you are my light

and as of right now, your relationship with higuruma has felt like the inception of expired milk. granted, when prompted by curious friends and family about your budding relationship with the man, you generally have nothing but good things to say about him. higuruma is a gentleman, and he’s kind, and remembers all the things you’ve told him in the short times you’ve been seeing each other, and altruistic to his very core. he’s also a very generous lover in the bedroom, so your sexual compatibility has never been considered as something to ring alarms about. everything should be great…

but it isn’t.

you see, while you’ve only been together for a few months, give or take, you feel as if many a milestone should have been crossed by now… the most important one (in your eyes, anyway) being that you stay the night at each other’s place.

and yet, it hasn’t happened. you think to all the times where you and higuruma have finished fooling around in the comfort of his bedroom, out of breath and very sated, and the dimming of the sky begins to brush over the horizon — and like clockwork, you sit up, scratching the soft skin of your belly awkwardly as you say, “gosh, it’s getting late.”

the response you’ve so desperately sought out for was a lidded eyed higuruma, who would be looking up at you with so much desire and yearning, his arms outstretched to wrap around your body to pull you in, with barely a word uttered between you two as he says, “i would really like if you could stay.”

unfortunately, that has never been the case during these few months, where he would sit up next to you, nodding owlishly as he helped you collect your clothes, calling a taxi while helping you to the door and kissing your forehead goodbye.

the disappointment in itself feels unfounded and unwarranted. he’s a nice man. he never leaves you high and dry, always pays for your ride home, ensures that you text him when you get there, and he’s sending you a good night text where he asks when you both may see each other again.

the guilt you feel for the rejection that climbs up your throat when he doesn’t offer you respite at his home is insurmountable, to say the least. it’s no different at your place either: by the time you’ve disjointed from his sweaty grasp, he’s already jingling his car keys while looking for his displaced socks.

it doesn’t make any sense to you. did he not see this going beyond a few dates and sex? he had already introduced you to his cat, shifu, and likewise had became acquainted with your own kitten, popo. it felt incredibly serious in your eyes. you had gushed about him to your friends, posted him online via fleeting 24hr story posts, but his existence in your life was there.

so what was going on?

it feels like your day has been dragging on after having spent the morning in your own bed yet again, your mind going back to a few nights ago where you had a nice home cooked dinner with higuruma, with the night — of course — ending in sexual intimacy (you think the few glasses of pinot noir and a seductive carbonara made you a deer in headlights to your boyfriend’s whims, despite all your warring feelings), and, like clockwork, with higuruma picking up your clothes as he dialled for the taxi to come pick you up, much too drunk to drive you home (and apparently too out of his wits to suggest that you stay the night).

your eyes stay glued to the text chain between the both of you, with the last two of your messages having been left on delivered since last night — albeit they’re nothing out of the ordinary, just you tell higuruma you made it home safely and that you couldn’t wait to see him again… and nonetheless, the texts stay unread, taunting you through the screen.

a deep sigh leaves your chest, and you close your phone to look off into the distance (the aforementioned being the sharply lit hallway of your workplace, with patients and nurses going in and out of their respective rooms). just then, one of your colleagues-turned-friends rounds the corner, and you look up to see shoko, hands on her hips when she sees you sulking on the waiting chair outside your office.

“you’re looking especially forlorn today,” she teases and you deadpan at her as she takes a seat next to you, nudging you gently. “what’s up with you, huh?”

you nibble on your bottom lip, shaking your head. “it’s… it’s nothing,” to which shoko scoffs at, this time poking you with her foot.

“are you seriously going to try and lie to me right now?” she says, unimpressed. you shake your head.

“exactly,” she responds, poking your arm. “so i’ll ask again: what’s up with you?”

you huff, looking down at your phone, edging down a fingertip to switch the screen on just to see a whole lot of nothing (save for a the same text messages staring up at you) on the OLED.

shoko snatches the phone from your hand before you can protest, and her eyes glance downwards and her shoulders sag in immediate knowing. “ohhhh… it’s him.”

you don’t even have to answer, nor do you really want to.

she nudges you again, this time with her elbow. “did something terrible happen with him? why is he not answering your texts?”

“it’s… stupid,” you sigh, shrugging to which shoko scoffs.

“it’s obviously not stupid if it has you moping around like a heartbroken, lovesick tween,” she snorts, to which you nudge her this time. “if he’s making you feel like this, then maybe you should talk to him about it.”

you huff, snatching your phone back. “it’s not that simple… we’ve only been dating three months… that’s nothing in the adult world.”

shoko rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “don’t give me that bullshit. you’re a grown ass woman, and i’ve never known you to not communicate your feelings like one either—”

she then pokes your foot with hers. “and who cares if it’s only been three months? it’s not like you’re asking him to get one knee and buy a ring, you’re asking for attention. that’s not exactly a big ask.”

you sigh resoundingly and defeatedly, shoko’s words reminiscent of what you should’ve been thinking if you were a mature, adjusted woman.

“i know, i know… it’s just… when we have sex—” (the word is uttered under your breath, your eyes darting around the near empty hospital hallway), “he knows just what to say and do and everything seems perfect.”

you swallow thickly. “the we finish and he acts like he doesn’t know how to speak to me… then in return, i don’t know how to speak to him.”

you then laugh bitterly. “god, how pathetic does that sound?”

shoko stares at you for five solid seconds before slapping a palm against her forehead, to which you sit up in alarm.

“sho—?!”

she just as quickly responds with an iteration of your name. “you’re not pathetic,” she says, voice firm. “you’re human, and you just happen to be caught up with an emotionally constipated man. it happens to the best of us. either way, none of this is your fault in particular.”

your eyes begin to water slightly, and you have to tuck your thumbs into the sleeves of your jumper to dab at the inner corners of your eyes. you lean your head on shoko’s shoulder, sniffling quietly.

“what do i do? do i break up with him—?”

shoko snorts again, shaking her head. “you don’t have to go to those extremes just yet, silly.”

she then throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a side-hug that has you leaning even further into her hold. “you should definitely talk to him, though. sit his ass down and look him in the eyes and say, “we need to talk,” and if he’s half the man you say he is, he’ll listen. it’s that simple.”

you nod against her. “you’re always right, shoko… that settles it. i’ll talk to him.”

“of course i am,” she teases with a grin, pressing her lips to the crown of your head gently.

just then, her pager goes off with a loud beep and she groans, giving your shoulder a warm squeeze before standing.

“i’m off to finish off my rounds. i’ll find you in your office later, yeah?”

you nod again, smiling up at her. “yeah, i’ll see you then, sho’.”

shoko disappears with a wave over her shoulder, her heels a familiar click clack against the tile as she slides around the corner, and you’re left with your phone and unanswered texts all over again.

your stomach churns, fluttering with anxiety at the idea of confronting him, or worse, upsetting him about something as menial as this (though, clearly not with the way it has consumed you to the point of fatalistic worry that your romance is already over before it could properly blossom into something more).

either way, shoko was right. you deserve to know your place with a man you actually see a future with, no matter how early or budding the prospect is.

you unlock your phone again, fingers padding until higuruma’s contact comes up on the screen: hiromi <3

you ring him without so much a second glance, paying no heed to what he could be doing right now as a man of such a busy and demanding career.

the cell rings once, twice, a third time— then it clicks, higuruma’s warm voice through the speaker.

“hello?”

you can hear the clicking of multiple keyboards in the background, and he’s obviously in the middle of working, that much you do know, so you can’t help but let out a puff of relief at the fact he’s picked up almost instantly.

“hey, hiromi. it’s me,” you breathe, a straying finger playing with a lock of your hair absentmindedly.

your name leaves his lips just as breathlessly, and you have to bite back at smile at the fact you can just hear the corners of his mouth lift up in his voice.

there’s a slight pause with some shuffling, and suddenly it’s a lot quieter. he’s giving you his full attention, which eases some of the pressure in your mind.

“is everything okay? I don’t usually expect to hear from you during a working day.”

you let out a little puff of air, as if to deflate yourself like a balloon and a dirty spoon. “no, no, everything’s fine, i just… wanted to ask if you were busy friday night, since you, uh… never responded to my text.”

his voice catches from beyond the speaker and he sighs, and you can hear him rake a hand through his hair.

“i’m sorry. i got caught up in work, and i meant to open your message but i got caught up in work and it slipped my mind—”

there’s a slight moment where higuruma exhales, mumbling quietly, before he clears his throat. “to answer your question, yes, i’m free on friday. did… you want to do something?”

you pretend to hum thoughtfully, as if you hadn’t been mulling over these date plans for the past few days since you’ve last seen him. “i was thinking dinner at my place? if that’s alright with you, of course.”

higuruma laughs softly, a slightly crackle to the sound. “i’d love that. what should i bring?”

“just yourself,” you say teasingly, a fond smile now lighting up your entire face. “maybe a bottle of wine but that’s not obligatory in the slightest.”

he laughs softly — low and warm, the sound washing over the phone line like liquid honey, so much so that you almost forget that the purpose of this impromptu date is to talk to him about the future of their relationship.

emphasis on almost.

“you sure? i have no trouble picking something up.”

you shake your head, nibbling at the skin of your bottom lip as his words drape over you. “really… i don’t mind.”

“if you insist, my love. i will be there around seven?”

you hum sweetly. “seven is perfect.”

“seven it is,” he responds, and you hear some movement from behind the screen and higuruma coughs. “i should get back to work now but… i will see you on friday?”

“o-oh yeah, of course,” you stammer, a little shy now for some reason. “don’t let me keep you. yes… i’ll see you then. bye hiromi.”

he murmurs your name with the same adieu, voice terribly soft, as it always is when he’s talking to you.

when the line clicks dead, all you’re left with is silence and the quiet ache in your chest that seems to ebb and flow but never truly go away when it comes to him.

you stare at your phone a moment longer, before stuffing it into your pocket and getting up from the chair.

friday suddenly can’t come quick enough.

ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ

the rest of the week comes and goes, and before you know it, friday evening is just mere minutes away.

you walk around your apartment doing some finishing touches while dinner cooks: fluffing up your couch pillows, making sure your little cat stays tucked in and asleep in the spare bedroom, fixing the angles of your framed photos, and of course, making sure your bedroom is presentable lest you partake in any after meal activities (which, of course, is purely contingent on how the conversation with higuruma goes, and that conversation will be had, you have made sure of it).

you then saunter to your bedroom mirror, hands smoothing over your dark evening dress as you take a mirror selfie, sending it to your friends who insist that you’re not too dressed up, as they respond with a flurry of heart eyes, compliments and gushing words.

with some newfound confidence, you throw your phone onto the bed, admiring yourself in the reflection for a moment, and the thought of higuruma’s reaction to how you look sends your knees into a slight buckle, to which you scold yourself over.

“composure, woman,” you grumble, storming back into the kitchen, your heels clacking alongside you in rhythmic fashion. “it’s not about that right now.”

unbeknownst to you, higuruma stands outside your apartment, glancing at himself through the metal of your numbered door, and he lifts a thumb to brush through his eyebrows and the front of his hair.

with one arm, he tightens his black tie against his crisp white shirt, balancing a bottle of pinot noir and a bouquet of dark orchids and lillies. he checks the time on his wristwatch once more, waiting for the clock to strike at exactly seven when he lifts a finger to press against the doorbell.

you’re back in the kitchen and checking on the starter when you hear it, gasping and muttering a few expletives under your breath as you click and clack to the front door, unlocking it and pulling it open, smiling up and expectantly at higuruma in all his glory.

“hey. right on time.”

a slow, steady curve of a smile spreads across his face as he takes you in — really looks at you — for the first time that week since your last rendezvous.

“you,” he says softly, voice already teetering on ragged, “are killing me.”

he steps forward, eyes scanning you up and down like he wants to permanently etch the image of you right now into his retinas and brain.

as bashful as ever, you bite back a smile, cheeks heating up at his very obvious appreciation. higuruma then gestures to the bottle of wine and bouquet of flowers in his hold. “these are for you. i know you said i didn’t need to bring anything but… it didn’t sit right with my conscience to show up empty handed while you dote on me.”

you awe at him, taking the the gifts into your arms, and stepping backwards into your apartment. “really, hiromi, you shouldn’t have… but please, come on. dinner will be ready in just a moment.”

hiromi steps in from behind you, and you don’t check to see that he’s already close to next to you as you get out a vase and fill it with water to accommodate for the lovely flowers.

he follows you inside, his gaze still roaming appreciatively over the way the smooth fabric of your dress curves over your hips as you walk. you can see his fingers twitch at his side from your periphery and you have to bite back a pleased smile at how well received your current get up is with the man lingering behind you.

“you look absolutely stunning, by the way,” he says, almost exasperated at the fact.

you look at him over your shoulder for a mere second, smiling as humbly as ever.

“thank you… you clean up well yourself,” you jest, with a teasing lilt to your voice.

you take out a vase, filling it up with water. “um, dinner won’t be ready for a little while so feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

all the while, hiromi just watches silently as you put the flowers he brought you into the vase. as if operating on pure instinct, he takes his blazer off, draping it over a dining room chair. his tie has already come a little loose.

he watches you bustle around the kitchen and youre yet to see that he just... stands there, watching you, so obviously taking in the way that you look.

you hum a little tune to yourself, getting out a couple plates as you finish up, eyes darting when it feels like you’re being watched from your peripheral vision.

you spin, wine glasses in your hand as you raise a brow at hiromi, walking over to where he leans by the dining room table.

“when i said make yourself comfortable, i meant make yourself at home. not watch me while i finish dinner.”

the corner of his lips twitches — like he knows he’s been caught.

he holds your gaze when you walk over, his eyes on you like an animal about to pounce on his prey, but when he catches you staring right at him, he has to look away for a moment and clear his throat, as if to signal that he was deep in thought and definitely not checking you out.

you huff, rolling your eyes as you place the glasses on the table. “the starter will be done soon… i just need to make sure that the wellington doesn’t burn and…”

you turn to him again as you trail off, hands moving from your hips to shoo him off. “now go away. snoop if you must. i’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

“snoop?” he echoes, feigning offense as he finally pushes off the table. "i’m just appreciating the view."

hiromi gives you a slow, crooked smile of appreciation coupled with defeat — rare and genuine from a man of his stoic disposition (has that been said before?) as he then turns to wander into your living room.

when you finish up like promised, placing two plates on the table: two identical dishes of shrimp risotto across the table, parallel, you wander off to the living room, and you find hiromi strewn across the couch like he owns the thing, and from where you stand, you see his fingers over the spine of one of your textbooks on the coffee table before pausing at a framed photo: you and your friends, arms all slung around each other, grinning like fools in front of cherry blossoms.

his thumb brushes over it gently, and you almost don’t want to call for him from where you’re greedily eating up the way he fits in your home.

instead, you compromise. you quietly walk back into the dining room, coughing loudly before shouting out.

“hiromi, your presence is wanted!”

“yes, ma'am.”

he’s already there before you know it, his long legs carry him the distance to the dining table in a few strides, pulling out the chair across from you and sitting.

“that smells good.”

“thank you,” you say, sitting down. “please, enjoy.”

he doesn't move right away.

instead, he just... watches you spoon up your food, and it’s only when you look up at him to wipe away some remnants from the corner of your mouth does he smile softly and pick up his spoon.

“then i’ll start before i embarrass myself by staring at you any longer.”

he takes a bite — and genuinely moans in appreciation.

“… this is incredible.”

you smile softly, a little flustered. “thank you… it’s just something i threw together. i’m glad you like it.”

he laughs a little to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

“just something you threw together? bullshit. this is better than most restaurants here in tokyo.”

another bite: this time, a slightly bigger one. he savours it, closing his eyes as he tastes it on his tongue.

“where the hell did you learn to cook like this?”

you shrug, taking another spoonful into your mouth. “cooking’s fun. there’s actually not much to do as a working woman when you don’t have time for anything but work, eat and sleep… might as well make it more tolerable.”

hiromi pauses mid-bite, his eyes narrowing slightly. “are you saying you spend your spare time cooking?"

he stares at you, completely incredulous before a slow, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“you’re unreal.”

you raise a brow while hiding back a humble smile over the curve of your spoon. “i mean, what else could possibly better suited for my time? plus, i like cooking for people… makes me feel good.”

hiromi can't help the way his eyes rove over you again, lingering on your mouth, your neck, the smooth expanse of skin he can see above the neckline of your dress.

“you enjoy doing it for others, huh?” he teases, though there's a hint of something else in his voice. “and if you're the only person there? who do you cook for then?”

you ponder at that, taken aback at his faithfulness. “hm. i guess i’ve never really thought of it that way.”

you think for a moment, then takes a sip from your wine glass, sweet and red yet bitter and light. “i guess it’s a little different when it’s for myself… but that could be applied to almost everything in my life. i think you have to be slightly masochistic to be a doctor.”

a soft huff of laughter escapes him at that, his eyes warm and bright on yours over the rim of his glass.

“slightly masochistic, huh? is that a requirement for you doctors?”

hiromi takes another sip in tandem, tongue in cheek before he huffs again. “i guess that's how you end up working yourself into the ground for ungrateful patients and shitty hours."

“hey — takes one to know one,” you retort, raising a brow. “swap patients for clients and defendants and that’s basically your life to a t.”

hiromi tilts his head backward as if in thought before nodding in agreement, his shoulders shifting beneath his shirt.

“fair enough,” he concedes, lips curved in a wry smile. “though i get to charge them a hell of a lot more.”

he takes another bite, then:

“that being said... my shitty hours do come with a good salary.”

“oh?” you says, spooning another bite into your mouth. “here i thought that public defenders were one of the more oppressed groups in our judicial system.”

“ah—” he smirks, leaning forward slightly. “careful, doctor. i’m not just a public defender anymore.”

hiromi’s voice drops a notch — smooth, confident and it almost has your spine sitting up straight from the buzz of conduction that tickles up the nerves.

“i’ve got my own practice now. we handle civil litigation and criminal defense — you know, pro bono for those who need it most."

he watches you over his glass as he takes another sip, smacking his lips quietly as if to make a point.

“please don’t let the modest suits fool you. i can afford to take you out for more than just dinner.”

you raise your hands in mock surrender. “forgive me for my preconceived notions… and that’s very good to know.”

he laughs, low and warm that it has you grinning from bask of it, and there's a flicker of something proud in his eyes.

“not going to lie, i like that you didn’t know,” he admits, swirling the wine in his glass. “means you weren't after me for my bank account.”

his gaze lifts to meet yours, suddenly serious.

“...you were after me for me.”

it’s your turn to laugh quietly this time, leaning back in your chair.

“well, while i am glad to have given you that impression, i grew up relatively well off… men with money are a dime a dozen. it means very little to me in the grand scheme of things.”

hiromi’s lips quirk in an amused smile, eyes narrowing slightly. “is that right? have you dated a lot of rich men, doctor?”

you snort, leaning forward onto the palm of your hands as the man in front of you sets his fork down, his wine glass joining it in a quiet, soft thump. his eyes never leave your face. “do i give you that impression?”

“no, not at all,” he jibes, cheeks dimpling ever so faintly, “but i am beginning to wonder if I'm at risk here," he teases, but there's a hint of sincerity in his voice. "you might take one look at my paycheck and dump me for someone richer."

you shake your head, smiling a little. “au contraire, mr lawyer… all i can do is assure you in that—” and you top off his glass of red, before pouring some in your own.

“money just doesn’t impress me quite as much as you may think it does.”

you polish off your plate, looking at him. “now, are you done? the main is almost ready.”

hiromi blinks at you.

right. dinner.

you don’t fail to notice that he’s been sitting, staring at you the entire time. nevertheless, he recovers quickly with a curt nod, flashing you a lazy smile as he finally sets his silverware down.

“yes, i’m done. that was delicious, by the way… not that i expect anything less from you, doctor.”

he grins wider, raising his empty wine glass in a mock toast.

you rolls your eyes at him fondly, playfully brushing past his shoulder with the sway of your hip as you take his plate and your own to the kitchen behind where you eat.

the moment you walk away, hiromi’s eyes follow, lingering like a dedicated flame. he lets out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair and he tries his hardest to stay seated — fingers drumming once against the table — before finally standing and walking into the kitchen behind you.

he leans against the arched doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“let me help.”

you look over at him, putting on your apron and taking out some folded oven gloves. “i would be a terrible hostess if i let my guest help me cook.”

he steps closer, too close; close enough to smell the vanilla in his hair that mingles with the faint citrus of your perfume.

“then consider it a rebellion," he teases, his voice low and gentle, "against good hosting."

his fingers graze yours as he takes the dish from your hands, the heat between them not just from the oven.

“let me do this… please?”

you raise a brow in contemplation before decidedly raising your hands in stark white defeat. “okay… fine. you’ve officially browbeaten me into submission,” and you rest your hands on your hips for a second, before lifting up a tray.

“here. you can take the pot of gravy to the table while i slice the wellington.”

he smiles triumphantly, taking the pot from you easily. he’s a little too smug, the look in those grey eyes justifiably victorious.

“i am good at that, you know," he says as he walks away. the words have a double meaning, and you can’t help think that the both of you know it.

he sets the dish down in the middle of the table, then returns to the kitchen again, finding his way behind you once again.

“i would hope so, mr lawyer,” you say, passing him a pot of potatoes. “now take this and sit down. i’ll be there with our second course of the evening.”

“yes, ma'am.”

the corners of his lips twitch, holding back a smile at the authoritative tone in your voice. you can tell he wants to tease you more, to say something cheeky and infuriating, but the side eye glance you give him makes him hold his tongue, bowing his head as he returns to the dining room.

he takes the potatoes like the committed one he is and sits, hands on his lap, a proper gentleman waiting for his meal.

but his eyes never leave you.

you return, with two plates of beef wellington and tenderstem broccoli (to which you’ve told hiromi that there is a difference and that it is superior to normal broccoli), sliding them onto the table.

you sit across from him once again. “well then… please enjoy.”

he looks down at the meal before him; and then, of course, there's you in front of him.

he has to swallow thickly so as to not give anything away in his voice, dark eyes lifting back to yours.

“thank you,” he says quietly. “this looks amazing.”

you beam at him, (and you subtly notice that you keep doing a lot of that tonight, but can it even be helped when in such gorgeous and suave company?), digging into your own portion.

hiromi chews and swallows, making little to no noise —but then says suddenly, "can i ask you something?"

you look up at him, mid bite, nodding. “of course.”

“why’d you go into neurosurgery?”

his voice is gentle yet serious, which is typical of hiromi’s nature. it’s one of things you like most about him.

he watches you closely as he waits for the answer, to which your lips curl a little at the corners as you think, your eyes flitting down to your plate. “it was the only specialty that didn’t make me want to off myself after every rotation.”

hiromi is surprised into a shocked, choking sort of laugh. his eyes roam over you, a slight smirk on his lips.

“that is... brutally honest.”

you laugh a little sheepishly, shaking your head.

“i’m sorry i don’t have a more politically correct answer… i’m sure if you asked me 4 years ago in the midst of med school, i would’ve said that i just want to help people…but it’s like you said: the people are ungrateful and the hours are long. and the pay always starts out to be downright abysmal.”

hiromi snorts, shaking his head almost ruefully.

“oh, believe me, i know how bad the hours are. and the pay is just a joke, so much so it feels like an insult. you can work yourself to the bone and there's no reward—just a slap on the back and a 'keep up the good work.'”

his fingers drum softly on the tabletop, like he can't stay still. he lets out a sigh, a tired sound, accompanied by the dark circles under his eyes, as if to serve as a physical reminder of their shared relatability.

“i get it. trust me… i get it.”

you nod, eyes softening. “yeah… it’s pretty much exactly that.” you then huffs, shaking your head. “but i don’t know… i like my job for the most part. i work with a lot of kids mostly, so that’s the silver lining. although, maybe not… while they’re a lot more pleasant than the adults i take care of… that makes the suffering oh, so much worse.”

“you..." he pauses, a look on his face you can’t quite name. "...you like kids?"

“mhmm,” you hum behind a sip of wine. “i love them… i especially adore the kids i work with…” and you say it all with a growing smile on your face, unknowing to you but ever so obvious to the man sat opposite you.

“i think someone who dislikes the world’s most innocent would be someone i wouldn’t particularly want to get to know in any capacity… how about you? do you like kids, hiromi?”

he doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “i do.”

the smile on his face is almost boyishly earnest when he says it— and he looks at you, with your soft, pretty features—and all he can picture is the way you'd look, a little swollen with a child in your belly.

he swallows, heat rising in his face. “... i like them a lot.”

this time, it’s your turn to be a little shocked, and you raise a brow. “really?” with blatant disbelief laden in your tone.

“huh. i never got that vibe from you.”

his lips twitch, caught somewhere between a smirk and an honest-to-god blush.

“you don't think i look the type?” he leans forward slightly, voice dropping. "just because i spend my days arguing with assholes in court doesn't mean i don't want to come home to tiny little people who call me daddy.”

he says it casually (too casually) but his eyes flicker to yours for just a second, testing the waters.

“...i have always wanted kids.”

you smile at that, chuckling at his choice of words.

“so, let me get this straight: you’re a 35 year old defence attorney who earns a decent living, loves kids and is dashingly handsome? what exactly were you doing before we met?”

his cheeks flush even warmer at your words, squirming a little in his seat. hiromi ends up just mirroring your own smile, dimple in his right cheek flashing as he does.

“not finding the right woman.” he lets out a mock sort of sigh. “i was starting to think I'd die alone, honestly.”

you let out a genuine laugh at the pure cynicism in his words. “oh? pray tell. what was the dating scene like before i came and saved you?”

“a nightmare,” he deadpans, shaking his head. “i dated this one woman who kept asking me what my net worth was. another one wanted me to choose between her and my career, and that's not even including the ones who just... couldn't handle the long hours, or the demanding work of being with a defence attorney of all people.”

hiromi gives you a rueful smile, but there's a subtle trace of bitterness in his eyes. “i was starting to think my only life partner would be my job.”

you hum sympathetically at that. “i can imagine…” and you trail off, before letting curiosity slip into the conversation.

“did you ever expect to be married by now?” and then you’re backtracking a little, sheepishly waving your hands. “not that there’s anything wrong with being unmarried at your age—!” you add, to which hiromi laughs at your sincerity, leaning backwards into the seat, arms folded.

“and, of course i don’t think you’re old by any means… I’m just… curious, is all.”

he makes a noise of understanding, nodding. “i’ve always thought i would be married before i turned thirty-five,” he admits quietly, taking another sip of the wine in his glass.

hiromi looks down at his hands, a little abashed as he says, “...i know, i know. it doesn't make sense. i’m relatively young; i’m successful. hell, i’ve even been told i’m attractive, which is really strange to say out loud.”

you laugh and so does he, but there's that rueful sort of edge to it again. “i guess i just never met the right woman.”

“did you ever get close to?” you ask, finger dancing over the rim of your cup.

he lets out a humorless sort of huff, scrubbing a hand over his face as he thinks.

“once or twice,” he confesses, “i got close a couple of times. things were going well, and i thought we were on the same page, and then... suddenly, they'd realize the hours were too stressful. or i was too obsessed with my job. or we just wanted... different things.”

hiromi glances at you across the table, grey eyes steady as he says, “it never worked out for one reason or another.”

you hum again, pondering… thinking.

“that’s fair… unfortunately, i can’t fault it. long hours can really make or break a relationship. it’s always that, coupled with miscommunication.”

“miscommunication,” he repeats, almost grimly, the word itself leaving a tart taste in his mouth.

he says your name, shaking his head. “you have no idea. i’ve been told i was too 'emotionally distant', that i don't show enough affection. that i expect people to read my mind. hell, i’ve even had women walk out because they said i was 'too intense'.”

he snorts.

“i’m not that difficult, am i?”

you go noticeabley quiet at that, eyes widening before they dart back to your finger playing with the rim of your wine glass. “difficult?…that’s a loaded word.”

he cocks his head at the hesitance in your voice, as if he can practically see you gearing up to respond with some sort of placating bullshit— you're too nice, too kind —so he speaks before you can.

“please," he says softly. “be honest. i can take it.”

you open and close your mouth, looking at him with pitying eyes for a second before sighing defeatedly, looking down at your half eaten meal.

“i actually think it might be the opposite… you’re not…” and you trail off, nibbling your bottom lip gently.

“i don’t know how to articulate this in a way that doesn’t sound too presumptuous or… insulting.”

“then don't sugarcoat it.”

hiromi’s voice is quiet but steady, eyes locked on yours despite the forlorn look of something… not as hard hitting as agony, but not as unassuming as pain.

"i’m asking because i want to know. not for comfort. so say it—whatever it is."

you sigh again, this time deeply.

“i don’t think you’re intense enough.”

he blinks at that, caught completely off guard by the response. you could see that he was bracing himself for something bad — probably waiting for you to list all the things he was used to hearing from past relationships. this was probably the last thing he was expecting.

hiromi’s lips part, grey eyes widening ever so slightly.

“...say that again?”

you look up at him from your plate, swallowing thickly.

“…i… i like you a lot, hiromi… and i know it’s very early days into this relationship,” and you say that a little quieter than the rest, “but sometimes… sometimes it feels like you don’t… like me all that much, at least, not as much as i do.”

you scoff, face warming a bit under the strobe light of the dining room. “god, i sound like an immature school girl with an unrequited crush.”

hiromi’s throat seemingly goes completely dry, all the air leaving his lungs in a quiet whoosh. “...what makes you think that?”

you shrug, shaking your head, picking up your fork to drag a stray piece of broccolini stem across your plate, back and forth, back and forth.

“it’s silly now that i think about saying it out loud.”

immediately, his expression softens, almost pained by the hesitance in your voice.

he looks at the uncertainty in your eyes and you don’t fail to notice that his arms twitch, as if he wills them to stay by his side.

“please,” he repeats softly. “tell me. why would you think for even a second that i don't like you?”

“it’s not that i think you don’t like me, or that you don’t enjoy my company to a certain degree…” and you trail off, looking up at him, eyes soft and gentle but a little nervous.

“i… just… sometimes, beyond our sexual chemistry… i never know what you’re thinking… you don’t say much, nor do you call, o-or tell me what you’re really thinking. and i know, it’s only been a few months, so i’ve kept most of this to myself in fear of… scaring you away with my own intensity…”

the longer you speak, the more the breath leaves your body, and the more his expression grows solemn in nature.

hearing the quiet insecurity in your own voice makes your chest ache in a way you can’t control, and you’re sure hiromi feels it too, with the way he shakes his head slowly, as if trying to clear it.

“...you can't be serious,” he murmurs. “...of course i like you. more than like you. i thought that was obvious.”

you’re still rendered unable to look him in his warm grey eyes.

“i know you like me, of course i do… but i don’t know…” and you trail off, the vegetables on your plate thoroughly covered in sauce and gravy now.

“i just… i’ve never stayed the night, nor have you offered… and i know, i know it’s immature of me when i could just ask, and you’d more than likely say yes, but…”

the words get stuck again, and you have to swallow the lump in your throat.

“i don’t know. it’s stupid. i’m sorry.”

meanwhile, hiromi is stunned into momentary silence.

almost immediately, he reaches across the table, fingers closing gently around your wrist.

“no,” he breathes, eyes pleading. "it’s not stupid, not at all. look at me.”

you looks at his hand enclosed around your wrist, before meeting his earnest gaze, still waiting… quiet and expectant.

his grip tightens ever so slightly.

"you’re not stupid," he repeats, his voice even more gentle. “don’t apologise. i’m not upset, i just... i can't believe you've been feeling this way and i never knew. i was so worried about scaring you off, i’d never even thought to consider about how you'd view me during all of this.”

his thumb brushes over your pulse point, feeling your racing heart beneath his fingertips.

it’s your turn to look at him in disbelief.

“you’ve been worried about scaring me off?”

his free hand runs anxiously through his hair, frustration clear in his expression.

“of course i have,” he confesses. “you’ve no idea how much i’ve tried to keep myself in check — to keep myself from going too hard, saying too much, going too fast... i didn't want to scare you off or make you think i was clingy.”

his thumb continues to brush circles across your wrist, the motion so soothing, so subconscious, he doesn't even realize he's doing it, but it helps lower your guard nonetheless, as he has you huffing out a laugh now, way more relieved and very sheepish.

“i… i had no idea… now i feel silly for assuming the worst. i’m sorry.”

“don’t say that,” he murmurs, giving your wrist a light squeeze.

“i should have been more straightforward from the very beginning, i just... i didn't want to push you. i figured you'd want to take things slow. that you'd want space. i didn't want to...”

he scoffs, his voice growing thick. “...i didn't want to come on too strong too early on and end up losing you.”

you slide your wrist out of his hand to replace it with your palm instead.

the moment your hand slides into his— warm, steady, and oh so, sure —something inside him cracks open like a gently steamed egg. his breath hitches.

“i really like what we have, hiromi… and i’d like us to be serious. i want you to want me even if you think i’ll reject you… because nine times out of ten, i’m most definitely thinking the same thing as you.”

hiromi looks down at your joined hands, then back up at your face. the softness in your eyes undoes him completely.

“... i want that too," he agrees quietly. “more than anything.”

you nod, smiling at him. “okay, then. it’s settled.”

the both of you just stare at each other, his eyes that bore into yours wordlessly converse with your own weighted gaze, hopeful and filling in the gaps of what doesn’t need to be conveyed.

“so…” you finally voice, “what would you like to do after dessert?”

hiromi’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand this time, absentminded.

his adam’s apple bobs and settles before he clears his throat.

“i have somewhat of an idea," he says, voice low and sultry, “but it might make me a bit of a bastard to suggest it out loud.”

you shrug, your other hand sliding atop their already conjoined ones. “i guess i’ll be the judge of that.”

hiromi’s eyes flicker down to where your hands encompasses his, and he sniffles thickly.

“…how would you feel if i suggested i spend the night at your place?"

you smile, almost showing all of your teeth.

“i’d really, really like that…” but then your face falls in innocent confusion. “though, i fail to see how that would make you look like a bastard.”

his eyes darken at your guileless smile, and he manages to keep his voice steady as he says, “...well. there is one caveat."

you narrow your eyes curiously, lips pouty.

“oh? what is it?”

for a second, hiromi is completely distracted by the pout of your lip, but when you squeeze his hand, he recalibrates, coughing with no cough backed up.

“well,” he says as casually as can be, fingers still brushing softly across your knuckles. “i have one or two... expectations, i suppose you could call them, for the night. if you're amenable, that is.”

you nod, eyes wide, still a little confused and unsure but ready to accommodate to his very preferences.

“i’m all ears— oh,” and realisation washes all over your face. “are you insinuating what i think you’re insinuating?”

seeing you begin to catch on spreads a slow, predatory smile across his lips.

he takes his time before answering, dragging out his words like silk. “that depends. what do you think i’m insinuating?" he asks, head tilting to the side.

you bite your bottom lip, before smiling innocently, shrugging.

“hey, you’re supposed to be the bastard right now. it wouldn’t be ladylike of me to say.”

a low, rumbling laugh escapes him — dark and full of promise.

“then i’ll say it for you.”

he leans across the table just slightly, voice dropping to a velvet murmur.

“i want to stay the night. and not just sleep,” and he says your name even quieter after, “i want to have you, touch you everywhere, taste every inch of your skin.”

hiromi’s hand glosses over your knuckles again and then your palm — slowly and deliberately.

“and if you're lucky... maybe i’ll let you get some sleep afterwards.”

your eyes widen, and after a pregnant pause, you inhale deeply, nodding as you pull your hand out of his grasp, standing abruptly from the table.

hiromi blinks, taken aback by the sudden loss of your touch. the beginning twist of a frown takes over his once keen expression as he watches you stand, his tone confused when he says your name, eyebrows furling. “are you oka—”

“how about we skip dessert for now?” you interject, taking the dishes from the table.

a marauding, lopsided grin spreads across his face once again.

“oh,” he says, standing slowly from the table, dangerous when he walks toward you, closing the distance until he's just behind you against the sink. his hands rest lightly on your hips. “i like that idea.”

he noses at your neck. “i guess dessert will be served,” he murmurs against your ear, lips soft.

you snort, placing the dishes in the sink, as you look behind your shoulder and up at him. “so cheesy.”

“maybe,” he admits unashamedly, his voice a low rumble against your ear. he doesn't move his hands from your hips despite your slight movements around the kitchen jostling him around. he knows it’s impractical, but he can’t seem to let go of you knowing what is yet to occur.

“but you're still standing here. still letting me touch you.”

his lips brush the shell of your ear as he adds, barely above a whisper:

“...and later tonight, when i’ve got you gasping and begging and completely undone, you'll be calling me a lot of things.”

he grins unabashedly against your skin.

“cheesy won't be one of them.”

with an airy sigh, you lean back in his touch, eyes fluttering at his touch and words, before you flicker them open, clearing your throat as you move his hands away.

“at least let me clean up before you try to seduce me, ‘romi,” you retort, opening the dishwasher.

his grip tightens on you instinctively when he hears it, but he has to let go of you when you push his hands away, albeit reluctantly, stepping back to let you clean up.

“you’re no fun,” he complains in a teasing, exasperated voice. "you really are going to make me wait, aren't you?"

“i’m not leaving dirty dishes in the sink because you want to get your dick wet,” you say crudely, turning to face him with folded arms and a smirk on your face.

“besides, aren’t you always telling me that patience is a virtue?”

he laughs tightly, shaking his head at the vulgar words coming out of your mouth, he then closes the distance between you to cage you in against the counter.

“not when the patience has me aching for you,” he maintains, voice low and rough. “you’re making it hard to behave.”

you let your hands slide up his chest, fiddling with the buttons on his dress shirt, a teasing smile on your face.

“are you that insatiable, my dear hiromi?”

his breath stutters in his chest as he watches you toying with the buttons on his dress shirt.

his eyes are hooded, darkened by pure, aching want.

“you have no idea.”

his pelvis dips in, pinning you even further against the kitchen counter.

“it’s taking every ounce of self-control i have to keep from hauling you off to the bedroom this very second. you’re going to drive me absolutely insane.”

you gasp when you feel the very presence of his desire for you — thick and wanting against his slacks, and you slide your hand down to his belt loops, pulling him closer to press a kiss to his jaw.

“is there any way i could incentivise you to wait a little while, at least until my kitchen doesn’t look like such a mess?”

a low, ragged groan escapes him as he feels your kiss on his jaw, the sound coming deep from within his chest.

when you suggest that he wait, he bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and when he speaks, his voice comes out thick.

“define a while.”

“no more than ten minutes,” you insist, your arms going to wrap around his waist.

he has to swallow, closing his eyes to ground himself when you wrap your arms around him. your touch is soft, gentle on purpose, but you’re sure that it is pure torture to him right now — like the sweetest fire engulfing you in its steady flames.

he takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent, before he growls low in his throat. “ten minutes,” he affirms, eyes opening to meet yours.

“you have ten minutes and then I'm having you.”

you smile, kissing his cheek before letting go. “go wait in the bedroom… i’ll be right there.”

he lets out an almost pained-sounding laugh when you kiss his cheek.

hiromi nods only once. “i’ll be waiting,” he says, voice gruff, full of barely-kept-together restraint.

he leaves the kitchen, heading to your bedroom, his thoughts already a mess of fantasies and wanting.

at just around seven and a half minutes, you saunter into your bedroom, your heels clicking and clacking against the hard floor, and you knock teasingly, a sultry smile on your lips as you lean by the doorway.

hiromi stands by the window — deliberately composed — but the moment he hears your heels, his control slips.

the low click-clack-click of your steps sends a thrill straight down his spine. he turns slowly, and there you are: leaning in the doorway like some kind of vision sent to ruin him.

his jaw tightens.

“cutting it close,” he murmurs, voice rough with hunger as his eyes drag over every inch of you. “i was about to come looking for you.”

you roll your eyes, walking up to him and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“i’m two minutes early. what happened to the ever so patient man i know, hmm?”

his hands find your waist instantly, like a pair of magnets fighting against gravitational pull.

“that man,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a breath away from yours, “disappeared the second you kissed my jaw and let me know how badly you want me as i do you.”

a low hum vibrates in his chest as he finally closes the distance: not quite kissing you, but letting his lips ghost over yours with every word.

“you happened. you’re my kryptonite."

“that’s not good,” you pout, eyes flicking from his own to his lips.

“now there’s nothing stopping me from using my powers against you,” you tease, your lips one breath away from his.

a dark, thrilling laugh rumbles in his chest.

“oh, but you already have,” he whispers, lips brushing yours with every word. “every time you look at me like that… every time you touch me… i’m putty in your hands.”

his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him so there’s no space left between the both of you.

“but go ahead," he dares, voice low and rough. “use them.”

you roll your eyes. “like i said before… cheesy.”

you don’t let him retort, pulling him down by his loosened tie to kiss him deeply.

hiromi lets out a low, ragged sound the second your mouth touches his, like all the air leaving his lungs in a one swift rush.

he kisses you like a man starving, every kiss heavy and demanding, filled with a need that borders on desperation. he can't get close enough to you; he pulls you up hard against him, fingers slipping into your hair to hold you in place as he slides his tongue against yours.

your head spins, letting him overcrowd your very senses until your knees are buckling, until you're breathless and trembling in his hands.

you can’t help but whine haplessly into his mouth, your tongue gliding against his and you eventually pull apart, moving his hands off of you to hold him by the arm.

“take off your shoes.”

when you pull back, it takes him a moment to collect himself enough to hear your words.

he lets out a low, ragged laugh at your order, though he obeys immediately. his shoes get kicked off his feet and hit the floor with a thump and he looks at you, eyebrow raised.

“bossy,” he quips, his voice still rough. “you’re lucky i find it sexy.”

you kick off your own heels, tugging him by his arm till he’s at the edge of your expansive bed, and you push him down into the silky sheets and quilted pillows.

he lets himself be pushed back easily, his eyes darkened with desire as he looks up at you.

immediately, he reaches for you, wanting to haul you down on top of him.

“c'mere…" he murmurs, the words both an order and a plea.

you swat his hands away, but you comply anyway, climbing on top of him, your arms wrapping around his neck.

his breath hitches as you settle on top of him — warm, soft, perfect. “you’re killing me," he grunts against your lips, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips.

he arches slightly beneath you, silently begging for more.

“do you have any idea what you do to me?

you shake your head, laving wet kisses against his jaw, neck and the corner of his mouth, avoiding his lips that edge towards you.

“no… but i’d really like for you to tell me.”

his fingers dig into your hips as you kiss every inch of skin except his mouth and lets out a low, ragged swear when you drag your lips over his jaw, leaving his skin on fire.

“i ache,” he confesses, voice cracking, “i ache to touch you, to taste you, to be inside you. you’re all i think about sometimes — all i want… you drive me crazy.”

a pleased grin takes over your swollen lips, and you place your hands flat by his head as you look down at him. “good answer.”

you finally decide to take him out of his misery, sliding your arms around his neck again and then slotting your mouth over his.

he groans against your mouth, the sound coming from deep within him, the last thread of his restraint snapping.

without warning, he flips you both over so you're beneath him, his hips pushing between your legs, pinning you down against the bed.

his lips crush yours in a crushing, searing kiss. he parts your lips with his tongue, invading your mouth like a man starving. he kisses all sense of reason from you, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully tight.

you squeak against his lips when he does, your hands holding his face as you lick into his mouth with just as much passion and enthusiasm.

your arm lifts slightly to rest against the back of his neck, eyes rolling back under their lids as you moan into him.

he feels your moan vibrate against his mouth, sending fire through his veins.

his hands slide under your dress — slow at first, then bolder — as they glide up the soft skin of your thighs. a low noise rumbles in his chest when he feels you trembling beneath his touch.

“let me feel all of you,” he pleads, voice ragged with need as he grinds down harder, the heat between you almost unbearable. “please.”

you break the kiss with a wet pop!, pushing him onto his back and into the pillows as you kneel up on the bed.

“since you asked so nicely,” you tease with swollen, shiny lips, your hand pushing a strap down from your shoulder.

his breath comes fast and uneven as he watches you move over him, rasping out your name with a voice thick with desire, hands twitching at his sides like he's fighting not to reach for you.

but when you slowly push the strap down, revealing just a hint of skin, his control frays at the seams.

hiromi surges up suddenly, fast and smooth, flipping you beneath him once again in one swift motion.

“let me," he sighs against your ear. “let me undress you."

you giggle, but it’s only full of desire. “you’re so impatient, today, hiro… but please, be my guest.”

when you give him permission, he doesn't hesitate. his hands fly towards to the zipper behind you, tugging it down agonisingly slowly, letting each inch of skin reveal itself like a gift he's unwrapping with reverence.

“so beautiful," he murmurs raggedly, eyes dark and hungry. “i’ve been aching to see you like this again for days.”

you bite your lip, the straps of your dress falling down your shoulders loosely, the material around your breasts bunching up around you as hiromi pulls down the zip even further. his touch — even the most innocent touch — has your body on fire, your blood singing while every muscle in your body coils tight with aching.

“it hasn’t even been a full week since we last had sex,” you breathes, a little giggly and very infatuated with the man lying on top of you.

“every moment i’m not touching you is a moment too long, as far as I'm concerned,” he contends, leaning in to brush his lips feather-soft against your neck.

as the dress drops away from your top half, he drinks in the sight of you, like a man dying of thirst. “christ, you're gorgeous.”

you open your mouth to retort teasingly, but instead you just sigh when his lips touch your skin, the dress bunching and falling to sit around your waist, inadvertently revealing your bare breasts to him, and surprisingly, a silver bar in your left nipple.

hiromi’s eyes land on that small, shining piece of metal with a sharp intake of breath.

for a moment, all he does is stare, his heart hammering in his chest.

“you got a piercing,” he murmurs, voice coarse. “and you didn't tell me?

he can't help himself; he reaches, calloused fingers tracing lightly over the skin over the shiny metal. it’s like a jolt to his monkey brain receptors, seeing you like this. “when did you get this?”

you bite your lip, a soft groan leaving your throat.

“back during my rebellious university days… took it out once i grew my frontal lobe,” you tell, then your eyelashes flutter to where he thumbs around the hardened peak, “but i put it back in every now and then so it doesn’t close up… i never meant to not tell you, hiro.”

meanwhile, you can tell hiromi is so overwhelmed right now: by you, by the sight of you like this, and all he can do is take a slow, sharp inhale as his fingers runs over the jewelry.

“it’s...holy, it's sexy," he mutters, his eyes still fixed on your chest as his thumb and forefinger run feather-light over the cold titanium. “jesus, i don't think i’ve ever been more turned on by something in my entire life.”

you can only just let out a bubble of laughter, eyes hazy at how fascinated he is with a simple piercing on your body. it soon breaks off into a moan when his fingertip flicks against the skin.

“you sure know how to make a woman feel beautiful.”

“you are beautiful,” he murmurs quicky, voice thick with veneration, with you at the altar. “every inch of you.”

his lips find your neck again, soft, hot kisses trailing down to your collarbone. then lower.

when his mouth hovers just above the silver bar, he looks up at you through his lashes — dark eyes burning with hot desire.

“may i?” he asks, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.

you keen at his words, the way he’s looking at you right now doing little to quell the flames in your lower belly.

a sharp whine leaves your throat before you can stop yourself, nodding. “of course, hiro.”

his whole body responds to the way you give him consent, shuddering while his groin drags a little against you. he has to take a moment to compose himself, though the moment lasts less than a few seconds because he then he lowers his head, mouth closing around the sensitive, metal-clad nipple. he sucks gently at first, his warm, soft tongue moving in slow, languid licks.

there’s something so oddly intimate about this, despite the obviousness of him almost having you. it can't be described with mere words — you just... feel completely taken with him, and you know he feels the exact same. it has you wanting to slap yourself for ever second guessing how he feels about you.

your eyes flutter shut, a hand weaving into his strands as he sucks the sensitive peak, a flurry of gentle whines and whimpers leaving your lips in succession.

the sound of your whimpers — soft and needy — has him sucking harder, teeth grazing. one hand press further onto your hips, wanting to keep you here like this for as long as possible, while the other slides up to your other less than decorated nipple, fingers pinching and pulling at the skin.

“that’s it, sweetheart," he whispers softly, lips trailing a path up your chest. “let me hear you.”

his hand moves then, tracing down the flat of your stomach, his fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of whatever's still left of your dress.

you hum, helping him pull down the rest of your dress as you shimmy, till you’re fully naked, save for your cotton panties, a cute navy blue with a growing damp spot in the middle of it.

“jesus...” he breathes, voice raw when he says your name as he takes in the sight of you — flushed, trembling, so wet for him already.

hiromi’s fingers trace the damp spot over your panties with agonizing slowness, watching your hips twitch beneath his touch.

“so responsive,” he murmurs. “so perfect.”

he leans down until his mouth hovers just above the fabric. “can i take these off?”

you nod incessantly, watching as his deft fingers curl into the waistband.

you’re a little breathless when you eventually speak while his hands drag down your thighs with your permission, pushing them together slowly. “just for the record, while i think the fact that you ask for my consent is really sexy… i always want you to touch me, hiro.”

his breathing stutters at your words, his fingers now back on the edge of your panties.

a low, ragged sound rumbles from the depth of his chest.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, eyes dark and hazy with need. “i will never forget you said that.”

his fingers slide beneath the fabric, tugging softly. “lift your hips for me, baby.”

you comply obediently, lifting your hips and letting hiromi slide your underwear down your legs, a slight string of your wetness snapping and pooling against the cotton of the panties.

he watches every movement, entranced and breathless as the last scrap of fabric finally falls away, leaving you bare under his ravenous gaze and preying hands.

the glistening heat between your thighs steals his voice completely; all he can do is crawl back up your body, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh… then higher… until his breath fans over you, searing and eager.

“so pretty," he says to himself. “so wet.”

hiromi looks up at you one last time before he leans in:

“let me taste you.”

you bite your lip, eyelashes fluttering when you feel a puff of balmy air over your sensitive folds, your hole clenching over nothing, eyes lidded as you watch just how close he gets to where you want — no — need him.

“are you asking or are you telling?” you breathe out, voice sliced thick with unrepentant desire.

hiromi chuckles softly, eyes still fixed on your core as he edges closer.

“i’m telling,” he says, subdued in its tone. “i just want to make you feel good.”

his mouth is so close that it's almost like he's speaking against you. “can i, sweetheart? please," he mutters, eyes meeting yours in a way he knows you can't resist. “let me taste you.”

you whines at the way he speaks to you, it going straight to your already leaky core while your mind turns to mush even before he can even get his mouth on you. you end up just nodding dumbly.

“o-okay. yes, please.”

“good girl,” he responds, the words barely above a whisper, like a secret just for you and him.

and then his mouth is on you, hot and sure and devastating. he laps at you like he's been starving, slow at first to savor every drop, then deeper, hungrier. his tongue circles your clit with just the right pressure — one hand sliding under your lower back to hold you steady as his lips close around that sensitive nub.

“mmm,” he groans against you, on purpose but also not, feeling how your entire body jolts at the sensation.

you taste sweet and sharp all at once.

your mouth falls slack, your hand weaving into his thick dark strands as a saccharine moan flies out of your mouth.

“oh, hiro—” you sigh breathily, lidded eyes watching the way he devours at you, the way the curve of his nose digs into your puffy little clit, his groans sending little pulses of sharp pleasure through you, your essence flowing out of your tensing hole.

when he hears name on your lips like that, it nearly unravels him.

he growls against your slovenly cunt, drinking in the way you shudder and pulse under his mouth. the more you drip, the deeper he laps at you, chasing every drop. his tongue circles your clit again and again before he pulls back just enough to blow softly over your wet heat.

“so responsive,” he grunts heavily. “do you like it when i eat you out like this?”

he doesn't wait for an answer: he instead just dips two slender fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right as his mouth closes over your clit again with an intense suction.

you cry out, your fingers tugging on his hair a little tighter as he curves two fingers inside your wet cavern. a breathy “oh, fuck Hiro” climbs out of your chest, and you subconsciously raise your hips against him, body like a live wire when the curve of his angular nose digs into your clit in tandem with his soothing yet bullying tongue.

on the other hand, the way you tug on hiromi’s hair makes him shiver, the vibration travelling from his mouth to your body.

pulling his mouth away from your core ever so slowly, his fingers work even deeper, crooking just right as he looks up at you through thick, dark lashes. “say it again,” he demands, his breath fanning against your inner thigh. “my name. i want to hear it again.”

“hi-hiro,” you stutter, a heavy moan tearing out of your esophagus when his blunt fingers catch against that spongy spot inside of you, your back arching. “fuck, ‘m close… slow down… i’m gon’... ‘m gonna make a mess—!”

“yeah?” he double checks, fingers moving in fast, torturous circles.

“you want me to slow down, sweet thing?” he dips his head, kissing your inner thigh with a wet open mouth. “but i thought i was gonna make a mess of you. isn’t that what i promised, sweetheart?”

he sucks a mark into the skin — dark and blooming like the others, a quiet claim in the midst of your harvesting orgasm.

“you’re so close,” he groans in awe. “so pretty when you're about to come all over my fingers, sweetheart.”

you shake your head as if trying to will away the intensity of what’s to come, intaking a sharp breath as your stomach tenses, eyes rolling back, your mouth dropping in a silent scream as you cum all over Hiromi’s fingers and face, squirting clear liquid all over him.

you warble out his name in a sea of “oh fuck Hiro, right there, don’ stop, ‘m cumming, oh Hiro—” riding out your peak against his mouth, nose and fingers.

all the while, hiromi doesn't pull away. he can’t, not does he want to.

the moment you cry out his name, he groans low and deep, fingers still pumping deep inside you, curling them just right as your walls clamp down hard and arduous.

his lips stays locked around your clit — sucking gently, rhythmically — as you sob through your orgasm, and even as your body tenses and spasms into oversensitivity, he doesn’t stop.

he drinks your arousal like a man possessed, and his cock is painfully hard now, straining against his slacks as he grinds into the mattress below.

hiromi drags every last wave from you with slow thrusts of his fingers and soft flicks of his tongue until you’re whimpering, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

when your trembling begins to subside, he pulls back slowly: lips glistening and slick with your release. he looks up at you through hooded satisfied eyes, kissing your inner thigh gently.

you pant breathlessly, looking down at him for a second before collapsing despite already lying down, boneless. when you come to, you cover your face when you see the dampness on the sheets that still drips from your boyfriend’s face.

“please, please don’t tell me i squirted on you,” you say, muffled.

he smiles against the skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing gently, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your blanched flesh as he watches you try to collect yourself.

“oh, sweet thing,” he coos at you, “is that what you're worried about? that you made a mess?”

he kisses right behind your knee as he pulls his fingers from you slowly, bringing them to his lips and humming in deep, vulgar satisfaction as he sucks each one clean. “i don't mind a little mess.”

you groan behind your hands, shaking your head.

“you don’t understand, hiromi… i’ve literally never done that before… i’m mortified.”

he chuckles quietly against your skin, his hands continuing to move across your body like he can’t keep them still after witnessing you fall from grace, like he just needs to be touching you.

“sweetheart, you have nothing to be embarrassed about, i promise,” he states, matter of fact.

hiromi reaches up to pull your hands away from your face, looking at you with eyes full of a tenderness that nearly burns your skin raw.

“look at me.”

you sigh, opening your bleary eyes to look down at him, letting him pull your hands away.

he looks into your eyes, his gaze locked and intense, still dark and hungry behind his usually warm and sated pupils.

“you don't have to be embarrassed," he repeats, his thumb stroking your thigh. "i liked it.”

his eyes drop to your lips and he wets his own, tongue darting out. “it made me feel so good to make you feel so good, sweetheart," he admits softly.

you can’t help but pout nonetheless. “…really?”

“baby,” he lets out, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your thigh. “i swear i loved it. i love feeling you lose control like that… knowing that i’m the one to make you—” he presses another kiss to your skin. “—feel—” kiss. “—so—”kiss. “—good.”

you sighs as he litters kisses all over your skin, chewing on your bottom lip to wane the noises that want to come pouring out. “hiro…”

the man in question lifts himself over you slowly, bracing on one arm as the other trails up your side. his lips hover just above yours.

“yeah, sweetheart?” he asks, a thick palm sliding up your soft belly, to grope at your breast, before tipping your chin upwards to him. “what do you want?”

you just… shake your head. “nothing… just want you.”

the simplicity of your words have him sighing.

“you have me," his gaze locking with yours as he grinds up his clothed core between your legs, his body settling against yours. he brushes up your cheek, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “all of me. you know that, right?”

you nod sweetly, tongue darting out to lave over his thumb. a cloying mhmm leaves your throat.

hiromi is entranced — absolutely spellbound by the sight of your tongue on his thumb and the little sound that leaves your throat in accompaniment.

“so greedy already," he tuts, sucking through his teeth as he presses his thumb gently against the wet muscle. “can’t keep your mouth off of me, even for a second, huh?”

the words are set to be teasing, and a little humiliating but all you do is shake your head, closing your eyes, sucking on his thumb with more force before blinking them back open, your eyes boring into his own, wide and wet.

the sight of you like this: lips parted, eyes wide, sucking gently on his thumb, has him pushing his thumb deeper between your lips.

“you’re going be the death of me, you know that?” he breathes. “so sweet. so pretty.”

you exhale faintly at his words, your teeth dancing around the digit, refusing to break eye contact for even a second.

hiromi lets out a slow, shaky rumble when your teeth skims his thumb. his eyes darken, jaw tightening as he watches you with barely restrained hunger.

“keep looking at me like that,” he grunts, sotto voce, "and i won't be able to go slow as i want.”

his hips shift forward instinctively, the clothed, hard length of him pressing against your thigh insistently.

“do you want me to fuck you now, sweetheart?”

your head bobs up and down wordlessly, your lips still pursed around his thumb that still slides against your tongue, eyelashes fluttering when you feel him hard against you despite the layers of all his clothes.

he groans at your silent answer, but it’s simply not enough.

hiromi pulls his thumb from your mouth slowly, pressing a quick, soft kiss to the corner of your lips. “you’re going to have to use your words for me, sweetheart,” he insists, “i want to hear you say it.”

much too pent up to retort or feel any shame about your desire for the man in front of you, you steadily oblige, a deep, warm suspiration of air leaving your chest.

“please fuck me, hiro.”

a guttural, ragged sound rips from his throat at the sound of his name coupled with your words, the wanting in your voice completely unravelling what's left of his control.

he kisses you roughly, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “since you said that so politely...”

you smile against his lips, wrapping your arms around him as he utters those words against you, your legs spreading to wrap around his hips.

hiromi kisses you even harder now, his tongue delving in deep, his fingers gripping your bare ass as he pulls you against him.

in haste, his hands begin fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to shed the fabric keeping him from you.

he pulls away, fixing you with darkened gaze as he undoes away his tie, flinging it over the edge of the bed before shrugging out of his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours. he’s impatient, almost hurried, like he needed to be inside you yesterday or else he might go insane.

the dark haired men looks like he's barely holding on as he pulls a gold foil wrapper from his trouser pocket, black swallowed pupils watching you tentatively now, waiting to see if you’ll say no to him in any way shape or form (and although he would appease to whatever you wanted at the time, he’s convinced he might actually break right now).

you’re the only thing holding his control together, and he needs to know he can touch you right now.

you lean back, watching with longing filled eyes as hiromi strips, till he’s just as bare as you are.

his body is all lean muscle and sharp lines as he spreads his legs, ripping open the foil packet to pull out the latex.

he looks at you again, and the way you're watching him like you want to devour him alive steals whatever teasing words that he had locked and loaded at that moment.

he says your name with a rasp, clear ing his throat. “are you sure?” while rolling the condom down his pulsing length slowly. “last chance to stop.”

even though they both know there's no going back: not when he's already kneeling between your thighs, and especially not when your legs are already parting for him without his hands intervening.

you blink slowly at him, akin to a sated cat, a saccharine lilt to the sigh that leaves you, giggling breathily.

“i know you mean well, babe, but asking me if i’m sure while you roll a condom over your really hard dick…” and you trail off with a raised brow, opening your arms as you settle further into the sheets.

“just come over here already.”

he hisses out a laugh at your words, before letting rip a deep, guttural groan as his gaze drops down to the shine between your thighs. he quickly obeys, crawling forward until he's sitting up on his haunches over you.

“so bossy, sweetheart,” he sighs, hands roaming over your legs, and simply put: he cannot get enough of you. “i like it.”

you can’t help but quirk up the corner of your lips, your arms wrapping around his back, hands pressed against the planes his shoulders, your legs spreading to wrap around him.

he inhales coarsely as you pull him closer, your legs locking around his waist like a vice now.

hiromi leans down, brushing a soft peck to your lips tenderly, before dragging it to your ear.

“ready?” he rustles, the tip of him nudging against your heat, already slick and welcoming.

you give him the okay with a dip of your head, eyes looking up at him wide eyed and full of anticipation. “ready.”

a slow, steady exhale leaves him as he lines up, observing the rise and fall of your tensing stomach and fluttering eyes, the hand resting between your bodies guiding him to you.

he doesn't look away even as the thick tip of him breaches past the first ring of muscle, to which the both of you moan synchronously.

hiromi takes one of your hands, threading your fingers with his.

it’s so intimate that’s it’s almost heart-stopping.

“you okay?" he asks, every part of him so aware of how vulnerable you look and are right now.

you utter out a delicate, “mhmm,” a docile noise following soon after when you feel the rest of his weighty cock push through your wet cavern.

he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his fingers binding around your hand.

“you feel so good," he gasps, his voice bumpy with barely tethered restraint.

he then stops for a moment, stilling to let you adjust, not wanting to hurt you.

“you okay, my love?” he whispers and asks again, scanning your face, to which your thumb brushes over the back of his hand that rests over your head.

“yeah… keep going… please.”

he leans down to smooch your forehead. “anything you want, sweetheart," he rumbles, his hips pressing forward slowly, sinking into you inch by inch until he's deep inside you, and you're both completely joined, and that feeling you’ve both never been able to shake finally makes sense.

harmonious groans leave your lips, your pussy stretching to accommodate his girth, and it’s still a struggle even though you’ve been thoroughly prepped.

looking down ever so slightly, your chest rises and falls heavily as you break eye contact to look at where your cunt is wrapped around his cock, folds swallowing up his length and sucking him in further.

the sight of you — glistening and perfect — has hiromi letting out an uncharacteristic moan, loud and brazen.

“jesus—” he hisses, your name coming out wobbly. it’s all too much, yet he can't even look away: but neither can you.

his hips twitch forward on instinct, not pulling out yet —just pressing deeper into you with a slow roll of his pelvis that makes your breath hitch and your thighs didder around him.

“feel that?" he croaks hoarsely. “all of me... for you.”

he leans down until his damp lips brush yours.

“look at me when I'm inside you," he pleads. “please.”

you tilt your head up, locking your lips with his wetly, eyes up at him. your nails dig softly into the scruff of his neck, and you lift a thigh to sit comfortably around his waist.

the way you look at him has him groaning, so he kisses you again, more thorough this time, pouring everything into it. his hips begin to move — slow at first, a gentle roll that draws a whimper from your throat.

“so sweet," he murmurs against your lips. “so damn sweet.”

hiromi’s hand slips between your bodies to touch where you’re joined, and then he’s stroking two fingers gently over your clit in small circles as his cock slides almost bottomless inside you again.

“feel good?”

you choke on a gasp, your hand flying down to hold his wrist, keeping it there as you nod.

“feels so good,” you whine. “more, hiro.”

he growls low in his throat at the sound of those words, his gaze locking onto your eyes.

“more?” he asks, breath hot on your lips. “say please, sweetheart.”

“please,” you whimper obediently and instantaneous, too wound up to retort with any sarcastic witticisms.

he rewards you with a slow, penetrating thrust, just enough to make your back arch and your breath catch, before pulling almost all the way out.

“like that?” he soughs, “or do you want it harder?”

he doesn't wait for a response this time.

with a sharp snap of his hips, he drives into you - deep and sudden - and it has you clenching down on him with every push and pull.

you squeal in ecstasy, each drag of his veiny, thick cock against your sensitive walls sending you reeling. you swear you can feel the beat of his heart inside of you as his length fucks into you, fast, wet and noisy.

one of your legs start to slip from his waist from the sheer force of his thrusts, and without breaking his rhythm, he catches it firmly to drape it over his shoulder.

“there you go, pretty thing,” he chuckles affectionately. “let me take care of you.”

the new angle makes you gasp as he sinks even deeper - each stroke hitting that sweet spot like he was made to fit right here.

he leans in close, brushing a kiss to the inside of your knee, and then up to your thigh.

hiromi’s hands finds yours again, fingers lacing tight and over your head.

your eyes practically roll back into your skull, and there’s nowhere to hide as hiromi forces your arms over your head, masking the desire of wanting to see your face wound up in pleasure with an act of romanticism.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he groans. “so perfect.”

in any other situation, you would make fun of him, teasing him for being such a romantic, but this new position has you speechless, practically sobbing as you feel the head of his cock press so much deeper, heeding the ceiling of your cervix. your eyes begin to water with pleasure, and your fingers tighten around his own, your nails digging into his knuckles.

every whimper and desperate noise that falls from your lips is symphonic, and hiromi cannot get enough.

he needs you closer.

he lets go of your hands to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you up - so you're sitting in his lap, your arms snaking around his neck on instinct, your faces so close, every shaky breath washing over the other's skin.

“there you go.”

he starts to thrust up into you with a renewed fervour, like he was born to do this - to love you like this. each snap of his hips draws a gasping sob from your throat, and he feeds on it. “that’s it… take all of me.”

you cry into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck tighter as you pull him closer, mouth sloppily slotting over his, all teeth and saliva and tongue — hardly even a kiss at this point, but you’re desperate, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

this new position has him bouncing you up and down his cock, hips thrusting at a pace that starts to get sloppy, and you can tell what that means.

“you close? i…’m close,” you moan, eyes hazy.

hiromi breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead dropping to yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

“so close,” he groans, voice broken. “you’re killing me, sweetheart — so tight, so wet, fuck.”

his thrusts grow deeper, more uneven; he can't hold back anymore, so one hand slides between your bodies again to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.

“come for me," he grunts against your lips. “please,” and your name comes out half a syllable or two. “…let go.”

he’s barely moving inside you now, with hiromi dragging his cock back nice and slow against that spot deep inside that makes your vision blur with white-hot pleasure.

you grunt a little animalistically when his thumb returns to your overworked love button, your thighs seizing on either side of hiromi, your nails digging into his back, sure to leave red, stinging welts.

“oh god, hiro—” you sob, tongue lolling out of your mouth. “fuck, ‘m—” and you gasp sharply, choking sweetly as you cum, eyes lulling back, vision turning white as you babble nothings that make sense to nobody, throwing your mouth over his to moan onto his tongue, all the while you creams all over his cock.

watching you hit your peak causes hiromi’s hips to stutter, then still deep inside you as the orgasm rips through him, violent and blinding.

“sh-shit—“ he chokes out against your mouth, your name following soon after as his body bows forward, pressing you into the mattress as he empties himself into the condom with a low, shuddering groan.

his breath comes in dilapidated bursts against your skin, sweat-slicked and trembling in your arms. he pants against your cheek, body still shaking, his hand stroking your hair in reverent tenderness.

“that... was incredible,” he gasps, voice still raspy from how badly he fought for breath. “i don’t think i’ve ever —fuck — come that hard.”

he presses his lips on your pout, but softly this time, his breath then hot on your neck as he nuzzles his face against it, leaving a kiss right behind your ear. “feeling okay, sweet thing?” he whispers. “i didn't hurt you, did i…? think i got a little too carried away at the end there.”

you shake your head, eyes fluttering shut as he presses wet kisses onto your moist skin.

“no, fuck no,” you contend. “that was probably the best sex of my life.”

hiromi laughs at that, the sound low and affectionate.

“yeah?” he smirks, pressing another kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulder. “best you've ever had, huh?”

he lifts his head to look at you, a cocky little grin settling on his face.

“guess i did a pretty good job, then," he says, clearly pleased with himself.

you hum, and mirror a smile back at him, nosing his damp hair. “it was more than pretty good, hiro.”

he nuzzles into your post-sex affections, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then another just below your ear.

“you’re gonna make me fall in love with you,” he jokes quietly.

then he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes full of warmth, yet dark.

“if i haven't already.”

you raise a brow at him, your lips curled up slightly. “i mean… isn’t that the goal?”

he chuckles smoothly, shaking his head with a smirk. “you’re going to get a big head at this rate, sweetheart,”he teases, wrapping you further into his arms .

“can’t help it when the sexy man in my bed thinks my pussy is that good it could make him fall in love,” you tease.

he groans, half-laughing, half-groaning at your words. “what a way with words, my love,” he mutters, pressing his face into your neck, as if to try and hide the way you make him feel.

it’s hapless anyhow, since he can't help the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, the affection so plain and simple even in the way he speaks to you.

“but to answer your previous question… yes," he murmurs earnestly, lips still brushing over your skin like a painter and his most prized canvas. “i hope so.”

there’s a pregnant pause before you hum. “… i hope so too.”

however, he lifts his head after, eyes locking with yours - serious now.

“for the record," he says softly, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "It's not just your…pussy, or how you’d put it—” to which you laugh, and to which he kisses you to shut you up.

“…it’s you.”

you break out into a fit of light giggles anyway, holding his face to kiss all over his sharp and curved angles: from his nose to his cheekbones.

“and, for the record,” you mock teasingly, “it’s not just your gorgeous nose or big di—”

hiromi presses a hand over your mouth before you can finish that sentence, face reddening. “you can't say that,” he protests weakly.

“god, you’re shameless, woman," he grumbles, shaking his head at you.

you snort into his hand, all the while you ever so accidentally clench around hiromi’s softening penis that’s still inside of you.

you wiggle your brows up at him, amused when he jerks at the sudden clench (half-limp, half-alive, it’s hard to tell) and lets out a strangled groan.

“you're evil,” he hisses, eyes squeezing shut as if to hold back the feeling. “absolute nightmare.”

but his pelvis still twitches forward on instinct — he truly can't help it — his cock stirring again inside you with a slow, traitorous throb.

he glares down at you through heavy lashes. "don’t do that again.” his voice cracks halfway through.

“you say that but i can feel you getting hard all over again, baby,” and you whisper the last part like it’s shameful.

you pullshim down by his neck to kiss against the husk of his ear. “what’s the consensus on a round two? i’m thinking that we take a little break before we resume activities.”

he shudders as your words almost drown him from the outright viscosity, his body already responding at the mere suggestion.

“a break... sounds good,” he mumbles against your skin, planting a kiss between your shoulder and neck once more. “i’ll go get something to clean up."

hiromi pulls back, slipping out of you, making you hiss at the removal, stretching your back with a groan as you then wander around the bedroom, throwing on an oversized hoodie and some panties.

when hiro returns from the bathroom, you grin at him, passing him some folded items. “here. i, uh, have some spare men’s clothes,” to which hiromi raises a brow and you gasp in exaggerated offence, shoving his shoulder playfully, “don’t give me that look—! i like the way men’s stuff fits sometimes…” and you drop the articles into his hand. “consider this impromptu sleepover the prequel to so many better, more prepared ones in our future.”

hiromi watches you, dazed and perhaps still a little drunk on you, but he manages to laugh at the defensive grin on your face. he takes the clothes, unfolding them and glancing between them and you.

“and you’re sure you want me to stay the night?" he asks, as if you won't actually want him to.

you can only roll your eyes, deadpanning.

“baby. i am 100% sure… i would’ve liked to have gotten this crossed off of our list sooner but…” you shrug with some diffidence. “next time it can be your place… if you want.”

he’s already tugging on the soft cotton shirt as you speak. “of course i want you at my place,” he says. “anytime. any night. every night, if we can.”

he cups your face gently, his thumb brushes over your cheek. “if that's what you want too.”

you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pull him down for multiple wet smooches. “of course it’s what i want, silly.”

he kisses you back at your pace: romantic and thorough, then teasing and humorously.

“good,” he murmurs against your lips. “really good.”

he envelops his arms around you, pulling you flush against him despite the layers now between your bodies.

“then i’ll hold you to it.”

You’re bundled up on your couch like a little blanket burrito, deep into an episode of Gachiakuta when you hear the familiar beep of the keypad on your door being unlocked. You don’t get up; you already know who it is given that only one other person has the code. The sound of him kicking off his shoes echoes down the short hallway, followed by the distinctive drag of his feet, that lazy shuffle he does when he’s exhausted.

“Fuck, baby, why’s it so cold in here?” Mingi’s voice carries from the hallway before he even rounds the corner. You hear him pause at the heating panel on the wall, and you can picture the exact expression on his face; that mix of concern and exasperation he gets when he thinks you’re not taking care of yourself properly. “Six degrees? Six? Are you trying to become a popsicle or something?”

“I have a heat pack and I’m comfy. Didn’t wanna get up,” you mumble from your cocoon, though the excuse sounds weak even to your own ears. The truth sits heavy between the words you don’t say; that you’d been watching the utility costs climb, doing the math in your head about what you could cut back on this month.

But Mingi knows better. He’s always known better.

You hear him drop his bag and outerwear near your bedroom door with a soft thud before his footsteps approach. Then he’s there, towering over your bundled form on the couch, his ashy silver-purple hair slightly mussed from the winter wind outside, cheeks still flushed from the cold. There’s something in his eyes—soft and a little sad—that tells you he understands exactly what you’re not saying.

“I’ll handle your utilities this month,” he says matter-of-factly, already reaching down to pull you up and closer. His long fingers work to unwrap your blanket burrito with practiced ease, and you want to protest but the words die in your throat when you see his expression. “And before you argue, I’m also ordering groceries this week.”

“Mingi, you don’t have to—” you start but his arms wrap around you, cutting off your protest.

“I want to.” He repositions you both on the couch, wrapping the blanket around your bodies together like a shared shelter, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His warmth immediately starts to seep into your cold limbs, better than any heat pack. “You’re my girl. Let me take care of you, yeah? Now what episode are we on?”

The finality in his tone leaves no room for arguments but it’s the gentleness in how he holds you that really makes your resistance crumble. He settles back against the couch, adjusting you more comfortably against his chest and you feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his hoodie.

He knew your scholarship didn’t cover much, the same way he knew rent wasn’t cheap in Seoul, especially not in a decent neighborhood close enough to campus. Even with your on-campus departmental assistant job, you deprived yourself of a lot of things simply to save money. You’d been so used to handling everything on your own, so accustomed to being self-sufficient since you’d moved here, that even after almost two years of dating, you still found it hard to let him do things for you. To let him in like this, past all those walls you’d built out of necessity and pride.

“I watched two without you, but I didn’t really pay attention,” you admit quietly, letting yourself relax against him, breathing in his familiar scent. “We can rewatch them.”

You don’t put up a fight because you knew how Mingi could get when it came to taking care of you, stubborn and immovable as a mountain. You knew that he knew exactly why you were sitting in the cold of your apartment rather than turning the heating on, counting every won and making sacrifices you thought he wouldn’t notice.

But he always noticed.

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.

That conversation was an hour and those two rewatched episodes ago—episodes that neither of you pay attention to because you kept pausing to talk, to catch up on everything you’d missed in each other’s lives. He tells you about the comeback preparations, the choreography that was killing his back, the way Yunho and Seonghwa kept stealing his and San’s snacks. You tell him about the grades you received for the last semester, the remote job you were struggling with and wanted to quit, the way your neighbor’s cat had somehow ended up in your apartment last week.

But eventually the conversation had shifted, grew quieter, more intimate. The touches lingered longer. His hand on your thigh. Your fingers tracing patterns on his hand. The way he looked at you had changed too, darkened with want that had been building for weeks of separation.

Now the “Are you still watching?” screen on Netflix stares back at you both, forgotten and irrelevant.

You hadn’t seen your boyfriend since the end of December; nearly three weeks of your relationship sustained only through phone screens and late-night video calls that always ended too soon, interrupted by his impossible schedule or the need for sleep. You’d missed the solid warmth of him, the way he smelled like his cologne mixed with laundry detergent and something uniquely him. Missed the way his laugh sounded in person, richer and fuller than through phone speakers. Missed the weight of his gaze on you, the casual touches, the intimacy of just existing in the same space.

And as much as sitting cuddled up like this was great, as much as you wanted to savor this reunion, it was getting increasingly hard to keep things innocent.

Especially when his big hands started wandering from their safe position on your waist, rubbing slow circles on your stomach that gradually drifted lower. When his fingers started tracing the curve of your hip through your sweatpants, then growing bolder, gripping and kneading the soft flesh of your thighs with a possessiveness that made heat pool low in your belly, like he was reacquainting himself with the geography of your body.

“Mingi,” you breathed, half warning, half plea and you felt his lips curve into a smile against your neck.

“Mm?” The sound rumbled through his chest and into yours where you were pressed against him. “Just missed touching you, bonita. It’s been too long.”

“You’re distracting me from the show,” you murmur, though you make no move to stop him.

“What show?” His voice is already rougher, deeper than usual, vibrating against your back where you’re pressed against his chest. “It’s been asking if we’re still watching for like twenty minutes now. Just missed touching you, baby.”

And it had been. Too many weeks of aching for this, for the weight of his hands on you, for the heat of his breath against your skin. 

His face finds the curve of your neck, lips brushing against sensitive skin, and you can’t help the way you turn your body around to face him; a leg hooked over his hip as you tilt your head to give him better access. He takes immediate advantage, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point in a way that makes you gasp and arch into him. His hand finds your ass and when he squeezes, fingers digging into the soft flesh with a possessiveness that makes you shiver, you couldn’t help the small sound that escaped your throat.

“Missed you so fucking much,” he murmurs against your skin between kisses, and you can feel how much he means it in the way his arms tighten around you, in the way his breathing has already gone uneven. “Three weeks is too long. Way too long.”

“I know,” you breathe, fingers threading through his soft hair, tugging gently in the way you know he likes. “I missed you too.” You continue like you both haven’t gone longer without seeing each other.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower, rough around the edges in that way that always made heat pool low in your belly. “You missed this too?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and shifted against him; feeling exactly how much he’d missed you, hard and insistent against your hip.

“Fuck,” he groaned, low and drawn out, his other hand coming up to thread through your freshly pressed hair, tilting your head back so he could access more of your throat. “You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about this. About you.”

His lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear and you gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “Baby, please—”

“Please what, mama? Tell me what you need.” His teeth grazed your pulse point and you could feel your heart hammering there, could feel how he paused to feel it racing under his tongue. “Use your words.”

“Need you,” you managed, breathless already and he’d barely touched you. “Need you so bad.”

The groan that pulled from his chest was pure satisfaction. “That’s my girl. Always so good for me when you remember to ask.”

One of his hands slides up under your sweater and shirt—his sweater and tshirt, actually, ones you’d stolen months ago—his palm hot against the small of your back, exploring skin he’s been denied access to for weeks. The other hand is still gripping your ass, pulling you harder against him and you can feel him hardening even more beneath you.

“Can I—” he starts, but you’re already shifting so you can straddle him properly as he sits up.

“Yeah,” you say, and then your mouths finally meet.

The kiss is immediately desperate, weeks of longing poured into it. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours like he’s trying to make up for lost time. Your hands cup his face, feeling the warmth of his flushed cheeks, while his grip your hips hard enough to bruise in the best way.

When his tongue traces your bottom lip, you open for him immediately, and the kiss deepens into something filthy and consuming. He tastes like coffee he must have had on the way over and underneath that, just him. One of your hands tangles in his hair, pulling harder now, and he groans into your mouth; a sound that goes straight through you, making you grind down against him.

“Fuck,” he gasps, breaking the kiss to look at you with hooded eyes, pupils blown wide. His hands slide under your shirt properly now, pushing it up, and you help him pull it over your head. The cold air hits your skin but you barely notice because he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.

“No bra?” His thumbs brush over your nipples that were already peaked and sensitive. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Missed these. Missed all of you. Missed seeing you like this.”

“You know I don’t like wearing any at home,” you admitted, gasping when he pinched lightly, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. “plus, it’s winter. Who’s gonna know with all the layers?”

“I know,” he grins as his mouth finds your collarbone, kissing and sucking marks into your skin that you’ll definitely have to cover up later, but right now you don’t care. Your head falls back as his lips trail lower, hands now cupping your breasts as he continues to pinch your nipples in a way that makes you whimper.

“Mingi, please—”

“I got you, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “Gonna take care of you.”

He moves one hand to your hip to pull you flush against him and then his mouth is on you, hot and wet, tongue circling one nipple while his fingers work the other. You’re grinding against him properly now, seeking friction, and he’s meeting your movements, hips rolling up to meet yours.

The layers between you are too much, too frustrating. You need more, need him closer, need—

“Off,” you manage, tugging at his hoodie, and he pulls back just long enough to yank it over his head along with the shirt underneath. Then his hands are on you again, pulling you back flush against his bare chest, skin to skin finally, and the contact feels so good you could cry.

You kiss him again, slower this time but no less intense, pouring everything you feel into it. Love and want and need and come home and I missed you and please don’t leave again. His hands map your body like he’s relearning every curve, every sensitive spot that makes you gasp or shiver.

“Mingi—” His name came out broken, desperate.

“God, I love the way you say my name like that. Like you need me. Do you need me, baby?”

“Need you,” you whisper against his lips, and you feel him shudder.

“Yeah, okay, fuck—” His hands move to the waistband of your sweatpants, fingers dipping inside, and you lift up enough for him to slide them down along with your underwear.

The blanket has long since fallen away, forgotten on the floor, but you don’t need it anymore. Not with the heat building between you, not with the way he’s touching you like he’s been starving for it.

His fingers find you already wet, and he groans at the discovery. “You’re soaked. All this for me?”

“Three weeks,” you remind him breathlessly, rocking into his touch. “Three weeks of just my hand and thinking about you.”

“Fuck, bonita,” he breathes, circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that have you trembling. “Tell me what you thought about.”

“This,” you manage. “Your hands, your mouth, how you—ah—how you feel inside me.”

He rewards you by sliding two fingers inside, and the stretch makes you moan loud enough that you briefly worry about your neighbors before you stopped caring entirely. He curled his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made your vision go hazy, and set a rhythm that had you clutching at his shoulders.

“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.” His thumb found your clit and you nearly sobbed. “Let me hear how good I make you feel. Missed these sounds so much. Used to replay the videos you sent me every night, you know that? Every night on tour, every night away from you, wishing it were my fingers inside you instead of yours.”

The image of him touching himself to videos of you made everything feel hotter, tighter. “Min, I’m—”

He works you open carefully, thoroughly, fingers curling to continuously hit that spot that makes your thighs shake, thumb still working your clit. You bury your face in his neck, breathing hard, hands gripping his broad shoulders for support as he builds you higher and higher.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs encouragingly. “Let me hear you. Missed those pretty sounds you make. It’s been too long since I’ve heard them in person.”

You’re close, embarrassingly close already but before you can tip over that edge, you pull back. “No, wait…want to come with you. Need you inside me.”

His eyes darken impossibly further and he withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean while maintaining eye contact. The sight of it, the hungry look in his eyes, nearly undoes you on the spot.

“Missed your taste too,” he says, voice absolutely wrecked. “Missed everything about you.”

You make quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down just enough to free him, and then he’s there, hard and heavy in your hand. He’s already leaking and when you stroke him once, twice, his head falls back against the wall with a thud, and the sight made your mouth water.

“Next time,” you promise, twisting your hand around him and earning a sharp hiss of pleasure. “Next time I want you in my mouth.”

“Fuck, don’t…don’t say shit like that right now or this is gonna be over way too fast.” He catches your wrist gently, stilling your movement. “It’s been too long, baby. I need to be inside you. Need it so bad.”

“Now,” you say, positioning yourself over him. “Please, baby, now.”

His hands grip your hips, guiding you as you sink down onto him slowly, both of you groaning at the sensation. It’s been too long, and the stretch of him filling you is almost overwhelming.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Mingi’s head lifts off the wall slightly to look at you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So tight. So perfect. Fuck, you feel like heaven. Missed this,” he gasps, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips and ass. “Missed you. Missed being inside you.”

You took him fully, settling in his lap, and paused to adjust to the stretch, to the fullness of having him inside you again after so long. His hands roamed your back, your sides, pulling you close so your foreheads pressed together.

“Okay?” he murmured, and despite the strain in his voice, despite how you could feel him twitching inside you with the need to move, he waited for your signal.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “Perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Then move for me, baby. Show me how much you missed this cock. Wanna watch you ride me.”

You start to move, rolling your hips in slow, deep grinds that have both of you breathing hard. His hands guide you up and down, finding a rhythm together, relearning each other’s bodies. Every slide of him inside you feels incredible, hitting deep, the angle perfect from this position; it makes stars burst behind your eyelids, and when you cry out, he does it again, harder.

“There it is,” he praises, voice rough and breathless. “Right there, yeah? That’s the spot?”

“Yes, fuck, yes, right there—” 

“That’s my good girl. Taking me so well. Look at you.” One of his hands comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. “Look at how beautiful you are when you’re riding my cock. Wish you could see yourself. Wish you could see what I see.”

He leans forward to capture your mouth in another searing kiss, swallowing your moans as you ride him faster, chasing the pleasure building in your core. One of his hands slides between your bodies to find your clit again, rubbing tight circles that make you clench around him.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” he breathes against your lips. “You feel so good, so perfect. Taking me so well.” His words make you clench around him and he groans, low and long. “Fuck, do that again. Love feeling you squeeze me like that.”

You did, deliberately this time, and his hips bucked up involuntarily, driving him deeper. The rhythm was getting faster now, more desperate, the slap of skin on skin mixing with your combined moans and the creak of the couch beneath you.

“More,” you whimpered and felt him smile against your skin.

“Greedy girl. I love it. Love you.” He nipped at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with his tongue. “Love how you get like this for me. So needy. So perfect.”

The praise sends heat coursing through you, spurring you on. You grip his hair tighter, pulling his head back so you can kiss down his throat, biting and sucking marks into his neck the way he did to you, not caring about his upcoming schedule,if he had any.His hips start thrusting up to meet you, driving deeper, and the change in intensity makes you cry out.

“That’s my girl,” he groans. “Let me hear you. Don’t hold back.”

“Min, baby, I’m close—”

“I know, baby, I can feel it. Can feel you getting tighter. But not yet, okay? Just a little longer. Want to make this last.” His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your thighs shake. “Want to feel you for as long as possible.”

“Mingi…baby,”

“You can take it. You’re doing so good for me, mama. So fucking good.” His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling your mouth to his for another messy, desperate kiss. “Just a little more. Can you do that for me?”

You nodded but even as good as it feels, the angle isn’t quite enough. You need more, need him deeper, need—

He seems to read your mind, because suddenly he’s shifting, movements purposeful and hungry with need.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, and then in one smooth motion he’s lifting you, pulling out only long enough to flip you both. Your back hits the couch cushions and he’s above you, those broad shoulders blocking out the world, making everything narrow down to just this, just him. “Want to see your face. Need to see you when you come.”

He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half, and when he pushes back inside you from this angle, you both moan at how impossibly deep he goes. The angle makes you cry out; he was so deep like this, hitting spots that made you see stars. “Need to fuck you properly. Need to hear you scream my name.”

Then he was moving, and God, he wasn’t holding back anymore. Each thrust was hard and deep and purposeful, driving into you with a force that had the couch protesting beneath you, had you clutching at his back, nails digging into his skin.

“God, fuck, Mingi—” 

“Fuck, yes, just like that—” He’s panting, each word punctuated by a thrust. “So good, baby. Taking me so fucking well. Love watching your face when I’m this deep. Love hearing those sounds you make—”

The sounds you were making were obscene, high-pitched whimpers and moans that you couldn’t control, couldn’t hold back even if you tried. And from the way Mingi was groaning in response, he didn’t want you to.

This is what you needed. This intensity, this closeness, him taking control and giving you exactly what you’ve been craving for three agonizing weeks. Each thrust hits that spot inside you that makes your vision white out, and you’re already so close, wound so tight you might break apart.

“Louder, bonita. Let the whole building know who’s making you feel this good. Let them hear who you belong to.”

“Mingi, fuckkk, Mingi—” His name was a chant, a prayer, the only word you could remember.

“Look at me,” he commands, and when your eyes meet his, the intimacy of it, the love and want you see reflected there, steals your breath. “That’s it, baby…that’s my girl. Want to see those pretty eyes when I make you come.”

He’s driving into you with a force that has the couch protesting beneath you, the frame creaking, and you swear you can feel it shifting across the floor. But you can’t focus on that, not when he’s hitting so deep, not when his fingers find your clit again and start rubbing in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck, you sound so pretty when you say my name like that. Say it again.”

“Mingi, please baby, I need…I need to—”

“I know, I can feel you,” he groans and he does look wrecked, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, lips swollen from kissing, eyes dark and desperate. His angle shifted slightly and you nearly screamed. “Right there? That what you need?”

“Yes! Oh god, yes, please don’t stop—”

“Not stopping. Never stopping. Gonna fuck you until you can’t remember your own name, until the only thing you can remember is mine.”

The couch was definitely moving now, you could feel it sliding with each powerful thrust, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when he was filling you so perfectly, not when every nerve ending was on fire, not when his fingers found your clit again and—

“Come for me, mama.” he commanded, voice strained with his own need. “Come on my cock, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart for me.”

It only takes a few more thrusts, a few more circles of his fingers, and then you’re shattering, back arching off the couch as pleasure crashes through you in waves. You cry out his name, clenching around him, and he fucks you through it, prolonging your orgasm until you’re shaking and oversensitive.

“Fuck yes, that’s it; fuck, you feel so good, so fucking good—” His rhythm falters, becoming erratic. “Gonna come, baby. Gonna…where?”

“Inside,” you managed, still riding the aftershocks. “Want to feel you. Want you to come inside me. Want all of you.”

That permission is all he needs. He buries himself deep with a groan that sounded like it was torn from his chest, and you feel him come, spilling hot inside you, face buried in your neck as his whole body shudders.

For a long moment, you both just stay like that, breathing hard, hearts racing, tangled together in the aftermath. His weight on top of you feels grounding, perfect, and you run your fingers through his sweaty hair, pressing kisses to his temple.

“Fuck,” he finally managed, voice hoarse. “Fuck, I love you.”

“Love you too,” you whispered, holding him close. “Missed you,” you whisper again because it’s all you can think to say, the truest thing you know.

“Missed you more,” he murmurs back, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. 

You stay like that for a moment longer, neither of you quite ready to move, to break the connection. When he finally did pull out, you both wince at the sensitivity, and he collapses beside you on the couch, immediately pulling you into his arms.

That’s when you become aware of something odd. The angle of the room looks different somehow. The TV seems farther away than it should be. You both turned your heads at the same time, taking in the couch’s new position; a solid three feet across the floor from where it started, leaving visible drag marks on your area rug.

There’s a beat of stunned silence as you both process this.

Then you both burst into laughter, the kind that shakes your whole body and makes your stomach hurt, the kind that’s contagious and impossible to stop. You bury your face in his chest, shoulders shaking, while his own laughter wheezes out in that high-pitched way that always makes you laugh even harder. The shift from intense intimacy to this moment of absurdity is so jarring that it makes it even funnier. 

“Oh my god, baby!” you gasped between giggles, smacking his chest weakly. “You literally moved my furniture! You fucked me so hard you rearranged my living room.”

He was laughing just as hard, that beautiful, uninhibited sound that you loved, his whole face scrunched up with it. “Hey, hey now,” he protested, though he could barely get the words out. “That’s not just on me! That’s a team effort right there. That’s what happens when we’re both…we’re both putting in the work. Y’know, teamwork makes the dream work, baby. We should get a medal or some shit.”

You dissolve into fresh giggles, smacking him again. “You’re the one who was going at it like you were trying to drill through my floor! Like you were on a mission.”

“And weren’t you pulling on my hair like you were trying to scalp me?” He catches your wrist, bringing your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles, eyes dancing with mirth. “Besides, I’d say the results speak for themselves. When’s the last time regular sex came with a free furniture rearrangement service? I’m basically doing you a favor. Helping you redecorate. Very boyfriend of me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say but you’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt and he’s looking at you with such open affection that it made your chest feel warm and full.The apartment doesn’t feel cold anymore, hasn’t felt cold since he walked through the door. Not with him here, not with this warmth between you that has nothing to do with the heating he’d turned on earlier. 

“A little bit, but you love me anyway,” he says, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Even when I get too enthusiastic and redecorate your apartment mid-sex.”

“Especially then,” you admitted, snuggling into his chest. You trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat gradually slow under your palm. “Though I’m not sure ‘sex so good it moves furniture’ was on my list of relationship goals.”

“Well, it should’ve been.” He grins.

“We should probably move it back,” you say eventually, though neither of you make any move to get up. “And move to the bedroom before you’re ready for another round.”

“In a minute,” Mingi mumbles, his arms tightening around you as he settles his weight more comfortably against you, pulling the forgotten blanket from the floor to drape over your cooling bodies. “Not done holding you yet. Three weeks of missed cuddles to make up for. That’s a serious deficit, and besides, I kind of like it here. New perspective on your living room. Very feng shui.”

“That’s not what feng shui means.”

“Sounds like something someone with bad feng shui would say,” he teases, and you could hear the grin in his voice.

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Next time maybe we should just use the bed like normal people.”

His laugh rumbles through his chest and into yours where you’re pressed together. “Where’s the fun in that, mama? Where’s the adventure? Besides, I’m pretty sure your bed can’t slide across the floor.” He pauses, then adds with theatrical seriousness, “Though I guess we could test that theory. You know. For science. Just think of all the other furniture we haven’t christened yet. The possibilities are endless.”

“Oh my god, stop,” you groan, but you’re laughing again, and yeah, you definitely missed this. Missed him. Missed this exact feeling of being completely comfortable and completely happy and completely yourself with someone who loved every part of you. Missed the way he takes care of you even when you don’t ask, the way he makes you feel safe enough to let go.

“Never,” he promised, kissing the top of your head. “Never stopping. You’re stuck with me forever.”

“Probably Wooyoung,” Jongho muttered.

“Rude.”

Yunho barely reacted, already pulling his jacket on while talking to staff. He looked exhausted. The last week in Japan had been nonstop schedules, performances, interviews, dance rehearsals. His hair was still slightly damp from a rushed shower, and there were faint shadows under his eyes as Yeosang adjusted the laptop under his arm. “You sure all the choreo files are here?”

“Everything’s labeled,” Yunho answered distractedly. “New demos, practice formations, performance references. Just connect it to the studio monitor.” Then his phone buzzed and the second he looked at it, his entire face softened and Wooyoung saw it immediately and groaned dramatically. “Ugh. He got a text from her.”

Mingi snorted from where he was dragging his suitcase. “Look at him smiling.”

“I’m not smiling.”

“You literally are.”

Yunho rolled his eyes, but his thumb was already typing back. You’d gone home three days ago to visit your family while he stayed in Japan for solo schedules, and ever since then he’d been annoyingly attached to his phone.

Hongjoong pointed toward the elevator. “Lovebirds later. Move.”

Yunho looked back once toward Yeosang. “Just don’t touch anything else on there.” That should’ve sounded more suspicious than it did. But nobody thought twice about it. Because Yunho’s laptop always looked the same. Dance folders. Music drafts. Performance videos. Gaming lives downloaded. Thousands of clips from practices he obsessively recorded and reviewed. Nothing unusual.

At least… not that anyone knew.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The practice room speakers blasted the new track loud enough to rattle the mirrors while everyone ran through choreography for what felt like the hundredth time. Hongjoong cut the music with an aggravated sigh. “Again. San, half a second earlier on the turn.”

“I was earlier!”

“You were spiritually earlier.”

Wooyoung collapsed dramatically onto the floor. “I’m going to die in this room.”

“You say that every comeback,” Yeosang replied calmly. Sweat clung to everyone after hours of rehearsing. Empty water bottles littered the corners. Mingi was sitting against the mirror catching his breath while Jongho stretched nearby. Yunho still wasn’t back from Japan. Which meant the center formations felt weirdly empty without him there towering over everybody.

Hongjoong rubbed his face tiredly. “Let’s check the reference recordings again. Yeosang, did you bring Yunho’s laptop?”

“Yeah.” Yeosang walked over to his bag near the wall and pulled it out. “He said everything’s organized.”

Wooyoung snorted. “That man has folders inside folders inside folders.”

“He scares me technologically,” San agreed as Yeosang connected the laptop to the big studio monitor while the others gathered around, still breathing hard from practice. The desktop appeared onscreen with folders everywhere over a background wallpaper of Yunho and you.

“See?” Wooyoung pointed. “Psychopath behavior.”

“Open the comeback demos,” Hongjoong said and Yeosang clicked through folders while everyone loosely argued over choreography changes behind him.

Dance_FINAL.

Dance_FINAL2.

Dance_ACTUALFINAL.

“Jesus Christ,” Mingi muttered.

“I told you,” Wooyoung said as Yeosang finally found the right folder and opened it, dozens of video files appearing across the screen and Hongjoong nodded toward one near the bottom. “That one.” Yeosang clicked without looking closely.

For one completely normal second, the screen stayed black before audio filled the room. A soft laugh. Your laugh. Nobody reacted at first because their brains genuinely needed a second to catch up as the video quality was dim and warm, obviously filmed late at night. Yunho was behind the camera, face briefly visible in the mirror across the room as he adjusted the angle. His hair was messy, lips caught between his teeth in that distracted little habit he had when he was focused.

Then the camera tilted lower. Toward the bed. Toward you and the entire practice room froze. You were kneeling on the mattress wearing nothing except one of Yunho’s oversized flannel shirts, the fabric hanging off one shoulder while you laughed softly at something he’d said behind the camera.

“Oh my god,” San whispered immediately as Yeosang’s hand spasmed on the trackpad and Wooyoung slapped both hands over his mouth so hard it echoed. Mingi made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a scream as Hongjoong stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

“Nope,” Jongho said instantly, already turning away. “Nope. Turn it off.” But nobody moved. Because now Yunho’s voice filled the speakers, low and affectionate in a way none of them had ever heard before.

“Baby, look at me.”

The way he said it was the problem. Not cocky. Not joking. Completely gone for you. Onscreen, you glanced toward the camera with a shy smile while Yunho laughed softly behind it, clearly obsessed with filming every reaction you made.

Seonghwa lost it first. “No wonder he’s always tired.”

“TURN IT OFF,” Hongjoong barked, finally regaining consciousness. Yeosang, panicking now, fumbled the mouse completely wrong and somehow fullscreened the video instead and the room erupted.

“YEOSANG!”

“I’M TRYING!”

Mingi was bent over laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe while San had physically thrown himself against the mirror in dramatic distress. And right before Yeosang finally managed to pause it, Yunho’s voice came through the speakers one last time. Soft. Amused and completely whipped.

“You’re so pretty like this.”

The practice room went so quiet the speakers sounded too loud. Nobody should’ve still been watching. That was the insane part. Every single one of them knew they should’ve shut the laptop the second they realized what the video was, but now it felt like witnessing a car crash in slow motion. Horrifying. Intimate. Impossible to look away from.

Onscreen, you slid off the bed slowly, Yunho’s flannel swallowing you whole as your bare legs disappeared out of frame for a second. The camera shifted slightly when Yunho adjusted his grip on it, like even he had gotten distracted watching you move toward him. Then you literally crawled across the floor toward him and seven grown men stopped functioning simultaneously.

“Jesus Christ,” San muttered, hand over his face.

Jongho looked actively pained. “We should turn it off.”

“Yeah…” Mingi answered immediately, voice suddenly deeper somehow. “Totally.”

Nobody moved. Not one of them. Wooyoung was clutching Yeosang’s shoulder so hard Yeosang physically winced, but even he couldn’t stop staring at the screen in complete disbelief at his roommate. Because Yunho looked insane. Not lustful. Not playful. Gone. Completely gone for you.

The camera dipped slightly as you settled on your knees in front of him, and for a brief second Yunho glanced toward the lens like he remembered he was filming. That little glance alone nearly killed the room because his expression was so openly wrecked over you it felt invasive to witness. Then his eyes dropped back down to you and his entire face softened again.

Hongjoong made a noise like he was spiritually leaving his body. “I know too much about this man now.”

Onscreen, Yunho’s hand appeared briefly, brushing your hair back gently before disappearing again.

“Mine,” his voice murmured through the speakers.

Wooyoung folded in half onto the floor. “HE’S WHIPPED,” he shouted.

“He’s been whipped,” Seonghwa scoffed as Mingi was still staring at the screen with narrowed eyes like he was re evaluating everything he knew about Yunho as a human being and his best friend.

The room stayed frozen. Not one of them saying a word now. The joking had died somewhere in the last thirty seconds, replaced with the horrible realization that they were watching something way too intimate to ever erase from memory again. Onscreen, Yunho lowered the camera carefully onto his bedside table, adjusting it with practiced ease until the frame captured the entire room. The edge of the bed. The floor. You between his legs in that oversized flannel looking devastatingly soft against the darker lighting.

Then Yunho leaned back slightly while you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and Wooyoung inhaled so sharply it sounded painful. Nobody looked away. They couldn’t as the fabric dragged slowly down his thighs, and the collective silence in the practice room somehow got even heavier. Yunho was already visibly hard, muscles tense beneath the dim bedroom lighting while he watched you with that same wrecked expression that had everyone spiraling minutes ago.

San rubbed both hands down his face. “We are never recovering from this.”

“Not a single recovery,” Mingi muttered.

The worst part was how quiet the video itself was. No music. Just soft movement, breathing, occasional little laughs from you, and Yunho’s low voice every now and then like he physically couldn’t stop talking to you. Hongjoong finally tore his eyes away long enough to glare at Yeosang. “Why are you still holding the laptop like you’re presenting this to the class?”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO,” Yeosang whisper yelled back as Jongho stood with his arms crossed so tightly he looked like he was trying to hold onto the last threads of his sanity. “We seriously need to turn it off,” he said again. Nobody disagreed but still nobody moved.

Because onscreen Yunho reached forward suddenly, one hand brushing along your jaw before tilting your face up toward him, his thumb lingering there for a second like he couldn’t stop touching you even while filming then he moved his hand down, wrapping firmly around the base of his dick. He gave it a slow stroke as you knelt there, mouth parting wider at the sight, tongue extending flat and eager.

Yunho tapped his tip against your tongue once, twice, the wet sound barely audible over the quiet breaths in the room. He dragged it across your lower lip, smearing a bead of precum before pulling back just enough to repeat the motion. The group stayed locked on the screen, Hongjoong's jaw tight, Mingi's fingers digging into his own thighs, Wooyoung still folded forward but peeking through his fingers now.

"Fuck," San muttered under his breath, the word barely formed as they watched you open wider, and Yunho finally let you have it. Your lips closed around the tip first, tongue swirling slow and deliberate as you took the first few inches into your mouth. The pace stayed unhurried, your head bobbing in measured movements that let every vein and ridge drag against your tongue and Yunho's free hand rested on the back of your head, not pushing yet, just resting there while his low voice filled the speakers. “That's it, baby. Nice and slow for me."

The video captured every detail, the way your cheeks hollowed slightly on each pull back, the soft glisten of spit building at the corners of your mouth, the way your eyes flicked up to meet his. Yunho's breathing grew heavier, his hips shifting forward in tiny thrusts as you worked him deeper inch by inch and Yeosang shifted in his seat, the movement loud in the silence. Nobody joked anymore. All eyes stayed glued to the footage.

Your pace built gradually. You took more of him on each descent, throat relaxing as the head nudged farther back. Yunho's fingers threaded into your hair, and then he started guiding. A gentle press at first, then firmer, pushing your head down until your nose brushed the base of his dick. He held you there for a beat before easing off, letting you catch air, only to repeat it on the next stroke. “Look at you taking it so deep already. That mouth was made for this, wasn't it?"

The group watched in stunned silence as the rhythm changed. Yunho's grip tightened. He began thrusting into your mouth in controlled rolls of his hips, using the hold on your head to set the depth. Each push sent the head sliding past your tongue and into your throat, the wet sounds growing louder as you gagged softly around him once, twice, but kept going, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes on screen. “Go on baby…. Fuck yourself," Yunho ordered through the speakers, voice rough.

Your hand moved immediately. Two fingers slipped between your thighs, parting your folds before sinking inside your pussy in one smooth motion and you moaned around him at the stretch, the sound vibrating through him visibly as his abs tensed on screen and your fingers pumped in time with his thrusts, slow at first, then matching the pace as he fucked your mouth harder.

San leaned forward, eyes wide. "Holy shit."

Yunho's praise poured out steadily. "Good girl, just like that. Taking every inch so well. This video's gonna be mine to watch later….. gonna fuck my fist to the way you choke on me." His dick twitched in your mouth on screen, the head swelling as he used your throat with deeper, shorter thrusts making your gagging grow wetter, sobs hitching around him while your fingers worked faster inside yourself.

The room stayed frozen except for the subtle shifts of the guys adjusting themselves, arousal clear in the way they couldn't look away. On screen, your body trembled. Your fingers curled inside your pussy, hitting the right spot until your thighs shook and you came hard, squirting around your own hand, the fluid glistening on your skin and the carpet as your moan broke into a choked cry around Yunho's dick.

Yunho didn't stop. He held your head steady with both hands now, thrusting deep and steady through your orgasm. His dick pulsed, and then he buried himself to the hilt, coming down your throat in thick pulses as you swallowed every drop, throat working visibly around him until he eased back, letting you breathe. A thin string of spit and cum connected your lips to his dick as the video faded on the final soft praise from his voice.

The practice room stayed silent for a long moment after, every member hard and flushed, the weight of what they'd just witnessed settling heavy.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The second Yunho walked back into the practice room after returning from Japan, every single member started acting like they were being hunted for sport. It had been two full days since the incident. Two days of pretending it never happened. Two days of Wooyoung randomly bursting into hysterical laughter during meals.

Two days of Hongjoong threatening violence anytime someone even mentioned laptops.

And now Yunho was finally back in Seoul completely unaware that seven people had accidentally watched the most intimate video of his life. Which somehow made it worse. Especially because he was acting normal. That was the terrifying part. Just… regular Yunho. Stretching before practice. Drinking iced coffee. Running choreography like nothing catastrophic had happened because he had no idea.

“Why are you all acting like I died?” Yunho finally asked after San nearly walked into the mirror avoiding eye contact.

“No reason,” Hongjoong answered instantly. Suspiciously fast and Yunho narrowed his eyes as the practice room door opened and immediately his entire expression changed as you walked in carrying bags of food and coffees balanced in your arms, smiling brightly. “I come bearing peace offerings because apparently none of you eat unless someone mothers you.”

Wooyoung made a sound like a dying victorian man as Mingi physically turned around and Jongho coughed into his hand so violently Seonghwa had to smack his back.

You blinked, furrowing your brows. “What’s wrong with everybody?”

“Nothing!” seven voices answered at completely different pitches and Yunho looked even more confused now, already walking toward you to help with the food. The second he reached you, one hand settled automatically at your waist while he took the bags from your arms. “Thanks, baby,” Yunho said casually, pressing a quick kiss to your temple and Hongjoong closed his eyes briefly like a man enduring psychological warfare.

You watched the members awkwardly scatter around the room avoiding you entirely and frowned. “Okay seriously, they’re acting weird.” Yunho shrugged, completely oblivious while unpacking containers onto the table. “They’ve been weird all day.”

Across the room, San accidentally made eye contact with you for half a second and immediately looked away then choked on air making you stare harder now. “Did something happen while you were gone?”

Seven men collectively looked like they were about to enter cardiac arrest as Yunho glanced up slowly. “Why does it suddenly feel like I should be concerned?”

Mingi finally cracked first. Probably because Yunho kept staring around the room like he was five seconds away from starting an interrogation. He cleared his throat, arms folded tightly across his chest. “So… hypothetically…”

Hongjoong pointed immediately. “Don’t.”

“No, because we can’t keep acting like this,” Mingi shot back.

“We absolutely can,” Jongho argued.

“We really can’t,” Wooyoung wheezed from the floor as you looked between all of them in growing confusion while Yunho narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What happened?”

Mingi sighed like a man accepting death. “We might’ve…” He paused. “Watched something on your laptop.”

You blinked once.

Yunho blinked twice. “What?”

“You know,” Mingi continued vaguely, refusing to elaborate while Wooyoung was already shaking, trying not to laugh. “Something that maybe wasn’t choreography.”

Still confused, you looked toward Yunho. “What does that even mean?”

Then Yunho froze. Actually froze. Like someone had unplugged him from reality and the color drained from his face so fast it was almost impressive. “Oh no,” he whispered and Wooyoung immediately lost it. “A LITTLE 18+ DOCUMENTARY,” he shouted, pointing accusingly at Yunho while collapsing against the mirror.

Your entire body went still as Yunho slowly turned toward Yeosang first. “What did you open.” Though he already knew the answer. Yeosang looked seconds away from tears. “IT WASN’T LABELED!”

“It was in the choreography folder!” Hongjoong exploded.

“I WAS TIRED!”

You stared between all of them, realization dawning in horrifying slow motion as your jaw dropped. “Oh my god.”

Yunho slapped both hands over his face instantly as Mingi looked at the ceiling. Wooyoung was physically on the floor now laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe and Jongho looked ready to move countries as Seonghwa pointed at you and Yunho like a courtroom witness. “For the record, none of us wanted to see it.”

“That is such a lie,” Wooyoung yelled from the floor.

“No because why did nobody turn it off?” you demanded, face burning now.

“WE TRIED!” Yeosang defended himself.

“You fullscreened it!” Hongjoong shouted back.

Yunho still hadn’t uncovered his face. “You watched the whole thing?” he asked slowly through his hands and Mingi suddenly found the wall fascinating. San coughed and Hongjoong looked away as Seonghwa, Jongho, Yeosang and Wooyoung just stared in silence.

And that silence told Yunho everything.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It wasn’t always like this. Harsh thoughts, even harsher stares. Whispers of curiosity and sly disgust. Questioning how you had a in that most girls would be fighting tooth and nail for.

There were moments, mostly when you were young, when life was simple, peaceful even. But now, as you ran through the crowded halls, no club, no place, no status to help you, you slowly started to come to a sense of acceptance that you were going to be invisible forever… a bookworm amongst the elite.

“Come on, one night.” You groan as you hear your best friend since childhood, Jongho, grumble through your phone. You were currently lying on your comforter, textbook after textbook scattering across the tops of your desk and bed. As you prep for… well, nothing really. Exams are over for the season. ‘I’m just getting prepared for next term,' you’d say, more to yourself than your friend… 'Can't be too ready…' Okay, now you were pushing it…

“Come on, it’ll be fun. The guys love having you around… No overly loud party. Just us all celebrating the end of exam week.” Jongho’s buttery voice made your insides turn. ‘Love having you around' the words replied in your head a thousand times. They probably only “like” you because they have to put up with you for Jongho's sake.

You hated how right your thoughts sounded right. You hated how you fell for their sirened words every time.

“Fine.” You sighed, knowing you wouldn’t win a fight with your teddy bear of a friend.

“Yes! Also…” His voice vibrated your ringing ears. “Seonghwa got you something.”

“Seong—” Your voice cuts off into a choking fit, saliva betraying you as you try to breathe. “H-hwa.. got..why would he..—Shit can't talk now. I'm about to go on, I'll see you later.”

And just like that, his goodbye was quicker than his hello, and you were stuck in the silence once more. Only this time you were stuck with the looming thoughts, Why did Seonghwa get you something and more importantly… You thought he hated you.

The walk over to the frat house was long and cold. The campus felt like a ghost town now that everyone had cleared out from the game earlier. The last play of the season, with some of the boys from ATZ frat house coming out on top. You've only ever been to one. When Jongho finally convinced you to show up for it to cheer him, Mingi, and Yunho on. But that soon led to you being cornered behind the bleachers by a group of popular girls that were determined to know how you were so close to all the ATZ boys.

How you… could possibly have anything they don't. They were all drop-dead gorgeous, tall with long thin legs, and had perfect faces that matched their perfect styles. They were the object of everyone's desire. People either wanted to be them or be with them… except you. You were nothing.

You didn't wear heavy, flawless makeup. You didn't wear tightly formed clothes. You weren't the it girl or the talented cheerleader… You were just… you.

The sidewalks that are normally filled to the brim with caffeinated, no-sleep, most likely on some sort of medication students were now mere echoes of your footsteps right up until the scuffs of your boots at the base of the frat house steps. You stared at the door for what felt like an eternity, questioning if you should just ditch and go back to the safety of your dorm surrounded by text books and fantasy novels…at least they wouldn’t judge you.

“You gonna stay out here all night, sweetheart. Or are you gonna come in.” The deep, almost sultry voice catches you off guard. It was only when you refocused your eyes that you noticed San leaning against the small porch fence with a lit cigarette in hand. His eyes were piercing and his smile subtle—being here for performing arts and a modeling/Image consultant program—he most certainly fits his major. "Well, are you?”

Heat flushed as you realised you had been staring at him for a little too long for your liking. “Y-yes. I’m coming.” … His smirk grew intensely.

Wrong choice of words idiot.

You huffed out a breath before walking straight for the front door, leaving Mr Perv outside to tend to his smoke. Upon walking in, you took in the strong stench of weed and liqour.. The gathering, as Jongho put it, must have started early. "Aye, there's the sweetest sweetheart!!" Mingi hollers from the couch as you rounded the corner.

“Hey.” You whisper out, holding your sides while your arms stay firmly crossed together.

“You need a drink. Let me get you a drink!” Mingi tries to sit up, but he stumbles, already half drunk. Hearing a crash, both Yeosang and Wooyoung come rushing out of the adjoining kitchen, one firmly holding a pot lid while the other holds a spoon.

"What's the damage?” Wooyoung shouted, thinking something was broken… Again. You couldn't help but crack a smile, watching the boys fumble and flail to get Mingi back on the couch.

“Only Mingi’s pride…” A smooth, roaring presence shifted behind you. His voice almost as dark as his slight smile. You knew it was him before you saw him. Shifting your head slowly, your gaze drags up, long elegant legs draped with loose black sweats, matching compression-T on the slickest waist before landing on piercing eyes. Eyes that made you hot. Eyes that made you go mad.

“H-hi Hwa.” You mentally cringe at yourself for using the nickname you always hear the boys use. It wasn’t something you called him. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Seonghwa seemed to notice your uncomfortability instantly, his pupils expanding at the idea of watching you squirm. So like normal Hwa fashion, he digs for more.

"Hey, Sweetheart.” That nickname... One that all the boys adopted for you and one you’ve grown accustomed to hearing. But when it slipped from Seonghwa’s lips, it was different. You knew it was because he wanted something. He only used it when he wanted something. He would rather use your name than slip into the sweetness of a pet name, and last time he called you that, you spent hours after helping him study. Or the time before that, you went with him to the library because he didn't want to go alone. As he put it. He knew he made you melt and he knew he could get anything he wanted if that one little innocent name slipped off his tongue.

“Y-you have something for me?” You hesitated while the taller man's eyes studied you. Only for a moment, never long enough to warrant warning. But just enough to have you redder than Wooyoung’s freshly dyed hair.

He leant down slowly, his lips barely scraping your ear. “Come with me.”

And just like that he was off, heading towards the staircase. You quickly followed behind, noting each door you passed. Yunho’s and Mingi's shared room, Jongho’s and Yeosang's…a bathroom. San and woos… He stops suddenly, almost making you bump into his broad back. You couldn't help but let out a quiet yelp, making Seonghwa turn his head slightly over his shoulder. "S-sorry..."

Your murmur was not unheard by Seonghwa, but he didn’t respond, instead, he smirked to himself slyly before slipping into the room he stopped abruptly at. You followed suit, trying to rub off the embarrassment off your face, but before you could shed away the redness, it only grew darker as your eyes landed upon the perfectly made grey bed in the centre of the small but cosy bedroom…

Seonghwa’s bedroom.

You’ve never been in his room before, heck, you were well aware of how much he hated others in here. Always saying others would make it messy. And from the last time San came into it, having his way with ruining the cosy sheets, Seonghwa officially made it clear that no one goes into his room unless he permits it.

"So... What was…” Before you could finish your sentence, Seonghwa quickly opens and closes a jewellery box that sat nicely tucked away on his desk. The voice made you silence yourself as you watched him turn around to finally fully face you.

“The guys and I have been wanting to get you a gift.” He rubs the soft velvet bag between his fingers while his eyes never left yours. “Something to show our appreciation. And we… Well, I came up with the idea to get you this.”

He pulled out a thin necklace with an unfamiliar-looking symbol hanging off it. The pendant was dark red, the gems in it gleaming in the small orange lighting of Seonghwa’s bedroom… it almost looked like a compass?

“It would mean a lot if you wore this.” You've never heard Hwa sound so soft before. His natural brooding nature always made him sound cold to everyone other than his brothers. But now, in his moment, he sounded like liquid sin. Honey mixing with all roses. He held the necklace, silently asking if he could put it on for you.

Of course, you listened. You always listened if Seonghwa asked. Holding your hair up, you turned around, giving Seonghwa access to your neck. His long arms wrapped around you as he unclasped the necklace, letting it lie coolly on your collarbone.

“I knew you'd say yes.” Seonghwa's voice was a whisper now, the feeling of his hot breath against your neck making you shiver. You had no idea how long you stood like that, just feeling him closely behind you. But when a booming voice echoed from downstairs, you knew it was probably a little too long for comfort.

“Dinner’s ready!” San’s shout cut through the quiet. You turned to face Seonghwa, and of course, his expression was anything but readable. Unlike yours, which you were sure was covered in pink, with wide eyes and a shallow breath.

“I—LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTED!!” Mingi’s enthusiastic bellow cuts off your words before you could even speak them. A wave of sound crashing against the moment you and Seonghwa were experiencing.

Seonghwa stepped aside, gesturing towards the door. “Go on. I'll be down soon.”

You walked past him for the door, taking in the lingering scent of his cologne. A mixture of sweet vanilla, coffee and something faintly spicy. He smelled intoxicating. But you shook your thoughts, heading for the stairs, your fingers naturally gravitated towards the foreign object around your neck, feeling the cool metal settled snuggly against your collarbone.

I knew you’d like it.

His soft words played on loop in your head. The way he stood closer, the way you swore you could hear his heart beat quicken along with your own. The words swirled in your mind, a deciphering puzzle you couldn’t quite place. Yet, a warmth bloomed in your chest, a quiet satisfaction that the boys had thought of you, that Seonghwa had thought of you and felt the need to give you a gift personally… Maybe he wasn’t such a brooding bad boy like everyone lets out to be.

The night unfolded in a blur of loud chatter, liquor and food everywhere and a rhythmic thump of music that sits in your chest like it was born to be there. This wasn’t an average frat party by any means, there wasn’t a crowd of drunk people, minus Mingi, and an overwhelming amount of mistakes being made that many people would either regret or not remember by the morning. No, tonight was… intimate, filled with board games, competitive video games and casual conversations ending in bursts of laughter.

It almost felt domestic in a way.

Having Hongjoong lean against you, shoulder to shoulder on the couples' couch. Or helping Yeosang and Wooyoung finish up dinner before serving it to the hungry beasts known as your friends. The initial awkwardness melted away from this morning, having been replaced by a comfortable camaraderie. You’d never admit it, but Jongho was right.

“Alright, who’s ready for a real game?” Wooyoung’s voice sliced through the relaxed atmosphere, a mischievous glint in his foxy eyes. He held up a strange, circular board, adorned with colourful squares and cryptic symbols. You couldn't help but tilt your head in confusion. “Truth, Dare, or Strike.”

“What's strike?” The thought slipped from your tongue before you could think. And oh how the smile only grew wider on Wooyoung’s face as he picked up the dice.

“So, you roll,” he explained devilishly. “Move your piece. Land on truth or dare, you pick a card from each pile.” He gestured to the purple and green stacks, letting you watch as Yunho and Yeosang shuffle them. “But if you land on strike…” He taps the board, his voice dropping to almost a whisper.

“You pick a black card…” Seonghwa’s voice made you jump as you turned slightly to see him and Hongjoong come back from the kitchen after clearing the table. His voice was buttery and suggestive, sending shivers down your spine. But before you could loom with any unnecessary thoughts, Jongho picked up the dice and rolled, letting the game finally begin.

Jongho landed on truth, admitting he had a secret drawer of sex toys that the card had suggested. San, on a dare, did a surprisingly and gracefully tame handstand... Most cards you found weren’t all ‘bad’ or ‘raunchy’ but more classical truths and dares. Well, what would you even class as basic truth or dare? You don’t know. But Mingi was the first to pull a strike card, having to make out with the person next to him. Yunho to be exact… which he did a little too eagerly. You squirmed when you watched the two giants fight for whose tongue went in whose mouth… it shouldn’t have been that erotic, watching your two friends go at it… But…

“Your turn.” Jongho nudged you a little, making you snap out of your thoughts. Your eyes widened as you looked next to you, god you were staring, and you didn’t notice. You felt yourself grow pinker than Hongjoong’s pretty drink as you gulped.

“I uh… Let me just refill my drink. I’ll be right back.” You stood a little too quickly and fled to the kitchen a little too promptly, but you didn’t think too far as you slipped away from prying eyes. Once in the kitchen, you spotted San leaning against the counter, nursing a glass of something dark as he waited for something in the microwave. You ignored him at first, looking in the fridge for something stronger than your normal stuff. Just something to take off the edge, you know, something a little more…

“Having fun?” San’s voice was a deep whisper that you only barely heard over the music that still played in the empty lounge room on the forgotten TV.

“Uh yeah.. Yeah I’m having fun..” Your eyes never left the shelves in front of you, looking at all the rows of liquor.

“More than you expected, hmm?” San poured something into a glass before walking over to the fridge, his chest grazing your back slightly. This made you stiffen as he moved you aside, reaching for the freezer door and opening it. Neither of you spoke for a moment. Just simply watched as the man dropped a few ice cubes into the crimson drink. “Here.”

You took the drink in hand, ignoring San’s knowing look. How he was able to read people's minds still beats you. But nonetheless, you took it. “Don't tell Jongho. But yes, he was right.”

The sly smirk on San’s features beamed as he took a sip of his own drink. His eyes never left yours as he watched you take a gulp of your own, noticing you grimace slightly at the strong taste. “What the actual fuck is this?!”

"Damn, sweetheart, didn't think you'd react like that.” San laughed, a full belly laugh. It was deep in his throat as he covered his mouth with his hand. “You wanted something stronger, right? Doesn't mean it'll taste better.”

“Fuck me.” You choked, looking for some water in the fridge to wash it down. But San stopped you, reaching for a pink bottle of alcohol, he wiggled it in your face. “What now?”

Your groan made San's smile grow as his eyebrow cocked. His head tilting to the side slightly like a cat, “Shot this, and if you do…” he leant down to your ear, his lips grazing your lobe, “I'll tell you a very important secret.”

Your interest suddenly peaked as you eyed the bottle. “One shot?"

“Just one.” He clarified.

You thought for a moment, watching his dark expression twist with a hint of something you couldn't quite pick out. “Hmmm… Deal.” Nodding your head, you eyed him as he grabbed two shot glasses from the cabinet. This was gonna be interesting…

While San is perfectly distracting you, Hongjoong, on the other hand—with a devilish smile playing on his lips—swiftly flicked through the cards on the table in front of him. Yunho and Jongho joined him as Yun grabbed the truth and Jong the dare pile. Their fingers were nimble and quick, shuffling all the piles, replacing a few at the top with very specific cards. Hongjoong exchanged a knowing glance with Seonghwa, a silent understanding passing between them. The boy's plan was simple really… They had this idea for months now, long night discussions and other nights filled with a little more heated activities led to all the men here wanting one thing…

You.

It was only going to be a little push, a nudge even, that’s all they needed. Just to see if you'd actually break. See if you were on the same level as all of them. To see if you truly would be theirs. "Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Wooyoung’s voice was cheeky as he gazed at the cards Yunho and Jongho picked. The boys knew where you were standing on the board, you'd most likely land on Dare or Strike with your roll. But just in case you roll a really low number, Yunho took the liberty to look for a perfect truth card.

All three men were quick at finding what they wanted before placing the decks back as if they were never touched. Ironically, this was just as you finally walked back into the dining room, the clinking of your cup against the glass bowl filled with popcorn announcing your presence. San was close behind, and his stare was caught quickly by the two older men. Hongjoong nodded slightly, not enough for you to notice but enough for San to know the plan was going perfectly.

You sat down next to Seonghwa, not noticing he swapped spots with Jongho. Picking up the dice, you note the almost complete silence, like there was anticipation in the air for what you might roll. “Are you all holding your breath, or has the alcohol finally hit me?” You tried to give a little cheek, but you could have sworn all the boys were darker, more… predatory than normal…

“We are just curious what you might land on, sweetheart.” Mingi suddenly sounded way too sober for your liking. Your hand didn’t stop the shaking motion as your eyes narrowed at Mingi, but you chose to let the dice fly despite the odd feeling brewing in your stomach. They tumbled across the board, clattering to a stop…

"Six," Jongho casually announced, his expression never changing. But there was something, like the room let out the breath she thought it was holding, and as her little pawn landed on the square, she swore she heard a groan.

“Dare…”

A collective gasp—as if they didn’t just plan all this—quickly followed by a chorus of excited chatters filled the room. But your stomach only lurched, suddenly nervous at what the card might suggest. And if it was anything like the previous two cards… you were most likely done for. Reaching for the pile, your fingers trembled slightly. The card felt too cool, too smooth, too… heavy. You flipped it over away from prying eyes.

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull when you saw the card. “Nope. Absolutely not. I am not doing that.”

The group chuckled, half of them saying it can't be that bad while the others were curious what the card said. Jongho took the card from you, and what he read made his ears turn red. “Strip in front of the crowd.”

“Oh fuck yeah.” Mingi couldn’t help but hiccup out. Making your face deepen in the crimson that already pained it.

“No! I’m not getting naked!” You huffed with a slight twang of laughter. You loved your boys, yes. But getting bare in front of eight very hot men was not on your list tonight.

“Alright. You can pass, Sweetheart.” The crowd went quiet as Hongjoong spoke. “But that means you gotta pick up two strike cards this time.” It was like Hongjong's prayers had been answered, given he put the more... Harsher cards on top of the strike pile.

You go to grab the two cards, but the orange-haired male stops you. “But once you take these two, you can't undo it. You’ll have to do these cards.”

For a moment you questioned if getting naked in front of the boys for a moment was better than what these two cards could entail… but after another breath left your lungs, you knew you were willing to risk it. “I’m good.”

Picking up both cards, you stared at them. And in bold, stark letters it read. “Spit take and…Seven minutes in hell.” Your breath hitched.

A sly murmur bubbled under Wooyoung's breath as he whispered out, "Oh, these ones..”

Yeosang had to kick his foot slightly to get him to shut up. Luckily your shaky sigh covered up the young man's words, making him go unnoticed by you. You already knew what the first card was asking you, and that required you to roll to see how many people would participate. But it was the second card that had you more intrigued… “Go to a secluded room with the person to your left. And for seven minutes, they can do whatever they want to you.” with a little note on the corner, a smiley face with a speech bubble that says ‘remember consent is key’... as if that was the problem at hand right now.

Your shaky gaze suddenly snapped to Seonghwa, seeing him seated calmly beside you. And even though his expression was unreadable… His eyes were a different story. They were intense, dark and as they met your own, you noticed the lust dripping from them. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face, almost like a silent promise. And in that moment, you knew. This man, with his quiet intensity and unsettling charm, was about to completely ruin you.

“Roll.” Was all Seonghwa said as he stood, picking up his beer to take a swing of it as he walked to the archway of the dining room. You froze for a moment, not really registering what was going on. It wasn’t until Jongho’s soft, warm hand squeezed your thigh that you finally focused your eyes and looked around the room.

“You okay?” His voice was whispered, but you simply nodded your head, standing up abruptly before snatching the dice off the table.

“I’m good.” You gave your best friend a smile before rolling the red dice, letting them skate across the table, but as they came to a halt, the numbers they landed on were almost too good to be true.

Five and three….

Everything passed like a blur as Seonghwa extended his hand out for you to take. You didn’t even hear the hollers and chants from the other men as your fingers intertwined with Hwa’s soft ones. San had whispered something into the older man’s ear as he passed, and you vaguely heard Jongho say they’ll do the rest of your challenge when you come back…

But all you could think about right now was how you let Seonghwa pull you through the house. Your legs felt strangely heavy as he guided you towards the studio just opposite the kitchen and dining room. He stepped inside first, holding the door open so you could slip in besides him. The soft lamplight cast his features in shadow, making him appear even more mysterious in the reddish, purplish lighting. The studio wasn’t small by any means, supporting a large desk, couch and even a mini fridge. Hongjoong spent most of his time here, the others rarely entertaining themselves with all the electronics that Hongjoong had set up meticulously. But now the room was going to be used for something other than soundboard production. It was going to be used for something far more… erotic.

You hesitated at the threshold, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within you… anticipation, a hint of nervousness, and a strange, undeniable thrill of what-ifs and maybes. What could the Park Seonghwa possibly do in seven minutes?

“Come on,” he urged, his voice a low invitation. “Time starts now...”

You crossed the threshold, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft thud. And for a split second you thought you heard the lock. But you paid no mind as you felt the air thicken in your lungs, making it harder to breathe as you took in every detail of the room around you. All the while, Seonghwa never took his gaze off of you. Taking a swig of his beer, and his back facing the door, his burning presence filled the cramped space so much your body, soul and mind felt like they were oozing him… You could hear the way his throat worked as he swallowed more of his drink until he was empty, setting the bottle down on the edge of the deck with an anticipatory thump.

“You seem nervous…” He whispered, stepping closer until his chest grazed your back. “Why are you shaking, hmm?”

"I'm not shaking." You lied through your teeth, your voice trembling slightly. "It’s just… cold in here."

“Ah.” Seonghwa said softly, reaching out with his fingers to brush his knuckles gently across your neck. The contact felt like a jolt of electricity had suddenly coursed through your veins. “You know… Liars get punished in this room.”

"I don't know what you're talking about," you whispered, not taking your eyes off the blank wall in front of you. Not daring to look back. To look at him.

Seonghwa stepped closer, his feet pushing yours apart so he could almost put his knee between your legs as his chest became snug to your shoulder blades. He leant down, his lips only just ghosting over the shell of your ear, and then you felt the hotness of his breath as he spoke, “Don’t play dumb now, sweet bunny.”

Oh, that was new…

The pet name sent shivers down your spine as his voice turned sweet, almost melodic. “I see the way you look at me. The way you clench your perfect fucking thighs whenever you're around here. You act all shy, but I bet there's a slut somewhere inside begging for relief. Did you think that necklace only meant we were friends?"

“I…I thought.”

“What? You were in some sort of safe zone? You aren’t what we want because you’re Jong’s best friend.” Seonghwa interrupted your words as you felt his hand move to the nape of your neck, his thumb pressing gently on your windpipe. "There’s nothing safe about the way we think about you. I’ve spent weeks imagining exactly what I’m going to do to you in this very room. And now, the rules say I can do anything."

Did he just say we?

“S-seonghwa what… Ah!” You gasped before you could even protest any thought or feelings, letting yourself feel his teeth latched onto your shoulder and hand tighten around your neck. He began to kiss you, slow and agonisingly soft, his tongue tracing the line of your ear, to your jaw, down to the patches of skin on your neck his hand was not covering.

"I’ve been so patient…” He practically moaned your name in your ear. “We’ve watched you walk around this house in those cute little outfits. Pastels, cotton. Argh… “ He groaned, rutting his hips against your ass. “You always look so soft, such a pretty bunny. You knew exactly what you were doing to us. Did it make you feel powerful, hmm? Knowing we’re all starving for you?"

Your brain was no longer processing what he was saying, no, all you could think about was how he held you. How he was touching you. How you could feel the outline of his straining cock on your backside and how he growled and begged behind you. “S-seonghwa, please.”

"Please, what?" he asked, stepping a little away, letting you feel slightly empty. His hand loosened on your windpipe before swinging you around until you were facing him. And oh, did his expression make you want to melt. His eyes blown out, his jaw clenched as he awaited you to finally answer him… finally give him something. Anything!!

“Do. Not. Stop.” You punctuated every word, letting him read each one from your lips. His mouth crashed onto your feverishly.. It wasn't a gentle kiss. No, it was an invasion. He tasted like a devilish mixture of bitter hops and lust. His tongue pushing past your lips to claim you with a desperate hunger. Holding you steady by your jaw, he tilted your head as he stood up straight, making you fight to keep your lips latched. He wanted you to feel what he had been feeling for months. Being so close to touch… but not close enough to call you his.

Any sweetness you thought might come out of the usually calm man vanished, leaving a new version of Seonghwa that made your skin burn for more. And just like that he pulled completely away from you, breathing hard. “Couch. Now.”

"What?"

"I said get on the couch. Legs open. Now." Gone was the cheeky darkness in his tone, now being replaced with something almost sadistic. A shiver of fear and excitement trickled down your spine.

You obeyed.

Your movements, ever clumsy as you scrambled onto the leather. The material was freezing against your fiery skin, but the heat radiating from Seonghwa was far more overwhelming. He did not wait as he moved into action. No, warning, not words. The thud was deafening over the music beyond the door as he fell to his knees. He was acting like a starved man on a mission, and nothing was going to get in his way with his reward.

Moving between your knees, his hands grabbed a hand full of your thighs, forcing them wide without a second thought. You felt his fingers dig into flesh and nails threaten to draw blood. Maybe starved wasn’t the word for the way Seonghwa acted in this moment… No, he was more like,

Insane. Drunk. Fanatical and fixated.

"Oh, look at you," he hissed, his gaze fixed on the dampness already staining your underwear that hid so prettily beneath your skirt. "So ready for me. After all that acting, all this being shy… you’re dripping like a whore."

He didn't waste time with more words. Not leaving any room for even a little yelp as he yanked your soft cotton panties to the side, exposing your aching cunt to the cool air of the room. He didn’t use his fingers first. He didn’t tease or linger. No, your head fell back as soon as you felt his thick nose push against your clit, letting him bury his face into your heat. The first lick was a long, broad stroke that made your back arch almost right off the couch. You’ve never felt such a feeling, something as delicious as someone's tongue lapping you up like it was their favourite meal. And you were his. As you let out a strangled cry, your fingers knotting in his hair, Seonghwa knew he was done for. He would eat you out every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner if you let him.

"You’re so sweet," Seonghwa mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled. "I’m going to eat every drop of you. I want to taste how much you’ve been wanting this, sweetheart." He became a man possessed. His tongue was relentless, flicking over your clit with a precision that was borderline cruel. Sucking on you intensely, his soft hums created the perfect vibration that made your toes curl and vision spot. The tension in the room changed with each jagged breath. The wet, rhythmic sloppy sounds of his tongue against your folds, the sharp gasps you couldn't suppress, and the heavy thud of your hearts against each chest were enough to make you both spiral.

"Open wider," he growled, pulling back for a second to slap your inner thigh as you tried to close them around his head, the sound echoing in the small room. "Keep them open for me, bunny. I want to see everything."

"I-It's too much," you gulped air in as you spoke, your head tossing back and forth as your eyes screwed themselves shut. “Seonghwa, I can’t.”

"Yes, you can," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that made your cunt clench. And that's when you felt it, the sudden intrusion making you yelp. He shoved two fingers tightly inside your wet hole as he began pumping them hard and fast, his thumb never leaving your clit. Your hips bucked without a second thought, almost having a mind of their own, chasing pleasure your body was so desperately desiring. "I want you to squirt for me, sweetheart. I want to see you lose control completely.”

"I... I’ve never done that," you panted, your voice breaking as you took in each thrust of his long digits. "I don't think I can."

Seonghwa’s gaze snapped up at you, a predatory smirk painting his features as his fingers seemingly became more frantic inside you. “Never?.. Oh, bunny. What am I going to do with you?”

He sat up straighter, his whole body towering your bent one. His lips grazed your ear, letting you hear the soft panting from him over the squelch sound. “I guess I'll have to be the first one to make that happen, huh? I'm not letting you off this couch until you're dripping all over me. Got it."

You couldn’t help but nod, letting him have his way, as he went back to his couched position. His tongue licked a strip up your cunt before settling on your clit. His fingers hooked deep, finding the spot that made your hip jerk and high pitch higher. He was relentless, abusing your sensitive flesh with a focus that was terrifying and utterly arousing. You could quickly feel the foreign tension build, a pressure in your lower abdomen that felt like a dam about to burst. Trying your best to settle your breathing, you glanced over his broad shoulders, and that's when you noticed the digital clock on the desk. The numbers glowing crimson in your spotted vision.

“H-hwa.” You choked out, your voice barely above a whisper as moans filled the void. “The time… Time. Fuck. Seven minutes is over.”

Seonghwa didn't even look up. He just growled low in his throat, his teeth grazing your inner thigh before he went back to devouring you. "Do I have to be blunt with you too, bunny?" His voice thick with lust, it sent a shiver down your spine. "And here I thought you were smart.”

Your eyes widened in shock when he looked up at you, his mouth and nose already glistening from your juices. You wanted to feel embarrassed, but Seonghwa’s tone was quick to distract you. “The clock doesn't matter. I decide when we’re done. And we are nowhere near done."

He sped up. His fingers were a blur, the sound of air being pushed out of your soaked pussy with every thrust creating a wet, slapping noise. He was punishing you now, his movements rough and demanding. He wanted… Needed you to let go. To feel everything all at once. To feel nothing but him.

"Come on, baby. Give it to me," he commanded. "Squirt for me, you little slut. Show me how much you want the rest of us. Want me."

The unfamiliar sensation brewing in your gut finally snapped, leaving a white-spotted explosion to cloud your vision. Your body convulsed, your legs locking around his head as a torrent of fluid erupted from you, splashing across his face, his chest, and the leather of the couch. You sobbed, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as a long, high-pitched sound erupted from your chest.

Seonghwa didn't move. He stayed there for a long moment, letting your tremors subside while his face still pressed against your core. When he finally did pull back, though, he was covered in you. Your scent was heavy in the air, musky, sweet, and metallic. He wiped a stray drop from his lip and licked it off his finger, his eyes never leaving yours as he did. He looked hypnotised, completely consumed with the idea of you.

"Look at that bunny," he whispered, his voice dark as he massaged your thighs. "Look what you did for me."

Feeling accomplished, Seonghwa stood abruptly. You went to follow him without a thought, but he quickly reached out, landing a playful but sharp slap on your clenching cunt. The sting of it brought you crashing back to reality… Only slight. Watching him step away, leaving you shivering and vulnerable on the couch.

"Stay." Was all he said as he walked over to the desk.

Picking up his beer bottle, he took a long, slow swing of the last of his beer, eyes tracking the way your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath. He looked down at the bottle, then back at you, a slow, cruel idea forming in his expression.

Your eyes never left him as he watched you. It made you feel hot, feel… seen. From always being the one to never be looked at. You not having a good enough status in school. Being the forgotten kid. Or the nerd, the outcast. The list goes on, from what you've been called in your life… but right now. All of Seonghwa's attention was on you. The Park Seonghwa. It made you feel desirable. Made you feel powerful.

"You like being watched, don't you?" he asked as if he were reading your mind, walking back towards you painfully slow. "You like the idea of being wanted, hmm? Want by me… by us?”

There it was again, the hinting of the other boys, only just a few feet away from this very room. It made you remember what San had said in the kitchen only twenty minutes ago.

"What kind of game, San?" You leant against the countertop with your arms crossed, still feeling the burn of the shot you just took. “If this is some kinda of floor shot again. I told Wooyoung a million times. No.”

San laughed, the sound vibrating against you while he stayed standing so close to you that your elbows were touching. "No, no… nothing like that….Without trying to freak you out."

“You're already freaking me out."

"Okay, okay.” San’s tone suddenly became serious. “There's a reason for that.” He points to the necklace on your neck. “And Seonghwa is gonna teach you later what the reason is. I just want you to know…”

San moves before you could think, hands on either side of you, caging you between his large body and the tabletop. “We all care for you. And we all want something. But trying to tell you has been difficult. We don't want to scare you away.”

You suddenly felt completely sober as you stared up at the man in front of you. Was he trying to say what you think he was? Did you just drink too much and now you're misinterpreting his words? "San… what are you trying to say?”

"Just be open-minded… Know that we all love you.” San leant down to your ear, whispering the last bit of his sentence, letting you smell the bourbon on his hot breath. "And the studio is soundproofed. No one hears a thing once that door locks.”

“I…” Your mouth became tacky while your mind drew a blank. This was what San was talking about. What he meant by all of them loving you…

“Tell me the truth, baby. Did you ever think about me while you fuck yourself on those pathetic pieces of plastic? Or maybe more than just me? What about the others? Ever thought about your best friend, huh? Dreamed of Jongho’s cock in you just as much as I dreamt of tasting this perfect pussy?"

You turned your head away, your face flushing a deep crimson. "I... What…."

Seonghwa has gone mad, not liking your answer. Gipping the neck of the beer bottle, he chuckled… a cruel, dark vibration from the pit of his chest. “I asked you a question, Sweetheart.”

This time the pet name that rolled off his tongue wasn't filled with any hint of sweetness. No, this time it was filled with nothing but mockery. He wanted to get under your skin just like you have him. Without a word, he took two large steps towards you before nudging your legs further apart with his legs.

“Answer me.” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper as he began ripping at your clothes until your lower half was completely bare and your shirt was discarded, leaving you in your soft pink cotton bra. His free hand gripped your ankle, spreading your legs open further to let him press the cold, rounded rim of the bottle against your wet entrance.

"Seonghwa, w-what are you doing?" You asked, your eyes widening as you felt the cold glass begin to slide inside you.

"I'm making sure you're paying attention," he replied bluntly. Pushing the bottle deeper, you could feel the cold sensation of the glass contrasting sharply with the heat of your overworked wall. "Does that feel good? Or is it too cold? Maybe you’d prefer something warmer. Something human, hmm?”

He began to move the bottle in and out, the glass creating a suction that made a distinct, wet popping sound every time it almost slipped out. The feeling was… bizarre, invasive and oh so fucking erotic. You were too focused on the sensation of the bottle to speak. It was stretching you the way you needed, filling you in a way that felt foreign and overwhelming in the best way. You let out a soft moan, your eyes fluttering shut. Seonghwa's expression darkened. Letting go of your ankle, he ripped your bra down, letting your breasts spill free. He watched them move as his pace quickened before giving them a harsh slap, the impact making you yelp in surprise and pain.

“Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck.” Your lips finally fell loose as your legs hugged tightly around Seonghwa’s firm hips. Leaning down, Seonghwa's teeth were bared on your neck, making sure he marked you anyway he could. Whether it was teeth marks, hickeys, or blood being drawn, he needed it all.

“So tight, filthy little bunny.” He hissed as he quickened his pace, his wrist growing almost tired at the odd angle of how he was holding the foreign object. “I bet you’re imagining it’s my cock, huh? Or maybe someone else's? Do you want all our cocks, baby? Come on, you can tell me. Don’t be shy now. Be a good girl.”

“H-Hwa… I.” Tears stained your face, stinging your red cheeks. You didn’t want to admit anything, your heart ached while your mind felt dizzy. The push and pull Seonghwa gave you was almost strong enough to give you whiplash.

“You can do it, bunny. Scream it out, let the others know exactly how you feel.”

And even though you shook your head no as he sank the top of the beer bottle deeper, pressing his thumb to your clit for firmer, you felt a fire brew in the pit of your stomach. Because you knew, he knew your answer. Like he could read your every thought. You weren’t just interested in the broody frat boy…. You were interested in his whole fraternity.

"YES!" You finally screamed as he gave your tits another love tap. The confession burst out of you like a physical weight as you squirted all over the beer bottle and Seonghwa’s hand. "I think about all of you! I want all of you! Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Seonghwa froze—the bottle still buried deep inside your abused cunt—a slow, terrifying grin spreading across his perfect features. There was a hint of warmth to it. Maybe even a slight show of sympathy. But over all that, he looked like an animal who had finally trapped his prey where he wanted.

"All of us," he repeated, his voice like velvet over gravel. "Good. That’s what I like to hear… But there is now one little problem...” He pulled the bottle out of you, throwing it somewhere in the room. If you weren’t so focused on Hwa your eyes would have checked to see if the glass would break, but luckily it landed on the carpet and no shatter followed. “You’ve been keeping a secret since we’ve been here…"

"What secrets?" you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"San," Seonghwa said, his eyes narrowing. "He told you something, did he. Fucker can’t keep a secret to save his life.”

You couldn’t help but bite your lip, the guilt written clearly on your face. "San told me, you wanted to… teach me... About the necklace. But what was it, I promise.” The silence in the room was absolute. The only sound was the faint hum of the equipment and the distant, muffled beat of the music from outside. You could see the way Seonghwa tensed slightly… he didn’t believe you. Not entirely anyway. His eyes were ice cold, focused with rage that made you want to shrink into the leather beneath you.

“Did you know I’d fuck you tonight?” He said so bluntly that it almost gave you whiplash. “Did he tell you we all like you?” The words came out slowly and dangerously. “What about that we rigged the cards so one of us could break you enough that you’d finally understand you are ours…”

He stood up, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving with fury. “Did he think this was a game? We had a plan.” Seonghwa passed for a moment, leaving you to worry. But before you could say anything, he grabbed you by the arm, his grip bruising as he hauled you off the couch, shoving you toward the mahogany desk.

“I…No..” Your mouth went dry as you tried to speak, but Seonghwa cut you off anyway.

"Hands on the desk," he commanded. "Now."

"Seonghwa, wait, what I—"

"I said hands on the desk!" he roared. You obeyed, your palms slapping against the cold, polished wood. You were trembling violently now, the reality of his anger settling over you. You heard the sound of a zipper, the rustle of fabric and something like ripping plastic... Then the heat of him was behind you, pressing against your backside intensely. “I’m gonna have words with him later. But right now…”

His lips grazed the shell of your ear. “I need you to take a deep breath.” He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need to, grabbing your hips, with his fingers digging into the bones, he drove himself into you with one single brutal thrust that had your vision blurring. You let out a sharp cry, tears already staining your puffy cheeks as your head leaned back onto his shoulder. Seonghwa was so thick compared to the beer bottle. He seemed to stretch you beyond your limits. Well, that's what it felt like. He didn't give you time to adjust as he began to fuck you with a primal aggression. His body slamming into your pussy with a rhythmic, meat-on-meat thud that if you weren’t so turned on, you’d be embarrassed.

“You are even more perfect than I imagined,” he growled into your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name. I'm going to mark you so everyone down the hall knows who got you first.”

His declaration made your head spin. The knowledge that this was not just a one-time thing. That this was just the beginning of something you couldn’t even explain… and that everyone down the hall was just dying to join in. He was relentless. Every thrust felt like a challenge, a violent reassertion of dominance, of possession, that even though there was an agreement, he was going to show off what he could do for you. The desk creaked under the weight of your bodies, and the sound of your skin slapping together and panting breath filled the room. You could feel the friction building in the pit of your stomach, the raw, unpolished sensation of his cock deep inside you, driving you towards the edge. But something was missing… You needed something else... Something more.

"Please," you sobbed, your fingers clawing at the wood of the desk, leaving scratch marks in the varnish. "More. Seonghwa, please, give me more… I need..."

"What do you need, baby. Tell me what you want?" His voice was so soft compared to before, there was a caring tone lacing each word, and it only made you melt more.

“I want to feel you… I need to feel you when you cum in me.” You had no idea how you were speaking so freely, stocking it up to alcohol and the blindness of sex that made you throw your filter out the window. But it was the truth, you were craving to have him use you completely.

He reached back and slapped your ass, the sound sharp and echoing as he chuckled. The sting only fueled your desire more. And he did it again, harder this time, leaving the red imprint of his hand on your skin before pulling out for a moment. "Is this what you wanted? Be claimed. Be filled with me…"

He tore off the condom, showing it somewhere in the room, before completely trapping you against the desk, pushing off items he did not even bother to note, so he could make a perfect clearing just for your perfect body. “I told you there was a slut deep down somewhere. She just needed the motivation to come out.”

He didn't hold back this time. He increased the pace until he was a blur of motion on top of you, his cock slid in and out with a wet, squelching sound that filled the room as he hit right where you needed every time. You felt your vision spot and your throat itch from the screaming. But it was when he reached around and gripped your neck, pulling your head up so he could see your face as he destroyed you, that you swore you saw stars.

“Look at you, sweetheart.” He growled, “I want to see you. I want you to know exactly who’s doing this to you. Not San. Not any of the others yet… just me and me alone."

His mouth latched onto you, biting into your shoulder hard. His teeth sank deep into the skin, leaving a jagged, purple bruise. He moved to your neck, avoiding his hand as he sucked and bit until you were completely covered in hickeys that would take weeks to fade and be a bitch to cover. He was marking his territory, claiming every inch of you with a violence that was as much about possession as it was about pleasure. You felt his free hand leave your hip and snake between your legs before landing on your oversensitve bud. The friction was becoming intense, the heat between you nearly unbearable. And as Seonghwa felt your walls flutter around his aching cock, he knew you were done for.

“Come on, bunny. Be a good girl and come on my cock…” His tongue licked a strip of sweaty skin on your neck, “I’ll only empty my load into this cunt once you cum.”

"Seonghwa!" you aren’t even sure if you screamed, cried, or whispered. Your mind was so far gone as you felt your orgasm take hold. It was more intense than the first few ones this evening, a rolling wave of pleasure and pain that made your legs give out entirely. He followed you a second later. He delivered a final blow of his hips, stilling himself deep inside you as his body vibrated with the effort. Letting out a low, guttural moan as he filled you with hot, thick pulses of cum. You felt it all, the way it settled in you, the way it began to drip around his cock and down your dangling legs. It felt heavenly. He held you there for a moment, pinned against the desk, his weight crushing you as you both struggled to breathe.

The room fell silent again, but this time it was soft. Calm. and gentle, only leaving space for the sound of ragged breathing and the distant, ever-present bass from across the hall. Seonghwa didn't pull out immediately. He stayed buried inside you just a little longer, his head resting on your shoulder, his sweat dripping onto your back as he slowly kissed your shoulder blades, then your spine, and neck. When he finally did move, it was slow and deliberate. He withdrew with the sound of his cock popping out of your soaked pussy. He eyed the way his cum dripped out of you and the way you lay on the desk limp, your muscles twitching and your skin covered in his marks.

To him, you looked absolutely perfect.

Seonghwa stood over you, adjusting his clothes, while letting you take a moment to breathe. And then he looked down at you again, once he was done collecting your clothes he had thrown around the room, his eyes still dark, but the burning rage had been replaced by a quiet, smug satisfaction.

He had you, and he couldn’t wait to see the looks on the others' faces when they saw you completely and utterly ruined.

©Ja3hwa. Do not steal, plagiarise, translate, repost, or use my work in any way, shape, or form.

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.”