Be the light, oh, Halazia

“And the earth is still revolving around its own axis,” Wooyoung comments, snarking at Soojin, “it’s not going to cease to exist, just because you fucked up.”

Soojin retorts, “I am not saying it needs to!” then with a deep breath, she calms down, “it’s not the end of the world, I get it. But the second-hand embarrassment is enough for me to second-guess my job security.”

“Says the one who has slept around with half of her superiors.” You remark, sipping your tea quietly, “in technical terms, that translates to an assured promotion and increased income.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes, pinching up a squared shaped dasik from the ceramic plate spread between you all on the table. “The new team manager hates her guts,” he comments casually, “what’s his name?”

Soojin squeaks, sipping her tea more aggressively than before. You meet her gaze, one brow raising high on your forehead. “Choi San. The team lead.”

Wooyoung takes a bite of the cookie, one hand fisting and coming down hard on the table. Baam! “Choi San, yeah.” He sounds cheery, too gleeful to be uttering someone’s name. “He reports to Seongmi, doesn’t he?” he turns to you, setting his half-eaten dasik down, “is he making any good impressions?”

“He’s quite ambitious,” you mutter, biting your lip; the warmth of tea provides you a sense of ease, before you continue, “got hired three months ago, he’s relentless.“

“Stubborn could be the word you’re looking for,” Soojin rolls her eyes, “he’s always on my ass for every single thing. Coffee runs, resume screenings, subduing the warehouse guys,” she grumbles, setting her cup down with a clink. “God, he’s really difficult to deal with.”

“And that’s your way of saying he’s rejected every advance you’ve ever made at him,” Wooyoung deadpans, as if stating a known tale—it was a known tale. “Get the hint already, Jinnie. He’s not into you. The revealing blouses and under-the-desk-blowjobs could’ve worked for the other superiors, but they’re not going to work on him.”

You nod along with him, “listen to Wooyoung, I don’t want to clean up your messes.”

Soojin whines, lower lip jutting out, “you make it seem like I’m going to pounce on him the moment he says yes. I have some self-respect.”

“Right, you really do.” Wooyoung comments, picking up his half-eaten dasik from before; the rectangular cookie crumbles between his lips, a decadent scent of cinnamon wafts in the air.

Soojin glares at Wooyoung, you clear your throat before their bickering escalates to hurling curse words and spewing insults at each other. Behind them, through the window, sun sinks further down the skyline, scattering aureate glow across the tall skyscrapers; the same golden rays spill in, lighting up every corner. The evening has settled in just fine; Wooyoung and Soojin showed up uninvited at your front door an hour ago, holding up bags of tea time snacks as a way to bribe you. The pleading, almost despondent look in their eyes was hard enough to resist; and when Wooyoung decides on using his charms to tempt someone, you know that person is truly gone.

You were lucky enough to be alone, Yunho had left shortly after lunch to meet with Mingi—it’s the weekend, you weren’t surprised—he made promises of coming back early, and cooking dinner for you.

But Wooyoung and Soojin showing up, the unpredictability was a concern—Wooyoung buzzing around like a bee in his stupidly alluring outfit—nothing too exciting about a pastel blue shirt having rolled to his elbows with cuffs showing off the intricate patterns underneath, and matching shorts, but he pulled it off anyway. His hair, has grown an inch longer now, and the way it frames his face and the broad rimmed glasses on his nose, is insanely suggestive. Soojin, the ever-so bold woman at workplace, wore a denim dress, the hue matching Wooyoung’s to the slightest—she’s never been too keen on makeup, because her natural features are already enough—auburn hair, recently dyed, full lips, almond eyes, and a significant mole over her upper lip.

The apartment sparked with life the moment both stepped in, made themselves at home on your couch and initiated conversations with you while you let the tea steep in boiling water. Several weeks had passed after that incident, after the day you had professed your undying love for a man who, according to some, has you caged. If you’d measure the time and relate it to your heart, then maybe the same people might say it’s too soon to spell out the three big words. However, love can’t be measured by any means. It ages, sometimes like a bottle of fine wine, and sometimes it withers and wilts like a flower on a sunny day.

In your case, it bloomed. Every morning, when he’d stay over, he’d make you breakfast in bed. It was his way of apologising for indulging too hard in his darkness. A simple spread of scrambled eggs, toast and orange juice—most of the time, he’d make you coffee, the way you liked it. Afternoons you’d spend talking to him on call while nibbling and playing around with your lunch in your office. And the evenings were most delightful of them all—indoor dates, movie nights, playing board games which ended in sweaty and desperate make out sessions on the couch.

What else would you need? You had found yourself a perfect man—someone who’s diligently committed to you. So are you. Committed to him, having tied your heart around his soul, and vice versa. If you could put in words, the only way your heart ever sates itself knowing the kind of person it beats for, you simply put it as—Yunho is someone who’d readily burn the world to keep you warm. On a wretched note, the irony as such did not come fast enough, you were describing your own brother. Every twisted penchant for Yunho whispered the contradictory resentment you felt toward your brother.

Wooyoung’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder, the warmth spreads underneath, seeping through your flimsy blouse and resurrecting your frozen mind. You flinch, jerk and gasp, eyes blowing wide, lips trembling. Soojin grows concerned next to you, watching Wooyoung slide his hand off your shoulder as though you had burned him. You swallow thickly, reaching for your cup of tea—the comforting notes of lemongrass hit your senses, before the sharpness of tea leaves cuts down on the sweet aroma.

“Are you okay?” Wooyoung asks, offering you a worried smile, “you zoned out for a minute there.”

You shake your head, trying to dismiss his concerns off. “I’m fine, Wooyoung. Really.” You turn to Soojin, assuring her with a smile, “suddenly started thinking about the performance reviews I need to hand in.”

Soojin’s brows scrunch together in the centre of her forehead, lips tracing a frown but not quite yet. She tries to make a sound, but Wooyoung beats her to it, “ya! You’re thinking about performance reviews, right when we’re here with you?”

You click your tongue, “what can I say? I deal with a bunch of idiots at work.”

Soojin whines, “hey! I’m not an idiot.”

“Ha, Soojin is trying to be funny,” Wooyoung laughs out loud, his tea long forgotten now, and going cold; he brushes the crumbs off his fingers and continues, “so, noona,” he trails off, eyes meeting yours, “is there anything interesting you want to tell us?”

You catch the glimpse of mischief in the corner of his eyes, glinting under the dying sunlight. A sigh forces its way through your lips, keeping them parted before you make a sound, “you’re impossible.”

“Unnie, are you hiding something from us?” Soojin accuses, pouting before looking at Wooyoung, “what is it that you know that I don’t know and that has Seongmi hesitate?”

“He’s being dramatic, Soojin-ah,” you state, shaking your head. “It’s pointless giving into his whims.”

“Oh, come on,” Wooyoung pouts, leaning back against the chair; the plain black shirt draped over his chest, strains a little against his muscles. “Ya, Soojin-ah, have you noticed anything different about her?”

You get up from your chair and start tidying up the table; cups—Wooyoung’s stayed mostly full, while yours and Soojin’s were half empty—get placed on a tray, before you carry it to the sink in the kitchen. The dainty and delicate fabric of your dress murmurs against your skin; Yunho picked it out for you in the morning, a short lavender coloured dress with full sleeves and a high neck. Embroidered detailing sat on the hem of the dress, on the cuffs of the sleeves, and the neckline, a plethora of flowers in threads of contrasting shades. It accentuated your waist, tapered along your hips and ended right above your knees. When Wooyoung and Soojin arrived, they were slightly taken off by your clothes—in the good way of course. You could discern amusement, before anything else.

“Apart from the fact that she’s putting more efforts in her clothes and makeup?” Soojin mulls. “Not really.”

Wooyoung clicks his tongue, “that’s the point, Jinnie. Why else would she do it if not to impress someone, hmm?”

Listening to him, you huff and turn around; you lean back against the counter, cool marble pressing into your skin through the flimsy fabric of the dress, while your gaze rummages through both of theirs. You cross your arms over your chest, scrutinising the way those two put you in a scrutiny—a waste of time really. You weren’t going to let anything slip up, not to the nosy coworkers who have zero respect for boundaries and personal space. Not that you didn’t ever voice out your feelings, but it’s better knowing Wooyoung and Soojin are loud mouths.

The corners of Wooyoung’s lips lift just a little to speak out his truth, but as he’s about to, Soojin’s phone buzzes harshly against the table. Saccade vibrations blare through the room, clattering with the wooden surface; Soojin flinches, brows raised and grabs her phone off the table. She answers the incoming call, presses the phone tightly to her ear and gets up from the chair—she’s off, sauntering straight to the balcony adjoining the space of kitchen and living room, which overlooked the city streets. The sliding doors fall back to their place behind her, muffling her chatters. You could tell it was someone she hooked up with, the subtle tint of cherry glaze on her cheeks gave her out.

Slowly, with an amused huff of breath, Wooyoung gets up too, making his way to where you were. He stands next to you, mimicking your posture; though, there’s nothing innocent about his body language, you could tell. A beat passes in anticipation, heart pacing with foreboding nuisance he’s about to cause.

“I wasn’t expecting you to change yourself for a man, Seongmi,” he clears his throat, arms tightening across his chest, “wonder who the guy is, who was able to break through the ice around your heart.”

You glance at him, like quivering, “what’s your angle, Wooyoung? If you want to know who humanised me, ask me without phrasing it as a riddle.”

“There’s that,” he turns to you, eyes gleaming with mischief only you know how to handle, “I want to know who claimed you—claimed the woman I had been planning my whole life with.”

You scoff, staring at him, “whole life? Please. All you ever wanted from me was to warm your bed till you found someone else to warm it for you.”

He places a hand over his chest, other one rests just below that; dramatically, he whines, “oh, you wound me, Seongmi. I speak nothing but the truth from my heart, and all you do is deem me a liar. Am I not enough?”

You scoff again, “never were,” you shrug, and with every ounce of irk bubbling under your skin, you sigh, “take a peek inside your heart, Wooyoung, and see for yourself, the intentions you dwell on are, in fact, absolutely unchaste.”

“Oh, you never fail to amuse me,” he chuckles, dropping his hands to his sides, “but may I really have the pleasure to know who he is? I can’t wait any longer. Please.”

You sigh in dejection this time, eyes rolling into the back of your head—his annoying self had proven to be relentless on you, and his tricks actually worked. “It’s my next door—”

The faint beeping of numbers resounds from the front door. Only one man knows the passcode to your apartment. And it’s your boyfriend. You hear it then, the muffled sounds of the mechanical whir dissolving to his footsteps, and eventually, he calls out to you.

“I’m home, doll,” he announces, and your breath catches.

There’s approximately five minutes before you come into his visual line. Judging by the shuffling, you could already tell he’s slipping out his shoes and putting on the house slippers, probably assessing the extra pairs of shoes he sees in the vestibule.

Exactly three minutes later, he calls out again, “do we have company…” he trails off the moment he steps into the living room, eyes lingering on Wooyoung before shifting to Soojin’s silhouette in the balcony, “ah, I wasn’t expecting to meet new people.”

You follow Yunho’s gaze, finding Soojin now leaning over the railing while chattering the minutes away. She’s so unaware, her back to the chaos slowly unfolding in the apartment. It’s not a deliberate upheaval, it’s more subdued, understated in a way only you know. Yunho clears his throat, his stare burning on you; Wooyoung swallows hard, his warmth drifting away from beside you.

As the wrinkle in time murmurs to a soft and distant sound of an imaginary siren, you shake your head and smile weakly, replying. “Oh, hey love. I wasn’t expecting you home so early,” you swallow too, the lump poking your throat in a similar dread you despise, “well, since you are…” you’re dreading this situation a little too much, squeaking, “why don’t you meet my work friends?”

You laugh it off, melting under his eyes; Yunho’s glare is intense, but it’s not on you perse, it’s focused on the space between you and Wooyoung—shoulders almost grazing each other. Maybe it was the wind, which suddenly felt much dry and flat, that forced Wooyoung to take another few steps away from you, or maybe it was Yunho’s silent command through eyes. You could never know, not when a stripe of muscle in Yunho’s jaw clenches tightly, before relaxing—in an ironic way, that converts a bloodthirsty frown to an affectionate smile.

“Oh, your work friends are over?” he calls back, stepping further into the living room.

You notice him carrying a small paper bag—covered in glitter and a ribbon swirling around the handles to present a bow. It’s a present for you, that’s for sure. Yunho never comes over to your place empty handed, it’s always one thing or the other. Could be a bottle of wine—he remembers every little detail about you, even when you mentioned how much the wine you had in that Italian bistro had seemingly spoiled your taste buds for others. It could be a lingerie set—from the best brand, not Victoria’s Secret, no—most probably from Agent Provocateur, after seeing how stunning you looked in them to ruin you. Or, it could be that thing.

Yunho drops the bag on the couch, paper crinkling and breaking your trance. Wooyoung’s already approaching Yunho, one hand outstretched to greet his, while other stuffed in the pockets of his shorts; Yunho doesn’t move a muscle, not even a twitch on the back of his hand which is always visible when he flexes his palm or fingers.

“Hi, I’m Wooyoung,” he begins, a smile stretching his lips wide, eyes crinkling in the corner—he’s genuine when he wants it to be. “You must be Seongmi’s boyfriend…”

Hesitant but forced, Yunho gives Wooyoung’s hand a firm shake after wrapping it around his. “Indeed I am,” he titters, “Jeong Yunho. Pleasure making your acquaintance, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung nods, a stern, unrelenting, scared almost as his hands slips out from Yunho’s grip. “So, Seongmi never really…”

“…talked about me?” Yunho chuckles, “yeah, I guess she never had a reason to bring me up, right?”

You watch the interaction unfold, biting your lip; Yunho looks tired, shoulders slouched and tensed, a grunge red shirt stretched across them, defining his towering stature. The clear signs of fatigue were the visible dainty lines around his mouth, the crinkles by his eyes, and the way his skin folds around his brows; he’s exhausted, probably painting smiles for sick kids and to reassure their concerned parents. Yunho stands a bit taller, eyeing Wooyoung who stands awkwardly, trying to find his next action. He glances back at you, and the subtle head tilt forces Yunho to look at you as well.

“Are they staying over for dinner?” he questions you, expecting an answer from you—though, you knows he’s already decided. Before you could open your mouth to negate him, he speaks up, “they should,” his eyes crinkle again, in the corners, feigning joy.

Wooyoung speaks up, reluctant but confident, “oh, there’s no need. We were actually just leaving…”

You glare at Wooyoung, lips parting to squeak what’s trapped in your heart—precisely irritation. But Yunho beats you to it again, “no no, please I insist. Stay for dinner—Seongmi talks a lot about her work friends, it’s a delight I finally get to meet them.”

All strength, you had been holding on to, drains out of your body; you pale, feeling lightheaded the moment Yunho’s lie tumbles out so smoothly. Wooyoung has his brows creased in the centre, eyes going wide while his lips tremble too, “oh, does she now?”

“Don’t believe him, Wooyoung,” you state, heaving a breath—out of pure infuriation—and shake your head. “But, I think you should stay over if he’s insisting. He won’t let you go unless you’re choking on his japchae.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Yunho laughs, loosening the cuffs of his shirt, gaze wandering to Soojin in the balcony, “I think you should call her inside, love. I’ll get freshened up.” He offers you a small smile before padding down the hallway leading to the rooms, the paper bag fluttering after him in his hand.

Wooyoung’s shoulders drop, as if he had been holding onto a breath, then he turns to face you; brows creased, eyes narrowed, and lips in a frown. “So, that’s ‘mister makeover’ huh?” he shrugs, “full sleeved dresses, makeup and hair done. You used to be all about the hoodies and messy buns, noona. The change does look good on you. But I’m hoping you don’t lose yourself because of it.”

“Because of what?” Soojin walks back in, phone in one hand, other one carding through her hair; she glances between the both of you before mumbling, “what happened while I was away?”

Seeing bewilderment trace her face, you shake your head, “well…”

“We’re obligated to stay over for dinner by her boyfriend,” Wooyoung says on your behalf, stressing enough on the word ‘boyfriend’. “Yes, she has a boyfriend,” he whispers, leaning close to her, “you heard it right, a boyfriend. And that man is right here—in the room.”

Soojin turns to you, eyes wide, mouth agape and squeals in a high pitch, “you have a boyfriend, unnie? You never told us! Or me! Oh no, I thought we were soul sisters. I’m hurt.”

You sigh, irritating bubbling under your skin to send tremors down your spine; yes, sure you were annoyed with them, but the dread creeping up your chest was the worst, considering Yunho is here. “Alright alright, drama queens. I have a boyfriend.”

“Spill.” Wooyoung states, grabbing one hand and Soojin pulls down on the couch by your other, “you need to tell us everything. Every spicy detail, so spill.”

“You guys are the absolute worst,” you roll your eyes, snatching your arms from them and letting them stay by your side. “Yes, fine. He’s my boyfriend. Wooyoung met him. You will too…” you glance at Soojin, “…he’s my next door neighbour. He moved in a few months ago, and we sort of hit it off a while later.”

“Is he hot?” Soojin questions Wooyoung, who simply shrugs, “judge for yourself. But I won’t turn him down if he ever approached me in a bar. Or anywhere.”

He leans back, arms spreading behind him on the edge of the couch, “well, noona scored good. In terms of sports, a perfect slam dunk.”

You get flustered, cheeks heating up, the same embarrassment crawling up your neck. The distant memory of Jiwoo flashes in the back of your mind, but dies down quickly when you hear Yunho calling out to you. Soojin and Wooyoung exchange a glance, already knowing what’s about to brew between you and him.

“Seongmi, need you here for a second. Please.” Yunho calls out again, low baritone hitting your ear in a way you know it’s not going to end well.

Without wasting another second, you pick yourself off the couch and rush down the hallway leading to your room. Wooyoung and Soojin mumble something, a phrase quite inaudible to your ears, but the intentions get clearer—probably remarking how you’re about to be seduced. Those thoughts are at one point of the spectrum, the other end is where you’re mostly drifting too. Did you fuck something up? Was Wooyoung’s and Soojin’s arrival a displeased surprise for him? Darkness blurs the line between affection and conditioning—you’re terrified of him.

The door creaks open with a slight push of your hand, revealing the neat and tidy bedding, but a trail of clothes scattered across the floor, leading towards the doors which open into the dry balcony. Yunho stands there, back to you, shirtless, pants hanging loose on his waist, belt unbuckled and falling to the side. He’s clutching a cigarette pack in one hand, other resting stuffed in the pocket of his pants. You swallow hard, throat drying up the moment your brain pieces it together—instinctively, you drool, spit overflowing the bounds of your mouth before a drop cascades past your quivering lips.

Yunho looks back over his shoulder, eyes dark, a scowl on his face; he doesn’t let his stare wander, and while doing so, he pulls out a cigarette from the pack in his hand and places it between his lips. With a subtle nod and a soft hum, you’re quick on your feet, snatching his silver-cased lighter from the nightstand; it flickers to life with a single snap of your thumb, flame rising up in the air and kissing the tip of his cigarette. You’re on your toes, reaching out to light it up for him, breath controlled with the fear that you might snuff out the flame. It takes a hold, red hot sparks melting to orange hued ashes. You close the lighter and press it tightly in the palm of your hand, keeping your fingers wrapped around the cool metal casing.

With practised ease, he shifts the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gently runs a hand through his hair, a few strands falling over his forehead. Your body shudders when he sighs and steps close, diminishing the distance between you two; pinching your chin in his forefinger and thumb, he tilts your head up, eyes staring into your soul. He blows out a smoke, silence dwelling, dragging on till he finds the will to break it—or break you.

“On your knees, doll.” He grumbles, “I’m exhausted. Need you to…” his gaze traces along, forcing yours to follow his which ends up on his crotch; the zipper is undone, flaps of his pants hanging on the side to accommodate his bulge in between. He’s not fully hard, but getting there—maybe it’s lethargy, or perhaps he is tired from the day at the clinic—you know what he needs, and what needs to be done.

“I know.” You sink onto the floor, knees planting softly against the cold tiles; peeking up at him and dropping the lighter by his feet, you reach out for the waistband of his trousers first.

Yunho stands a little straighter, fingers clutching the cigarette and pulling it out while his other hand rests gently on top of your head, no pushing, no pulling. His fingers deftly twine with your delicate strands, nails scratching your scalp as he watches you through his half-lidded gaze, trembling and shaking. You pull his pants down, letting them cling onto his thighs before hooking your fingers in the elastic of his boxers; tugging them off in swift and deliberate motions, you let them stay rucked along his pants. Catching a breath, you watch his semi-hard cock spring out and wrap one hand at the base of it.

Wooyoung and Soojin’s voices are a distant mumble, lost in the void that’s beyond the bedroom door. Slowly, you stroke his length, fingers feeling the ridges of his veins running along the shaft; while you pump him to his full hardness, Yunho restrains himself from making any sounds. A guttural grunt resounds in his chest regardless, sounding more animalistic than tamed. You peek up at him through your long lashes, lower lip caught between your teeth—picking up the pace of your hand, and feeling him stiffen in your palm.

Yunho pushes the butt of his cigarette back between his lips, his other hand staying on top of your head, fingers caressing your scalp with an unhurried motion. You know what he means, it’s firm, commanding in ways only you understand. Without making a sound, you let your jaw fall slack, lips parting and tongue darting out to lick up a tiny stripe along the tip. Gradually, you suckle on the bulbous head, lips wrapped around tightly, one hand still at the base of his cock, and other in your lap. Inch after inch, you swallow his length, forcing your lips to stretch and your throat to open up for him. He’s buried deep in your mouth now, your nose brushing along the raggedly trimmed pubic hair on his pelvis.

Tears well in the corner of your eyes, threatening to spill—the sting on your lips, the weight of his cock lingering on your tongue, and the sweet-salty taste of his precum lurking in every corner results in pleasure pooling between your thighs. You’re soaking already, feeling the wetness collect in your slit. You don’t make an effort to ease the strain, instead, you try to clench your thighs—this is about him, not you.

Yunho hums, “doing so good, dollie.” He threads his fingers through your hair and pulls your head slightly back, “you need to breathe too. Nice and easy.”

You raise your tongue to lick the underside of his shaft, hand drifting away to rest on his hip; your fingers press into his flesh, nails scratching at his skin. There’s almost a hint of your gag reflex kicking in—when the tip of his cock breaches the opening of your throat. You realise he’s pushing you down, nose smushed up against his pelvis again, the rough pubic hair scraping on your nose and cheeks.

“No sounds, love,” he pouts, taking a drag to puff a cloud of smoke, which curls in air before disappearing to nothing. “We don’t want your friends knowing you’re sucking off your boyfriend so good—don’t want them to know you’re servicing him like the good little slut you are.”

You groan, the mere vibrations clattering against his skin, pushing a button on his control; he’s not going to snap, he’s not going to fuck your mouth the way he does when he’s in a bad mood—he only wants to feel the warmth and slickness of your mouth, wants to come undone by feeling your throat choke on his cock. Which you start to when he pushes deep, burying himself in your mouth, keeping you in place with one hand in your hair, the other one simply pulling out the cigarette out from his lips.

A faint mist of smoke blooms out, fading to black and the hazy streaks of orange—sun sets in the background, painting your room a shade of red, it touches his face too, rays of gold falling on his features. He’s alluring, sight blurry from the tears, and throat beginning to convulse around his cock; regardless, he’s a magnificent sight to behold—dark hair falling over his eyes, only thing that glimmers in them is the hunger he has for you, and his lips pursed, trying his best to not make a sound. Though, a moment of silence later, he eases out of your mouth, cock slipping out easily from the spit and drool. Saliva strings connect your lips and the tip of his cock, some of his precum smears in your chin as he does, and it glints in the dying sunlight.

Yunho grunts, not missing your warmth anymore, “tongue out,” he commands, and you oblige, rolling your tongue out.

His gaze leaves yours for a second, eyeing the flaming tip on the cigarette still held between his fingers; he rolls his lips and blows on it, aiding it to cool down, just slightly. You sit up straighter, knowing what’s to come, hands in your lap, while his slips down to the nape of your neck. He pulls your closer to him and brings the cigarette down on your tongue; the tip sizzles out, flame dying out, before you taste the soot and ash from it. There’s no pain in that, maybe a hint of exhilaration at how humiliating it is to be his ashtray at times—again not something you hadn’t before—your entire body has been his ashtray, in one way or another. Stubbing it out, he flicks the cigarette away and it lands somewhere in the room; with his other hand on your neck, he pulls you up to stand in front of him. He leans down and pecks your lips, once, twice, then it turns to a brief kiss.

When he pulls back, he tightens his hand around your neck and chuckles softly, “do your friends have a habit of surprising you?”

Your breath hitches—you’re trying to regain your control over breathing, lungs having given out a moment before when he was buried so deep in your throat. For him to make a joke out of it now, that’s way more humiliating than being his personal ashtray. A violent cough slithers through your chest, body shuddering just in the slightest; you stare at him, dumbfounded.

“They do,” you reply, “I know they should’ve called before—“

“—I’m not mad about that,” he cuts you off, pressing another kiss to your lips, “hell, I’m not mad about anything. Not yet. I had a long day at work, love,” he confesses softly, eyes fluttering close for a minute before they’re back on you again, “just wanted to come home to my dollie, and have her suck me off on the couch while I downed a bottle of beer or something.”

You squeak, arms wrapping around his waist and pushing yourself into him; the hardness between his legs, presses up against your stomach, reminding you the task he’s expecting from you is still undone. Yunho’s arms slide around your waist too, resting peacefully.

“What happened at work?” you whisper.

He hums first, contemplating as if, then whines in that lower baritone you’re used to, “difficult parents. Judging me. Questioning me.” He huffs out a breath of ire, “got on my nerves. I’m trying my best here; I understand they’re only concerned about their child’s health, but that doesn’t give them a reason to lash out on me.”

You bring your hands to cup his face, forcing him to look at you. “It’s not your fault, babe,” mumbling, you kiss his jaw and smile softly, “I know you’re trying your best. You always do. And I wouldn’t be too worried about the parents lashing out,” you pause, bringing one hand to the front to trace the scars on his toned abdomen with your fingers. It’s a habit of yours which he’s grown fond of, helps him relax under your touch.

“Wouldn’t you have done the same if you were put in their position?” you shake your head, reaching on your toes to kiss him gently, when you pull back, you continue, “you’re allowed to be angry, sad, tired,” taking a deep breath, you add, “and when you feel like that, you know I’m here to take care of you. So, let me take care of you, hmm?”

With your whisper droning in the air, you prepare yourself to sink to your knees again, only to have him held you up by your elbows, keeping you close to him instead. He shakes his head lightly, “don’t. I’ll just take a cold shower, it’s fine. You really don’t have to,” he kisses your forehead, “go talk to your friends, answer their questions—they might have a lot considering…”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, “it felt necessary to not let them know, Yunho. Guess I was trying to protect my feelings more than theirs.”

“And if they hadn’t had to know like this?” he brushes a few loosely falling strands of your hair, tucking them behind you ear with reverence, “but I suppose, we can talk about it over dinner, can’t we? Why don’t you get started on the prep, I’ll be right out. Or maybe, one of them will wander into the room, concerned how long you’ve been gone for.”

You match the fevered haze in his tone, forcing a laugh which borders on annoyance, “for what, for them to see my boyfriend standing with his dick out and crying his woes to his girlfriend?”

“No,” he states firmly, “partially true, but they’d probably be more fixated on you—smudged lipstick, hair disheveled—you know what I mean?”

You slap his chest, the sound resonates and makes you feel guilty; you rub his bare skin, before it reddens or stings in any way. Frail touches of your fingers press against the faded scars, however, still lingering in the way they reflect his past. “Asshole, do you have to be like this, really?”

Yunho hums, “like what?”

“Disregarding my concern for you. And not listening to what I’m saying.” You pout, complaining about his habit.

“Oh okay. My sweet little thing, go ahead. I’m listening. Scold me.” He smiles widely, thumbs pressing down on your cheekbones as his hands frame your face.

“I’m sorry work was hard,” you mumble, kissing the faint gash across his left pectoral—it glimmers, like a stripe of silver stitched between his skin—and your warm lips take away the pain hidden beneath it. “But you came back to me, here—in your home. And also, about those parents, don’t be troubled about them. They have much more to worry about than lashing out on you.”

Yunho hums again, resting his forehead on yours, hips flushing against yours; you feel his cock, now going soft by the second, drooping against your stomach. “Okay, my love. If you say so,” he leans in, capturing your lips a heated kiss, lasting longer than before—when he pulls back, his eyes glint with a sharp flash of hunger and love, “go prep for dinner, okay? I’ll be out in a jiffy. Don’t want your work friends thinking we’re at it while they’re just a few feet away from us. Though…”

You shake your head and slap his chest again, stepping back quickly. The immediate gesture catches him off guard but he laughs regardless, kissing you one last time before turning and sauntering into the adjoining bathroom. Standing by the balcony doors, eyeing the disappearing light to the dark of night, carries a certain sense of dread you’re not sure what it hints at yet. The sting grows on your tongue, right by the tip where he has just extinguish his cigarette—it brings a sense of belonging, a small inkling of hope—you love him, and this is how loving him feels like.

The living room is dwelling in whispered silence; Wooyoung and Soojin do talk between themselves, laughing when you walk in and raise a brow at them, questioning them already. Instead of receiving answers, they counter your curiosity with a question of their own.

“We weren’t expecting you to be done so soon,” Wooyoung licks his lips, leaning back on the couch and crossing his legs.

Soojin adds. “I mean, look at her, she’s already proving our point—she’s lovesick, oppa.” She turns to Wooyoung, “unnie finally found a match for her.”

Wooyoung’s brow twitches slightly, eyes meeting yours before steering to Soojin. “Hmm, and I’m happy for her.”

With all confidence, you could say Wooyoung was anything but happy for you. Rolling your eyes at him, you march over to the kitchen and begin with the dinner prep, exactly the way Yunho wants it to be.

“Relax you guys, I was helping him find his glasses,” you begin, “he wore contacts today, and somehow misplaced his glasses…”

Soojin sighs, “yeah, we believe you.”

“So, did he misplace his glasses down your throat or what?”

The gyoja-sang in the living room soon gets set up with bowls, glasses, a jar of water, and various banchan you had prepared before; an array of colours from the food, especially the japchae prepared by Yunho—green from the spinach, orange from the carrots, brown hues from shittake mushrooms, and the tantalising beef. Around the shallow bowl of japchae, were small ceramic dishes of banchan—just your typical ones, kimchi, namul, musaengchae and jangjorim. It took Yunho twenty minutes to shower and step out into the kitchen—dressed in loose grey sweatpants, a black tank top visible under the zippered hoodie, and his signature thick rimmed glasses framing his flushed face. He carried a waft of cedar and sandalwood behind him—the scent of his shower gel. You had prepped as much as you could have in those twenty minutes and when Yunho walked out, he immediately took over and pushed you to the living room. He didn’t want you to communicate your friends from the kitchen, it didn’t seem right—not when you had to multi-task and keep track of what you were going while dealing with their playful comments.

The next forty minutes, Yunho spends in the kitchen, cooking, humming softly to himself, while you were engaged in talking with your friends. Not that he didn’t chime in from time to time, Yunho would laugh or correct you, particularly the details of your dating life with him. When the food was ready, Soojin explicitly volunteered herself to help him set the table up—leaving you to share tidbits from work with Wooyoung. You noticed a few things—Soojin’s arm accidentally brushing with Yunho’s, or the way she would linger in the kitchen with him—though, you shrugged it off, not because you didn’t want to be impertinent and assuming, but because Yunho barely noticed it. He seemed oblivious.

Once the table was set, you sat next to Yunho, and the side adjoining to him was where Soojin sat, and Wooyoung took the side adjacent to yours, leaving one side vacant. Yunho served you, handing you your bowl with a serve of japchae, and extra slices of beef on top; everything on the table was perfect, the miyeokguk (seaweed stew), the varied banchans, and bottles of soju, all in the centre of the gyoja-sang. The aroma wafted in the air, garlic, toasted sesame seeds, and faint heat from gochujang—metal chopsticks clattered on the table when Yunho placed your friends’ bowls in front of them too, each having a similar sized serve of noodles in them.

Now, you sit next to him, sipping your stew as your boyfriend pours a glass of soju for Wooyoung—one hand supporting the elbow to show respect. Wooyoung slightly turns away from the table and gulps the drink in one sip, placing the glass back on the table. When you notice the bottle being empty, you quickly fetch another one and fill Yunho’s glass. He hums in satisfaction and you set the bottle down once his glass is almost full.

“So,” Yunho begins, gaze shifting between your two friends, “what do you two do?”

Soojin clears her throat, politely answering to him first. “HR executive,” she states, “just the boring stuff.”

“Is that how you talk in front of your boss?” you tease her, shaking your head.

Soojin only rolls her eyes at you and goes silent, stealing eventual glances at Yunho as Wooyoung speaks up, “I’m from the operations department. Logistics coordinator.”

“Yeah, he’s always in my office begging for more staff.” You remark, laughing softly, “there’s another guy—works right under me. He’s a new hire, that guy, very ambitious and smart.”

Yunho’s interest peaks slightly, turning to face you as he stuffs his mouth with the pickled radishes. You continue, “hmm, I had to hire him a few months ago, we needed a HR team lead. Couldn’t deal with the workload when the last guy resigned.”

Wooyoung adds, “you were too stressed back then, everyone could tell.”

“Unnie had so many health issues too, right?” Soojin chimes, eyeing you with concern before she shifts her gaze to Yunho, “but now she has someone to lean on, I feel better already.”

Yunho chews a little slower this time and swallows, asking you, while a muscle in his jaw twitches to the slightest, “you used to be stressed? When? How did I not know about it?”

You wave him off, picking up your chopsticks and digging into the bowl of glass noodles. “Don’t worry about it—the ship has sailed and I’m doing much better now.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t aware of it, and…” Yunho insists, taking a deep breath before letting his chopsticks drop on the table, “…and it’s natural for one to worry about their significant other. When was this anyway? When we started going out?”

You get flustered, heat licking up your neck and cheeks, eyes glazing with tears but none spilling. Wooyoung and Soojin are witnessing a tender moment between the two of you, and either way, you were too lost in the concern etched on Yunho’s face to even bother about them.

“Yeah, right around the start. We had just started going out and I didn’t want to scare you off with my problems.” You shrug, taking a bite of your noodles, savouring the taste of beef a little longer, “I’m sorry for not saying it out loud at that time, but it’s in the past now. Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me, doll,” Yunho mumbles, leaning over to kiss your temple, right in front of the two, “you’re not keeping anything else from me—never, not when it comes to your mental health or well being.”

Your breath catches in your throat, chest growing heavy, as his words fully settle in your heart. “Yeah, okay. I’ll—I’ll be open and honest about my feelings from now, happy?”

Yunho laughs, concern melting into a puddle of warm affection, “of course. I’m more than delighted. Anything to keep you from jumping into the deep end.”

Soojin clears her throat, getting your attention straining on her; she offers you a smile then turns to Yunho. “What do you do for a living, Yunho-ssi?”

“Oh, right,” Yunho sits straighter, picking up his chopsticks. “I’m a paediatrician—I own a clinic, right around the corner here.”

“So, it’s a private clinic?” Wooyoung questions then grins, “a clinic Apgujeong-dong? Damn hyung, that’s fancy. You must see all the rich kids with their designer strollers, huh?”

“I do,” Yunho shrugs, “you’d think the kids would be obnoxious—but it’s mostly the parents.” He heaves a deep sigh, and instinctively you reach out for his hand; wrapping your free one around his wrist, you try to ground him instead of letting him relive the tiring day. “You have to do what you can do,” he sounds defeated when he mumbles.

Soojin pipes in, “well, I think when you have long days at work, you can always turn to Seongmi, right?”

“Oh, I absolutely can. And I do,” he smiles wide, glancing at Soojin, “have you known Seongmi for a long time?”

The conversations flow right after—playful, teasing, informative and friendly. Soon, the table is cleared; Yunho helps you to clean and tidy the living room up, then proceeds to ease you out of your dishes duty too. Night falls darker and quieter—it’s almost midnight, Wooyoung and Soojin have picked themselves up from the floor, and all ready to leave; Yunho insisting on handing them some leftovers, which now they carry in their hands. Both of them stand by the front door, slipping into their shoes while you and Yunho are seeing them out. As they’re about to step out, Yunho calls out, making them halt and turn around, Wooyoung’s hand resting on the doorknob.

“What are you two doing on the weekend?” he asks, calmly, hands in his pockets. “Well, we’re hosting a small lunch party at my cabin, and I hope to see you there—heck, I was planning on inviting all of Seongmi’s team actually. Might as well, maybe.”

Wooyoung and Soojin’s eyes meet yours before they could reply; you signal at them with a subtle nod before leaning close to Yunho’s side. “Sure, why not. That’d be fun. I’ll send them the address.”

“There’s no need for that,” Yunho turns to you, “they’ll all receive a proper invite.”

Soojin smiles a little too hard and asks, “any special occasion?”

“Just a little four-month celebration with my doll,” he states, snaking one arm around your waist and pulling you closer to his side. “I’ve been keeping a count. She hasn’t.” He chuckles, “like I said it before too, she’s quite forgetful when it comes to the concept of time. Already unaware she’s been dating me for four months—”

“—I didn’t forget,” you whine, brows scrunching together while lips framing a pout, “I knew it,” you say it a little softer, “I wasn’t expecting you to make something so grand out of it.”

“Nothing’s too grand for you,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss your lips; it’s barely restrained, mouths lapping, tongues peeking out, you’re enjoying it a little too much.

Watching the two of you devour each other’s faces off, Wooyoung groans and deadpans, “we get it. You’re in love. Get a room.”

“They already have one, Woo.” Soojin mutters under her breath.

“So use it?” he whines again and it is annoying enough for you two to pull back; Wooyoung wears a taut expression of an irked man, “and you’ve been hiding about this relationship from us for four months? That’s one too many, don’t you think?”

Soojin simply shrugs, “I mean they’re still together,” she glares at Wooyoung, “what’s your point?”

Yunho clears his throat, deep voice rumbling in the enclosed vestibule before it bubbles to complete silence. “I think there might be a good reason why Seongmi didn’t want you two to know about her relationship. And it’s completely fine. Why don’t we let it go and look forward to the bright days ahead?”

You smile, resting your head on Yunho’s arm. Choosing Yunho was probably not the worst decision you ever made. Probably.

Wooyoung groans one last time before rolling his eyes, “see you tomorrow, noona.” Soojin follows after him, “good bye, unnie.”

The door clicks shut behind them, resonating softly until the sound of Yunho’s sharp breath breaks apart at the seams—with another breath, he turns to you, eyes gleaming, hair slightly sweaty and lips chapped—somewhat bleeding in the corner where he bit too hard to rid the dangling dead skin. He shifts you in his arms, pulling you flush against his chest while reaching out with one hand to brush your hair away from your face. Leaning in, his breath mingling with yours, he presses his lips on the tip of your nose, then to your cupid’s bow, and finally pushes them against yours. You give in the moment you feel his feather light touches, dainty grazes turning to heated licks and suckles.

You bring your arms around his waist, tight and secure, leaning into his warmth which drives you wild every second, the more it grows on your body, the more you lose your sanity. Seconds seem to blur and fade into moments of heat and darkness; the taste of soju on his tongue lingers, pushing into your mouth and claiming you in the way he knows how to do it. Your body goes limp in his arms, lips still stuck together, sucking, ravishing every last breath and ounce of sanity from you. He guides you to your room, pushing you inside with his hands cupping either sides of your waist; your dress creases under his touch, hem lifting up slightly before falling down with every step. For brief moment, he pulls back, putting an end to the kiss, staring at you as both your chest heaved and chased the feeling of air filling them.

Yunho’s hands slip from your waist and trace along your arms to intertwine them with yours. He rests his forehead on yours, breath warm on your lips, eyes intent upon yours; with a subtle pull, he brings your body closer to his, close enough than it already is or needs to be.

The heat of his breath tickles your ear before his voice murmurs, “I got you a little present,” he pulls back, stepping away just enough to grab the glittery bag from the bed. “Had it shipped to the cabin, Mingi’s hundred questions are better than the condescending looks my receptionist gives me when I have things delivered to the clinic.”

You stand a foot away from him, musing, almost a bewildered thought crossing your mind before ruptures out as a gasp. From the bag, a sleek black box comes out with a silver ribbon wrapped around it and knotted to a bow in front. He lets the bag drop, letting it crinkle on the floor and hands you the box, with a coaxing command, “open it.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, eyes fixed on the silver ribbon till it bursts to a shade of white from anticipation—you’re scared, terrified, and maybe a little excited. But given Yunho’s thrill for collecting eccentric items, you’re mostly afraid of knowing what’s beneath the lid. Regardless, braving the consequences, you pull at one of the ribbon and watch it unravel before it slips off. The lid loosens up and you lift it with your other hand. Another gasp stays trapped in the back of your throat, eyes meeting his only to find him staring back at you with an intense that teeters on the edge of elation and judgment.

“So…?” he trails off when your eyes drop back to the contents inside the box.

It’s a wand vibrator—sitting snug in between the velvet lining, matte purple, a little darker with a shade of midnight blue erupting from the bottom. You must’ve mentioned it to him in passing, purple was truly your favourite colour. And he had said it then, blue was his. Both colours blend perfectly together on the wand. The head is broad and smooth, silicone—with a gentle curve to promise pressure exactly where he would want it to be. A thin cord stays coiled next to it, and on the other side, is a similar shaded remote control, buttons glimmering under the faint lights of the room.

“You’re insane,” you mutter under your breath. “This…”

“It’s a gift,” he shrugs, picking up the wand in his hand, feeling its weight on his palm, “not that I ever needed to use a toy before, but this time, I thought it’d be fun. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

You guessed right. It was fun. Indeed. You absolutely have no clue how a simple moment of him presenting the gift to you, led to this—with him buried deep inside you while you squirmed and struggled to stay on his lap. Yes, it was a blur, you got a little dizzy considering how adept he is at making you lose track of time and your senses. Yet, here you were.

The muffled buzzes of the wand filled up the room; your whimpers start growing louder, tears streaming down your cheeks, eyes screwed shut as waves of pleasure wash over your body one after another. You’re sprawled in his lap, back to his chest, your knees drawn up and legs spread, feet planted on the mattress beneath on either side of his hips. You throw your head back, letting it fall on his shoulder, while he holds you in place with an arm around your waist. His other hand is occupied in adjusting the angle of the wand’s vibrating head against your clit.

It’s been driving you wild—wetness dripping down your inner thighs, coating your skin in a thin layer of sheen. Every twitch of his cock makes your walls flutter around him, reminding you he’s still buried in you. He didn’t make an effort to move, didn’t have to—your warmth was enough, and for you, the fullness paired with the vibrator was a cruel torment.

“Fuck—just like that—fuck yeah, keep squeezing me like that, doll,” he grunts in your ear, rocking his hips into yours, notching the tip of his cock deeper than it already is. “You’re going to come again, babe? Go on—fuck—go on, make a mess like you did before.”

The intense vibrations buzz and abuse your oversensitive clit—you lost the count, or maybe you did keep a track in the back of your mind. Was this your third orgasm? Or fourth? Maybe it was fifth? You couldn’t tell even if your life depended on it. The first one did hit you like a truck, walls spasming around his cock, sucking him deeper, while you moaned his name in his neck, tasting your own tears. Second one was much worse—dragging sensitive ache in the pit of your stomach, unravelling with an intense desire, which had you gushing over his cock and soaking the sheets beneath you. You were caught in a haze till the third one took over—a silent quivering of your walls, squelching just enough to have him spill in you for the first time in the night.

“Yunho…” you turn and nuzzle in the crook of his neck, seeking comfort from his scent as you shatter and mewl on his lap.

Fourth one. Almost too much for your body to handle. You shudder, cry, whimper and scream; your walls tighten around him, reminding you just how full you are with his cock and the warmth of his cum. You claw at the sheets, arms straining to grab a hold of them before your hands fist till your knuckles turn white. Yunho presses a kiss on the crown of your head, lingering, soothing. He pulls the wand off your clit, letting the aftershocks of your orgasm reach a subdued point. As your body trembles with the last bit of spasms, you pull back and peek up at him; tears cling to your eyelashes, lips parted to sound the soft whimpers caged in your chest, while your legs instinctively clench together tightly. A sharp sensation of pleasure strikes your spine—you’re still cradling him inside you, engulfed by your warmth and fleshy walls. You’re too full, folds stretched to their limits, your slick growing wetter and musky by the second.

“Four times,” he states, turning off the vibrator—the whirring and buzzing goes to complete silence, but you still feel it in your ears. “A good start, really. I know you can do more.” He kisses your forehead, dropping the wand on the nightstand to bring both his arms around your waist; you go lax, your body melting into his. “But I don’t want to break my pretty little doll.”

You hum and he questions. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired, and sore.” You press your lips against his jaw and stare at him—quite intensely to notice things you had never before or had seemingly forgotten about.

The slight blush on his cheeks, pink on the tip of his ears, eyes glazed with pleasure and lust, and the two distinct moles he has on his neck. Time is at a standstill when you admire him like this, when you see more than just a monster keeping you shackled in his claws—he’s someone your heart beats for, someone for whom you’d risk you life for (you have already) and it doesn’t make your life any easier than that. Noticing you zoned out, he rolls his hips into yours, the undeniable weight of his cock snapping you out of your trance.

You groan, “fuck…stop!” you whine softly before resting your hands on his, “I’m too sensitive.”

Yunho chuckles. “Fine, I’ll stop. But I don’t think I want to pull out.”

“You’re impossible to deal with.” You shift slightly, only to have his cock twitch inside you.

“Don’t,” he warns you, “I’m barely holding on.”

“So?” you pout, sliding off his glasses from his face and keeping them on the nightstand, next to the wand. “I can be a tease too.”

“Don’t you dare, Seongmi,” there’s no real heat behind his threat, “you’ll regret doing anything, I’m telling you.”

“Well, try me.”

Let’s say, you did regret it the next day.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“Do you need my help with that?”

You look up, eyes snapping in the direction of the sound—the deep, husky voice you had gotten too familiar with now. Mingi stands leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, freshly dyed hair disheveled, and dressed in his usual clothes. A simple plaid shirt is draped over his chest and broad shoulders, more buttons undone than done—it’s a little loose fitting, and droops down on the chest to reveal every sturdy muscle you had mapped out before. The shirt is paired with light washed jeans, loose too, a few rips over one knee and a little mangled at the hems; you had already heard the sound of his boots before he called out to you.

The morning at the cabin is hazy; clear skies, birds chirping, serene backyard with flowers and the forest, but the inside, a chaos of smoke, tinsels and unnecessary heat. Over the weekend, as planned before, you were going to host a four month anniversary special lunch at the cabin. And so, Yunho dragged you there a day before—something about preparations and food—and made sure the place was presentable to your work friends. All the preserved specimens had been locked away in a chest, hides of animals posed to be fake and the other grotesque decorations were hid away too. Yunho and Mingi took care of it, while you focused on curating a menu for the celebration. You decided to keep it simple, galbijjim and bulgogi with banchan and kimchi stew; soju and red wine to complement the meal, something Yunho insisted on having. The invites were precise and sent to your work friends only, unlike your entire team as Yunho had decided on. It took a lot of convincing.

You heave a sigh, dropping the knife against the cutting board and fully turn to him. “I haven’t done this before. At least not so perfectly.”

Mingi pushes off the doorframe, long strides eating up the space between you two, till he’s standing right behind you. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a sound, simply turns you to the counter by your shoulder, pressing his chest against your back. His arms trace along the length of yours, engulfing them as he holds your hands and puppets you to grab the knife. Which you do without any hesitation.

“Yeah, I know. Yunho needs everything perfect, down to the T.” Mingi mumbles against your ear, leaning down just a little to rest his chin on your shoulder. “He’s not going to use a scale to measure how thin your slices are. Uniformity keeps him satisfied.”

With his other hand, he makes you hold the slab of beef—a fine cut, fresh and tender; the knife glides in and out of the meat, under his guidance. You feel his warmth soak up your back, and in the centre, the cold from his chains presses on. It’s too intimate for guidance. Were you bothered, though? Maybe. Slightly. Mingi’s chest presses harder, he leans over your shoulder to get a better look at the slices you were making with his help.

“Like this?” you glance at him briefly, and he nods, “exactly like this.”

The big piece of meat is sliced into uniform ribbons and set aside in a bowl for later to be grilled on the griddle; when the knife clatters with the board, and the task at hand is done, Mingi doesn’t pull away like you expect him to. He stays, hugging you from behind, wrapping his arms around yours and forcing you to snake yours around your waist instead. You fit in his arms like a piece of puzzle, as if you were always meant to fit under his chin, in the space which is mostly cold and vacant. His scent overpowers the aromas in the kitchen—spices hiding beneath the tones of jasmine and sandalwood, a strong trace of cedar lining it. You take a deep breath in, chest shuddering, lips parting, whimper breaking past the barrier of your throat.

Mingi pulls you back closer, his chest flush against you. “What else needs to be done? I don’t mind staying around and helping you a bit. Before Yunho starts ordering me around again.”

Your breath hitches, the deep baritone of his voice rumbles with your back, causing every single word to crawl under your skin. “Not much, really. Beef is sliced. Vegetables chopped.” You shrug, watching the ingredients strewn across the counter for kimchi stew. “Oh, right. I still need to make the stew.”

“Then we make it together.”

You protest, “I don’t want to keep you trapped in here, Mingi. Maybe Yunho might need you for something. He worries if things don’t go his way.”

Mingi groans, pushing into your hips and you feel his bulge press against the cleft of your ass. Your breath hitches for the second time, making you lose your grip on the situation—you’re at the cabin, to celebrate your four month anniversary with Yunho—rather, you’re stuck with his best friend, blurring all the lines between you and him. Not that you didn’t mind blurring them on purpose, especially not after the night where he openly jerked off to you and Yunho. He’d seen every part of you—every inch of your skin littered by Yunho’s cigarette burns, cuts from his favourite knife, and bites.

The air in the kitchen thins out in meagre seconds; Mingi’s lips find the spot between your ear and neck, the sweet spot which benumbs your body and makes it go limp in anyone’s arms. In this case, it’s Mingi. Senses going into overdrive for a second, you lace your fingers with his and hold his hands tightly. You’re grounding yourself to him, anchoring to him before you start thinking of Yunho. Though, it’s too late. You are already thinking about him. Wishing it was him kissing your neck, holding you in his arms, while he gave you guidance on cooking the stew.

Heavy footsteps resound a minute after Mingi moves to trail kisses down your neck and the open neckline which exposes your shoulder. You’re too lost to break out of it, too engrossed in drowning yourself, that when the man you’re thinking about arrives in the kitchen, you let out a soft whimper. Mingi freezes at the sound you made, lips pausing on your skin, tongue peeking out to lick and suck your flesh in his mouth.

Yunho clears his throat, and your eyes snap wider, tracing along the counter to meet Yunho’s gaze. There he was, leaning against the doorframe, similar to Mingi from before, arms crossed over his chest, and amusement etched on every feature of his face. His glasses perch snug on the bridge of his nose—the frameless ones which make him look professional, sleek, and handsome—lips, chapped but carry a faint tint of red, from the gloss you had bought for him. He’s dressed modestly too—black shirt, black trousers, a black coat which now isn’t draped over his shoulders. The top two buttons on the shirt are unbuttoned, sleeves rolled till his elbow to reveal his forearms and the veins bulging on them, and his dark black hair is set neatly with gel, pushed back over his forehead on one side, but a few stubborn strands still fall over.

You catch his scent from the counter itself—his signature perfume, cedar and sandalwood, as if he carried the forest and smoke with him. It’s quite different from Mingi’s, but somehow manages to fool your sense most of the time. Mingi doesn’t budge from his place, if anything, his arms tighten around you, pulling back flush into his chest.

“What am I seeing here?” Yunho remarks, letting his arms fall to his side as he pushes off the doorframe. “Mingi keeping you warm, love?”

“I am,” Mingi states, sounding cocky, “she was shivering the moment she picked up the knife to slice the beef.”

“Is that so?” Yunho muses, stepping closer until he’s standing by your side, “well then I better leave that job to you, Mingi. Turns out my doll doesn’t crave me as much as she’s craving you now.”

“No,” you whine, squirming in Mingi’s arms to break free but he doesn’t let you. “I just…” shame takes over and you look away, swallowing your words before they could even come out.

Yunho grabs your chin, tilts your head to him and gently pushes his thumb against it, forcing your lower lip to roll out. “Speak. Don’t hide it from me. I’m not going to get mad.”

You take a deep breath, Mingi’s warmth and scent posing as a sensory comfort you never thought you’d need. “I feel good around him,” you blurt out, “not—not in that way,” Mingi laughs softly against your neck but you continue, “not in the way you think—really. I find him very pleasant to talk to. And I know, we hardly ever meet or have meaningful interactions.”

Yunho goes quiet, letting the silence drag on while Mingi’s lips tease your skin, teeth scraping to suck purple blotches across your neck. You are sure Yunho’s watching him, closely, but no muscle on his face twitches or contorts to express jealousy or displeasure. He’s scrutinising you, measuring what exactly your thoughts portray through your body language.

“You heard her, Yunho. She likes me.” Mingi finally pulls away, stepping back and turning to his best friend. “She says I’m pleasant to talk to.”

Yunho rolls his eyes, “of course. She hasn’t experienced the kind of headache you actually are.” His gaze falls to you, “pleasant should be a far cry from what I’ve gone through.”

Mingi laughs, boisterous, untamed, “and I love you too, fucker.”

Even though Mingi’s no longer pressing against your back, you feel his warmth linger, his scent lurk around you while the cold of his chains evokes a sense entrapment you’ve only ever faced with Yunho. To have Mingi love you in the way he’s capable of, that’s a sweet little indulgence you won’t deny yourself from. You’ve known Mingi for a little over two months—he’s arrogant, cocky, condescending, to the people who don’t faze him. But to the ones he loves? An angel. You understand the hyperbole of your judgement, however Mingi hasn’t given you a reason to despise him yet. And he probably would never. He didn’t give you any on the night when you thought your entire world was ending because Yunho got mad at you and stormed off. If you recall, that night, Mingi held you in his arms, just the way he did now, and chased all your worries away.

Maybe, in your steeper conscience, you started yearning for from that night itself—pining to be wrapped around him, to be touched by him. Your fantasies have run wild since then, being shared between the two of them—between two best friends, who’re fucked in the head, but who also cherish you without thinking twice. Thats definitely too indulgent of you, because there’s no way Yunho would allow you to be shared between them. Right?

Yunho sighs, taking one of your hands in his and bringing it up to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. “What do you really think about him, doll?”

You swallow hard, “he’s comforting…in a different way. But I honestly don’t want to create any misunderstandings about it.”

“He’s already overthought, overanalysed and over-estimated them, Seongmi,” Mingi speaks up, “but you heard her again, Yunho, clearly this time. I’m comforting.”

Yunho grunts, although it’s not threatening, just a playful sound intended for Mingi. “We’ll talk about this later. Go set up the table in the living room—I left the gyoja-sang in the basement. Fetch it, clean it, and set it.”

“Bossy as always ya, Yunho-ssi?” Mingi mocks, deliberately stressing on his words; he gives him a two finger salute before walking past him, shoulder brushing against his, purposely. “You two exhaust me, honestly.”

He grumbles under his breath as he leaves the kitchen, disappearing down the hallway till his receding footsteps murmur to a distant silence. Yunho’s arms find your waist, pulling you close, making a gasp erupt from your throat; you rest your hands on his chest, fingers deftly clutching his shirt before slipping to rest flatly. His thumbs draw circle on the small of your back, pressing the silky material of dress into your skin—a simple dress, really—grunge red silk flowing till your knees, sweetheart neckline, thin straps dangling on your shoulders. Even before Yunho made the choice, your heart had settled on that dress. So when he picked it out for you, you were happy.

You peek up at him, your stilettos giving out under your feet slightly when you reach up to kiss his jaw. “I promise, there’s nothing to me and him. I’ve chosen you, that’s my final word.”

“Like an ultimatum?” he grins, sighing, “Seongmi, I am not insinuating anything between you and him. And if I do recall correctly, last time—that night, we already pushed the boundaries ever existed amongst us before.”

“So, what do you mean to say?”

“If you’re thinking it’s wrong to hanker after another man beside me, then you’ve mistaken, love,” Yunho shrugs, kissing your cheek, “I won’t consider it a mistake as whole, not yet. Mingi is someone I share a close bond with. We’ve had a past, yeah,” he sighs, pecking your lips, “if there’s any part of you which craves us both, then maybe we can…consider we need an arrangement.”

“I’m not sure about it though,” you chime, bringing your hands up to cup his face, thumbs swiping down on his cheekbones. “It’s scary, yeah. Handing a piece of me to another man—it’s twice as many I’ve fallen for,” you cough out a laugh which does force a snicker from Yunho, “I need time to think, establish myself.”

“And that’s all that counts,” Yunho says, “nothing matters to me than your well-being, so as long as you don’t make a decision we’ll keep this on the sidelines, yeah?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” He rests his forehead on yours, wrapping one hand around yours and bringing it to his lips to kiss the back of it.

“Shall we focus on lunch preparations then?”

A little after noon, when the teasing sun of humid monsoon blazed overhead, when the birds got tired of singing their euphonies, and when the heat sizzled on the grass in the backyard, the doorbell went off. You greeted your friends at the door—Wooyoung and Soojin had already made their way inside, but San and Jia stayed back until you ushered them in properly. Yunho was by your side then, welcoming the guests. All of them were sharply dressed for the occasion.

Wooyoung wore a grey button down and slacks, hair neatly combed, light makeup to hide spots and blemishes, and his favourite perfume, roses and citrus.

You could tell San didn’t put much effort, yet he clearly knew what he was doing; a deep blue shirt, almost bordering on grey, black slacks and a glimmering Rolex on his wrist. His outfit demarcated his physique well, let his personality shine too—his short made him seem younger than he actually is.

Jia, one of the juniors in your team, wore a simple green sundress with floral pattern; overall, a cute approach to make her look presentable.

In the end, you evaluated Soojin’s outfit—she had gone out of her way to wear a revealing dress with a plunging neckline and hem hitting her mid thighs. She did wear stockings under it, matching the black of the dress; elaborate makeup, sparkly eyeshadow, bright red lip, perfect contour, while her hair, loose curls falling on her shoulders.

Wooyoung and Soojin handed you a paper bag, it felt heavy in your hands and when you peeked inside, you found two matching luxury scented candles. San sneaked an envelope in your hand, and Jia apologised for not preparing a gift last minute—not that you really cared about the gifts. You were mostly worried about Yunho’s behaviour, what if he were to act out? That dread never eased off of your mind, always persistent and stubborn, racing tremors down your spine.

Mingi appeared a few minutes later, judging, evaluating your friends from a corner before approaching them and introducing himself. Smart man, he left most of the details about himself out of the conversation—one which sparked between him and San. Though, you could tell he was more interested in Jia—attempting to make her laugh, flirt with her, boast about his hunts and expeditions he’s led over years. San dwelled in silence on the couch, solitary, aching in solitude.

Wooyoung and Soojin cornered you right away, bombarding you with questions which sounded more bizarre one after another. You stand on the backyard deck, leaning over the wooden rail with a glass of cola in your hand; sun scorches on your skin, eyes squinting as you spanned the backyard—green, lush, overcrowded with tall trees and a lone shed standing in between. Wooyoung stands next to you, back against the railing, nursing a glass of whiskey Yunho fixed for him and Soojin stands on your other side, feeling the breeze in her hair.

“I didn’t get to ask you that day,” Wooyoung whispers, glancing both ways before he continues, staring at you, “are you really happy with this man?”

Soojin smacks the back of his head, earning a yelp from him. “Of course she is, idiot. There’s no way she’d have spent four months with a douchebag otherwise.”

You take a sip of your drink, soda wasn’t the only thing which bubbled in your chest—dread followed soon after, melting to a soft chuckle in his face. “Soojin is right.”

“I know I am,” she gushes, “Yunho-ssi is so handsome, deviously handsome. Well mannered too. But I’d like to focus on his appearance a little more—yeah sure, he’s a gentleman.” She looks at you, bouncing her brows with an intent you’re aware of, “is he good in bed? Does he—does he make you see stars? What’s the consensus down there, you know, if you catch my drift?”

You roll your eyes and Wooyoung groans. “Is sex all you think of, Soojin? I swear to god, you’re a nymphomaniac. Get it diagnosed or something.”

“It’s not a disease, asshole.” Soojin bickers, shaking her head, “and I’m not asking the details about your love life—which by the way, is as nonexistent as your personality.”

“Excuse me?” Wooyoung finishes his glass of whiskey before setting it on the railing, “you’re playing with fire, Soojin-ah.”

“So, I’m not afraid of getting burnt.”

“Even when the fire burns you down to ashes?”

“I’ll rise from them and burn you instead.”

Their childish altercation snaps your patience. “Guys!” you scream, “stop it. Look at the view in front of you—now think if you deserve to argue surrounded by this beauty.”

Both of them pipe down, but Soojin huffs and storms back inside, the doors sliding open and close with a subtle swish. You could see the living room through the glass doors framed with mahogany panelling; Soojin disappears somewhere inside, concern starting to creep in your gut. However, Wooyoung gets your attention on him with a fragile sounding mumble.

“Heard about the missing case from your apartment complex,” he grabs his empty glass from the railing to run his thumb along the rim, “it’s unfortunate they haven’t found her yet. Are you okay?”

“Why won’t I be?” you retort, turning around to have your back against the railing. “I’m fine. It’s been weeks anyway, I don’t think they’ll find her.”

Wooyoung raises a brow, “any reasoning why you’d say that?”

“Because, for starters, weeks have gone by. The authorities haven’t even found her body yet, which should become the main point of concern when one’s been missing for a long duration.” You state, watching the bubbles in your soda evaporate and cling to the walls of your glass, “no body, no leads, no evidence, no suspects, whatsoever. I have no hope they’d find her.”

Wooyoung bewilderment grows fanatical with every word you utter; it comes to a point where he grins and laughs, “you talk as if you know something about her. Something many don’t or might be too afraid to admit the truth only your heart knows.”

Sweat breaks out on your forehead, throat drying out due to the fresh dread licking up your spine. You roll your shoulders out, trying to composing, maybe getting even an ounce of your fidgety muscles to relax under the strain and pressure of reality. You take a sip of your soda, fizzing on your tongue before the sweetness drenches through, flooding your blood with flight-or-fight hormone. The sunlight sears hotter on your skin, cicadas chirp in the throes of lush green and yellow, and in your vision line, you catch Mingi’s gaze on you, intent on keeping you from blurting the truth out. He shakes his head, a delicate movement you’d have fail to catch if it weren’t for his eyes.

You turn to Wooyoung, “guess you could say that. I’ve made two trips to the precinct already. Wouldn’t be amused to find a third one waiting for me.”

“What, are you a suspect or a witness?” he retaliates, a certain lilt to his voice.

“Only time would tell.”

Wooyoung looks away briefly, lips stretched to a grin and eyes trained on a distant tree in the backyard. “I hope you don’t do anything stupid, noona. Nothing that would taint the family name.”

You draw in a sharp breath, remembrances drifting through your head when he mentions your family. There’s a bitter snark ready on the tip of your tongue, however you swallow it down when San steps out into the open. Basking in the sun, he comes to stand next to you, shoulders slouched, curling over the railing as he joins your conversation. You catch a glimpse of cherry glaze on his cheeks and a twitch of his lips that didn’t hide much.

“What are you two talking about?”

Wooyoung mumbles, “nothing really. What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I be here?” San glances at you, eyes narrowed, “do you have a problem with me being here, Seongmi-ssi?”

You shake your head. “No, not at all.” Parched, not from the heat, but from the tension lurking in the air, you guzzle the remaining bits of your soda and wince at the way it fuzzed in the back of your throat.

“Lovely place,” San pipes in, clenching and unclenching his hand to a fist, “belongs to your boyfriend?”

“In a way, yeah,” you mutter under your breath, setting your empty glass on the railing and turning to him, “something about inheritance he doesn’t elaborate. I think it’s a gift from his late mother.”

“Is that so?” Wooyoung chirps, twisting and turning the glass in his hand, watching the sun rays pass through it and glint.

You hum, “he’s never talked about his mother before and I don’t like bringing it up,” the weight in your chest tightens, “he’s quite sensitive about it. Closes himself off and goes on for days without talking to me.”

“Some men do prefer hiding their emotions,” San explains, “though, it may pile up over time and lash out in ways you don’t expect them to. It’s our very first encounter, but I think he’s a nice guy. Compared to quite others in the dating scene right now,” a smile curls on his face and his dimples pop up, “you do not want to be trapped in a loveless, or an abusive relationship, Seongmi-ssi.”

“Ya, San-ah,” Wooyoung calls out, “getting inside her head when she’s four months knees deep with that sucker,” he laughs, and you glare at him, “what? If I’m being honest, noona, I don’t like this guy for you. He’s not the best fit.”

San sighs. You both know you’re thinking of countering him with a smart reply, though another voice booms over your thoughts. A deep, gravelly, husky—Mingi steps out too, footsteps heavy on the creaking floorboards of the deck, a bottle of beer in his hand. He’s all by himself, so sign of Jia lurking behind him as you’d have expected from her.

“Trust me, my friend dotes on her more than you guys know,” he states, taking a swig from his bottle; swallowing, he wipes his mouth with the back of other hand, “I wouldn’t use this term as lightly as I am about to do now, but Yunho loves her. He’d burn this city to keep her warm.”

Wooyoung scoffs, “ah really? That’s nice to know.” He pauses, eyes glinting sharp with a tinge of arrogance and egoistic rage, “oh, but I hope doesn’t come down to him setting her on fire to keep him warm.”

“Wooyoung,” you warn him, prepared to hear him lash out, holding your breath. Technically, he wasn’t wrong. What if it really did come down to that? Before you could reprimand him for his behaviour, Wooyoung turns around on his heels and storms off, stepping down the deck and marching into the thicket of trees.

“Wooyoung!” you call out after him, taken back—your mind has already made the decision for you, forcing your legs to move, to run after him.

And you do, turning a deaf ear to Mingi’s and San’s protests to stop you. The gravel beneath your feet crunches till it softens to the plushness of grass and soil—trees stand tall, closer, much denser than the backyard clearing. You’re following the sound of his footsteps, and the trail of his scent lingering in the air; you’ve got your eyes on him, grey blob almost becoming one with the green in the surrounding. You hope to catch up to him as fast as you can. Either way, isn’t he being too sensitive about this?

“Wooyoung!” Yunho’s head snaps up at the sound of your voice calling out a name that’s not his.

Through the window in the kitchen, which overlooks a side of the backyard, he finds you going after Wooyoung. He’s not aware of the situation, he’s not sure what’s happening, but he knows he doesn’t like you seeing run after a man who’s particularly him. Heaving a breath of frustration and envy, Yunho puts the lid back on the cast-iron pot set on the stove. The braising sauce, shade deeper than that of mahogany and brown, swirls around the short ribs, potatoes, carrots and chestnuts. He had reduced it patiently until it turned thick and glossy, coating every piece with perfection.

The stove turns off, wooden chopsticks set aside on the counter, and the lid secured over the pot; Yunho steps back with a clinical ease, mind heavy with your thoughts, but not fumbling yet. There’s a certain calmness to him, to his body language when he moves out of the kitchen and into the hallway stretching to the living room, and is only a few steps away from the sliding doors leading to the backyard, when Soojin steps in front of him. She blocks his way, smiling wide, giggling, eyes darkened with lust and desire. Not that Yunho was never aware of Soojin’s libido for him, he only pretended to stay oblivious so that she would get the hint and leave him alone. He doesn’t find her attractive. He doesn’t find her comforting. Whenever she’s around—which she has been, whether it was at Seongmi’s apartment that day, or the unprecedented arrivals at his clinic—Yunho doesn’t seem to be himself.

His guard comes up the minute Soojin’s hands rest on his chest; his skin crawls with disgust, eyes fixated on the fresh coat of polish she has on her nails, and in the back of his mind, his subconscious screams at him to push this woman away.

“Where are you headed off to, Yunnie-oppa?” her high pitched voice strikes too loud to him, she pouts and continues regardless, trying to act cute, “to your damsel in distress? You really love her, huh?”

Yunho takes a step back, wrapping his hands around her wrists to pull her off of him, floorboards beneath him giving a low creak to his weight. But as he does, Soojin takes a step closer, and the back and forth continues till Yunho’s back presses against the wall. They’re in the hallway, hidden from Mingi’s and San’s vision—cloaked in the darkness, only a streak of light passed through from the kitchen itself. The cabin is old, a masterpiece of Korean craftsmanship and architecture, his mom once used to admire a little too much.

He knows the cabin’s layout like the back of his hand; the vestibule at the entrance, which opened into the living room, then two hallways branched out for one to end up to the rooms on the ground floor, while the other led to the kitchen. The hallway he was trapped in, was the latter one—narrow with wooden panelling and rustic paintings hung on the walls. Soojin’s body pushes flush against his, her chest on his, her arms struggling to move around freely with the way he was trying to hold them down.

Yunho sighs, “Soojin, did you drink one too many beers?” he pushes her hands to her side, keeping her locked in one place, “oh you sweet thing, you have no idea what you’re doing, are you?”

Soojin laughs. “I know what I’m doing.”

“And what would that be, love?” Yunho lets his words flow out smooth and sweet, ulterior motives already picking up at his nerves.

“Stealing you away from a woman who doesn’t deserve you,” she slurs her words, stench of alcohol now evident on her breath; she giggles, throwing her head back, small body shuddering against his chest. “Do you really think she deserves to have a man like you date her? She’s so—she’s so meh in bed.”

A muscle in Yunho’s jaw ticks, restraint thinning out every second; the more Soojin pushed up against him, the more his skin crawled, revulsion and anger brewing in his heart. His grip on her wrist tightens just enough, fingers digging into her flesh to feel the bone siting under it. The darkness in his mind takes control of him, overwhelming his senses with danger and fear. He knows how to retaliate, how to save himself from such situations.

Yunho grins. “Is that so?” he tilts his head, “do you think you’re better than her, Soojin-ah? Want to show me how much better you are than her?”

Watching the pout on Yunho’s face, Soojin gives in. An attempt to give her a false sense of warmth and affection. He knows she won’t resist him, after all, he can put his charms to their benefit.

Soojin nods and Yunho’s grin widens. “Then follow me.”

The bedroom is a quiet trap of pastel blue and white; the floor is classic ondol, in the centre is a low-lying bed with an elaborate headboard and draped in silky blue sheets. Anyone walking in through the door might think of it as a harmless little room, made for the lovey dovey couple. However, the unseeming aesthetic does fool everyone who sets their foot in here. A space enclosed by four walls, one window to the side of the bed, curtains always draped—you would think it’s a real window—maybe it’s been put there to give his trapped victims a hope at survival and freedom.

Soojin was out of her mind, preening with excitement, giggling and hiccuping as she only watched him. Yunho stands by the foot of the bed, watching her, noticing every twitch and tweak of her limbs with ecstasy and desire. One after another, he unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall off his shoulders; the shirt hits the floor with a soft crinkle, and he lets it stay there. From one of the pockets of his trousers, he pulls out his two most favourite things (right after you, of course), cigarette pack and his silver encased lighter. He lights one up between his lips, flicking the lighter away on the nightstand once the flame catches on, right by the lamp placed on it.

Fumes burn, smoke curling in air, suffocating Soojin, and easing the tightness in Yunho’s chest—the nicotine takes the edge off, and it’s something he’s grown fond of. In the deserting silence, only Soojin’s whimpers resonate, with Yunho’s brief drags of breath. It’s too quiet, the usual serene before the hunter makes his move—or when a predator locks onto a prey.

“Scared, Soojin-ah?”

She shakes her head, keeping her eyes on him. He adds, blowing a smoke through his lips, “such a brave soul, yeah? Walked into the lion’s den.”

Her brows crease in the centre of her forehead, vision blurring with confusion. “What…?”

The door to the room clicks open, making her thoughts trail off, and closes right after someone steps in. Mingi approaches the bed and stands next to Yunho; to Soojin, Mingi is a stranger—tall, broad, towering with a similar silhouette as that of Yunho. Her eyes widen slightly, body shivering and spine tingling only a little to have them smell fear on her.

Soojin coughs briefly, still lacing her words both lilt as she groans, “what there’s two of you?”

Yunho crawls onto the bed, slowly, holding Soojin’s gaze while creeping closer to her on all fours. Soojin, suddenly feeling the tension and unease, sobers up a little—eyes blowing wide, lips trembling, body shuddering to the uneasiness of Yunho’s eyes on her. She holds her up on the mattress using her elbows, supporting her weight and head up; Yunho smirks harder, trapping her beneath him with his arms on either side of her face, one knee between her legs and his darkened gaze pinning her down to the bed.

“He’s just here to watch, love,” he mumbles, using one hand to pinch the cigarette from his lips. He holds it out to Mingi, who without wasting a single minute, grabs it out of Yunho’s hand and puts it between his own lips. “Even he needs to see how much better you really are from Seongmi.”

Soojin gets flustered, heat rushing to her cheeks, crawling up her neck; she wraps her arms around Yunho’s neck and pulls him close, using his weight to support herself upright. Her lips hover over his, but before she could lean in to kiss, Yunho presses a finger against them, pushing her back.

“Uh-huh,” Yunho tuts, making her pout like a child. “No kisses, okay? You want to touch me? You want to show me how much of a slut you are for me, you need to do it without kissing. Hmm?”

Soojin nods, sliding her arms down his neck, palming every inch of his skin and feeling the dents of faded scars along the way. A gasp gets caught in the back of her throat, fingers deftly pressing onto the nasty gash he has on his abdomen. Yunho doesn’t let anyone touch them—no one but you. When Soojin’s unkindly warmth drifted on and over his scars, he bit back on a growl. Mingi senses it, noticing the strain in Yunho’s shoulders, how the muscles flex around his shoulder blades before they relax. Mingi is only supposed to watch, meddle when things get too hard. He doesn’t find any captivating aspects to his best friend wrapped around a woman who’s not his.

Yunho lets a laugh burst from his chest when Soojin’s hands fumble with the belt on around his waist. “Having a hard time?”

Soojin nods, dropping her hands to her sides. Yunho takes it as a sign, sitting himself upright and straddling her waist instead. The shift is subtle, power dynamics still stay the same. His legs bracket around her waist, her dress lifting up a few inches off her mid thighs, exposing her lace panties to Mingi—who only grunts in disinterest and takes a drag of his (Yunho’s) cigarette.

Soojin’s body is pinned against the mattress by one of Yunho’s arms on her shoulders, while the other manages to lift her dress all the way to her waist, rucking it up roughly. Rolling his hips once, then twice against hers, he lets her feel his bulge—showing no signs of turning stiff. Yunho leans down to whisper by her ear, tone cruel, voice very different from what he uses for you.

“Feel it? Nothing,” he sighs, “you really thought you could replace my doll?”

“You thought wrong, darling.”

It was wrinkle in time which forced Soojin to not comprehend the situation right away. Yunho’s hands wrapped around her neck, fingers twining around her throat as tight as they could, and he starts pressing hard against her windpipe. She grabs his wrists, nails digging, clawing at his flesh when the perception clears out—she tries to squirm, kicking her feet to slip free from under him. It’s pointless. Yunho’s strength is no joke, and his weight actually keeps her trapped beneath him, no matter what she does, how much of her energy she uses.

Soojin’s eyes start tearing up, chest burning and heaving, craving a hit of air—in her blurry vision, which unfolds at the edges, she watches Mingi smoke, unbothered and lax. A helpless cry breaks out from her chest, loud, carrying undertones of panic and indignation—growing louder with each breath lost, and each time she felt her eyes snap close. She was on the verge of losing it all, black spots in her the back of her eyelids, lips parted, drawing in as much air as she could while her body goes completely still.

“That’s it, almost—we’re almost there, Soojin-ah,” Yunho groans, leaning closer to her, watching her slip away into her state of unconsciousness. “I didn’t want to do this,” he whispers, tears welling in the corner of his eyes—lips stretching wide to accommodate a smile, jovial and genuine. “But you deserved it—deserved it for being so incredibly stupid. For thinking you could do everything as you pleased, or as your heart desired. Do you not understand the concept of consent?”

Mingi pulls out the cigarette from his lips, letting it dangle between his ringed fingers instead; the smoke curls, raising and percolating in the room while it clears out bit by bit. Soojin still has some fight left in her it seems, her body thrashes one last time before her hands from Yunho, leaving behind blood crescents to bleed from his broken skin. Yunho feels it, her soul disintegrating into a subtle push of weight against his hands; he doesn’t stop yet, the resent from childhood comes rushing in, reeling him back to the time when he was the most vulnerable.

An ugly sob breaks out, tears streaming profusely down his cheeks. His chest shudders, broken wails resounding soon as he squeezes the life out of Soojin’s throat. The realisation hasn’t hit him yet, that the woman under him no longer perceives the way of life as he does. He is long gone. Drowning in his tragic past, ache doubling down in his stomach before his mind gives up. This isn’t him anymore. Mingi knows it, he’s witnessed it a few time before.

“Yunho, stop,” Mingi’s words are as good as unheard, because it only fuels Yunho to press his entire body weight on Soojin’s neck.

One beat. Then two.

And Mingi hears it. The sound of her bones cracking, echoing distantly in the room before silence—Yunho’s grunts and groans stay merely audible. Maybe the way her neck bent to his will, snapped him out of it, or it was the sound. Yunho untangles his hand from Soojin’s neck, trembling, shaking; he climbs off the bed, mind barely supporting his body before he falls into Mingi’s arms. His friend catches him, without any preamble, as if he knew he would cling onto him afterwards. Yunho did exactly that, hugging him tightly, pulling him flush to his chest while burying his face in the crook of his neck; Mingi’s familiar scent lacerates the dainty string holding his conscience together.

“It’s okay,” Mingi coos, rubbing Yunho’s back with one hand, other one was still occupied with the cigarette. “It’s all done now, Yunho.“

Yunho sniffles in his neck, hands clawing at his clothed back—he’s afraid if he loosens himself up even a little in his embrace, he might lose Mingi for an eternity. “She…she…” he hiccups, wetness from his tears sliding across Mingi’s skin, “she’s gone—she’s gone, Mingi. Right?”

“Of course she is,” Mingi reassures, flicking the cigarette down on the floor before stubbing it out with his foot, swallowing the faint sting he felt on his heel through the sole of house slippers. “No one’s going to touch you without your permission, ever again, okay? Now be a good boy and come back to me—I’m good too, remember?”

Gentle coaxing from Mingi, finally naps Yunho’s subconscious out of the shackled trauma from his past. He pulls back, gently, deliberately, looking at Mingi in his eyes. His breath catches on, body still trembling against Mingi’s; his friend’s face is contorted with concern, worry lines evident across his forehead. He doesn’t like to worry anyone over him. Especially not the man he’s almost spent his entire life with. Mingi presses a soft kiss against Yunho’s temple, grounding him back to the reality.

“You’re back to me?”

Yunho nods, untangling his arms from Mingi’s waist and stepping away to create a comfortable distance between them. He wipes the remnants of tears off his cheeks with the back of his hands. Mingi rolls his shoulder out and heaves a breath, “what’s my favourite colour?”

“Grey,” Yunho mumbles, going to pick up his shirt from the floor and draping it on; he glances at Mingi, who’s giving him one of the flattest looks ever, forcing a laugh from him. “Sorry, it’s cement colour.”

Mingi’s lips stretch to their limit on his cheeks, eyes sparkling and creasing in the corner before disappearing. “There he is.”

Yunho takes a deep breath, buttons up the shirt, rolls the sleeves to his elbows and then composes himself properly; back straightens out, neck turning to the sides, and lips pursed, focusing on Mingi.

“Where’s Seongmi?”

Mingi answers, “went after that guy—what’s his name?—oh, Wonyoung I think?”

“Wooyoung?” Yunho corrects him, pacing the room to the corner, opening one of the cabinets to grab a bottle of hand sanitiser. “What really happened between them?” he douses a good amount on the palm of his hand and rubs them together, the fluid cooling before evaporating in mere seconds.

“Confrontation, altercation—the fuck I know,” Mingi runs a hand through his hair, pushing the strands back as annoyance drips in his voice, “probably him prompting her to leave you. I’m getting very home-wrecker vibes from him.”

Yunho scoffs, “so, he’s trying to break us apart?”

“Well, deal with one problem at a time,” Mingi groans, eyeing the body on bed, “want me to deal with this?”

“What about the others?” Yunho asks, grabbing his lighter from the nightstand and pulling out his pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“I sent San after Seongmi before coming here,” Mingi replies, grunting softly as he hauls Soojin’s lifeless body over his shoulder—another bone snaps somewhere in her neck before head lolls as if it’s without any support. “You really mangled her neck.”

Yunho, who has a lit cigarette between his lips, raises a brow and offers him a simple shrug of his shoulders. Mingi only stares at him for a minute, taking in the sight of his disheveled hair, trembling fingers which curl around the cigarette butt, and chapped lips appearing beneath the waft of smoke; Yunho is devious, sinister, devil in flesh—lucifer on earth, just a few names he recalls from their college days. There’s something alluring about him, Mingi always loses himself in the admiration for it. He can never place a finger on it, can never figure out why the man, standing in front of him, smoking a cigarette after snapping someone’s neck off, is so attractive to him.

Cheeks flushed, Mingi looks away, clearing his throat. But Yunho speaks up before him, “I lost control, you know it too.”

“And no judgments there. Just saying, asphyxiation could’ve been the primary cause of death—simple and unsuspecting.” Mingi states, walking towards the door, free hand reaching out for the doorknob, “what to do you really want me to do with her?”

Yunho takes a drag of his cigarette, deep fumes curling in his lungs as his chest rises and falls.

“Basement.”

Mingi has played this game before—being at his beck and call for every need, for every phone call which started with ‘I did something bad’ but the ‘it felt so good’ was always silent. He knows the tango by now—Yunho hunts, he hides, or repurposes the kill into something useful. When the door to the room creaks open, Mingi slips out silently, a breath of fresh air corroding his lungs—having watched the man he adores, make a fresh kill, flipped the switch in him. Off to the basement he goes, to play with the toy offered by his favourite hunter.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

“Wooyoung, come on, please, listen to me,” you try catching a hold of his wrist, but the sleeves of his shirt slip from your touch, “Wooyoung…”

Lethargy and exhaustion coaxes you to halt in the middle of the forest, feet dragging along the grassy terrain; sun combusting with heat overhead, birds chirping, cicadas singing, and the lush envelope of trees, you were tired of chasing him. Wooyoung, noticing your absence, turns around and watches you from the distance. Sun rays break through the canopy of twigs and branches, sending beams of light to scatter on the ground; one of which catches onto Wooyoung’s face, golden streaks caress his skin, eyes getting mistaken for pools of honey.

His lips twitch, before he runs a hand through his hair, groaning, “what do you want from me, Seongmi?”

Not noona.

Not Seongmi-ssi.

You swallow the lump in your throat, taking a step closer to him. “For you to stop throwing fits when things don’t go your away.”

Wooyoung scoffs, with barely contained amusement. “Is this about you dating?”

You don’t make a sound. “So, it is,” he adds after taking your silence as the answer, “fine, I am not too fond of that guy. He’s not the right fit for you, he’s not the one I think is enough to keep you happy…!” he points a finger in the direction of the cabin behind you. “What do you see in him?”

“Wooyoung, don’t do this, not here.”

“And why not?” he murmurs, “well I did swallow whatever pride I had left with a shot of vodka before coming here. I deserve to know the truth, don’t I? At least a closure…”

“A closure for what?”

“For that night, Seongmi,” Wooyoung snaps, chest heaving in trapped rage and unresolved emotions, “for that one night when I let my guard down in front of you and it ended up being one of the best nights I ever had—not because of some stupid dare. Because it was you.” He pauses, biting his lower lip, staring at you intensely, chest resisting the arrhythmic bursts of his rage. “The next day I woke up thinking things might change between us. For the better, maybe.” A beat later, he starts laughing—nothing to do with humour, “but the day I had dreamt of ahead, was snatched away from me with your spiteful words, noona.”

You take a deep breath, chest knotting at the reminiscences from the day it all went crashing down between you two. “What was I supposed to do then, Wooyoung? I—I thought I was making the right decision. Our sentiments weren’t valid, at least mine weren’t. It happened for one night, and that was it. I never had the need to picture us long-term. We don’t fit. We’re at two opposite points of a spectrum—same poles of a magnet, if you will. We weren’t meant to be.”

“And yet, you played me. A rebound. That’s all I ever was, wasn’t I? Helping you get over that man. Don’t you still miss him? So—so, is Yunho just another rebound too?”

Wooyoung shifts his weight, standing straighter, his confidence shaken and his body language strikingly giving up.

Rage boils over in your chest, but your mind stays free of its corruption; there’s truth to Wooyoung’s words, a particular ache which comes and goes, in drowning waves. You have to own up to your mistakes, to the things you’ve done in your past—your heart already admits it, having played Wooyoung to forget the man you once loved too deeply, as deep as the oceans.

“You knew it, Woo. Yet, you…”

A twig snaps under a foot, deftly echoing in the distance before San joins the two of you; he’s out of breath, chest rising and falling, mouth open agape. He looks between the two of you, catching his breath.

“Finally found you,” he cheers in victory, groaning when the exhaustion wins over, “that tall friend—tall friend of yours, didn’t—didn’t warn me of the maze this jungle is.”

“You came to take us back?” you ask, assessing him silently—sweat beading on his forehead, dark hair sticking to it, and lips trembling.

“Yes, I couldn’t leave my manager-nim out in the woods, all by herself,” San states, rising up; his eyes voice between the two of you again, “did I interrupt something?”

Wooyoung sticks his tongue out at him and storms towards him, immediately pulling him to his side with his arm draping around San’s neck. “Asshole, couldn’t you have come a second sooner?”

“Why?” San whines, eyeing you.

“No reason,” you blurt out. “He likes to be dramatic, you know it too.”

Wooyoung pushes San to the side, grumbling, “I’m out of here. I think I heard a bear’s growl somewhere.”

San squeaks before anything else; terrified and frightened, he tip toes to Wooyoung in a haste, who’s already a few steps ahead, his back to you. “Hey, wait up, Woo!”

You just scoff and follow the two ; through the sprawl of foliage, and snapping twigs under your feet, you make your way back to the cabin. Wooyoung marches inside through the sliding doors, San a step behind him, trying to get a hold of him. You, on the other hand, felt a nerve touch your dreading heart. The cabin is quiet, awfully quiet—you don’t see Jia, or Soojin in your sight, they probably left while you were busy chasing Wooyoung. Did they really leave? Why would they leave? Why was your mind fixated on things which didn’t matter much in this particular instance?

The standstill between you and Wooyoung, dwells in silence and awkward tension; he’s crossed the living room, San closely in his pursuit, while you, dumbfounded, watch him slip into his shoes. The house slippers, spoiled and stained with dried foliage and dirt, scatter next to him.

“Where are you going?”

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything. San looks between you and him, eventually giving in and slipping out of his house slippers too (spoiled as well). You stand by the vestibule, watching them, their faces weighing down on your chest; you feel a knot tighten, throat convulsing, and tears threatening to well in your eyes. This isn’t how you had planned to spend your day with them. Although, little did you know to anticipate the day going south.

“You’re leaving too, San?” you ask softly.

“Ah, Seongmi-ssi. Don’t get me wrong. With Jia leaving, Soojin feeling under the weather, and whatever happened between you and Wooyoung, I’d rather call it a day.” San rubs the back of his neck, head lowered slightly in gratitude, “please do express my sincere thanks to your boyfriend. He thought of us while celebrating a day special to him. To both of you. The thought matters, it really does.”

Words ache to roll off your tongue, but a certain warming presence pulls you out of it, and his familiar scent lingers in the air behind you. You feel his chest press into your back, one arm sliding around your waist with ease, the other waving the two off.

“Leaving already?” Yunho sighs, “I guess certain circumstances don change, huh?” his darkened eyes lurk on Wooyoung, catching his slouched shoulders and trembling posture, “and Wooyoung-ssi, please rest assured. I’m not the bad guy here. I promise I’ll take good care of her.” He squeezes your waist, just lightly. “Have a safe drive back to the city. Forecast says heavy rain. I hope you’ve come prepared, in case anything happens.”

San reassures Yunho with a wide smile, polite in the way one sees subtle dents of his dimples on his cheeks. “Thank you for your concern, hyung. We’ll drive safely. Again, apologies for ruining the day for you.” He bows, in respect.

Yunho tries to play it off, “hey, there’s no need for that. It’s not ruined yet. I still get to spend it with my girlfriend, don’t I?” he looks down at you, pulling you closer to him by your waist, “well, you might have just done me a great favour by leaving early. What’s more romantic than spending time with my girlfriend on a rainy day in a forest cabin?”

San’s cheeks flush a shy shade of red, Wooyoung’s shoulders tense up before he clears his throat. “Ya, San-ah. Let’s leave before the rain hits us.”

Wooyoung is the first to step out through the door, San following him soon after he bows to Yunho and you, very respectful and polite. The door shuts close behind them, footsteps padding down the porch steps before they muffled and silenced. Yunho keeps you close to him, one arm around your waist, the other in his pocket. When he hears the sound of car revving up and out of the front clearing of the cabin, he turns you around and presses you flush to his chest.

His forehead drops on yours. “Your work friends really did ruin my day, doll.” Both his hands grab your waist now, breath warming your cheeks, eyes as dark as the night—lips brushing the tip of your nose. “I hope you can make up for it.”

You bring your hands to cup his face, leaning in to peck his lips lightly. “I’ll try to do my best.” Your chest heaves into his when you take a deep breath, “but first, what happened to Jia or Soojin?”

Yunho hums, thumbs rub in circles on the side of your waist, touch searing even through the fabric of your dress. “I think Jia got called home—that’s what Mingi told me. And Soojin,” he pauses, you catch on a shift in eyes before it goes back to normal, “she started feeling under the weather. I think she got a hold of flu or something, asked me to drop her off at the nearest train station and I did.”

“You did?”

He nods, “she rode with Wooyoung, I think. Only made sense if someone dropped her off—wasn’t he with you anyway?”

“Yeah,” you feel your throat closing in, hands dropping from his face to his chest.

“Care to tell me what happened between the two of you?”

“Feels like you already know what it was about.” You grumble, taking a deep breath in, “he doesn’t seem too happy with me dating you.”

Yunho pouts, “that kind of hurts my ego. But do you really need his approval to be happy, love? You’re mine, I’m yours. We’re us, who we are. Do we need a third person to meddle and break us apart?”

You shake your head, biting down hard on your lower lip; a nervous tic you’ve picked up from somewhere, or somehow. Yunho noticing it, immediately swipes his thumb to nudge your lip out of your teeth’s grip.

“Don’t do that,” he coaxes you, sighing softly.

“Can’t help it,” you mutter under your breath, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch; his thumb continues to stroke your lips, with those gentle, delicate drags. “I’m just worried.”

Yunho clicks his tongue, “worried about his opinion, judgement? Seongmi,” he says your name firmly, and stern, “don’t think about him. And don’t…” his hands squeeze your waist—deliberate, reminding, “don’t you dare let him get in your head. He doesn’t belong there. I do. Only me. That’s right, my doll should only think about her boyfriend.”

Outside, the clouds move, sky darkens, nature prepares itself for a downpour once more, like it has been for the past couple of days. The air carries a faint scent of wet soil, somewhere the rain has already soaked through the earth. Yunho’s fingers dig into your skin, nails embedding your flesh even through the fabric of your dress. Traces of blood stain your dress, in the perfect shape of his nail crescents, not a drop out of bounds. You wince, halfway turning to a gasp when he hauls you over his shoulder; the hem of your dress lifts a little, his arms banding across your knees to support your body against his.

“I think you really need a reminding.”

The next few minutes are a rush of adrenaline and chaos—he carries you down the hallway leading to the rooms, from the living room, and you don’t protest. Inside the room, he tosses you on the bed, then grabs your ankles to pull you closer to the edge. Without much hesitation, he drops to his knees, between your spread legs. You pull yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him as he pushes the flounce of your dress up to your waist, legs now propped over his shoulders, opening you up. Your heels rest against his shoulder blades, hips levitating off the bed, body trembling slightly.

Rain patters against the glass window, murmuring with the silence in the room, muffling the faint draws of his breath and your whimpers. Clouds blind the light, painting dark shadows across the room—dithering the visibility, only offering you silhouettes to discern and borders of your mind could perceive.

Yunho keeps your legs spread with his hand on either of thighs, inching closer and closer to your cunt. Lace panties define the curve of your folds, slick starting to drool and soak the flimsy fabric. His fingertips graze faint lines up your inner thigh, before his entire hand cups your cunt in its warmth. The palm of his hand fits snug with your mound, and the curve above his wrist presses precisely down on your clit. He rubs it, arousing you, drawing out a moan from your lips. His other hand rests with a certain weight on your inner thigh, keeping you spread out for him.

“This is what I do to you.” He murmurs. “Me, no one else but me.”

You push yourself further up, using the support of your elbows; watching him through the darkening space, you catch the glint in his eyes, right in the corner, shimmering like it’s been waiting to have you cornered like a wild animal. Yunho’s lips curl slightly, hand pressing, pushing with all its might against your clit—the friction sends tiny tremors across your skin, shuddering your spine with every breath you took. It numbed you, weakened your muscles with how deliberate, precise and calculated his touch was. You were soaking your panties, letting the lacy fabric stick close to your folds.

Offering him a nod, you whimper, “yes—only—only you.”

“That’s right,” he continues to rub his palm in tight circles across your clit and mound, till he feels your arousal drip through the panties and wet his skin. “Excites you, doesn’t it? Your body loves it when it’s me—when it’s me who is touching it, making it surrender.” Yunho chuckles softly, chest and shoulders shaking, “give me all of you, Seongmi. And I’ll never make you regret it. You won’t ever regret it.”

You mewl, meekly rolling your hips into his hand, wanting to feel more, body urging you to push yourself for the sake of seeking pleasure. “Yunho please—please…”

“What’s that?” he mocks you, lilt to his voice, mischief in his eyes. You throw your head back, eyes screwing shut when he picks up his pace—tight circles now turning to short and quickened drags of the curve of his palm. “Needy little thing,” he laughs, pausing the movements of his hand, only to let it drop back to your inner thigh. “Beg properly, and I might think about it.”

“Need you,” you whimper yet again, bucking your hips in search of his warmth; when a slap lands on your clothed cunt, your eyes snap open and find his, “please please please—please, Yunho. Need you—need your fingers—your mouth—anything.” You ramble in one breath, eyes watering from the anticipation.

Yunho doesn’t give in, not yet. His hands stay fixed on your inner thighs, keeping your legs apart. A dragging minute later, he clicks his tongue, “good enough.”

He rolls his shoulders out and leans in, pressing feather-light kisses across your inner thigh; you squirm, mewl and ache in the place which needs most of his attention. Yunho doesn’t give in too easy–he’s going to edge you, if he puts his mind to it, or he might overstimulate you with countless orgasms. Neither sounds good to you, nothing short of torment and grotesque proof of control he has over your body. He continues to kiss a particular patch of the skin on your inner thigh, knowing how deliciously sensitive your nerves are right there. Soon, his teeth start grazing, soft little bites followed by flicks on his tongue to ease your muscles and flesh. Then it happens—initially a striking, hot and searing pain of your skin ceding to the force of his teeth, blood pooling through the puncture and beading across your thigh.

All air is knocked out of your chest, body spasming just enough for him to sense the victory and push his chest out with pride. You moan out loud, one hand flailing towards him to grab a hold of anything you could. And it ends up on the back of his neck, fingers wrapping around, hair brushing against your tips.

“Fuck—Yunho.”

He grunts in response, suckling at your bleeding skin—it’s as if a newly turned fledgling was feeding off you, with an undeniable hunger. You feel the wetness of his spit mix with your blood, staining your skin, along with the indentations of his teeth marking you. This isn’t anything new to you, Yunho’s yearning for you is quite something, sinister and unforgivable in its own way. He lets go off the flesh in his mouth and moves onto the patch of skin right next to it. Another bite. Making it bleed profusely in mouth, drinking your blood as if it were a gush of pure nectar. Repeating the bites on both of of your thighs, he pulls back to watch his handiwork; even through you quiet and gentle sobs, he’s proud enough to smirk and lap around the very first bite he made.

Tears clinging to your lashes, blurring your vision of his face, you somehow manage to squint and gather the sight waiting for you. Blood on his mouth, spit and crimson dripping down his chin, staining his face—you feel a shiver run down your spine, body arching off the mattress at the simple thought of you marking him this time. His lips curl into his cheek sensing your gaze on him, still lapping and licking across the skin—still watching you with a ravenous smile.

“I love it when you bleed for me.” He murmurs against your skin, “the sight of you adorning my bites, my marks, it excites me so much, love. And now I’m driven past my limits, all of them.” He pulls back, shifting his arms to have them curl around your thighs instead of just resting to keep you spread. This position gave him more control over you than before, and it prevented you from clenching your thighs.

“Yunho, I—I—I like them too.”

“I know.”

You feel it then, a huff of his warm breath fanning your dripping cunt through the lace panties. He dives right in, not giving you even a fraction of second to compose yourself; his lips press kisses down your mound before wrapping around your clit, pushing out spit to wet your panties.

“Ah fuck—nnngh…” you throw yourself against the mattress, back arching into his mouth, eyes shutting close to the pleasure dribbling down your spine.

You tighten your hold around his neck, subtly, before sliding your hand into the tuft of his hair on the back of his head. Pushing him closer, grinding your hips against him, you needed him in ways which would deem shameful and humiliating. Yunho doesn’t stop at that, no—he’s much more motivated now, tongue darting out, sucking in your flesh in the warmth of his mouth along with your panties. The feeling is almost indiscernible—is the friction of your ragged lace panties against your clit, or the wetness and heat of his tongue, which is much softer and enticing. You don’t know, but you’re sure close to losing it.

Yunho doesn’t speak, not in the degrading or praising way he usually does when his face is buried between your legs. He’s focused, worshipping your cunt with his mouth, tongue and lips, reminding you who owns your body even though you’re clothed and at his mercy. You’re at your wit’s end, both from pleasure and the bewilderment lingering in the back of your mind; he’s being gentle, worshiping your body, craving your touch, craving you—it might mean something. You’ve never been too attentive to his behaviour, but there have been plenty of occasions where he’d yearn for you, particularly when a nuanced tragedy implodes in his life. Last time, as you recall it, he was on his knees for you when he came back home from a bar, all bruised and beat up; most likely an altercation, which forced its way onto you to have him calm by the break of dawn.

He pulls back, sitting back on his knees, posture straight and poised as he breathes heavy, chest rising and falling in series of waves. Feeling his drifting warmth, you peel your eyes open, prop yourself on your elbows again, and watch him closely—dark hair a mess, sweat dripping through it, and his mouth gleaming with your slick and his spit, alongside the dainty traces of your blood. Yunho doesn’t waste any time then, your panties are off, soaked in his spit and your arousal, getting dropped on the floor next to him. He leans back in, mouth on your cunt, hot breath fanning your mound; he devours you, pushing you past your limits as your body curls into him, wanting him in the way he does.

“Yunho…Yunho…” you chant his name, soft screams bubbling in the back of your throat, head being thrown into the mattress again, body going limp.

A while later, continuing his ministrations, he slides his tongue deep into your slit, rubbing your flesh, pleasing your clit and tasting you. The impending tension in your gut finally breaks through, hands holding onto the sheets beneath you, fisting, curling in the soft cotton blend. Your back arches, eyes roll back into your head, body thrashing just enough for you to feel the knot tighten and break apart in your stomach. You clench around nothing, your walls aching to have something buried deep within them. It’s disappointing for your body, how such an intense orgasm wasn’t a result of his pulsating cock. But your mind remembers the weight and girth of it, remembers how wide it stretches you, and playing into that fantasy, the release becomes ten times worse.

Yunho is relentless, even knowing how your walls were fluttering under his mouth, the pulses tickling his lips too. He lets his tongue slide down your slit, and then nudges the tip against your entrance—once, twice, thrice, then plunging it deep within. He groans against your mound, nose buried and snug against your clit; you’re gushing slightly, your juices running down his tongue, the musky sweetness coating his taste buds. He’s in paradise like this; tongue thrusting, feeling how you spasm around him, as he mimics what he’d probably had done with his cock.

To your surprise, that’s not the end of it. As your high declines to a momentary thrush of calm and quiet, he picks it up again with his fingers; tongue pushing forward, pressing at the walls of pelvic floor, while his fingers plunged right beneath. He curls them backwards, towards your puckering and untouched hole. It’s all too much for you to bear. The torment of his tongue, the assault of his fingers—it starts riling your bladder this time—all that cola had surely filled it up. For some reason, you could tell Yunho knew. Maybe the way you were starting to clench your thighs together, or by the way you were sobbing.

“Yunho…Yunho—fuck—stop, please…!” you cry, screaming into the back of your hand while tears stream down the side of your face.

You’re aware, denying, protesting against the pleasure he offers you, is a crime—like an insult hurled at him for making you feel good. But you are overstimulated, body trembling with a need to be let go, that too for one particular reason—you really wanted to pee. And the need grows too urgent, too fast. You’re clinging onto the mattress for your dear life, chest heaving, back still arched because of him—and then, it breaks, the shackles holding it all in. You don’t feel it at first, a single trickle, then a consistent stream, warmth flooding Yunho’s mouth.

He guzzles it down, latching onto your urethral orifice instead. Your face heats up, embarrassment creeping up your neck the moment you hear the sounds he’s making. His fingers are still buried deep, plunging in and out, stimulating your g-spot with every pull and drag against your spongy wall. You’re crying, whimpering, protesting against him, using his name. He’s deaf to your cries, quite literally since the rain had picked up outside, thrashing against the glass window to create a perfect background noise.

Slowly, the stream of your piss fizzles out to mere droplets; he licks and laps at them, pulling back eventually with a cunning smirk on his face. The slight sheen of your piss glimmers when the thunder breaks out in the sky—somewhere in the distance, lighting up the room for a fraction of second.

“Good girl,” he praises, pulling his fingers out too, reluctantly, “such a good little doll, for always giving her favourite monster whatever he needs.”

You groan, hand sliding down from your face, “you’re such a fucking perv, Yunho.”

“Now,” he clicks his tongue, kissing your inner thigh—mostly the bite marks he left behind, which still bled, by the way, “pretending to hate it? And I’m your perv. Only I get to taste your piss, hmm?”

You nod slowly, rolling your eyes at him, “yes, you do.” His brows scrunch when you flash him a smirk and wink at him.

Yunho grows alert, cautious because he too knows, when you’ve been shattered deliciously by him, you always find a way to repay him. He’s curious too, anticipating what you have in mind. Though, you don’t give him a chance to anticipate anything; in the next second you’re sliding your legs off his shoulders, letting them dangle by the edge till you picked yourself up from the bed and leaped onto him. He lets out a surprised squeal, laughing to himself as he’s thrown on his back on the floor while you straddle his waist. Your dress flows down till your mid thighs, hands resting on his chest. There’s a slight increase in the size of his pupils, lips curving into his cheeks as a laugh resounds from his chest, feeling it vibrate against your hands.

“What do you have in mind?”

You shake your head, “you’ll see.”

The next few moments are a blur of bliss; you tugged off his pants and boxers down to his knees, then slowly sank down his length, letting it stretch you out you did. Yunho’s groans and moans were barely controlled, raising a decibel each time you impaled yourself onto his cock, inch by inch. At first, he lets you set the pace—slow, gentle, deliberate rolls of your hips which opened you up enough to take more inches of him every time you sink down. With your hands on his chest, you lean forward and kiss him, tongue swiping out and slithering into his mouth—you taste yourself on him, sweet, salty, musky—going breathless by every second. His hands pin you down onto his cock by your hips, guiding you slowly to move.

You pick up your pace midway, making out with him, trying to ease the stretch your walls were undergoing currently. Every push off of his hips, squelched your walls and every time you slid down his length, it opened you up and stretched you out again. The relentless cycle was driving you wild, you break the kiss and rest your forehead on his, breathing through your mouth as exhaustion soon takes over you.

“Tired already, love?” he teases you with a laugh. “I got you.”

Thus begins the dragging hour of him thrusting into you, setting the pace and rhythm according to him, keeping you on edge every time he felt your walls clench around his pulsating cock. He held back too, letting himself throb in the warmth, halting his thrusts, afraid he might unravel before you and he definitely resented it. On the contrary, Yunho also wasn’t fond of this position; something about you being on top of him, meant he wasn’t the one in control. Although, ironically, he liked it when he’s able to hit your cervix when you’re riding him.

Time loses all its bounds, and after the tormenting rhythms and deliberate thrusts, Yunho finally gives in—he holds you by your hips, pushing deeper into you as his balls tighten and he empties into you; every pulse of his cum is warm and heavy, flooding your womb. You’re so full of him, some of it slipping down his girth and foaming at the base as he rides it out. You huff out a breath, tired, lethargic, putty while resting your head on his chest. Your arms are loose around his abdomen—walls still spasming around him, as you too, ride out your release.

“Hmmm, I’m not done yet, love,” Yunho grumbles close to your ear, brushing your hair with one of his hands as the other still rested on your hip, “let me show you how much I need you.”

“Let me ruin you in ways only I can.”

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

By the time he’s truly satisfied, you’re a mess, passed out in the bed while Yunho lies next to you, propped up against the headboard. A cigarette stays clipped between your lips, red hot flaming tip letting smoke curl around him. Impatience creeping up his spine, he stubs out the remaining cigarette onto the flooding ashtray on the nightstand. He lets his gaze roam your body for one last time before slipping out of the bed and putting his pants back on. Once done, he picks up you ruined panties from the floor, where they were discarded before, by the foot of the bed.

While he does so, he admires the red and purple bruises blooming under your skin, from the time he held you too tight, or from the insistent bites and hickies. You truly were a mess, blood dried out, sweat clinging to your skin, and his cum drying out between your legs, and some of it stains the sheets beneath you. If you were awake, you’d probably groan and cry about how he used your body for his pleasure then effortlessly tired you out; you lost count after the fifth round—in each one after the first, he made you come undone twice, either with his mouth, his fingers or his cock. Rain outside never let up, it still hasn’t—the dark only influenced the desires, encouraged you both to dive into the restricted depths of your kinks.

You cried out for the second time when he folded you in half and trapped you in a mating press, making you squirt twice as hard as he normally would. Both of you bled for each other—there’s something so romantic and endearing carrying each other’s precious love in your body, in your bloodstream. Yunho was clingy throughout, something he rarely does; you paid it no mind, not bothered in the slightest to question it. After the very adventurous and intense position, your body finally gave out when he was fucking you in missionary. Now, that’s his favourite position. Not because it gave him power over you, but because it allows him to watch your face when he’s buried deep in you and abusing your cervix. Every thrust pulls out a delicious sound from you, and makes your face contort in the way that pushes him to his edge.

Lingering by the door for a few more seconds, Yunho watches you before stepping out. The cabin is quiet, enigmatic in the way it’s supposed to be in the night—it’s a little after 9 pm; animals growl outside as the nightfall dwells deeper, the rain hasn’t let up as he recounted before, if anything it’s gotten more harsh and intense, falling against the overhang of the cabin and snapping twigs of the trees. Electricity holds up in the cabin even through the thunderstorm—every twenty minutes there’s been a lightening strike in the sky, booming and flashing bright on every surface of the cabin. Regardless of the electricity running, all lights in the cabin are turned off, and instead candles have been lit up in their respective stands and places.

Yunho climbs up the stairs leading up to the second floor of the cabin, which has three bedrooms, only one of which is inhabited by Mingi, while the other two are repurposed as storage rooms. Standing in front of the wooden door, he knocks once, then twice before realising the sound of rain probably deafens it. Yunho opens the door without hesitation, slipping through and finding the room to be empty. Mattress cold by one side of the room, against a wall, lamps turned off, a flooding ashtray (like his) is placed on the floor next to the mattress and a familiar stench lurking in the air. There are no windows to this room—save for a small circular one in the left corner for ventilation.

Heaving a sigh, Yunho places your panties on the short and low cabinet next to the mattress, then his attention falls onto the wall opposite to the mattress. Mingi’s hunting tools, laid out, hung up on a display as he likes them to be. Crossbows, metal and poison laced arrows, daggers, machetes, rifles and shotguns, and a remarkable sword he had custom made according to his liking. Strong steel glints against the candlelight, showing off the intricate patterns running along the edge of the blade—engraved by the swordsmith himself. Its handle is sturdy enough to let Mingi swing it as his heart desires; he recalls one particular memory where his best friend accidentally ended up slicing off bone of a corpse with it.

Amidst the sound of rain, a soft pattering resounds from the adjoining bathroom—when Yunho’s attention falls on it, he finds the light turned on through the gap below. No thoughts, Yunho steps in the bathroom and finds Mingi under shower, his silhouette a blur from the opaque shower curtaining separating them. It’s a simple layout; the door opens to a sink and cabinet, then comes the commode, and towards the end of the long stretching space, the bathtub and shower.

Yunho stands in front of the sink, watching himself in the cabinet mirror—he’s shirtless, hair a mess of tangles and disheveled because of your hands, lips still stained with dried blood, and neck adorning the bite you gave him. He almost came when you made an effort to bite him; small teeth sinking in his flesh, trying to break his skin the way he does. But you didn’t have the heart to do so and thus, the bite mark on his neck stays a blotch of blue, with your teeth indentations.

“How was she?” Yunho asks, running a hand through his hair to have it set properly.

The curtain furls to the side, revealing Mingi standing under the shower head with hot water running down his body; his blonde hair is soaked in water, sticking to is face and forehead. “Soojin?” he questions, before answering it himself, “not bad. A little too perfect, I’d say.”

Yunho hums, turning to face Mingi. “Details.”

Mingi turns the shower off and steps out of the tub, reaching out for the towel hung on the rack to tie it around his waist. “Lean muscle, very little body fat,” he begins enunciating the words he knows Yunho wants to hear, “healthy heart, blackened lungs—guess from the smoking and drinking, liver not up to par, and a normal brain.”

“Spleen and kidneys?”

“Hmm, in good condition,” Mingi replies, coming to stand next to Yunho in front of the cabinet mirror; Yunho shifts a little, leaning back against the sink counter instead.

“Skin?”

“No blemishes, no tattoos, no marks,” Mingi says while opening the cabinet over sink and grabbing his moisturiser—the only step in his skincare, “I’ve left it out for drying, already prepped and everything.”

“Hmm, alright,” Yunho sighs, glancing at Mingi, “flesh?”

“Stored in the freezer,” Mingi pats the cream on his face, the bottle placed down on the counter, “couldn’t get much but it’s doable. You won’t starve at least.” He jokes and looks at Yunho, “clothes and bones are burning in the incinerator as we speak.”

Yunho smirks, “I knew I could always count on you.”

“Please, Yunho. You’re making me blush.”

“Then it means I’m winning, doesn’t it?”

Mingi rolls his eyes, letting his towel drop on the floor, leaving him bare in front of his friend. “You’re insufferable.”

“Says you.” Yunho catches up on what Mingi is doing and chimes, “want me to help you?”

“Was going to ask you regardless,” Mingi remarks, opening the cabinet again to grab a couple of alcohol pads and a sterile box with all his piercings. “You’ve got steadier hands than me right now,” he sighs, “and I don’t know…feels much better when it’s you.”

“Is it?”

Yunho’s smirk widens, without exchanging any words, he steps in front of Mingi as the latter perches himself on the counter’s edge. Before proceeding with anything else, Yunho washes his hands thoroughly in the sink, using soap. Then dries them off using a clean towel hung on the rack. He steps between Mingi’s spread legs, grabbing one of the alcohol pads and tearing it open to sterilise Mingi’s cock; he’s always known how heavy and girthy Mingi is, but the weight of his soft cock in his hand is quite intimidating. This moment is just like any other in the olden days where his best friend would need help with his apadravya piercing after it’s been out for hygiene reasons.

Mingi’s breath catches softly, bubbling in the back of his throat as Yunho steps closer to him, focus down on his cock, wiping and cleaning the head; the pad swirls along with Yunho’s fingers, other free hand wrapped at the base of his cock. The channel hasn’t shrunk, it’s still as new as the day he got it—a couple of years ago, fully healed in. In the humid air of the bathroom, Mingi hisses at the cold sensation of the wet rag, and Yunho chuckles, wiping softly under the tip of his cock, thumb stroking with gentle care.

“I can never tell if you were stupid or brave enough to get your dick pierced.”

Mingi groans, grabbing a hold of Yunho’s shoulders when the blood starts rushing to his cock under his touch. “Stop making me hard.”

“I haven’t done anything yet though,” Yunho plays it off, offering an innocent pout to him, “which one do you want?”

Mingi watches Yunho open the sterile box, which consisted of various barbell piercings, in different colours and styles. He runs his gaze along the shiny metal pieces before setting his heart on one. “The purple one, with the ring in front.”

Yunho nods, picking up the chosen one and cleaning it with a fresh new alcohol pad. He hums softly, twisting the threaded end to open the barbell and aligning it straight with the opening channel at the bottom. Easing it in vertically, with slow, even pressure, Yunho hums once again.

Mingi clings onto his shoulders, feeling the tissue give in, a resistance that’s nothing too painful but present. He heaves a breath and his own shoulders tense up; Yunho tries to soothe him using his other hand to rub circles on his inner thigh.

“It’s been annoying without it,” he murmurs, distracting himself, “like something’s off, you get me?”

“Of course, I do. We’re fixing it now,” Yunho continues, “seriously, Mingi. I really wonder sometimes if you were just stupid when you got this one.”

Mingi snickers, “complain all you want—when I tell you how good the sex feels, you’d be getting on yourself too.”

Yunho shakes his head, the barbell pushed halfway through. “Never.”

“I’m not stupid enough,” he adds, pausing a bit, “you good?”

Mingi nods, heaving out a breath, “keep going.”

Yunho does, pushing the barbell all the way through, until the top end emerged cleanly on the upper side of the glans. He twisted the threaded end on with careful fingers, securing the ball snug with the ring flopping to a side—just enough for now, with room for any minor swelling.

Mingi lets out a soft, contented sound, shoulders relaxing. “There you are.” He looks down between them, then back up at Yunho, eyes soft with that easy affection they rarely named, “speaking of sex, how’s Seongmi?”

Yunho steps back, reluctant to create why distance between them as he has gotten used to his warmth. “Sleeping. Tired her out, I think.”

“You need to be more gentle with her, Yunho,” Mingi reprimands him, grabbing another small towel from Yunho’s hand to wipe the fresh drop of water swelling around the jewellery. “What happens if you break her? You break down too. It may not be my place to say, but you’re dependent on her for stability. She’s gone, so is that, and your sanity.”

“You believe I was ever sane?” Yunho grins, stepping back between Mingi’s legs and snatching the small towel from him; he wipes his cock with utmost care before flicking it out of the way. “Mingi, I am aware of it. Why else do you think I wake up every morning and choose her?”

“Because you are quite literally obligated to,” Mingi shrugs, pulling Yunho close to him by his shoulders and letting his arms stay draped around them. “Well, I hope you keep loving the way you do. Your unpredictability is detrimental at times.”

Yunho’s arms slide around Mingi’s waist, face inching close till his breath fans his cheeks. “Relax, Mingi. I love her better than my exes, don’t I? She’s still breathing, alive—loving me back.” He pauses, “unlike my exes who are buried in the backyard.”

“Poetic,” Mingi laughs, rubbing circles on Yunho’s shoulder blades using his thumbs, “she’s the right fit for you. I know it sounds cliche, but maybe she could be the on.”

Yunho scoffs playfully, resting his forehead on his and smiling wide, “she is the one, Mingi. Like I said, I keep choosing her every morning when I wake up and would do it in any other lifetime.”

“When did my ruthless psychopathic best friend turn into a lovesick puppy?”

“Ever since she started embracing me for the way I am.” Yunho kisses Mingi’s cheek.

“That friend of hers thinks you’re manipulating her,” Mingi pipes in, blushing hard.

“No, I’m not. Seongmi is a freak,” Yunho shrugs, “she knows what I’m capable, still chooses to stay.”

“So, sometimes I wonder if she chooses me for the way I choose her.”