s mate is the luckiest woman alive.

You prop yourself up on your hands, missing his warmth and his touch, stopping his next moves just to take another good look at you. You whine, sitting up and pushing him back. He loses his balance and falls back on his bottom and watches you in awe as you crawl between his open legs, throwing a leg over his thigh. You move with conviction, hovering just above where your cunt and the material of his sweats would meet. His eyes flicker between that and your face that gives him a teasing look. Your eyes are full of lust and…something else.

“Did you like my pussy, Doctor?” He tongues at the inside of his cheek, his jaw tightening at your nasty tongue. You were bold, but most importantly you were obedient.

“Sit, little rabbit.” He looks to his thigh with a raised brow “And be careful with that dirty little mouth of yours.”

You drop yourself onto his thigh with a ‘hmph’, feigning a look of defeat. You would never say no to a man that looked like this and wanted you just as badly as you wanted him.

You sigh dreamily, your hands rising over his shoulders, feeling his skin beneath your fingertips. His eyes flutter, threaten to close when your fingers massage his scalp, and you circle your hips against his clenched thigh. He twitches it up, meeting your thrusts and you bite your bottom lip to settle the needy smile it elicits from you.

His eyes bore into yours as if you’re the only thing in the world. It makes you feel nervous, and you can feel the heat in your cheeks, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. Your ears fall, moving to cover your cheeks but his hand comes up to caress one with the back of his hand in wonder. “Soft,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you when he reaches down, teasing himself when he palms the outline of his cock in its confines, then traces the waistband of his sweats. You don’t notice when he pulls it out, not even when he takes your hand so gingerly and glides his tongue so innocently over your palm all the way up to your fingertips that he takes into his mouth to bite on gently. He leads your hand down to his twitching cock, and he moans when your fingers brush the tip.

Your gaze falls to his length; it was on the slender side but incredibly lengthy. You ogle it like you’ve just been given the most wonderful surprise. In a way you supposed you had been.

It starts off slow, the way you drag your closed fist over his hardness, and he shifts so impatiently under your hand. You still rock slowly against his thigh, but you’re now too engrossed with his pretty cock. Red blushed tip and blue-ish purple veins that adorned up the sides of his length that kept the blood bumping through him. You wanted to taste him…wondered what it would feel like hauled down your tight throat. You don’t notice your drooling until a droplet of your spit falls onto his cock. He hums, chuckles eagerly as he watches you watching him. He leans back a little bad, one hand propped behind him while the other soothes up and down your lower back, urging you to continue pleasuring yourself, too.

“Want you, Jungkook…” you blubber, your voice failing you when his name comes out in barely a whisper.

“Hey, you have me.” He assures you, looking up at you with a fond look in his eye, turning his hard glares off for a moment to remind you that you’re safe with him. You let go of his length and lift your hips up again, moving slightly so that your knees are digging into the bed on either side of him now.

He looks up at you hungrily, his hands rubbing at your sides “Take it slow, I’ve got you.” He takes himself in his hand again, tugging on it a few times before holding it up for you.

You didn’t know it could feel so good. Your jaw drops, your eyes are rolling back as you lower yourself onto his cock. You reach for his shoulders, and they don’t let you down, he leans his head down to kiss the top of your breasts. You don’t even flinch when his antlers fly toward you, resting on your shoulders as he brings a nipple into his mouth. You sigh, sat still atop of him as you adjust to the feeling of him all up in your guts.

He flickers his tongue over your other nipple, soothing the other with his thumb. The sensitivity of it all makes you squeeze his cock, and he brings a mouthful of your breast into his mouth to suppress a moan.

“Y’gonna fuck me, pretty girl?” He drawls, releasing your breast with a pop.

You raise your hips, dragging yourself over his cock before falling back down to swallow him whole again. You both moan at the feeling, and you repeat that movement a few times at the same slow pace until your body can’t take it anymore.

He doesn’t rush you, even when you can tell he’s trying hard not to slam up into you. He holds your hips as you ride him at the pace you choose. Your eyes are screwed shut in concentration when you begin to find a nice pace that seems to please him also, because every time your slam down onto him he grunts or moans or curses something dirty under his breath.

Your fingers travel up his biceps and up to the back of his neck where you play with the hair at the nape. As if he reads your mind, he takes one of your wrists and leads it up towards one of his antlers. “You can hold them baby, it doesn’t hurt.”

You moan eagerly, your other hand reaching for the other antler. It makes riding his cock feel better.

You find a better angle as you fuck yourself on his cock, your clit hitting deliciously against his navel with each collision. “Fuck– are you an angel?” He wonders aloud, guiding your hips with his harsh grip on your body. Your grip on his antlers pulls his head down but he’s eyes level with your bouncing tits and he thinks it’s a good trade off.

You tug him toward you to smoosh his face in your breasts and let his antlers graze your shoulders again. Your hands wrap under his arms and hold him close to you while you chase your high.

“I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum!” You squeal, your moans louder and higher in pitch as you roll your hips into him, squeezing his cock so tightly you feel him throb, too.

“Shit, wait–“

You don’t listen, your hips don’t stop, only moving faster as you reach your peak. Your cunt holds a vice grip on his cock as it grows thicker, larger inside of you as he begins to cum, and he whimpers at the intense pleasure of your fluttering pussy tightening against him. He licks and sucks on your collar bone, in attempt to soothe you, expecting you to freak out but you don’t. Your quick breaths are all he’s left with, and he swears you pull him closer.

You pull him down with as he knots himself inside of you, attached to you— connected. It’s intimate, the way he looks down at you, propped up on his forearms as he looks into your tired eyes. You look content, peaceful.

For a while it’s all he can do. Just admire your beauty in all its glory and wonder how exactly you had found your way to him.

An unexpected seductress that was after his heart.

The arctic hybrid that was born to be with him.

“Can you feel it?” Your ears brush his cheek, your fingers tracing up the length of his antlers, admiring its imperfections in all its rugged beauty.

“Yeah,” he smiles sweetly at you, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip. “I feel it.”

He kisses you, and he doesn’t stop until his swollen cock softens, unlocks from inside you. Your whimper when he removes himself from you, but you’re far too tired to speak anything more. So, he pulls you in close, lets you fall asleep in his arms. He rests his chin atop your head, fingers playing with your hair as his mind races with questions and thoughts that don’t allow him to follow you into slumber.

All he knows that you finally found him, and he’d do everything in his power to keep you here— safe and sound in his arms.

His mate.

“Morning, sunshine. So graceful of you to grant us your presence.” You sucked in a deep breath as you sat down on the chair, counting to ten mentally while trying to align every chakra in your body to not punch him square in the face in the middle of the classroom.

“Ugh, shut up, Jongho. I’m in no mood to deal with you,” he snickered at your words, watching you glare at him, finding you cute even while snapping at him. 

“Come on, what happened to you? Rough night? Were you up all night thinking about me?” The mere thought sent shivers down your spine, a grimace on your features as you took out your study material. 

“Please, as if I would ever.” You snorted slightly, shifting your entire focus to the class that was already starting, so that you could earnestly ignore him. 

The class went by smoothly, Mr. Yoon talking about the different types of property law while you took notes, focused on his words. A small crease between your eyebrows appeared while you read some cases the professor had mentioned, which Jongho found devastatingly adorable. Still, he was never going to admit it out loud. 

“This project is quite important for your grade,” Mr. Yoon continued explaining once the time for the class’s end was nearing, moving over to his desk, picking up his glasses, and setting them low on his nose before picking up a piece of paper with some letters scribbled on it. “It’ll run all semester, and you will do it in pairs.” He emphasized, looking over the rim of his glasses at his students.

He began reading names off it, a groan dying at the back of your throat when you realized he had chosen the pairs, bummed that you probably wouldn’t be paired up with one of your friends. Your ears perked up when you heard your name, body still as you waited for the next name to be read off the paper. 

“...Choi Jongho,” he finished reading, making your blood run hot, and your eyes roll as Mr. Yoon calmly took off his glasses and set them on his desk with the piece of paper. “You will all work together, during the duration of this assignment, and before any of you ask, no, you may not switch partners at any point. You’re adults, and you should learn to work with people you don’t like.” You bit back a groan as you threw your head back, already feeling irritated at the thought of being stuck with Jongho, even more, for the rest of the semester. 

“You’re all dismissed, have a good day.” Mr. Yoon swept his hair back and began gathering his things, most of the students scrambling out the moment the words left him. You continued gathering your things, shoving them down into your bag. 

“See you soon, sunshine.” Jongho slung his backpack on one of his shoulders, shooting you a small smile that only made you roll your eyes.

“Hopefully not, Jongho.” You stood up, walking past him as you hung your bag on your shoulder. Leaving him there, with a small smile on his face as you walked away. 

Ugh, you’re so endearing sometimes. 

The following week had been pure suffering, as you would describe it. You and Jongho, stuck in the library for hours on end, slowly making progress on your project. It was a personal hell of yours; you were sure you would end up with wrinkles by the end of the semester, given how much scowling and grimacing you were doing at him. 

“No, Jongho. That’s not the way we’re supposed to do it.” You argued, pointing to the document containing the project's instructions. 

“Yes, but this way it’ll look better, and the professor will be satisfied either way,” he argued back, sliding his own laptop where the shared document was. You sucked in a deep breath, a hand coming to scratch the back of your head, asking every god to give you patience, because if they gave you strength, you might strangle him.  

“That makes no sense, Jongho. Just do it the way the instructions say.” Your hand slid down to rub your temple. The clicking of his tongue reached your ears, and you sighed. “Do it.”

“Fine, no need to get feisty, sunshine.” he lifted his hands in mock defeat, running one of them through his soft black hair. 

This was going to be a long semester. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“I just can’t believe he paired us together, Woo.” Your eyes rolled, leaning your head on Wooyoung’s shoulder while you walked around campus. 

“Relax, it’ll be over before you notice,” he ran a hand through your hair. “Besides, what could be so daunting about working with him anyway?” he quirked a brow, curious as usual. 

“He’s just an asshole.” Your own brows creased, nose scrunching at the same time. “And he should leave me the fuck alone.”

“I never really understood what happened between the two of you.” Wooyoung shrugged, “You went on like one date, and then you came back hating him…Wait, he didn’t do anything to you, right?” His steps stilled immediately, his brows furrowed in concern as his hands wrapped around your shoulders to still you. 

“No, and it wasn’t a date. And I never liked him; in fact, I hate him.” Wooyoung frowned, as if his face was saying, Seriously? “What?” his hands lifted off your shoulders, holding them up and shrugging. 

“Nothing, I just don’t really remember you hating him.” The blood rushed to your cheeks, one of your hands coming to shove him, as a way to shut him up. “In fact, I remember you running around your room, not knowing what to wear.” 

“Well, I do.” Your voice was firm, rolling your eyes as you continued walking towards the library. 

Ms. Lim, the librarian, had hired you as her assistant, or at least one of them. She kept mentioning the past couple of days that a new person was coming to help you out, and they were just sorting out their schedules. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your brows creased at the sight of Jongho, two hours early from your scheduled meeting at the library. 

“I can come to the library, you know? This is a public study space.” He arched a brow, barely sparing you a glance as he walked past you. 

“You? Studying? Please. You'd need neurons for that,” you scoffed, matching his step as he neared the empty front desk. 

“Where's Ms. Lim?” he ignored your words as he leaned on the wood, his thick-rimmed glasses sliding slightly down his nose. 

“Not here, clearly.” You rolled your eyes at him, walking around the desk and setting your hands on the wood. “What do you want, Jongho?” You cocked your head to the side, clearly unamused by his presence in your otherwise peaceful and quiet library. 

“She asked me to come here, I’m helping her out as one of her assistants,” he pointed his words with a small smile, cocking his own head to the side. 

“You're kidding.” 

“Nope.” 

“Well, you're fired, thank you very much.” You shrugged, turning to the computer, clicking the mouse around, and tapping at some letters on the keyboard, pretending to do something. 

“Uh-huh. Where is she?” he pressed, leaning forward over the desk just a little bit more, trying to peer into the screen of the monitor. 

“Out.”

“Let me guess, you’re one of her assistants too, huh?” He ran a hand through his hair before using his pointer and middle finger to slide his glasses up his nose, a small smile curling his lips, apparently, finding your despair amusing. 

“I’m her only assistant, you’re fired. Remember?” Your smile was nothing but fake, but it only made Jongho’s heart skip a beat. It had been so long since he saw your crescent-shaped eyes looking at him while your plump lips curled in that sweet smile you had. 

Jongho just nodded, “Sure.” He walked around the desk, throwing his backpack beside yours on the floor, and rested his hands on the thick wood. 

You were for sure going to strangle him soon. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“Okay, you have to tell me.” Wooyoung looked at you through the mirror, fixing his own clothes. 

The cool air was seeping through the windows as you both got ready for a frat party you usually didn't go to, but Wooyoung had convinced you that you needed to let off some steam. 

“Tell you what, Woo?” you looked at him through your own mirror, arching a brow as you rummaged through your makeup. 

“Why you hate him, Sushi.” he turned to look at you, the damn nickname he had given you in high school after a much-too-passionate discussion about that very same type of dish, making you crinkle your nose. 

“Don't call me that.” Your eyes rolled as you stretched your back, turning to look back at him, too. “And I already told you, I just do.” 

“What happened on that date?” He pressed, hands falling to his sides as he walked to sit down on your bed, the mattress dipping below him. 

“Wait…Did you go on a date with Jongho?” San asked, stopping his mindless scrolling on his phone as he inched closer to his boyfriend, resting his blonde head on Wooyoung’s lap. 

“It wasn't a date. See what you're doing?” You hissed at Wooyoung. “You need to drop it already.” Your eyes rolled for the umpteenth time as you turned back to the mirror and finished your makeup. 

“I just want to know what made you hate him so much all of a sudden, Sushi. That's not something that happens just because.” He pressed once more, being met with your glare through the mirror. His hands lifted in surrender as he pulled out his phone, deciding not to push your buttons more. “You're going to the pre-game?” 

Your brow arched through the mirror. “What pre-game?” Wooyoung whined as he dropped his head back. 

“The pre-game I told you Sannie, and I are hostinggg.” He dragged out the syllable as he looked at you. “We're getting drinks and playing the bottle game.” 

“The bottle game? What are we, in seventh grade?” You scoffed as you sprayed setting spray on your face. Your eyes opened again to see Wooyoung deadpanning. 

“I don't even know why I try with you anymore,” he sighed, deflating and checking his phone. “C’mon, babe. Hwa hyung, Sullyoon, and her girl are on their way to the apartment.” He nudged San's head with his hip, prompting him to get up. “See you later, Sushi. Don't be a wimp and go to the fucking party, or I will come back here and drag you out.” He blew a kiss into the air as he and San walked out of your room. 

A sigh left your lips as the front door slammed shut. You turned around, eyes falling flat on the bear plushie you kept in your bedroom for a reason you didn't know yet. You walked towards it and wrapped your hands around it. 

“You should know that your father is an idiot.” You talked to the lifeless animal, a crease in between your brows. 

Because Wooyoung was right, you didn't hate Jongho without reason, and you did go on a date with him. 

But those were simpler times. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“Sushi, relax.” Wooyoung mindlessly scrolled on his phone, giggling as you took clothes out of your closet like in a classic coming-of-age movie. 

“How can I relax? He's coming in an hour, and I still don't know what to wear, Woo,” you whined as you continued rummaging through the scattered clothes. 

“He’s Jongho, he'll still think you're cute with whatever you wear.” his half-assed reassurance only made you roll your eyes while pulling out a shirt and some pants. You held them up, a silent question aimed at him, and his face lit up, nodding immediately at your suggestion. 

Once the outfit situation was sorted, you continued getting ready, quickly pushing Wooyoung out the door before Jongho was supposed to arrive. 

“Call me after! And use protection!” He cackled as you pushed him out the door, blood rushing to your cheeks as you slammed the door on his nose, running back to your room and checking your phone to see if Jongho had texted. 

jjong♡ : i just saw wooyo lol jjong♡ : u can come out whenever ur ready sunshine jjong♡ : ill wait for u 

Your heartbeat drummed in your ears, and heat pooled in your cheeks as you checked yourself out in the mirror one last time before coming out of your house. Smiling as you saw him standing outside your apartment, his thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he ran a hand through his grown-out red locks. 

“Hey.” You cringed immediately at your choice of words, nose crinkling as you locked your door shut behind you, a soft blush in your cheeks as you walked over to where he was leaning on the hood of his car. 

The beautiful black of the Bronco catching the light and making it bounce on him, making him look absolutely dreamy. 

“Hi, sunshine.” Your cheeks burned at the nickname. “You look beautiful today, too.” He smiled, walking over and standing beside the passenger door, opening the door for you whenever you were ready. 

“Thanks, Jjong.” A shy smile ran your features as you got in his car, hands instantly coming to smooth the fabric of your jeans once the door closed, exhaling a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding while Jongho walked around the car, a hand running again through his half-red locks almost instinctively. 

“So, the plan for today is coffee and then visit the fair downtown, ‘s that still okay with you, sunshine?” He asked while turning on the ignition of the car, his voice sweet as honey, making you shiver with nerves and excitement. 

“Yes, that sounds really nice, actually.” And with that, the car came to life with a soft but steady hum of the engine, all of the lights turning on for a couple of seconds before the unnecessary ones turned off. 

Jongho began driving, making quick and simple conversation with you, telling you about how Yeosang kept turning off all of the lights in their apartment before turning them back on again, and then turning them all off again. And you both fell into such a nice rhythm of conversation that you didn't notice his hand slightly snaking down until he covered your own that was limp and relaxed beside your thigh, palm to knuckles as he rubbed absent traces along your fingers. 

You both ultimately decided to skip the coffee shop and go straight to the fair, as the sunset was nearing. Once you arrived and the soft hum of the engine stopped, you took off your seatbelt and turned half of your body to open the door, stopping yourself when you heard the door slam beside you and saw Jongho almost jogging as he rounded the car, quickly opening the door for you. 

“Thanks,” the heat in your cheeks was obvious, but if anyone said anything, you'd attribute it to the cool November air. 

“You're welcome, sunshine.” He bowed his head jokingly, the nickname that had started as a tease almost becoming more popular than your name in Jongho's vocabulary. 

The rest of the afternoon was a fever dream. Jongho was nothing but a gentleman, remembering little details you had previously shared with him, like the kind of drinks you liked, the kind of games you enjoyed, and whether you liked plushies or not. Which is how you ended up with a small bear in between your arms, smiling as you kissed Jongho's cheek shyly, thanking him for winning it for you. 

“How’re you gonna name him?” He offered his arm for you to loop yours around, a soft smile on his lips when you did just that. 

“Hmm…” Your index finger flew to your chin while you pondered. Pink tinging your cheeks as you thought of the perfect name. “Jjongbear.” A full-on belly laugh escaped you when you saw his bewildered expression. 

“I'll allow it only because you're adorable.” 

For you, this was just the beginning of a beautiful relationship you and Jongho would have. 

You didn't expect it to end so fast. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

The loud music boomed in your chest, slightly wincing at the sea of people dancing in the frat house. You made your way to the kitchen immediately, needing alcohol to run through your system as soon as humanly possible. You and Jongho had been working together for almost two weeks now, not only on your shared project but also as assistants in the library, and you weren’t sure whether you were going to finish the semester or be jailed for manslaughter. 

“Ugh, you should’ve been there, Sushi. Mingi came out like he had been pulled out of that closet by the dick.” Wooyoung cackled as he arrived, wrapping his arms around your hips and resting his chin on your shoulder. “I give them an hour, tops, and then they’ll fuck.” He unwrapped himself from you and rounded the table, grabbing an empty Red Solo cup so that he could pour his poison of choice for the night. 

You giggled at his choice of words, chugging the drink you were nursing in your hands. “They probably will, and you’ll probably leave me for Sannie too.” Your top lip pursed in mock disgust. Wooyoung almost choked on his drink, fighting off a loud cackle. 

“Probably,” he smiled smugly, raising his cup into the air before taking a sip, the burn of the alcohol sending shivers down his spine before groaning out like an old man, making you giggle. 

“What are you staring at, bro?” San’s voice made Jongho jump out of his skin, startled and embarrassed to be caught red-handed. 

“I-I’m not staring.” He answered with pink cheeks as he swirled the cold beer bottle in between his fingers, tracing absent-minded lines in the condensation of the dark glass.

“You –a hundred percent– are,” San stated matter-of-factly, looking in the direction Jongho had been, a small smile curling his lips once he noticed he was staring at you and Wooyoung. “Ah, I see. The one-sided love.” 

Jongho’s cheeks burned at his words. “Shut up.” He took a swig of his beer, hoping that the cool malt drink would calm the heat in his cheeks. “She looks good tonight.” He shrugged. Suddenly, the rest of the ingredients and the calories displayed in the half-wet tag on the glass were the most interesting thing in the world. “And it didn't used to be one-sided.”

“You look amazing tonight.” Wooyoung's words made you blush, hiding your face behind your cup while you took a sip of the liquid. “That skirt makes your ass look great.” 

“Wooyoung! Don't you have a boyfriend?” You laughed, looking over your shoulder, feeling eyes on you. 

“I do, but I’m also your best friend, so I'm entitled to tell you those kinds of things.” He shrugged, extending his hand for you to take. “Come, let's dance. Maybe you'll end up abandoning Sannie and me tonight for someone else.” He poked your cheek, pulling you out of the kitchen once your hand wrapped around his. 

You continued looking around, feeling a pair of eyes looking at you from afar. Once your gaze fell on a particular set of chocolate-brown eyes, your top lip pursed in dislike. “Ugh, why is he staring?” You nudged Wooyoung, voice loud over the music filling the room. 

“Because you look hot,” he looked in the direction you were discreetly pointing towards, a smirk curling his lips once he saw his boyfriend approaching your so-called nemesis for life. “And so does he.” 

Your brows furrowed, trying to catch a clearer glimpse of how Jongho looked, something that didn't go unnoticed for Wooyoung. “H-he looks like an idiot.” Your gaze cowered almost immediately, walking through the crowd and settling on a small space that housed both of you. 

“A hot idiot.”

“Fuck off.” 

And with that, the night went on. Jongho felt his heart thrumming in his chest, heat burning beneath his skin, thoughts racing, cursing whatever it was he'd done to upset you so much, wishing he had never done it so you could be his. 

He wished it were him dancing with you, his hands wrapped around your waist as you enjoyed yourself, admiring how the lights bounced off your skin and the way your clothes hugged every curve of your body. He was jealous of the people who could be by your side right now, dancing with you, making you laugh, giving you drinks. 

He hated them. 

He hated them all. But what he hated the most was that you weren’t his

It got to a point where he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t care if you hated him more after. 

He noticed them before you did, two sets of eyes ogling from the other side of the party, —he believed their names were Jay and Jake, as his faces seemed familiar from the frat he tried to join last semester, before it all went to shit with you—  He saw them, their eyes raking over your body as you continued dancing without a care in the world, a soft sheen of sweat covering your skin making it shine under the lights. 

Jongho’s jaw was tense, he knew there was technically nothing he could do to stop them. He wasn’t your boyfriend, shit, you didn’t even like the man. But still, he couldn’t stop himself when he saw the way you turned to talk to them; eyes glassy, lips parted slightly, and a soft smile that made him clench his fists until his knuckles turned white. 

“Are you Jongho’s coworker?” The two tall men beside you asked, crowding your vision and your space. 

“Tsk. I’m nothing of Jongho’s.” You were quick to answer, your brain feeling fuzzy at the edges from the alcohol. “We do work together, but I’d rather get shot in the hand than be anything more.” Your words earned you some roguish smiles from the two guys, one of them leaning —a little too close— for you to hear him over the speaker. 

“So that means you’re alone tonight?” His breath fell on your neck, leaving goosebumps in his wake. Your gaze shifted, looking for Wooyoung, who was about three feet away, lifting his glass as if he were saluting. 

“Mayb—” 

“Hey, man. Didn’t think I’d see you both here.” Jongho’s voice made your stomach churn, the smirk on your lips falling into a displeased frown as you turned around to face him. He dapped up the two guys, —whose names you had yet to learn— completely ignoring your scowl and the guys’ awkwardness as they slowly walked away a couple of seconds later. 

“So not only do you never leave me fucking alone on campus, but you also have to bother me at a party?” You chugged whatever was left in your cup, not even feeling the burn in your throat anymore. 

“You didn’t see the way they were looking at you, sunshine. I’m just trying to look out for you.” His voice was low, only for you to hear. “Come, I’ll take you home. You’re hammered already.” He extended his hand, prompting you to take it. 

“You’re wrong.” He wasn’t. “And I’m not going anywhere with you.” You tsked before you hiccupped and slurred your words, turning your back on him. “And stop fucking calling me that, I’m not your sunshine anymore.” You turned back quickly, your head spinning given how fast you moved, and then you left, walking away to find Wooyoung. 

He didn’t chase after you because you were right. 

But that didn’t mean he was going to stop looking after you, making sure you were safe from a distance. He saw you find Wooyoung, wrapping your arms lazily around his shoulders, surprising him. He saw the smile on Wooyoung's lips that mirrored yours, and his jaw clenched. He felt jealous, not of Wooyoung, of course, but of the fact that he could make you smile like that, without a care in the world, like he used to do. 

He saw you, dancing, drinking even more, and it was a miracle the beer bottle he continued nursing in his hands hadn’t burst, given how hard he was gripping it. “Just go over there, man.” He jolted at Hongjoong’s words, looking at him with furrowed brows. “How long are you gonna wait ‘till you do something? Or are you just gonna let her hate you without apparent reason for the rest of your life?” Jongho was stunned into silence. Hongjoong was always a very straightforward person when tipsy. “I’m tired of seeing you mop around for her because you’re not man enough yet to talk to her.” 

“It's not really that easy when she doesn't even want to hear about me.” Jongho hisses out, jaw set as he kept looking in your direction, eyes narrowing when he saw Wooyoung stepping away and leaving you to dance with a random dude. 

“Well, if you never man up, you'll lose her, bro.” Hongjoong tapped his shoulder with slightly more strength than needed, making him take a couple of steps forward to keep his balance. Jongho breathed out a long sigh, taking in the words of his hyung. 

Meanwhile, you were having the time of your life.

If you weren’t hammered before, you definitely were now. Alcohol ran through your veins, your brain felt fuzzy, and your body felt lighter than it should ever be. You felt a pair of hands on your hips, a crotch brushing on your ass as your body moved to the rhythm of the music. You felt multiple eyes on you, but you didn't care, not when you felt so at ease and relaxed for the first time in a while. 

You heard some words being whispered against your sweat-slick skin, although you weren’t really sure of the owner of the voice or even what they were saying; your focus was on the music and on the lightness of your body. You felt a hand wrap around your wrist, pulling you away and all the way out of the party, the cool midnight breeze hitting you immediately. 

“Hey!” A sharp voice echoed behind you, making the person who was pulling you out stop for just a moment. “The fuck are you going?” Wait, you knew that voice. Even in your fuzzy state, you would recognize that voice anywhere.

Jongho.

“I’m just taking her home, man.” A strange voice beside you replied, tone uneasy as if they had been caught red-handed. You turned to face the stranger with furrowed brows, trying to make out who this person was. 

“Tell me her name.” Jongho’s tone was sharp like a blade, his fists clenched at his sides as he watched the man beside you scoff, almost bothered by his intervention. 

“Why do you care? You her boyfriend or something?” The stranger tightened his hold on your wrist slightly, making you wince in pain. Even in your drunken and fuzzy state, you realized that you did not know the man holding your wrist right now, forcing your hand out of his grasp quickly, making him stumble a little, definitely not expecting you to do that. 

“He is.” Your words slurred, and Jongho’s breath got knocked out of him. The crease of his brows eased, and his lips parted in surprise, all words dying in his throat at your drunken words. “Get the fuck away f’me, I don’ even know you.” You stumbled your steps towards Jongho, who was quick to escape his trance and meet you in the middle, catching you right before you tripped on your own feet. 

“Whatever, bro.” The stranger scoffed and walked away, leaving you there, with Jongho’s hands around you, avoiding your imminent fall. 

“Let me take you home, sunshine.” Jongho’s voice was almost pleading. He hoped you would remember calling him your boyfriend in the morning. His heart was doing somersaults in his chest, even though he was well aware it was a lie, and you would probably never see him that way again. 

“Leave me alone, Jongho.” You pushed him away, scowl on your face. “I jus’ said that shit so he’d leave me alone.” You admitted, your slurred words hitting him square in the chest. “ ‘m not gonna be stupid enough to fall for you again. And I’m not your fuckin’ sunshine!” You hissed out, swatting at his chest. “You will never be my boyfriend, Choi Jongho, I hate you!” You spat out in anger, heavy tears rimming in your eyes as you continued swatting his chest. 

“I’m not leaving you alone in the street, let me at least find Woo-” 

“I don’t need your fuckin’ help, bro! I need you to fuckin’ leave me alone!” You stumbled backwards, making space in between your bodies. Perhaps your words were being too harsh, but then again, you were drunk, and you didn’t exactly have that voice in your head that made you think before you speak. 

Because if you weren’t drunk, you would’ve seen the effect your words were having. Random people eavesdropping and whispering about what you were saying, Jongho’s ears red from humiliation, and a small flicker of hurt in his eyes. And the worst part? Jongho thought you probably wouldn’t even remember. 

“Hey, there you–” Wooyoung came out of the frat house, hair messy — as if someone’s hands had been tangled in his red locks— and out of breath, wincing instantly when he saw the scene. He quickly shortened the distance between you and rested his hand on Jongho’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. We’ll take her home.” His voice was low enough for the dark-haired man to hear, and as if he was summoned, San appeared behind his boyfriend, giving Jongho a reassuring nod.

Jongho sighed out, long and deep, before nodding and turning his back on the friend trio, walking towards his car, leaving you safe with Wooyoung and San, which was all he cared about, really, that you were safe.

Shortly after he left, and Wooyoung and San managed to get you inside an Uber, you arrived at your apartment with hot, thick tears running down your face. Babbles and sobs were the only things coming out of your mouth as your friends tried to change your clothes and get you to bed. 

“C’mon, Sushi.” Wooyoung cooed while rubbing your back with one hand, the other one holding your hair up as you emptied the contents of your stomach in the toilet. “We got you, it’s okay.” He reassured, offering you a glass of water after you were done. 

You were going to wake up like shit. 

And not only because of the headache you were for sure going to have, but because you will remember. 

You had never been the “black-out” type of drunk, no matter how much you drank. Which meant you would remember, from the moment you affirmed that Jongho was your boyfriend to a complete stranger, to the moment you berated him in the middle of the street, up until this moment, of you, lying in bed awake, far more sober than when you arrived, thinking about how he looked at you.

How his eyes shone when he heard you slur out those two words and stumble towards him, and how he looked at you like you had fucking kicked his puppy once you two were alone. 

You had your issues with the man, but why did seeing his face like that hurt your chest so much? 

No, no, he’s Choi Jongho, the man you swore you would hate until the last of your days. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ 

The library had finally quieted down after a particularly awkward shift. Ms. Lim was out sick and had tasked you and Jongho with managing the library for the couple of days she’d be out. 

As if dealing with Jongho on a daily basis wasn’t enough, Ms. Lim had decided to fall sick, leaving you with the man you had publicly berated outside of a frat party while drunk, had a complicated history with, and couldn’t seem to fucking escape.

“Ready to close up?” Jongho’s tone was slightly nervous; this was the first time in the whole day he was trying to make conversation, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. 

You barely spared a glance at him as you pointed to the “returned books” cart behind you, —overflowing as always— while you continued typing away at the computer. “We also have to work on Mr. Yoon's project.” Your tone was barely there, words sharp as you barely paid any attention to him. 

“Yeah, right.” His gaze avoided you like the plague. There was a strange feeling stirring in your chest. Were you sick?

“Get rid of the stragglers so that we can work on that and I can get out of here.” You ordered, and he nodded, kindly approaching the couple of students that remained in the library with their heads buried in books. 

You paid no mind to him, only side-eyeing him every couple of seconds. Just to make sure he was actually getting rid of the people so that you could get out of here, of course. But a particular interaction made you turn your head to see better. 

Most students were gathering their things and leaving the library just as Jongho had politely asked them to, but he had approached a table occupied solely by a girl with a soft crease between her brows that eased when Jongho tapped his finger on her shoulder lightly. You couldn't hear what they were saying to each other; you could only see Jongho’s soft smile and her cheeks blush, and you scowled. A small giggle of hers reached your ears. What was so fucking funny? 

“If you're done flirting, the library's closed.” Before you could stop yourself, your feet had led the way all the way to a couple of steps beside Jongho, making him turn to you wide-eyed as the girl's cheeks burned crimson and she began gathering her things quickly. “You and I still have shit to do, c’mon.” You pointed your head to the side, motioning towards the front desk. 

“Have a g-good night, you two.” The girl shyly nodded before slinging her bag on her shoulder and leaving the library with quick steps. 

Once the heavy oak slammed shut, you turned around, walking towards the light switches, turning the overhead lighting off and leaving just the dim lighting of the hallways between the bookshelves. Jongho was quick to follow you, with his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“What the fuck was that?” He followed you all the way back to the front desk, watching you pick up your laptop and some papers, your shoulder brushing his as you walked past him towards the law bookshelf, where you both normally sat on the floor to make progress on your project. 

“What the fuck was what?” The strange feeling kept stirring in your chest; perhaps you were coming down with something. You carefully left your things on the floor, not meeting his gaze as you browsed for one of the books you wanted to use for your project. 

“Don't play stupid. I wasn't flirting with her, I don't even know her.” His hands flailed around, trying to catch your attention as you kept looking around the bookshelf for the book. “I don't even know why I am explaining myself to you, ‘s not like you're my girlfriend or something.” 

“Please. As if I would ever be stupid enough to be, don't make me laugh.” You finally turned to face him, closer than you'd expected to be. You took in his expression, a flicker of hurt passed through his eyes, but it was quick to turn into frustration. 

“What the hell is your problem?” He took a step closer, voice low as his eyes searched for yours.

“You are! You have been my problem, all semester long, and you will be until it’s over!” You took a step closer to him, your eyes shooting daggers into his. 

“You react as if you’re not a pain in my ass yourself!” He snapped, taking one step closer. Your breaths mixing at the closeness. You scowled, your eyes bouncing back and forth between his eyes, taking in his beautiful chocolate orbs, the crease in between his eyebrows. 

You knew it now, you were jealous. 

Seething with jealousy, that is. By the way he just made a simple conversation with that girl, making her laugh and blush, just like you used to at his words. Was it just that easy for him? 

“How am I a pain in your ass? You're the one who won't leave me the fuck alone!” Your voices were much louder than they needed to be, thank god you cleared the library before. You couldn't live with the embarrassment and the afterthought of having yelled at him in public twice. 

“You're the one who's acting like a child all of a sudden!” His nose scrunched, now–black hair falling over his forehead after his hands ran through his locks in frustration. Your eyes were locked on his, his chocolate orbs dark with fury and something else you couldn't describe yet. Jongho was exasperating, but up close, he was breathtaking. 

His tan skin glowed in the golden lighting of the library, his plump, pink lips slightly parted. Your eyes traveled back up to his, realizing his own gaze had traveled down to your lips. The knot between his eyebrows had softened, his eyes staring into yours with an expression you didn’t have time to name, because when you noticed, his lips were on yours. 

His lips tasted of honey, and a pent-up frustration you felt deep in your bones. Your hands had fisted his shirt near the midriff, scrunching up the fabric, while his own hands had tangled in your hair, softly tugging at the unruly strands that wrapped around his fingers. 

Your heartbeat was drumming in your ears. You hated Choi Jongho, right? 

Why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you want him to?

The familiarity of his lips against yours didn’t ease the tension in your shoulders, muscles on fire at how strained they were. Your lips parted, and he took it as an invitation to slip his tongue in your mouth, a soft moan reaching his ears, making him shudder. 

Seconds after, the kiss broke, a small trail of saliva connecting your lips while you both looked at each other with parted lips, wide eyes, and shallow breathing. “Whatthef—” is all you could get out before his hands slipped from your hair and cradled your jaw, interrupting every thought you had. 

“Tell me you don’t want this.” His eyes searched for yours, “Tell me you don’t want me, tell me you hate me, and I’ll leave and leave you alone once and for all.” His tone was almost pleading. You could feel the slight tremble in his hands, the almost imperceptible hesitation in his voice. 

I do, I hate you. Were the words you wanted to say. Instead, they got caught in your throat as your lips crashed into his once more, hands balling up the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him flush to you. “I want you.” You whispered on his lips, and while the rational part of you was screaming at you in your head, the part of you that thought with your heart was dancing in glee. 

A soft sigh of pleasure left his lips, doubt slipping away from his mind as you kissed. His hands began roaming your body, softly squeezing the flesh at your waist, as if trying to ground himself, an effort that proved futile as a small moan rolled off your lips right into his, making his pants feel tighter than they already were. 

His lips began trailing down your jaw, stopping just above your pulse point, and leaving small open-mouthed kisses in the skin as your hands wrapped around his midnight locks, softly tugging at the roots. 

Jongho’s hands sat low on your hips, his hold dizzying as he continued leaving small kisses all across your neck and collarbones as much as your shirt allowed him to. “J-Jjong…” your soft mewl reached his ears and travelled all the way down to his cock, twitching in his pants at the sound of the nickname. 

A soft hum rumbled deep in his chest as he leaned back, quickly removing your shirt in a swift motion, his eyes travelled through your torso, admiring the way your skin basked in the soft amber hue of the library lighting. You cowered, hands slowly coming up to cover yourself, “No, no. Don’t do that, c’mon.” Jongho wrapped his hands on your wrists, letting your shirt fall to the carpeted floor beneath you. “You’re beautiful, sunshine.” His velvety voice sent a shiver down your spine, letting your hands fall to your sides as you felt the heat creep up your neck. 

Your hands reached to tug on his own shirt, the black fabric wrinkled after your frantic hold on it. He helped you take it off, his own cheeks burning once the fabric fell somewhere on the floor. Your eyes widened, taking in his figure, his golden-bronzed skin glowing in the library’s low lighting. He wasn’t precisely toned, but his body was admirable, making your gaze linger for much longer than it should have. 

The kisses became more frantic, desperate. While a shy hand palmed him over the fabric of his pants, a not–so–shy one sneaked behind your back to unclasp your bra, his cool hands covering the skin of your breasts once the fabric fell to the rug, sending shivers down your spine as he kneaded the sensitive skin and rolled your nipples with his index and middle finger, small moans rolling off your lips. You couldn’t believe you were doing this to Choi fucking Jongho, the man you swore to never see with eyes that held something other than hatred, and in the fucking library. You just hoped that there weren’t cameras. 

Most of the clothes were quickly discarded, and now you had your legs wrapped around Jongho’s waist, his hands splayed on your thighs as his lips swallowed yours in a dizzying kiss, your hips rolling every so often, your core, only now covered by your panties, meeting the tip of his cock, still covered by the fabric of his boxers. 

Soft mewls and whines rolled off your lips as the friction became overbearing, feeling the all-too-familiar coil in your belly tighten, “Jjong, p-please.” You almost didn’t recognize your voice as you begged, Jongho looking at you with a fucking smirk curling his lips as he took a step forward, your back meeting the cold wood of the bookshelf. One of his hands snaked down between your bodies to be able to pull his boxers down, just enough to free his cock, the tip hitting your clothed core in a way that had you feeling like a livewire. You looked down and—

What. The. Fuck. 

What an absolute fucking of a monster cock did he have. Not only was it above average, but it was thick. So fucking thick that you were almost certain he was going to split you in two, but your mind was far too gone to care. 

Jongho’s lips curled in a full-on grin, “You’re staring.” 

“You’re fucking huge.” 

“I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.” He let out a small giggle while pulling your panties to the side, rubbing his fat cock across your folds, making you whine. Asshole. 

He gathered enough slick onto his shaft to push inside slowly, a cry leaving your lips as you felt the stretch, his cock quite literally splitting you into two. “You’re a good girl. You can take it, right, sunshine?” The nickname you had come to despise in your daily life made you clench around him, forcing him inside just a little bit more, pulling a groan out of him. 

“Sh-ut the fuck up.” A broken cry came out as he continued pushing inside, your head falling back and leaning into the old wooden shelf. He popped a brow at you, rolling his hips a little bit more, making you moan loudly. 

“Such a good girl and such a filthy mouth.” He tutted as his hips continued rolling, sliding in and out slowly. He wasn’t even all the way in yet, and you already felt like you were about to explode. 

He bottomed out, and a loud groan rumbled deep in his chest, a cry reverberating through your vocal cords as you felt the tip of his cock kiss your cervix in a way that had you seeing stars behind your closed eyelids. 

“J-Jongho…fuck. Move,” you moaned, eyebrows knitted in pleasure as you tried rolling your hips into him. Head too far gone to think about what you were doing. 

“Look at you, taking my cock so good after telling everyone you hate me.” He fucking cooed, and you clenched around his cock. He began pulling out as much as he could while still holding you up in his arms, and he slammed back into you.g

Your moans quickly filled the quiet, empty library. The obscene sounds reverberated in the wide space as Jongho continued slamming into you, wet, slopping sounds reaching your ears as you held on to the bookshelf for dear fucking life. 

Jongho felt the muscles in his thighs on fire, and the position was becoming unbearable. Much to your dismay, he pulled out, and you whined, your breathing shallow as he steadied you on the floor, your knees buckled, your stance stumbling as your feet touched the rug beneath them. “What—” 

“Lie down.” He instructed, and you popped a brow, obeying reluctantly. So picky, is what you thought, but all complaints died on your throat as he slammed into you the moment your back was touching the rug. His cock kissed the tip of your cervix, the delicious stretch making you dizzy in no time. Your belly tensed, feeling him deep in your womb as his balls slapped against the skin of your ass. 

“Jong-ho, ngh— fuck…” You babbled, tears rimming your eyes as his hips snapped inside you mercilessly. He leaned down, the angle pushing his cock impossibly deeper as he took one of your tits in his mouth, suckling your hardened bud, nipping occasionally at the soft skin that surrounded it. You heard his low groans of pleasure, moaning as he rammed into you. 

One of his hands snaked down between your bodies, circling your clit in rhythm with his thrusts, “Cum for me, sunshine. Cum ‘round my cock.” He popped off the sensitive skin of your chest with a wet pop!. His tone was laced with lust, your walls constricted around him, making him drop his head on your shoulder. Your fingers wrapped around his hair, black, unruly strands pointing in all directions, while some of them stuck to his forehead, a soft sheen of sweat covering you both, loud moans, groans, and babbles filled the space, both of you clearly enjoying the moment. 

Your limbs were wrapped around Jongho’s as your lips crashed onto his, and your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, legs tightening around his thighs, fingers pulling at his roots, and the cry of his name dying on his lips. His rhythm grew sloppy, frantic as he looked for his own release, the hand that was circling your clit coming up to rest beside your head, holding him up. Your lips swallowed his punched-out groan as he filled you up, thick, warm ropes of cum painting your insides without a care in the world. 

Post-nut clarity hit you like a bitch. After Jongho slipped out of you and rolled to your side, breathing shallow as he stared at the ceiling, your heartbeat started thrumming in your ears. The haziness dissipated quickly as if a cold water bucket had been poured over you the second your orgasm subsided. 

You had sex with Choi Jongho. 

You sat up quickly, blood rushing to your head and making you feel slightly dizzy. Your hands splayed on the floor behind you, holding you upright as you caught your breath. You looked over your shoulder, seeing Jongho with his eyes closed as he brought a hand to his chest, trying to calm his own breathing. Your eyes danced over his body, admiring the way his honey-skin, lightly covered in sweat, shone in the dim lighting. You willed yourself to look away before your gaze dared to trail any lower. 

You had sex with Choi Jongho. On the school's library. 

You began gathering your clothes, quickly getting your panties that had been hastily discarded while you changed positions and pulling them up your legs, grimacing at the sticky feeling between them, quickly pulling your shirt over your head, and standing up, catching Jongho's attention, who opened his eyes to see you half-clothed as you rushed through the hallway looking for the rest of your things. 

“What is it?” He asked while popping a brow, confused. 

“What? You expected me to lie down and cuddle with you after fucking in the library?” You cocked a brow of your own, finding your pants and sliding them up your legs, prompting Jongho to begin dressing himself as well. 

“You can't be serious.” He scoffed as he watched you begin to gather the papers that had fallen forgotten on the floor as he slid up and buttoned his pants. “Are you just going to fucking leave? That's what you do best, right?” He bit out, picking his shirt up from the rug and putting it on. 

Your head turned so fast you swore you gave yourself whiplash. “What's that supposed to mean?” Your brows knotted, offended as you continued half-assedly gathering the papers, only this time your focus was fully on Jongho. 

“You just leave and act as if nothing happened, then go around telling everybody you hate me.” He huffed as he spoke matter-of-factly, crouching down to pick up his thick-rimmed glasses that had been thrown onto the floor at one point.

The sound that came out of you sounded more like a laugh than a scoff, and your head shook from side to side as if what he had said was the most ridiculous thing ever. “You act as if it wasn't your fucking fault that whatever we had broke.” 

“What does that even mean!” He knelt beside you, tone rising as his frustration bottled up again, close to exploding. 

“You think I don't know what you said to Soobin and Yeojun at that fuckass party over at TXT last semester?” Your voice rose too, bouncing off the walls of the empty hallways filled with books. 

“Wha–” 

“I heard you. Telling them you were only trying to get me to your bed and that I was already halfway there.” You bit out, turning your attention back to the papers on the floor, biting the inside of your cheek to avoid the tears pooling in your eyes. 

Now it was Jongho’s turn to feel as if a cold bucket of water had been dumped on him. Heat rose all the way to his ears, crimson covering his cheeks as his head cowered, teeth clamping over the inside of his cheek at your words. You weren't exactly right, but you also weren't wrong. 

“It didn't happen like that.” If the silence of both of you hadn't filled the space, his words would have probably gone unheard, given how low his voice came out. “But I was an idiot, I was so invested in getting into that fucking frat that I let those two idiots talk shit about you, and I didn't do anything to stop it because I thought no one was hearing.” Your eyes met his, and his gaze softened at the sight of your teary eyes and quivering lower lip. 

“I'm so so fucking sorry.” He said your name as his head fell forward, the sound of your own name out of his mouth surprising you. “Even if no one was around to hear, I should have said something.” He wasn't excusing himself; you could actually see how fucking sorry he was, and your heart ached. “If I could take it back and never have you hate me, I would do it in a heartbeat.” His words, followed by your name, made a stray tear run down your cheek, a small sniffle making him lift his head, his own eyes teary as he met your gaze. 

“I don't know if I can forgive you.” Your voice came out shaky, broken as another tear fell down your cheek. “Yet.” Jongho's brows furrowed in confusion. “I never really stopped liking you. I was just too hurt to want to do anything with you.” You explained with a soft blush in your cheeks. 

“I'll fix it.” He declared, pushing his glasses up into his hair and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “We just fucked on the library's floor for fuck’s sake, I'm not just letting you go.” 

Maybe. Maybe you didn't hate Choi Jongho as much as you thought.  As if you would have ever thought things would ever go like this.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆ 

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San loved his job.

Maybe too much.

He loved it so much that he almost never slept. Or he would sleep at 2am, thinking of a new way of promoting the recent product made by the company he worked in. A toothpaste, strawberry flavor. Which was, according to him, totally ridiculous. If he was their customer he would've wanted to have mentholated breath.

But of course he couldn't just say aloud his thoughts. And his boss didn't expect him, or his colleagues, to have any sort of opinion. You just accomplish your task without asking any question.

And this just summarized San's life.

Waking up.

Working.

Eating.

Home.

Making dinner.

Showering.

Sleeping.

Again and again.

Nevertheless, San was happy. He could provide for himself thanks to his salary. He didn't have financial issues so he considered himself fairly lucky.

And he loved his job.

Right?

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Nevermind, he hated his job.

When San opened his eyes, he knew it would be a bad day.

It was easier to put a mask on and pretend he was happy with his job, that he liked being behind his computer screen from 8am to 7pm.

At least he had Wooyoung.

Wooyoung was the only person whose existence didn't bother San. He was the only colleague he ate with. He was loud but his presence strangely brought comfort to San's loneliness.

Thirthy minutes later San was ready. Well, physically ready but mentally, his mind was somewhere else, stuck in the soft sheets of his bed.

He sighed, taking a brief look of his reflection in the mirror of his bathroom.

His appearance was screaming ''zombie''.

Even though his tie was neatly done, his shirt was crumpled and his dark rings under his eyes were at least three inches deep.

He pushed his glasses up. At least his lenses looked clean.

Yesterday, his car broke down so the only option left for him was to take public transport. And here was another thing that annoyed him even more. He usually was lazy and sleepy in the morning, being around lots of people on public transportation was the last thing he wanted.

After he had locked the door of his appartment he took the elevator although he lived on the second floor.

Yeah, he was that lazy.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in the pocket of his slacks.

Taking the phone out of it, he glanced at his screen.

It was a message from Wooyoung.

Wooyoung

Hi San :))))

Wooyoung

Tonight we'll have a drink at the bar I told you about. And of course, when I say we, I'm talking about you and me. :)

He didn't even ask if San wanted to go. And of course, as always, San would just accept it because it was useless to argue against Wooyoung. Not that he hadn't tried. But Wooyoung always ended up having the last word.

San

Can I at least know why?

The answer was immediate.

Wooyoung

Because you look like you're on the verge of exploding and you need a break from work.

San

I don't know what you're talking about.

Wooyoung

...

Wooyoung

You will come anyway.

San rolled his eyes but he knew Wooyoung was right. He needed a break. It's been three weeks since they last had free time and San's mind was really going to combust. But San wasn't the type of person to pay attention to his body's signals that clearly told him he was exhausted.

He needed this job even if he didn't like it.

Even if it makes him feel empty.

However, San didn't know if he was happy.

Was he?

He had a job with a decent salary, an apartment and food.

So why did it felt like something was missing in his life?

Why did he-

San felt a body bumped into him violently. And a sudden hot liquid on the front of his shirt.

Too hot.

''Oh my god, I'm so sorry- I wasn't looking where I was going-''

San slowly lifted his head, feeling his blood boiled under his skin.

That's it. He's going to explode. Here. Right now.

He was about to scold on this stranger but when his eyes landed on the person in front of him, his heart stopped.

The world vanished.

The sound around him muted. And suddenly it felt like he just got shot right into his heart.

Here, in front him, was standing the prettiest woman San had ever seen.

Awe quickly replaced anger.

And maybe a bit of embarrassement.

Embarrassement? For what exactly? It's not like he was the one who bumped into her.

A sudden rush of heat crept up his face.

What the hell was happening to him?

''I-I, no i-it's okay.''

He internally slapped himself for his stutter. He wanted to be mad at her, for ruining his day even more.

But instead he just got lost in her eyes.

Oh.

Her eyes are so...

So...

His chest tightened.

He couldn't do this anymore. He needed to run away before he turns into a blushing mess and makes a fool of himself.

So he rapidly passed her, continuing his way to his bus stop.

''Wait, your shirt is-''

San accelerated. Almost run.

Even her voice is beautiful.

It was only when he had reached his bus stop that he noticed he's been holding his breath. He checked his heart, putting a hand on his chest.

His heart couldn't stop beating rapidly. And his hands were sweaty.

San felt completely lost.

What just happened?

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You hated being late.

That's why you had never been late.

Almost.

There was some days or your alarm wouldn't ring.

And unfortunately, today was one of those days.

So here you were, running like your life depends on it, with two coffee in your hands. One for you, one for your father.

Even though you were in the rush, you couldn't skip your morning drink.

It definitely slowed you but you didn't care.

Your dad has been running a bar for years. It quickly became the most popular one in town.

Well it was half-bar, half-restaurant. But the fact is, this bar was different. It had a particularity. Something that had charmed many people around here.

You.

You've always loved singing since your were a kid. You had taken singing lessons, even had been a soloist in your choir group. You've never missed an opportunity to practice your vocals. People who had heard your voice have always been amazed by it.

You were never satisfied. You kept practicing.

But you loved singing.

Singing was like speaking a language you could feel and understand.

One day you asked your father if you could sing at his bar and just looked at you with surprise.

What you both didn't expect, was the amount of customers incading the bar after your first performance and with this, the surge of popularity that came with it.

You've been singing at the bar for a year and a half and you've never been more happy. You gave up on college to help your father while doing the thing that made you feel alive.

And you were being paid.

Because your voice was the particularity of the bar.

You and your father both agreed to keep this up.

But being his daughter didn't mean he would be more gentle. That is to say, he didn't tolerate lateness.

Your lungs were burning as you kept running.

Well, this situation could have been worse.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you hadn't noticed the man on his phone who was walking in your direction.

And the situation you didn't want to happen literally hit you.

You both had collided with so much force that your coffee spilled on the man's shirt.

You stilled.

Then, panic and horror rushed on your face.

Oh no.

This couldn't be happening right now.

What have I done in my past life to be cursed? Did I kill someone?

Say something. Don't just stand like that.

''Oh my god, I'm so sorry- I wasn't looking where I was going-''

You're cooked.

You're definitely cooked.

The man slowly lifted his head.

You closed your eyes, mentally bracing yourself for insults.

But then, nothing.

Your eyes hesitantly opened.

The man before you was looking straight into your eyes. But what you didn't expect was his expression.

Because he looked anything but mad.

In fact, it looked like he was...shy ?

Am I not supposed to be the one shy ?

You noticed the way his ears were pink and the way his face got redder the more seconds passed.

His eyes were slighly wide and his lips parted.

''I-I, no i-it's okay.''

Just as you were about to ask him if he was okay he suddenly passed by you.

''Wait, your shirt is...''

He didn't listen. Worse, he practically run.

''...dirty.''

Okay?

Did he just ignore me?

You sighed, running your hand over your face. At least he didn't scold me.

Even though his reaction seemed weird you couldn't deny that he was a cute stranger, with his glasses slipping off his nose. In fact, when you thought of it he looked really handsome despite the exhaustion on his face.

You chuckled.

At least he made the beginning of your day a bit better.

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''You look like shit.''

San shot Wooyoung a dark glance in the mirror, trying to wipe his now not-so-white shirt now that a trace of coffee stained on it.

''You're not helping.'' San grumbled.

''Wasn't trying to.''

''Wooyoung.''

''Alright, alright, I was joking. Jeez, you really need to relax.''

After San had arrived at his work place, Wooyoung had sent him a glare that screamed ''are you actually okay bro?''

San had ignored him and made his way to the washroom. Eventually he told him about his very interesting misadventure.

He didn't mention that he had found her beautiful nor the way his pulse had hammered in his throat.

''It enforces my point. Your need a break. A real one.''

''So the other breaks we've had weren't real? And what is even the difference between the previous bars we've already gone to and the one you'll drag me to tonight?''

The familiar smirk that San knew too well now, appeared on Wooyoung's lips.

''It's good you're asking me this because it is a different bar.''

''You always say that and we always end up in the most ordinary bar.''

Wooyoung rolled his eyes.

''Fair point. But this one is definitely cool. And chic.''

San frowned.