#jongho x reader

Just that one word. Quiet. Heavy. And somehow louder than your shouting could ever be. Your mother was standing near the window, arms folded like she was cold even though the room was warm. She didn’t speak. She never did, not in front of him. Just stood there looking outside, twisting her rings like she could disappear into the carpet if she tried hard enough. You hated that you weren’t even surprised.

“This marriage will benefit this family,” your father continued, smoothing his sleeves like this was some business meeting. “We’ve built this name for generations. And you will protect it.”

You clenched your fists tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Your reputation doesn’t mean anything outside this stupid town.”

It slipped before you could stop it, but you didn’t regret it. You meant it. All these formal dinners, these family events, these endless talks about legacy— all of it felt empty. Like a dying empire pretending it was still a kingdom.

“This family has survived longer than you’ve been alive,” your father shot back, finally meeting your gaze with steel in his eyes. “And you’ll do your part to make sure it stays that way.”

You could feel the walls closing in. You could feel your freedom shrinking, curling in on itself, suffocating before you could even scream.

“Kang Yeosang.”

The name hit you like a slap. Sharp. Direct. Cold. You knew that name. Everyone did. Not because he was some loud, reckless criminal—no, worse than that. He was dangerous in a way that didn’t make noise. Dangerous in the way silent oceans are. You don’t notice how deep they are until you’re already halfway sunk.

“Why him?” you asked, throat dry.

Your father barely blinked. “Because his family’s name will keep ours alive.”

Alive. Like this was survival. Like marrying you off to someone you didn’t even know was a favor. Like it was a gift. You hated how calm he was about it. You hated how your mother still hadn’t said a single word. You hated how small you felt in that moment, standing in a house you used to believe was home.

“I’m not going to his house,” you muttered finally, stubbornness flaring even when your heart was hammering in your chest. “You can make me marry him, but I’m not moving in with some— some stranger.”

For a second, you thought maybe—just maybe—that would get a reaction. That something in him would soften, crack, break.

It didn’t.

Instead, he stood. Calm. Slow. Adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with careful precision, like he was bored of the conversation already. “You will,” he said softly. “You’ll go to his house, you’ll be his wife, and you’ll do what’s expected of you.” “And if I don’t?” you pushed, lifting your chin like you weren’t breaking inside.

His gaze sharpened just enough for the threat underneath to show, sharp and cold as glass. “Then I’ll handle it my way.”

You knew what his way meant. Not blood. Not mafia violence. But ruin. Reputation torn apart. Family turned against you. Friends pushed away. He knew how to break you the polite way, the respectable way. Quiet destruction in the form of shame.

You swallowed thick, hot air that didn’t want to go down.

“I hate you,” you breathed.

But your father was already walking away, steps quiet against the polished floor.

“I can live with that.”

Your throat burned with all the things you wanted to scream, but only one thing came out. “What about my studies?”

It sounded small. Weak. But it was the only lifeline you could grab onto in that moment. Something that was yours. The one thing you had left that wasn’t part of their family dinners, or reputation games, or polite handshakes pretending to be alliances.

University was supposed to be your escape. Not glamorous. Not perfect. But it was freedom in its own, small way—early mornings, long commutes, paper deadlines, friends who didn’t care about who your father was.

Your father barely reacted.

“You can continue after the wedding,” he answered flatly, as if you were asking if you could have dessert after dinner.

You stared at him. “After?”

“Yes. You’ll still attend.”

But you knew what that meant. You knew the weight behind those words. After the wedding. After moving into a stranger’s house. After taking his last name. After your life wasn’t yours anymore. Technically, sure—you could go back. Physically, you could sit in the same classrooms, scribble in the same notebooks. But it wouldn’t be the same. Not with whispers curling behind your back. Not with people watching you like you were an exhibit. “That’s her—the girl who married into them.”

It would hang on you like invisible chains. Dragging behind you everywhere you went.

And worst of all—you wouldn’t be able to come home. Not really. Not to this family. Not to your old life. You’d have a new last name, a new house, a new set of rules written by someone else’s hand.

The walls of the study felt like they were closing in.

“I don’t want this,” you said, quieter this time. No yelling. Just raw honesty, like a last ditch effort to claw your way out. “This isn’t my life.”

Your father looked at you the same way he looked at accounts on paper. Math. Numbers. Problems to solve, not feelings to fix.

“It is now.”

Simple. Unforgiving. Final.

You could almost feel the weight of your choices shrinking down to nothing. Every dream you used to picture folded neatly into a little box, pushed aside for family names and legacy dinners with strangers in pressed suits. Your stomach twisted. Hot. Cold. Rage and panic mixing together until you couldn’t tell which was worse.

You wanted to shout, wanted to break something, wanted to drag this perfect little empire down brick by brick just to prove you could—but you stood there frozen, fists clenched, staring at a man who would never, ever see you as anything but his tool first.

Come to the house.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Yeosang sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “Alright. Be there in twenty.”

It wasn’t unusual—getting called over like this. His father didn’t waste words, didn’t waste visits. If he was calling, it meant something needed handling.

By the time he got to the mansion, the gates were already open like they always were when they expected him. The house was quiet, the same way expensive places are—grand, but not loud about it. Just old money tastefully sitting in every piece of polished wood.

His father was already in the study when Yeosang stepped inside, standing by the window, one hand in his pocket like it was muscle memory by now. Glass of whiskey in the other. Of course.

“You’re early,” his father said without turning around.

“You said now.”

His father finally looked over, gave him that familiar once-over like he was assessing a report. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Not tense. Just quiet.

Then—

“There’s going to be a wedding.”

Yeosang blinked once. “Yours?”

His father gave him a flat look, one eyebrow raising the way it always did when Yeosang was being difficult on purpose. “Yours.”

Yeosang huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, stepping further into the room. “That supposed to be funny?”

His father didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

Yeosang stood still for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “Is that what you dragged me here for? Could’ve sent a text.”

“This isn’t a text conversation.”

“You’d be surprised what can be said over text these days.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of his father’s mouth. Approval, maybe. Maybe not. Hard to tell with him.

“It’s arranged,” his father said, cutting through Yeosang’s deflection cleanly. “Her family’s name still matters in this town. Not rich, not influential in our way, but solid. Traditional. The kind of people who care about reputation more than their own comfort.”

Yeosang tilted his head slightly. “So… charity work?”

“Strategy,” his father corrected smoothly. “They need stability. We don’t need much from them, but it keeps everything clean.”

“Clean,” Yeosang repeated under his breath. He crossed his arms, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. “And I’m guessing I don’t get a vote?”

“You get an understanding. That’s enough.”

Yeosang didn’t argue. Not because he agreed, but because he knew there was no point. This was how it worked. Give and take. Favors. Names. Quiet deals behind closed doors.

He exhaled through his nose. “Who is she?”

“Y/L/N’s daughter.”

Yeosang’s brow ticked. “Didn’t know they had one.”

“Not surprising. They keep her out of sight. Books, classes, family dinners. But they need her to secure their name before it fades.”

Yeosang thought about that for a second. Reputation marriages were common enough. Boring, mostly. People shaking hands over other people’s futures like it was stock trading.

“You’ve met her?” he asked.

“Briefly. Enough to know she’s going to fight it.”

“Great.”

His father glanced at him then, sharp. “Not your job to like it. Just your job to make it work.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” Yeosang muttered, rolling his jaw. “I’m just saying… if she’s gonna be difficult, it’s gonna be annoying.”

His father’s gaze didn’t soften, but there was a certain understanding there. “You’ll handle it.”

Yeosang let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah,” he said, pushing off the doorframe. “Guess I will.”

As he turned to leave, his father added quietly, “This isn’t punishment.”

“I know.”

And he did. This was just how things worked. Fair or not—his life wasn’t completely his own anymore. Yeosang sat behind the wheel, thumb tapping against the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. Headlights cutting clean lines through the dark street, smooth turns, muscle memory driving him home while his mind drifted elsewhere.

Marriage. Arranged.

He scoffed quietly to himself, shaking his head once. What was he supposed to do with someone else’s family name attached to his life?

Some sheltered daughter of a traditional family, probably the kind who spent too much money on handbags and complained when the AC wasn’t cold enough. He could already hear the whining. Could already see the way she’d expect to live in his place, treat it like a hotel, float through his routine like an expensive perfume he didn’t ask to wear.

No, that wasn’t happening.

Maybe he’d buy her an apartment somewhere else. Nothing fancy, but decent enough. They could do the whole photo ops thing, wear the rings, play nice for the public, then go back to separate lives. Paper marriage. Clean. Or worse—she could be one of those girls who latched on for money. Gold digger. Probably already imagining his credit cards with her initials on the back.

He pressed his tongue to his cheek in irritation. God, he hated gold diggers.

Maybe she’d show up to the first meeting with some designer bag acting shy, but batting lashes like she knew exactly how to play the game. All wide eyes and fake humility. Great. Just what he needed—another headache in heels.

And the name—YN.

It felt familiar. Couldn’t place it, but the reputation was old enough to echo through town. Traditional. Reputed. The type of family that prided themselves on manners but ate each other alive behind closed doors.

The kind that smiled with their teeth.

He drummed his fingers once more, sharp taps on the leather, jaw set.

Alright.

If he was going to be stuck with this arrangement, he might as well know what he was dealing with. And he wasn’t about to walk into it blind. He had resources. Skills. Connections that didn’t come from LinkedIn profiles or polite family dinners. If they thought he was going to just sit back and play along without checking her first, they clearly didn’t know him well enough.

Fine. If she was going to be part of his life, even on paper, he’d find out exactly who she was—before she even stepped in the same room as him.

He flicked his blinker, turning toward his penthouse, already thinking about who to call first.

Let’s see what Miss YN was hiding.

By the time Yeosang finished, he knew more about her than her own family probably did.

University—small, local, nothing flashy. Biology major. Not exactly the typical rich family trophy daughter. No branded handbags, no influencer lifestyle. Her socials were barely active. Private, even. Most of her posts were old, nothing more than the occasional picture of a sunset or food she cooked. No thirst traps. No fake aesthetic feeds.

She liked drawing. Had an old art account that hadn’t been touched in months—messy sketches of flowers and animals, all pencil or black ink. Crochet too. Random photos of half-finished scarves stuffed in a drawer. Cooking—simple recipes, home stuff, not the kind of thing you post to show off, just to remember.

Her friends? A few from university. Small group chats. Normal conversations. Mostly about classes, complaining about assignments, nothing interesting. No clubbing pictures. No vacation shots with secret boyfriends tagged under fake accounts.

The further he dug, the more it annoyed him—not because he found anything bad, but because he didn’t. No scandals, no secret plans to social climb, no hidden motives that screamed gold digger or spoiled brat.

She was just… boring.

Boring in the way people are when they’re not trying to be noticed. And for some reason, that irritated him more than if she had been a problem.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, tossing his phone on the table. Elbow propped on the armrest, hand running through his hair, frustration curling at the edges of his jaw.

Great. Now he was stuck marrying some quiet, awkward, crochet-making biology nerd who probably spent more time reading textbooks than thinking about designer clothes. Not exactly the chaos he was expecting.

But that was fine.

Boring or not, it didn’t change the situation. Didn’t change the fact that she probably didn’t want this marriage any more than he did. Didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, she was about to become his problem.

The small cafe tucked between two old bookstores smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso, the kind of place you’d miss unless you were looking for it. Y/N liked it that way—quiet, steady, familiar. No loud music, no influencers with tripods. Just people who liked good coffee and minding their own business.

She stepped up to the counter, eyes scanning the pastries before glancing at the girl behind the register. “I love your hair,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips. “That color looks really good on you.” The girl blinked, caught off guard, then smiled wide. “Oh! Thank you—I just dyed it last week.”

Y/N nodded, pleased. Compliments were easy. They made people softer. And the girl was pretty, her pastel blue curls tucked behind her ear like she wasn’t sure yet if she liked them. Little things like that made the world feel less sharp.

She ordered her coffee, tucked herself into the corner seat like she always did, pulling her notebook out of her bag. Pages filled with messy diagrams, doodles in the margins, recipes scrawled sideways between molecular structures.

What she didn’t notice—what no one noticed—was the man sitting at the table near the window, fingers idly circling the rim of his untouched cup, black baseball cap low over his brow.

Yeosang watched all of it with that same steady, unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. Habit, maybe. Curiosity. Boredom. The fact that the more he found out about her, the more it didn’t add up with what he expected. Normal girls didn’t compliment strangers just because. Normal girls—especially daughters of families clawing for reputation—were supposed to be fake polite. Smile, nod, move on. But she meant it. He could tell. You didn’t fake that kind of tone.

He watched the way she curled into herself, scribbling in that notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist, lips pressed into a soft frown of concentration.

Just a quiet girl who looked like she was holding herself together with coffee and stubbornness.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee, jaw ticking once. This was going to be annoying in a completely different way. Y/N didn’t notice him when she left.

He watched her go, watched the way she shrugged her bag higher onto her shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a little ink stain on her wrist from writing earlier. She moved like someone used to being unnoticed, like she liked it that way. The door chimed behind her, soft and forgettable.

Yeosang waited a beat, then stood, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he stepped out onto the street. He wasn’t planning to follow her. Not really. That wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t the lurking type. But something about the whole thing felt unfinished—like he’d walked into a movie halfway through and now he needed to know how it ended, even if it was boring. Especially because it was boring.

She turned down one of the smaller streets, familiar paths clearly mapped in her head. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. Like she’d walked this way so many times her feet didn’t need permission anymore.

Normal. Predictable….Except for the part where, in a few weeks, her life wouldn’t be.

That was the thing gnawing at the edge of his mind. She didn’t know yet. Not fully. Probably knew about the arrangement, sure, but she didn’t know what marrying into his family meant. What marrying him meant. She looked like she still had hope things would be fine. Like she still thought she could negotiate her way out of it if she used the right tone with her father.

Cute.

He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the type to tear down someone just because he could. But he wasn’t about to let someone walk into his life acting like it was optional.

This marriage was happening. She was going to be his. And the sooner she realized that, the easier it was going to be for both of them.

Yeosang sighed, pulling his cap lower as he turned the opposite direction, heading back toward his car. No point in being seen. Not yet. He’d play it properly, like he always did—let the introductions happen the way their fathers arranged, act like this was his first time seeing her. Civil. Normal.

For now, she could keep her quiet cafes and notebooks full of diagrams.

Soon enough, she’d be sitting across from him at a dinner table pretending she wasn’t thinking about escape routes.

And when that time came—

He’d enjoy watching the fight leave her eyes when she realized there weren’t any.

The dining room was too polished. Everything in it felt like it belonged in a magazine—heavy chairs, polished forks, crystal glasses that didn’t belong to people who used them often. It smelled faintly like expensive old wood and control.

Y/N sat straight, shoulders set, jaw locked like she’d been preparing for this her entire life. Polite daughter. Obedient. Chin slightly tilted up—not too much to look rude, just enough to show she wasn’t going to shatter on command.

Across the table, Yeosang sat with his elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping slow against the tablecloth. His gaze was on her, not in the obvious way, not wide-eyed or curious—more like someone reading a file they already memorized but going over it again for fun.

“So,” his father started, formal tone sharp around the edges, “this is long overdue.”

Her father chuckled lightly, already halfway sunk into the leather chair like this was a golf meeting. “We’ve been meaning to sit down properly.”

Yeosang barely blinked. “Mm.”

Y/N didn’t look at him at first. Her eyes were trained on her plate, expression soft but unreadable, like she’d pulled politeness over herself like armor. When she finally did glance at him, it wasn’t shy—it was calculated. Brave. Probably spent the last week practicing it in the mirror.

Didn’t matter.

He knew everything already. Biology major. Draws on the side. Probably keeps her yarn stuffed in a drawer somewhere in that tiny bedroom of hers. Ordinary, and for some reason, that irritated him more than anything else could have.

Their parents carried the conversation like businessmen. Deals, family names, subtle remarks about strengthening ties. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a contract, disguised in roast chicken and overpriced wine.

Yeosang’s eyes didn’t leave her.

Y/N shifted her grip on the napkin under the table, folding it tighter in her palm. Eyes stayed low—not on purpose, not because she was scared—but because eye contact always felt like permission for people to ask more questions. And she wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to anyone at that table.

Yeosang sat across from her, speaking with her father like he wasn’t being sized up for marriage. Confident. Comfortable in a room full of expectations. His voice was steady, like someone used to being listened to, used to having the final word in a conversation. The kind of steady that didn’t need raising.

His father said something about ties between families. Her father hummed in agreement. Someone poured more wine. The edge of Yeosang’s gaze cut toward her briefly. He didn’t stare. Just checked. Like someone glancing at a watch to see how much longer they had to stay.

“So,” his voice finally reached her side of the table, low, smooth, without decoration, “biology.”

Her fork hovered, not quite raised, not quite lowered. “Yeah.”

He waited. No explanation followed. No polite rambling about how she got into it, what she wanted to do with it, how hard it was balancing studies with life. Just that quiet confirmation, like she wasn’t going to give him more than that unless dragged.

Something about that pulled a faint curve to the corner of his mouth—not a smile, not even close, just interest. Her fingers folded the napkin tighter.

“You gonna finish that?” he asked, eyes flicking to the untouched half of roasted potatoes on her plate.

Finally, her eyes met his. Not soft, not flirty—flat. Careful. “Do you want it?”

He shrugged once. “Didn’t think you were shy about eating.” “I’m not.”

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Good.”

Silence again, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just two people used to not needing to fill it. Her father started speaking about how she could continue studying after marriage, casual, like saying we’ll paint the guest room next week. She didn’t bother correcting him, though the heaviness in her chest said she wanted to. No way it would actually work that easily.

She didn’t say anything else for the rest of the meal. Yeosang didn’t, either.

He just watched her, like a lion watching something small—not because he wanted to pounce, but because he was curious if it was going to run. Neither of them moved first.

Yeosang watched the way her fingers kept folding the napkin tighter and tighter, like if she could just make it small enough, she could disappear into it. But her expression didn’t match the tension in her hands. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look desperate. Just… controlled. Like someone who’d been living with locked doors their whole life and knew better than to jiggle the handle too loud. Interesting.

“Do you usually not talk,” he murmured, cutting into the silence, “or is that just for me?”

The faintest breath of humor pulled at her nose before she could stop it. “Depends.”

“On?”

She let her gaze flick up—not to his eyes, just above them. “Whether or not the person across from me deserves it.” His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, and for a second, he almost laughed. Almost. This wasn’t what he expected. Spoiled daughters didn’t sit at tables folding napkins into perfect squares like they were holding knives in their laps.

And she didn’t look at him properly, not even once. Not because she was scared. Because she didn’t care. But she would.

Not in the way girls cared about him normally. Not wide-eyed or hopeful. No, she was going to care when she realized exactly how much of her life was about to be decided for her whether she folded napkins or full pages of essays. And the funny thing was—he didn’t want to break her. He just wanted to watch how long she could hold that line before she blinked first.

After the dinner dragged itself to its dull, polished conclusion, with the adults shaking hands over dessert like they’d just signed a treaty, Yeosang leaned back in his chair, elbow resting against the polished wood, fingertips brushing his jaw like he was thinking something over. And maybe he was. But the look in his eyes said this was calculated.

“So,” he said casually, but with the kind of weight that immediately drew the attention of both families, “how about next Thursday?”

The words dropped into the space between them with a deliberate softness, like a stone hitting still water. No one moved. His father raised a brow slightly, clearly pleased with the display of initiative. Her father smiled, the kind of smile fathers wear when they think their daughter’s life is finally falling in line. And Y/N—Y/N kept her fingers on the edge of her plate, eyes flickering up to Yeosang, finally, properly, but only for a second.

“Thursday?” she echoed, like she needed to make sure she heard him right, even though she absolutely had.

He nodded once, slow, composed. “Next week. You’ll be free, won’t you?”

It wasn’t a question. Not really. Not with the way every eye at that table turned toward her, expectant, waiting for her to be agreeable. Marriage was already settled like property; a casual dinner date wasn’t going to shake the foundation of that, but somehow, this felt worse.

Her jaw tensed before she could stop it, irritation curling hot under her ribs—not because she didn’t expect him to test her, but because he chose Thursday. Her only weekday off. Her only breathing space. Her only time where nobody expected her to be anything, say anything, do anything. She studied late on Thursdays, sometimes sat in the library doing nothing but scribbling messy notes on scrap paper that didn’t mean anything, just because she could. And now he was looking at her like he knew that. Like he’d planned that.

“I suppose,” she muttered, voice clipped, polite, lined with quiet annoyance that no one but him seemed sharp enough to hear. “Since you’ve already picked the day for me.”

Their fathers chuckled, pleased at the display of future marital bliss like they were in on some great joke. His father gave him that approving glance—the good, take responsibility look that was passed between powerful men in rooms like this. But Yeosang wasn’t watching anyone else. Just her. Measuring. Testing. Curious how far she could fold before snapping.

“You’ll like it,” he said simply. No tease. No apology. No smile.

She didn’t respond. Just folded the napkin in her lap one more time before setting it neatly on the table like she was handling something fragile. She didn’t look at him again, not because she was shy, but because she knew better. If she did, it’d feel like she was giving him something.

And right now, she wasn’t in the mood to give him anything. But she was curious now. Why Thursday?

Yeosang saw everything. He wasn’t sitting there with that calm posture and steady gaze for show—he was trained for this, raised on discipline sharper than any blade, molded under the expectation that one day he would carry the weight of something much heavier than family name. He was observant. Always. And while everyone at that table was busy patting each other’s backs over the success of an arranged marriage neither party asked for, Yeosang was watching her like a map he was learning by memory.

It was the way she folded the napkin—not once, not twice, but over and over. Each time, pressing it smaller, sharper, tucking corners like she wanted it neat but not too neat, controlled but never pristine. People who folded things that many times weren’t trying to fidget—they were trying to manage something they couldn’t put words to. He’d seen it in tense meetings, watched rival leaders smooth the edges of cufflinks or touch their watches repeatedly when they were hiding nerves or holding in words they couldn’t say aloud.

And she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

But that wasn’t the only thing. He caught the tiny shifts in her posture whenever her parents leaned too close, a subtle lean away—not disrespectful, not obvious, just barely enough to create distance like muscle memory. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t recoil. She managed it. As if that small separation was the only thing keeping her breathing steadily through this whole suffocating display of family pride.

Then there was her food. The careful way she pushed it around her plate, not because she was picky or entitled, but because eating under watchful eyes wasn’t the same as eating alone. Separating textures, shapes, colors, almost like categorizing parts of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. It wasn’t disinterest—it was control. She was being studied, so she gave them nothing. Not even in the way she chewed.

Most people didn’t notice these things. Hell, most people didn’t even know they did them. But Yeosang saw it all like someone reading subtitles under a movie no one else could hear. And with every fold of that napkin, with every subtle lean of her shoulder, with every glance that never quite met anyone else’s fully, he knew one thing for certain—

She was no ordinary girl.

No spoiled daughter. No meek little thing waiting for a husband to save her from some sheltered life. There was something under that careful silence, something sharp, something waiting. Not the loud kind of defiance—but the quiet kind that made revolutions possible if left alone too long.

Yeosang didn’t know what that thing was yet. But he wanted to. Not to break her. Not to tame her. Not even to get under her skin. He just wanted to see what would happen if someone finally pressed back. And he was more than prepared to be that someone.

But he was no saint, either. Sure, Yeosang was observant. Sure, he was sharp, disciplined, raised on a steady diet of politics, violence, and strategy—but he was also his father’s son. And that bloodline came with one very particular curse: the chronic, unrelenting need to poke at things just to see what sound they made when they cracked. It wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t even personal. It was just in his bones.

And she—sitting there with her neat napkin folding and careful glances and that stubborn refusal to give him anything—was basically gift-wrapped for that exact kind of cruelty.

Admit it. He was intrigued by her, sure. But more than that, there was an itch under his skin when he looked at her, this annoying, bratty curiosity that made him want to press buttons just to see what she’d do. Not because he wanted to humiliate her. Not because he wanted to watch her fall apart. No, it was because she didn’t flinch. And that was interesting. Different. Everyone flinched eventually—but she just… adjusted.

And she looked cute annoyed.

Not the whiny, spoiled kind of cute. Not the bratty, helpless kind. The kind of cute that made him want to lean closer, just to see if her voice would crack the same way her napkin did under her fingers.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t even be here, technically, wasting brainpower on reading into a girl he was being forced to marry by family names he didn’t even particularly respect. But here he was, running mental diagnostics on someone’s napkin folding like it was part of a case file, and liking it more than he should.

And if he was going to be dragged into this circus of arranged happiness, he might as well have fun while he was at it.

Testing her? It wasn’t just strategy anymore. It was entertainment. Annoying her? That was just hereditary.

She really didn’t want to go.

Like—borderline, jump-off-the-balcony level of not wanting to go. Not because she thought it would fix anything, not because she was dramatic, but because the sheer dread of giving up the one day that belonged to her made her stomach twist. It was Thursday. Thursday was hers. Her one breath in a week full of held ones. Her one clean, unclaimed square of time where no one asked her to smile, or marry, or fold herself into something palatable.

But she didn’t jump, because that wasn’t how good girls act.

Her mother’s voice echoed in the bathroom as she brushed mascara through her lashes. ‘Be agreeable, Y/N. Don’t embarrass us. You’re not going to be one of those girls with tantrums and police reports. You’re better than that.’

Better. Whatever that meant.

So she got dressed. Pulled on clothes that said I didn’t try but I still look good because if she was going to be dragged into this, she was going to do it on her terms. She tied her shoes like she was tightening a tether around her own ankles. Did her makeup—not too much, not too little, just enough to look alive, to hide the exhaustion that simmered under polite nods and family dinners.

And when she finally looked at herself in the mirror, it wasn’t vanity staring back. It was survival. Thursday. Her Thursday. And now she was about to spend it across from him.

That annoying Yeosang with his sharp eyes and careful words, with his I’m watching you energy and the quiet smugness that didn’t need smiles or stupid flirting to make itself known. She could already hear his voice in her head, perfectly even, perfectly annoying.

And yet—she still tied her hair the way she liked it. Still put on her favorite necklace. Not for him. For herself. Because if she was going to war, she might as well wear armor.

She went down the stairs like muscle memory, footsteps light but steady, not really registering anything around her. Her parents said something—maybe a wish, maybe a warning, maybe one of those sugary “be good” reminders her mother loved so much. But it was all white noise, just the hum of life happening in the background of a mind that was already somewhere else entirely.

She didn’t ignore them on purpose. She was just zoned out. The kind of zoned out where you don’t even realize your keys are already in your hand, or that you locked the door behind you without thinking about it. Automatic. Like when you’re walking to class with music on and suddenly you’re already at the building, but you don’t remember crossing the street.

She didn’t remember leaving the front door. Didn’t remember if she’d even said goodbye, or if her mom had tried to fix the fold of her sleeve one last time like she always did. And she definitely didn’t see him until she stepped out onto the pavement and felt him.

There’s a specific kind of awareness that happens when someone’s eyes are already on you before you’ve noticed them. Like a silent tap on the shoulder. She glanced up—

—and there he was.

Leaning back comfortably in the driver’s seat of a sleek black car, windows down just enough to catch the breeze, one hand draped over the steering wheel like he had all the time in the world. Rap music playing in the background, not quiet but not obnoxiously loud. And that expression—not quite a smile, definitely not a grin, just that irritating curve of satisfaction people wore when they’d predicted something exactly right. Smug wasn’t even the word for it. It was too clean. Too Yeosang. Of course he was already here.

Of course he was watching her like he knew she wouldn’t have noticed him until now. She blinked once, slow, lips pressed in a thin line, and then kept walking. Didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t offer a greeting, just moved like she was late for something even though she wasn’t.

He leaned slightly forward as she approached, tapping his fingers once against the steering wheel, eyes glinting with that silent, irritating amusement.

You walked towards the car, your steps slower than usual, annoyance bubbling up at the sight of him sitting there, looking far too comfortable. You crossed your arms and leaned slightly against the door, giving him a flat look.

“I wasn’t aware you were picking me up,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral. It came out a little sharper than intended, but you couldn't help it. This whole thing felt off, like you were being dragged into a game that you hadn’t agreed to play.

Yeosang just looked at you with that annoying, cocky expression, the one that always made your blood boil, and shrugged a shoulder. "Well, you should've been. It’s not like you had many options."

You felt a flicker of irritation, but it quickly settled into a calm mask. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of showing how much he got under your skin. Moving towards the backdoor, you reached for the handle, ready to slide in and get this over with.

Before you could even touch it, the car locked with a loud click.

You froze.

What the hell?

You looked up at him, surprised. He just sat there, still with that casual air, his eyes gleaming as if he was waiting for a reaction.

“Excuse me?” you said, narrowing your eyes.

Without missing a beat, he simply pointed to the passenger seat with an almost lazy gesture. "Sit there."

You blinked at him. You were about to say something—probably something rude—but you stopped yourself. There was no way you were going to let him mess with you like this. Still, you didn’t argue. You didn't have the energy to fight him over something so trivial. The car door opened with a quick swipe, and you slid in, your gaze still sharp but subdued.

Yeosang didn’t speak again as you buckled your seatbelt, his attention shifting to the road as he put the car in drive. The silence between you felt heavy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break it. It was better this way. Better not to engage, better to keep things surface-level.

The ride was awkward. Well, for you, at least. Yeosang didn’t seem to feel it. His posture was relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear, like he was driving down to the beach with friends and not chauffeuring his future wife to some forced date neither of you wanted.

But you sat there, arms crossed, eyes out the window, chewing the inside of your cheek. And then it hit you. Wait. Is that Kendrick Lamar’s Reincarnated playing?

You blinked, eyes flickering toward the dashboard like you could confirm it with just a glance at the stereo. The beat was unmistakable, that heavy bass, sharp snare, and those layered vocals riding smooth over the instrumental. Of all the people to be playing Kendrick Lamar at full volume—it had to be him.

The irritation in your chest shifted slightly, replaced by something… warmer. Familiar. For a second—just a second—you forgot you were on your way to spend your Thursday afternoon with the most annoying man alive. You knew this song. Knew it.

Mentally, you started mouthing the lyrics in your head, matching every bar, every breath, every sharp flip of cadence like muscle memory. Word to word. Clean. Like second skin. It wasn’t loud in your expression, but your mind was in full concert mode, rapping like you’d been waiting for this exact song to save you from the awkwardness.

And for the first time since you sat in that car, you didn’t feel bored.

Without even realizing it, your fingers had started tapping against your thigh, following the beat with this natural kind of ease that only happens when something feels right. The awkwardness melted just slightly—not completely, but enough that you didn’t feel like throwing yourself out of the moving car anymore.

But then—

The song ended, and before you could even mourn the silence—another Kendrick song started playing. Different album. Same vibe. Same unmistakable energy. You frowned slightly, eyes flicking to the stereo now like it had betrayed you. Two Kendrick songs in a row? Coincidence?

You sat there for a second, staring ahead, lips pressing into a thin line as your brain worked overtime. Sure, it could’ve been a coincidence. Everyone liked Kendrick, right? But this felt… deliberate. Like someone had put it on a playlist. Was he doing it on purpose? Is he a fan too?

You glanced at him, cautious, like you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of catching you interested—but curiosity was starting to override irritation. He was just driving like usual, one hand lazily adjusting the volume like it was background noise to him. But something about how casual he looked felt rehearsed.

It didn’t sit right with you. Could’ve been random. Could’ve been a setup. Or… could’ve been both. But either way, you weren’t about to ask first. Nope. Not happening.

You just leaned back against the seat, eyes steady out the window, tapping your fingers again, this time not just because of the beat—but because you were thinking.

Yeosang was way too pleased with himself.

Not that he showed it outwardly—no smug grin, no teasing comments just yet—but inside? Yeah. He was damn near proud. Everything was going exactly how he wanted. Calculated. Controlled. Planned with the kind of precision that came from years of watching, learning, and frankly—being too damn good at reading people.

He knew everything he needed to know about you. Hell—he probably knew more about you than you did. He knew Thursday was your free day. Knew how you carved it out for yourself like it was holy ground. That’s exactly why he chose today to drag you out. Not because he wanted to ruin it. No—because it would be the one thing you couldn’t say no to. You’d either have to cancel your only peace of the week or face him—and he knew you’d pick facing him. Pride. Predictable.

He knew you didn’t like going out—not with family, not with friends, barely even by yourself. So, he came to you. Made it easy. Familiar car. Private. No excuses to back out last minute because “I didn’t feel like taking a cab” or “the bus was crowded”. Nah. He had you cornered, comfortably.

And the music? That wasn’t a coincidence, either. He’d seen the playlist. Hell, he’d memorized the damn playlist. Kendrick Lamar was your favorite in the rap genre, and it just so happened Kendrick was on his heavy rotation too, so it didn’t even feel forced. Just enough familiarity to make you settle in, just enough to make your fingers tap without realizing, to get you thinking maybe this won’t be as bad as I thought.

He didn’t need to ask you what you liked. He knew what you liked. Yeosang’s father didn’t raise fools—and Yeosang wasn’t about to start disappointing now.

He kept his eyes on the road, face clean of expression, like he didn’t know exactly what you were thinking. Like he hadn’t already played this scene out in his head a dozen times. You were stubborn, yeah—but he was patient. And precise.

He didn’t want to break you. Nah. That was boring. He wanted to watch. Watch how long you could act like you didn’t care. Watch how long you could pretend you weren’t curious. Watch how long it took before you realized—you weren’t the only one with sharp edges.

And yeah, he liked rap too. Lucky you.

The car rolled to a smooth stop, the hum of the engine cutting off and leaving behind the faint echo of Kendrick’s verse lingering in your head. You looked around, blinking slowly. Parking lot.

What kind of parking lot? You didn’t know. Big building, a few cars around, that slightly industrial vibe, but nothing familiar. You didn’t go out enough to tell which part of town this was, and frankly—you didn’t care. You just wanted to get this over with.

With a sigh, you reached for your seatbelt, pressing the button to unclip it…Nothing.

You pressed it again, harder this time, like maybe the extra force would convince it to listen to you. Nothing moved. “Oh, come on—” you muttered under your breath, tugging at the strap now with growing frustration. Typical. Typical. Of course this was happening. On today of all days. And the last thing you wanted to do—the very last—was ask him for help. But pride had limits, and you’d already used up most of yours agreeing to this disaster of a “date.”

You glanced at him reluctantly. “It’s stuck.”

He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Didn’t flinch, didn’t chuckle—just leaned slightly toward you, unbothered, one hand moving with irritating ease to the buckle. The button clicked effortlessly under his fingers like it had just been waiting for him to do it.

“See?” he murmured, voice low, that smug little undertone threading beneath it. “I knew you’d need me eventually.”

Your jaw clenched, and you shot him a look that could’ve killed a weaker man on the spot. “It was broken.”

“Of course it was,” he replied, tone dripping with mock sympathy, before pushing his door open and stepping out like nothing just happened.

You sat there for a second, heat prickling at the back of your neck, wishing the ground would swallow you whole—but no such luck.

Fine. Whatever. You pushed your door open too, standing straight, brushing down your clothes like you hadn’t just been humiliated by a seatbelt. You wouldn’t let him have the last word. Not yet. Not ever.

You followed him, not knowing where you were going, but very aware of two things:

1. This was going to be a long day.

2. You hated how nice his stupid cologne smelled when he walked ahead of you.

But you had no intention of making this easy for him.

So, as soon as you both started walking, you slowed your pace—not obviously, not dramatically—just… enough. Enough to make it mildly irritating. Enough to make him notice. You weren’t even really doing it on purpose; he was just tall, and apparently, tall people had no concept of walking like normal humans. His strides were three of yours combined, and you refused—refused—to jog after him like some lost puppy.

If he wanted to drag you around, he was going to work for it. But the irritating thing? He didn’t say a word. Didn’t huff, didn’t throw a glance over his shoulder, didn’t tell you to hurry up like you half expected. He just walked, silent, hands in his pockets like this was the most casual thing in the world.

Until suddenly, about ten steps ahead, he stopped. Just stood there.

You narrowed your eyes, fully prepared for some passive-aggressive remark or maybe a sarcastic clap. You were ready for it. Bring it on. But instead—he just turned around and… held out his hand. You stared at it like it was something you didn’t understand.

The hell was that supposed to mean?

Your eyes flicked up to his face, searching for the usual sharp comment or hidden smirk—but nothing. He just stood there, hand out, expression unreadable but steady. “Grab on,” he said, like it was obvious. You blinked, caught between being offended and… genuinely confused. “What?”

“You’re slow,” he said simply, like he was pointing out the weather. “So grab on.”

You stared at his hand, then back at his face. “I’m not slow. You’re just fast.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said under his breath. “Now grab on before I make you.”

You didn’t move for a second. Pride screamed no, but practicality… well, it was tired of jogging every five steps to keep up. And something about the way he said it—firm, low, steady—not mocking, not playful, just… expecting—it made that prickling nervousness crawl up your spine again. You hated that tone.

But your hand moved anyway, slipping into his, your fingers curling awkwardly, like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. His grip was steady, firm—but not crushing. Not controlling. Just… leading.

Without another word, he started walking again, pulling you gently but efficiently alongside him, adjusting his pace—not entirely slowing down, but enough that you didn’t have to scramble. You hated how… easy it felt. Hated it more that your hand stayed there.

The deeper you both walked, the clearer it got—it wasn’t just some random building or a casual cafe. It was a restaurant. A fancy one.

Not just white tablecloth fancy, but crystal glasses, piano music playing softly in the background, waiters dressed better than your uncles at weddings kind of fancy. And honestly? It was too much.

Your dad never took you to places like this. Never. Said restaurants were a scam, said home food was better, cheaper, cleaner—but you knew better. You’d seen the unpaid bills, the receipts stuffed into drawers, the phone calls with that low, desperate tone he didn’t think you could hear. Gambling debt didn’t leave room for filet mignon or imported wine. You’d spent your life quietly excusing it, brushing it off, pretending you didn’t want this kind of thing anyway.

But standing here now, in this giant pristine place with soft golden lighting and tables spaced way too far apart, you felt like an imposter. Like you were wearing someone else’s shoes in a room you didn’t belong in. It was overwhelming. Too bright. Too clean. Too silent. Everyone here looked like they belonged. And you—you didn’t even know which fork to use first.

You hadn’t realized it at first, but your body did. Instinctively, without even thinking, you found yourself scooting closer to him. Not dramatically—not enough to look weird—but just enough that the space between you narrowed. Like proximity alone could make you smaller, safer, less obvious. The worst part?

It felt natural.

You hated that. Hated that the man you were mentally arguing with for the past hour was now also the one person here who felt vaguely familiar.

Yeosang noticed, of course he did. The tension of your shoulder brushing barely against his arm, the shift of your body tilting slightly toward his—he clocked it instantly. But he didn’t comment. Didn’t give you that teasing remark you were bracing for. Instead, his fingers adjusted slightly around yours, like he was anchoring you there. Silent. Steady. Just a solid presence beside all the marble floors and velvet chairs.

He didn’t say a word. But you felt it anyway. ‘I got you.’

Some guy—manager, waiter, whatever—showed up then, all polite smiles and expensive cologne, greeting Yeosang like they were long-lost friends or something. Said something about the table being ready, offered some words you didn’t really catch because your brain was too busy buzzing with nerves.

You weren’t listening. Didn’t want to. Everything felt too sharp around the edges. Before you could even process it properly, Yeosang had your hand again, guiding you forward with that same casual grip, not giving you the chance to hesitate. It wasn’t forceful, just… confident. Like he already knew you’d follow.

And you did.

He led you through rows of softly murmuring people until you reached a table—not entirely private, but tucked into a little alcove, partly hidden by frosted glass panels and low plants. Enough separation that you didn’t feel like fish in a tank, but not so hidden that it felt awkward. It was nice. Comfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

Yeosang didn’t miss a beat. He stepped around you and—of course—pulled out the chair. You hesitated for half a second, eyes flickering up at him. No teasing expression. No sharp remark waiting. Just a simple gesture, like this was routine.

You sat down, the chair gliding smoothly beneath you, and he pushed it in with practiced ease. For a brief second, you hated how nice that felt. Not because of him. But because no one had done that before. Not dates, not family, not anyone.

You adjusted your sleeves awkwardly, trying not to fidget, while he walked around and took his own seat, leaning back with that effortless comfort like this was his living room and not a restaurant with menus you probably couldn’t even afford to read.

He picked up the menu with one hand, flipping through it casually like this wasn’t his first time here—which, judging by how the staff greeted him, you were sure it wasn’t. His eyes scanned the pages, sharp and focused, while the other hand rested lazily on the edge of the table. After a moment, he looked up, right at you. “What do you want?”

It shouldn’t have been a complicated question. Normal people would just… answer. Say pasta, steak, whatever. But for some reason, your throat tightened. It wasn’t nerves—not exactly. Just… indecision.

All your life, someone had chosen for you. Your mom, mostly. Always ordering for you at restaurants—never asking, just assuming. Always brushing off your opinions as “It’s not good for you,” or “You won’t like it.” Somewhere along the line, you stopped bothering to decide. It felt easier that way.

So you did the only thing that felt natural, default almost. “Whatever you’re having.” Yeosang paused.

His jaw ticked slightly, almost like he was holding back a sigh—but not in frustration. More like… patience. “That’s not how this works,” he said, voice lower, steady, like someone reasoning with a kid who was trying to eat candy for breakfast. “You don’t just copy.”

You shrugged, defensive, staring at the polished wood of the table. “I don’t know what’s good.”

“It’s not that deep,” he finished for you, lips twitching slightly—but not in mockery, just amusement. “It’s just food. Pick what you want.”

The thing was… no one had ever given you choices like that. Not explained them patiently. Not acted like your opinion actually mattered, even in something as small as dinner. It made your chest feel weirdly tight. Like you wanted to be mad, but couldn’t quite find the reason.

Yeosang didn’t press further. Just leaned back again, waving over the waiter with a lazy flick of his fingers, like this was the most normal thing in the world. But you sat there with the menu still open in your hands, staring at it…

That’s when it hit you—the slow, creeping embarrassment settling in the pit of your stomach.

You didn’t know how to read menus.

Not like literally not knowing how to read, but… you didn’t know how to understand them. Fancy restaurant menus weren’t in normal language—they were in that rich people language. Words like confit, beurre blanc, something-something reduction—you didn’t even know if you were ordering food or furniture. The more you stared at it, the worse it got. Everything blurred together until it just looked like noise on paper.

Your hand twitched slightly on the edge of the menu, the corners of it curling under your fingertips. You didn’t even know how to begin. Finally, you gave up. Quietly. Awkwardly. You placed the menu down and looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time all evening. Gone was the irritation, the stubborn defiance. Instead, it was something softer. Not defeated, but pleading.

“Can you just… choose?” you asked, voice low, almost hoping he wouldn’t make a scene about it.

For a second, he just stared at you. No teasing, no smug smile—just studying you. Calculating. Then, instead of making a big deal about it, he nodded once, sharp, like this was all perfectly normal. “Alright,” he murmured. “But you’re still gonna have choices.”

And then, like it was muscle memory, he listed things off. Simple. No complicated words, no long-winded chef specials.

“Do you want red sauce or white?”

“Chicken or beef?”

“Want dessert or not?”

Just basic questions, no extra fluff. Like someone breaking down rocket science to math tables. By the time he was done, it actually sounded like a meal, not a puzzle.

And without realizing it, you’d started folding the cloth napkin again. Neatly. Sharply. Fold, unfold, fold, unfold. It was muscle memory at this point—your fingers always needed something to do. Something to control, even when nothing else made sense.

Somewhere along the way, he’d passed you his napkin too. You didn’t even notice it. Just that at some point, your hands had another one to work with. Your mind didn’t register it; your body just accepted it, thankful for the extra fabric to keep you grounded.

It was quiet. Subtle. No words, no glances, no gestures. And while you kept folding and unfolding that napkin like your life depended on it, he just sat there across from you, arms resting lazily on the table, ordering both your meals in that steady voice like this wasn’t even a thing.

He didn’t act like he was helping. And you didn’t notice you were being helped.

While you were busy poking at the carefully cut chicken on your plate—eating but not really tasting—Yeosang sat across from you, trying not to lose his mind.

Cuteness aggression. That was the only way to describe it. Like he wanted to bite something or hit the table—not out of anger, but because you were just too much.

It wasn’t just the way you’d quietly surrendered, letting him order for you like it was nothing. It wasn’t just the way your fingers kept working that napkin like you didn’t even know you were doing it. It was the whole picture—the you of it all. Sitting there, looking like the softest thing in the sharpest world.

And that cardigan you were wearing? Please. He could tell by the stitching it was handmade. Probably by you. The unevenness of the cuffs, the slightly imperfect patterns—no brand could fake that kind of charm. You didn’t even know how much that cardigan was giving you away, how much of you was stitched into every row.

It made something in his chest tighten, like he wanted to tuck you somewhere safe. His pocket. A drawer. Somewhere you couldn’t get overwhelmed by menus and loud places and useless fathers.

But he still played it cool, leaning back a little, eyes glinting as he ran his thumb along the edge of his fork like he wasn’t thinking borderline insane things about a girl he just met. He glanced at the cardigan, then back at you, voice dropping casual but knowing.

“You make that?”

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. “What?”

“That cardigan,” he said, tone light, like they were talking about the weather. “You made it?”

You hesitated. Not because you were embarrassed—more because no one really noticed that kind of thing. Definitely not guys like him. But… you nodded. “Yeah.”

A lazy grin, sharp but not mocking, pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Figured. Looks like you.”

That sentence alone made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t have the energy to process. You didn’t even know what that meant. Looked like you? Quiet? Crocheted? Awkwardly stitched together? You didn’t ask. You just looked back down at your plate, busying yourself with another bite, folding that second napkin again like it was holding the fabric of your nerves together.

Meanwhile, Yeosang sat there, feeling way too satisfied with himself. You were dangerously cute. And he was dangerously aware of it.

He dropped you off, making sure you got to your front door before pulling away. You didn’t say much—a quiet “thanks,” barely audible—but you didn’t run away either. Progress.

But by the time he pulled into his father’s estate, parked the car, and stepped into the over-polished marble entrance, he was losing it. Hand over his mouth. Jaw tight. Muscles flexing like he was holding in a scream or something equally embarrassing. What the hell was that?

That wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to be annoying. Spoiled. Bratty. Some daddy’s princess with acrylic nails and too much perfume. You were supposed to be the type he could dump in a nice apartment and visit once a month with gifts so you’d stay quiet about the whole arrangement.

But you weren’t. You were a mess. An organized, pretty, cardigan-wearing mess.

And worse, you didn’t even know you were cute. You weren’t even trying. You just sat there in that chair at that fancy-ass restaurant, folding napkins like they were some secret escape plan, wearing that handmade sweater like it wasn’t making him feel like an insane person.

And now? Forget that whole buying-another-place plan. That idea was dead the moment he saw how small you looked sitting across from him. No way. You were staying where he could see you. Reach you. Annoy you on purpose if he felt like it. Which he did.

He stood in the foyer of his father’s mansion, hand dragging down his face, pacing a little in his boots.

God. He felt like squealing. Like actually kicking something, or punching the air, or rolling on the expensive carpet like a twelve-year-old with a crush.

“This is insane,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud would make it make sense. It didn’t.

You were in his head. Neatly folded like that stupid napkin you kept twisting around your fingers. And for the first time in a long time, Kang Yeosang didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh, scream, or marry you right now.

The moment Yeosang stepped further into the house, hand dragging down his face, muttering like a lunatic, he heard it—the unmistakable voice of his old man echoing from the sitting room. “Why the hell do you look like a teenage girl who just got her first crush?”

Yeosang didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even stop pacing. Just waved his hand dismissively, as if to say don’t start. His father stood there in his usual crisp shirt, whiskey glass in hand like always, giving him that unimpressed look fathers reserve for sons who don’t follow in their exact footsteps.

“I’m serious,” his father huffed, stepping forward. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Why are you here anyway? Thought you liked hiding in that overpriced shoebox you call an apartment.”

Yeosang finally dropped his hand from his face, side-eyeing him, unimpressed. “Renovation,” he grumbled. “It’s getting fixed up. You want me to sleep on the street?” His father scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “You could’ve stayed at one of the hotels we own.”

“Right. And let everyone think I’m homeless now. Good look for a mafia heir.” The older man narrowed his eyes, recognizing that tone. That annoying tone Yeosang always used when he was about to get smart-mouthed. “So why are you pacing around here like some lovesick idiot?”

Yeosang clicked his tongue, glaring at the floor like it personally offended him. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

“You’re the one that set me up with her.”

His father’s brow lifted. “Did she bite?”

“She didn’t even blink.”

That made his father laugh. Really laugh. Like belly laugh, hand pressed to his chest, deep and loud in that expensive, echoey house.

“God,” Yeosang muttered under his breath. “You’re actually enjoying this.”

“Of course I am,” his father smirked. “Finally met someone who doesn’t fall apart under your pretty-boy nonsense. Good. You needed that.”

Yeosang rolled his jaw, annoyed beyond belief, but honestly? His dad wasn’t wrong. His father waved his glass toward him. “What’s the problem, then? I thought you were going to dump her in a penthouse and get on with life.”

“Yeah, that plan’s dead.”

“Why?”

Yeosang just stood there, defeated. “She’s too—”

“What? Petty? Weird? Mean?”

“…Soft.”

His father blinked, confused. “Soft?”

Yeosang didn’t elaborate. Didn’t have to. Soft in a way that made him want to ruin someone’s life if they made you cry. Soft in a way that made him want to drag you closer by the wrist when you got overwhelmed. Soft in a way that pissed him off because he liked it too much. His father just shook his head, amused, like he knew exactly what kind of hell Yeosang was walking into. “Good luck with that, Romeo.”

“Shut up.”

You did not expect this. A casual text? Fine. Him calling you just to “check in”? Annoying, but tolerable. Even him dragging you out on those stupid dates now and then—you could live with that. But this? Showing up to your university?

What the actual hell was wrong with him?

It wasn’t even subtle. Of course it wasn’t subtle. Not with that stupid black car of his parked right at the entrance, shining like a beacon of unwanted attention. Not with him leaning against the door like he was shooting a damn commercial, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses pushed into his hair, looking like every other man’s nightmare and every other woman’s distraction.

And people noticed. Oh, they noticed. Girls whispering, eyes widening, phones coming out to take sneaky pictures. A group of guys near the library basically breaking their necks trying to get a better look. And you?

You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. He had the audacity to wave at you. Like this was normal. Like this wasn’t blowing up the very careful life of low attention, quiet exits, don’t talk to me I’m just here to graduate you had built for yourself.

You speed-walked. Not even pretending anymore. Walked up to him so fast it looked like you were about to commit a crime. “What the hell are you doing?” you hissed under your breath, shoving at his shoulder, eyes darting around like you were being followed by paparazzi.

“Picking you up,” he said, casual as you liked, like this wasn’t the most embarrassing moment of your life unfolding in real time.

“Get in the car,” you snapped. “Now.”

And, the bastard, he laughed. Laughed like this was a game.

Still, he obeyed, sliding into the driver’s seat like he was doing you a favor. You yanked the passenger door open, practically diving inside, head ducked like you were avoiding a sniper.

The moment the door shut you rounded on him. “Are you insane?”

“I missed you,” he said, like that explained anything.

“You could’ve— texted me or something! I don’t need the whole uni thinking I’m with someone rich”

“You are with someone rich,” he corrected, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the other resting over the gear like this was a Sunday drive.

The car came to a stop in front of this sleek-looking storefront, all black glass and warm lighting, like one of those places you only see rich people walk into on TV shows. And because your life apparently wasn’t embarrassing enough, Yeosang parked like he owned the building.

You looked at the place, then at him. “What is this?”

“Jewelry,” he answered flatly, already stepping out of the car. Jewelry. Jewelry. As if that explained anything.

Before you could argue or even think, he came around, opened your door, and like a villain from a drama, dragged you inside by the wrist—not harsh, but determined. The cold from the street clung to your clothes, your boots crunching against the salted sidewalk, but the moment you stepped inside—it was warm. Not just warm, but that kind of luxury warm, where the air smells faintly of expensive perfume and everything feels soft, even though nothing should be.

And you? You immediately felt your whole body loosen, just a little. It wasn’t even intentional. The cold had been biting, sharp against your ears and the tip of your nose, and this? This was dangerous. Comforting. You could rot here, honestly. Just melt into one of the velvet chairs and stop existing.

Yeosang noticed.

Of course he noticed. He didn’t miss anything about you. The way your shoulders relaxed. The way you almost—almost—let your head drop forward like you could fall asleep standing there.

He wanted to bite you. No, seriously. Bite. His jaw clenched just thinking about it. You looked too cute. With your knitted cardigan, snow-dusted boots, fidgety fingers already tugging at the sleeves. It was criminal. Illegal. Someone should lock you up for being this dangerous in public.

But he was strong. Barely. Barely holding himself back from grabbing you by the face and just—squishing. Maybe even kissing that stupid annoyed expression off of you. Would’ve been worth it. You were too busy shaking the snow from your sleeves to notice him battling for his sanity two feet away.

An employee walked over, all smiles and professional greetings, asking what you both needed today. You blinked at her like a deer caught in headlights.

Yeosang spoke first. “Rings.”

You snapped your head to him. “What?”

“For the engagement,” he said calmly, like duh, obviously. Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “You dragged me here for that? You could’ve warned me—”

“And ruin the surprise of watching you panic in real-time? No thanks.” You glared daggers into his skull, wishing you could teleport out of your own skin. “You’re evil.”

“Mm,” he hummed, eyes lazily drifting over the display cases. “Yours?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Ring size.”

“I—I don’t know!”

His lips quirked—not a smirk, you banned those, but just that annoying, knowing twitch that told you he was enjoying this too much. “Figures. Guess we’ll find out together.” You honestly might combust right there on the jewelry shop floor.

Yeosang walked toward the counter with the same energy as someone about to close a business deal. Calm. Focused. Casual power.

You stayed frozen for a beat, still stunned at the whole situation, until your feet moved on their own. Before you realized it, you were right beside him, eyes locking onto the display.

And that’s when it hit you. The rings. They were gorgeous. Not just shiny-for-the-sake-of-shiny—but delicate, beautiful. Rings with elegant stones, simple but detailed bands, not the overdone flashy stuff but the kind that made you think: if I wore that, maybe I wouldn’t feel so small.

You leaned in without realizing, gaze scanning over each one like a kid at a candy store—but also a little sad. You never let yourself want things like that. What was the point? Your parents could never buy you things like this. You grew up being handed the practical, the necessary. Wanting was a waste of time.

But Yeosang saw it. All of it.

The way your fingers twitched at your sides like you wanted to reach out but didn’t. The slight glassiness in your stare—not tears, but that lost look people got when they wanted something badly but were too used to swallowing it down.

To him? Your eyes were sparkling. Bright, full of that light people only showed when they forgot to hide. He couldn’t stop looking at you. The whole room could’ve caught fire, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

He leaned closer, voice lower. “See something you like?”

You snapped out of it, blinking up at him like you’d just been caught stealing. “I—I was just looking,” you muttered, instantly defensive, shoving your hands into the sleeves of your cardigan. “Didn’t say I wanted anything.”

But Yeosang wasn’t even listening to the words coming out of your mouth. He was too busy cataloguing everything you didn’t say. The spark. The hesitation. The soft way your lip pressed against your teeth when you held back from speaking. You weren’t loud, weren’t clingy, weren’t bratty like he thought you might be—you were quiet. Observant. Someone who shrank herself just to survive.

Yeah, no. You weren’t leaving his sight ever again. “Good,” he said, nonchalantly signaling to the employee. “Because we’re not leaving until you try some on.” You shot him a glare. “What is this, Pretty Woman?” “More like Pretty Annoyed Fiancée.” His eyes flicked down to you, sharp and amused. “C’mon. Humor me.”

You stared at the rows and rows of rings like they were mocking you. Every shape, every color, every shine — how the hell were you supposed to pick one? Your fingers hovered over the glass, not touching, just hovering, like maybe the right one would start glowing or something. But nothing did.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like them. It was that you liked all of them, and also none of them, because your brain kept whispering, what if you pick the wrong one? What if you regret it? You didn’t get choices growing up, not real ones. Every decision was always someone else’s to make for you — your clothes, your food, even your damn hair. The few times you got to choose something, it was met with criticism or disappointment. No wonder your chest felt tight standing here.

“I can’t,” you muttered under your breath, frustrated. “They all look… I don’t know.” Yeosang watched, hands tucked in his pockets, silent. But not with judgment. More like studying. He could see it happening—the way you kept retreating into yourself, that familiar shrinking posture like you were bracing for someone to yell at you for being annoying or difficult.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

Without warning, he stepped closer, leaning down near your ear, voice lower, firmer. “We’re not doing that here.” You blinked up at him. “What—” “We’re not doing that thing where you act like you’re a burden for existing,” he continued, tone steady but not harsh. “You like something, you say it. You don’t like something, you say it. You don’t have to know what you want right now, but don’t stand here apologizing for breathing.”

Your throat went dry. No one’s ever talked to you like that before. Not mean. Not fake sweet. Just… steady. Like he meant it. Like he wasn’t going to move until you heard him. “I’m not apologizing,” you finally muttered, defensive. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re folding into yourself like someone’s about to slap your wrist.”

Your jaw tightened. “That’s just how I stand.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, not convinced for a second.

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to crawl under the display case and disappear. But somewhere deep down, embarrassingly deep, you also wanted to grab his sleeve and lean into him like a tired stray cat. But instead, you just shoved your sleeves up higher and looked at the rings again. “Fine. I’ll try some.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, barely loud enough to catch, but you caught it. And you hated that you liked how it sounded.

You picked up one of the rings, delicate and shimmering with tiny embedded stones. It wasn’t flashy in the way rich people wear things—it was pretty. Simple. Something you could see yourself wearing every day.

But then it hit you like a slap. The price. What the hell were you doing? Just choosing whatever looked nice like you weren’t broke half your life? Like your mom didn’t yell at you for picking snacks that were ₹20 more expensive than the local brand?

You started searching the display, eyes darting, looking for price tags like a madwoman. But it was one of those places. No prices on anything. Which only meant one thing—if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Panic started tightening in your chest. You weren’t stupid. You knew this whole setup was expensive. Expensive coat racks, expensive chairs, expensive air. And here you were like some idiot playing dress-up, picking rings you couldn’t afford in three lifetimes. “Uh… what’s the price on these?” you asked quietly, almost hoping he didn’t hear you.

But of course he did.

Yeosang, standing beside you with his annoying posture of “I own everything I touch,” just glanced down at you, one brow raised. “Why?” You gave him a look. “What do you mean why? They’re probably… crazy expensive. I don’t wanna-” “You think I brought you here to worry about prices?” he interrupted, eyes sharp now.

You blinked. “Well, yeah? This isn’t a grocery store, I can’t just-” “Do I look like the kind of man who’s going to let you think about numbers right now?” His tone wasn’t harsh. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was just… Yeosang. Calm, slightly amused, slightly annoyed, fully in charge.

You hated how warm your ears felt.

“I don’t—”

“I said pick.”

His voice was low this time. Not rude. Not cold. Just that tone that slides down your spine and makes your stomach clench in the weirdest way. Firm. Dominant, even. But not because he was trying to be macho—it was just who he was. You stood there frozen for a second before whispering, “They don’t even have prices on them—”

“They don’t have prices,” he cut you off, leaning closer so only you could hear, “because the people who shop here don’t need to ask.”

You swore your knees nearly gave out.

“And right now,” he added, hand lightly brushing your lower back as if guiding you forward, “you’re with me. So that makes you one of those people. Pick.” You swallowed hard, looked down at the rings, then up at him.

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or,” he added, eyes glinting, “do you want me to choose for you again?”

God help you—you almost said yes.

The wedding was hectic.

Not in the “fun chaos” way you saw in movies—no, this was suffocating. Your cheeks hurt from fake smiling at people you didn’t even know. The scent of flowers was so strong it made you lightheaded. The jewelry was heavy, and the outfit? Beautiful, yeah, but you could barely breathe.

After the ceremony, when the music was loud and people were starting to eat, you sat in a corner. Just existing. You were chewing blandly on some sweet, not even tasting it. The small cushion under you was probably worth someone’s rent, but you sat like you were at some boring family reunion.

Yeosang did ask you last month if you wanted to invite your friends. You had been fixing your cardigan sleeve at the time and barely looked up. “Don’t really… have any.”

It wasn’t sad when you said it. Just a fact. You said it the way someone says, “Yeah, I don’t like tea,” or “I’ve never been to Goa.” Just plain. But you felt it sting more now, seeing his friends—8 of them—laughing on the other side of the venue like this was just some party.

Meanwhile, you sat with your cousin. The only one in your family who didn’t belittle you constantly or make subtle comments about you being “too old to be unmarried” or “too quiet for your own good.” He didn’t say much either. Probably didn’t even care. But you preferred that. Quiet company was better than company with sharp tongues.

Your eyes wandered across the room. Yeosang was standing with his friends, of course. One of them threw his arm around Yeosang’s shoulder, laughing about something. And then Yeosang glanced at you. It was brief—but he looked. And when his gaze met yours, it wasn’t pity, or amusement, or even awkwardness.

It was… knowing.

Like he knew you didn’t want to be there. Like he understood exactly what it felt like to be surrounded by noise and not feel like you belonged in it. And for a moment—just a second—you didn’t feel alone in that room. Of course, the moment passed when your cousin nudged you and asked if you were going to eat your chicken.

You gave it to him without a word, gaze still lingering on the man across the room who, apparently, now belonged to you.

The ride home was torture. Your jewelry felt like chains, the embroidery on your dress scratched at your skin with every small shift, and your hair—oh god, your scalp was screaming. You sat awkwardly, pressed up against the door, knees at an angle because the fabric wouldn’t let you sit properly.

And Yeosang? He just drove like it was a normal day. Relaxed hand on the steering wheel, other resting against his thigh, occasionally glancing your way. He didn’t say anything, but you knew he noticed you shifting every two minutes like you were sitting on needles.

By the time the car pulled up at the apartment complex, you were two seconds away from just tearing the sleeves off like some dramatic soap opera character.

It was late—too late for nosy neighbors or anyone else to be hanging around. The whole building was quiet except for the low hum of the elevators. You followed him silently, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. And when the elevator doors opened to his place—

Yeah. Pinterest board aesthetic.

It wasn’t over-the-top, but it was intentional. Clean lines, warm lighting—not those harsh white bulbs like your home had. The couch looked like it cost someone’s college tuition, blankets folded neatly on the armrest like it was straight out of a home decor photoshoot. Shelves with actual books. Art that wasn’t mass-produced prints. Little ceramic things on the side tables that you didn’t know the use of but looked expensive anyway.

It didn’t smell like dust or old carpet or fried onions like your house did after your mom cooked. It smelled like sandalwood and something slightly musky. Like him.

You just stood there by the entrance like a misplaced sticker on a clean page. He casually dropped his keys in a tray by the door and started undoing the buttons on his sleeves, rolling them up forearms first. “You wanna change?”

Did you wanna change? You were two seconds away from climbing out of your own skin. You nodded silently.

Without a word, he pointed to a hallway. “Third door. Closet’s in there. Pick whatever. Bathroom’s attached.” As if it was nothing to offer someone full access to his wardrobe. As if he hadn’t just brought his brand new wife into his home like someone bringing home takeout. You shuffled off like some fancy-dressed raccoon, already planning which oversized shirt you were gonna steal first.

You padded out of the bathroom, freshly freed from that suffocating dress, now wearing a soft oversized t-shirt that smelled like detergent and someone else’s cologne, paired with pajama pants that pooled a bit at your ankles. Your hair was a mess, makeup slightly smudged from your tired hands rubbing your face. But you couldn’t care less. Comfort first.

Yeosang was already lounging on the couch, changed into a black t-shirt that hugged his shoulders just right and grey sweatpants, one ankle lazily crossed over the other. Casual. Comfortable. Infuriatingly attractive. You stood there, awkward, arms crossed, twisting your fingers like you always did. “Where… where am I supposed to sleep?”

He didn’t even hesitate. Just pointed with two fingers toward the hallway. “Second room on the right.” You nodded and started walking, but something tugged at you. A gut feeling. Something wasn’t right. Second room…

Curiosity dragged you to peek, and when you opened the door, your stomach dropped. Black sheets. Black pillows. Black walls. Not pitch dark, but matte—sleek. Expensive. His room. You didn’t need to ask. That man screamed black-on-black energy. You stormed back into the living room, eyes narrowed. “That’s your room.”

He looked up from his phone slowly, mouth twitching—not into a smirk, just that faint amusement he always wore when he knew he was pushing your buttons. “Yeah. I know.” You stared at him, blinking. “Why did you point me there?” He set his phone down like this was about to be a full conversation. “We’re married now. Married people share a bed.”

You gawked at him. “That’s not a rule.”

“It is now.”

God, you hated that. That casual dominance. Not loud, not aggressive. Just matter of fact. Like he said it, so it’s law now.

“You’re annoying.”

“You married me.”

“We were arranged.”

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost got stuck, turning on your heel to storm back to the room. And yet… you didn’t really argue more, did you? Because deep down, under the irritation, you couldn’t help but feel that same stupid warmth creeping up your neck.

If he wanted to be cocky, fine. Two can play that game.

You marched back to his room like you owned the place, plopped yourself dead in the center of the king-sized bed, limbs spread like a starfish, sinking into the expensive sheets like you were born for this. If he wanted drama, you were going to give him cinema. Moments later, the door creaked open, and you heard his footsteps approaching. You didn’t look. You just knew from the way the air shifted, from the scent of his cologne mixing with the faint smell of fabric softener on the bedding.

Silence for a second. Then—“Really?”

You cracked an eye open. He was standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the faintest curve on his lips—not quite a smile, not quite mockery. “You’re gonna starfish in my bed?”

You yawned, stretching even further like a cat on a sunny windowsill. “You said it was our bed,” you said pointedly, throwing his own words back at him with venom-laced sweetness. “I’m just following instructions.”

He looked at you for a beat longer. Then, very slowly, very annoyingly, grinned. “Fine,” he said, voice deep and lazy. “But if you stay like that, I’ll just sleep on top of you.” Your eyes snapped open fully, heart jolting so fast it almost echoed in your ears. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would.”

It wasn’t even a threat—it was a promise. That calm tone, that glint in his eyes—he meant it.

You groaned and scrambled to your side of the bed, flustered beyond measure, hating him more with every second and somehow hating yourself for feeling heat crawling up your neck. “You’re insane,” you muttered, adjusting the pillow aggressively.

Behind you, you could practically hear his satisfied smirk, even though you weren’t going to turn around to give him the satisfaction of seeing your face.

“Married life, sweetheart,” he murmured, climbing in on his side, making the mattress dip. “Welcome to it.”

You didn’t know what devil possessed you to say it, but the words just slipped out, dripping with faux innocence as you looked straight at him.

“I have weird sleeping habits,” you murmured casually, adjusting the blanket like it was the most normal conversation. “Like… I’ll keep rubbing my leg on yours until you put your leg on top of mine.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look at him yet, but you could feel the way his posture stiffened beside you, like your words short-circuited something in that annoyingly sharp brain of his. Then—softly, almost too casual—came his voice, deep and quiet, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

You slowly turned your head to him, blinking, pretending to be confused. “What do you mean?” His jaw tensed slightly, like he was holding back a laugh—or something else. “I mean—” he leaned in just a bit, enough for his voice to drop that octave lower that made your stupid heart stutter, “—if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna start wondering if you want me to put my leg over yours.”

You hated that heat crawling up your skin, hated that he was good at this stupid game, hated that he was better at it than you, hated that you wanted to keep going anyway.

So you did.

“Why would I want that?” you shot back, voice steady, gaze sharp but your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a habit.”

“Right,” he said, laying his head on the pillow now, one arm tucked behind his head, looking absolutely unbothered. “Just a habit.”

You laid down too, facing the other way, stubborn. The tension between you two was thick, and you both knew it. Then, after a beat, you felt it—the slow weight of his leg draping lazily over yours. “I’m just helping with your habit,” he murmured, so close you felt the warmth of his breath by your ear.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice flat, not backing down. “It’s true. I can’t sleep unless someone’s leg is over mine. And I always hug something too. It’s like—comfort or whatever. Dunno. Been like that since forever.”

Honestly, you thought that would be the final straw. That he’d roll his eyes, scoff, maybe throw a pillow at you and head to the couch like any sane person would. Maybe you were hoping for that. Maybe you didn’t want to admit how weirdly safe this felt. Either way, you braced yourself for irritation, for that cocky remark, for something.

But nothing came.

Instead—you missed it—the way Yeosang stared at you like he was physically restraining himself. Like some internal monologue was yelling don’t say it, don’t call her cute, don’t ruin it, don’t scare her off. But how could he not? You? Looking like that? Saying stuff like that? In his bed? Wrapped in his blanket, in his shirt? Talking about hugging things like you weren’t already curled up like a goddamn kitten?

He was having a crisis.

“Okay,” he finally said, calm. Too calm. Suspiciously calm. You frowned, glancing back at him. “Okay?” “Yeah.” He adjusted slightly, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Leg’s already over yours. Go ahead. Hug something.”

You glared at him. “I don’t have anything to hug.” His lips quirked slightly at that. Barely. But you caught it.

“You’ve got two arms, don’t you?” You wanted to slap him. Genuinely. But also—not really.

Fine. FINE.

You stubbornly grabbed the pillow, hugging it tight to your chest and trying to sleep. Silent. Annoyed. Flustered. All of it. And Yeosang? He laid there, eyes on the ceiling, teeth sinking into his lip just to physically restrain himself from smiling like an idiot. If only you knew how close he was to dragging you into his chest just to see how flustered you’d get then.

Cute. Way too cute. He was so screwed.

You were out. Completely gone, knocked out like you hadn’t had proper sleep in weeks. Leg tucked neatly under his like you said you would, hugging his pillow like your life depended on it, your face mushed against the fabric, lips slightly parted in a soft pout you didn’t even know you had.

Yeosang was having a spiritual crisis. What was this? What was this feeling? Cuteness aggression? Probably. He felt like he could actually bite you. Not to hurt you—god no—but just to—argh—because how could one human look that cute doing absolutely nothing?

His jaw flexed, teeth grinding softly as he stared at you, eyes darting between the way your fingers curled into the pillow, to the little crease forming on your cheek from the way you were pressed against it.

It wasn’t fair. It shouldn’t be allowed. He felt like punching the wall just to let some of the weird, frustrated fondness out of his system. The urge to squeeze you like some plush toy was nearly overwhelming.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know.

Didn’t know the way you’d completely tangled yourself around his leg without a second thought. Didn’t know how absolutely tiny you looked curled up in his bed. Didn’t know how soft your breathing sounded in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling for a good minute, breathing slow, eyes closed, fighting the very cellular urge in his bones to scoop you up and just—keep you. Like, forever. Pocket you. Protect you. Instead, he carefully shifted, tucking the blanket around you a little tighter, letting your leg stay right where it was. He glanced at you one last time before shutting his own eyes.

Completely, utterly ruined by the universe. Absolutely smitten. And you? You just drooled a little on his pillow.

Perfect.

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains, soft and annoyingly gentle. Your eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the brightness—and then it hit you.

You were holding something warm. Something that breathed. It wasn’t a pillow. It was him.

Your heart stopped for a solid second. Somewhere between falling asleep and now, the pillow had betrayed you—replaced by Yeosang. Your arm was across his torso, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. Worse, one of your legs had completely decided that boundaries were optional and had hooked over his, practically hugging him like some oversized teddy bear.

What the actual—

You moved so carefully, like one wrong twitch would make the earth explode. Slowly untangling yourself, your breath hitched when you saw his hand resting lazily over your arm, like he’d pulled you closer in his sleep. That just made it worse.

Finally, finally, you untangled yourself, slipping out of bed like a secret agent on a stealth mission. The floor was cold beneath your feet, but your entire body was flushed with embarrassment anyway. Without sparing him another glance, you practically ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.

The second you were alone, you let out a silent scream, face buried in your hands. God. Why. Why you. You turned the shower on, letting the sound of running water drown out your embarrassment. Maybe you could drown in it too while you were at it.

Meanwhile, back in the bedroom, Yeosang cracked one eye open, staring at the ceiling with the smallest ghost of a grin.

“Thought so,” he whispered to himself. That damn pillow never stood a chance.

Yeosang lay there, staring at the ceiling like it had all the answers to life’s greatest mysteries. His hand absentmindedly touched the part of his shirt where your hand had been curled into just moments ago. The warmth was gone, but the imprint of it — of you — stuck like some permanent tattoo on his chest.

What the hell was this feeling? No, seriously, what was this feeling?

He had always thought love was supposed to be a slow thing. Like aging whiskey. Like taking your sweet time to ruin someone in a chess game. But this? This felt like a truck hit him. A small, anxious kitten-shaped truck with pouty lips and messy hair in the morning.

It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. You were barely in his life for what? Few months? And yet here he was, already thinking like some washed-up romantic lead in a drama. It wasn’t even funny anymore.

He dragged a hand across his face and groaned softly, staring at the bathroom door where steam was now rolling from the gap under the frame. The thought of you in there — wearing that sleepy pout, probably muttering under your breath about your parents or about how annoying he was — it made his chest feel tight in the weirdest, most annoying way.

Was this how his dad felt about his mom? Cause that man always did dumb shit just to annoy her, but never went a day without holding her hand.

He was whipped. Fully, entirely, embarrassingly whipped. And he wasn’t even fighting it anymore. Hell, he was enjoying it. “I swear to god,” he muttered to himself, eyes shutting like he was trying to meditate through the emotional breakdown, “if she ever figures this out, I’m finished.” But knowing you? You wouldn’t. You were too busy folding napkins, avoiding eye contact, acting like you weren’t the most precious thing to ever annoy the hell out of him.

And god—he liked having a wife. A wife.

He let that word roll around in his head like a marble, both terrifying and oddly satisfying. If you stayed in that shower any longer, he might just combust. And honestly? He’d die smiling.

You came out of the bathroom with damp hair sticking slightly to the sides of your face, the oversized t-shirt hanging loose on your frame, sleeves falling a little off your shoulders, pajama pants riding up slightly at the ankles. You rubbed your hand against your face, trying to wipe off the last remnants of sleep, but honestly, your head was still foggy. You weren’t even fully functioning yet.

And there he was. Still in bed.

Liar. You could tell he wasn’t sleeping anymore. Before, he was on his back, legs spread out like some rich brat on vacation. Now? He was on his side, perfectly composed like he was acting asleep. And he was good at it. But not good enough for you.

With irritation bubbling up — mostly because you were up, and why should you be the only one awake suffering in awkward new-wife-land — you stomped over to the bed and stood over him with crossed arms. You stared at the messy strands of hair falling into his stupidly handsome face. His lashes were thick, unfairly so. And his lips slightly parted like he wasn’t living rent-free in your nerves already. He looked expensive even while pretending to be unconscious. Ugh.

Annoyed, you bent down and gave his shoulder a shove. “Wake up.”

No response. Another shove. Harder this time. “Wake up.” Finally, his eyes opened. Lazy, slow, like he was waking up from a peaceful dream of girls feeding him grapes or something. His voice was rough from sleep, deep in that way that made your brain short circuit for a second. “What?” he rasped, like you were disturbing his peace.

Your mouth opened, about to say something snarky, but then you paused. Why was he hot like this? Who gave him permission to be hot right after waking up? Hair a mess, voice low, sleep still hanging off his features like a silk sheet draped across expensive furniture. You forgot what you were gonna say for a second. Caught yourself blinking at him like an idiot.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. A smug little grin spread on his lips, lazy and cocky at the same time, like he was the main character in every stupid romance movie. You cleared your throat and stood up straight again, brushing invisible dust off your pants. “What… what do you want for breakfast?”

You hated how quiet you sounded. Like you were suddenly soft just because he was attractive. Which — you were soft, but he didn’t have to know that. He sat up properly now, running a hand through his hair like he was in a commercial. “You’re making breakfast?” he asked, raising a brow.

You shrugged. “What else am I supposed to do? I’m awake.” He leaned back on his arms, eyes not leaving you for a second. “I didn’t marry a housewife, you know.” Your jaw clenched. “I’m not—” you stopped yourself. “I’m just making breakfast because I’m hungry.”

“Yours?” he said suddenly, tilting his head.

You blinked. “What?”

“Breakfast. Yours or mine?”

You frowned. “...What’s the difference?”

He grinned, teeth showing this time. “Yours is probably, like, toast or boiled eggs or something. Mine’s pancakes, bacon, syrup. Fancy shit.”

You deadpanned. “Who the hell eats pancakes on a weekday?”

“I do,” he answered smoothly, without missing a beat. “I’m rich, remember?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your own brain. “Fine. Yours. Whatever. Pancakes.”

Yeosang stepped into the bathroom, the door creaking softly behind him as he entered the faint warmth she left behind. The mirror was still fogged at the corners, drops of condensation trailing down lazily like the room itself hadn’t quite woken up yet. The air smelled faintly of her—something floral, something sweet, and something unfamiliar but weirdly comforting.

He exhaled through his nose, steady and controlled, walking up to the sink. His eyes automatically landed on the toothbrush holder. His black toothbrush standing tall, firm, exactly where he always kept it.

And beside it… her pink one.

Smaller, softer looking, like it didn’t belong. But it did. It really did. He stared at them both for a second, lips slightly parted, eyebrows drawn faintly together—not confused, but thoughtful. Something about seeing them together in the same cup twisted something warm in his chest. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t fireworks or explosions or heartbeats racing so fast he couldn’t breathe. It was… steady. Fulfilling. Quiet in the most dangerous way.

He loved it.

Not the pink color or the softness of it. He loved what it meant. Her using his things like they were hers now. The shared space. The toothbrushes leaning like companions. It was stupid—something small, something everyday—but it was theirs. And for someone like him, someone who always knew how to calculate every move, who always knew how to observe and stay steps ahead, this feeling was something he couldn’t predict.

He picked up his own toothbrush, fingers brushing against the handle of hers. He stared at that pink brush for a second longer, a lazy grin curling on his lips before shaking his head at himself. Who the hell gets soft over a toothbrush?

Apparently, him.

He started brushing his teeth, leaning over the sink, letting the familiar minty sting wake him up properly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought—he could get used to this. He wanted to get used to this. Her hair clogging the drain, her random skincare bottles invading his shelves, her leaving the bathroom all steamy and warm like this every morning.

It was stupid. Domestic. And yet… it felt like power in the quietest, most dangerous form. And Yeosang was nothing if not addicted to power. Especially if it looked like her.

He came down wearing a black fitted turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, paired with tailored dark slacks that hugged his waist just right. His silver watch gleamed faintly against his wrist, hair slightly messy from towel-drying but falling just perfectly like it was meant to. He didn’t put in effort—but somehow looked like he walked straight out of a photoshoot. Sharp jawline, long legs, expensive cologne that smelled like trouble and money.

And then—that smell hit him.

Pancakes. Sweet, buttery, thick in the air like a hug you didn’t know you needed. Warm vanilla mixed with something fruity. And then, there she was. (Do pancakes even have scents? Idk)

Hair tied up lazily, a few strands falling loose, wearing one of his black aprons that looked like it was made to fit her. Bare feet padding softly on the kitchen floor, navigating his sleek, modern, borderline cold kitchen like she’d been living there her whole life. She didn’t hesitate with the drawers, the utensils, even reaching up to grab plates from his overhead cabinets with a little difficulty like she knew where everything was. Like she belonged.

He leaned against the wall for a second, arms folded, watching her. His kitchen was matte black, sharp edges, minimalist design, way too clean for someone who actually lived here. It was the kind of kitchen that screamed money but not home. Until now.

Until her.

Now it felt warm, felt used. And for some reason, that domestic image made something stir in his chest. Not in a soft, sentimental way—no, Yeosang didn’t do sentimental. It was more like—possession. Admiration. Like—yeah, that’s mine. His quiet, irritating, soft-voiced girl, right there, using his kitchen like she owned it. And she didn’t even realize how good she looked like that. The apron tied at her waist, sleeves rolled up as she worked carefully over the stove, flipping pancakes with precision.

How the fuck did she even know where everything was? He barely cooked. Eating out was his thing. Restaurants. Friends. Loud tables. Fancy places. But this? This made him crave home-cooked meals in a way he didn’t know he could. Made him crave coming home to something like this. And the worst part? He didn’t know whether he wanted the pancakes more or her. Probably her.

Definitely her.

He didn’t even realize she’d caught him staring. Sharp reflexes, top of his class, trained to pick up on the tiniest shit—and yet here he was, caught like some lovesick loser at the doorway of his own damn kitchen. She didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Just glanced over her shoulder, flipping another pancake like it was routine. “Oh, you’re here. Sit down or something.”

He blinked for a second, caught between embarrassment and awe, and then muttered under his breath, “Yes, ma’am.” Low enough that she wouldn’t catch it. Good. His pride was intact. Barely.

When she finished, she casually served two plates—one in front of him, one in front of her. No big presentation, no waiting for him to start first like those rich girls he was used to. Just sat down, scooted her chair in, and started eating like it was another regular morning. Like they’d been doing this for years. God, why did that feel nice?

The pancakes were good. Like, scary good. Slightly crisp on the edges, soft in the middle, syrup on the side, not drowned in it like an amateur. She knew what she was doing. Each bite made him feel weirdly cared for, and he didn’t like that one bit. It felt… vulnerable. Exposed. He wasn’t used to this shit. Halfway through, she lifted her gaze to him. Not fully—just under her lashes, barely holding eye contact before glancing away again.

“I’ve been meaning to ask…” she said softly, cutting into her pancake with that annoying, neat little precision of hers. “What do you actually do? Like… all day?” He chewed slowly, buying time. No one ever asked him that. Not seriously. Everyone just knew who he was. Son of that family. Part of that business. It was understood. Expected. Even his friends didn’t bother asking.

But her? She didn’t care about any of that. She genuinely didn’t know—or maybe she did but wanted his version of it. Wanted to hear it from him, not just whispered behind closed doors or Googled with a headline next to his face. So, he swallowed, set his fork down carefully, leaned back slightly in the chair.

“What do I do?” he repeated, eyes glancing over her face like he was trying to decide how much of himself he wanted to give her. “I manage the boring rich guy stuff, apparently. Assets. Investments. Real estate. Help with family business bullshit.”

She hummed softly, almost dismissively. “Sounds annoying.” That caught him off guard. He huffed a laugh through his nose. “It is annoying.”

They sat in silence for a second, just the quiet sounds of cutlery scraping against plates.

Then she added, still not fully looking at him, “Sounds lonely too.”

That made something sharp twist in his chest. Annoyingly accurate. He stared at her, at the little crease between her brows as she focused on cutting another piece, at the way she subtly folded the napkin next to her hand without thinking about it. Always fidgeting, always folding.

She didn’t even mean it like that. It was supposed to be just a question. A throwaway thought while she was chewing, cutting another bite, syrup glistening against the fork like she was focused on literally anything else except him. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t going to completely rearrange the wires in his damn brain. “After I graduate… can I see your office or something?”

Just that. Simple. Plain. Like she was asking to borrow a pen.

But Yeosang? Yeosang heard that in HD. Dolby Atmos. Surround sound. Can I see your office echoed through his skull like she’d just proposed marriage again or something. Why was that affecting him so much? Why was his immediate internal response Yes. Yes, of course. Come sit on my lap in the stupid leather chair. Take over the entire desk, I don’t even like working, I’ll retire now, I’ll build you a whole new office, you can have my whole name—

He blinked. Dangerous thoughts. Dangerous. She didn’t even know what she’d done. But he couldn’t just say all that, obviously. He couldn’t wrap her up in a blanket and tell her she was the cutest thing alive for wanting to be in his space, in his world. He couldn’t tell her that no one—no one—had ever even bothered to ask about that part of his life. His office. His work. His real world outside of the titles and money.

So, he kept it cool. Cool and bored. Always the bored one. Mr. Nothing Affects Me.

“Sure,” he said, cutting another piece of pancake, stabbing it with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth like that would hide the feral urge he felt to grab her face and kiss the absolute life out of her. “Really?” she asked, finally glancing at him properly this time, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s not like a private office?”

Private office? Private office? Woman, you’re in my home. You cooked in my kitchen. You slept with your entire leg tangled around mine. And you’re asking about privacy?

He swallowed. “It’s my office. I decide what’s private.”

Another bite. Another casual shrug. Another act like he wasn’t two seconds from folding completely. Folding like the damn napkin she kept playing with next to her plate. “Sure,” he said again, this time softer. Almost like a promise. Almost like anything you ask me, ever—I’ll give it to you.

You both didn’t know one thing. You both were falling.

Maybe Yeosang knew it. Kinda. Somewhere in the background of his usually sharp, calculating mind — the same one trained to notice weaknesses in deals and flaws in contracts — there was this soft hum, like static turning into a love song. He knew something was happening. Maybe not fully, maybe not yet in words, but the pull toward you was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like instinct. Breathing. Natural. Familiar in a way nothing else had ever been.

But you? You didn’t know. You didn’t realize what was happening. You didn’t realise that while you sat here with syrup on your fork and pancake crumbs on your fingers, you were starting to heal something that he didn’t break.

Yeosang didn’t grow up with softness. His mother was the only person who offered that to him, that kind of gentle warmth that made a person feel safe, and when she left—so did that warmth. His father tried to raise him with ambition and success, not comfort. Not home. Yeosang had everything: wealth, education, sharp looks, friends who could buy out entire hotels on a dare—but not this. Not this thing he was starting to feel around you.

And you didn’t realize that you were going to get something you never thought possible, either. That here, you were healing too. Because all your life, you were raised in pieces. Your parents clipping parts of you before you could even grow. Told that your interests were silly. That your opinions didn’t matter because you were a girl. Always “too much” or “not enough.” They called it upbringing. Respect. But it wasn’t. It was shrinking. You adjusted. You bent around it like vines climbing a crumbling wall, finding space wherever you could, making a way even when there wasn’t one.

But here?

Here, no one was going to call you too much. Here, no one was going to shrink you down into something manageable. Here, no one was going to make you feel small for having hobbies or dreams or random thoughts that didn’t make sense. Here—you weren’t going to adjust anymore. You were going to thrive.

And you didn’t even know it yet.

Days blended into something that almost resembled normal life. Morning routines settled. Nights had their own rhythm. You handled your stuff—university lectures, deadlines, notes scribbled on the backs of receipts when you couldn’t find proper paper. He handled his—meetings, calls, those frustrating dinners where people tried to get on his good side for favors he never planned to give.

The two of you orbiting each other like satellites, not colliding, not quite distant either. Somewhere between strangers and something else you both refused to name yet.

But then there were nights like this.

Nights where assignments piled higher than your patience. Nights where caffeine felt like medicine, where eye bags were unavoidable, and sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with books spread around you felt like survival mode. The glow of your laptop screen threw harsh shadows across your face, highlighting the slight furrow between your brows, your bottom lip caught lightly between your teeth as you tried to figure out whatever academic nonsense your professor thought was appropriate for midnight.

Yeosang came home late that night. He had texted you. ‘Running late. Don’t wait up.’

He didn’t expect much. Maybe you’d already be in bed, curled up, hair a mess, hugging that ridiculous pillow you’d claimed as yours. Or maybe you’d be curled on the couch, knocked out with some random video playing softly in the background. But no.

He walked in, loosened his tie, and paused.

You were awake. Awake and working. Glasses slipping down your nose. Notebook covered in tiny handwriting, pages curling at the corners. For a split second, irritation sparked in him. Not at you—at himself. Why were you still up? He told you not to wait. And yet—

Then he saw it. The laptop open to some assignment, words scrolling by, academic jargon that even he didn’t have the mental energy to pretend to understand. You weren’t waiting for him. You were fighting a deadline.

Silently, he toed off his shoes, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen.

The machine hissed softly as the coffee brewed. The comforting, bitter scent filling the sharp black lines of his modern kitchen again. This time, coffee. Warm, grounding, familiar. He made it just the way you liked—two spoons of sugar, a splash of milk. Not too sweet, not too bitter. Balanced. Like you.

He poured one cup for you, one for himself, and padded back across the living room, setting the mug down next to your scattered pens and half-crumpled sticky notes.

You barely noticed at first, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you,” eyes still on the screen.

But Yeosang? He just stood there for a second, hand in his pocket, watching you. Watching how you stubbornly refused to give up, even with dark circles forming under your eyes, even with your knee bouncing from stress, even with your exhaustion creeping in like slow fog.

“Can I help?” His voice was soft, breaking through the quiet hum of the laptop fan and your messy thoughts. You blinked, finally tearing your eyes away from the screen to look at him properly.

Help? You weren’t used to that word being offered like that. Especially not for things like your work. No one really asked if they could help—you were always expected to figure it out yourself, get through it, push harder. Alone. You stared at him for a second, eyebrows furrowed slightly like you were trying to figure out if he was joking or being sarcastic. But he just sat there, leaning forward, coffee resting on his knee, expression neutral but serious. Waiting.

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want help. Just… it felt weird. Someone wanting to take on something with you instead of at you or despite you. But you were tired. And behind all your stubbornness, you knew you could use it.

“…You can help with a couple things,” you murmured, barely above your breath.

His lips twitched slightly at that—almost a smile, almost—but he didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Just sat up straighter, pushed his coffee aside, and motioned for you to show him.

It wasn’t even difficult stuff. Mostly organization. Proofreading. Finding references. And Yeosang, for all his cocky behavior and sharp-tongue antics, was ridiculously smart. He picked up on things quickly, helping you untangle confusing parts, correcting small mistakes you didn’t even notice you were making in your sleepy haze.

With him there, the work didn’t feel like a mountain anymore. It felt doable. Manageable. Like he was one more set of steady hands holding up the mess before it could collapse.

You didn’t talk much. Just handed things to him, pointed at the screen when you needed help cross-checking something, let him scroll through research tabs while you typed furiously to finish the parts only you could write. By the time you reached the end, you realized it had gone faster than you expected.

And… it didn’t feel heavy anymore.

As you saved the file and finally let yourself lean back against the cushions, stretching your aching fingers, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His sleeves were still rolled up, tie loose, hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked relaxed. Like this wasn’t a burden. Like he didn’t mind being here at all.

“Thanks,” you said finally, voice quieter than before.

He just hummed, reaching for his now slightly-cold coffee again. “Told you,” he muttered, taking a sip, “I’m not just here to look pretty.”

You rolled your eyes at that, a small breath of laughter escaping despite yourself. And for the first time in a while, the stress didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were carrying everything alone.

But now you didn’t want to move. Not even a little. Your body felt like it weighed triple, bones filled with sand, limbs heavy from the hours of grinding through assignments, deadlines, typing until your knuckles hurt. The soft hum of the laptop fan was starting to blend with the background noise of the apartment—the occasional creak of the walls, the soft ticking of the clock. So you just laid down right there on the couch, curling slightly onto your side, pressing your cheek into the cushions like they could swallow you whole.

“You shouldn’t sleep here,” his voice broke through gently. Not nagging. Not demanding. Just a low, careful suggestion. “It’s bad for your back.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled. You knew. Of course you knew. But knowing and moving were two different things. The soft, tired sound of your own voice felt distant to you, like it was coming from somewhere underwater. “M’fine… Just…gimme a minute…”

And then, you felt it. Arms sliding under you, one beneath your knees, the other curling easily around your shoulders. The couch shifted beneath you as he moved, and suddenly, you were moving too. Your eyes snapped open halfway, heavy-lidded with exhaustion but sharp with shock. What the—

He picked you up. Like it was nothing. Like you weighed absolutely nothing. Effortless. Smooth. As if this was something he did on a daily basis, as if you weren’t dead weight with tangled limbs and messy hair and exhaustion practically dripping off your skin.

You knew he worked out. You’d seen his arms, the way his shirts sometimes hugged his shoulders, the way his forearms tensed slightly when he rolled up his sleeves or carried grocery bags with one hand like they were weightless.

But this? This was a whole new experience.

You blinked up at him, groggy but vaguely scandalized, too drained to fight him on it but still indignant enough to grumble, “I can walk, you know…”

“Doesn’t look like it,” he muttered back, voice lazy but steady, gaze fixed ahead as he carefully maneuvered you toward the bedroom. His jaw was set, clean lines of his face shadowed by the low lighting, and that stupid, faint grin on his lips—like he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were too tired to argue more, head lolling lightly against his shoulder, his cologne filling your nose. Clean, sharp, warm.

“Put me down,” you murmured weakly, only half meaning it.

“No.”

That’s all he said. Just no. Simple. Firm. No teasing this time. Just—no. Because you were tired, and because he wanted to carry you. Because whether you liked it or not, this was part of who he was now—your husband. And part of that role, apparently, included picking you up like a princess when you worked yourself to exhaustion doing university assignments at midnight.

You didn’t realize when your eyes slipped closed again, but the warmth of his hold and the soft shift of the apartment around you made it easier.

He set you down gently on the bed, the mattress dipping softly under your weight. The second you hit the covers, your whole body sighed in relief, muscles unraveling like thread, tension slipping out of your shoulders as your eyelids fluttered heavily.

You barely registered him leaving, the soft rustle of fabric as he changed, the faint clink of his watch being set down somewhere on the nightstand. The apartment was quiet except for those soft, everyday sounds—the kind that made a space feel lived in. Real. And then the bed dipped again, the warmth of him close, his scent following like gravity itself. Before you could fully register it, his arm snaked around your waist, firm but not rough, and he pulled you in.

Your eyes opened halfway, brows pinching lightly. “Yeosang…”

“No complaining,” he murmured, voice low, brushing near your ear. “I know you need it.”

That shut you up real quick—not because he was being cocky, but because… he was right. You did need it. And that annoyed you more than anything, how well he was starting to read you without effort. Like this connection was some secret language only he could pick up on while you were still figuring it out. You wanted to argue. Maybe just out of habit. Maybe because that independent part of you hated the idea of needing someone this badly. But… God, it felt good. It felt safe. Not like being trapped, not like obligation—but like comfort. Like warmth. Like someone saying, It’s okay. You don’t have to hold everything up alone tonight.

So you didn’t say anything after that. Just let yourself sink into the pull of his chest against your back, his hand splayed warm over your stomach, his steady breathing brushing against the back of your neck. Everything fit a little too perfectly, like puzzle pieces you didn’t even know belonged to the same set.

And that night… that night, you both slept better than you ever had since this whole marriage thing started. No weird dreams. No uncomfortable tossing and turning. No stress lingering sharp at the edges of your thoughts.

Just… sleep.

You didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, somewhere in the middle of the night, your body betrayed your stubbornness. You woke up curled against him, face pressed gently to his chest, his scent filling your lungs like something you’d been secretly addicted to. His arm—God, his arm—was draped around you, hand cupped protectively over the back of your head like instinct. Like he was shielding you, even in sleep. And it wasn’t awkward. That’s what surprised you most. It felt natural. Not forced, not weird, just… like safety.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek, hear the soft, even rhythm of his breathing. And as much as you hated to admit it… he looked pretty like this. No, scratch that—annoyingly pretty. Long lashes resting against sharp cheekbones, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from sleep in that effortless way guys pull off without even trying.

Gross. Beautiful. Disgusting. Infuriating.

You blinked a few times, brain slowly booting up for the day, before carefully untangling yourself like a thief in the night. His arm loosened its grip like he was reluctant even in his sleep, but eventually let you go. You got up, showered, got dressed, doing your whole morning routine as quietly as possible. University wasn’t going to wait for you to bask in your soft domestic crisis. And you definitely weren’t about to stand there and gawk at his stupidly handsome sleeping face for too long. Absolutely not.

By the time you were adjusting the strap of your bag, tying your hair properly, you heard movement from the bedroom. A few minutes later, Yeosang walked out, freshly showered, damp hair pushed back, wearing that clean, crisp button-up with the sleeves rolled just enough to make you want to scream into a pillow. Grey slacks, black watch, rings back on his fingers, that usual lazy confidence laced into his posture.

He looked at you, eyes dropping down briefly to your outfit, then meeting your gaze again like it was nothing.

“I’ll pick you up later,” he said, fixing one of his cuffs. “After uni.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Date,” he said simply, like it was obvious. “We deserve one.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, unsure of what reaction you were supposed to give. A part of you wanted to roll your eyes, say something sarcastic—but another part… another part felt weirdly happy about it. Happy in that annoying, fluttery kind of way you weren’t ready to admit yet. So you settled for a quiet, “Okay,” adjusting your bag again, looking at the floor to hide the small smile trying to creep up on your lips.

“Good,” he said, smirking now—but this time it wasn’t cocky. It was something softer, warmer. “I’ll see you later, then.” And as you left the apartment, the weight of the day felt lighter somehow. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t dreading things as much anymore.

Yeosang sat in the car, one hand lazily draped over the steering wheel, the other tapping faintly against his thigh. The sun was starting to dip, casting that golden hour glow over the edges of buildings, making everything look softer, warmer, like a scene out of some movie. But Yeosang wasn’t paying attention to the scenery. Not really.He’d had a day. Meetings that dragged. Calls that felt like someone was reading tax documents aloud just to torture him. Endless signatures, fake smiles, the whole act. All he wanted right now was peace. Quiet. A good meal. And you.

A proper date with his cute wife, nothing more, nothing less. Just you sitting across from him in that way you always did—half avoiding eye contact, sleeves of your cardigan slipping past your wrists, probably fidgeting with your napkin again. That was the peace he wanted. Not luxury. Not power. Just that.

But then…

His eyes narrowed. He saw you. And you weren’t alone. There was a guy. Some nobody. Same-age, maybe older, walking beside you, too close for Yeosang’s liking, talking like he knew you well. And you—God—you were smiling. Not the full kind, not the ones Yeosang secretly hoarded like precious stones, but still smiling. Like you were comfortable. Yeosang’s jaw tightened. His fingers, the ones tapping against his thigh, stopped moving. What pissed him off wasn’t just the guy talking. It was the way he was talking to you. That casual, easygoing posture, like he thought he was funny. Like he thought he was charming. Like he thought he deserved to be walking next to you, making you smile like that.

And maybe you didn’t even realize. Maybe you were just being polite. But Yeosang saw it all. The way the guy leaned slightly in when he spoke. The way his hands moved while explaining something, animated like he wanted your full attention on him.

Yeosang didn’t like it. Not one bit.

The expensive black car, polished to perfection, stood out like a punch to the face in front of the university gates. People kept throwing glances, some doing double-takes, whispering. Whose car is that? Who’s that guy? But Yeosang didn’t care. Let them look. Let them talk. His gaze stayed locked on you and that idiot next to you. Calm on the outside. A storm brewing underneath. You didn’t know it yet.

You spotted him the moment he stepped out of the car. Yeosang wasn’t the type to make a show of himself, but somehow—he did. Maybe it was the way he stood, sharp lines of his suit catching the light, hair pushed back neatly, expression unreadable. Maybe it was the car behind him, polished black, practically humming money and influence. Maybe it was just him. Either way, heads were turning, eyes flicking between him and you like something wasn’t adding up.

You swallowed, nerves prickling up your spine. Before you could react, before you could even introduce anyone properly, he was already moving. His hand found yours—firm, warm, possessive without being rough. It startled you. Not because of the touch—you were used to that by now—but because of the timing. Calculated. Precise. Like everything he did. “This your friend?” he said calmly, looking not at you, but directly at the guy.

Before you could speak, Yeosang gave the poor guy a small, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly, tightening his grip on your hand just slightly. “I’m her husband.”

And then, for good measure, he added his name. Kang Yeosang.

You could see the shift instantly. The recognition behind the guy’s eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with surprise. Everyone in this city knew that name—or at least the ones who mattered did. Not just because of the wealth, but because of what that name meant in certain circles. Reputation. Power. Authority. Not just a businessman—something more. Something sharp underneath the polished surface.

“Oh,” was all the guy could manage, awkward, unsure of where to put his hands now, stepping back half a pace instinctively. “Yeah,” Yeosang finished softly, expression pleasant, dangerous in its restraint. “Good talk.”

Without another word, he guided you toward the passenger seat, opened the door like a gentleman, helped you in, and shut it carefully behind you before rounding the car and getting in himself. He didn’t look at you at first. Just started the engine, pulled out of the lot with practiced ease.

What you didn’t see, however, was the slight tilt of his head down as he flicked open his messages. His fingers moved swiftly, effortlessly, typing out the guy’s name, sending it to an unknown number. No emojis. No fluff. Just a clean instruction.

A name and a dot. That’s all it took.

Then the phone slipped back into his pocket like nothing happened.

He glanced at you finally, features softening just slightly now that the irritation had passed, hand casually resting on the gear shift..

"You ready?” he asked, like none of that had just happened. You didn’t answer immediately. Your heart was still somewhere between confused, flustered, and maybe—a little impressed. And Yeosang?

He was perfectly at ease. Because no one touches what’s his.

The date itself was simple, nothing extravagant—just the way you liked it. Dinner somewhere not too loud, warm lighting, food you could pronounce, chairs that didn’t make your back ache. He didn’t drag you to some elite chef’s private villa or a high-rise with twelve spoons and seven forks. Just… normal. Comfortable.

But of course, it wasn’t normal, not with him sitting across from you like that. Rolling up his sleeves just enough to show off the veins in his forearms, leaning forward slightly when you spoke, giving you that attention that made your stomach twist in a way you’d pretend was annoyance—but you knew better now. You were far too aware of his every move, his subtle glances at your lips when you talked, his faint smile whenever you fidgeted with the sleeves of your cardigan or neatly arranged your utensils.

And he was losing it.

Internally.

Watching you talk softly about nothing—ordering dessert, choosing between tea or coffee, or even just adjusting your bracelet—like it was the most adorable thing in the world. You didn’t even have to try. That’s what drove him crazy. You could breathe and he’d be on the verge of melting into his seat like some fool.

But what really started creeping under your skin wasn’t the food or the conversation or even the comfort of the evening.

It was after.

Back in university, you started noticing something odd. The guy—the one from the parking lot—gone. No hellos in the hallway, no passing glances, no awkward waves after that weird encounter with Yeosang. Vanished. Just… gone.

You weren’t naïve. You noticed patterns. You noticed behavior. You might’ve been quiet, but you weren’t stupid.

So, you asked him. One evening, after he’d made both of you coffee, when the room was quiet and warm, you just casually dropped it like spare change on a counter.

“By the way… that guy I was talking to last week? Haven’t seen him around.”

His reaction was instant, which already gave him away. That sharp, barely-there twitch of his lips. His fingers curling ever so slightly around the mug handle.

And then—he laughed.

That annoying, deep, pretty laugh that was all throat and no apologies.

“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug, voice lazy, too smooth to be true. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Liar. Absolute liar.

And that’s what did it. That’s what made you fall.

Not the expensive car. Not the handsome face. Not even the whole husband thing.

It was that. That dumb, cocky, lying laugh paired with the soft way he helped you out of your coat or refilled your water glass without saying anything. The combination of someone who could ruin a man’s whole life in one text but still remember that you liked your toast slightly burnt.

It wasn’t fair.

And maybe, just maybe, you found yourself falling.

Not all at once. Just—a little more.

Dangerous. Warm. Annoying.

Yours.

Taglist: @jujusreader @nkryuki @lover-ofallthingspretty

seonghwa – (kinda a softy but addicted)

He unwraps the gift like it's fragile. And in a way, it is. His hands are slow, reverent, and when he sees what's inside, his breath actually catches. No teasing. No wide-eyed shock. Just quiet awe.

"This is you," he murmurs. Thumb dragging slowly along the slit, memorizing the shape. "You let me have this?"

He doesn't use it right away. He showers first. Changes the sheets. Sprays your perfume on his pillow and dims the lights like he's setting up for a date. And when he finally presses into it, it's with a low groan, hips stuttering almost instantly.

"Fuck… you're so warm even in my head."

He whispers your name like a prayer. Thrusts deep, slow, and holds himself there like he doesn't want to finish too fast. Like cumming would ruin the moment. But when he does? It's with a shaky cry and your name on his lips.

He leans down between thrusts once, just to kiss the clit. Doesn’t matter that it’s silicone, in his head, it's you. He moans against it like it's holy.

He kisses it after. Cleans it gently. And tucks it away in silk like a secret.

—

hongjoong – (filthy, obsessive)

He asked for it. Of course he did. He researched molding kits, offered to help position you, took photos for "accuracy." He was fussy about the angle. "If I'm gonna fuck it," he said, "it's gotta be perfect."

When it arrives, he's hard before the box is even fully open. Uses your moan recordings and a video of your last orgasm as audio. Lube? Optional. He wants it raw.

"You're tighter than I remember, baby. Miss me that much already?"

He ruts into it at his desk, cock flushed and leaking, both hands wrapped around the toy like he wants to crush it. He props his phone up and hits record. "You wanted a video, right? Watch me ruin it. Watch me wreck your perfect little clone."

He moans your name, curses, even slaps it once just to see how it jiggles.

He leaves it out on the nightstand. Doesn't hide it. Wipes it down like a prized instrument and kisses it goodnight.

—

yunho - (gentle, addicted in secret)

He blushes so hard you think he might combust. Opens the box slowly, like he's afraid it's going to moan at him. When he realizes what it is, his ears turn red.

"You made this? For me? Like… molded?"

He acts like he'll save it for a lonely night. But that night? It's tonight. He's too curious. Too hard. He lies on his back, headphones in, listening to you breathe from a voice note. Lubes it carefully. Hesitates.

Then slides in and whimpers.

"Oh my god. Oh my god."

He's loud. Embarrassingly loud. Moaning into a pillow, hand gripping the toy like he's afraid it’ll disappear. When he cums, he gasps your name and makes a mess of his stomach.

He pulls out dazed, sees the mess leaking from the toy, and blushes all over again. “Shit… I—I came inside. I’m so sorry…”

He can’t look at you the next morning. But the toy stays in his drawer. Within reach.

—

yeosang – (worshipful, lowkey possessive?)

He unwraps the box slowly. Fingers lingering on the soft inner walls, eyes dark.

"You gave me this," he says, mostly to himself. "You really let me have this."

He doesn’t fuck it immediately. He sets it on a velvet towel. Stares at it like it’s a relic. He talks to it.

"Did you miss me today? You look so wet, baby. So ready."

When he finally uses it, it’s like worship. He presses in slowly, voice cracking. One hand stroking himself, the other caressing the outer folds like they’re real.

He cums with his forehead against the mattress and your name breaking off his lips in a whisper.

He never shares it. Never hides it either. 

He keeps a drop of your perfume sealed in the same drawer. Dabs it inside before use. Wants your scent to cling to him for days. If anyone even thinks about touching it, his voice goes ice cold:

"That doesn’t belong to you."

—

san – (desperate, loud, horny type)

You don’t even get to explain. He rips open the box and screams.

"NO FUCKING WAY. YOU DID NOT. YOU—" (he's already naked btw)

He fucks it on cam. With you watching. One hand on his chest, head thrown back.

"You molded your pussy for me, baby? You wanted me to fuck it while thinking about you? You wanted me to cry, didn’t you?"

He screams your name when he cums. Falls apart. Pulls out messy and still hard, gasping.

He strokes it after like a lover. “You’re her,” he murmurs. “My sweet girl.” You hear him coo to it like it can respond.

Uses it again before cleaning it. Leaves it next to his water bottle like it’s his gym towel.

Texts you: it twitched around me. swear to god. she misses me

—

mingi – (overwhelmed, ruined, a princess duh)

He tears up. Literally holds it like a newborn.

"You did this for me? You really let them mold… there?"

First use, he puts on one of your oversized shirts and your perfume. The video call is open, but all you see is his hand trembling.

"I missed you so much. I—I know it's not you, but I had to try."

He fucks it like he’s scared of hurting it. Whispers little apologies even as he cums inside.

"Sorry baby, I just… couldn’t hold it. You felt so good."

Afterwards, he wraps it in a towel and kisses the rim. Cries again.

He wears your shirt while he uses it again. Sobs into the fabric when he cums too fast the second time. 

“You smell like home. I need you again, I—please.”

He talks to it when he’s lonely. You catch him once. He doesn’t stop.

—

wooyoung – (cocky, deranged!!, too proud)

He sees the box and grins like you handed him a Nobel prize.

"Oh, you shouldn’t have. No, really. I might propose."

Fucks it with the lights on, music blasting, sunglasses on. Makes you watch.

"She’s sucking me in, babe. I think she loves me."

He spits on it. Spreads the lips open for the camera.

He licks it once. Grins. “Taste test approved.” Later, he sucks his fingers clean and moans like he’s at a wine tasting.

"Tell the real thing to be jealous. Her twin’s working overtime."

You hear him moan your name and his own.

Texts you at 3am: ur pussy has a clone. i’m in a throuple now.

Also buys a backup. Just in case.

—

jongho – (controlled, brutal, undercover addict)

He doesn’t react. Not at first. Just raises a brow, thanks you, and disappears into his room.

But behind closed doors? It’s carnage.

He fists the toy with both hands. No build-up. No lube the second time.

"Tight little thing. Can’t even take me."

He doesn’t moan. He grunts. Breathes harsh through his nose.

Finishes fast the first time. Slow the second. By the third, he’s groaning your name like a curse.

He wipes it clean. Places it in a drawer. Comes back 20 minutes later. Uses it again.

“Take it,” he growls under his breath. “Take my cum like a good girl.” Your moan plays through his earbuds. He fucks harder.

seonghwa:

- barely notices it

- probably daydreaming about something

- but when he notices there's no feeling in his hand he panics

- softly lifts your head to retrieve his arm

you stir, feeling the weight of your head being lifted. you blink your eyes open and turn to find him looking guilty. "i'm sorry honey, rest up," he lays back down and pulls you close, "go back to sleep."

yunho:

- bro is immediately panicking

- do i wake them? do i suffer?

- he chooses that he'd rather suffer than wake you up.

- constantly flexing his fingers to make sure his arm doesn't go too numb

you stretch out your limbs and flip over, eyes landing on a very awake boy. he shoots up immediately and grabs his arm, flexing it to wake it up. "i'm sorry baby, go back to sleep," he breathes quick, "i didn't want to wake you but i might need to go to the ER." you giggle and force him to lie back down, this time making sure he's comfortable before drifting back off to sleep.

yeosang:

- he's fast asleep

- he doesn't even notice it

- bro is so chill

you adjust your position and wake up to the feeling of muscle beneath your head. you look, panic and turn over. "baby, i'm so sorry!" he's blinking his eyes at you, confused why you woke him up. in his dreamy state he flips on his back and draws you into his chest, and mumbles, "5 more minutes."

san:

- he's so happy

- not even a crane could tear that boy away from you

- omg they chose ME? hell yeah

- kinda creepy cause he's just watching you

hongjoong is the one to find you both on the couch, whispering to san, "you want some help?" he moves towards you both. "don't you dare," he whispers with a growl, using his free hand to pull you closer to him. hongjoong backs up.

mingi:

- panicking

- bro is so stressed he's going to wake you

- barely breathing

- barely alive

"baby?" he whispers so low he can barely hear himself. "ok princess, sleep well." he tries to fall asleep after but can't due to his arm. but eventually you turn, still asleep and cuddle into him. he finally breathes and hugs you tight.

wooyoung:

- oh he's so smug

- thought about waking you up to tease you about it

- but saw how content and sleepy you were and held back

- watching you like the yearner he is

"youngie?" you croak, stirring from sleep and feeling his burning stare. "yes darling?" he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "stop staring." "never."

jongho:

- tries to act nonchalant

- you're probably around the other members too

- they're teasing him about it

- but heaven forbid you try and move

you stir after hearing another round of giggles pass by the couch. when you catch on to what they're laughing about, he stops you. he uses his free arm to hold you down. "baby-" "no," he sterns, "you're right where you belong." and although his eyebrows are furrowed together, the kiss to your forehead is soft.

taglist:

evenings with him were cinematic, like you were living in a drama, because something like this couldn’t happen just like that. he would corner you in empty classrooms or on dimly lit hallway, whispering the things he would do to you because you kept wearing that short skirt all day, ass bouncing with your every movement and… keep wearing crop tops like that, you will see how he will top you instead. when he pressed you against a wall, hand on your hip, as he whispered in your ear.

“you walked across campus like that,” your boyfriend was pissed to say at least, eyes dragging over you, “with every guy staring right at you… and you didn’t even look back at me once.”

you open your mouth, but he cuts you off with a soft click of his tongue.

“no,” he says, the grip he had on your hip tightening and that made your stomach twist, “don’t even try to explain, angel. you knew what you were doing.”

shaky and nervous breath leaves past your lips because his touch isn’t where you expect it: he never gives what you think you want first.

“look at you,” your fingers clutch his shirt, pulling him closer without meaning to, as he laughs under his breath, leaning in until your forehead pressed against his shoulder. “walking around in that tiny top, that little skirt…”

his voice drops, almost mocking you, when his knuckles skim your thigh, “you keep wearing that uniform like this, and see if i don’t end up pinning you to the nearest surface next time. classroom, hallway, locker room… i don’t care.”

“woo…” your breath catches, a desperate sound you can’t swallow down, and he chuckles at your every reaction. his hand finally slips beneath the hem of your skirt and the safety shorts that kept nothing safe from him, or the hungry stares of every boy in the whole damn university. fingertips trace slow patterns against your clit, pressing and playing with your bud, opening you wide enough to make you moan, but do nothing about to soothe your throbbing cunt that aches for his touch.

“yeah, baby. say my name like that...” he smiles against your skin, licking your neck while kissing and biting it, “you want more?” he asks, voice so sweet and cruel, when he pushes one finger inside that gets you all worked up, and gosh you are so wet it just makes it easier for him.

despite him being rough and edging you to the max by suddenly pulling his finger out of your cunt and kissing your cheeks, leaving you all flushed and confused, there were tender moments. he checks your shoulder after rough dance moves after your practice, makes sure you are eating by preparing you homemade food, reminds you to drink water, tells you to rest, even as he whispers, you are mine.

the contrast made you so dizzy and confused, because the boy who could destroy you in a few seconds also made sure you were okay, and that was part of the thrill. the guilt and pleasure blended into one, a cocktail you couldn’t resist sipping, again and again. for some reason, being with wooyoung felt like heaven and hell at once.

and hell being when the closest of his friends, the ones that he trusted with his heart and calls his brothers, were allowed to play too. it felt like betrayal, like you were selling both your body and soul to someone else. sometimes they were gentle, sometimes rough, but when their touches were sanctioned, when wooyoung watched, sometimes joining in, the guilt morphed into something addictive. the excitement of being played with, looked at, used, made you want even more.

you were fully present and knew what you were doing, but the pleasure you received from each of the eight men was your little guilty secret. everyone knew you were wooyoung’s girl, only for you to become a cute little plaything, pretty and desperate for the next day, because the lines between ownership and affection blurred.

because he brags about having the prettiest and most adorable girl, and the team teases him about it. besides he still hands you out to them each day… because he loves watching you run back to him after every man ruins you in their own way.

the cheerleader they all pass around, and the girl who somehow ends up cooling down certain players. the pirates are the stars of the team, who use you after practice, after games, in the locker room, on the field when nobody’s looking… seven days a week, where every man makes his own fantasy come true. as for your boyfriend, he gets you whenever he wants — between days, before matches, after matches, whenever he snaps his fingers, they all know to be patient and wait.

soon it became a routine after the first two weeks of getting to know each player more intensely, and wooyoung even made a whole schedule. the calendar in his phone is marked with the names of those who will have you on that specific day. 

HONGJOONG AS THE NO MORE MR. NICE GUY

as the team captain, he gets to try out first, more so, when monday comes, he sets the pace for the rest of the week. initially was against the idea or even joining in general, because why would he sleep with his teammate’s girlfriend even if it was voluntary?

hongjoong had nothing against you of course. in his eyes, you were so innocent and sweet, but you turned out to be totally the opposite. he understands why wooyoung liked you; nevertheless, why he immediately took the chance to be with you. you are a good girl, obedient and good-natured, but unlike you, your boyfriend is not.

that's why he was setting an example to be careful through you. let's not mention when wooyoung was more or less to blame for one of their losses, not that he wanted it, he was just not in shape... he could have been if he hadn't skipped practice to be with you and do whatever, or smelling a little bit of weed after hanging out with yeonjun and soobin from the basketball team.

and believe him, he doesn't want to hurt you, but he has to. the captain doesn’t fuck you when he calls you into the empty room: he ruins you with control by tying your wrists behind your back, sits you on your knees between his legs, and makes you earn even a lick of his cock.

locking the door, even putting do not disturb sign, because everyone knows not to interrupt him when he thinks of tactics or formations for the next game. with you still kneeling in front of him, he watches old game tapes, using your throat as stress relief. hooking his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.

“you listen well, don’t you?” you nod slowly, his thumb brushes your lower lip to make you relax to a certain amount. “use your words, angel.”

“yes… captain.”

he fucks your face nice and slowly, hand in your hair to monitor your movements, murmuring, “knows not to use teeth, hmm…good girl.” so good that he cums in your mouth, making you swallow it all. until the salty tears mix with the taste of his cum, and you smile through your teeth, all dirty until it drips from your chin onto your crop top, on the ground. aren’t you the prettiest dirty little secret the team could keep?

sometimes calls you over with two fingers. you are waiting for him to finish whatever he’s doing before he decides what he wants with you. he could take you in the back of his car. he’s thought about it, you’ve thought about it but he wasn’t in the mood for that. so he takes you to his apartment, with you dry-humping him on the couch while he fingers you slowly,  his silver rings stay on as the cold metal against your warm skin sends little shivers through you.

“wooyoung’s been slacking lately, hasn’t he?” he watches your face carefully when he says it. rubbing yourself on his legs, face shying away from his. he likes hearing your voice when you defend your boyfriend, seeing the conflict flicker behind your eyes. “think you could tell him to do better?”

he doesn’t let you cum until he decides you’ve earned it. every desperate roll of your hips is noted, and he teases you more. his rings graze your most sensitive spots as he toys with your clit, the sensation almost too much for you to handle.

grinding against him while his hands roam, guiding you until you’re shaking uncontrollably. your moans are soft, needy, and he encourages them just enough to push you closer to the edge, then pulls back, making you whimper and drool in frustration.

whispers filthy little reminders in your ear, “keep your boyfriend in check. tell him to stop slacking… you know it’s your job, and mine too.”

your hips jerk against his leg, begging silently as he denies your release again and again, each denial making you cry louder to the judgment served to you, and not to the one who deserves it.

he presses his face into your neck, low grunts vibrating against your skin, marking you in his own way. when he finally lets you cum, it’s all-consuming, leaving you trembling in his lap, eyes rolling, and he watches every second, satisfied with the control he has over you with just his words.

and when you leave his place, you always look composed, but your head is spinning, and wooyoung can tell immediately that hongjoong got under your skin again.

SEONGHWA KNOWS YOU INSIDE AND OUT

truly a gentleman. he takes care of you, never rushes you, or starts without easing you into it first. makes sure you’re relaxed, not carrying the weight of the week on your shoulders. also loves teasing and praising you with his words almost as much as he loves tasting you. every flick of his tongue, every wet slide in and out comes with a low murmur against your core.

tuesdays are his. he has a key to one of the quieter training rooms, always locks the door behind you. he stretches you out on the table, lifts your legs over his shoulders without warning, pushing your hips back toward him, still holding your pom-poms, as he eats you out like he’s slowly unwrapping his christmas gift: slow licks, tongue teasing, hands holding your thighs open. 

“princess, you’re so tight…,” he groans, licking and sucking. “you taste amazing… did you save all this for me?” he teases, opening you wider so you won’t squeeze him to death, not that he would mind.

nibbling at your inner thigh between laps of your cunt. seonghwa’s relentless with the words, praising every inch of your body, even the sounds you produce, such an angelic symphony to his ears. his ego is above the sky, knowing that he can make you feel more than good and more than special. he really can't describe how he's never tasted anything sweeter than you in his life; it's addicting.

“god, your pussy’s perfect… can’t believe this is all mine to play with.” he flirts, and it’s filthy, the way he grins while teasing you, making you melt under his gaze, making you feel like you are the only girl in the whole world, “you’re such a good girl, letting me do this.” 

every compliment makes your body shake more, dripping just from his mouth and words. grips your hips so hard you will see the handprints first thing when you look in a mirror.

“you like it when i talk to you like this, don’t you? pretty little thing loves to be praised, hm?” he teases, tongue pushing deeper, he mixes praise and filth perfectly, so you’re caught between feeling worshipped and utterly used, as the combination makes you desperate. trembling, gasping, and completely under his control.

by the time he lifts his head, cheeks wet, lips shiny with your slick, you’re shaking and he’s chuckling. extremely satisfied, because he knows exactly what he’s done to you, and he isn’t done yet. spreading you out further because, as a cheerleader, you are so flexible, it’s so much easier.

and then it happens. your walls clench, pussy gushes over his tongue, spurting uncontrollably as your back arches off the surface. the man groans, licking up every drop, chuckling against your skin: “fuck– you’re insane, look at you squirting for me…” he teases your clit with the tip of his tongue, circling and flicking as he finally lets you rest.

absolutely love to use the empty locker room, he sits you on the counter and kisses every bruise the others left, but he leaves you covered in love bites that would peek out from your uniform the next day. then he bends you over the sink and rails you in the mirror.

your body shakes, voice gone from screaming as he tightly holds your face with one hand, to make you look at the reflections and see how well you take him, and you know better than to disobey the sweet man who gives you everything you need. goes a little harder here, but he never loses control as he watches your face more than, memorising everything.

and he always knows when enough is enough.

the moment your strength begins to fade, he slows down, whispering soft praise meant only for you. once he pulls out and finishes on your ass, he cleans you gently with a towel, making sure you’re not that sticky before hitting the showers. afte that, he helps you sit up, puts your clothes on, then gives you water and something sweet from his backpack, pressing a few soft kisses to your skin while you recover.

the eldest takes a simple photo: his hand resting on your hip, sends it to your boyfriend. not bragging, but to remind him that even if all of them use you in their own ways, you deserve to be treated gently.

wooyoung pretends he doesn’t care about what his hyung implies, but the thought lingers in his mind after he locks his phone.

YUNHO IS THE MVP WHO MAKES YOU BEG

much like wooyoung, he is someone who teases and enjoys pulling reactions out of you until you are begging on your knees to get fucked, touched, kissed, anything. he believes nothing good should be handed over too easily. where’s the fun in that? you have to work a little, have patience, and earn it if you're obedient enough. you are a sweet little angel, the princess of dirty wishes and secrets, so beautiful, and at the same time so his... at least for the day.

and he wonders how he can be so damn possessive over someone he is not even dating, but is merely using for his own selfish desires?

wooyoung gets jealous on wednesdays because yunho knows exactly how far he can push your buttons. he’ll have you flustered, breathless, nearly in tears from frustration, and smile like he’s proud of it. you cry in your boyfriend’s arms about how much your body and mind couldn't take the tension, but at the same time, how much you enjoyed it.

and he is big in every single aspect — tall, long-limbed, hands that could crush yet hold you, and yes… the thing in between that barely fits in your hand. the mvp of the team doesn’t intend to break you until your makeup is smudged and your body gives out completely, but he does. he will bend you over his desk once he gets you to his dorm, fuck you until your back is about to break with your cheer skirt hitched up exposing the curve of your ass to the fullest.

“hush, doll… you don’t want other men knockin’ on my door, telling me to keep it down…” his long and slender fingers would be in your mouth, to keep your mouth busy, “yeah? you have such a pretty voice… i'm sorry i'll have to suppress it.”

your soft gagging only makes him twitch harder, watching your lips stretch around his fingers, wetting them with your saliva, eyes watering as he smirks down at you.

carries you to the bed without pulling out, well, he does have to pull out to change the position because now you are lying on your back, knees pressed tightly to your chest, watching you lose it on his cock while his hands hold your entire body in place. there’s something about your reactions, like he’s studying you the same way he studies opponents.

yunho fucks you while holding both your wrists in one hand, keeping you pinned and completely under his control. adores hearing your whimpers, your soft cries of his name as the length of him is perfectly filling you, creating a full bulge across your tummy that makes your toes curl.

“huh… you feel that, doll?” he murmurs, lips just brushing your ear. “so good… think anyone else could take you like this? think they’d even last a minute?”

“please… y-yunho, i can’t–” your voice trembling, one big hand slides down to your throat. he also loves to choke you, seeing your little breaths hitch, enough to make you gasp and beg.

“what was that? come on, doll, i can’t hear you,” he grins down at you, hips rocking imperceptibly at first, just to remind you how big and heavy he is. every time he moves, you receive a teasing squeeze on your neck. you try to speak, oxygen nearly stops because of the pressure, but it comes out as a strangled, high-pitched plea:

“yun… yunho… please, i– i’m gonna…” your words crumble, begging spilling out in the form of incoherent moans and shaky whimpers. pounding into you, each thrust makes every inch of him fill you, making you groan and gasp for air.

“fuck, princess, look at you… can’t even hold your voice. you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispers, cock still hard and very much rearranging your guts, wishing he could take a picture right now and brag to no one but himself about having you like this.

he lets you whine and tremble, making you beg for him to stop until your voice gives out entirely, every moan stolen by his fingers in your mouth or throat. and then, when he finally cums inside you, he stays there, knowing he wrecked you so damn good that you can’t imagine anyone else even touching you for the rest of the week.

YEOSANG CAN BE ROUGH BUT CHOOSES NOT TO BE

he always sees you after you spent the previous day with either yunho, jongho, or san, who made your body sore and you walking funny, sometimes with marks showing under your clothes. it makes him worried every time seeing you like this, even if you hide behind a smile and reassure him it's okay, that you are already used to it.

so he nervously always knocks before entering the room you use on his day, which is thursday, but it really depends on what schedule they made for each week. always asks first, “are you comfortable?” or “do you want to rest instead?” wooyoung actually likes how respectful his best friend is, as he trusts him with you in a way he doesn’t trust the others.

the angel, as he really embodies that nickname, usually starts by carefully laying you down, massaging your thighs and hips while checking for soreness. he presses soft kisses along your stomach, whispering that you look so tired, but so beautiful. he’s quiet, but he’s expressive with his hands.

yeosang never goes rough with you, even though he absolutely could. you know he has strength under all that softness, but he refuses to use it on you. to him, you’re something that needs to be protected from everything he is capable of, and because of that, he is the one wooyoung never worry about.

he spreads your legs so slowly, like your thighs might bruise if he opens them too fast. his fingers are gentle on your skin, as his breath is warm on your inner thigh. then he goes down on you like he was born to do it. 

his mouth is the main event; he is so skilled with his tongue and so unbelievably patient. because when he eats you out, he does it until your legs go weak, you’re gripping the sheets, or when you’re softly moaning his name, and tears slip from your eyes. the boy always looks up at you between licks: checking if you’re okay, or if you want more. knows every sensitive spot, every way to make your legs squeeze him tighter and for your hands to tug at his hair if you’re overstimulated. three tugs mean he has to slow down immediately.

“shh… it’s alright, dove. just breathe for me, okay?” because gentleness and tenderness are what he thinks you deserve most.

if he fucks you, it’s vanilla-soft because again, he refuses to hurt you.

lining his flushed cock slowly to your folds, already wet from the way he used his mouth minutes prior, he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, while holding your hand the whole time. sweet angel, holy mother of christ, he is always asking if you are okay, or if you want him to stop or go slower. you want to cry because he is so adorable and good to you, and you always answer the same thing.

his thrusts are steady, never pressing too deep or too far, more so, never pushing you outside the zone of comfort his body offers you. love kissing your shoulder or cheek while doing it, because it makes you open your eyes and realize that you are in fact not dreaming about angels, since one is already with and in you.

and don’t let the gentleness fool you, because he always makes you cum at least twice, sometimes more, although he never pushes you to the edge of pain or exhaustion like the others. his goal is to have you relaxed and at peace, leaving his day smiling, not limping.

your boyfriend pretends to scoff at yeosang’s tender nature. “you treat her like she’s a porcelain doll.” but everyone knows wooyoung appreciates it, because after seonghwa, yeosang is the only one who prevents you from burning out, or being totally worn out and wrecked.

and said boyfriend secretly loves when you come back from a day with the angel because you are relaxed, smelling like coconut body wash, and, surprises surprise, you can walk properly for once. thursday’s the only day of the week when you actually get aftercare during the act, which means the others can keep going hard on their days.

SAN MASKS THE LOVE IN HIS EYES WITH LUST

he is respectful, the kind of man who opens doors, carries your bag, brings you banana milk or shares his sweet treats during practice breaks. but the second he has you alone, every trace of manners disappears as if he were never taught a single one.

when it’s his day, aka friday, usually it’s after practice or a brutal gym session. whenever he’s too in his head and needs a way out.

he doesn’t wait for permission. he hooks his fingers in your waistband, drags you into his lap or against the nearest wall, and kisses you with so much hunger and neediness that he tears your clothes without thinking, mouth hot on your throat, inhaling your scent, like he’s been starving. he stays buried in the crook of your neck until you’re trembling, thighs shaking, overstimulated from nothing but his hands and his breath.

loves the locker room showers. the steam, the echo, the way your moans bounce off the tiles like he’s listening to a melody created for only himself to hear and enjoy. he pins you there, water running over both of you, and devours you like it’s survival instinct: mouth on your neck, chest, hips, thighs, marking everywhere he can reach. when he fucks you in there, it’s loud and so filthy. he grunts, the sound of skin against skin sharp under the water, his hips slamming into you like he’s trying not to cum the second you take all of him.

“hold on for me,” he says, nudging against you. “i’m not gonna last if you make those sounds already.” but then you moan, and his hips snap forward, and you cry out as he growls into your shoulder, biting because he can’t help it.

“fuck– you’re loud today. are you doing this on purpose?” his tone is almost accusing, too breathless to be anything but honest. “driving me crazy, baby.”

his hand slides around your throat, lifting your chin just enough to make you focus on him.

“look at me,” he pants, voice deeper, “i said– look at me while i fuck you.”

he leaves the most hickeys, marking you where he knows wooyoung will see later. you never walk out of his day unmarked. and he loves it when you show up the next morning with them barely hidden, loves seeing his best friend stare at the ones on your collarbone. it’s why the san and wooyoung threesomes get violent: san gets louder, rougher, more possessive because he’s fighting himself and his best friend at the same time. your boyfriend is telling him he’s too slow, too gentle, and san fucking you harder out of spite.

his days are always the messiest because he uses you to empty his head. stress, rage, jealousy, confusion — all of it gets taken out on your body. 

most times, he has you from behind, gripping your hair, panting against your ear. he growls when you moan too loud, not because he wants you quiet, it makes him lose control. he finishes inside you and doesn’t stop, keeps fucking you through it, until you’re limp and boneless in his arms.

but he’s also the one who, on some days, becomes unbearably gentle. service top to his core, worshipping every inch of you when he’s scared you will break or disappear like a dream. he’s soft with his hands, slow with his mouth, careful with your body. he kisses you like he’s apologising for things he hasn’t even done yet.

“i’ve been thinking about you all damn day,” he kisses your neck, open-mouthed and desperate. “yeah princess, you miss me too? show me how much you missed me then.”

when he starts thinking about how much he wants you, how much he cares… that’s when he switches off. full dominant, he doesn’t let you rest because resting means thinking, and thinking means remembering how much he likes you, and how much he shouldn’t like you. he hates that wooyoung can see it in the way he touches you when the three of you are spending the night. so he fucks your hard instead, burying the feelings under multiple bruises and orgasms.

he needs you. he won’t say it to anyone or admit it to himself, but he needs you so bad it makes his heart ache for someone he can only touch but not have.

MINGI WHO WILL ACCIDENTALLY EDGE YOU

just like yunho, he is huge when it comes to everything: height, hands, build, dick size. alas he’s also clumsy in the way that makes you crazy, because he doesn’t mean to torture you... he’ll have you trembling, begging, nails digging into his shoulders, your whole body shaking because you’re so close, and then he pulls away shyly, like he just missed hitting the goalie during practice instead of destroying your soul.

his day is saturday, and everyone knows it; wooyoung never worries because mingi never tries to steal you or ask for extra time. he doesn’t want you as his, he just wants to fuck you, pamper you, and fuck you again. no competition for your boyfriend, but a danger to everyone else.

at his house, in his room he always pulls you into his lap, settles you over his cock, and makes you sit there while he opens his laptop for match analysis or whatever the coach dumped on him for the weekend. you’re cockwarming him while he watches someone doing a free kick, your pussy clenching every time he clicks or shifts. his thighs are huge, his build perfect, and when he laughs at someone’s mistake on the footage, his abs tighten, and so do you, which makes him chuckle even harder.

“doing so good f’me, baby… keep still.” however, he’s the one who moves with little thrusts, tiny rolls of his hips, just enough to make you squeeze him, and after thirty minutes when he gets bored, he snaps the laptop shut with one hand, bends you over his desk, and fucks you until the wood shakes under your palms.

speaking of fucking, mingi is so hyper after wins. all that energy, adrenaline, and all that strength nowhere to go except you. he finds you, grabs your hand, and with the brightest grin says, “sorry seonghwa-hyung, you can take her next saturday!” and drags you away before anyone can argue.

the team doesn’t mind. they switch days like trading cards, because when mingi needs you, he needs you.

takes you somewhere private: stairwell, empty classroom, storage room, literally anywhere. panting against your neck, squeezing your waist with big restless hands, too tired to be gentle but too sweet to be rough without warning. you don’t have to say anything, he knows when you’re close by the way your breath changes every second. so he makes you sit on his lap again. one hand slides between your thighs, slender fingers spreading you wider, thumbs pressing into soft flesh while he watches you try to breathe through the frustration he created.

he whispers filth into your ear like he’s narrating a bedtime story: how tight you are, how pretty you sound, how good you are for him. right when you’re about to cum, he pulls his hand away and holds your hips down so you can’t chase your own high.

“not yet, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your shoulder. “wanna hear you scream again.”

he loves making you cum from dirty talk alone. loves watching your face change, your lips part, your eyes get all watery while he whispers exactly how he wants to fuck you. and he whimpers, every damn time. mingi may be the big guy, but he’s also a loser who’s never had a girl like you before. your touch turns him into a trembling and whimpering mess.

when he finally fucks you, its lazy and slow, like he has hours to waste and wants to spend every one buried inside you. praises you nonstop, something from “good girl… fuck, so tight…” to “just a little more, baby, you got it…”

mingi knows he’s big and that you need time to adjust. he waits by holding your thighs open gently, rubbing your hips until your body relaxes enough to take him deeper. and when you finally sink all the way onto him, he looks up at you with the kind of awe that makes your stomach twist and pussy flutter like butterfly wings.

he also likes cumming on you. your ass, stomach, breasts, thighs — anywhere he can see it. when you kneel under his desk, taking him in your mouth, and let him use your throat… he holds your hair, mouth falling open, hips bucking because you’re sucking him like it’s the only job you have. when he spills in your mouth, and it drips down your chin, onto your tits, he moans. not a grunt, but a desperate, high-pitched whimper.

he’s such a pathetic loser about it that he sometimes cums in his pants before you even do anything intimate.

JONGHO JUST TELLS YOU WHAT TO DO, AND YOU DO IT

the youngest of them all, also physically the strongest, has the energy to fuck you for hours, slowly wearing you down until you can’t think or feel any muscle or nerve in your body.

he doesn’t ask or fool around like everyone with mindless teasing. just simply tells you with short commands that are already imprinted in your brain, such as: kneel, turn around, hold still. and you always listen, because there’s something in his voice that makes your whole body go warm and obedient before you can process what you were told, something like a muscle memory.

has insane stamina, the kind of endurance that makes you afraid and excited at the same time. he can fuck you soft or rough, slow or fast, and believe it that he already done it countless times. he's careful of course, observant; he could always be worse, not even giving you time to catch your breath. except maybe the fact that you're not his, and that doesn't allow his conscience and ego to do whatever he wants with you.

on a sunday, a place he usually uses is the physical therapy room, on the massage table, after games or practice when everyone is home, he stays just to do his recovering. you are sitting on the hard mattress, legs open for him and him between them, holding you by the hips, fucking you deep and steady. hitting the same spot each time until you’re trembling and moaning, gasping how you can’t take it anymore, showing him by digging your nails into his back until they leave marks.

“just little bit more, mm? you can handle it.” knows you are sensitive, but proceeds to keep going, cock pushing deeper as the wet and sloppy sounds echo in the empty room.

he’s the only one who never sends wooyoung a photo or update. your boyfriend appreciates that because he doesn’t want to see cum leaking out of you again. jongho is private about you, in the sense that he doesn't want to share what he does to you. you could tell the others if you want, but you don’t. he never asks you to stay quiet; you can be shared, that’s the agreement, but his moments with you aren’t for group discussion.

so your mouth stays shut, but you always tell your boyfriend everything.

another preferred location of his is the gym room he has in his own apartment. picking you up like you weigh nothing, one hand under your thigh, the other behind your back, body heat radiating off him after a workout. your back hits the wall, and he’s already inside you, fucking you while your feet don’t even touch the ground as they are wrapped around his waist.

each thrust drives a desperate sound out of you, your hands clinging to his shoulders because he’s too strong and too much. he always apologizes, “sorry… sorry, pretty, i’m being too rough–”

you always shake your head, squeezing his biceps to reassure him, “don’t stop… please, don’t stop.”

and he listens because jongho fucks in perfect control. the same angle and the same spot every damn time: he knows exactly where it is, and he hits it like he’s built for it. he's so thick, fitting in you completely, even though you're already so stretched from previous days and men. but he moves in such a way that it makes you roll your eyes and see stars.

makes you look at him when you are about to cum, thumb under your chin if he has to, lifting your face so your eyes stay on his. loves finishing inside you, burying himself as deep as possible so you feel full and warm and unable to move for a moment, thick waves of white between where your bodies connect, even some dropping to the floor that he has to clean after.

when he is done and sees you really can’t keep up anymore, it’s aftercare time, the sweetest of anyone. a warm bath with you resting against his toned chest, big hands rubbing your thighs, soft kisses on your shoulder, whispering, “pretty girl, you did so well for me…”

now ready to take a nap, your hair is dry, body wrapped in a hoodie that smells like him, food and water provided for energy, because when he’s rough, he makes sure to give you twice as much softness after.

THOSE SPECIAL DAYS AND THOSE WHO GET MORE . . .

threesomes exist, but only with two specific people. no other combinations are allowed on the field, as wooyoung refuses to share you beyond those.

WOOYOUNG and SAN are both competing for you, physically and vocally. it’s so primal and possessive, almost aggressive if you must explain it to them. making you cry in the prettiest way, you’re overstimulated, pushed to your limits, denied orgasms multiple times, and thrown into every position they can use you in. the two of them are trying to see for whom you will scream the loudest.

they even have matching tattoos, stupid little symbols of a friendship that most people wouldn't understand. they move as a unit and feel what the other wants — sharing almost everything, except san’s growing feelings for you.

san hides them under the same lust he shows you. in the roughness he uses, the pent-up suppressed stress that can only be burned off by lifting weights, or being buried so deep inside you that there’s barely any room for wooyoung to put his own dick.

and your boyfriend watches how his best friend fuck you like you're his to ruin. san has always been emotional; sometimes he covers it up well, sometimes not at all. there's nothing wrong with wanting something you can't have. being greedy and envious is what makes us human, because if you have sinned, that means you have lived without any fears, breaking the wall of rules and expectations someone just put there.

wooyoung is bratty and teasing, while san is feral and possessive. they trade control: one denies release while the other punishes, then swap. you’re used like a toy, and as mentioned, you are the beautiful doll everyone gets to play with. 

their voices, hands, and bodies commanding you as both men tease you relentlessly. when you beg to cum, they pull back, switch positions, and make you work for it. if you can even say their names, as you're already fucked dumb on their cocks, because look at you: drool dripping from your mouth, the way you're shaking all over but smiling at the same time... you probably won't be able to say much.

“baby…” your boyfriend would whisper in your ear, biting the shell of your ear, your neck, collarbone and shoulder. delicately taking your arms, sloppy kissing before biting the soft flesh, yearning a hiss and a scream from you, “i want you screaming for san too.”

another thing is that they talk to each other while using you, sometimes for the most random stuff, like for example that one time at practice when wooyoung couldn’t even score a goal, “and hongjoong decided to– oh fuck, she’s close… he decided to bench me and make me the ballboy instead,” thrust after thrust in your already abused pussy, sqeezing him so tight wanting to keep him close.

“talk to me about it. seonghwa made me practice dribbling with yunho and we know how competitive he is even during practice... god, does she always sound like this before she cums?” san was as rough as wooyoung. together they are biting, scratching, and marking, until you’re overstimulated, begging with your whimper for the sweet release. “don’t even think about cumming yet, princess… not until we say.”

usually san takes you from the back since one of the things he loves about you is your ass, and wooyoung takes the front because he can’t get enough of your desperate face, but they take turns because sharing is caring.

after repeated denial, they finally let you cum, hands and mouths everywhere, leaving you completely wrecked with them finishing deep inside you at the same time. you not only spill your juices on their cocks but on san’s clean bedsheets too, making such a mess. they can’t even be mad about it, because you did so well for them… maybe the real mvp is you and not yunho, with the way you take very hard opportunities with open mouth and legs, truly magnificent, the only girl in the world born for that role.

sometimes san comes over to wooyoung’s apartment, and your beloved boyfriend is sitting in his gaming chair, spinning lazily while watching something on his phone. his arms rest on the armrests with one hand propping up his chin, the other mindlessly scrolling… or occasionally recording. just a short clip, with the way san’s muscles flex and how your legs tremble as he eats you out. 

your legs are thrown over san’s shoulder as he sucks and pushes his tongue deeper, completely lost in you. like seonghwa and yeosang eating you out wasn’t already enough, because out of everyone, san is easily the most pussydrunk.

and when the sweet but strained little sounds start slipping out of you, wooyoung finally glances up from his phone. he notices the way your fingers clutch the sheets, knuckles whitening as your hips try to pull away but don’t quite manage it. you’re biting your lip too hard, the faint crease between your brows. san doesn’t notice a thing. he’s too far gone and obsessed with the taste of you, with the way your thighs squeeze around his head.

“sannie,” he says without raising his voice, “slow the fuck down. don’t you hear her?” but the man between your legs can barely hear his own thoughts, let alone anyone else’s voice. your head slowly turns toward wooyoung, eyes glossy as you blink rapidly, lips trembling with soft whines. and yeah, that might be his best friend, his soulmate (after you, of course)… but it still irritates him.

he stands up, the chair spins once behind him as he tosses his phone onto the seat. rolling up his sleeve as he walks over, gaze dropping to you first. his pretty girl is being devoured by another man who’s too lost in pleasure to notice the line between good and too much.

he knows you like it, as he also knows everyone loves to overstimulate you, and as any good boyfriend who actually wants you to feel good… his hand fists into san’s hair and yanks him back, his head is pulled away from you immediately, a frustrated sound leaving him, because his tongue literally seconds ago would have made you orgasm, but this time he was the one denied from that pleasure. 

his mouth hangs slightly open, face coated in your essence, gaze dragged away from your soaked pussy and up to wooyoung.

“how many times have i told you to be careful and listen to her?” his voice drops, a bit threatening, “you can feel when she’s too sensitive.” like sure, any of them could use you however they wanted. but with wooyoung right here, seeing and hearing everything, there’s no way he’s letting you get uncomfortable.

“don’t make me kick you out,” wooyoung continues, thumb pressing slightly harder into his scalp. “or keep you away from her for a week. watch your mouth, am i clear?”

san barely gets the chance to mumble a response before he’s shoved right back between your legs.

and just like that, wooyoung returns to his chair, picks up his phone, and doom-scrolls again… totally not already planning to cut san’s time with you next week.

WOOYOUNG and YEOSANG are a strange, yet perfectly balanced duo. one of them is always holding you so carefully that it almost makes you forget how much you missed spending the day with him… while the other only starts biting you when you’re not squirming or tossing like you’re caught in a nightmare, because that’s when he likes to mark you most.

they move slowly, keeping you comfortable while still using you exactly the way their hearts (and dicks) want. it’s tender enough to make your heart beat like crazy, tears threatening to spill because moments like this are rare — where you’re treated like a real princess… and not like the slut you technically are.

for the first time in days, you can actually hear your own thoughts: real words form in your head instead of the usual muffled ones.

you’re lying on yeosang’s bed, flat on your back, their hands wandering gently over your body, leaving soft touches on your stomach and the swell of your breasts beneath the oversized shirt. wooyoung’s lips press warm against your neck while yeosang’s ghost kisses along your shoulder. your fingers tangle into both of their hair, lightly massaging their scalps without even thinking about it. your body so loose and so at ease, you feel like you’re floating somewhere, like drifting in the ocean on a hot summer day.

“just relax…” your boyfriend whispers against skin already decorated with fading marks from earlier days. “i’ve got you, babe.” 

his best friend’s voice follows, so low and soothing. “you’ve been so good… just let us take care of you.”

the three of you have your eyes closed, because sometimes intimacy isn’t just about having sex. sometimes it’s being cuddled between them as they take turns to adore you, making you feel owned and safe all at once.

honestly, you have to give yeosang credit, since he is the only one who makes wooyoung loosen up like this instead of the usual teasing menace he turns into. it almost makes you forget how stupidly lovesick your boyfriend really is beneath all that campus reputation he tries so hard to maintain.

it makes you wish you could live this day on a loop.

there’s barely any roughness, they are entirely focused on your comfort and pleasure. their voices alone start to send you into a frenzy. even though wooyoung’s possessiveness slips amid whispers and light bites, while yeosang’s deep tone vibrates through you, keeping your mind from drifting too far.

at some point, your hands stop their mindless idling in their hair; you’re not even sure what did it. maybe the sensitivity or gentleness, or how they’re taking care of you, but tears start slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them. you are so overwhelmed, like a fallen angel quietly begging at heaven’s gates, knowing it might already be too late to be let back in.

“don’t cry now, angel,” yeosang notices first, as he kisses the tears from your cheeks before pressing a delicate kiss to your lips. “you deserve this.”

everything stays purely vanilla. they bring you apart slowly, mostly with their voices, with barely any touches, only wooyoung’s thumb to push your panties aside, brushing your clit in lazy circles, just to work you up. until you come once… maybe twice… soft and trembling between them.

and you’re left damp and a little messy, yeosang is the one who carefully guides you to the shower. he doesn’t have a bath, even if it would suit the mood better, but he still washes your hair for you, your body too. no wandering hands or naughty thoughts, he’s too tired for games tonight.

by the time you’re wrapped in a towel, wooyoung is already back in bed, clean sheets changed, sprawled out and waiting. he would’ve joined the shower, but he wanted everything nice and tidy, because being caring is part of his nature too.

when you finally crawl back under the covers with the same oversized shirt slipping down your thighs, someone’s clean boxers loose on your hips, they pull you between them without a word. spooned and kissed until your breathing evens out and sleep finally takes you.

YUNHO and MINGI are a pair that woyoung doesn’t know about, because the mvp is smart enough to outsmart the mastermind.

for your safety, and to keep control over everyone’s schedules, your boyfriend tracks the team’s location every single day. but what does yunho sometimes do when it’s his turn with you? absolutely nothing. you relax together, play games, cuddle, kiss… maybe make out a little, because he wants you rested and prepared for saturday when the two of you will visit mingi.

and how does that work when your locations are being tracked? quite simple, he uses two phones. his current one gets switched off, the location gone. the old one stays behind in the dorm, quietly broadcasting that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. studying for midterms, locked between four walls, fighting for that perfect grade — fake it till you make it.

“i make her moan louder,” mingi says, casually taking a slow sip of water while perched on the high barstool in his kitchen.

“in your dreams,” yunho shoots back, already halfway into the fridge looking for something to eat. “she whimpers my name.”

“she screams for me.”

“she begs for me.”

they’ve known each other since high school, yet they still bicker like teenagers who’ve never touched a woman in their lives. just another best friend duo in the group… the duo with the monstrous dick size and the most ridiculous size kinks known to mankind.

and while they argue over things that only matter to the male ego, you’re sprawled comfortably on your stomach in mingi’s room, scrolling through your phone. texting your friends that you can’t make it to tonight’s party, because you’re supposedly spending the weekend with your grandparents. they believe you, just like wooyoung believes he can keep tabs on everyone.

“then maybe we should make her say both… at the same time.”

“bet i’ll still make you cry mine first.”

mingi pushes up from his seat, already heading for the stairs. halfway up, he tilts his head, eyes flicking back for yunho to follow.

“only one way to find out, yeah?”

and that’s how it starts.

but beware, one man is emotionally invested, the other is selfishly enjoying himself. yunho is the one giving instructions, mingi is the one physically overwhelming without trying, and that makes you stuck between pressure and indulgence.

yunho tends to position you exactly how he wants, guiding your chin, your hips, your posture, as he is very controlled; every move and touch is intentional. mingi is more the grab-and-go type with lazy confidence, moving you because it feels good for him, not because he’s planning ten steps ahead.

mingi super chill but physically intense, murmuring soft praise while absolutely ruining your composure, and he’s easily distracted by how good you feel. big hands everywhere, slowly moving and leaving occasional whimpers despite being in the dominant position. he’s not trying to compete… which makes him accidentally win sometimes, and lowkey drives yunho insane.

that result of you being constantly manhandled by yunho and adjusted by mingi.

because they’re both the biggest on the team, you need a lot of time and preparation to adapt. they are very aware of how you react to the stretch and the pressure, as this is where yunho’s competitiveness spikes, especially if mingi is the one who makes you melt first. the taller keeps checking your face, needing proof he’s the one affecting you most.

mingi is here because: it feels good, you feel good, the situation is convenient for everyone.

toward the end, they stop being separate energies and start coordinating without discussing it, cocks moving in sync, in and out of your pussy or mouth until you are painted white inside and out.

“look at me, doll…” yunho is slightly breathless when worked up, seeing that tummy bludge again, and how your eyes are too busy focusing on taking mingi’s cock in your mouth, drool and cum mixing as no verbal confirmation could come out of you, just muffled moans and whines. “who’s got you shaking like this?”

“relax, baby… ” mingi chuckles when you get too needy or overstimulated. sometimes he can’t tell if you are in pain or enjoying it, but you deep throat him so good, you have a master's degree in taking him whole at this point. ”doing so well for me, hmm? ahh– yes, that’s it pretty,” he says while fisting your hair, controlling you because all you need to do is just keep that mouth wide open.

the size kink is impossible to ignore, due to you having the perfect height, your body is perfect, you are perfect.

not everyone can take two big cocks at the same time, but it gets to a point where the stretch starts to burn, where your breath stutters, and your hands clutch at yunho’s shoulders. then you’re begging for him, and the second his name slips out of your mouth first, he feels like he just won the world cup.

you only said his name because it feels like he’s going to split you open, like he might actually ruin you with how deep he keeps pushing, but yunho doesn’t care about the reason; he just hears you choosing him… you have no idea what that does to him.

after that, they don’t slow down. they fill you again and again until you’re completely stuffed, warmth spilling from between your thighs, from your lips when you can’t swallow fast enough. it’s messy and filthy, however, they aren’t careless with you.

they let you rest, give your shaking body time to come back to itself before even thinking about running you a bath. and strangely enough, yunho is the first to press a bottle of water to your lips, voice softer than anyone would expect as he makes sure you hydrate.

meanwhile, mingi just lounges beside you, big hand lazily rubbing your thighs, watching with quiet fascination as your pussy keeps leaking around nothing, still sensitive and fluttering from everything they put you through.

you can’t feel your body properly: not your mouth, or your limbs, not a single steady nerve in your system. you’re boneless, floating somewhere between overstimulated and completely gone, as you lie there, one thought keeps circling lazily through your fogged brain:

do you finally confess this little secret rendezvous to your boyfriend, or do you just keep coming back to let the big boys use you as a cumdump again? 

aftercare hours have you fast asleep in mingi’s bed, completely knocked out. your head rests on yunho’s chest, your body tucked into his side, soft and safe in his arms. one hand tucked behind his head, while the other plays with your hair. absent-minded strokes, and every so often his fingers pause, then resume their soothing rhythm.

across the room, mingi is at his desk, laptop open, mouse clicking steadily against the surface. he’s focused on whatever game the guys dragged him into, probably league again, as voices could be heard through his headset while he plays. then wooyoung asks a simple question, wondering if you are okay, is all.

“how’s she doing?”

mingi glances over his shoulder, eyes flicking to the bed. “she’s out cold. snuggled up like a baby bear in hibernation. it’s kinda adorable, actually.” as he very obviously does not mention the extra detail.

back on the bed, yunho’s hand never stops its slow path through your hair, but his eyes have gone distant. because now he’s thinking about you and wooyoung. thinking about what might’ve happened if he’d said something first, shooting his shot before anyone ever had the chance. you might’ve been his from the start… instead of someone else’s.

his thumb brushes gently along your hairline, careful not to wake you… yeah, a man can only dream.

WOOYOUNG THE DEVIL WITH ANGELIC HALO

having two sides inside him that are constantly battling against each other: an angel and a devil, as cliché as it may sound.

the devilish side is cocky and bratty, hands you off to his friends like it’s nothing, loves watching you squirm, and pushes you to your limits. the angelic side, he is impossibly attentive and protective, tuned into your body and mood, soft in ways no one else ever seen him. he can absolutely ruin you, and five minutes later be the one tucking you into his hoodie and pressing kisses into your hair.

there’s no other way to describe it — he is obsessed with you.

he hates wearing the same scent as everyone else when it comes to fragrance and cologne. even more, he hates when you come back smelling like yunho or jongho for example, or whenever you have been out with your girlfriends… so expect to be showered and gifted the same perfumes he uses; you are the only one allowed to do so.

pet names are something normal in every relationship. he can call you anything in the moment… but he always brings it back to my girl.

by the time you get to his place, the table’s already full with food, your favorite drink, even the snacks you once mentioned liking just once. he acts like he didn’t just spend the last hour cooking. you’re practically glowing as you eat, shoulders relaxed for once, happily munching away.

“you always spoil me,” you mumble around a bite, smiling up at him. “feels like i’m a princess.”

wooyoung snorts softly as he reaches over without hesitation, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth to wipe away a smear you missed. you are always a little messy when you eat, but he never seems to mind.

“yeah?” he hums, leaning back in his chair like it’s no big deal, even though his gaze never really leaves you. “that’s because my girl deserves the best.” and because the cafeteria food is awful, so when boyfriend duties call, he answers.

aside from seeing you full with carefully prepared meals in the kitchen, when it comes to the bedroom… let’s not mention the insane breeding kink this man has. he might seem like he doesn’t care, but once he’s in you, it’s not only violent, but savage. the fixation comes out strongest when he’s jealous or worked up, and just needs to see you completely full of him, to claim you and be a part of you, to be one whole. he wants to stay there forever, as it seems your pussy doesn’t want to let him go either.

“no one else is ever gonna fill you like this.” cock staying buried until you have milked him dry, hands tight on your hips to ground himself, visibly irritated when he has to pull away. “want you to walk around leaking of me. let everyone see who you belong to.”

it’s possession and obsession that mainly take over him, since he gets more focused and territorial over you.

other times, he calls you a dumb little doll, a cumdump, a brat who deserves to be put in her place, but he’ll also say you’re the best he’s ever had, his perfect angel to destroy. yes, he degrades a lot on top of that. but when he praises you, it’s scary-good. you can't blame him, he's just that way, more controlling and dominant, a sweet-talker even when he's rude.

“needy little thing, so good for me. you were made to take me, yeah?” and it’s you cockwarming him before he needs to go to practice, and before you start getting ready for the next man on the timetable. “nobody else gets this pathetic version of you…  still my good girl at the end of the day.”

he would kiss your neck, grazing his teeth over the skin and bite, watching you shiver and arch. since his special is mixing degradation with praise in the same breath.

everyone on campus knows that you are wooyoung’s girl, and thank god, they don’t know about the nasty stuff that’s happening behind the scenes.

you wear his hoodie to hide the numerous hickeys and bites left from every man. you stay close to him or any of the other players when you don’t feel comfortable around people, because before fuckboys they are your friends too. it's just all a perfect illusion, a lie that feeds on itself.

wooyoung knows when you’ve been pushed to your limits, even if you deny it. after intense day with san or other yunho, he sets a clear rule not only to his friends.

“she’s off this week, maybe for longer, i’ll take care of her.” what he meant to say was, find someone else to fuck.

even though you love being used by the team, he wants your body and mind fully recovered, or just wants you to himself, he will give them the chance to use you again someday.

teasing touches to remind you you’re his, but surprisingly without pushing you over the edge. again cooks food for you, does your assignments even if you two study completely different things, insisting you don’t lift a finger.

the other pirates respect the rule, don’t go against it or try to question it. they bring you snacks sometimes, or offer shoulder rubs after your dance practice, making playful comments like: “woo’s really spoiling you, huh?”

and you wonder why he is attentive and caring beneath the chaos he loves to cause?

because wooyoung knows your monthly cycle is near. you’re sensitive, more emotional, hormonal, and physically overwhelmed. during this time, he’s extra affectionate, more observant, quicker to pull you into his lap, way softer and clingier in private.

he always pays attention, that’s why during your ovulation day, knowing he could get you pregnant, but it’s too early for that, he uses condoms. very unfortunate, but he’s taking no risks. it’s just the start of your twenties; surely neither of you wants a baby to just pop up. the other times it’s raw, next question.

wet sounds of skin clapping echo through the room. he is rutting inside you, the plastic wrapped around his dick there for safety, he tells himself, but fucking dammit, the urge to breed you is getting out of hand, especially with how much your hormones spike during these specific hours.

“messy baby… can’t help it, huh?” you’re lying on your back with him hovering above you, your hands holding his, fingers laced together as he breathes you in. “such a greedy girl… but you look so pretty fucked dumb on your boyfriend’s cock, hm?”

“wooyo–” you moan as he hits that spot, hot tears spilling, your vision blurring because you want him so bad, closer than gravity allows. fuck, you love him so much.

“yeah, baby? you’re mine, remember that… it’s me who makes you feel like this. a cockdrunk slut who knows who makes her feel real good.”

his grip on your hands tightens, veins in his arms and neck standing out as his pace quickens. you’re close to orgasming, maybe squirting again, who knows, it’s a gamble, and he’s close too. god, how he’d love to see his cum dripping out of you… but then he thinks about you with not-so-happy tears, holding a pregnancy test.

so for now, he and the rubber are becoming very good friends.

wooyoung always has this look when you start getting desperate for him, so smug as if he still can’t believe you always crawl back to him. because you never get like this for anyone else. not for hongjoong on a monday afternoon, or for yunho after practice, as the whole world can touch you, but only he gets to keep you.

so when he pulls out, and for once he actually put towels beneath you because you’re making a mess again, he kisses you from your lips down to your neck, breasts, and stomach, until he’s right where you’re soaked and sensitive, licking everything up like a starved kitten. he can’t get enough of the taste of you… he’s just as pussydrunk as you are cockdrunk.

shit, the condom is heavy with his cum as he slips it off and tosses it somewhere on the floor. he wants so badly to be inside you, but maybe your mouth can do the job for now… so now you’re sucking his dick, licking him clean as he makes you swallow it, because it’ll be inside you at some point, just not from the right hole.

“fuckin’ making me wait until this day is over… how about we graduate already so i can get you pregnant,” he mutters, pushing your head down to take him deeper. “won’t gotta worry about birth control or plan b– f-fuck, baby, that’s it, you know how to suck a dick right.”

and when he comes into your mouth, he barely even has to work for it. he pulls out, breathing heavier than usual, like his body’s finally starting to feel it, how he is completely milked dry. you’ve been fucking for what…oh, all day, basically.

like a devoted future husband, he takes care of you all over again. once you’ve both finally calmed down, the first thing he does is wipe your tears away, kissing each cheek gently. 

“you did perfectly, princess. so perfect for me...” quietly reassuring you that you’re not any of the degrading things he said earlier, even if you know you are, you just want to be pampered right now. “c’mon, breathe with me… there you go, my good girl.”

so he pulls you into his arms first. his bedroom still smells like sex, eventually you’ll both hit the shower… just not now.

you’re curled into him, legs tangled with his, your cheek resting against his bicep since it’s your personal pillow. his fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your back while he stares up at the ceiling, not even realizing you’re starting to drift off.

“baby, let’s sho–” his lips brush your forehead as he murmurs into your hair, but you don’t answer, and … the softness that takes over his face, the love in his eyes with that helpless adoration, totally heartstruck and whipped. he presses another kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally a quick, gentle peck to your lips. “i love you so much.”

and he really loves you, and he doesn't just say those words that easily. it doesn't matter who you're with tomorrow, or in two days. you will always, absolutely always come running into his arms, wanting him and only him. because at the end of the day, the others get access to your body, but it's wooyoung who gets access to your heart.

a/n: any grammar mistakes or typos will probably be edited with time!

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