#neosmutcollective

Rolling onto his stomach, he watched your reflection in the mirror, biting his lip at the way you peeled off each layer of clothing. “Are you getting naked without me?”

“Jeno!” You looked up, making eye contact through mirror before quickly shutting the door.

Snickering to himself, he eventually pushed off the bed, making his way to the door. “Y/N.”

He tried the handle, but it was locked, not that he was expecting otherwise. “Y/N, come on.”

You weren’t mad at him, you weren’t locking him out because you were upset at the way that he peeped at you. In reality you were sitting against the cool tile of the bathtub, not really in the mood to unlock the door.

“Hey, hey I know what you’re doing in there. Let me in.” Jeno knocked against the wood, but soon his words turning into whines.

After a few minutes of nothing, there was a faint scratching noise on the other side, the handle jiggling for a moment. The door popped open, a very satisfied Jeno on the other side with a small screwdriver in his grip.

He waved it at you with a grin, setting it on the sink before making his way on the floor towards you.

Crawling the rest of the distance, you squirmed as he leaned up against you. “Jeno, you’re hot.”

“No, you’re hot.” He grinned, lips falling on the skin of your bare shoulder, kissing the expanse, teeth tugging at the straps of your bra momentarily before you nudged him away.

“Jeno, stop it’s hot.”

“Well, we can fight fire with fire, right?” Jeno pushed back against you, lips finding suction on your most sensitive part of your neck. You gave in for a second, sighing at his ministrations, but it didn’t last long. Hand roaming lower, finding perch on your inner thigh, massaging it closer and closer to the part that was burning the most.

Your hands shoved both his face and hand away from you, “Jeno seriously. I’m about to burst into flames. I can’t.”

He sighed in agreement, collapsing against the tub next to you, eyes closing hoping for a bit of relief. He shifted his hips, trying to adjust himself, cock straining against the fabric of his shorts.

Jeno’s phone rang out from beside him, screen flashing with a new message, and it took him all the effort he had to grab it. But the words on his phone was his saving grace.

“Hey, let’s get out of here.” He said, mood suddenly lifted. Jeno moved to his feet, holding a hand out for you to grab, which you did reluctantly. Shoving your clothes at you, he backed out of the bathroom, huge smile on his face.

“Grab your swimsuit, we’re going swimming.”

“Wow, this place is great.” You sighed out, eyes taking in the whole view of the place.

“Yeah, we lucked out didn’t we?” Jeno dropped his bag on the couch, hands in his pocket as he looked out the large glass doors. “If Chenle didn’t ask me to check up on Daegal, we wouldn’t have landed in this paradise.”

“Gosh, the pool.” Your eyes were dripping in honey at the sight. It was large, blue tiles adorned the side and it had to have been at least ten feet deep in the far end. The shrubbery behind the pool masked the yard from any onlookers, not that there would likely be any. With this view, it was clear it would be a hike for someone to come up here.

Jeno slid the door open, ushering you out first, eyes squinting against the harsh sunlight. You could already see the waves of heat just beyond the pool. “You’re sure that this is fine? I mean, did he say we could use the pool?”

“Mi casa, tu casa.” Jeno smiled out, shaking his head. “It’s a given, besides it’s Chenle, he’s totally cool with it.”

Jeno lifted his shirt up off his back, tossing the white fabric by the group of lounge chairs.

One thing that you loved about swimming with Jeno, you were always gifted with his beautiful abs. He claims he hasn’t been working out more than usual, but the way his muscles grew toned said otherwise, not that you were complaining, it was heaven to look at.

You felt the urge to run your fingers over the dips of each contour, biting your lip to stop yourself.

You were hit with a wave of water, blinded for a moment before you realized Jeno had cannonballed into the pool. There was a sigh of relief from him, grinning at the cool water rushing over him.

“Come on.” He waved you in, “It’s too hot out there.”

Peeling off your shirt, Jeno eyed you up and down, enjoying the inadvertent strip show. You stepped out of your shorts, tossing them in the same direction as Jeno’s shirt.

Eventually you made your way to the edge of the pool, dipping a toe in the water and sighing at the feeling. You gasped out when Jeno tugged at your ankle, nearly falling into the pool at the movement.

Laughing at you, he tugged again, more firm this time now that your foot was completely on the pavement. “Come on, jump in.”

“Alright, I will. Just, I’ll do it on my own.” You pouted, stepping out of his grip defensively. He threw his hands up in surrender, swimming back a couple of feet, letting his chin sink under the water, eyes ever watchful.

You opted for sitting on the side of the pool, slipping into the water until you were fully submerged, popping from the surface gasping for breath.

Pushing your hair back from your face you grinned at your boyfriend, swimming in his direction until your legs wrapped around his waist.

Struggling to keep the two of you up, he gurgled slightly as he sank. Sputtering out as he swam to where he could touch the bottom.

“Y/N. Are you trying to kill me?” He choked out, hands gripping at your ass, keeping you attached to him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tapping his nose with yours with a hum. “Mmmmh.”

Leaning down, you kissed him, taking his lips with yours. It was a breathless kiss, the type that would knock you off your feet, if you weren’t floating. Pulling away you heaved a breath, pressing your hands against his chest when he chased after your lips.

Pushing harder, you released your legs from his waist, feet touching the floor. “Come on, I thought we were gonna have fun.”

You laughed, smiling at Jeno from the shallow end of the pool. You perched yourself on the submerged seat, legs swinging in the water.

He swam after you, cornering you against the inlaid seat. “We can have fun.” Jeno whispered, sending chills down your spine, lips skinning the skin at your ear.

He spun you around grabbing at your waist and tugging you onto his lap until you straddled him. Your hands automatically fell to his biceps, keeping you from falling.

Pushing the wet slick of hair from your face, he rubbed at your neck, thumb sliding over the skin of your cheek.

“Fucking gorgeous.” He whispered out, finally taking your lips with his. It was slow and sensual, taking his time with you while he could, before he became starved.

You pressed against him, chest rolling into his, skin burning with desire. You were at your breaking point, and you needed to push him over the edge too. No more of this soft, sensual stuff. You were growing desperate to be touched, anywhere, everywhere.

Whining, you bit at his lip, tugging at the bottom lip and looking at him through your eyelashes. Your hands rubbed up and down over his chest, scratching slightly at the skin, just the way he likes it.

He understood, growling under his breath, hoisting you up higher. Hands dropped from your neck, falling on your ass, kneading them, forcing you down on his already hard cock. He groaned out, hips thrusting up in attempt to get closer, hands getting so tight you were sure you were already bruising.

Jeno sucked at your lip, making you gasp and pull away. He took this opportunity to latch onto your throat, nibbling at the skin, no doubt bruising you there too.

Jeno loved that. Waking up the morning after, fingers tracing over all the little marks he left on you, proof that you were his, his to do with as he pleases.

“All mine.” He grumbled into your skin, “All fucking mine.”

It seemed as if something feral came over him, lips chasing over every space on your neck, dipping lower and lower until he was shoving your swimsuit top out of the way. Sucking and nipping on the supple skin, you threw your head back in pleasure, grip on his hair tightening, tugging him closer.

“Jeno.” You whispered, egging him on, begging.

He gave one last fierce tug on your sensitive nipple before he returned to your lips, nodding into the kiss.

“You want me baby? You want it?”

You hummed, eyes screwed shut, just imagining what he would do to you. His fingers tapped at your naked hips, playing with the small fabric of your bottoms.

He pushed your bottoms to the side, fingers sliding through your folds easily, teasing at them before pulling away. You whined at the feeling, upset at the way that he left you hanging.

Jeno chuckled at your frustrated expression, tapping at your clit teasingly.

You whined again, dropping your right hand down to grab his, stopping him from pulling away all the way.

“Jeno, don’t tease like that.”

He smirked at you, “Why? What’re you gonna do about it?”

Frowning at him, you blew a sigh out, hand releasing from his hand and shoving your hand past his shorts, pawing over his length.

Jeno threw his head back in pleasure, a huff of air escaping him. “Fucking hell Y/N.” His hips bucked at your grip, following the way that your hand pulled him.

His eyes narrowed when he finally pulled his head back, biting his lip at you. He didn’t give you another second of warning, thrusting two digits past your bottoms, pumping them in and out at a rapid pace.

Moans between the both of you grew louder, the water splashing against the edge of the pool, water wetting the perimeter.

“Fuck it.” Jeno muttered, pulling out of your pussy, and pushing your hand away from his hard on. He grabbed his length himself, rubbing it up and down your folds. The way you rubbed your hips against his cock, every once in a while teasing at the whole, just begging to suck him in, had him growling with impatience.

His cock slapped against the front of your stomach, and you scooted forward, not allowing him to maneuver himself back into you.

You panted out, ass wiggling with arousal, knowing that if it weren’t for the pool, you would be dripping all over. “Jeno. Stop, not here. We shouldn’t.”

He brought his left hand up, cupping your cheek with breathless gasps. “It’s fine, no one will see. People are too far to hear.”

Your face glowed with embarrassment. “Jeno, I was thinking about how we can’t do it in their pool. Not about if someone could hear, or see us.”

“It’s fine,” he shook his head, stealing a kiss before continuing. “It’s salt, besides, they have it cleaned weekly. It’ll be clean before they even get back.”

“Jeno.” You whined, shoving your face into his neck, shaking your head.

“All right.” He grumbled, getting a better grip on your ass, hoisting you up to climb out of the pool.

Clinging to him closer, you felt the suction of water leave you, the heat of the sun rush over you.

Before you knew it, you were under the shade of the pergola, Jeno having laid you out on a lounge chair.

“On your knees.” Jeno commanded, stepping out of his shorts down and letting his hand rub over his length, swiping at the leaking precum.

“I wanna ride you.” You whined, pouting at him in refusal, opening your legs up for him instead.

This ticked him off as usual, when Jeno was in the mood, you were to listen to him. He enjoyed watching you submit, do as you were told, lament for him and him only.

“On your knees.” He said again, eyes begging you to misbehave, see how he puts you back into your place. But you eyed him up and down, and promptly rolling over so that your ass was in the air.

He smacked it once, large hands massaging the skin until you were shoving your ass back for more.

“Dirty little girl.” He grinned, smacking you once more for good measure. “Needs to learn to follow directions.”

You moaned at his words, ass pushing even further, needing to feel him against you. Jeno teased you, fingers playing with the fabric of your bottoms, watching them get wet with slick until he couldn’t bear it anymore.

Pulling them off, he left the swimsuit tangled up around your ankles, not bothering to take them all the way off, he enjoyed the way you looked like that. Dirty, half naked, desperate.

He rubbed his shaft up and down through your cracks, teasing at your folds until you were begging for him to put it in.

Jeno was swift, perhaps it was because he wanted to punish you, or maybe he just couldn’t take it any more. You let out a strangled gasp as he bottomed out, the stretch making you feel more full than you remembered.

He didn’t let you get comfortable for too long, pulling out half way before shoving in again. Jeno’s hands landed on your hips, gripping tighter to make it easier to gain traction.

But as much as he liked taking you from behind, he missed watching your expressions, hearing you whine, watching you squirm for him. After only a few more pumps, he pulled out, tapping at your shoulder to tell you to roll back over.

And there you were, hair splayed out around your head, legs propped up around his legs, eyeing him the way that drove him crazy, ridden with lust.

He wasted no time, lining up again, thrusting all the way in, and then pulling you up. Jeno turned the two of you around, sitting on the edge of the chair, propping you up on his lap, hands grabbing at any free skin he could.

You stilled above him, reveling in the feeling of being full, eyes staring down at him.

He kissed you softly with a grin, “Ride me baby.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Jeno helped you a bit, using his arms to help you move up and down on his length. You rotated your hips, grinding down on him as he raised his hips to meet you in the middle.

Clawing at his back, you left kisses along his shoulder, biting slightly at the skin as you bounced atop him. Jeno felt the lazy haze of pleasure wash over him, enjoying you doing all the work for him.

But soon you were becoming tired, slowing to an agonizing pace that he could no longer handle.

You let out a shout of surprise as he stood up, dick still deep inside you, moving into a better position.

He dropped you back down, legs still attached at his groin. Jeno pistoned his hips, your legs falling back towards you. He used his hands to hold your legs up, throwing them over his shoulder for easier access.

You moaned at the new position, the way his hips eased up and hit the spot that sent you wild.

“Yeah, you fucking love that? So loud the neighbors can hear? Want them to know who’s fucking you so good, huh?”

You whined, covering your face with embarrassment. But he wouldn’t have it, his hands grabbing at yours, pulling them down until he could pin them to your chest with one hand.

“Say my name.”

But you could barely breathe, let alone say his name. It was dripping from your mouth, begging to come out, but all you could do was pant out.

“My name Y/N. Say it.”

“Jeno.” You managed out, breathless and dry, covered by a moan.

“Louder.” His hips moved faster, harder against you. The lewd sound of skin pounding against skin louder than you can scream.

His hand found your clit, painting figure eights to help you, eager to hear you cry his name, needing to hear it.

“Oh my god. Jeno.” You gasped out, clutching at his arms, nails digging into the skin. “Fuck. I’m fucking– ugh, I’m close.”

“Hang on.” He grunted, continuing to hit that spot until you both felt the highs of your orgasms rising. “ ‘m close.”

Soon after, you felt the feeling of warm cum fill you up, you cumming soon after at the feeling. Walls suctioning him in that he had to wait until you were all the way done before it was even possible to pull out.

He sighed, pulling out and immediately sinking to his knees. You sat up partially, eyes still blurry, but watching with confused eyes.

“Jeno no, I–” You pushed at his head, squirming away, but he wouldn’t have it. He gripped you tighter, tugging closer on the lounge chair, knees digging into the cement, but he ignored the pain, starved for the taste.

“Umgph.” You tugged at his hair this time, bringing him closer. His tongue dug deep into your pussy, desperate for the taste.

Jeno hummed into your heat, falling deeply into you, drowning in you the way that he loved.

His nose ran over your clit, the stimulation already pushing you close to the edge of your second orgasm. But as his tongue flexed, dipping into your hole, you felt your muscles tighten, in your stomach and between your thighs.

Clenching, your legs automatically squeezed around his head, keeping him there until you finished riding out your high. Not that you needed to. Jeno wasn’t about to let up until every drop of you was devoured.

“God damn.” You sighed out, chest heaving breathlessly from your two orgasms, to fucked out to care that you were still spread out for anyone to see.

Jeno grinned, crawling up over you, pestering kisses on his path as he went. He enveloped your lips with his, tongue sneaking in a bit. When he pulled away, you smacked your lips, the taste of your cum still on your tongue.

His hands ran down your waist, gripping and massaging at the skin as he found pleasure in the expanse of your skin again. Leaving lazy kisses along the skin until he was interrupted by the sharp ring of his phone.

Sitting up, he grabbed at his phone, answering after seeing that it was Chenle, probably checking to make sure he had made it alright.

Feeling kind of self conscious, he tugged on his shorts as Chenle;s voice echoed over the phone.

“God damn it Jeno. I said check on Daegal, not fuck your girlfriend on every surface.” Chenle yelled, and Jeno winced at the noise, just imagining his expression.

“What? How’d you–” Jeno whipped his head around, half expecting Chenle to pop out the door.

“You really don’t think we’d have security cameras?”

Jeno’s eyes widened, roaming around the yard until he noticed the soft blinking light just outside the back door. He then glanced at you, eyes closed and laid out on the chair. He grinned, staring at the camera. “Did you enjoy the show at least?”

You were just going to die when he told you. But with the way that you clenched around him when he teased you about others hearing you, he thought that it just might turn you on more than you would let on.

They decided it would be best to make a public appearance first, so it wouldn’t look like they were hiding the fact that they were seeing each other. They were friends, after all, and it had been a couple of months since they had seen each other. Dinner was completely reasonable. No one needed to know that the car that went back to Taeyong’s hotel wouldn’t have Taeyong in it. 

The thing is, ever since Yuta told him that he cared, ever since Yuta took away those pretenses, Taeyong’s worry has all but disappeared. It’s still there, of course; things would completely blow up if the public found out. But now he knows he and Yuta would weather that together, and that alone makes it worth it to him. Of course, he’ll have to see if Yuta falls back into old habits, but he doesn’t think he will. They both know that this is too important to throw away. Closeness like this, vulnerability—it’s hard to find in their industry, especially between two people who are so different in so many ways. That he’s found it is enough for Taeyong.

The flight itself is easy enough. Taeyong listens to music and plays video games, and before he knows it, they’re touching down in Osaka, where Yuta has a secondary residence. 

As expected, there’s plenty of fans waiting there, too. Taeyong only waves, hiding the anxious and disgruntled press of his lips behind a mask, and then he’s escorted into a car, where he finally gets a little peace and quiet.

Yuta was right, though; it’s hardly six by the time he gets to his hotel, so he has time to wash up and change before braving the outside world again to meet Yuta at a sushi restaurant. 

It’s a high-end establishment, and seemingly rather private, much like the bar Yuta took him to the first time. There’s something almost nostalgic about it as Taeyong is checked in, as he’s led up to the dining rooms, as he looks across the room and sees Yuta sitting at a secluded booth, nearly hidden in the corner. He has his hands folded atop a closed menu, chin raised, waiting for Taeyong. When their eyes meet, he smiles. 

Taeyong sits down across from him and they stare at each other for a second. Yuta is just as strikingly beautiful as he’s always been, but Taeyong notices he’s a little dressed down. His jewelry is simple, his attire clean, his makeup light. Unlike their first meeting in that bar, he isn’t trying to turn Taeyong on. His charm is muted today; he’s in his natural state, instead of trying to exude an air of tongue-in-cheek sexiness like he seems to do almost every other day. He’s not Nakamoto Yuta, wildly popular j-rock star. He’s just Yuta.

“Hi,” Taeyong says softly, and Yuta smiles even bigger. It’s not that sharp, sly smile that sends goosebumps scattering across Taeyong’s skin. It’s sweet and gentle and floods his eyes with warmth.

“Hi,” Yuta replies. “It’s good to see you.” A slight pause, then, “It’s really good to see you.”

“You, too,” Taeyong says.

“Thank you for giving me another chance,” Yuta says. “I still don’t really know what I’m doing, but—I don’t know. I’m not as scared anymore.”

Taeyong smiles. “Thank you for being brave enough to say something first,” he says. “We can talk about it later, when we’re alone, okay? Right now, I want to enjoy a meal with you.”

“I think we can make that happen,” Yuta agrees, a hint of his usual self coming through. “Do you want to look over the menu and pick a few things out, or do you want me to order?”

“You know better, you should order,” Taeyong says. “I think it would just stress me out, trying to choose.”

Yuta laughs. “Okay. Anything you know you like? Or know you hate?”

“Yellowtail is always good,” Taeyong says. “And eel.”

Yuta nods, opening his menu. Taeyong browses the drink selection while Yuta makes his decisions, sneaking looks at him every few seconds. 

Yuta notices. “What?” he asks quietly.

Taeyong tips his head to this side. “I like you this way, too,” he says. “You look soft.”

The look Yuta gives him is sheepish. “It’s for you only,” he says, “so don’t go telling people. I have a reputation to uphold, after all.”

Taeyong giggles. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises.

A waiter comes to take their order, returning shortly with their drinks. They chat—about Taeyong’s flight, their last projects, their friends. Taeyong delicately avoids how murderous Doyoung still was when he left; he hopes pictures of Yuta spoiling him will be enough to soothe his outrage. 

“You should meet my friends,” Yuta suggests. “It’s only fair, since I met yours. Plus, one of them in particular is dying to meet you. Actually, he’s a lot of the reason I reached out in the first place.” He laughs softly. “His name’s Shotaro. Unlike me, he’s got his head screwed on right, so, you know.”

Taeyong giggles. “I’d love to meet him,” he says earnestly. 

Their food comes out, and Taeyong spends the next twenty or thirty minutes completely lost for words, lost in how good the sushi is. Yuta watches him fondly, insisting he take the last piece of everything, placing them on Taeyong’s plate before Taeyong can finish chewing and argue. Taeyong feels warmth rise to his chest, his cheeks. It’s not from the drinks. It’s this—them, together, in a way they haven’t been before. It’s new, and Taeyong thinks he likes it. 

Yuta’s manager retrieves them once they’re done. “It’s good to see you again, Taeyong,” she says, and Taeyong has to wonder just how much of this she knows. Regardless, her welcome seems genuine, and Taeyong dips his head in thanks.

Though the ride to Yuta’s is pretty high-spirited, the energy leaves them as they get into the elevator. Yuta quiets, watching Taeyong. Taeyong watches him back. It’s not a bad change; Taeyong knows they both knew they would have to talk everything though once they got back to Yuta’s place.

Yuta’s place in Osaka is much more understated than his apartment in Tokyo. Here, it’s a simple one-bedroom overlooking the river on one side and the street on the other. The design is much more traditional, with light wood finishes and muted decor. Taeyong finds he likes it; it’s comforting where Yuta’s Tokyo residence is sexy. 

Yuta locks up behind them, helps Taeyong with his things, files their shoes away. He pads over to his living room, gesturing for Taeyong to follow, dropping down into one of his couches and patting the cushion beside him. Taeyong sits.

“I want to explain myself a little,” Yuta says after a moment. “Not because I want you to think better of me, but because I need you to understand that the way I went about all of this had nothing to do with you.” Taeyong nods, waiting. “I’m usually someone who… sleeps around, I guess. I’ve basically had a consistent string of hookups ever since the start of my career. I’m known for being a bit of a playboy—and my fans like that about me. They think it’s fun, sexy. They hope the next NDA I sign will have their name on it, because it might.” Yuta runs his hand through his hair. “You’re not the first person I’ve arranged a meet-cute with. You know what I said—I know what I want, and I know how to get it. I wanted you, and I made that happen. But…” He trails off, and Taeyong realizes he’s nervous.

He takes one of Yuta’s hands, squeezing it gently. “What?” he prompts softly.

“Usually, you know, we’ll sleep together, and I might travel to see them again like I did with you, but it doesn’t last for longer than a few months, and it’s never meant to be more than that—just sex, and company. And…” Yuta shrugs. “I was fine with that. I knew I was years away from even being able to think about settling down, if I am ever able to settle down in the traditional sense at all. It was fun, and it kept me entertained.

“But then, I came to visit you. What happened between us last time you were here, I could write that off as infatuation. You are exceptionally handsome, Taeyong, you’re pretty and you’re a very good fuck, and you’re sweet and funny and kind,” Yuta says. “So if I was getting a little giddy about you, that was fine, it was natural. But then I saw you again, and I stepped into your life, your world. I met your friends. I worked with you. And all of a sudden, it wasn’t infatuation anymore. It was something else. And that was weird for me.” Yuta’s biting a nail, looking at Taeyong through his bangs. “I even considered asking my manager to fabricate an emergency and bring me home early, except I didn’t want to abandon our collab. And I didn’t want to abandon you.

“I thought, okay, I can stick it out to the end of this vacation, and then we’ll have some time apart when we’re both busy, and I’ll be able to cool down,” he continues. “But I didn’t. I thought about you all the time, I mean—I still do. I found myself wishing I had a different life. I wished we’d never met, I was kicking myself for setting up that stupid meeting, because then none of this would have happened, and I wouldn’t have been in such turmoil.” He squeezes Taeyong’s hand back, taking a deep breath. “And then we had that call, and it just—I couldn’t tell you any of it, how could I? I never thought I would be this kind of person, the kind that—lets emotion get in the way. And I think I was angry at myself and displaced that on you, blamed you for it when really, it’s nobody’s fault. It’s just what happens when—” Another breath “—when you find someone who you really care about, who makes you happy, who makes you better.” He huffs out laughter. “It’s a silly way to treat someone so precious, right? But I didn’t know what to do. So I said things—some true, some not—and hoped they would make you angry enough that you would never want to speak to me again, and I could wallow in peace.”

“Well, you very nearly succeeded,” Taeyong says drily, and Yuta exhales a weak laugh.

“I know,” he says. “But somehow, something I didn’t count on was that you might be feeling the same kinds of things. And that ate at me over the next couple of weeks. It was fine if I was left to suffer alone, and pay for my stupidity, but—it felt cruel and stupid if you were suffering, too. Eventually, I spilled all of this to Shotaro, who let me talk until I was tired. And you know what he said?”

Taeyong blinks. “What?”

“‘I’ve always admired you for being independent, and not letting other peoples’ expectations rule your decisions,’” Yuta quotes, “‘but now you’re losing yourself to an image you built when you were young, and have spent your entire career striving to live up to.’ Literally, that. Seared into my memory, because it was absolutely wild to hear from him. He’s usually all simple sentences and giggles, you know?” Yuta shakes his head. “There’s something humbling about being put in your place by someone you consider a mentee.” He looks at Taeyong. “And he was right. I’ve… gotten lost in my own shadow, I think. And it took nearly ruining things with you to bring me back to reality. So,” he says, taking Taeyong's other hand as well, “I’d like to apologize again, of course. I’m sorry for this giant mess. I know you won’t let me accept full responsibility for it, but I’m still very sorry. But just as much as I’m sorry, I’m also grateful for you, too. I don’t know if you’ll ever know how much.”

Taeyong shakes his head, some swell of emotion filling his chest. “You’ve taught me just as much about myself,” he says. “You don’t have to thank me for anything. I wanted—I wanted to thank you, really. I’ve spent the last few years empty and hopeless. I was happy with my success, but I kind of thought… that would be it. Like, my life now is all I would ever have. And then I met you, and everything changed. And I think I was almost hoping you could save me, even though that’s not something anybody could do. And I got angry when I found out you couldn’t. So I’m sorry, too.”

“Still, it’s…” Yuta’s expression twists. “I was cruel. I don’t know if I can forgive myself for that.”

“I can,” Taeyong says simply. Yuta’s brows crumple further. “I can,” he repeats, hoping Yuta will be able to internalize it. “You didn’t mean it, and everything you’ve done since then has proven it.” He lifts a shoulder. “I like to think that our first response to something is more representative of how the world has taught us to be, and then how we manage that first response is who we really are.” He leans in. “I’ve seen who you really are now, Yuta. And I like you a lot.”

“Are you sure about that?” Yuta asks.

“Very,” Taeyong says. “You’re kind, and you’re a very hard worker, and you have an innate sense of justice that, even when you lose your balance because life’s gotten hard, brings you back to your center very quickly, and compels you to right any wrongs. You’re a very bright person, and you want compassion and gentleness so much, even if you think you don’t deserve it, even if it also scares you. But, uh, that’s basically like everyone else I’ve ever met. Myself included.”

“Thank you,” Yuta says quietly, leaning forward, too. Their foreheads brush.

“Mm,” Taeyong hums, an acceptance of his gratitude. “And… I don’t know how this is supposed to work in the long term. Maybe one day, things will be better, and we can reveal this to the public. But honestly…” He pauses, thinking about his fans, thinking about everything he shares with them, thinking about all that they know. “I don’t mind so much that we can’t, really. I mean, of course I’m scared of the consequences, but it’s okay with me, to just keep it to ourselves.”

Yuta kisses him, soft and sweet. Taeyong gives a little giggle of surprise, muffled against Yuta’s lips. “I’m okay with that, too,” Yuta says when they break apart. “Just because it’s different doesn’t mean what we have isn’t worth as much.”

Taeyong nods his agreement. “I don’t need other people to know about it in order for it to feel real,” he says. He searches Yuta’s eyes and sees nothing but hope and joy there, warm and pure. “I know it’s real to you, and I know it’s real to me, and that’s all that matters. Is that okay for now?”

Yuta nods. “I think we can make that work,” he says, a flicker of his usual smile on his face.

“Great.” Taeyong kisses him again, just a swift peck, before standing. “Show me around your place,” he says. “We can talk about it more tomorrow if we want, but I think all we can really do is just hope for the best and see how it pans out now.”

“Yeah,” Yuta agrees, standing too and giving himself a little shake. “Okay, c’mon.”

He points out a couple of things, showing Taeyong how to operate the shades and how to move the sliding doors installed in each room before leading him down to his bedroom. Like the rest of his apartment, it’s simple and clean. His bed is resting just above the floor on wood slats with a short bamboo bedside table next to it. Taeyong realizes now how tired he is from traveling, the coziness of the room enveloping him in a sort of sleepy calm.

Yuta can tell. “Let’s get you a change of clothes. Do you want to rinse off before we go to bed?” 

Taeyong nods; though he showered after his flight, he knows he’ll sleep better if he’s freshly clean. Yuta grabs sleep stuff for the both of them, and then brings Taeyong to the bathroom where they shower quickly before drying off and tugging on big shirts. Yuta gets Taeyong settled in bed and then clicks off the light, shuffling his way back to the bed in the dark.

“Tomorrow,” Yuta murmurs once he has Taeyong curled up next to him the way he wants, “I think we’ll just spend the day, you and me. There’s a park nearby I think you’ll like. There’s koi ponds and things.”

“It sounds nice,” Taeyong agrees. He takes one of Yuta’s hands and brings it to his lips. “I think I’ll like it, too.”

Yuta kisses his hair. “And then maybe later this week you can meet Shotaro.” He shrugs; Taeyong can feel the movement behind him. “We can do whatever. I’m just glad you’re here.”

Taeyong giggles sleepily. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

ϟ ϟ ϟ

Taeyong wakes to the sound of birds. He realizes with a start that it’s been a while since he’s heard birdcall—he lives in a city, and is always traveling to other cities, and the bustle of a downtown always drowns out everything else. But Yuta’s place is a little removed from the noise of a city, and Taeyong can hear the birds singing.

Yuta is still asleep; Taeyong wants to turn and look at him, but their bodies are far too entangled for him to do so without the risk of waking him up. So Taeyong contents himself with finding one of Yuta’s hands and running his thumb over it, soft and slow. 

He wishes he could go back to just a few weeks ago, when everything felt hopeless, when he was sure he would never be happy, when he thought he could never have anything like this, and tell himself everything was going to be alright. It wasn’t easy getting here, certainly, but it was worth it. Still, it would be nice to be able to spare himself a little heartache.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, listening to the outside world wake, listening to the gentle sound of Yuta’s breath. Maybe an hour passes, and then Yuta stirs behind him with a sudden deep inhale. He feels him kiss the top of his head.

“G’morning,” Taeyong whispers, finally able to wriggle around and face him.

“Morning,” Yuta murmurs back, lifting his arm so Taeyong has room to turn, and leaning in and giving him a kiss once he’s settled again. “Sleep okay?”

“Mm-hm,” Taeyong hums, nodding. He smiles. “You?”

Yuta nods, kissing him again. “How hungry are you?” he asks.

“Only kinda,” Taeyong replies.

“Good,” Yuta says, and pushes himself up, pulling his arm free from underneath Taeyong’s neck. Another kiss. “Can I fuck you, honey?”

Heat rises to Taeyong’s skin instantly. “Oh,” he murmurs, smiling bigger. “Yes. Please.”

Yuta is on all fours now; he bends to kiss down the column of Taeyong’s throat. His movements are lazy, but Taeyong can feel the intent behind them. His eyes are almost reverent when he raises his head, though it’s guarded, like he’s not sure if he wants Taeyong to see it yet. That’s okay, Taeyong decides. It’ll be an adjustment for him, an adjustment for the both of them. Taeyong is patient; he can wait.

Yuta stretches out to find the lube. Taeyong watches him quietly, sinking further into the comfort of Yuta’s bed. He realizes he’s never felt this calm with Yuta before—they’re usually rushing for some reason, either reeling with the eagerness of seeing each other again after missing each other, or else frantic with the knowledge that it could very well be one of the last times they ever see each other.

But neither of those things are here today. It’s gentler—there’s no need to hurry. Neither of them have schedules today, and they know now that this—whatever it is they have, however nebulous—isn’t going away anytime soon. Yuta sits back, holding the lube, and Taeyong spreads his legs, letting his head loll to the side. 

Yuta rucks his shirt up, placing a few kisses down his stomach before focusing his attention a little lower. Taeyong draws in an unsteady breath, raising a hand to Yuta’s hair as Yuta kisses the head of his cock and then presses his tongue to it, licking up the underside before taking him in his mouth fully and sinking back down on it, cheeks hollowing. Taeyong sighs, letting the pleasure come, soft and quiet, dripping through his body, slow but sure until it’s all he can feel. 

Yuta keeps his mouth on him, uncapping the lube and slicking up a finger without looking, finding Taeyong’s entrance easily and sinking a finger in. Taeyong hardly notices the discomfort of the intrusion, too focused on Yuta’s tongue. What he does register a few minutes later is how good it feels when Yuta brushes past his prostate, and he moans without meaning to, fighting to stop his hand in Yuta’s hair from tightening into a fist. 

Yuta pulls off his cock when he adds a second finger, more interested in opening him up than getting him off. Taeyong doesn’t mind; he’s not sure he could manage more than one orgasm right now unless he was given four hours to nap after, so he hums, letting his hand drop to the mattress as Yuta sits up. 

“Opening right up for me,” Yuta murmurs when he adds a third finger. “So good, like always.” He kisses the point of Taeyong’s knee.

“Missed you,” Taeyong replies simply, and Yuta nods his understanding. 

“I’m all yours now,” he says. “I’ll fuck you whenever you want.”

Taeyong decides not to point out it’s less of a matter of when he wants, and more about whether or not his body can take it. If it was the former, Taeyong’s not sure he would be doing much else for his entire trip. He hums affirmatively instead, trying to hide his smile. 

Yuta works his fingers in and out, faster and faster until Taeyong’s taken fistfuls of the sheets, until the glide is smooth and wet and easy. He pulls his fingers out, smiling at Taeyong’s soft protests at the loss, drizzling a little bit of lube into his palm and spreading it over his cock.

“Ready?” he teases.

“I’m gonna kick you if you don’t put it in,” Taeyong replies, no heat behind the threat.

Yuta laughs, lining himself up, head of his cock bumping against Taeyong’s hole. “No need to get feisty,” he says. “I’ll always give you what you want.”

He prepped Taeyong well; it’s easy for him to push into the wet heat of Taeyong’s body. Taeyong whines happily as Yuta bottoms out. He feels so nice and full; Yuta’s just right, the weight of his cock heavy but not painful. Yuta leans in and kisses Taeyong’s jaw, circling his hips a little. 

“Oh, god, Yuta,” Taeyong whispers.

Yuta hums into his skin, clearly amused. “Kinda wanna be mean,” he murmurs. “Be rough with you, make you cry.” Taeyong whimpers; he kind of wants it too. “But we have a whole day, so I think that can wait till tonight. How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” Taeyong agrees. 

“Right now I’m just gonna make you feel good,” Yuta promises, then draws his hips back, slow, before pushing back in. The drag of it is delicious; it sings across Taeyong’s skin, raising goosebumps even though he’s still half-under the duvet. Yuta goes a little faster, but not much, instead making sure each thrust is deep and hard and hits Taeyong’s prostate every time. 

Taeyong’s head is swirling. He clenches around Yuta, hands finding Yuta’s arms and clinging while Yuta rocks his hips, lips and tongue and teeth on Taeyong’s clavicle. And that’s fine, too—no reason for anyone to see those marks, not if Taeyong just finds a shirt with a high enough neckline. A strange emotion has worked its way into the mix, and it takes Taeyong a few moments to realize it’s happiness, pure and simple. His next moan comes out different around the shape of his smile. 

“Yuta,” he breathes. “Kiss me.”

Yuta doesn’t hesitate, raising his head and pressing his lips to Taeyong’s, teeth scraping, not hard enough to really hurt. One of Yuta’s hands comes up to cradle Taeyong’s head, and Taeyong leans into it. He wants as many points of contact as possible. Really, he thinks he’d be happiest if they were touching everywhere, but this is good enough.

Whatever angle Yuta’s found is Taeyong’s new favorite, he’s pretty sure. He’s so deep, Taeyong swears he can feel him in his stomach, maybe higher. It’s going to leave an ache that he’ll definitely still be feeling tonight, but that’s good. It’s also gonna ache when Yuta comes that deep, but that’s good, too. Taeyong is his, after all, finally really his. 

Yuta pulls back, wiping some spit away from Taeyong’s lips with his thumb. Taeyong flicks his tongue out, and Yuta smiles, pushing his thumb into Taeyong’s mouth and hooking it in the inside of his cheek. Taeyong lets out a garbled moan, blinking slow and pretty. 

“I’m glad you’re gonna be here for a couple of weeks,” Yuta says. “So much I want to do to you.”

Taeyong’s not sure exactly what thought has sparked in Yuta’s mind, but he is sure that whatever it is, he’s going to like it. He swirls his tongue over Yuta’s thumb, making a soft “ah-huh” noise out of the back of his throat and hoping that Yuta understands this means he wants it.

Yuta drops down to his elbow so it’s easier for him to kiss down Taeyong’s chest, closing his mouth around one of his nipples and flicking his tongue across it. Pleasure sparks across Taeyong’s skin, sending tremors across his whole body. Yuta hums, and the vibrations make Taeyong gasp.

Taeyong reaches down to touch himself, but Yuta shakes his head, pulling off his chest. “Think you can come just on my cock?” he asks. “You just always look so pretty like that.”

Taeyong nods as best he can, letting his hand rest on his stomach instead. It’ll take a little longer, but if Yuta’s not in a rush, then neither is he. Yuta moves to his other nipple, tongue quick and practiced, and Taeyong clenches helplessly around him, hollowing his cheeks and swallowing around Yuta’s thumb in an effort to stay grounded. 

It’s hard, though. Yuta’s so deep; Taeyong gives soft little gasps every time he moves, involuntarily. It’s almost worse that he isn’t going fast. At least then, Taeyong would have an excuse for getting overwhelmed. But though Yuta keeps his pace lazy, he’s hitting all the right spots. 

So Taeyong gives into it. He lets his eyes roll back, lets his breathing come ragged, lets the sweet little moans that he knows Yuta loves so much spill out of his mouth. Yuta groans softly against his skin. 

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “So good. Always sound so good for me. Never met someone who likes getting fucked as much as you do, it’s perfect.”

Taeyong shivers at the praise, whimpering softly as the pressure in his belly builds and builds. He can feel his body tensing up, and he thinks Yuta can, too. 

He’s right again; Yuta raises his head, eyes hot and dark when they find Taeyong’s. “Close?” he asks. “Gonna come for me, untouched?”

Taeyong nods helplessly. Of course I am, he thinks, hazy. You asked me to, of course I am. Yuta pushes himself back up on his hand, turning the one that’s in Taeyong’s mouth and switching out his thumb for his index and middle finger, pushing them deeper. It’s not enough to make Taeyong gag, but it does make him feel nice and dirty, and he comes with a moan, his release dribbling slowly out over the head of his cock and dripping down onto his stomach. He convinces weakly; it’s always like this when he comes untouched, long and steady and nearly torturous, waves of pleasure that wrack his whole body. 

“So pretty, honey,” Yuta whispers, sounding strained, pulling his fingers out of Taeyong’s mouth and planting that hand on the mattress instead to help keep his balance. 

“Now you,” Taeyong manages, barely audible. “Now you.”

Yuta lets out a breathy groan, stilling deep inside Taeyong as he comes. Taeyong watches his face, the way his eyebrows pinch, eyes squeezing shut, the small curls of hair, damp with sweat, sticking to his neck over the spot where his pulse is jumping. Yuta, his Yuta. 

They stay there for a minute, maybe, until Yuta’s arms start to tremble and he has to pull out, dropping to the side and pressing a kiss to Taeyong’s shoulder. 

“Breakfast?” he whispers. 

The idea of food is honestly repulsive in this moment, so Taeyong shakes his head, making a soft noise of protest. “Let me lie here for a little longer,” he pleads. 

Yuta just laughs, giving him another kiss, this one to the cheek. “Okay, honey.”

They cuddle for maybe ten or fifteen minutes, skin to skin, Taeyong in Yuta’s arms. Taeyong wants to stay longer, thinks he could even fall asleep like this, only he can feel Yuta’s come dripping out of him. He doesn’t mind it necessarily except that he knows it’s making a mess. 

Eventually, the clean freak in him wins over, and he raises his head. “Okay,” he says, “breakfast.” Yuta smiles and releases him, moving to stand. 

Taeyong rolls off the bed, feet finding the floor easily. He pushes himself up to a standing position and nearly falls right back down on the bed as his legs shake. Yuta notices and laughs, coming around the other side of the bed with his hand outstretched.

“Fuck you so good you can’t walk?” he asks cheekily.

Taeyong takes his hand. “Almost,” he admits, willing himself to stay upright long enough to get to the bathroom.

Luckily, his legs grow stronger with each step, so Taeyong doesn’t have to worry about that brand of embarrassment. They rinse the come and sweat off, then return to Yuta’s bedroom to strip the bed, find some pants, and open the blinds.

The sunlight is bright and strong and makes Taeyong wince, but it’s warm and brings the room alive. Yuta giggles at Taeyong’s expression, kissing his forehead and then tugging him towards the door. “Let’s get something to eat,” he says.

Yuta’s kitchen is warm with the same light. Taeyong situates himself on a stool at the breakfast bar, looking out the window at the street below. Yuta sets some broth on the stove and pops a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster while their coffee brews. He passes Taeyong a bowl of raw eggs to whisk so he can scramble them while he finds the cream and sugar.

Taeyong whisks the eggs, thinking. What he and Yuta have, what they want, it’s not going to be easy. He doesn’t know if they’ll ever be able to share this with the public, if he’ll ever have to stop worrying about being discovered. But this, whatever it is, is also incredibly precious and rare. Taeyong doubts he’ll ever find someone like Yuta again in his lifetime—someone he matches well with, someone he cares about. Someone who cares enough about him to do what Yuta’s done—stuff away his pride and show Taeyong that nothing is more important than him. Taeyong won’t be able to let go of that, no matter how difficult things may get.

He passes the bowl of whisked eggs to Yuta, and a few minutes later, a simple breakfast is laid out before him. Taeyong sips at his coffee as Yuta takes the seat beside him, still watching out the window. There’s a young couple walking down the street; as Taeyong watches, the man stops to tie his shoe. His girlfriend realizes a few paces away, and turns to come back and wait by his side. When he stands, he kisses her briefly and she laughs. Taeyong can almost hear it, the joy there. She takes his hand, and they continue on their way.

“Sometimes,” Taeyong blurts, “I wish I had a different life.” He nods at the couple. “One like that.” Yuta looks, and smiles faintly. “Do you think—“ Taeyong hesitates, then plows on, “maybe in another universe somewhere—we have a life like that?”

Yuta’s smile grows; he turns and fixes his gaze on Taeyong. “You know,” he says, nodding, “for a while there I was considering auditioning at Korean entertainment agencies.” He shrugs. “Maybe in another universe, you aren’t a solo artist, but part of a group. And maybe in that universe, I did audition, and maybe I ended up in that group too.”

Taeyong giggles. “I’d like that, I think,” he says, imagining it. Maybe in that universe, Johnny and Doyoung and Kun are part of that group, too. It would certainly be less lonely, working side by side with his friends, sleeping in the same dorm, touring together. “Or—maybe in another universe, we’re not people at all. We’re two outdoor cats who live in the same neighborhood, and we make friends and bring our owners together, like in a rom-com.”

Yuta laughs brightly, head tipping back. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind being a house cat in another universe,” he agrees.

They’re quiet for a moment. The ghost of Taeyong’s laughter is still sitting in his chest. He looks at Yuta, at the man who changed everything. Yuta, his Yuta. “I don’t think I’d really mind what I was,” he says softly, “as long as you were there, too.”

There’s a moment of stillness, then Yuta reaches across the space between them and kisses him. He almost elbows his coffee off the table in the process, but he doesn’t, and it doesn’t matter anyway because they’re both laughing into the kiss.

Maybe it was that what he saw couldn’t be explained or contained. She had a face unlike any he had ever seen. He had been so numbed by perfect beauties with perfectly painted faces, that a visual like hers was refreshing to the eye. She moved her body like she knew she had captivated the attention of everyone in the room, though the set of her mouth said that she didn’t want to care for it. In fact, she seemed like she hadn’t a care in the world. She danced like she hadn’t a care in the world; like she grabbed time by the balls and commanded it to slow so she could move in luxurious waves through her body. Yuta felt more inspired than he had been in a good, fat while.

He hadn’t realized how fucking easy it was going to be; asking a perfect stranger to film a porno together.

Because although men, women and everyone in between swarmed her like honey to bees, it was him that she left with that night. Perhaps, like him, she wanted a taste of intrigue rather than gratification that night.

Yuta only grew more inspired whilst he talked to her over a glass of red wine in his apartment. His eyes wandered to the delectable dip below her throat where her collarbones met. In the warm light of his apartment, that dip harbored the gentlest of shadows that acted as a natural contour. Yuta had a great proclivity for things like these in his own art forms. He couldn’t help but notice how she kept one shoulder raised slightly higher than the other so her body created sensual angles at all times. He felt his blood rush any time she’d savor the wine by pressing her jaw to that raised shoulder. Her eyes would close and her lashes would caress her cheekbones. Yuta saw a frame in every movement, because she swayed like each moment was a painting. Above all, Yuta looked at her not man to woman, but artist to muse. He wanted to frame that fucking painting.

It was intriguing; Yuta had never witnessed body confidence as alluring as hers. She was sound in her sexuality, and why the fuck not? She had every right to be. Everything about her was interesting. Yuta wasn’t sure whether it was artistic intrigue tinting his perception or his habitual fetishist tendencies, but earlier, she had seemed ever more interested in the attention of women rather than men. Then again, all he had witnessed was her stirring her index round a woman’s bare shoulder. Perhaps he was already viewing her as the picture he wanted to paint when all she did was be. He was hard from how inspired he was.

And when an artist is as inspired as was he, there isn’t much room for lies. There must be honesty in art and truth between artists. That is the way it must be or the art is forever tainted. So, it wasn’t long into the conversation that Yuta had brought up the following fact,

“I’m a filmmaker. But lately, I’ve been meaning to create more adult content,” he spoke matter-of-factly. It was almost expected that she hadn’t blinked an eye.

“I do some nude modeling every now and then. Let me know if something comes up, I’d love to be a part of your project,” she had smiled. 

And the proverbial ice had melted. Yuta could speak as openly about the vision he had for his project as openly as she talked about her craft.

“Honestly, I’ve always wanted to do something like it, but I haven’t really met someone who had an idea that is fully realized? Like, unless you’re a big name in the industry, nude modeling doesn’t really get the editorial treatment. And the porn out there is so fucking vulgar. I hate that pornographic films don’t get artistic treatment,” she scrunched her nose ever so slightly in distaste. Yuta found himself sitting up in his seat because finally, someone fucking understood.

“So much vile, unpalatable content. I hate it with all my heart, too. I keep searching the ends of the earth for something that would hit me just right and it’s always so fucking frustrating when I just don’t find it, you know? That’s when my wife made me realized that I’m a fucking filmmaker. If I can’t find it, I’d just have to create it,” Yuta explained.

“That’s fucking amazing. You know, not a lot of people think like that,” she appreciated and Yuta felt a surge through his blood that he was sure was more than just the alcohol.

“I mean, I’m sure we’re not the first ones to think like that,” Yuta said humbly, “But it’s just that… why can’t porn be interesting? Why can’t porn be tasteful and artful?”

“So, what was it that you were looking for?” she asked curiously as she dug around into her purse without looking. She extracted what Yuta was sure was a spliff and added, “Do you mind?”

Yuta waved his hand as he continued, “Well, there is a lot I have in mind, but for starters? Something that is more tastefully shot. I fucking hate the cinematography in porn. It’s so fucking non-existent. I’ve seen YouTube videos from bloody toy channels that have better camera work than porn,” he said and she laughed in earnest. He continued, “I especially hate the lighting in mainstream porn. I fucking hate it. Why is it so fucking bright? Why do they use so many fucking florescent lights? They’re not fucking surgeons. I mean I’m sure the audience would be able to tell a cock from a pussy even without the flood lights,” the absolute distaste on his tongue made him want to have a smoke of his own, just as a chaser. He smoked a regular cigarette, though, and she leaned in to light it for him with a craftsman’s lighter. 

“So, what’s your style? What kind of things do you film?” She smoked heavily.

“I’ve never done porn before. But I used to make a lot of film noirs. Honestly, my work is pretty focused on tone and stylization. Set and lighting is so fucking important to me. Every film that I made, I spent hours upon fucking hours just sourcing the right kind of lighting equipment. And then I would stay up for weeks in post, just editing each fucking frame till I got the style I wanted. Films should be made with this sort of vision. And that’s the kind of shit I want to see in my porn. Instead, I get terrible harsh fucking white light, and don’t fucking get me started on the dialogue,” Yuta took another deep drag at the end of his passionate outburst.

Her eyes were listening intently and Yuta didn’t need more confirmation beyond it that this was a perfect union. All the elements were on his side. He had her concentration, but it was the room clouding with smoke that was inspiring him even more. The smoke traveled from his lips and hers and surrounded her body in the perfect grayish haze that was Yuta’s favorite in film. It was setting the scene for him just right. It made her look even more elegant, and Yuta decided right then that if this were to work out, this was going to be his opening shot. 

He noticed that she had beautiful thighs, especially with how she crossed them against the satin of her dress. She held the spliff between her fingers, soft yet assured. She sat in a diagonal; legs crossed to the left, spliff held in the air to the right. Yuta was already visualizing the pan of the camera against her stance. He’d add perhaps some vertical shadows to her face and a Victorian style chester upon which she would lounge, exactly like she was right now. He’d start panning from the right and he would have the best fucking opening scene. Fuck, he was inspired. 

“You know, I fuck with style like yours. I literally worshiped Lady in the Lake growing up. And fuck, you’re right. I haven’t seen any porn in styles like that. And I’ve never wondered why,” she took a healthy drag from her spliff, and it made her voice deepen attractively, “And to be honest, it’s the same in my line of work. I don’t like anyone’s artistic approach. It doesn’t feel like art at all. I take my fucking top off, but it’s like they want to sell my body rather than the art my body is creating. Then again, I’m not a big time model. I’m not famous enough to get the Frederic Monceau type of projects.”

“But that’s the death of this fucking industry, isn’t it? You have to suck the devil’s cock to get fame or good opportunities, and those that don’t won’t ever get their films on the big fucking screen. I made good fucking films,” he used his cigarette to stab at every word he said; his eyebrows soared to his forehead in defense. Perhaps the secondhand weed smoke or the alcohol was making him more impassioned, driving the blood to his cock and balls and infusing him with testosterone. “But I wanted to stay fucking authentic, so I didn’t sell out to these big fucking studios. And you know what? I don’t regret it for a single moment. Fuck capitalism,” he held his glass up.

“Fuck capitalism!” said she. Both got up and clinked their glasses. And perhaps it wasn’t just him. She was feeling the blood, too. They were both a little high and a little drunk, because in all honesty, they’d both happily suck the devil’s cock given the chance, if that meant more people would buy their art. But the euphoria in their veins from finding another that would form this cult for two was simmering and giving both delusions of grandeur.

It was his cock she sucked later that night, not the devil’s. Yuta hadn’t even been particularly horny. He didn’t want to taint his muse, so to speak. He wanted to keep the authenticity of his art and preserve it for the masterpiece he would create. But the two of them had clinked glasses and sealed the commencement of this collaboration with a mature French kiss, and when the heat built, he let her suck him. And though he kept telling himself that their first fuck should be one for the records, he had caught sight of the perfect plump of her cunt and he decided that he wasn’t the kind of filmmaker to do first time scenes. He was an artist and she was an artist and they both celebrated sexuality as mature people do. So he fucked her too, right there on the couch of his loft apartment with the curtains fully drawn. Why would they close them? They were about to have an audience much larger than any passerby that might lift their lashes to their window.

That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? They don’t belong to each other. They could never; they could never belong to anybody. They belong to their fans, and the love they receive from the public comes with a price. And Taeyong knew that before he signed his contract, but he didn’t think at the time that he would need to worry about it. He had been young, broke, desperate for a chance to prove himself. So what if he sold his soul to the spotlight? 

But now… Taeyong traces his gaze over Yuta’s eyelashes, the line of his jaw. Maybe he wants his soul back. Maybe he wants it back so he can give it to Yuta instead.

Yuta blinks his eyes open, focusing on Taeyong, almost like the thought had summoned him. But if he can read minds, he doesn’t say anything. He smiles. “Hey, honey,” he whispers.

“Hi,” Taeyong whispers back. “How’d you sleep?”

“Really good.” Yuta covers his mouth to stifle a yawn, stretching. “Wore me out last night.”

This draws a giggle out of Taeyong, unbidden. “Me, too,” he says.

Yuta stretches out an arm and wraps it around Taeyong’s waist, tugging him close. “C’mere, baby,” he says, murmured against Taeyong’s collarbone. His breath tickles Taeyong’s skin; Taeyong giggles, combing his fingers through Yuta’s hair. “What are your schedules today? Are you free?”

“I’m free,” Taeyong says. “I’m free ’til next Monday. Why, what do you wanna do?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Yuta rolls on top of Taeyong, swinging a leg over his body and pinning him to the bed. “Was hoping for a quick tour of the city. Maybe you could show me a couple of your favorite spots. We could get a meal, then come back for some wine or something. Tomorrow if your friends are free, I’d love to meet them.”

Taeyong giggles again. “Tomorrow? Not today?”

“Want you to myself today,” Yuta says. “Not ready to share your attention yet, I just got it back.”

“You always had my attention,” Taeyong says softly. “Even if you were far away.”

“I meant undivided,” Yuta corrects, but he smiles down at Taeyong, eyes soft and warm.

“You have it,” Taeyong says.

“Good.” Yuta ducks down for a swift kiss, then rolls off Taeyong, pushing the covers aside and pushing himself to the edge of the bed. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah.” Taeyong wrenches himself from the comfort of his bed. “I was thinking we could go to a cafe? It’s not far from here, it’s one of my favorites.”

Yuta nods approvingly. “Sounds good to me,” he agrees. “Aren’t we gonna get followed, though?”

Taeyong gives him an almost sheepish look. “Ah, we might. Some of my fans are… overly enthusiastic.”

Yuta laughs. “That’s a kind way of putting it,” he comments mildly.

“I’ll tell my manager what we’re up to,” Taeyong says. “We can probably bring a staff member, but—” He glances at the clock. Half past nine. “It’s too early for lunch, and most people are already at work or at school. So it should be okay.”

“That’s right, I forgot it was a weekday,” Yuta says. “Vacation brain, you know.”

Taeyong rolls his eyes at him as he pads into his bathroom. “You’ve been on vacation for like one day,” he says, reaching for his toothbrush. Yuta’s laughter floats in from the bedroom, bright and clear. 

Half an hour later, they meet a staff member in the lobby of the building. They’re both wearing masks and hats, but they know better than to think that will stop them from being recognized. Still, Taeyong’s not too worried. 

His faith in the universe is not misplaced. Though a phone or three goes up as they walk down the street, and he notices a couple of girls tailing them, no one approaches; no one crowds. They get to the cafe without a hitch and find a table in a secluded corner. It’s mostly empty—it is ten a.m. on a workday, after all—so he and Yuta are free to peel off their makeshift disguises and enjoy their food in peace. 

“Anything in particular you want to see?” Taeyong asks while Yuta sips at his coffee. 

Yuta shakes his head. “I’m not particular. Touristy things I can always do in my own time, when you’re busy, so I’d rather do things I wouldn’t think to do by myself today.”

Taeyong nods. “I have a couple of favorite parks in the city, and then we can swing by this amazing street food place and pick up some takeout for an early dinner?”

Yuta smiles at him over his coffee cup, and Taeyong’s stomach flips like a fish out of water. “Sounds perfect,” Yuta says. 

And so they do just that. The day remains pretty peaceful. Fans keep their distance, and there aren’t a lot of other people out to begin with. Around three, they head to the restaurant to pick up their food so they can head back before things get too crazy. 

“Hey,” Yuta says while they wait for their order to be completed. “We’re trending.”

A very strange and unsettling emotion bursts forth in Taeyong’s chest. “We’re what?”

“On Twitter, look.” Yuta sounds vaguely amused. He turns his phone around and though most of it is in Japanese, one word catches his eye. 

#YUTAE.

“I guess people were taking pictures,” Taeyong says, looking at Yuta uncertainly. 

Yuta just shrugs. “Seems like it. Mostly it’s people happy to see we’ve met up again.” He tilts his head. “Some, though… I mean, you know how it is. But—anyway, we can look at it when we get back to yours.”

Fear settles like a small shard of ice in Taeyong’s stomach. Yuta doesn’t seem too scared, though, just bemused. He accepts their food from the cashier and nods for them to leave. Taeyong follows happily, eager to be out of the view of the public. 

He opens Twitter once they’re back inside and starts scrolling. “People are calling it a date,” he says nervously. 

But Yuta laughs. “They’re joking,” he says. “Didn’t they call it a date when Johnny treated you to dinner last month? Or what about the time you and Doyoung went shopping together?” Taeyong nods, realizing he might be overreacting. “The few people that aren’t joking will get laughed off their soapboxes, and things will settle. Why shouldn’t I come to visit my friend? Besides, who knows. Maybe we’re working on a collab.”

“Maybe we should,” Taeyong suggests. “Just as a cover.”

Yuta eyes him as he sets the food down on his table. “Oh, that’s the only reason you want to work together?”

“No!” Taeyong exclaims, but then he realizes Yuta is hiding a grin. “It’s a great excuse, though. All I really have to do is tell my management we were trending and they’ll already be dialing a composer.”

“Mm, and he has connections,” Yuta hums, grinning. “Alright, why don’t you eat? You can call your management in the morning.”

“I should call them tonight,” Taeyong says firmly. “If they don’t call me first.”

Yuta hands Taeyong a pair of chopsticks, eyebrows slightly furrowed now. “Do they monitor you that closely?”

Taeyong shrugs. “They just like to be on top of things. Whether it’s an opportunity like this, or a scandal, or whatever,” he explains. “I’m grateful for it. My image is everything.”

Yuta nods. “I guess it’s different for me,” he says. “My fans prefer me rough around the edges because it makes me real.”

Taeyong blinks. “That must be nice,” he says. “My fans want me perfect or they don’t want me at all.

“I doubt that’s entirely true,” Yuta says, “but I understand.”

Taeyong sighs. “Anyway, I would like to collaborate with you,” he says, “regardless of all of this. I’ve never done a rock concept, and I really want to try it. So it would be perfect if we could do a single together!”

“Of course we can,” Yuta says. “I’d love to work with you.”

Taeyong nods, feeling a faint blush rise to his cheeks. “Thanks,” he manages.

“Don’t be so worried, though,” Yuta continues, dishing some meat out for Taeyong, laying the pieces on top of his rice with a sort of absentminded kind of care. “Unless someone literally catches us fucking, no one’s gonna seriously believe the rumors. At least not enough for it to damage our careers. They could probably even catch us kissing, and no one would believe it. I mean, we do stuff like that as fanservice all the time.”

Taeyong gives him a confused look. “Do we?”

Yuta looks up, also confused. “I mean, solo artists like you and me not so much, because we don’t really have people to do it with, but, like, people in groups do. I dunno, the fans like it.”

“Uh, we do not do that,” Taeyong informs him. “We get a little handsy here, but we never kiss unless it’s by accident, like part of a game, or some kind of punishment for a game.”

“Oh.” Yuta laughs to himself. “I guess things are a little different.”

“Japanese idols do that?”

“I thought you were a fan!”

“I’m your fan; I don’t know everything about j-idol culture!”

“I’ve kissed members of my band on camera before,” Yuta points out. “Some of my dancers, too. Most of my dancers. Actually, I’m pretty sure the only dancer I’ve never kissed is the one I consider to be my son. You never saw any of that?”

Now that Taeyong thinks about it, maybe he has seen things. But he supposes he thought it was an exaggeration. “I guess I have,” he admits. “That’s common?”

Yuta shrugs. “Yeah? I mean, you know my reputation. It’s almost expected of me, that kind of behavior.” His expression turns a bit devious. “My fans are perverts, like me.”

Taeyong groans his protest, shaking his head. “Alright, well, you and I are not kissing where cameras can see us. Your fans might like it, but my fans would have a conniption.”

Yuta salutes crookedly. “You have my word.”

Taeyong sets his chopsticks down, standing. “Well, personally I’m ready for a drink,” he says as he makes his way to his fridge. “Soju? Beer? Wine?”

“Soju,” Yuta says. “Any flavor is fine.”

Taeyong nods, pulling out two bottles of plain soju and grabbing two shot glasses, bringing them back to the table. He cracks open a bottle as he takes his seat, pouring them each a shot and sliding a glass to Yuta, who picks it up.

“Cheers,” Taeyong says, clinking his glass against Yuta’s and then draining it. It’s good soju, smooth and clean and fresh, and Taeyong knows already that tonight is going to get a little messy. But judging from the way Yuta is watching him, Taeyong doesn’t think either of them will mind.

Taeyong can’t say exactly how, but they abandon their food at some point and he ends up in Yuta’s lap, hands running through Yuta’s long hair. He can’t say he’s surprised, either.

“I can’t blame them for wondering,” he says, “our fans.”

“Why’s that?” Yuta asks. His eyelids are drooping; he’s smiling at Taeyong in a lazy, almost self-satisfied way. His hands are on Taeyong’s waist. His hands are so warm.

“I mean, what was I supposed to do when I saw you?” Taeyong says. “Not want you?”

Yuta chuckles. “You fell right into my trap, honey,” he murmurs sweetly, leaning up so he can steal a kiss. “It’s not your fault. Of course you wanted me.” Another kiss. “Of course I wanted you.”

Heat floods Taeyong’s body; he kisses Yuta again, hands slipping from his hair to his cheeks. He holds Yuta close, though he has a feeling Yuta wouldn’t pull away even if he could. Instead, he feels Yuta’s teeth on his bottom lip. He whines softly, relaxing into Yuta’s touch. One of Yuta’s hands comes up to his jaw, thumb on his chin, coaxing Taeyong’s mouth open wider so he can push his tongue in.

Taeyong’s heart pounds in his chest, a loud thrum of desire. He’s sure Yuta can hear it, can feel it where his fingers rest so close to Taeyong’s pulse point. The hand on his waist has found its way under his shirt, the pads of Yuta’s fingers now pressed into the divots of Taeyong’s spine. Yuta kisses him like he owns him, mouth open and hot, dark and dirty. And isn’t it true? Taeyong, caught in the trap of Yuta’s beauty, laid out like a prize at his feet. Who else should own him?

Yuta pulls back, reaches towards the table. Taeyong follows him without thinking, confused, but Yuta presses his lips together, laughing.

“Yuta,” Taeyong whines.

“Take another shot with me,” Yuta coaxes. “Do you want another shot?”

Taeyong assesses for a moment, and then nods. He can have at least a couple more before he should stop, and he’s always liked feeling a little helpless. Yuta pours them shots, and goes to hand a glass to Taeyong, but Taeyong just opens his mouth, giving Yuta a plaintive look.

Yuta smiles. “Don’t choke, honey,” he says, raising the glass up.

Taeyong shoots him a sharp look. “I only ever choke on purpose,” he says cheekily, and then lets Yuta pour the shot into his mouth.

Yuta takes his shot and then sets the glasses safely back on the table before kissing Taeyong again. He’s gentler this time, though it’s no less filthy. Taeyong finds himself shrinking smaller and smaller in Yuta’s lap, letting Yuta move him into place. Yuta presses on Taeyong’s low back to make him arch forwards, then rolls his hips up to meet Taeyong’s. Taeyong moans softly as Yuta presses kisses along his jaw, nipping gently at his neck. 

“Probably shouldn’t mark you up, should I?” Yuta asks, breath warm against Taeyong’s skin.

“Want it,” Taeyong protests, but then he shakes his head. “But no,” he says regretfully.

“Someday,” Yuta promises, kisses soft, no teeth. “I’ll cover you in bruises.”

Taeyong moans in response, whimpering when Yuta rolls his hips up again. “Yu-ta,” he breathes. “Please.”

“Please what, honey?” Yuta asks.

Taeyong lets his eyes become pleading, wide and round and pitiful. “Won’t you fuck me?”

A dark haze clouds Yuta's eyes; he blinks back up at him slowly. “Of course I will,” he says. “C’mon. Let’s go to your room, it’s more comfortable.”

“But the food—” Taeyong protests as Yuta helps him to his feet.

“We can deal with it later,” Yuta says. “I’ll deal with it later. C’mon.”

Taeyong stumbles, grabbing Yuta’s arm for support. His body must have settled when he was sitting, but now he’s dizzy—not in a nauseous way, just in a clumsy, drunk kind of way. He giggles apologetically as Yuta wraps an arm around his waist.

“You okay, baby?” Yuta asks, coaxing him forward.

“Yeah,” Taeyong says, leaning into Yuta. “Just a little drunk, I think.”

“More than a little,” Yuta comments mildly as Taeyong sways. “Here,” he says after a moment. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He reaches down, motioning for Taeyong to wrap his arms around his shoulders, and hooks his forearms under Taeyong’s thighs, hands spread wide for support. “Up, c’mon.” He lifts Taeyong in the air with ease. 

Taeyong crosses his ankles behind Yuta’s waist, tucking his nose into the crook of Yuta’s neck. He mumbles a thank-you, kissing his jaw as Yuta walks them down the hall to Taeyong’s bedroom. Taeyong is giggling by the time Yuta releases him on the bed; he clings even when Yuta tries to pull away.

“Let me go, honey,” Yuta says, smiling. “I need to get the lube.”

Taeyong acquiesces, settling into the comfort of his mattress while he waits for Yuta to come back. To his credit, Yuta is quick, back by his side in a matter of seconds with a kiss as an apology. He puts a hand on Taeyong’s waistband. “Hips up, please.”

Taeyong lets Yuta strip him, blissfully not helping, remaining soft and pliant. Yuta seems happy to manhandle him, rewarding him with kisses every time he manages to get rid of an article of clothing. 

Yuta lays him out, kissing down his body, and reaches back for the lube. He takes his time spreading it across his fingers, so it’s warm by the time he touches Taeyong. He pushes a finger inside, thumbing at the slit of Taeyong’s cock with his other hand to keep him distracted. Taeyong hums out soft whimpers, trying to ground himself so he can relax.

The second finger goes the same way, and then the third. Yuta takes his time with it, making sure Taeyong is nice and loose around him before he moves on.

“Stop complaining,” Yuta says when Taeyong starts letting out soft little impatient noises. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow if you don’t let me prep you right. As it is, I’m worried about you.”

“I can take it,” Taeyong insists, even though he knows Yuta’s right.

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” Yuta replies steadily, continuing his slow and measured rhythm.

He adds his pinky, and works all four fingers in and out of Taeyong. The minutes stretch on and the wanting in Taeyong’s stomach grows and grows until he’s pretty sure he’s near tears, gasping softly, helplessly, until he’s sure he can’t stand it anymore.

But then Yuta pulls away with a kiss to his stomach, and reaches down to slick up his cock. Taeyong lets out a shuddering breath, relieved. 

“Wider,” Yuta says, nudging at Taeyong’s inner thighs. “Good. Relax, honey.”

It’s all the warning he gets before Yuta is lining himself and pushing in, slow and careful. It hardly burns, so Taeyong doesn’t have to worry about much. He reaches down lazily and strokes himself, giving a happy sigh as Yuta bottoms out.

“Good?” Yuta asks.

“Mm,” Taeyong affirms. “Full.”

“Good.” Yuta pets down his side, leaning over him. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi,” Taeyong whispers, watching him come close, fighting to keep his eyes focused. Yuta comes too close and they end up crossing; they both laugh.

Yuta rocks his hips, just the tiniest of movements, waiting for Taeyong to relax around him. Taeyong watches him, blinking repeatedly to keep his vision from blurring. Yuta has a hand in his hair, carding through it. “Pretty,” he says softly. “Always look so good when you’re stuffed full with my cock, isn’t that right?” Taeyong nods, a happy noise bubbling up from his throat.

As soon as Taeyong’s adjusted, the instant he lets a plea for more escape, Yuta grinds into him deep and dirty, and Taeyong can’t say anything at all. Yuta’s murmuring praise in his ear, so good, sound so sweet, my perfect boy. Taeyong lets his eyes roll back in his head, lost in the pleasure of it. 

“Still with me, honey?” Yuta asks and Taeyong does his best to nod.

“Mm-hm,” he says, loud as he can. “Mm-hm, still here.”

Yuta kisses him, licking into his mouth as he fucks him. Taeyong lets his eyes flutter shut, lets his hands flutter up and down Yuta’s back. How is it that even now, even here where Taeyong couldn't possibly have him closer, he still wants more? What else could Yuta give him?

Something real, maybe, something more than just fucking and a basic mutual attraction. A sliver of sadness works its way under Taeyong’s skin. He’s too drunk now to process the ramifications of that thought, too drunk really to even feel the sting of it. But it doesn’t change the fact that he’s thought it, that he’s taken a step too far, and now he’s in danger. Unbidden, a soft noise of want slips out.

Yuta misreads it. “More?” he asks, tone dripping with condescension. “You still want more?”

Taeyong considers that he should be a little more wary, but he can only nod. Of course he wants more, he’ll always want more when it’s Yuta. Maybe that’s just how this will always be.

He feels the warmth of Yuta’s palm on his cheek, and then fingers against his lips. He opens his mouth almost instinctively, letting Yuta press his fingers in against his tongue as he continues to rock his hips. Taeyong gags wetly, just for show, when Yuta pushes his fingers in deeper. He can taste the metallic tang of his rings; it fills his nose and mixes with the smell of alcohol, makes his head even foggier. 

He drools around Yuta’s fingers, his cock dripping out beads of precome. Yuta pants above him, sweat glistening in his hair and on his face. Taeyong’s close; he knows Yuta is too. And still, all he can think as he feels the heat inside him crest is I want more.

He comes with a soft cry, spilling wet and messy over his knuckles, coughing out moans around Yuta’s fingers. He feels like he’s sinking, exhaustion and the dizzy fatigue of being drunk a little too long making his eyelids heavy. Yuta stills inside him, and Taeyong registers the warmth of his release as he slips into unconsciousness.

He comes to only a moment later; Yuta has pulled out and is working on gingerly lifting him from the bed.

“I can walk,” he says, smiling when Yuta startles.

They wash up; Yuta leaves Taeyong in the shower to pack up their food so they can have leftovers in the morning. Taeyong takes his time, letting the water sober him up a little. It doesn’t bring clarity, though.

Isn’t their arrangement odd? Normally, when Taeyong hooks up with another celebrity, it’s a one- maybe two-time thing. Sometimes, if they cross paths again down the road, they’ll hook up again. But never has it been this intimate—or this serious. Yuta flew out to Korea to see Taeyong. Sure, he says he always wanted to vacation here, but Taeyong knows he wouldn’t have come if they had never met. 

Taeyong thinks about bringing it up to Yuta, but he can’t imagine that conversation. Somehow, he knows Yuta would shut it down immediately. Yuta doesn’t seem like the kind of person to get attached. For him, it’s just about sex. He wanted to see Taeyong again so they could do exactly what they’ve been doing, and that’s all. 

Then why does it feel so domestic? Taeyong gets out of the shower and wraps himself in his towel, poking his head out the door before he suffocates on the steam. He sees Yuta, dressed in nothing but his underwear, putting fresh pillowcases onto his pillows and making the bed. When Yuta notices him, he smiles. Taeyong manages a weak smile back and turns away. 

And all of this is ignoring the biggest issue of all—even if Yuta wanted something more with Taeyong, they wouldn’t be able to. Taeyong has a dating ban, and besides, they would be hunted like wild animals by the press, by their fans, by everyone if people found out. It would set the entire East Asian music industry on fire, and neither of them would survive it. It would be far too risky.

Taeyong finishes drying off and tugs on a pair of underwear, going on a hunt for his phone. He texts his manager, I’ll call you in the morning, but Yuta and I were thinking that we should collab. Thought it would be a good cover, and then sets his phone down and turns to his bed, clicking off the light. 

“C’mere, honey,” Yuta stage-whispers. In the dark, Taeyong can hardly make out the outline of his figure, stretched out under the blankets, arms open and waiting. 

This is all it’s going to be. This is all it can be. Yuta and Taeyong, staging public appearances and collaborations and flaunting their friendship to the fans, hinting that it might be something more but only in a fanservice way, and then coming home and having this—only this, just dinner and sex and a kiss goodnight. And nothing more. And it’ll sell, and the fans will get what they want, and their companies will get what they want, and Yuta will get what he wants.

And yeah, maybe he antagonized him on camera. Maybe on purpose. But Mark and Jungwoo tried to spend the entire video making him out to be Yuta’s hapless little victim, which—okay, was maybe kind of true, but that information didn’t need to be public, did it?

It was already public, a voice in Dejun’s head reminds him. It was public the instant they posted that backstage footage last year.

What definitely isn’t public is that shortly after that moment backstage, Yuta and Dejun fucked for the first time. It’s only happened a handful of times since, but that’s mostly been due to their conflicting schedules rather than a lack of desire.

Sometimes Kunhang likes to make fun of Dejun for “becoming the group whore”—which Dejun immediately argues isn’t true. He fucks Yuta and he fucks Jaehyun, and until Halloween this year, he’d always fucked them separately.

“It wasn’t just them, though,” Kunhang pointed out smugly. “Johnny was there, too, and Mark and Doyoung.”

Dejun hadn’t been able to come up with a reply. But maybe that comment had been sitting in the back of his mind, maybe that’s why he’d been so defensive during his little interview yesterday, maybe that’s why he tried to rile Yuta up. Not very wise of him, he’s realizing now, as he catches Yuta’s eye down the hall and watches him waltz up to him. 

“Hi, hyung,” Dejun says, trying to sound casual.

But Yuta’s smile isn’t casual. “You’ve been avoiding me all day,” he accuses softly.

“No I haven’t,” Dejun protests, even though he has. “I’ve just been busy.”

“Sure. But you’re not busy now, are you?” Yuta takes one of Dejun’s hands.

No, Dejun supposes he isn’t. And even if he was, he can’t look away, staring at Yuta’s lips and remembering the last time he felt them. He shakes his head, blinking back at him. “Why,” he says, “do you need something?”

Yuta raises an eyebrow, smile growing wider, sharper. “I might,” he replies.

It wasn’t always this way. When Dejun first met Yuta, he would never dream of talking back. He would never have done what he did yesterday; he would have let Yuta do whatever he pleased, have whatever he wanted. How could he not? Yuta’s beauty has always been blinding, his charm so alluring it was nearly hypnotizing. In that now-famous video, Dejun wasn’t scared, not really. He just let fear come to the fore to hide how much he wanted. He would’ve done anything Yuta asked. 

He still would. They’ve just discovered it’s more fun for the both of them when it takes some coaxing. And Yuta, ever the smooth talker, never tires of coaxing Dejun into doing whatever he wants. Dejun, still just as blinded by Yuta’s beauty, just as hypnotized by his charm, never has it in him to resist for too long. 

“You know what I think,” Yuta is saying. He doesn’t make it sound like a question, though it’s phrased as one. “I think you’ve been avoiding me ever since Halloween.”

This is also true. To be fair, work descended upon all of them like a flood of Biblical proportions as soon as November hit, and Dejun hasn’t had to actively do too much avoiding. But there have been nights he could have gone to the 127 dorm, or lingered outside the practice room instead of taking off as soon as the first syllable of dismissal escaped their teacher’s mouth. And Dejun couldn’t really blame himself. Halloween had been… a lot. Good, but a lot, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that kind of insanity quite yet. It wasn’t personal; he’d been avoiding Jaehyun, too (and Johnny and Mark and Doyoung, though that was less relevant).

“Maybe,” Dejun says. He tries to be brusque, but a quaver in his voice gives him away. “Can you blame me?”

Yuta frowns at him. “Did you not like it?”

Dejun shakes his head quickly. “No, it’s not that! I just—I dunno, I’m a little embarrassed, I guess.”

Yuta’s expression clears; he reaches out and runs a hand down Dejun’s arm before interlocking their fingers and squeezing. “Oh, baby,” Yuta says, sweet and almost patronizing. “You don’t have to be shy. I thought you were over being shy with me.”

“Maybe not,” Dejun mumbles. 

“No? But it really seemed like it yesterday,” Yuta presses, and okay, that’s mean, Dejun thinks. That was a performance, for the fans and for Jungwoo and Mark and the other members watching on the sidelines as they got touch-ups between shoots. That was to prove that he wasn’t, as Kunhang had so kindly put it, the group whore (they all knew that was Jeno—right?); that wasn’t a reflection of how Dejun really feels. Because in his mind, he’s already on his knees at Yuta’s feet. 

“It’s different when we’re alone,” Dejun says. 

“Mm,” Yuta hums, pulling Dejun closer. “But I think you’ll get over it pretty quickly.” He means it as a command, Dejun thinks; he nods. “Come with me,” Yuta continues. “C’mon.”

Dejun lets Yuta pull him down the hall, across a couple of connecting bridges and into the new building where the 127 dorms had moved just a couple of months ago. It’s definitely preferable to Dejun’s dorm, which is cramped and dirty. Besides, Yuta doesn’t have a roommate anymore, so he doesn’t even have to bully Taeil out of the room (though, Dejun reflects as Yuta opens his door, it was hardly bullying. Taeil is easygoing as they come, and more than happy for an excuse to invade Donghyuck’s space, Johnny or no Johnny). Instead, Yuta just shuts the door behind them and maneuvers Dejun onto his bed, leaning close so Dejun can smell his cologne. 

Dejun lets his eyelids droop, leaning in, too, waiting to be kissed, but then Yuta just laughs and pulls away. Dejun lets a hurt little noise of confusion escape him, watching Yuta as he stands back up and starts unbuttoning his shirt. 

“What are you doing?” Dejun asks.

“Maybe you shouldn’t avoid me next time,” Yuta says lightly. “You’re so needy now.”

Dejun glares at him. “So, what? Gonna punish me?”

Yuta laughs brightly, letting his shirt fall to the floor. “No, baby,” he says. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

Knowing Yuta, this is much more devious than it sounds. The first time they slept together, he’d said something similar—gonna show you how, he told Dejun when Dejun admitted he was a virgin. Gonna teach you, baby. Dejun had relaxed, thought that meant it would be easy, but he was quickly corrected mere minutes later, tears in his eyes from the way Yuta was fingering him.

I’m gonna take care of you. Dejun knows better now. He eyes Yuta warily as he finishes undressing, as he reaches out and pulls Dejun’s clothes off for him. He pauses to press a kiss to his jaw, his collarbone, the point of his ribcage. 

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Yuta says as he works on the strings of Dejun’s sweatpants. “I think you’ve forgotten how good I can make you feel. I think if you remembered, you wouldn’t be so shy, and then maybe you wouldn’t avoid me. So to prove it to you, I’m not gonna let you do a thing. It’s gonna be all me. And to make sure it’s all me, I’m gonna tie you up. How’s that sound?”

There’s the catch. Dejun shivers a little as Yuta pulls his pants off. “Sounds good,” Dejun breathes out. He might regret the choice later when Yuta inevitably twists his own words in his favor, but right now, he likes the idea of giving himself over to Yuta. At the end of the day, he always wants to do anything Yuta asks.

“Yeah?” Yuta sits back. “Stay right there.”

Dejun watches him meander over to his dresser, pulling out a length of rope. It’s a silky, deep purple; Dejun swallows roughly. He knows this rope. Yuta is smiling when he turns around, but his eyes are thoughtful.

“What,” Dejun asks, maybe accuses. 

“I’m trying to decide if I want to bother tying you down to something,” Yuta says, snagging the lube from the dresser and then returning to the bed. He leans a knee onto the mattress and walks himself up towards the head of the bed. “If I just tie your wrists together, will you be good? Otherwise it’ll be such a hassle If I want to flip you over.” Without waiting for Dejun to reply, he continues, “Or I could just leave some slack at the headboard, and twist the rope.”

“I’m not known for my goodness,” Dejun points out wryly.

“Not right away, no,” Yuta agrees. “Alright, then.” He grabs Dejun’s wrists and raises his arms above his head, wrapping the rope around them—individual loops at first, and then both together. It’s tight, but not so tight that Dejun will lose feeling in his fingers. Yuta secures his now-bound wrists to the headboard, and then tugs a couple of times to ensure that Dejun won’t be able to escape. When he’s satisfied, he crawls down the bed again, his skin is warm and soft against Dejun’s, and steals a kiss. 

With anyone else, Dejun is pretty sure the embarrassment would win out almost immediately—it’s humiliating to be laid out naked and tied with his hands above his head so he can’t do anything to try and hide. But with Yuta, it feels safe somehow. Or maybe it’s just that it would feel like this anyway, rope or no rope. Dejun feels this vulnerable every time Yuta looks at him, even when they’re fully clothed, even if it’s just a brief glance from across the practice room, so it doesn’t make much of a difference.

Yuta kisses him slowly, almost lazily, pushing his tongue past Dejun’s teeth. Dejun finds himself relaxing against the mattress, almost going limp, letting himself be kissed until he’s breathless and whimpering for more.

“It really is so silly of you,” Yuta says, pulling back. “Look at you, baby. You’re already hard and all I’ve done is kiss you. If you’d come to me sooner, we wouldn’t be here, you know.”

“I feel like something could’ve changed between us,” Dejun points out rather cuttingly, “after Halloween. It’s one thing to be alone with you; it’s definitely another for you to watch as I…” He trails off, not even sure how to say it.

“What, because you cried?” Yuta asks. He has to be feigning ignorance now, Dejun thinks; Yuta isn’t even looking at him. He’s pressing gentle kisses to his collarbone and chest. “Anyone would cry if they took Johnny and Mark at the same time. Aren’t you glad I stopped you from taking Johnny and Jaehyun at once? You would’ve died.”

Dejun wishes he could cover his face with his hands. But, he remembers when he moves to do so, they’re tied to his headboard, so there’s nothing to stop Yuta from seeing the blush that spreads across his cheeks. The only thing he can think to say is, “Taeyong-hyung said he’s done it.”

This draws genuine laughter from Yuta. “Yes, well, we all can’t be Taeyong, can we?” Another kiss, this one between his ribcage. “Baby, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It was hot. We all thought it was hot. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s Mark. I’ve never seen him come that fast in his life.”

Dejun can’t suppress a tiny giggle. “That’s true,” he concedes.

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, you should be proud,” Yuta continues. “Most people can barely take Johnny, alone. The first time Jungwoo tried, he was, like, bedridden the next day.” A kiss to Dejun’s stomach, then another, slightly lower. “I was proud,” he adds, his voice darkening. “You were perfect. I know none of them have been able to stop thinking about you.” He pauses, finally looking up. “And I haven’t, either.” 

Dejun’s heart pounds in his chest. Yuta’s fingers are so close to everywhere he wants them to be, ghosting over the skin right next to where he’s aching. “Yeah?” he breathes out.

“Yeah,” Yuta murmurs. “Which is why I was so put out when you kept running away from our dance practices and avoiding me at meals. I thought maybe you didn’t want me anymore. I thought maybe after that night, you realized you preferred someone else’s company—Johnny, maybe, or Mark.”

Dejun thinks about denying it—of course it isn’t true—but he kind of wants to make Yuta work for that kind of confession, so he just raises an eyebrow. “And what if I did?”

Yuta barely fails to conceal a smug sort of look as he reaches for the lube. “I would convince you otherwise,” he replies, slicking a finger up and using it to circle Dejun’s entrance.

He pushes his finger in, nice and slow, and Dejun shakes. It’s been over two months since someone else has touched him, and he’s forgotten how strange it is, to feel fingers that aren’t his own. But Dejun’s body remembers Yuta’s touch, and the strangeness is quickly replaced by warm pleasure, settling under his skin like a good buzz.

Yuta is grinning, blinking at Dejun through his bangs. “But I don’t think that’s the case, is it?” he asks as he pushes his finger in as far as it will go and then wraps his other hand around Dejun’s cock where it’s lying hard against his stomach.

Dejun shakes his head, shivering. “No,” he whispers. “I still want you the most.”

Yuta hums, working his finger out and then in again, sending shocks of pleasure across Dejun’s body. “That’s what I thought,” he says, almost proud, and Dejun would be a little miffed by it if he wasn’t so focused on Yuta’s hands. Yuta thumbs at his slit and Dejun moans softly, watching helplessly as beads of precome drip down Yuta’s knuckles. “Relax, baby,” Yuta continues. “Or I won’t be able to fuck you.”

Dejun takes a deep, unsteady breath, nodding. “Okay, yeah.”

Yuta adds a second finger once Dejun is no longer so tense, stroking him with his other hand at an even, measured pace to keep him occupied. It works; Dejun hardly feels the burn of the stretch.

It’s not until the third finger that Yuta starts targeting Dejun’s prostate. He’d almost forgotten it could feel better than it already did, and the first brush of Yuta’s fingers has him arching off the bed, partially in shock. Yuta, to his credit, doesn’t startle, just follows the movement of Dejun’s body, circling his fingers around the spot with deft precision.

“Oh, fuck,” Dejun mumbles as he settles back down. He can’t help the way he rolls his hips up into Yuta’s fist. Heat floods his body, arousal spiking suddenly. He clenches around Yuta’s fingers, breath coming ragged now as Yuta massages his prostate, a maddeningly calm expression settling over his features. He watches Dejun as he whimpers and twists in the sheets, as he accidentally tugs on his restraints, making the headboard creak.

“Gonna come?” Yuta asks calmly. Dejun nods. “Come for me, then. You always look so pretty.”

Maybe it’s the word pretty, or maybe Dejun’s body just hits its breaking point, but he comes with a gasp, spilling white all over Yuta’s hand, some of it shooting up to his stomach as he convulses, the gentle hum of pleasure rising in a crescendo until there’s ringing in his ears as he come back down.

“Just like that, baby,” Yuta hums, and Dejun preens a little under the praise. 

He expects Yuta to release him once he’s done coming to give him a chance to recover before they continue, but he doesn’t, and only now does Dejun realize what he’s been up to this whole time.

“Yuta,” he whines, though he knows it’s entirely futile. He tugs in the rope just in case Yuta wasn’t perfect, just in case it’s come loose somehow, but no luck.

“What?” Yuta asks sweetly. “You don’t want to come again? Thought you were all pent up.”

“Not—like this,” Dejun grits out weakly. “Hurts.”

Yuta pouts sympathetically, though he doesn’t stop or even slow. “It does?” he asks. “It’s too much? Do you want me to stop?”

Dejun glares at him. Yuta’s now managed to frame it like a challenge, and Dejun wants to prove himself to Yuta more than he wants to spare himself the torture. He sets his jaw. “Fine, keep going,” he says. “See if you can even make me come again. Just because I wasn’t seeing you doesn’t mean I wasn’t finding other ways to take care of myself.”

“Okay,” Yuta says mildly, almost placating. “Your choice.”

Dejun keeps his jaw set and lets his mind wander a little while Yuta finishes prepping him, squeezing a fourth finger in beside the first three. His body is only just settling back down into pleasure instead of the heightened sensation of overstimulation by the time Yuta decides he’s ready. 

Yuta rolls a condom on and squeezes a generous dollop of lube into his palm. Dejun tries not to watch too closely, tries not to get caught up in all of it, but it’s hard. Yuta is stunning in the dim evening light, muscle and bone rolling under smooth skin as he lines himself up with Dejun’s hole. 

Yuta pushes in slow, and it only takes the tip for Dejun to consider giving up the act. But there’s a satisfied look on Yuta’s face that Dejun can’t help but feel is entirely unearned, so he presses his lips together and watches Yuta bottom out, tracing the lines of concentration between his brows to distract himself, or else convince himself he’s not the only one who’s slowly losing his mind. 

Yuta rocks his hips back and forth, slow and shallow at first to let Dejun adjust, then longer and faster, falling into an easy rhythm. He tips forward, planting his hands just above Dejun’s shoulders so he can reach Dejun’s lips to kiss him. 

Yuta kisses him gently, nothing like before, where it almost felt like he was going to reach down Dejun’s throat for his heart. This is nearly chaste; soft, sweet kisses that make Dejun melt.

Dejun doesn’t even realize he’s been making noise until Yuta all but cooes at him. “Poor thing,” he murmurs, lips brushing the skin of Dejun’s jaw. “Don’t you wanna come? Or are you still sure you won’t?”

“I won’t,” Dejun insists, but his tone is entirely unconvincing, even to his own ears.

Yuta’s laughter rings clear and dark; he picks up the pace, pushing away from Dejun at the same time so he can fit a hand between their bodies and jerk Dejun off, matching the timing of his thrusts. 

And it really just isn’t fair. Dejun tries to pretend he has even just some semblance of control, but with Yuta, he always finds himself in over his head. Because he is close again, and if Yuta told him to come, he would, in spite of himself and in spite of everything. And the worst part is, he can’t even really be upset about it. Of course Yuta should have this kind of power over him, over everyone he meets. Sometimes Dejun isn’t convinced he’s entirely human. 

Dejun squeezes his eyes shut and tries to will away the rising tide of his arousal, but it’s like trying to bail a sinking ship with a teaspoon. Yuta watches him shake and doesn’t change a thing. It’s infuriating—he knows Dejun will break. He’s just waiting. 

“Does it hurt?” Yuta asks. “You know you can just let go, baby, I never said you couldn’t.” He bends over Dejun, leaving a trail of messy kisses down his chest. “C’mon,” he coaxes. “It’ll feel so good, you know.”

He takes one of Dejun’s nipples into his mouth and Dejun thinks, fuck it. What is he trying to prove? Other than that Yuta has him completely caught in his web, with no escape? Dejun gasps in breath, stomach contracting as he comes for a second time tonight, his release hot and sticky against his skin. 

“That’s it.” Dejun registers Yuta’s voice, velvet and soothing, through the pounding in his head. “Wasn’t so difficult, was it?” He feels a hand on his cheek; he forces his eyes open and sees Yuta’s face hovering just inches from his own. “Hi, baby,” Yuta says. A kiss, to his forehead. “I’m gonna untie you now. I don’t think we need the rope anymore.”

It almost makes Dejun laugh. Even if he had the mind to rebel anymore, his body wouldn’t cooperate. His arms feel heavy from the post-orgasm weakness sluicing through him. Yuta undoes the knot with ease and guides Dejun’s hands back down to his sides so the circulation is better. Dejun only now realizes that while Yuta had stopped fucking him, he hadn’t pulled out. 

“Can you take a little more?” Yuta asks. Dejun nods mutely. Of course he can. I can do anything you ask. “Okay,” Yuta says. “Tell me if you change your mind.” He rolls his hips, working his way back up to his original pace, though thankfully he leaves Dejun’s cock alone.

Dejun lies limp, letting Yuta fuck him, watching through nearly-closed eyes, vision blurring a little when he accidentally lets them cross. He knows he looks pathetic, but he kind of likes it. Only Yuta can make him like this, so quickly and with so little effort. Even Johnny and Mark together couldn’t do this. 

Yuta swipes a thumb under Dejun’s eye. “Good or bad?” he asks, and Dejun realizes he’s crying. 

Dejun manages a smile. “Good,” he sighs. 

He thinks Yuta smiles back. “Then that’s good,” he says. He takes Dejun’s jaw and turns his head to the side so he can clean up the tears that have run down his cheeks; Dejun lets him. “You’re always so nice and pliant when you’re fucked out,” Yuta comments. “It’s so hot, baby.”

Dejun just gives him a soft hum in response, though he hiccups in breath in the middle of it when Yuta gives a particularly rough thrust. He clings to one of Yuta’s wrists as best as he can, only able to whimper out moans as Yuta uses his body to come. 

He doesn’t last long, and Dejun can’t blame him. He knows he looks good like this, eyes glazed over with lust and flushed cheeks marred by drying tear-tracks. Yuta stills inside him, growling out a low curse—either in Japanese, or maybe Dejun is so far gone that Korean sounds fuzzy to his ears. 

Dejun lets his eyes flutter shut. He did well; Yuta will take care of him. Nothing else matters. 

***

Dejun wanders back into the WayV dorm much later than evening, after a long shower with Yuta and a late night snack. His hair is still drying as he pushes their door open and kicks off his shoes, poking around for his house slippers as Leon twines lovingly but unhelpfully around his ankles. 

Kunhang is in the kitchen, watching videos over an empty bowl, and he looks up when he hears Dejun approach. 

“Oh, thank god,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been so cranky lately, it was getting insufferable.”

Dejun stops in his tracks, staring. “What does that mean?” he demands. 

Ten appears in the opposite doorway, Louis cuddled in his arms. “It’s okay, honey,” he says offhand to Dejun as he strolls over to the sink to fill their electric kettle, releasing the cat onto the counter. “Sometimes all you need is a good fuck to fix you. I would know.”

Dejun surges downward to cover Leon’s ears. “Oh my god, don’t let the kids hear you,” he admonishes. “They’re still babies!”

“Yeah,” Kunhang laughs, nodding. “Definitely fixed him.” He raises his mug to Ten, who uses an empty glass to clink against it. 

Dejun groans. “I’m going to bed,” he says, heading down the hall. 

“Bet you are!” Ten calls after him. “Yuta really knows how to wear people out!”

School was normal, well as normal as you can be after fucking your entire friend group.

You didn’t run into any of them until lunch time. You had seriously considered skipping lunch, opting to spend the time in your homeroom classroom by yourself, but on the way there you ran into Haechan.

“Where are you going? We were gonna do lunch outside today, the weather’s great!” Haechan grinned out, throwing an arm over your shoulder and pulling you out where the others were waiting. 

It was obvious that your relationship with Haechan changed the most. It’s not like you weren’t friendly with the guy before, but he was definitely a lot friendlier after the trip. You weren’t sure if you liked it or not.

You could just make out Mark and Jeno just outside under the tree before stopping in your tracks. 

“I’m actually gonna drop off my books in my locker real quick, I’ll be out in a sec though.” 

Haechan let you out from under his arm, winking at you slyly before nodding and heading outside. 

Your locker wasn’t too far from where you were, just around the corner past a few classrooms. 

It was just after you had dumped the contents of your bag off that you overheard a conversation in the room beside you bearing, interestingly enough, your name.

But you wished you hadn’t ever stopped.

“So what are you gonna do with Y/N?”

“What do you mean?” You’d recognize this voice anyway, obviously Jeno.

“I mean, are you gonna date?” It was beginning to sound more and more like Jaemin.

“Date? Why?”

“I dunno, I just thought... after last weekend you guys seemed pretty close.”

“And?”

“You’re just gonna stay friends then?”

“Yeah. I mean we just fucked you know, it’s not gonna change the fact that she’s my best friend. That’s it.”

“I dunno Jeno, are you sure that’s it?”

“What are you implying?”

“You don’t like her more than a friend.”

“Dude. You fucked her too, you gonna date her?”

Tense silence filled the air. 

“See. Look Y/N and I are fine. Nothing’s gonna change.”

“Jeno.”

“No.”

There was a heavy sigh, though you couldn’t tell who it was from, you could assume it was from Jaemin.

“Whatever.”

The door swung open, coming too close for your liking, and a familiar face followed.

“Oh shit.” You were spot on, Jaemin bit his lip nervously as he stared back at you, freezing in his spot.

“Yeah.” You sent him a tight lipped smile, eyes already turning glossy as you nodded your head, telling him to keep going.

The door slammed shut quietly behind you, quite humorous considering the fact that in the next few seconds that room was going to be anything but quiet.

“Y/N?” Jeno jumped slightly as he almost ran into you on the way in, backing away slightly instinctively.

“Just a fuck huh?” You felt yourself heat up with anger, but a small pang in your chest told you that it hurt more than you hoped.

Jeno’s mouth parted slightly before turning flat, trying to ignore the look you were giving him, though he couldn’t quite tell if it was all anger, a small part of him hoped that there was something else. “Is that what this is about? How much did you hear?”

You stared back at him, words unnecessary to convey your feelings. 

He sighed taking your silence as answer enough, “You’re not just a fuck, you know that. You’re my best friend.” Jeno wasn’t lying, he was terrified of losing you over this, but he couldn’t help but hide it deep inside it, the fear of rejection being far greater. 

“Is this how you treat your friends?” You tried your best to keep your lip from wobbling, knowing that in any moment you could break, showing him the most vulnerable parts of you, and you weren’t sure you wanted that after the way he treated you.

“No- I just–”

“I know what you said, and I know what you mean Jeno. All I wanted to know is if that was what you really feel.”

Jeno couldn’t look you in the eyes, answer enough for you.

“Great. That’s fucking great. You know if I knew that this trip was going to lose me my best friend, I never would’ve gone.” You stormed past him, opening the door and shoving past the other four boys who were very obviously eavesdropping, having dropped everything to listen when Jaemin came running with news of gossip.

The longest time you had ever not spoken to Jeno was for four days (and a half) in the seventh grade. It was over something stupid now, nothing worth remembering, but you do remember it was the most painful four days (and a half) you had ever had. 

On the last day of your estrangement you found yourself on the doorstep of Jeno’s porch. You caved, just like you always did. And you craved him, craved anything that had to do with him.

But this time, it was Jeno that had found himself on your doorstep, a week and a half after the last time you had spoken.

Jeno didn’t like being weak, but more than that Jeno didn’t like the feeling of the whole you had left. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Can we talk a bit?”

"What’s there to talk about? You were pretty clear the last time I heard you.”

“You know that’s different, I wasn’t talking to you.”

“No, you were just talking about me, behind my back. It’s worse when you can’t even say it to my face. You know, I’m not this fragile broken little girl, you just tell me you don’t like me and I can handle it.”

“That’s not it–”

“Are you sure? Or is it just because I’m confronting you right now that you’ve decided to change your mind?”

“Y/N, your my best friend. Don’t do this.”

“Being your friend doesn’t mean shit when you treat them like shit.”

“I didn’t–”

“Look, I’m kinda busy.”

“And this isn’t going to take long.”

“Haechan’s coming.”

“What?” Jeno’s eyes flickered to yours with confusion, shaking slightly at the way you easily brushed him aside.

“Haechan’s gonna be here in five.”

“But–”

“Look, I just really need you gone right now.” You refuse to keep eye contact with him, knowing that it would probably hurt you more than it would him. 

It didn’t take much for you to push Jeno out the door, he wasn’t resisting at all. If Jeno didn’t want to leave, you wouldn’t have been able to make him, but it seemed like Jeno was having a difficult time comprehending what just happened. 

You didn’t even have time to resort your emotions before a knock on the door pulled you out of your reverie. Knowing that it was Haechan on the other side of the door, you just prayed that they hadn’t managed to run into each other in passing, God knows what Jeno would do to him.

“Hey there.” Haechan smiled, handing you a whole pineapple. “My mom taught me to never come without gifts.”

“Haechan, you brought a pineapple.”

“Yeah well, they were having a sale.”

You giggled softly, setting the fruit down on the counter before turning to face him. 

“Soooo, you wanna show me your room?” He asked, eager smile adorning his features as he backed towards the direction. 

“Wow, you get straight to the point, don’t you?” But you led the way nevertheless.

It was nearly the very moment that you entered the room that Haechan was all over you, walking you towards the bed sitting on the comforter with you between his legs. 

He ran his fingers up and down the back of your thighs for a moment, taking in the current situation before tossing all thoughts out the window. 

Haechan grinned cheekily, grabbing at your hips to pull you on top of him, hips rutting upwards to meet you. 

“God, you have no idea how bad I’ve missed you. No idea how many times I’ve dreamt of this, how many times I’ve jacked off to the memory of you sucking down on my cock.”

You hummed out, bending over to suck on his neck, emitting precious moans from him. His heavy petting on your backside moved up your waist, flattening his hand against your back so that you were pressed even closer to him.

Haechan let you continue for a few more minutes before pulling you away, only to latch onto your lips. Teasing you with little bites as he tugged against your lips. 

You whined, smiling slightly into his kiss, urging him to remove his shirt as you panted against him. 

He did so without a cent of hesitation, tugging at your shirt next, leaving you bare against his skin. 

“No bra?” He smirked, loving the way you heated up above him, nose digging into the valley of your breast. “I like it. Easy access.”

You scoffed as he buried deeper, mouth latching on to the soft mounds, making sure to leave purplish blotches as a reminder of the night. 

Grabbing a handful of his hair, you pulled him up to meet you again, needing a way to shut him up. Haechan groaned into your mouth, the grip on you growing tighter as his dick grew larger in his pants, the friction getting to him. 

“Come on.” He mumbled, standing up with your legs still wrapped around his waist. Stumbling a bit, you continued making out as he found your bedroom blindly, falling a bit as you landed with your back on the mattress.

He pulled your arms up above your head, locking them tight as he worked his way down your body, leaving wet trails of kisses. As he neared your pants he let go of your hands, which immediately found perch in his hair, stroking at the strands as he pulled down your clothes, leaving you in nothing but a pair of blue lacy panties. 

“Jesus Christ.” You giggled as he nearly drooled at the sight, fingers tracing the pattern. Placing sloppy kisses over the fabric you felt his lips suction over you clit, pulling a lewd moan from you. 

“Haechan...”

“I know.” He flashed a grin, pushing your legs up more, giving him easier access, and something to hold on to. But instead of giving you relief he continued over your clothed pussy, his tongue pushing at your hole, but never far enough to get you satisfaction. 

“Ngh, Haechan!” You urged him, needing him to rip off the barrier, but settling at the moment for tugging his face deeper into your crotch, choosing to grind on his face, the friction helping for the lack of skin. Every moment his nose pressed deep against you, you swear you lost your breath.

He groaned, sending vibrations through you causing you to squeeze your thighs tight around his head. His hands followed your movements, massaging at the outside of your legs as he pushed in deeper. 

Haechan was still lapping at you like a hungry animal as you came around his face. You fell back, eyes slammed shut as you tried to control yourself, but Haechan was still moving against your clit, overstimulation getting to you. 

Pushing him away gently you had little relief, but watching him with hooded eyes as his face was sheen with your slick had you wishing he was still between your legs. 

Haechan sat up on his elbows, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “You taste so fucking good, but I kinda want the real thing.”

Your eyes rolled back in your head, not sure if you could take him going to town on you again. Tightening your core you sat up, pulling him to you by his cheeks so that you could bring his lips to yours again, tasting yourself on him. 

Haechan’s hands tangled in your hair as your nails dragged against his back. His body rolled against yours, the hard on still trapped in his pants evident to you. 

“Take it off.” You mumbled against him, hands pawing at his ass eagerly as he moved to the crook of your neck. “Like hell he will.”

You gasped as you heard a familiar voice in the room, peering over Haechan’s back to find Jeno, bright red and furious standing in the doorway. 

“Jeno?!”

Haechan rolled around, exposing you as he turned to face he friend with unamused eyes, quite annoyed really. 

“Dude, get the hell out.” Haechan whined, moving to cover you as he noticed the way you squirmed beside him. 

“You get out, I gotta talk to Y/N.”

“Right now?”

“Yes right now.” Despite the way Jeno was glaring at Haechan, he refused to look at you for a reason unknown.

Haechan reluctantly left the room, tugging on his shorts for what little decency he had, muttering to himself something about having to finish it himself.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What?” You rolled your eyes, sitting up with keeping the sheets tight around you, noticing the way that Jeno’s eyes were briefly drawn to you.

“Haechan? Really?”

“Jeno...”

He tangled his hands in his hair, pulling at the strands slightly before heaving a breath.

“You’re so fucking oblivious. That or you’re a really good actress.”

“What–”

“No. Don’t you get it? I care! Way too fucking much!”

“Can we? Can we talk honestly?” Jeno’s voice broke at the end of his sentence. 

“How much more honest can I get?”

“Don’t you get it? I care! Way too fucking much!” 

He caged you in, arms stiff on either side of your head, his own head leaning down to ravage at your neck. 

Holding himself up with one arm he gripped both of yours with his other, leaving you with no way to touch him. You squirmed under his hold, huffing out air as you stared up at him defiantly, dead set on staring him down. 

His hips ground against yours, the hard on in his jeans incredibly obvious as he felt the material restrict him. He groaned into your mouth, struggling to keep himself from tearing off his pants and ridding you of anything that kept you from him. 

“Fuck.” He muttered, biting at your neck a bit harsher than you were expecting, a faint cry escaping you. 

You struggled against his grip, desperate to touch him, mould against him. Eventually he broke, hands falling to the sides of your face, the deep pressuring kisses turning soft and faltering. 

Your hands rested on his chest, rubbing at the fabric there, pulling at it until you were gifted with peeks of his skin. 

“Mmmm. Jeno.” You moaned out, Jeno’s leg falling between yours, feet knocking together as he pushed his nose along your collarbone. Soft kisses lined the skin as he left love bites.

His body morphed with yours, rolling against it as he rubbed his hands over the expanse of your hips.

Jeno was being abnormally loud, whining in your ear, knee knocking at your soaked core between the thin sheet. But the sound reverberating through your was the best thing you had ever heard.

He pulled down the sheet covering your breasts, kissing them along the way, admiring the way that they stood up perky for him. Your hands pressed against his head, stroking tiredly at his hair as he continued his ministrations.

Jeno hummed against your skin, pads of his fingers teasing at the sheets, pulling them away from your body until you were skin to skin against him. It was much different than just moments ago with the others.

Even his touches were different, an air of hesitation in his grip, like he was worried you would run away if he grabbed on too tight.

If only he knew it was the opposite.

He pulled away just enough to pull off his shirt, your hands immediately falling to his skin, fingers running up and down the length of his torso.

Jeno sat on his haunches, slipping off his pants, underwear falling suit, but not giving you much to ogle at before he fell back against you. It happened so quickly, but somehow he managed to get between the sheet and your skin.

You were already so wet down there that Jeno slid in between your thighs with no problems and no resistance.

He was bigger than you remembered, stretching you out deliciously. You gasped out with an open mouthed kiss, his lips engulfing yours with frantic breaths as his hips began to find a rhythm.

Jeno dropped his head to the crook of your neck, forehead sticking with sweat against your collarbone. 

“Mmph. Jeno...” You moaned out, head turning to the side to try to calm yourself, “I’m so close. Please.”

Jeno took this opportunity, to press his fingers against your clit, rubbing figure eights over the nub, eliciting more moans from you. At the sound of this he sped up his hips, nearing the edge as breathless moans filled the room.

He let up on your clit, using that hand to turn your face back to face his. Pressing his lips against yours, the kiss grew from needy and lustful to soft, breathing open mouthed kisses over the sides of your mouth.

Soft cries left his mouth as you pulled his face against the ridge of your shoulder, placing soft kisses along his neck and ear. Jeno pulled back, hands growing taut on either side of your head.

“Can I cum in you?” He asked, eyebrows taut together as he watched you worriedly.

“Mmmm.” You pulled his face towards you, hands on either sides of his cheeks, kissing him softly as you nodded against his forehead.

He let out a fluttered sigh against your skin, hips continuing to move at a steady pace despite the way that he felt his orgasm coming. Jeno clenched his teeth, breathes hissing between his lips as he screwed his eyes shut, muffled moans reverberating through him.

The sounds only grew louder at the way you wrapped around him, pussy squeezing him dry, coming around him. His hips bucked two more times before he came in you, shooting his load in your walls that were gripping at him.

Jeno collapse against you, rubbing your skin soothingly for a few moments before he recovered, sliding himself off you.

“You alright?” Jeno asked, pushing the hair out of your face.

“Yeah.” You didn’t try to hide the tired smile sent his way.

Jeno pulled back, sliding down towards your legs, eyes still latched on yours. He only took his eyes off of you when he leveled with your leaking core, the sight of his cum dripping out of your pussy had him rutting against the bed a bit.

Pushing his finger into your pussy, catching the cum that leaked out and shoving it back in, watching how easily you took him back in.

“Ngh.” You sighed out, hand tugging at his hair, strikingly similar to the way you had with Haechan just an hour before.

Jeno’s nose pressed deep into your core, tongue fucking you, the taste of himself mixed with you lingering on his tongue. He dug his hands into your thighs, kneading them softly as he continued. One of his hands reached up to grab at one of your breasts, flicking at then nipple a few times before looking up at you with hooded lashes, eyes fluttering as his head bobbed up and down licking stripes through your nether lips. 

But before long it was becoming too much for you to handle, after the previous two orgasms you were already set on the edge. You came hard around his head, knees locking as you shuddered with pleasure. The whole time Jeno continued, not wanting to fight it as he was still pressed against your pussy, leaving soft kisses over the shivering skin. 

“Jeno.” You mumbled, dragging him up to you where he nuzzled against you until you fell asleep, exhausted after a long day.

“You jealous fuck.” Haechan snorted as Jeno came out of the room, swiveling on the stool in the kitchen.

“Shut up. You stayed the whole time?”

“I knew it’d work. Just wanted to check.” The former shrugged, grinning widely.

Jeno stopped, turning to glare at him, “Knew it’d work?”

Haechan grunted slightly as he stood up, “I mean what more needs to be said. You’re a jealous fuck. Jaemin suggested it really, knew you’d come running as soon as you found out. Thought you’d finally realize how you feel and straighten up.”

“You all are idiots.”

“But we saved your ass didn’t we?” Haechan stood, standing a little too close for Jeno’s liking.

“I think you enjoyed it a bit too much.” Jeno’s brows raised as his arms folded over his chest, staring down at him.

“Well, might as well live it up. Y/N’s a dream, I couldn’t not enjoy myself.”

“Shut up.”

Haechan lifted his hands up defensively, patting Jeno on the back as he made his way towards the door, only stopping when he saw you in the hallway approaching. “Don’t have too much fun Y/N, Jeno’s spoiled enough as it is.”

He winked at you on his way out, ducking past the door before Jeno could throw something at him. 

“I can’t believe you were going to sleep with him.” Jeno rolled his eyes, coming up next to you and wrapping his arm around your waist. 

“I already did.” Jeno’s face soured slightly at the memory of the last night in the cabin.

His grip on you tightened as he tugged you closer, “But I still fuck you best, isn’t that right?”

“You wanna prove it one more time for me?”

Jeno looked down at you, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. “Woah woah woah, at least buy me dinner first.” 

“Shut up.” You smiled, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

“I have some vacation coming up,” Yuta says one day. “What if I come visit you? You can show me around the city like I did for you.”

“Really?” Taeyong gasps, and then flushes with embarrassment at his excitement. It’s not that he didn’t mean it, but he doesn’t want Yuta to think he’s desperate. 

But Yuta just laughs. “Really, honey,” he says. “Will you be free in a couple of weeks?”

Taeyong bites a nail, glancing at his calendar. “Um, I start my schedules back up in a couple weeks,” he says. “But,” he adds quickly, “it’s okay! I’ll mostly just have practices and things, so I’ll still have time. We—we made it work last time, when we were both busy. And when I’m working, you can always do some exploring on your own so it’s not a waste, right?”

“Of course,” Yuta says smoothly. “Alright, I’ll ask my manager to book me some flights and then I’ll send you the dates.”

“Okay,” Taeyong says. He doesn’t know why he’s so breathless, why his heart is pounding so loudly he can barely hear himself think. “I can’t wait to see you.”

Yuta’s voice is rich and dark when he replies. “You too, honey. I can’t wait to see you, too.” He pauses, then adds. “I’ll get tested before I leave. You do it, too.”

“Okay,” Taeyong says, feeling lightheaded.

The next couple weeks sort of pass in a blur. Yuta doesn’t call as much because he’s trying to wrap everything up so he can enjoy his break peacefully. Besides, Taeyong is gearing up for his next full album, so he’s gotten busier, too. But it’s okay, because he knows he’ll be seeing Yuta soon, so he doesn’t mind the wait. 

Yuta’s flight gets him in kind of late, but Taeyong is secretly pleased. He invites him over to dinner, and Yuta accepts. They both know what that means. 

Taeyong spends the evening fretting over the state of his apartment. He vacuums twice, fluffs the pillows, vacuums again. He changes his sheets, deep-cleans his bathroom. 

“You’re acting like you’re nesting or something,” Doyoung says from where Taeyong has perched his phone, watching him judgmentally over FaceTime. “It’s weird.”

“His place was really nice,” Taeyong replies, not looking up from his dusting. “I want him to be comfortable.”

Doyoung rolls his eyes. “From the sound of it, all he needs is a surface to fuck you on and he’s all set.”

“Shut up,” Taeyong grumbles. 

“If my best friend is acting like an omega in heat and I’m forced to witness it, I think I’m allowed to say something,” Doyoung says.

Taeyong covers his ears, groaning. “Please stop talking. Please never say those words again.”

“Which words?” Doyoung asks. “Omega? In heat?”

“I’ll hang up this call right now.”

“You couldn’t, you’re wearing rubber gloves because you’re trying to make your nest perfect.”

Despite all of Taeyong’s protests, Doyoung’s jokes do help. By the time he really does hang up (because Doyoung has to go, not because Taeyong’s trying to be petty), he feels better than he did in the morning. There’s still a base layer of anxiety, but his house is clean, and his kitchen is ready for dinner. When Yuta sends him a Landed! text, he starts prepping his vegetables.

The rice maker beeps right when Taeyong’s doorbell rings about an hour and a half later—Yuta, asking to be buzzed into the elevator. Taeyong grants access and returns to his cooking. He’s interrupted again only a few moments later by a knock on his door. He rinses his hands, turning the fire off under the pan, and hurries to his door, combing his hair through with his fingers.

“Hi,” Yuta says when Taeyong pulls the door open, and Taeyong forgets how to speak.

Maybe his memory was simply unkind. Or perhaps Yuta really has, somehow, inexplicably, gotten hotter since Taeyong last saw him. His hair is a deep red now, black roots already growing in. He’s wearing his classic silver jewelry, ears adorned with flashy pieces that seem to change at the slightest movement.

“H-hi,” Taeyong squeaks a beat or two too late, stepping aside to let Yuta in. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” Yuta says, drawing in a deep breath as Taeyong closes the door behind him. “Something smells good.”

“I invited you for dinner, after all,” Taeyong says. “I cooked.”

“Ah yes,” Yuta says, like he had forgotten the pretense of their meeting. “Dinner. That’s right.”

Taeyong leads him into his kitchen. Yuta does the same thing he did when Taeyong brought him to his rental in Japan—he takes everything in, slowly, methodically, with care.

“I’ll just be a second,” Taeyong says. “I need to plate everything.”

“Take your time,” Yuta says, grinning. “Though—could I have a kiss first?”

“Oh!” Taeyong pauses, turning back to him. “Yes.” He giggles, leaning in and giving Yuta a quick kiss, too shy to try for more. “Sorry, I’ve just been—I’ve been so excited, I think I lost some common sense along the way.”

Yuta laughs at this, easy and bright. “That’s alright,” he says. “I’ve been excited, too.”

Taeyong brings the food to the table, and they settle into their seats. Yuta compliments his place between bites of rice and then recounts his somewhat harrowing flight, which consisted of near-constant turbulence.

“I would’ve vomited,” Taeyong says honestly. “You’re better than me.”

Yuta laughs again. “I always take some medication before I get on a flight. Otherwise I would’ve vomited, too.”

Yuta starts getting handsy as soon as Taeyong gets up to do the dishes, which Taeyong really doesn’t mind. He’s kind of glad to have an excuse not to do them until tomorrow, anyway; he folds easily, letting Yuta manhandle him into his arms and back him up against the wall of his hallway, where the only source of light is what’s spilling out of the doorway that leads to the kitchen. 

“I missed you, honey,” Yuta murmurs, and Taeyong has to stop himself from whining. Yuta presses up close, trapping Taeyong’s wrists in his strong hands. 

“I missed you, too,” Taeyong manages, and Yuta surges forward and kisses him. Taeyong leans his full weight against the wall, grateful for its support as his legs consider giving out. Yuta kisses him messy and deep and Taeyong kisses back, just as hungry, trembling. He was trying not to show it earlier, really—he didn’t want to let all the things he wanted take him over—but now Yuta is giving him permission. Taeyong doesn’t need to be in control or polite now, he just needs to let Yuta fuck him. And he’s quite certain he can do just that.

“You’re all I could think about,” Yuta continues when he breaks the kiss, eyes dark. “I slept with other people, you know. Thought maybe it was just that—but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough. Kept thinking about you, no matter what.”

Taeyong registers that he is a little hurt—he hadn’t seen anybody new since his return. Then again, he and Yuta had never established what they were to each other, so it isn’t fair of him to be upset. He pushes it aside. “I didn’t have anyone else,” Taeyong whispers instead. “I already knew—it would be the same for me. I knew it wasn’t just sex I wanted, it was you.”

Yuta’s nails dig into his skin, painful and possessive. “That’s right,” he says. “No one could fuck you like I do.”

“Mm-hm,” Taeyong agrees, nodding, because it’s true. And maybe that makes him pathetic, but—

“Nothing feels the same as you,” Yuta continues. “So it’s fair, right?”

“Right,” Taeyong whispers, feeling dizzy. It’s okay if he’s a little pathetic, as long as Yuta wants him back. It’s worth it if he gets what he wants. Yuta’s kissing along his neck, wet and hot; Taeyong balls his hands into fists, shuddering through little gasps as he tries not to rut against Yuta’s thigh. “Can I—can I suck you off? Please?”

“You’re asking like I would say no,” Yuta murmurs against his skin. “I should be the one asking for your mouth.” He releases Taeyong’s wrists, and Taeyong immediately drops to his knees, hands on the button of Yuta’s jeans. “God, you’re so eager for me, honey, what did I do to deserve you?” He runs a hand through Taeyong’s hair, the touch almost fond, as Taeyong unzips his pants and pulls them down. Yuta’s cock springs free, already hard, and Taeyong nearly moans just at the sight of it, thinking about what happened last time he got Yuta naked; thinking about what’s to come.

He blinks up at Yuta, making his eyes round and innocent. “You can fuck my throat if you want,” he says sweetly. “I don’t really have a gag reflex.”

Yuta’s grip in his hair tightens. “Fuck,” he groans. “You’re such a perfect little slut, aren’t you, baby?”

Taeyong nods wordlessly, letting his jaw drop open, and sticks his tongue out, rolling it over his bottom teeth and using the tip to push his mouth open further. Yuta tips his head back a little with the hand that’s in his air, using the other hand to guide his cock in. Taeyong sinks down on him, hollowing his cheeks just to hear him moan, pushing and pushing, letting his throat relax around the tip as he bottoms out, nose just brushing the wiry curls of Yuta’s pubic hair. He sits there for a moment, catching his breath.

“Oh, fuck, honey,” Yuta breathes. “God, that’s so good.”

Taeyong hums, encouraged by the praise, and pulls back off—slow and torturous, until Yuta is shaking—then sinks back down again, curling his tongue around the underside of Yuta’s dick. He picks up a rhythm this way, not fast, not slow, just something easy and manageable to get his body to adjust to the intrusion before he lets Yuta take over. He palms himself over his pants as he blows Yuta, pressing down with the heel of his hand and letting his eyes roll back. He knows it’ll make a pretty picture for him. He knows it works because he feels Yuta twitch in his mouth.

After a few minutes, he slows, giving a hum that he hopes conveys that he’s ready for Yuta to do as he pleases.

“You sure, honey?” Yuta pants. “You know how rough I can be.”

Taeyong nods as best he can, giving an affirmative hum. 

“Okay,” Yuta says. “Okay, grab my leg?” Taeyong reaches up, hooking his fingers around the back of one of Yuta’s knees. “If you need out, just tap. Three times, like this.” He stretches a hand down and taps out a simple pattern onto one of Taeyong’s hollowed cheeks.

Another hum from Taeyong is all it takes to convince him. He readjusts his grip on Taeyong’s hair and then rolls his hips forward. The head of his cock bumps the back of Taeyong’s throat, and tears spring to Taeyong’s eyes as he inhales raggedly, moaning on the exhale when Yuta pulls out and does it again. 

“Fuck, Taeyong, you really weren’t joking, huh?” Yuta asks. “You aren’t even struggling, baby. I guess I should’ve expected it. You always take me so well, why should this be any different?”

Taeyong thinks he might be glowing. Happiness like this should show, right? There’s no way his body could contain it, the joy at knowing he can be perfect for Yuta. He bucks his hips up into his hand, chasing the friction mindlessly, already hazy and lost in the pleasure of being used. 

When Yuta doesn’t hear any complaints, he gets bolder, rougher; he goes faster, tries to make Taeyong take him deeper. Luckily, Yuta isn’t the biggest guy Taeyong’s ever blown, so he can manage it, even when the tears in his eyes spill over, even when spit starts to run down his chin, even when he has to pause everything else to focus on breathing. There’s something euphoric about it, how his head goes all floaty from the lack of oxygen, how it makes him so brainless. Yuta can take and take all he wants, and Taeyong will still have something to give him. Pride, heady and consuming, blooms in Taeyong’s chest and spreads across his whole body, making his skin tingle. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Yuta mutters, and then pulls out in one swift movement, replacing Taeyong’s mouth with one of his own hands. Taeyong coughs and splutters, drawing in lungful after lungful of air, blinking through his tears and forcing himself to keep his mouth open, tongue out. “So good, honey, gonna come,” Yuta pants, and Taeyong whines, maybe begs yes yes yes, rubbing himself through his pants.

The first drop of Yuta’s come misses the mark—it hits his cheek instead, but somehow that’s almost better. He wants Yuta to mark his face with his come, wants it to be gross and messy. He rocks his hips up into his palm as Yuta comes on his face and finds himself coming, too, convulsing through a full-body orgasm, spilling sticky and hot in his pants. 

“Oh my god, honey, did you just come?” Yuta asks breathlessly.

Taeyong feels his ears turn red; he nods, ducking his head. 

“No, don’t be shy now,” Yuta says. He extends a hand; Taeyong takes it and lets him drag him to his feet. “That’s so hot, baby. You really like sucking cock that much? Or is it just because it’s me?”

“Both,” Taeyong admits, peeking up at him through his lashes.

“Oh, you’re all messy.” Yuta says it with a smile, almost proud. “Let’s go to your room, get you cleaned up, and then how about I fuck you?”

Taeyong whimpers. “Oh, please, yes.”

Yuta lets Taeyong wash his face, and then rinses the come out of his hair, too. He helps him out of his dirtied pants, and takes care of the rest of their clothes while he’s at it. Soon, they’re standing naked and giggling in Taeyong’s bathroom, nose to nose. 

“Shall we?” Yuta asks.

“Mm,” Taeyong agrees, nodding and leading them back out into his room. He plugs in the nightlight by his bed so they’re not completely blind, and then sits down atop his covers, watching Yuta as he takes a seat beside him. “You know,” he says, “you’re the first person to fuck me here—on this bed, in this apartment.”

Yuta laughs, leaning in. “I’m honored,” he says, and kisses him, sweet and chaste. 

It doesn’t stay sweet and chaste for long; soon, Yuta has Taeyong moaning into his mouth as he lays him back on the bed, running light touches down his sides, skimming his fingertips across his chest and down to his thighs, crowding into his space until Taeyong’s pretty sure his body is touching Yuta in more places than it’s not. 

“Yuta,” he breathes out.

“How do you want it, honey? Slow and sweet? Or fast and rough?” Yuta asks between kisses.

“Fast and rough,” Taeyong pleads. “Want to feel it, want you to show me how you missed me.”

“I don’t know why I even asked,” Yuta says, amused. “Lube, then?”

“Bedside table,” Taeyong replies. 

Yuta seems to have the same sense of urgency as Taeyong does—or at least knows how impatient Taeyong is and doesn’t want to make him wait any longer. He opens him up efficiently—not too rushed, still making sure he’s thorough, but he doesn’t linger or allow himself to get distracted. Taeyong huffs out little breaths, settling against the soft pillows and wills himself to relax faster so he can get to what he really wants. 

“Okay,” Yuta says after several long minutes have passed, withdrawing his fingers. “Think you’re ready?” Taeyong nods. “Good.” He slicks up his cock and then drizzles a little more lube over Taeyong’s hole.

“Cold,” Taeyong gasps, giving him a somewhat reproachful look.

“Sorry, honey,” Yuta says, only half sincere. “I just want you nice and wet.”

It’s enough to placate him, which is a little dumb, maybe, but Taeyong can’t bring himself to care. He’s too intent on watching as Yuta lines himself up and then pushes in. And then he can’t watch, screwing his eyes shut against the sensation, the odd combination of pain and pleasure that always comes at first as Yuta keeps going, slow and careful. 

For a second, Taeyong wonders if he misremembered the size of Yuta’s cock, too, but then he bottoms out, and Taeyong releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Yuta pets a hand over his stomach. “Relax, honey,” he murmurs. “You’ve taken it before, you can do it again.”

Taeyong nods, taking another big, deep breath. “Okay,” he says after he exhales. “You can move.”

Yuta smiles, rocking his hips back and forward again, his cock dragging against Taeyong’s walls. Taeyong feels full, stuffed snug and warm, and he lets this feeling lull him into relaxation, going limp in Yuta’s hands as he picks up the pace. 

He doesn’t try to stop the soft moans that bubble up from his chest when Yuta finds the right angle and starts hitting his prostate with every thrust. It’s this that he missed, really—Yuta’s hands on his waist, fucking into him so nice and so rough, getting him in all the right places until his body can’t take it anymore.

He lets his head loll to the side against the pillow, whimpering softly. The bed creaks, a telling rhythm, but Taeyong doesn’t care. So what if his downstairs neighbors hear it? The worst they can do is start a rumor only half the internet will believe, anyway. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, not when Yuta’s fucking him like this. 

“Look at me.” Yuta forces his head back to center with one strong hand on his jaw, grip almost bruising. “Look at me when I’m fucking you, honey.”

“Oh, fuck,” Taeyong whimpers. Yuta’s gaze is almost dangerous—sharp and cutting and full of desire. He feels pinned down, almost, like he’s about to be dissected. He supposes it’s only natural. Yuta’s had a way of getting to his core from the start. He moans quietly with each hard thrust, the noises almost shocked out of him by the force of Yuta’s movements.

Yuta’s gaze softens just a little. “I know, honey,” he croons softly, letting his grip on Taeyong’s jaw slacken slightly so he can stroke his thumb across his cheek. It’s so patronizing and mean; Taeyong moans again, high and broken. “I know, it’s a lot, right? Feels good?”

Taeyong nods weakly. “Feels good,” he slurs. “Feels so good.”

Yuta wraps his other hand around Taeyong’s cock, lifting it from where it’s been sitting hard and leaking against his stomach. “I know,” he repeats when Taeyong draws in a shuddering breath. “Feels so good, my baby doesn’t know how to handle it.”

Taeyong lets out a dry little sob, nodding again. “Fuck,” he whines. “Yuta, I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

“You can come, honey,” Yuta says calmly. “Will you let me use your pretty hole to come once you’re done? Let me use your body?”

“Uh-huh, mm-hm,” Taeyong agrees, feeling tears well up.

“Of course you will,” Yuta soothes, “always too good to me. Always happy to let me do what I want with you, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Taeyong sobs, bucking up into Yuta’s fist. “Oh, oh fuck, Yuta, don’t stop, d-don’t—”

His whole body goes taut; he’s frozen arched off the sheets as he comes across his stomach and chest. He thinks maybe he’s babbling through his tears, thankyouthankyouthankyou as he comes, so hard it almost hurts. His body is on fire, maybe, aching with exertion as his cock gives one more weak twitch and he finally collapses back into the sheets, still trembling.

“So gorgeous, honey,” Yuta praises, releasing him and leaning over him to give him a kiss on the forehead. “Will you clean me up?”

Taeyong takes the offered hand between his own, pressing his tongue flat to Yuta’s palm and looking at him through half-lidded eyes. “Are you close?” he whispers, slightly muffled.

Yuta nods. “You always get so tight when you come,” he says. “Feel so perfect around me.” Taeyong takes two of Yuta’s fingers into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get his release off. “Fuck,” Yuta hisses. “You’re so sweet, baby. Always so sweet.”

Taeyong hums softly, clenching around Yuta as best he can, even if it kind of hurts, even if it makes him shiver with overstimulation. He wants to watch Yuta fall apart while he has his fingers in his mouth, wants to hold him here and pin him down just as Yuta did to him. He makes his eyes big and doe-like and removes Yuta’s fingers just long enough to ask, “Won’t you come for me?”

And Yuta does, curling over himself as his orgasm takes hold, making him shake as he comes inside Taeyong. He feels the wetness of it immediately, and is so glad Yuta insisted they get tested. There’s something about getting filled up that always drives Taeyong crazy, and if they both weren’t so exhausted, he’d demand Yuta to make him come again.

It takes Yuta longer to recover this time; he spends a minute with his head bent, just catching his breath. When he looks up, his eyes are sparkling. “I don’t think I’ve come that hard since—I guess since we last saw each other,” he admits, grinning.

Taeyong grins back, giving him back his hand, now clean. “I’m glad to provide,” he giggles. 

They shower together, quick and lazy, and then retreat to Taeyong’s bed once again. Taeyong unplugs the nightlight and then cuddles up close to Yuta’s side. He smells like Taeyong’s body wash and faintly of cigarettes, and Taeyong breathes it in, happy and sated.

“Worth the wait?” Yuta asks, smoothing some of his hair back.

“Mm-hm,” Taeyong says. “You?”

“Of course,” Yuta replies. “I don’t know what it is about you, honey. It’s different. Do you know what I mean?”

Taeyong’s heart hammers in his chest. “Yes,” he whispers, not in fact sure what Yuta means, exactly;  not sure how much he should reveal. “I mean, there’s a reason why you’re the first person I’ve brought home, you know. There’s something about you, specifically you. For me, anyway.”

“Your sparring partner has not been busy on purpose,” Johnny replies pointedly, somewhere between miffed and apologetic. “Besides, I’m not sure I would stand a much better chance than Sir Scarecrow the Thoroughly Beaten here.”

You laugh, shaking your head. He’s right on only one count—you would still much prefer him to the dummy in training, even if you always win. But he is busy. Johnny is a prince; he is his parents’ only heir. He shoulders a lot of responsibility, and since his twentieth birthday, his parents have shifted even more duties onto him. He spends hours sitting in on council meetings, shadowing his father as he goes about his day, taking meals with members of the nobility to familiarize himself with their dispositions so he will find it easier to take over when his father abdicates the throne to him.

And he’s doing very well. Johnny is smart, charismatic, and good-natured. He finds diplomacy easy, and because he’s hardworking, he doesn’t mind the long hours spent poring over records and learning the inner workings of castle politics. He’s almost ready to take on his father’s role as it is. The only thing he needs now is a queen.

That’s what’s been taking up the rest of his time—galas and balls for potential royal suitors to meet many eligible young ladies in the hopes that one will be his future wife. This, he has no taste for. While he rarely complains of the rest of the work, he cannot find a singular kind word for this piece of his life. He describes the events as dull and painful and embarrassing. 

“Why do I need a wife to be a king?” he’ll often lament.

“You know you need to produce heirs somehow,” you’ll always remind him. “And they always prefer it when the heirs are of pure royal blood.”

And for you, that’s exactly the problem. But you’d never tell him.

The thing is, you’re not nobody. You’re actually nobility yourself. Your father commands the royal guard, and he is Johnny’s father’s most trusted advisor and closest friend. You and Johnny were raised together, grew up side by side, attended the same classes, trained shoulder to shoulder. You spent your childhood in friendly competition, pushing each other to achieve and grow. Johnny always outperformed you when it came to political and scientific academic pursuits, but he could rarely beat you in a fight, and he never had the mind for literature the same way you did. And you both knew that was how it was supposed to be. You would be assuming a leadership role in the royal guard soon, and when the time came, you would likely be to Johnny what your father has been to the king. 

That would suit you just fine if you weren’t in love with him.

You can never marry him. Though your status is high, and you have close ties to the royal family, you are not royalty yourself, and so could never be seen as a suitable match. If Johnny had an older brother, perhaps, the king would be more than satisfied to see the two of you wed—the daughter of his best friend and closest ally, married to one of his sons.

But the king has no other sons. He only has Johnny, and so Johnny must be perfect. And since Johnny must be perfect, his wife must be too, and you know that because of your birth, that could never be you.

You resigned yourself to it years ago. You never once, not even when you were younger, not even when you were starry-eyed with the first rush of infatuation, thought there would be the slightest hope for you. That hasn’t made it much easier. You try to bury yourself in your work, tagging along with your father as much as possible when he meets with his generals to discuss kingdom business; you train more now, slashing up straw dummies with the thought of princesses you have never met in mind, filling your hours with grueling, mind-numbing work so you don’t have to think about how Johnny is off somewhere dancing with pretty girls. You love your life and you love your role and you always say you wouldn’t trade any of it for the world—but sometimes you think you might trade it for Johnny.

“I know you’re busy,” you say to him now. “How are things?”

“About the castle?” Johnny begins to walk back towards the entrance to the armory, and you fall into step beside him. “All is well. We’ve sorted the grain shortage; I doubt it will continue to be a problem, with this year’s harvest fast approaching. I must thank your father when I get the chance, for dispatching soldiers so quickly to distribute the excess from our stores among the towns.”

“It’s not him you should thank,” you say primly. “I organized the dispatch. My father was busy with the defense of the southern tip.”

“Ah, yes, the raids,” Johnny says, nodding as he pushes open the doors to one of the hallways. “He is confident?”

“Yes,” you say. “I doubt you’ll hear of it again.”

“Thank you,” Johnny says, “then, for your efficiency.”

You smile at him. “It was nothing,” you say. It was a bit of an ordeal, if you’re honest, to do it so quickly and carefully, but it’s nothing if Johnny is satisfied. 

Johnny pauses by the kitchens. “Have you eaten?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I should get changed before I do. Cook will yell if I clank through his kitchen in my armor again.”

“He yelled last time because you were covered in blood,” Johnny says.

You laugh. “I will meet you in the mess hall, Your Highness,” you say, giving him another small curtsey, and hurry towards your quarters before he can hit you in retaliation for your mocking politeness. 

You return in much more appropriate attire, and find Johnny seated at the end of one of the tables with two plates in front of him. He pushes the untouched one towards you when you sit, nodding at you to dig in. 

“So,” you say, “how are other things? Not about the castle?”

Johnny groans, slightly muffled by the mouthful of chicken he’s working on. He swallows roughly, shaking his head. “It’s awful,” he says. “I’m going to another ball tonight, did I tell you? It’s not even guaranteed that I might meet new people, even though I’ve told my mother again and again that I have not liked any of the girls I’ve met.”

“I’m sorry,” you say softly. “Perhaps you’ll discover something new in someone old, though.”

“That’s what my mother said,” Johnny replies, stabbing a carrot. “And of course I have to go, there’s no getting out of it.” 

“Will it be so bad?” you ask. “You get free drinks, and you get to dance. You like to dance.”

“Only with the right company,” Johnny says. “And the drinks are watered down and taste of piss. Besides, as disenchanted as I am with the whole ordeal, I wouldn’t want to drink heavily at such a public event.”

“That’s true,” you agree. “I’m sorry, I know you hate it. I’m just trying to help you find ways to bear it.”

“I know,” he says, flashing you a grateful look, genuine and warm. “And I don’t mean to be so contradictory. I’m just frustrated.”

“You’ll find someone eventually, and then you can stop with all this nonsense and begin the rest of your life.” You keep your tone light and cheerful. You’re good at hiding it by now; years of practice (and years of lessons in court manners) have made it tragically easy. 

“I still don’t see why I must,” Johnny grumbles into his potatoes.

“You know why,” you say, and then change the subject. “Oh, have you been by the stables recently? One of the dams had her foal.”

“Which one?” Johnny’s eyes clear, sparkling now with bright interest.

“Honey,” you say, glad to be on to happier, less painful topics. “It’s a colt, and he seems healthy and strong. The stablehands say he will grow into a fine stallion.”

“If I had the time, I’d train him myself,” Johnny muses. You and Johnny grew up training the geldings; when you were older, you were each given a stallion to train as a test. Both of your stallions have turned out beautifully. “Who is he going to?” 

“We don’t know yet,” you say. “I’m hoping it’s me.”

“Because Cherry was the sire,” Johnny says, nodding. “If I’m asked, I’ll push for it.”

Cherry was your stallion, named for the reddish hue to his dark coat. Johnny said it was a silly name for such a strong horse, but you insisted. You have a feeling Cherry knew how Johnny made fun, because he never warmed to Johnny the way he seemed to like you. “I appreciate it,” you reply. “It’ll give me something to do when you’re away. Things get boring around here once I’ve finished all my duties.”

Johnny arches an eyebrow. “Don’t let your father hear you say that, he’ll only give you more errands to run,” he warns.

“You’ve always been good at keeping my secrets,” you reply, shrugging, and Johnny laughs. 

After you finish your meal, Johnny offers to walk you back to your room. “It’s for me,” he says when you tell him he doesn’t have to. “I don’t want to go prepare for this event just yet.”

“Alright,” you acquiesce. “When do you have to leave?”

“Soon,” Johnny says, glancing at the setting sun when you pass a window. “I know I’m going to be miserable. I almost wish I didn’t know how it would feel, because then the time leading up to it wouldn’t be so fraught with worry.”

“It’s just one night,” you say. “It’ll be over quickly.”

“One night of many,” Johnny says as you round the corner and step into your hallway. “It will be dull, just as the others have been, and annoying, just as the others have been. And the entire time, all I will think is that I’d rather be spending the evening here. With you.” Johnny gives you a sort of forlorn look. “Remember? When we were younger, and had free days. We’d spend whole days running around the grounds, just the two of us. I miss it.”

You blink back at him. “So do I,” you reply. “I suppose it’s only natural. Everyone wants for their childhood once it’s too late.” You give him a wry smile. “But we’re grown now. We must accept what that means.”

Johnny looks like he wants to say something, and then seems to think better of it. “I suppose,” he says quietly.

“Come find me tomorrow and tell me about the entire horrible night. We can walk down to the stables so you can meet the new colt,” you offer, smiling. “Now go, before you’re late and you get me in trouble.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “My parents have never once blamed you for my shortcomings, they won’t start now.” But he moves to go, anyway. “Goodnight, [Y/N]. I trust yours will be better than mine.”

“I hope yours is bearable,” you reply, giving him a sympathetic smile. “Goodnight, Johnny.”

You linger in the doorway of your room, watching him retreat down the hall.

* * *

The weeks continue like this, like they always have. Johnny goes to balls and meets no one of consequence and comes home and complains of it to you. And you listen, because you’re a good friend, but it is a bit painful. Even if you were a potential match, it wouldn’t matter. Johnny is simply uninterested in marriage as a whole. You’re not sure if that makes you feel better or worse. You’re pretty sure it’s worse—just another reason why you are trapped in your fate. 

Unfortunately for both of you, Johnny’s parents are set on finding him a wife. His parents do not push him on much, so Johnny can’t help but go along with it when his mother insists he have different princesses over for teas and dinners. You sulk in your room, watching the entourage parade in through the front gates, and then out again later in the day. Then you wait, and within minutes Johnny is knocking on your door so he can fling himself down on one of your chairs and explain how everything was wrong. 

At first, his complaints were valid—many of the princesses didn’t seem interested in academic pursuits, or seemed too simple and too easily led, or else came from families who were clearly only hungry for the wealth of the kingdom. But Johnny is vocal about his dissatisfaction, and his mother is good at adjusting, and soon Johnny is complaining of small, petty things—how she sat, how she took her tea, the sound of her cough. Even to your ears, the reasons are weak and baseless.

“She’s insisting on a princess from a kingdom across the sea,” Johnny says one night. “She will be in the country to visit her maternal grandparents, and my mother invited her family to dinner.”

“Have you met her before?” you ask, letting a mask of calm settle over your features.

“Yes,” Johnny says, his tone acerbic, his pretty features twisted into an ugly grimace. “She was perfect.”

It becomes evident after their first meeting that she is perfect. Her name is Yerim, though when she and Johnny were children, he knew her as Yeri, a nickname that has stuck. She’s smart and funny and kind, and beautiful beyond measure. Her family has ties to Johnny’s kingdom, and they’re set up well to provide a dowry and future financial support, should Johnny propose and Yeri accept.

“I feel like I cannot protest,” Johnny tells you, pacing in front of your window. “I feel bad protesting. There is nothing wrong with her. She’s wonderful. My mother likes her mother. My father went hunting with hers just this morning and they came back with cheeks red from laughter, [Y/N], it’s like everybody wants it but me! And it’s because there is no reason for me to say no—except that I cannot imagine a future with her. I cannot imagine her bearing my children or sleeping in my bed or—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “But I can’t say no.”

You aren’t sure if it would be suspicious of you to agree with him, even though you do. It has been painful to watch him go through the process of searching for his queen, but to watch him marry would be torture. You’re not ready. You’re not ready to give him up.

But you know you can’t keep him to yourself forever. You want what’s best for him, and right now that’s for him to accept a marriage so he can move on with the rest of his life. Even if it hurts you, you must encourage him to do so with a smile because that’s what a friend, a friend who isn’t in love with him, would do.

“I know it’s hard, Johnny,” you say. “But this moment would have to come sooner or later. What if you refuse Yeri, and the next match your parents set their minds to is worse?”

“You’re agreeing with them?” Johnny asks.

“No!” you say quickly. “No, but I understand them. And I worry for you. Yeri seems like a good match. She will be a good companion, a good mother, a good queen, a good wife. You deserve nothing less.”

Johnny’s eyes burn with an anger you do not understand. “Is that all you care about? Don’t you think I deserve more?”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“Don’t you want me to be happy?” Johnny asks. “She can be all of those things, and I would still not be happy. Don’t you care if I love her?”

“You could grow to love her,” you reply, “and besides, you’re a prince. You will soon be a king. You do not need to marry for love. You marry for power and then once the marriage is complete, you are free to take mistresses as you choose. If you cannot find love with Yeri, then you will have the chance to find it there.” It’s not as hard to say as you might have thought. What’s the difference to you? Either way, it won’t be with you. 

“Is that how you think of me?” Johnny’s voice is low and quiet and hurt. “You think me so lowly, you think I would abandon my wife, who I would pledge my life to, to chase the skirts of other women? That I would want to abandon the woman who is meant to be by my side for the rest of my life, who is meant to carry my children? I do not want that. I want to marry for power and for love. I do not want to compromise either.”

His anger makes you bitter. He is spoiled with choice, and still he finds a reason to complain. “No one can have everything they want,” you say, perhaps a bit too sharply. “Not even a crown prince.”

The hurt comes to the fore now, covering the frustration and the anger. “Why are you acting like this?” he asks. “Why are you speaking to me this way? What has happened to you?”

You think you might cry. You don’t know how to explain—how can you, how can you explain the years of pining after him in secret, the years of watching him and falling in love with every detail of his existence? How can you explain that this is one of the most difficult things you have ever had to do—to convince the man you love to marry another because you know it is right? How can you say that, now? 

And how can the two of you fight like this? The last time you fought, you were children. You have always been each other’s comfort. And now an edge has been driven between you, and you’re not sure how, or how to fix it. “What has happened to you?” you shoot back. “I am only trying to help you, Johnny!”

“You are hurting me!” he exclaims. “It hurts that you, too, are pushing me into this marriage. Why? Is it because you tire of my company, and you wish for something else to take up my time so that I don’t come to see you anymore?”

“No,” you insist. “I simply don’t want you to lose an opportunity. You’re so close to doing everything you’ve been working towards your whole life. I don’t want something like this to stop you now.”

“Something like this?” Johnny repeats. “As if it’s something so small, so trivial. I do not want to marry this girl, [Y/N]. I don’t. I won’t. And no one will be able to force my hand.”

“Why not?” you ask. “You said it yourself, there is nothing wrong with her. She’s perfect. Why won’t you marry her?”

“Because—!” Johnny turns away from you, shoulders tense. It’s a moment before he speaks again. “Because,” he says, voice much smaller now, and unsteady, “I want to marry you.”

You fall silent, unsure if you heard him correctly. 

“Well?” he demands when your silence stretches on a beat too long. “Say something.”

“You can’t marry me, Johnny,” you whisper. 

The anger in his eyes flares again. “Why not? You are nobility, your father is my father’s best friend. I trust you with my life. You are smart and capable, and you would die to defend this country. Surely your lack of royal blood could be overlooked.” He deflates. “Unless, of course, you don’t want me.” Without waiting for you to respond, he continues. “You don’t want me. Of course you don’t, you’re my friend, not another princess I’m supposed to be wooing. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

You can hardly hear yourself when you finally speak. Your head is full of noise, a rushing from the blood thrumming through your body. “No, Johnny,” you stammer. “It’s not that. Of course—of course I want you.”

He stares. “You do?”

“Yes, I do,” you say, and now it all comes tumbling out. You couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard you tried. “I care for you more than anyone else, Johnny. I want you, how could I not want you? I—I love you, I’ve loved you for years.”

He comes up to you now, hands outstretched. “[Y/N],” he says, voice trembling. “Why didn’t you ever say anything? I’ve loved you for just as long, I’m certain.”

“Why didn’t you?” you counter, letting him take your hands in his. “How could I have said anything? How presumptuous would that have been? I felt pathetic. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I was scared,” Johnny says. “I didn’t want to drive you away.” He’s close now, clutching your hands tightly, like he thinks if he lets go, you’ll disappear. “I’ll ask my parents. We’ve only entertained Yeri’s family for a day or two. They will understand. And my parents would have to say yes. Who better to entrust their son to than a woman who helped shape him? Than a woman he already loves, a woman who already loves him? A woman they already know? A woman whose family is already so close to my own? They will have to say yes.”

You search his face, the hope there bringing you both joy and sorrow. “And if they say no?” you ask.

Johnny pauses for a moment. And then—“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

The question startles you. “What—that’s not an answer to my question,” you say, stumbling over the words. 

“If they say no,” Johnny says softly, “they will probably try to keep us apart. I want—” His grip on your hands tightens. “I want you, [Y/N], and if this is the last time we’re allowed to be alone together then—then I want to use it. If you want. I’ve waited for you for so long.”

“Oh,” you say softly, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “Oh, I see. Yes,” you add breathlessly, “yes, you can kiss me. You can—you can do more than kiss me.”

Johnny smiles, leaning in, and you close your eyes. He presses his lips to yours and kisses you gently, one hand shifting to your back so he can hold you close. You lean into his touch, into him, kissing back, timid at first, and then more insistent when it’s clear he doesn’t want to let go.

You’ve kissed people before, many times, but not like this. There’s a heat behind this kiss that you haven’t felt before, even though it’s gentle, even though there’s not teeth or tongue. Johnny holds you and kisses you like he wants you, like it’s all he wants, like you’re the only thing that matters. And you kiss him back, hoping he understands that for you, it’s the same.

“Curtains are open,” Johnny says softly when he pulls away. “Go lock your door.”

You fumble with the lock, and as soon as your door is bolted shut, Johnny is pulling your towards your bed. He’s blown out some of the candles so the room is dim and comfortable. You can only see him—his hair, falling out of its careful styling, a remnant of his extravagant dinner; his eyes, dark and beautiful; the peek of his chest you can see now that he’s hovering over you, sturdy and enticing. 

“Why did you push me to marry Yeri?” Johnny asks softly. “If you love me?”

You shake your head. “I thought—I think I wanted it to be over. I wanted you to marry so that I could start getting used to it. And—I did mean what I said. You know you need a queen. I want to see you succeed, Johnny. I want to watch you do what you were born to do.”

“I want you by my side when I do it,” Johnny insists. “Not as my childhood friend. As my—”

“Don’t say it yet,” you say quickly. “We still don’t know if it will work. And we don’t know how love will change us. If you are to propose to me, I want you to do it properly, and when we can both keep the promise of marriage.”

Johnny nods. “You’re right,” he says. He kisses your cheek, your jaw. “If I am to marry for love, I should do it right.” He undoes the buttons of your shirt with deft fingers. “Tell me—if anything isn’t alright, if anything hurts. I’ve wanted this for so long, but I don’t know what you like.”

“Did you imagine it?” you ask. He hesitates, then nods, fingers slipping against the last of the buttons.

“I felt so guilty,” he confesses. “I thought you could never be interested, so I shouldn’t think of it. I felt ashamed, almost, imagining this, imagining you. I tried not to but I couldn’t help it.” He undoes the clasp of your skirts and the fabric loosens around your waist. You lift your hips so he can pull your skirt and undergarments off. It leaves you bare except for your corset.

“I imagined it, too,” you say. “So we are both guilty. What did you imagine?”

“This,” Johnny says, shifting downwards and bending over your body. He closes his mouth around your clit and you gasp, struggling not to arch up into his mouth for the fear of hurting him. He swirls his tongue in circles, moaning low in the back of his throat when you bite out stifled noises of want.

He must have imagined it—he doesn’t tire, hardly slowing his movements even when he reaches down to slip a finger into your pussy. It’s reassuring in a way to know you imagined the same things. You’ve wanted his mouth on you for so long, and to finally have it is a revelation. To finally have him—after years of imagining it in half-baked fantasies you always felt too guilty to touch in the light—makes hope sing through your body, and for one instant you allow yourself to imagine that this is what it will be like for the rest of your life. That you and Johnny will come home to one another, will lie beside one another. That this isn’t just for tonight.

But if it is just for tonight, you will get what you can out of it. You know both of you are far too eager for it to last long, but that doesn’t matter. Knowing Johnny wants you—knowing Johnny loves you will be enough, even if you must live on the memory. You think that might be alright. 

Johnny’s added another finger now, but it hardly hurts. You’re already wet from arousal and from his tongue, so the glide is easy. Johnny curls his fingers inside you and has to pull off your clit to laugh when you whine, bucking your hips up and dislodging him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, eyes glimmering. “Better than I imagined. How could I have known?”

“Come here,” you demand, stretching out a hand. Johnny shifts himself up, tilting to the side so he doesn’t crush you, and presses his nose to your cheek. He keeps pumping his fingers, curling them like before and making you shudder.

“Sound so good,” he murmurs into your skin. “One more finger and then do you think you’ll be ready?”

“I’m ready now,” you reply, even though you know you are decidedly not. Luckily, Johnny seems to know as well; he just laughs again.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says firmly. “Not like that.”

You want to ask how he would hurt you, but he’s added another finger and you lose the question to the pleasure, turning your head so you can kiss him as he speeds up his hand until you’re whimpering. “Okay,” you hiss into his mouth. “I’m ready, I don’t want to wait anymore. Don’t make me wait anymore.”

Johnny pulls his fingers out and brings them up to his mouth to clean them. “Will you help me with my clothes?” he asks.

You don’t reply, just reach out and begin to unbutton his vest, pushing it aside so you can untie the strings of his tunic before moving on to his pants. He takes over once he deems his fingers clean enough, shucking off his shirt and vest all at once and then standing so he can free himself of his pants and undergarments as well.

When he returns to you, he is naked. His skin is soft on yours as he takes his place beside you, pretty fingers making quick work of the clasps of your corset. The stiff fabric finally falls away, and Johnny leans down to press a kiss to one of your nipples, humming when you give him a soft moan. 

“Beautiful,” he repeats.

You open your mouth to hurry him along, but he’s already pushing himself up and settling between your legs, spreading them and bending your knees so he has more room. He presses a couple fingers back inside you, gathering some of the wetness there, and spreads it along the length of his cock so it won’t hurt. 

He doesn’t say anything, just looks up at you and raises his eyebrows as he lines himself up. You nod, knowing your gaze is intense and burning enough for him to understand. And he does. He pushes in, slow and gentle, tipping forward as he does so he can kiss you to distract you, to help you relax. 

It works. Soon, he’s bottomed out and you swear you can feel him in your stomach, but it doesn’t hurt like you thought it would. There’s a dull ache, but you know that will not persist. Instead, you feel full and warm and right.

“Are you alright?” Johnny whispers.

“Yes,” you reply. “Yes, it feels good. Please.”

Johnny knows what you mean, and rolls his hips back. He thrusts shallowly at first, keeping his pace slow so he doesn’t overwhelm you, when when it becomes clear that your body has already adjusted, he speeds up, strokes growing longer. Soon, moans spill across your lips as he brushes past the spot inside you that makes your whole body feel like it’s made of starlight—bright and otherworldly from the pleasure rushing through it. 

Your eyes find Johnny’s, and oh, he’s so handsome. Some of his hair has fallen into his eyes, and he’s panting from the exertions, brows just barely creased in concentration. You watch the attractive flex of the muscles in his arms as he moves, the smooth ripple of strength there that you have already come to know so well, that you’ve watched covertly, through your eyelashes and when you were sure he wouldn’t catch you.

But now you don’t have to hide it. It’s yours. Johnny wouldn’t want anybody else looking. So you look, drinking in the sight of him, the expanse of bare skin, glowing honey-gold in the candlelight. You reach up and run your fingers through his hair. Something close to peace settles over his features, so you do it again, letting your nails scratch just slightly against his scalp, untangling strands as you go. With your other hand, you reach down to touch yourself, fingers quickly growing slick with Johnny’s spit, still not dry on your clit.

You’re gasping out soft moans, rolling your hips up to meet Johnny with every thrust. He dips his head, mouthing along your jaw. “Are you close?” he asks. His voice is rough; it sends a shiver down your spine. You know he can feel the tremor of it; his lips curve into a smile against your skin. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Good,” he says. “I am, too.” He scrapes his teeth against your jawbone, then kisses over the spot. “I hope we have a next time,” he adds. “Even if we have to hide it, I don’t mind. I don’t want this to be the only time I can have you. It’s too short.”

“We will,” you say quickly. “Even if it is a secret.” Your head is swimming with lust now, a hazy cloud over your mind. Johnny keeps his rhythm, and it’s all you need, just the steady sparks of pleasure, and then you’re convulsing around him as you come, fingers shaking as they circle your clit in quick, erratic strokes.

You clench around Johnny without meaning to, and he groans low and pulls out quickly. Telling his parents that he wishes to marry you may be a bit of a controversy; a child would be a terrible scandal. He balances himself on one shaking arm so he can reach down on stroke himself, coming ribbons of hot white across your stomach only moments later.

You’re both silent for a moment, catching your breath. Johnny collapses at your side. You stare up at the shadows on your ceiling, thinking.

“What do we do now?” you ask.

“Sleep,” Johnny says through a yawn. You can’t stop yourself from laughing. “In the morning, I will find my parents. I will explain to them that I love you, that this is the reason why I have been so opposed to marriage. I will ask them to grant me permission to ask your hand in marriage. I assume my father will meet with your father before giving me an answer. I may even meet with him.”

“And if they say no?” you ask again.

“I will not stop asking until they say yes,” Johnny replies, kissing your cheek. “I have spent so long wishing for you. I won’t give you up now.” He kisses you again, then moves to get up.

“Where are you going?” You give him a look of confusion, propping yourself up on one elbow.

“To get something to clean up with,” he says, gesturing to his release drying on your stomach. “Unless you want to sleep like this? I’ve known you to be odd, but never illogical.” 

“Oh, be quiet,” you say, grinning.

* * *

The next morning, Johnny leaves you with a kiss and a promise to bring news as quickly as possible. You lie in bed for a while, listless, as the sun climbs in the sky, then finally force yourself out of bed and down to the training grounds. Perhaps it will keep your mind off of it.

It does not, but at least it gives you something to do, and a place to vent your anxieties so that they don’t consume you. You practice until you’re sore, then retreat back to your rooms for a bath.

You’re just clasping the last button when a knock comes on your door.

“Who is it?” you ask, expecting Johnny.

“Your father.”

Oh. “Come in,” you say, turning from the glass to greet him.

Your father pushes the door open, surveying you for a moment as he steps across the threshold. “You’re nervous,” he notes as he closes the door behind him. 

“I take it you know why,” you reply, not bothering to deny it. 

“Yes.” Your father gestures to your chairs. “Shall we sit?”

You sit.

“Well?” you ask after the silence stretches on.

“The king—and Prince John—have asked for my blessing,” he says. “They wish for His Highness to marry you.”

“Really?” You start, staring at him in surprise. “Truly?”

Your father arches an eyebrow at you. “Are you implying my daughter isn’t good enough for them?”

You give him an exasperated look. “All my qualities do not give me royal blood,” you say. “That’s all. I thought—won’t it cause a scandal? And what of Princess Yerim—and her family?”

“They won’t announce it quite yet. They will take care of the princess’s family first, then work on warming the court to you. Of course, it’s an easier match than it could be. I think, honestly, Their Majesties are simply overcome with relief that the prince is open to any marriage at all.” Your father is wearing a dry smile, somewhere between disapproving and incredibly amused. “If you are not of royal blood, so be it. At least you are nobility, and are of good standing. Further, you are known to the family, and trusted. Some may say it is favoritism due to my friendship with the king, but it will hardly be a scandal. And once you prove yourself to be a wise and effective queen—as I’m sure you will—any talk will dissipate to nothing.”

You nod slowly. “I hope you’re right,” you say softly.”

“[Y/N].” Tenderness has found its way into his tone now. When you look up, his eyes are gentle, almost worried. “Is this what you want? You will be happy?”

“Yes,” you say quietly. “I will be happy. I love him, Father.”

This makes him smile. “I could have guessed it,” he says. “Will you still serve with me?”

“Of course,” you reply. “I think I should make a fearsome queen, commanding our armies.”

“I would have to agree,” your father says with a proud smile. He moves to stand. “Well, if you are happy with it, then I see no reason not to give my blessing. I will let them know.”

“Should I come?” you ask, pushing yourself out of your chair.

Your father nods. “If you wish. I think the prince would be happy to see you at once.”

You follow your father down familiar hallways. Everything feels different. The sun is brighter, warmer; your run your hands along the stone of the walls. It will be yours someday, someday soon. Yours and Johnny’s, and the children you will have together. You will not need to watch him have the life you wished to share with him from afar. You will not have to lose him. The knowledge settles in your stomach like a good meal—fulfilling and comforting.

Your father takes you past the usual entrance to the royal wing, where you would normally go to find Johnny on slow days, and instead uses an entrance further down. He leads you up a tower to one of the more secluded meeting rooms, and pushes the door open.

There, the royal family is waiting. Johnny’s head snaps up, eyes widening when he sees you. Your father bows to the king and queen, then to Johnny, and you hasten to curtsey behind him. 

“I am here to inform you that I will happily give my blessing for our children to be wed,” your father says.

The king smiles, standing. “This is excellent news. It will have to be handled with care, as I’m sure you are aware, but please know that this does not mean we are any less happy to have found John a wife in such a wonderful woman.”

You curtsey again, a little flustered. “Thank you,” you say.

“Oh, let’s drop the formality, dear,” Johnny’s mother says, standing and coming to you. “After all, we’re to be family.” She is smiling as she takes your hands. “You will be a beautiful bride.”

“Thank you,” you stammer, eyes flickering from her face to Johnny’s, whose eyes have not left you since you entered the room.

When you look at him, he is smiling, the mirror image of his mother—bright and warm and happy. Your father says something to the king that you do not hear; the only thing you can focus on is Johnny, in his simple tunic and wrinkled pants. He’s so handsome. Here, in this stifled little room, your future together finally begins. You’re certain you’ve never been happier.

Johnny’s mother releases you and Johnny crosses to you immediately. “I love you,” he says breathlessly. 

You want to kiss him, but your parents are here, so you think better of it. Instead you take his hand and squeeze it tight. “I love you, too,” you reply. “I can’t believe—this will be our life now.” You nod at your parents, who are laughing together. Johnny turns and smiles, watching them a moment before looking back at you.

“So,” he says. “Does this mean you’ll let me win when we spar? Sometimes? Is that a privilege I will get as your husband?