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sweetinsaniiity · 1 month ago

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Vendetta

► 𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 - dilf!Hongjoong x fem!reader ◄ ► 𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎/𝙰𝚄 - mafia au, arranged marriage trope, secret/hidden marriage, slow burn, heavy angst, emotionally heavy, revenge, emotional rollercoaster, power imbalance, age gap (reader is in her early 30s and Joong is in his mid-40s), reader! is resigned to her fate but not for long, enemies-to-lovers, plot twist◄ ► 𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐/𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 - PG-18+ so MDNI!!! depression as in reader! has almost given up on life, implied familial abuse (not described, but be warned!), implied violence, minor car accident, minor descriptions of near death experience, generalized dark themes, eventual smut (short though) lots of kissing, couch riding, creampie, emotional and possessive sex, no protection (do not do this!) ◄ ► 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 - 33.5K words (hear me out---) ◄ ► 𝚂𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 - After your uncle sold you to the mafia to settle a debt, you were forced into an arranged marriage with the controlling Kim Hongjoong and you expected nothing more than a life of silence and control. He was much older than you, much more calculated and cold, and you had no doubt that he was devoid of light. He'd be displeased to know that you have a backbone, however, but what happens when his dark secrets that could potentially ruin your life slowly unravel when the wolves come out to play? You realize that the secrets he held dear were deeper than you thought, and there was no way out. ◄ ► 𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 - I am sorry that it took this long. I was sick for weeks and had no energy to write. I am also sorry it's this long, but I don't regret it. This was a request from the lovely @midnightreader-06 (she's an adult.) I will be fulfilling the other requests I have soon. ◄ ► 𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - @0rangemilk @ginger-mingi @ruubyrubes @oddracha @jaytheatiny @roxannecos @juicy-red @cheolliehugs @sunnysidesins @jjongbearshoney @midnightrebel1028 @mallielovssyou @jenluvzen ◄

You were ten years old when you held both of your parents hand as the three of you walked side by side in an open field where the vastness of the green Earth was there for the taking as far as the eye could see.

As your dearest father, whose eyes shone with adoration and his lips split with the fondest of grins, carried you in his arms to point at the bright, blue sky, your innocence and naivety paved way for the natural curiosity that lay hidden in your young mind.

“You, my darling,” your mother lovingly booped your button nose. “You are the prettiest, far more special than anything in this world, and I love you.”

The world felt impossibly vast, and yet in that moment, wrapped in the safety of your parents’ love, it felt perfectly sized to hold just the three of you. Truly, you were loved by your parents. It was the kind of love that would transcend even through the afterlife. Until they didn’t.

You were sixteen years old when you stood under the pouring rain that blessed your parents’ grave, your head down low as your expressionless face stared at the freshly dug soil under your feet. There was blackness all around you - black for the weeping sky, black for the clothes you wore around your frail, shivering body that symbolized your mourning and loss.

Black for the two coffins you had watched sink into the ground, swallowed by the earth as if it could somehow keep your parents safe when you no longer could, black for the words no one could say, black for the warning signals in your head as you were led away from the cemetery.

Everything was black. You were far too young for such a travesty, but since when has this life been fair to anybody? Your parents’ death has definitely taught you better.

The hours stopped flowing, the sands of time floating inside the hourglass in a perpetual cycle of your memories where the images of your parents were slowly disappearing, refusing to flow - refusing to let you move on.

You are the prettiest, far more special than anything in this world, and I love you.

“You call that clean? I could lick the damn thing and get road dust in my teeth!”

Your uncle, your mother’s older brother, barked from the doorway, snapping you out of your memories. His loud, displeasing voice echoed down the garage hallway far before you even laid your eyes on him.

You closed your eyes, taking the deepest breath you could possibly take from the deepest chambers of your lungs. Not that there was anything left, you were a walking entity of nothingness at this point, but you had to remain calm like you had learned to be - like you had to be.

Your uncle stepped into the garage, shoes clicking against the polished tile floor most mechanics would kill for. “That’s your problem. Always doing the bare minimum. You’re useless just like your mother.”

There it was. He didn’t have to mention her often like the mere thought of her slowly decayed his tongue inside his sinful mouth. He didn’t outwardly curse her name, it was just enough to let you know he still thought of you like you were a charity case; a stain on the marble floors of his pristine world.

You tried not to gasp out loud when he titled your chin up roughly. His calloused fingers burned every single hair strand on your face, his eyes could have disintegrated you on the spot with all the unspoken hate you knew he had for you but refused to speak out, but you had to remain calm.

He harrumphed, turning around and beginning to walk off to where he came from, but not before spitting up an unholy amount of saliva on the floor with an obscene smirk on his clean shaven face. “Clean it up,” was all he said.

Through gritted teeth, you had begun wiping the floor, and as the water began to wash away all the grime your pig of an uncle had left, you hadn’t realized that your tears had begun to mix itself in the water like it would rinse away all your troubles.

It was like you were sixteen again. You still remember the day like it was yesterday when he led you to his car away from the cemetery, all without a single word of comfort or condolences at the dearly departed. Never mind your father, but your mother was his younger sister. You were not surprised at the sight of his massive mansion - your family did come from old money - but the moment you stepped through it, you saw the facade quickly. You weren’t there as family, but as a liability. All of this was just for show, not for your comfort.

He walked ahead of you, not bothering to see if you were following him. There was no warmth in his voice, just clipped efficiency, like he was giving instructions to a driver. There was no welcome. No open arms. No kind words. Your room was barely one. A cot, no sheets. A single window so cloudy with grime it looked like frosted glass. Little did you know, it would be your room for no less than a decade - a decade long of hell reincarnate on an already scorching Earth.

Sometimes he didn’t call for food, most of the time he called to yell. Once, for leaving a cup turned the wrong way in the sink, he threw it at the wall and told you your parents would’ve done the same if they’d had the guts.

It didn’t stop the bruises, but your perseverance helped you survive the nights. No one came looking for you. No one asked how you were.

You were nineteen years old when you started finally accepting that this was your world. You were reduced to moping spit off of the floor, and after another four years of slaving away and just taking all the burnt end of your uncle’s anger, he decided to finally send you into college. You wanted to scoff, but you will take anything that you could get - anything to get even a sliver of your identity back. He wasn’t doing this for you, you knew he’d use you for free labour after.

“You owe me,” he said, sliding the acceptance letter toward me. “You remember that. Everything you have is because I kept you fed.”

Fed. You saw red. He never mentioned you’d earned every damn underfed crumb like an inbred. But you nodded, anyway, because even a dog learns how to slip the chain if it’s given enough time to watch the master.

And you waited, day by day, for someone to remember you existed, but the ones you longed for were the ones you knew were in heaven by now. And you hoped they weren’t looking down on you.

The last thing you remembered was coming home from your graduation party with a couple of your friends from the restaurant, but the panicked yet controlled voices of the doctors and nurses surrounding you had you concurring that you were in the hospital.

You want to move, but your limbs won’t listen. You want to ask for your parents, but their names get caught in your throat. That sent a magnanimous amount of pain far worse than you were feeling right now down in the middle of your chest where your heart laid. They were gone, and you were soon to follow.

The first tear that fell from your eyes felt like glass shards. You didn’t know how to tell your parents that you had failed them. You were only twenty-eight, and your short life was slowly slipping away from you. You could feel it.

I don’t want to die. I’m much too young to fall.

But hope was bleak. You didn’t doubt that your uncle was already aware of the car accident you were involved in, and you didn’t doubt that he was happy about it. It would be good riddance for him, there was no way he would pay for your surgeries. You were alone, utterly alone. The thought of dying alone hurt more than you’d like it to be.

Until a warm hand wrapped itself around yours. It was big, rough, and warm. You were too weak to open your eyes, but you mentally thanked the kind nurse who comforted you in your time of need. Or more likely, it was one of your college friends, namely, your close friend Yeosang. He was much younger than you, only being a freshman while you were eight years his senior.

You volunteered as a substitute teacher in your spare time for high school students as a part of your program, and Yeosang offered to be your intern. You were the one to write him his recommendation letter to get into your college last year. You quickly became fond of the kid with the siren eyes who squeezed his way into your heart, who still admired you as his mentor and still stuck by you even after his high school.

He was the only regret in your short life. There were times you dismissed him since you were far from his age and you wanted him to spend time with other people. You wish you had more opportunities to tell him that you cherished the little moments of peace he gave you, and to thank him for letting you know what it was like to care for someone when nobody cared about you.

Time passed. It could’ve been minutes, it could’ve been hours, but the hand remained, covering yours in a soothing cocoon, a salve to your aching and hurting heart.

It was just a hand, but it provided you the strength you needed. You might hate your uncle, but if it wasn’t for him sending you to college, this hand wouldn’t be here, helping you sign your own paperwork since you had no family. It must have been a pitiful sight - your soul was nearly gone yet you had to sign your own hospital papers.

Sometimes it would squeeze gently like it needed to be sure you were still holding on as you slipped in and out of consciousness, and you started clinging to it like it was the only real thing in the world.

Because, maybe it was. No one else came - not your uncle, and not the world you thought would notice if you ceased to exist prematurely before you even turned your life around, but the hand stayed.

Against your will, you stood before your own reflection. You always thought you had the prettiest of hazel-hued eyes - you had gotten them from your father, after all - but the hollowness of them scared even yourself.

“Y/N! Come downstairs, or I’m leaving you to walk yourself all the way to the Kim estate!”

You flinched, your fingers pausing from examining the thick concealer you splattered all over your neck to cover your uncle’s purple fingertips. You were still unsure if surviving was a blessing or a curse.

After getting back from the hospital, he had appointed you to fix his business paperworks - all without pay, of course - and he kept you locked away from the world.

Except when it was time to remind you of your place, to remind you of his power. You were thirty-two when he finally decided to get rid of you and sell you off as collateral for his failing business to a man far older than you, because if he didn’t, the business won’t be the only thing your uncle would be losing.

“He’s your last chance,” he reiterated, voice low and full of threat. “You marry him, or you’re done here. I’ll have you on a flight by morning stripped of every cent, every roof, every name. I made a deal, and you’re the damn collateral. Don’t make me waste you.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d threatened to erase you from your own life. But this time, it felt final. “Your face is your saving grace,” he continued arrogantly. “Luckily for you, you inherited your whore of a mother’s pretty face. With luck, that bastard Kim Hongjoong might take a liking to you.”

You tuned out the way he cursed out the said man’s name with words you couldn’t even repeat, focusing on the way your fists clenched tight to control your breathing.

Kim Hongjoong, you thought. That was your future husband’s name, the man who would either be your salvation or be the one to push you into a deeper hell. You’ve given up on the aspect of marrying for love, but still, giving it up like this feels like a punch to your gut.

But there was no way around it, not when your uncle sent you a seething glare that told you that you needed to play along as he forced your arm to link with his as you were both escorted inside the huge mansion that screamed of wealth and dirty money by the stiff-postured butler.

“I welcome you to the Kim estate, you may address me as San,” the cat-eyed butler bowed respectfully before you and your uncle, gesturing forward as he walked on. “I do apologize if I’m the only one to extend the greetings for now, all of our staff is preparing for the bride-to-be.”

He sent you a polite smile, but all you felt was dread. “Shall I make it up and invite you to the dining room? The Master awaits the both of you.”

Your uncle’s fake, booming laughter fills the grandiose dining room. Every inch of this manor screamed of wealth and power, the chandeliers above casting a soft glow down the glossy marble floors, the ornate walls lined with ancestral tapestry partnered with vintage vases.

But none of it reached you, none of it mattered because none of this was for you. As slimy as your uncle was, the fact that this man was even agreeing to the prospect of marrying to settle a debt perturbed you.

You couldn’t help but let your fingers trail along the back of a carved dining chair as you entered the main dining room. Everything looked expensive, it reminded you of your mother who had the finer tastes in life when she was still among the living.

But it was when you looked up that your breath had truly gotten caught in your throat. Somebody was already looking at you, he was already staring at you. Even before you were introduced, you knew in your heart that this was the infamous Kim Hongjoong.

He was seated at the far end of the impossibly long dining table, his sharp eyes already watching your every move. The second your eyes met his, the air shifted, and you froze. All that existed was the intensity of his gaze. For a moment, everything disappeared. It was just you and him. You didn’t know how to feel about it.

Your pulse thudded in your ears as you allowed yourself to stare back. You didn’t even need more than a couple of seconds, it was very obvious from the first glance that this man was undeniably attractive. It was almost devastatingly so.

His face was chiseled to perfection, all without the soft curves of a boy, he held the sharp angles that only belonged to a man of his age. That particular age suited him and you could tell he was years above you, his meticulously styled hair already sporting a couple of whites and greys

But it wasn’t his looks that immediately captivated you, it was his eyes. The way they stared at you heavily as though he was an all-seeing being that could read your every thought and predict your every move. He didn’t smile, he didn’t blink, he didn’t look away - he just observed. Something in your chest twisted. Your instinct told you to look away, to hide, but you stayed uprooted from where you stood. His stare left you unable to do anything else.

But you had to eventually. Your uncle cut the obvious tension with a small, nervous laugh as he nudged you subtly. “Mr. Kim, it’s an honour and pleasure to be in your presence in this fine evening,” he tried to suck up, though you can tell his bravado was nowhere to be seen in front of a person who was obviously greater than he was.

You forced yourself forward, one step towards the other, graciously sitting down on the chair that San the butler had so generously pulled out for you. As you tried to settle comfortably, you looked up again, only to realize that Hongjoong still hasn’t looked away from you, only giving out a small grunt in response to your uncle’s poor attempt to start a conversation.

You would turn and stare at the way you knew your uncle’s face would turn red in embarrassment and anger at being snubbed, but Hongjoong’s eyes had once again held you captive.

Someone cleared their throat purposefully. Right. You didn’t even realize that there were other people seated towards the end of the table. You couldn’t even afford to be embarrassed for being the other end of the tension.

“You’re staring,” the voice, surprisingly rough and deep, said. It was more of a whisper, but the silence was so loud in the room that anything could be heard.

Hongjoong didn’t answer right away. He simply tilted his head, just slightly. Still watching you with those dark eyes. Then, calmly, still without glancing at anyone else, he replied, “Am I?”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement in disguise, a graceful way of telling the other person off. It made the hair rise on the back of your neck. You heard an exasperated sigh somewhere.

Even when dinner was served and the conversation around you flowed naturally amongst the other guests deemed important enough to be here, you couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable. You barely heard their voices. You knew he was still watching you from time to time.

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you kept your posture stiff, trying to maintain some semblance of control. Your hands, however, clenched your utensils so tight, you wouldn’t be surprised if they bent from the pressure. You couldn’t stop the tremor that ran through you from all the weight of his eyes.

At first you thought it was fear, but no, this was something else entirely. It wasn’t flattering, it wasn’t lustful, it wasn’t romantic - this was unnerving, darkness at its purest form.

“Y/N, my dearest niece,” your uncle’s voice suddenly broke through your haze, effectively catching everyone’s attention as well. “I trust that you’re enjoying dinner?”

You swallowed, already reading between the lines. He was basically asking you to look alive, a silent threat. You forced a small smile, nodding in effect. “Yes,” you said softly. “It’s quite wonderful.”

An unreadable flicker crosses Hongjoong’s face as he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. Somehow, that made him look more intimidating than he already was. He tilted his head, his gaze sharpened, but his body stayed relaxed. It was the posture of someone who knew he was on top of the food chain.

“Great,” your uncle cleared his throat. “I suppose it’s about time to get down to the nitty-gritty of this dinner. Let’s talk business, gentlemen.”

A saddened frown settles itself on your lips. Right, you had forgotten that this was just business for him at the end of the day. You had somehow forgotten that you were treated less than human, a little more akin to produce being sold off to a wanting consumer.

“There’s no need to drag this out,” your uncle continued, failing to read the room. Even you knew that he was in no position to call the shots like he was doing currently. “She’s all yours, for all intents and purposes.”

You looked down, shame and mortification filling your entire body, gripping your dress tightly in your fists. The implication of what that meant horrified you, given that you were the only woman in the room, surrounded by men who immediately understood the sexual insinuation of the statement.

Thick silence followed as everybody waited for Hongjoong to speak. His posture shifted ever so slightly from your peripheral vision as he started to open his mouth to reply. “I’m not here for that,” he said flatly.

The words were quiet, but they carried more force than your uncle’s screaming. The older man let out a nervous laughter, brushing it off. “Of course, still, it’s a part of the arrangement.”

Hongjoong’s expression didn’t change. “I heard you the first time.”

Your knuckles turned white from how hard you were gripping. His voice struck something in you, sending a zing through your body from your toes all the way to your scalp. His gaze, his voice, his complete control over the room; it was all too much. You hated the way it made your stomach turn into itself.

But your uncle’s ego rendered him unable to stop because he always wanted to be the one in control. “She turned out decent, though mostly useless. It could be changed,” he said, degrading your dignity further down to the ground. “She’s an obedient little thing, knows how to close her trap when prompted.”

You froze, as did everybody. You didn’t need to look around the table to know the weight of every eye. It was a different type of humiliation you had to endure, but you didn’t say anything. Years of training had taught you to just take all of his words in without flinching.

For the first time that night, Hongjoong looked away from you. His stare shifted, slow and deliberate, settling on your uncle who chuckled nervously, but also unable to look away from Hongjoong like you did.

It was his turn to be stared at, you could already tell that your uncle was starting to crack under the pressure of that silent, unnerving stare.

Then as if to rub salt on his wounds, Hongjoong let a small smile curl at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t directed towards you, but it sent nasty goosebumps all over your skin. It was nothing short of sinister.

“How compelling,” he drawled out, leaning forward to grab his wine glass, swirling its contents leisurely before he set his dark eyes back towards your uncle. “Though I don’t recall ever asking.”

Your uncle stiffened, but Hongjoong continued, his voice controlled, and flat. “And if I ever find myself wondering, I’ll be sure to consult someone who’s managed to keep his life longer than selling their nieces to the mafia to save their skin.” Your legs felt suddenly too weak, your numb fingers loosening their tight hold on your dress. The mafia. Your uncle was selling you out to the mafia. The word itself echoed through your mind, a jagged, inescapable truth. Fear, raw and electric, lit up inside you.

Though, an undeniable satisfaction flowed through you at the prospect of your smug uncle finally being put in his place. He opened his big mouth to try and retort back, but Hongjoong didn’t give him the chance.

He sets his wine glass back down, lightly tapping on it with a butter knife. “More,” was all he said. It was just one command, but if you were standing, it would have brought you down to your knees. It was the end of the conversation, all because he said so without actually saying it. There were no more words needed to be said, the message had been delivered. He turned his gaze somewhere else, not looking back at you. There was no need to.

This entire room knew who held the leash, and it was the man you were set to marry sooner than later. The room had been entirely claimed by him the moment he opened his mouth.

Dinner was an awkward affair. The conversation between everyone was never really the same afterwards, but you didn’t care, you tuned them all out, even when you could finally breathe because Hongjoong never looked your way again, partaking in a conversation with the man nearest to him, the same man with the deep voice who called him out for staring at you.

It was every man for themselves at this very table, that much you could tell. Every clink of cutlery made you flinch, every swallow constricting your throat, every smoke coming out of your uncle’s ears petrifying you, his words still ringing in your head the entire time as you tried to eat.

Marry this man or face the consequences, but at what cost? You were damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t. There would be no ending where you wouldn’t end up bleeding. Hongjoong terrified you. It was the type of fear that settled itself deep in your bones. He hasn’t even risen from his seat, yet he’s managed to get under your skin far more than your uncle has in more than a decade.

This was a man who ruled in power. There was something in the way he sat, all composed and relaxed. He had nothing to prove, let alone raise his voice. He simply held everyone’s breath in his palms. One squeeze was all it took.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring until Hongjoong’s sharp eyes met yours briefly once more. He looked at your uncle, back at you, then back at the man who was talking to him. You had made your decision then. Anything was better than being your uncle’s property.

By the end of the week, all of your belongings were packed in a small suitcase, ready to be transported to the Kim estate. Not that you needed to pack a lot, there was no single thing that you truly owned.

The manor was just as breathtaking as it was the last time you saw it, dare say, far more glamorous than you remembered it to be now that the invisible collar that your uncle wrapped around your neck like a noose was now gone. It was far much easier to gaze in awe at the splendor that it represented.

Though you reckon that if you closed your eyes, the walls would be crimson red with blood. Your fingers clutched the suitcase handle with a grip that bordered on desperation, as if letting go might unravel something fragile inside you. The threshold before you wasn’t just the entrance to another home, it was a gate to uncertainty, and that terrified you more than anything.

The last time you crossed into the unfamiliar den of someone else’s house, you were met with a home, but with silent trials and unspoken wounds. But it was too late to ponder whether you should just turn back, run away, and start anew somewhere else - the massive door at the entrance suddenly opened ajar to reveal the familiar face of the Kim family butler, San.

It struck you then, as he was walking towards your direction, that he wasn’t wearing a uniform like the last time you saw him, in fact, he wasn’t like anything you remembered at all even though this was only your second meeting. Gone was the uniform, the gloves, and his rigid posture. Instead, he wore a gray tailored suit and he walked like he belonged in it. He wasn’t performing anymore. He grabbed your suitcase for you, but before he could take a step forward, he hesitantly turned towards you. “I just wanted to say that there are no shadows in this place,” he said softly, cryptically. “You don’t need to keep looking over your shoulders. He can’t hurt you here.”

You tried to keep your face still, unreadable. You supposed that one eventful dinner was enough for everyone to see how much of a swine your uncle was. You didn’t respond to his strange reassurance. Instead, you studied him again, this time more carefully, more warily. “You’re not a butler, are you?” You said quietly.

His brows raised, but he didn’t say anything; he just smiled at you before beckoning you inside the mansion that would be your new home. Everything looked the same, except that in the morning light, everything looked more marvelous than it did rather than when they were covered by the dark shadows of the night. No matter which direction your head turned, awe struck in every corner.

Then you passed the staircase. Something made you pause, there was a prickle at the back of your neck. Without meaning to, you looked up. It was the man at the dinner, the one that sat closest to Hongjoong at the far end of the table - the one who told the older man he was staring. He also donned a smart suit like San, leaning against the bannister while his sharp eyes watched you.

He was a lot taller than you thought now that he was standing and he was younger, too. It was a surprise given his apparent ease with Hongjoong when everyone else wanted to piss their pants with fear. He didn’t glare at you, the only thing that signalled he wasn’t particularly angry towards you, but his stare still made your skin tighten. He was, by all means, intimidating.

“Did you need anything, Mingi?” San’s mellow voice cut the unspoken tension in the air as he also looked up the staircase. He motions to you with his hands. “You’ve met Y/N during the dinner.”

The man, Mingi, didn’t reply. His presence pressed down like a weight, not loud, but undeniable, as he turned around, but not before swivelling his head back, his side profile sharp and intense. “I know,” his deep voice spoke before he completely walked away out of your sight.

Your voice barely rose above a whisper as you turned to San. “Does he not like me?”

“It’s complicated,” he said simply, continuing the walk towards where was taking you.

Complicated. Somehow, that made you feel like you were trespassing in a life you hadn’t earned. Maybe he didn’t like you, maybe it wasn’t personal, but you understood it. You wouldn’t like you, either, ever since you were reduced to who you once were. Those were the thoughts that plagued your mind as you walked through the lavish mansion, until you stopped directly in front of a door that just screamed doom from the other side.

The feeling intensified when San gave the door a few light taps with his knuckles. You had been mistaken when you thought that this would be your room. There was only one reason why San would knock like he did.

“Come in,” a gruff voice replied from inside.

Coldness washed over you, the slight fear during that one dinner night creeping back and settling itself into your bones when you were met at the sight of Hongjoong at the end of his office behind a desk where there were plenty of papers strewn all over it.

You had to put in effort in your jaws so it wouldn’t fall open. You’ve seen plenty of good-looking men in your life, but none of them hold a candle to the enigma that was Kim Hongjoong. That night absolutely did nothing to justify how immaculate this man actually looked. The worst part was that he wasn’t even wearing a suit like San.

He was clad in a casual white-button up shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing lean forearms that moved with casual precision as he scribbled something across a document. He didn’t look up, not bothering to acknowledge your entrance.

You shuffled your feet awkwardly, your heart beating a little faster, not out of attraction, though it wasn’t out of the realm entirely, but with palpable tension. Hongjoong flipped a page, still without acknowledgement as if he wasn’t bothered by your presence at all. It was San who finally broke the silence, his voice lower, more respectful than you’d ever heard it. “Boss. She’s here—”

“Leave,” the mafia boss cut off, voice hushed in the quietness of the office, but brusque nonetheless.

It was like you were struck with an imaginary hammer straight to your chest with that one single word, but it wasn’t just that - it was the undeniable truth that you were, once again, unwelcome in this shiny, brand new cage you were thrust upon. The silence that followed felt suffocating, even San was rendered speechless, clearly confused.

San cleared his throat. “I’m not sure I’m following, Sir.”

The sound of rustling paper and the pen scratching against its surface resonated in your head. “I didn’t stutter, San,” Hongjoong replied nonchalantly. “Both of you, out.”

There was no room for argument in his tone. He didn’t sound particularly peeved, in fact, he didn’t sound like anything at all, and yet, the dismissal stung you more than you’d like to admit. His utter dismissal was louder than any shout. You didn’t have to spend a minute longer in this room that was slowly beginning to feel like a jail cell - you didn’t matter.

“Alright,” San sighed, conceding, though against his will. “Where will she reside?”

The pen in Hongjoong’s hand stopped moving, and finally, he raised his chin, his eyes lifting slowly to stare at San. You swallowed, it reminded you of a predator being disturbed while it was resting. Your heart almost leapt out of your chest when he turned lazily to you, his eyes half-lidded this time. “Keep her in the dungeons,” he drawled flatly. Your eye twitched at the response.

“Hongjoong,” San’s mouth dropped open in surprise, not being able to stop his reaction at his boss’ reply.

“Apologies,” he said, leaning back on his leather chaise lounge, his tone egregiously insincere as he raised his brows at the butler. “I can’t help but jest at the stupidity of your question, Choi San. What did you want me to say?”

You clenched your fists before they could visibly shake. God, he was beautiful, and it only made it worse, like the universe had handed unimaginable cruelty to the face of an angel just to mock you. You were scared, yes, but you were also annoyed.

You haven’t even been here for five minutes yet he was already seemingly enjoying your discomfort and feeding off of your humiliation. The plan was to keep your head down so you could survive in this battlefield, but if he was going to keep this up, it was only a matter of time until your patience would snap and get you in trouble, or worse, killed.

As if he didn’t just say something outrageous, Hongjoong flicked his pen to start writing again. “I need Mingi,” he said. “And call your Third Master. He should have been back with Seonghwa from Suwon.”

San didn’t say anything as he shut the door behind you both, his steps quick and purposeful as he led you down a dimly lit corridor that felt far too silent for how grand the house looked from the outside. The heavy tension that lingered from the office followed you like a second shadow.

He glanced over at you, as if trying to read your face before turning his eyes back ahead. “I was wondering,” he started clearly just to ease the tension. “I’ve noticed, well, we all did, that you didn’t share a last name with your uncle. Is that on purpose?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. Such a contrast to what had just occurred a couple of minutes ago. But more than that, nobody had bothered to ask you that question before. It wasn't invasive by all means, just unexpected.

It did, however, shoot a pang of hurt through your heart. You haven’t explained this in more than a decade. “He’s my late mother’s older brother.”

San nodded slowly, absorbing the information with interest. Bless this man, you thought. “May I ask what your last name is?”

“It’s Jeong,” you replied softly. Oh, how good it was to say your father's name like this again. “Jeong Y/N.”

When he finally stopped in front of a modest door near the end of the hall, he placed a hand on the knob, but not before pausing. Something didn’t feel right. “D-Did you know my father?”

You frowned at his frozen expression that didn’t last for another second before he snapped off of whatever trance he put himself in.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, turning to face you. “I know this was a horrible start to your soon-to-be life here,” San shook his head, the corners of his mouth tightening. “Hongjoong’s hard headed, but he’s not heartless. Just give it time, okay?”

Your heart wanted to leap out of your chest. He completely changed the topic. “I get it,” you sighed, letting it go. “He’s as much of an unwilling participant in this as I am.”

San opened the door, revealing a clean, minimal room with a bed, dresser, and tall windows draped in heavy curtains. The room was beautiful, not that you expected any less, but this was decay dressed in silk; a trap made to look like a sanctuary to your wounded soul.

“I’ll let you settle in,” he said gently as he left you alone. “If you need anything, please let me know. This is your home now as much as it is ours.”

Indeed, you were alone, but not free. Caged, but not chained, at least, not in the physical sense.

San had said to give it time, but time was a commodity and you feared it - too much of it and it left you rotting away inside your body, and too little of it felt like a countdown.

Days passed from then, and you tried to settle in to the very best of your abilities. It was the only option you had, after all. You explored the rest of the mansion, even going as far as hanging out in the vast garden in the back when you had nothing better to do. It wasn’t home, per se, but it was far better from where you came from.

As suffocating as this mansion felt, at least San was right, nobody has hurt you - not yet at least. But that was always how it went, wasn’t it? Then the shift would be so subtle that you’d miss it if you weren’t already waiting for the sky to fall. You knew the pattern like your own breathing. So you kept your voice light. You smiled when you needed to, but you always stayed one step ahead. Because San was right, no one had hurt you, but they would. It was only a matter of time.

It was still a step-up from your uncle, his loud voice no longer calling you, but coincidentally, neither had Hongjoong. He didn’t look your way once, he didn’t call or summon you, and didn’t acknowledge your existence very much. Somehow, you weren’t sure if that was a curse or a blessing in disguise.

Nonetheless, you did enjoy it so far, and you had so much to learn. You’ve yet to peek through the library, study how the light filtered through your windows at certain hours, or just the layout of the mansion itself. You were just about to walk towards the garden when you heard the familiar, telltale signs of people talking in one of the rooms. No, rather, you were hearing an argument take place between two men.

“You lied to me,” a man’s voice, deep, thunderous, and absolutely furious, boomed throughout the expanse of the house. “That hit in Suwon was supposed to be mine, and mine, alone. Not anyone's, not Wooyoung’s, mine.”

You froze at the sound, instincts screaming at you to turn around, walk away, disappear. But curiosity dug its claws in. Your feet moved without permission, guiding you down the stairs toward the raised voices echoing from the living room just around the corner.

“I did not lie to you. Your lack of proper planning does not constitute an emergency on my end,” replied the familiar voice of Hongjoong, flat and stoic as ever, like he wasn’t on the burnt end of someone’s anger.

“That little fuck. Always stealing my hits. And you tolerate him.”

Heavy, furious footsteps and you barely had time to walk away unnoticed when you almost crashed into the tall and broad-shouldered form of none other than Mingi. His expression was twisted with the fury of a thousand suns as he glared at you. For a second, he looked like he was going to explode on you, but luckily, he just walked past you with rage he looked like he could barely contain.

“You,” came a voice from the living room.

You flinched, your spine automatically straightening like they did when your uncle screamed your name before he struck his fists. But Hongjoong didn’t shout, didn’t even raise his voice, but the sharpness in that single word pinned you in place like a knife. He stepped into view slowly, the light from the tall windows casting long shadows behind him. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, gaze unreadable but heavy.

“What are you doing?” Hongjoong asked at last, his tone deceptively calm, but lined with quiet disdain. “Sneaking around corners like a rat.”

Despite your speechlessness in the frost of his tone, you couldn’t help but stare. Hongjoong’s back was turned against the window and little bits of sun rays hit his features just right. You tried to tamp the blush trying to sneak up your cheeks to make way at the vexation flickering inside your chest at his statement.

“I-I apologize, I didn’t mean to intrude,” you said quietly, your heart jumping to your throat. “I was just curious—”

“Curious,” he repeated slowly, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You were curious.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse pounding in your ears, as he stared you down. It was as if he was truly looking at you for the first time. He wasn’t much taller than you, but the way he stood felt like he towered over you by a mile. You felt numbness wash over you, but you tried your best to answer him with honesty. You had a feeling he’d catch you fibbing anyway. “I was told I could explore a little when I came.”

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile - too sharp to be one. “But did I tell you that you could go prancing around anywhere you damn well pleased?”

Your breath caught when he took a slow, almost bored, step towards you. For a second, you saw the taller form of your uncle stalking towards you, and before you could stop yourself, you opened your mouth to protest. “I’m sorry,” you squeaked. “I just assumed that since I’m staying here that I can—”

“Immaterial,” he interrupted, low and vicious. “This is my house, and you answer to me.”

Hongjoong stuck his finger under your chin, slightly tilting it up. The tips of your ears reddened completely, not because you were flustered, but because it felt degrading. “I’ve been quite busy, you see,” he continued with a sneer. “But don’t think I’ve forgotten your existence. I can never forget the face of someone who was sold to me.”

You didn’t answer. The words stung too much, mostly because you’d dared to hope, even briefly, that maybe this place could become a safe haven. Being remembered like this hurt even more. “You’re right, I won’t do it again,” you whispered, too defeated to even let your usual anger consume you. “I was out of line, I’m sorry.”

“Then, act like it,” Hongjoong’s eyes stayed locked on yours, unblinking, his tone dismissive and cold.

He turned his back to you, not bothering to wait for your reply as he started to walk away. “You shouldn’t have been here,” he added. “Don’t make the same mistake twice. Stay in your lane.”

You were left standing in the same spot he’d left you even after a long time clenching your fists, shame filling your chest at the minor confrontation, the sharp sting of his words looping in your mind, each repetition sharper than the last.

You dug your nails into your palms until it hurt. Good. You needed something to keep yourself grounded because the rage was almost enough to drown you. How dare he treat you like you were disposable?

The worst part was that you were supposed to marry this man, spend the rest of your miserable days walking on eggshells around this insufferable, arrogant bastard? You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose as you took a deep breath.

San told you no one was going to hurt you. He lied, to a certain extent he did, because hurt here came from humiliation and not the hand that’ll lay itself on your skin. You didn’t have to like him, especially since love was completely out of the question, and you had absolutely no obligation to please him, but you would survive this. You had to.

You were following San one Sunday morning as he’d promised to show you the private library after you were no longer skittish after the last encounter with Hongjoong. “I’d love to show you the library today,” San turned, a smile blooming on his face. “Master is very fond of them, as is the Second Master. I’m sure you would, too. It’s quite fascinating.”

“I’ve heard a second and third master being mentioned once or twice before,” you started. “I assume they’re family. Would I be meeting them soon? Should I be wary of them?”

“You would be correct, they are family,” San nodded, pausing in front of the library doorway to face you. “Unfortunately, the Second Master is currently on a…”

He cleared his throat, trailing off to find the right wording like you didn’t already know you’d be marrying into the mafia. “Mission, so to speak. And as you’ve gathered, the Third Master is in Suwon so he should be back soon.”

He took a pause, glancing at his wristwatch before glancing back at you. “Right now, actually. I completely forgot about that,” he cursed under his breath as he looked at you sheepishly. “I apologize, would you mind if I left to instruct someone of his arrival?”

You gave San a small, amused smile, waving him off. “It’s okay. Go do what you need to do. I’ll just wait here.”

“Thank you,” he sighed in relief, already backing away. “I promise I won’t take long.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as he disappeared down the corridor, the sound of his quick footsteps fading behind you. Alone now, you took a slow breath, soaking in the ornate hallway. You didn’t mind waiting, at least you had something to look forward to very soon.

If anything, the wait was very peaceful, but that peace was soon shattered when you heard the door to your left at the far end of the hallway swinging open and two voices suddenly filling in the space of the house. They were unfamiliar, as far as you knew. One thing you noticed was that Hongjoong kept a very limited amount of staff going in and out of the manor.

You shifted nervously, looking to where San had left to see if he was coming back soon, not knowing where to go and how to interact with Hongjoong’s possible guests. He always had people over he was constantly talking to and you didn’t know how he’d reprimand you if he saw you talking to them.

“You got me fucked up if you think I’m not getting back at you for this,” the first man who entered snorted, his bright and shameless laughter put you on high alert. You watched as he made a show of stretching his limbs exaggeratedly. “You know I can’t stand economy flights, Seonghwa, why would you subject me to this torture?”

Then came the second voice, calm and firm, but edged with exasperation. “Forgive me for being presumptuous if I say you’re not going to die being a normal person just this once, master,” he said flatly, closing the door behind him with a sigh.

They were quite a pair, you noticed. It was easy to assume that this was the infamous Third Master Hongjoong had been waiting for. His eyes sparkled with mischief, his playful smirk clearly irritating his older, taller companion.

“We had to blend in, you know that,” the taller man - model - Seonghwa continued, gracefully trudging two suitcases behind him. “Hongjoong is going to throw a fit if he finds out we’re being tailed.”

The other man scoffed once more, letting out an obnoxious laughter that frankly reminded you of a hyena. “He’ll be fine,” he waved his hand off-handedly as he started to walk. “I could just—”

He came to a dramatic halt when he saw you standing in the hallway, blinking in complete surprise. He was a lot younger than you thought he was, his boyish charm was impossible to ignore. He observed you from head to toe before he let out a grin that was too wide to be innocent.

Seonghwa almost did a halt, but his was more sudden than his companion. Recognition flashed in his eyes and you would’ve missed it if you weren’t paying attention. He was more reserved, after all. If the first man was chaos, this one was control.

“Well, well, well,” the grinning one drawled, ignoring Seonghwa’s pointed sigh. “What’s a beautiful thing like you doing here?”

You blinked, taken slightly aback by the sheer confidence in his tone. “I’m not an intruder,” you said cautiously. “I-I’m waiting for San.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not. I would’ve already known if you were,” he smirked as he stepped forward, confidence dripping with every step, until he stopped in front of you. Shivers ran through your spine. He reminded you of Hongjoong’s predatory nature. “And I wouldn’t be smiling.”

He held his hands up for you to shake. “Jung Wooyoung, and my heart is yours to intrude, if you’d like. You’ll find that I’m very easy to rob,” He gave a unapologetic bow, his smirk widening. “You could do it now if you’d like—”

“She’s not available,” Seonghwa cut in, his tone flat, his gaze flicking to you with a subtle nod of acknowledgement. “Wooyoung, please, contain yourself, you embarrassment.”

Woooyoung backed off slightly, the confusion in his face palpable. “She’s not available?” He frowned. “Why not?”

Seonghwa leaned in slightly, whispering something low against Wooyoung’s ear, voice so quiet you couldn’t catch the words. Wooyoung froze, his gaze towards you no longer flirtatious, the warmth in his eyes being replaced by something so cold and calculating that had you taking a small step back.

You’d seen that look before - on Mingi, of all people. But then, just as suddenly, the light snapped back on. Your sense of danger heightened; Wooyoung and Mingi reminded you of Hongjoong the most. You had to avoid them at all costs.

Wooyoung gasped, hand flying to his chest like he was scandalized. “I don’t believe it,” he blurted out. “You’re marrying Hongjoong?”

Wooyoung looked at you again, a wild laugh tumbling out as he shook his head. “Wow. Poor thing. You’re how old? This’ll be so awkward during dinners when people ask me, especially Mingi. How did Mingi react to Hongjoong owning you?”

You frowned, not understanding Mingi’s significance. “Not well, I guess,” you admitted before you gave him a pointed glare. “And I’m no one’s property.”

“Nuances,” he shrugged. “Well, if you get sick of Hongjoong’s moodiness, my room’s on the east wing, just a few doors away from his office—”

“There will be none of that,” Seonghwa said dryly, voice heavy with the kind of weariness that could only come from years of enduring Wooyoung’s antics.

“I didn’t hear a no from her,” Wooyoung sing-songed.

“Wooyoung, shut up,” Seonghwa whisper-shouted in warning.

“Anyway, I could take you to dinner,” he wiggled his brows, grabbing your hand. You were almost appalled at his audacity and shied away, yanking your hand away quickly.

“Wooyoung.”

He turned to Seonghwa in exasperation. “Why are you messing up my groove, Hwa? God, you’re just like my father at this point-–”

“You fucking fool,” Seonghwa cut in coldly, stepping aside as he jabbed a finger toward the other end of the hallway. “Congratulations. Now you’ll find out what the afterlife is like.”

Wooyoung followed his gaze, then yelped so loud it echoed through the hallways, because at the far end of the corridor, shadowed in the doorway with the light behind him stood none other than Hongjoong. His arms were crossed and his expression screamed death.

Your stomach turned, the blood draining from your face as he stared at you. They were dark, narrowed into slits, filled with a contained fury. This was the first time you were seeing him days after your altercation at the living room and his presence reminded you of how remarkably terrifying this man was.

“Wooyoung,” Hongjoong said, voice low, crisp, and venomous. “My office. Now.”

All the color drained from Wooyoung’s face, his smirk crumbled, replaced by a sheepish half-smile and a muttered, “Ah. Right. Of course. Be right there.”

“And you. Be ready, there will be a family dinner tonight,” Hongjoong turned his unyielding attention to someone behind you. “Brief her, manners included.” He eyes you up and down, and you blushed in humiliation once more, trying not to look as small as you felt with his judging gaze. “Lord knows you need brushing up.”

You barely heard Wooyoung’s nervous chuckle as he stumbled past you, still trying to mask his own fear. But it didn’t matter, your attention was solely fixed entirely on the man who still hadn’t moved an inch, still standing in that doorway like a judge awaiting a verdict before you felt yourself being pulled back by Seonghwa.

“I am terribly sorry about that,” he apologized, leading you to the side door where he came from. “He’s not that bad, I promise. Just a bit aloof, and Hongjoong, he’s uh, something, but it’ll get better with time.”

You hummed, not knowing what to say. You couldn’t possibly say that their boss spiked a little fear in you somehow. As you were walking, you were pleasantly surprised to see red tulips blooming. You grinned, quickly running off to look closer.

However, you wouldn’t be the only ones to admire them. Mingi turned the tulip in his fingers with surprising care, before he set his eyes on you and Seonghwa before approaching. His walk, alone, screamed intimidation and hesitated. Mingi trained his sharp eyes on you before he set his attention back on the red tulip bud he was holding.

“Since when did we have these?” He murmured absentmindedly. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. Wooyoung? I heard him whining and bitching around here somewhere.”

“Since now, I guess,” Seonghwa curiously grabs the tulips and hums. He turns to you with a soft smile and shows you the tulip up close. “Say, Y/N, may I ask what your favourite flowers are?”

You didn’t answer immediately, not with Mingi staring at you. You tried not to look at him, but you could feel his stare dissecting your every breath and it made your spine stiffen. “These ones,” you answered softly, cradling a nearby petal. “Red tulips.”

A strange silence followed and when you glanced up cautiously, you found the both of them staring at one another curiously. Mingi’s eyes narrowed, and Seonghwa raised an eyebrow, as if they all knew something you didn’t. “Anyway,” Seonghwa cleared his throat. “You should go to the office. Your dad’s probably tearing him a new one. He, uh, may or may not have flirted with her.”

Mingi’s brows shot up in mild surprise. “God, that stupid fuck,” he hissed, shaking his head before he patted Seonghwa’s shoulder once and walking away. “I’ll catch up later, I need to settle the score with him and Father anyway.”

Dad? Father? Those were the only things circling in your head even as Seonghwa had guided you back into your designated room and sat you down on the bed. Your mouth opened and closed repeatedly, because Mingi wasn’t just anyone, he was Hongjoong’s son.

“I take it you had no idea First Master Mingi was Hongjoong’s son?” Seonghwa asked, amusement dancing in his eyes at your bewildered expression. You robotically shook your head in denial. He let out a short, breathy laugh. “Figures. That’s very Hongjoong of him to not tell you,” he shook his head.

You smiled bitterly. “Why would he? I’m nobody to him.”

Seonghwa’s eyes softened. “That’s not it. You have to understand, you are only about seven or so years older than his eldest son. It might not seem like it, but he does have morals.”

San did mention that the so-called masters were family, but you thought that meant they had a brotherly bond. You weren’t expecting literal family. “I just assumed he was one of higher-ups,” you blurted out.

“He technically is, yes,” Seonghwa confirmed. “He’s set to inherit the title once Hongjoong retires. Wooyoung is the next in line given that the Second Master is not interested in the title.”

You blinked repeatedly. Then it hits you - there was yesterday when San mentioned a Third Master. Wooyoung is also Hongjoong’s son. “Mingi is the eldest, Hongjoong had him before he hit twenty because his father wanted him to have a son before he transferred the title to him,” he kindly explained.

“And his mother was, uh,” he tenses a little bit before shaking his head. “She’s not a good person. Only married a Kim to sell the enemy information. There was no love in the marriage anyway, so Hongjoong kicked her out when Mingi was only three. Haven’t seen her since. They’re all about the same age, but Wooyoung’s the youngest. There’s a reason he gets away with everything,” he chuckled.

“How come Wooyoung doesn’t share a last name with Hongjoong?” You asked.

“It’s because Wooyoung is not his biological son,” Seonghwa answered. “Neither is Second Master, but they’re biological brothers, however. They were his former right-hand’s sons, but he died in a hit gone wrong. They both got along with Mingi even before then, so adopting them was a no-brainer. But that doesn’t matter, they are his sons.”

You took that in slowly. Three sons; one cold and carved from stone, another a carefree spark of chaos, and a third somewhere in between you hadn’t even met yet. No wonder Mingi looked at you like that. You were just a few years older than him and he was probably naturally weirded out about it.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to it, you have to get ready for dinner tonight. Since Wooyoung has been gone for three months, it’s customary to welcome him back,” Seonghwa grabs your hand to shake it gently, smiling at you with that smile that eased your worries for a bit. “Don’t mind Hongjoong. I’m sure you’ll do well. It’s very nice to finally meet you, Y/N.”

You didn’t pay much attention to Seonghwa’s words. It’s very nice to finally meet you. You didn’t bother to dress up too much as you stood in front of the mirror longer than you should have, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your clothes. For a moment, you thought about putting on makeup, but you’d always felt like a child trying to play dress-up.

When you finally stepped out of the room and down the long hallway toward the dining hall, your legs felt hollow. The muted murmur of voices from behind the doors swelled with each step. And you hated how it reminded you of that night - your first time meeting Hongjoong.

Thankfully, he wasn’t ignoring you because he was looking straight at you, arms crossed as he watched your awkward form walk to the centre of the room, as San led to the chair to sit directly to his left. You cursed internally, you were betting on settling in the background and would have chosen to sit on the far end of the table.

Thankfully, everyone was here, though you couldn’t really focus on them. Mingi sat in front of you, Seonghwa and San, respectively, sitting beside him. You were sure you wouldn’t be the only one who couldn’t breathe with Hongjoong’s menacing aura. Still, you were relieved, at least you wouldn’t be alone.

“Howdy, pretty,” Wooyoung saluted flirtatiously beside you, his eyes twinkling with mischief and excitement. You saw the man beside him roll his eyes dramatically, but didn’t say a word. You gave Wooyoung a tight smile out of politeness.

“Scram if you’re going to be insufferable, Wooyoung,” Hongjoong sighed, irritation palpable on his expression before he set his eyes on you. “And you, don’t do that ever again. You’re here to represent me. You know what that entails. I know you’re not as dull as you seem.”

You gritted your teeth, forcing a meek nod as a response. Wooyoung scoffs obnoxiously, ignoring the first statement directed to him. “Relax, nobody’s taking your woman from you,” he teased. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you. You’re practically frothing at the mouth.”

You could tell Hongjoong was close to exploding judging from the vein popping on his temples that protruded so much, it looked like it hurt. Instead, he puts his hands up, gesturing to the stoic man sitting beside Wooyoung. “This is Jongho,” he said, voice flat and uninterested. “He will be your bodyguard from now on. Jongho, show your respect.”

You blinked in surprise. This was the last thing you ever expected, but you welcomed it. You were surprised, however, Jongho didn’t look like he was much older than you. His face was carved with stoicism and impassiveness. “I’ll do my best to keep you safe,” Jongho said plainly, voice deep and steady.

“Right, let's get a few things out of the way,” Hongjoong started, voice still as sharp and astute as if time was running out, the entire time the staff was piling dinner on the table. “When did your parents pass away?”

That question hit you harder than all the insults and coldness he directed towards you. You were expecting something else, even about your uncle’s failing business that you had no idea about, but certainly not this. “When I was sixteen,” you blurted out. “It was sudden, I was told it was a hit and run.”

Hongjoong’s question had sliced through the dinner like a blade, and your answer left a ringing silence in its wake.You swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of how cold the room felt. Across the table, Mingi’s gaze sharpened instantly, replaced by something cold and alert. He flicked his eyes towards Hongjoong, a silent communication passing between them. And even Wooyoung let out a slow exhale, his playful demeanor was nowhere to be found.

Hongjoong nodded, his stern face not giving anything away. “Hit and run?” He repeated slowly, like tasting the words. “That’s what they told you? Who told you that?”

“M-My uncle,” you answered truthfully.

“Hmm,” Hongjoong hummed brusquely. “That good-for-nothing leech during dinner?”

You nodded stiffly. A beat passes, something about the way his jaw muscle ticked and his exhale changed. “When did you start living with him?”

“Right after the funeral,” you replied. “He took me before my other family members had a chance to say their condolences to me.”

“And?” he asked, voice clipped. “How bad was he?”

Just like that, memories upon memories of all the hurt, emotionally and physically, started playing in your brain like an old camera film. Subconsciously, you touched your neck. The bruises were gone, but you could still feel his hands wrapped around them. “Bad enough,” you replied quietly, avoiding eye contact.

San’s eyes softened. There was a slight crease in his brow, one of restrained empathy. He leaned back slightly, as if he needed space to process it, or to give you some. “Fucking bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

Hongjoong didn’t respond, his eyes lowering to your hand on your neck. His eyes didn’t soften, but the edge in them did dull ever so slightly. He looked at you for one more second before he leaned back on his seat to stare out the large window that overlooked the entire manor.

"You need to act the part if you're going to stay here," Hongjoong said, voice sharp, still looking out the window. You were thankful for the change of topic, it was hard to pretend the questions didn’t sting.

You glanced wearily at him from where you were sitting. “What part?”

“You are going to be Mrs. Kim very soon, and you will be associated with me,” he said. “That means whatever you do will reflect on me, including both your victory and your defeat. I do not want the likes of you to embarrass me.”

You clenched your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking. Your identity was being stripped down, reshaped into someone he could not even tolerate standing next to. It was next level humiliation.

“I will not tolerate disrespect from any outsiders about what’s mine, hence me giving you a bodyguard,” he continued, casually sipping on his wine. “I refuse my family to be a laughingstock of some sorts. You will be under my name, so you will be under my protection.”

Under his name, not sharing his name. He was basically telling you that you will become his burden and liability. “It is imperative that no one knows about us for now. You will not wear a ring, and you will not speak about our arrangement. ”

You swallowed, throat tight. “So what am I supposed to be, then? Your accessory?”

He leaned closer, and your breath caught in your chest. “Play the game. Or pack your things.”

“Now, hold on a minute,” a voice cut off, one you weren’t expecting. Everybody looks at Wooyoung curiously, the cutlery in the background halting. “Don’t you think this is a bit much, Dad? You’re asking her to erase herself in front of everyone. Hide everything. No ring, no identity, no dignity? You want her to protect your name, but you won’t even give her the same courtesy?”

Your heart thumped. Was someone finally on your side? And of all the people, his own son? The one who you thought was a flirt. Hongjoong shifted his gaze. “Since when did you start calling me Dad?” He asked, tone cold now, sharpened to a lethal edge. “Do not undermine me at my own table, Jung Wooyoung.”

You weren’t that much of an idiot - this engagement was a farce because he was hiding you like a shadow. It was erasure disguised as a strategy. It stung, not that you were expecting him to hold you and show you off, but still.

Your fingers brushed against the gold fork, just drowning out the fight, and you were about to dig in when your plate was suddenly pushed away. Horrified, you stared at Hongjoong who had a passive expression on his face. “Don’t eat anything,” he stated, cold eyes drilling onto your wide ones, his fingers still on the edge of the plate he so callously pushed off. “Not until I say so.”

You froze, absolutely mortified at what he had done. You could accept all the insults and the cold shoulder he’d been presenting you in his house, but this? You swallowed the lump in your throat and kept your head down, your hands curling into your lap like they didn’t belong at the table. Your stomach had long since stopped growling - embarrassment had a way of killing hunger.

“She didn’t do anything. Why would you do that?” Seonghwa spoke, his tone laced with disbelief, his brows furrowed as he looked from the plate to you, then back to Hongjoong. Even Jongho, who had been trying to eat quietly, had stopped.

“No one eats until she does,” Wooyoung muttered suddenly, pushing his own plate away with a sharp scrape. He didn’t even look at Hongjoong. His focus was entirely on you, his eyes softening slightly. “I love you and all, Hongjoong, but we’re not playing these games. If you’re jealous, just say so.”

“Then none of you are eating,” Hongjoong snarled. The sudden sound of a chair scraping violently against the floor shattered the moment. Everyone flinched, heads turning just in time to see Hongjoong push himself up from his seat with a grace so sharp it cut through the hum of the room. “Get up,” he said, his jaw locked, his fists white-knuckled.

Your head whipped toward him in disbelief. “W-What?”

His eyes, narrowed and glinting with something unreadable, didn’t budge. “I said, get up.” His tone was low and lethal; it didn’t leave room for any arguments.

He didn’t wait for your response, not until he just grabbed you by the arm all of a sudden, dragging you away from the crowd and straight to the living room staircase. “What are you—?”

“You,” he spat, voice low and accusing. “What spell did you cast on them? How did you get everyone to turn against me?”

You blinked, stunned by the sudden accusation, but you couldn’t say anything as Hongjoong’s eyes darkened further, shadows flickering in their depths as his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Jongho. Take her to her room. No more scenes.”

Hongjoong’s gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer, a mix of frustration and something unreadable in his expression before walking away. It was like Hongjoong ripped your heart out directly from your chest and took it with him, leaving your insides hollow in its wake.

“I apologize on his behalf. Hongjoong’s not good at expressing how he truly feels. You’re not missing much on the food, if it matters,” he assuaged in an attempt to make you feel better as he led you upstairs. “The steak was tough, the dressing was bland, and the avocados were mushy as hell. Our chef was sick, so we had to hire another one. Their last day, it seems.”

You swivelled your head slowly to look at Jongho. “W-What did you say was in the dressing?”

“Huh? Avocados? Yeah, it’s like someone stepped on them and plopped them on the plate. Bleh.”

Your heart rate began to pick up abnormally. You were deadly allergic to avocados. “Really?” Your voice cracked slightly, the information settling in your head like a broken record.

“Really,” he confirmed with a soft smile that emphasized how young he actually was.

Avocado allergies were rare. Even when you were younger, it was easy to avoid them, and even your uncle didn’t know you had an allergy. Not that he gave you avocados, he was cheap on you like that.

But besides that, you definitely screwed up last night. From what you’ve observed, not only was Hongjoong’s fuse short already, but his anger was difficult to dissipate as well. You needed to figure out a way to appease him, you didn’t want him calling off the engagement.

“You want to make Hongjoong’s dinner every night, you said?” San’s brows were both raised up to his hairline. “Are you sure, Y/N? Hongjoong’s quite the picky eater.”

You ignored the voice in your head that bristled at the thought of a man in his mid-forties still picky with his food. “It might not seem like it, but I’m a capable cook, I swear,” you joked. “I’ve had a lot of practice living with my uncle.”

San’s eyes softened significantly, but in the end, he relented. “I’ll instruct the staff to vacate the kitchen come nighttime,” he sighed.

True to his words, the kitchen was all yours by 6 o’clock at night. You didn’t even have time to marvel around the luxurious setup, you had no time to waste. Not when you had to prove yourself useful. When push comes to shove, maybe you could be his chef instead of his wife rather than your uncle’s niece again.

You didn’t make anything fancy, just a simple soup to gauge what Hongjoong might like or might not. You even tried your best to make the vegetables in it barely visible, that’s how much effort you put in it.

You were about to bring the soup up to his office when by sheer coincidence, Hongjoong, himself, showed up to the kitchen, and judging by his slightly raised brow at you holding the bowl with an apron still on you, he wasn’t expecting to see anyone in the kitchen, let alone you of all people.

“H-Hi,” you stammered, avoiding out contact, awkwardly. “I, uh, I made you something.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, just blinking repeatedly, before sighing. “Don’t stay up late next time,” was all he said before he moved past you to walk out of the kitchen as if he didn’t want to be there in the first place.

Hongjoong disappeared into his study, the sound of the door clicking shut behind him like punctuation to the silence he left behind. You let out a shaky breath, the sting of his blatant rejection making your legs shake as you sat on the dining chair. Maybe tomorrow.

But he still didn’t eat. You did it again the next day anyway, even when the results were the same. You weren’t a master chef by any means, but one thing you were proud of was that you put genuine care on all of the things your hands create.

You patiently waited for Hongjoong, ready to try and spend time with him at dinner even though the both of you never got along since he disliked you. The thought of being face to face made your heartbeat go wilder than the prospect of him accepting your efforts.

By the fifth night after another failed attempt, you asked around to figure out what Hongjoong’s favourite foods were. You tried to ignore the pitying looks San sent you while Seonghwa quietly cleaned another plate of ignored efforts, taking everything with a smile on your face even though on the inside, you felt like crying.

You clutched another plate a little tighter again the next day, heat bleeding through porcelain and into your palms. You wondered if he even knew or if he smelled the spices in the air, wondered if he saw your sleeping form on the couch when you were too tired to wait for him.

Maybe you didn’t need him to eat it, maybe you just needed him to pause - to look at you like you were more than the terms of a deal neither of you asked for. But instead, all he gave you was a sigh and his absence. And there you were - offering warmth with shaking hands to a man who’d rather freeze.

Hope began to dwindle when you didn’t even see Hongjoong’s shadow anymore by the seventh night. You started plating smaller portions out of humiliation and by the ninth, you didn’t bother waiting for Hongjoong anymore, just quietly making the food and leaving it in the kitchen, not even bothering to check if it was eaten or if Seonghwa had thrown it away.

You decided to stop after another week. You were tired of waking up in the room to Seonghwa’s shaking head when you looked at him expectantly. However, you wanted to make dinner for the last time not just for Hongjoong anymore, but for everyone who’s been nothing but accommodating to you.

You just needed a couple of ingredients to make what you needed, and for that, you wanted to pick them out yourself. That was how you found yourself directly in front of Hongjoong’s office where you knew he always was, steeling your nerves to knock and ask if there was a car that you could use to drive yourself to the market.

You were about to knock when you stopped yourself. There was a heated conversation going inside the office and by the sound of it, it was Hongjoong and Seonghwa. You could hardly hear what they were talking about.

“....can’t keep doing this….giving her the cold shoulder, Joong…she’ll find out….what are you going to do then?”

“Give me time…..so close to caging in Yoo Jaehwan, that bastard…no one can know….make sure he’ll pay….Yeosang.”

Your entire body locked, coldness spreading all over your chest at the mention of your uncle’s name. Those were Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s voices, you were positive, but what were they talking about?

“....won’t be safe forever, you know that. San….intel on the hit and run….was damn impossible to….think Jaehwan knows?”

“There’s no denying it…..will be safer here....never forgive myself if something happens….my everything—who’s there?”

You cursed internally when you accidentally misplaced your foot, causing your body to bump onto the door. You were about to turn and run away, to pretend that you were never here in the first place, but it was too late. The door swung open, revealing Hongjoong’s stern figure, eyes sharp and searching. His gaze landed on you in mild surprise, his chest rising slightly from how fast he'd moved.

“Y/N?“ You saw his hand squeeze the doorknob ever so slightly. Still, you can’t help the shiver that passed through you. That was the first time he’d ever said your name. “How long have you been standing there?”

His voice was low, but it wasn’t calm. “What did I tell you about sneaking around like a damn rat?”

“I-I just got here, I swear,” you swallowed, hard. He stared at you, deadpan. In no timeline or galaxy did he believe you. “I want to go out. I-I know there’s a market near here and—”

“Absolutely not,” he rejected, his voice rising up in pitch ever so slightly in disbelief. “You’re not going out.”

The denial was harsh and brutal - hell, he didn’t even let you finish your sentence - but this was also the first time you saw any other emotion on him other than anger, annoyance, and intimidation. “I really want to go—” you tried again.

“And I said no,” he repeated, his voice a little harsher this time.

You were taken aback. It wasn’t just the denial that struck you, it was the sheer urgency in his tone. It was the look in his eyes that if you stared hard enough, you could’ve found uneasiness and dread swimming in them.

“But I haven’t been out ever since I came here,” you blurted out in equal disbelief. He was the most arrogant and controlling one you’ve ever met and that was saying a lot. “I want to buy some produce—”

“Order it online, I don’t give a damn,” he snapped. He was about to close the door on you, but you put your foot to block it. “What the hell are you—”

“Please, Hongjoong,” you begged. It was a massive hit on your own ego and pride, but you were going to lose your mind if you don’t find fresh air soon. “I-I won’t even stay long, I’ll keep my phone on me.”

He stilled, his gaze faltered. You saw his throat tighten as he looked towards the floor. “Hongjoong,” he repeated under his breath, so soft you almost missed it.

Your breath hitched. He said it so softly that you almost missed it. Except you didn’t. You weren’t even sure if you were meant to hear it. Seonghwa, who forgot was also in the room, cleared his throat, thus breaking that unspoken tension you found with Hongjoong. “I could take her—” he started gently, but Hongjoong cut him off with a look, his neck snapping up so fast that it scared you a little.

Hongjoong’s eyes hardened again, and this time, they were the darkest you had ever seen. “I don’t keep you to tolerate her, Seonghwa,” he barked before turning to you one last time. “You’re not going out. That’s final.”

His gaze lingered a moment longer on you, eyes glinting with something between rage and warning, before he completely shut the door on you. He didn’t slam it, but it still knocked the wind out of your lungs as the finality of his denial settles in on you.

Something shifted in you at the moment. At first, you had mistaken it for fatigue. The stress of constantly trying to walk on eggshells with Hongjoong just so you wouldn’t say the wrong things in case he decided to call off the marriage, the late nights staying up making him dinner he didn’t even want, they were starting to get to you.

It didn’t happen all at once, but now the weight in your chest didn’t feel like fear anymore, it felt like fury - no, you knew it was. The final push was so mundane it almost felt insulting. You could feel your anger simmering and it was only a matter of time until it boiled over.

You were tempted to bang on the door like a madwoman, but you chose to walk away to the one place you knew would give you comfort - the garden. But even the flowers weren’t enough to make you feel better. If anything, they emphasized how infinitely colourless your world was.

You clenched your jaw, jaw tight as you sat down on one of the benches, arms crossed, trying to remind yourself that you were still here. You were still standing and still breathing. You weren’t going to fall apart over someone like him.

“Your energy is so strong that I wouldn’t be surprised if the flowers started to wilt.”

You rolled your eyes, not really in the mood to talk to anybody, but when Jongho sat beside you, you couldn’t help but relax a bit. You’ve always loved company regardless of how you felt. You’ve been alone all your life, so it was always nice to have someone. “How did you know I was here anyway?” You murmured with a small pout.

Jongho chuckled, absentmindedly fiddling with a lone petal. “I’m not your bodyguard for nothing. I’m always watching.”

“That’s totally not creepy at all,” you chuckled a little, shaking your head.

He laughed, shifting his weight before letting out a slow breath. “He’s not mad at you, you know.”

You snorted, giving him an incredulous look, but Jongho just smiled. “I’m serious. Don’t take it personally,” he said softly. “He’s just scared. That’s all.”

You didn’t care what Hongjoong’s intentions were, but in reality, you were starving for anything that made you feel less like a ghost haunting someone else's palace. Yet your mind wandered, uninvited and unwelcome, back to that moment at the door when you’d said his name. But it wasn’t your own desperation that haunted you - it was his reaction. How his gaze had faltered and how he’d gone utterly still.

If there was something to behold about your personality, it was that you were nothing but persistent, after all. It was the reason why you’ve come so far in your miserable life. So you tried again after a couple of days to ask Hongjoong again if you could go out.

Whatever conversation you overheard him and Seonghwa must have set him off that day so you figured you’d let his anger simmer and try to catch him in a good mood. Yesterday, you even saw him in the living room, casually reading the newspaper - you almost smiled at that because it inadvertently showed his age - while chatting casually with Mingi.

Now that you knew the real nature of their relationship, you could clearly see how much Mingi resembled Hongjoong, who honestly didn’t look a day over forty if it wasn’t for reading glasses resting low on his nose. God, you thought, that detail alone betrayed his age more than anything.

So you gathered your courage and waited when you knew he was going to be alone in his office in the afternoon. You took a deep breath, rapped your knuckles on the door before opening it slightly enough to poke your head in.

But he wasn’t here. That surprised you more than anything, mainly because it wasn’t much of a secret how much of a workaholic Hongjoong was. Even if you didn’t hear Wooyoung complain about it a lot, it wasn’t like you couldn’t see it.

Against your better judgment, you entered the room, opting to just wait in his room for his return, but not closing the door to signal that someone was here. Last thing you wanted was for Hongjoong to think you were intruding. You were hanging on your last thread with him as is. His office screamed of him all over.

Admittedly, you balked at the slight mess on his table as you walked towards the leather couches to sit down, but before you could do so, something inadvertently catches your eye amongst the mess that was his desk.

Half-tucked under a stack of manila folders and faded blueprints, barely sticking out like it had slipped by accident, was a photo. You reached for it on instinct - then froze. It was you.

Specifically, it was your graduation photo. You were smiling, though you could tell that it didn’t reach your eyes.. The photo was frayed along the edges and the corners were soft from wear. There was a faint crease running down the middle, as if it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times over. Your heart thudded, your hands shaking immensely. You shouldn’t have looked.

“You have thirty seconds to explain what you’re doing in my office before I lose all civility.”

The way your entire body trembled with uncouth shock was something to be seen. Hongjoong stood there, his sharp eyes trained on the photo you were holding in your hand, his jaw tightening. “Time is ticking, Y/N. You’re twenty-seconds away from having a very, very bad day.”

You put the photo haphazardly back on his desk. “I wanted to ask again if I could, perhaps, go out—”

You were stunned into absolute silence when he banged his fist on the door once but with enough force to shake the whole world around the both of you. “Are you deaf?” His tone sliced the air in half like a blade. “Or just unbelievably stupid? Didn’t I tell you that you cannot go out? How many times do I have to tell you?”

You stood frozen, the heat of his fury scorching your skin, but he wasn’t done. “You’re either acting like an imbecile, or you really are one. And I’m supposed to marry you? I’m already doing your uncle a favour by not shooting him between the eyes, but my God, this is pushing it. ”

His words gutted you. You were used to your uncle calling you all the insults in the book, but this was something else, Hongjoong was basically judging your entire personality from the skin side out, and that hurt more than anything else because he doesn’t even know you.

But you were only human, and even animals bite back when wounded. “You’re no different than my uncle,” you slipped out, unshed tears lining the corners of your eyes. “You’re hiding something from me. Why are you locking me in?”

He scoffed, eyes glinting with something that felt like contempt. “Please. Don’t insult me like that. He sent you to me like a lamb to a slaughterhouse. You just haven’t thanked me for the knife yet.”

You didn’t even know what expression your face was making, only that your cheeks felt hot and your throat burned like you’d swallowed fire. “I hate you,” your lips wobbled, looking at him with indignance in your eyes. “I hate you.”

He laughed bitterly, without humor, without restraint. “Yeah?” His voice was sharp, venomous. “Well, you’re about to hate me more.”

Then he turned, grabbed an envelope from the desk, and threw it at you. Money spilled out like a slap, some bills fluttering to the floor at your feet. “There, this is what you wanted, is it not? Now you can pretend you’re not living inside a cage.”

To say you were appalled would be an understatement. Your heart curled into itself, shriveling behind your ribs. Before you could fully break down, you ran out without another word, not bothering to look at him or the money littered across the room as you ran until your legs gave out in a random corridor of the mansion.

You didn’t bother minimizing your loudness, your hands trembling against the marble as you choked back a sob, quiet and broken. You haven’t cried in a long time, mainly because you refused to for someone like him, but this wasn’t just for Hongjoong. They were for everything; for the girl you used to be, the child who lost her parents, for the woman you were failing to become, and for the bride you never wanted to be.

The rubber band holding yourself together snaps, so you ran down the corridors, through the driveway, past the gigantic gates, anywhere but there. You didn’t know where you were going, but you needed to breathe somewhere he wasn’t.

It wasn’t until your shoes hit an unfamiliar pavement that you realized that you were far away from the estate. In fact, you were in a small park with a playground. The sight was haunting, the play place devoid of the telltale laughter of children. It was perfect.

The adrenaline that kept you going had long worn off, but you didn’t care as you walked warily towards the swings and sat on it. Your fists clenched around the swing’s cold chains as more tears fell freely now. You didn't bother wiping them away. Why were you here anyway? To get away from a man who doesn’t want you even when you knew the invisible chains that tied you two together would shorten again?

Pathetic.

You had fantasized about the idea of finding freedom in a marriage that saved your life. You had hoped that maybe Hongjoong would grow on you, and him on you, but those fantasies had shriveled and rotted the moment Kim Hongjoong opened his mouth. And so, you let yourself swing, forward and back, forward and back, as if maybe, just maybe, you could go far enough to leave the hurt behind.

You were there for a while, you didn’t move when the sun started to set. You didn’t move when thunder clapped on the sky above. You didn’t move when the first set of raindrops fell onto your skin, sticking to your clothes like a fever that you can’t sweat out. You didn’t care.

You would’ve stayed there forever, let the ocean take you, but someone else had plans for you that day. At first, you couldn’t hear it above the rain and the thunder, but the unmistakable sound of footsteps hitting puddles was impossible to ignore.

You closed your eyes, willing your mind to focus, but when you opened them again, you froze. Hongjoong stood from afar, drenched to the bone, his head whipping around like a madman. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but when his eyes met yours, his shoulders hunched like the entire world had just been lifted off his back and thrown back on again. You closed your eyes again, praying that he’d go away if you pretended to not see him, but just like you, Hongjoong was nothing but persistent, after all.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” he demanded, his voice losing its sharp edge, making way for an emotion you weren’t sure you were ready to hear from him.

By God, he looked devastating. His breath ragged, chest rising up and down, jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might snap. His usual posh and classy look was missing as water dripped from his hair into his dark, unreadable eyes. And he looked absolutely furious.

“Go away,” you said, voice thin and cold, wrenching yourself from his grip. “Leave me alone.”

You stood up, but your legs wobbled, and he caught your arm before you could fall. His grip was tight, almost bruising. Your heart almost thudded out of your ribs when he pulled you close, both of his hands holding your shoulders now.

“Stop it,” he barked, but his voice was hoarse. He shook his head, closing his eyes before opening them again with a shaky sigh. “Why are you such a fucking pain in my ass? I’m too old for this shit.”

He sighed sharply, his hand hastily pushing his wet hair away from his face in frustration. His other hand lingered at your arm, warm despite the storm, as he stepped in closer, lowering his voice. “I will bring the market to you next time, alright?”

The wind howled around you, but you didn’t even notice. His fingers twitched like they were about to reach for you, but you turned your face away just about when he stopped inches away from your skin before he fisted his hand, his gritting teeth audible in the rain.

“I’ll take you back,” he said, voice sharp again. “Before you get yourself sick and make my life even more difficult than it already is.”

His hand clasped yours tightly as he pulled you along with him through the rain. His hand didn’t leave yours until you reached the car, and maybe he felt bad for you, but when he grabbed your hand again when he started driving, it wasn’t out of pity.

If anything, he held tighter. His hand found yours on your lap, his thumb softly caressing the still damp skin of your upturned hand, not letting go even when he had to swerve and turn. He said nothing. He stared ahead through the rain-blurred windshield, jaw clenched tight, knuckles white on the steering wheel, but he never let go.

And you didn’t pull away either. Because even though your chest hurt from his words, the warmth of his palm over yours was the first thing all day that didn’t feel cruel. It seemed to lull you into a short slumber even.

The soft brake of the car was what brought you back to sentience. You watched Hongjoong press some sort of button on his car before radio static comes to life from it. “Third wing master bedroom. I’m going for a ride,” he said gruffly before he let go and pressed the bridge of his nose.

The chill of the storm probably disoriented you and you didn’t understand, but when your door opened to be face to face with the gentle Seonghwa, you were a bit surprised to find that you were parked directly in front of the mansion front door.

“Come on,” he said quietly, holding onto your shoulders and not caring if you were wet, like he knew what you had already gone through. “Let’s get you warm.”

He guided and helped you get out but you yanked to a stop when you realized that something was stopping you - Hongjoong’s hand still entwined with yours. You turned your head toward him. Hongjoong hadn’t moved, his eyes locked with yours, burning but hollowed out. And for a heartbeat, everything was still. The world, the storm, the ache in your chest.

But he let go, shutting the door softly before driving off to the night to God-knows-where. You wouldn’t know, Seonghwa was already guiding you inside the mansion by your shoulders. His hands were gentle, his movements even more patient.

His eyes dropped into sympathetic comfort, his hand slightly squeezing your shoulders. He gently walked the both of you into the living room where the fireplace was already hot and going.

San was already there waiting for you, eyes wide with panic along with Jongho who handed him a thick blanket. “Wrap up, yeah? Don’t want you getting sick now,” he said, quickly bundling you to warm you up. “You ran out during that storm? What the hell were you thinking?”

“Give her space, San,” Seonghwa said, but the relief in his voice was palpable. He handed you a mug of something warm, ginger tea, you guessed, and crouched down beside you, eyes soft. “We were all looking. You scared us.”

Suddenly, Jongho dropped to his knees, bowing his head low, much to your surprise. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “I should have kept an eye, I didn’t guard you enough.”

“W-What? No,” you frowned, hesitantly patting his head. “It’s not your fault. You’re not my keeper–“

Before you could even answer, Wooyoung appeared behind him, surprisingly less loud but just as concerned. “Yeah, you tell him that,” he scoffed softly, arms crossed to his chest, shaking his head slightly. “Hongjoong almost killed him in sheer anger. Seriously, why did you do that?”

It was the most serious you’ve ever seen the man, but of course, he was still as dramatic as ever. His eyes darted from you to the others before dramatically flopping onto the arm of the couch. “I’ve never seen him like that before,” he chortled. “Like, ever. Hell, he doesn’t even react that bad when me and my brothers get shot or something.”

“It can’t be that bad,” you murmured, fiddling with the blanket. “I wasn’t even gone for long. I was going to come back.”

That was when all three of them looked at you like you’d grown a second head. “Not long?” Jongho echoed, his brows shooting up in disbelief. “You’ve been gone for hours, Y/N.”

“Hongjoong practically tore the city apart,” San shook his head. “You were gone for over five hours. Five. That’s not just a walk in the park, that’s a goddamn vanishing act. I swear he was about to murder us if he couldn’t find you.”

You blinked, confused. “He was…looking for me?”

“Obviously,” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “I’ve never seen him lose control like that before. But seriously, please don’t do that again. I’m not ready for Mingi to inherit the business in case Dad gets an aneurysm.”

You looked down at your lap, shame filling your lungs along with the thudding of your heartbeat. “I didn’t mean to scare anyone.”

“But you did,” Wooyoung muttered, but his tone wasn’t offensive. “But I get it. I do apologise on his behalf, though. He shouldn’t have thrown money at you. That was unnecessarily cruel, even for him.”

Seonghwa gave your shoulder a squeeze. “You’re safe now and that’s all that matters. Hongjoong should be back shortly,” he helps you up once more. “Come along. You should wash up so you don’t get sick.”

You thanked everyone before you let Seonghwa guide you into a part of the mansion you’ve never been at, let alone the room he took you in before he bid you a goodnight with a promise to check on you the next day.

You sighed deeply, trudging your feet to the shower. Your heart swells the moment you opened that door, it smelled of Hongjoong. It was hard not to remember the way his fingers had clung to yours, how they didn’t tremble until after he’d let go, the entire time you washed up and got ready for bed.

When morning came, your eyes fluttered open when the first ray of sunshine hit your face, but you didn’t want to get up - the sheets smelled faintly of sandalwood and something distinctly him, and that the pillow cradled your head felt like a welcome comfort.

For a second, you had, perhaps, thought that everything was a dream, but when you rubbed your eyes and made a move to get up, you were completely startled awake to see the last person you ever thought you’d see the moment you’d opened your eyes.

Hongjoong was fully dressed in a crisp black turtleneck and slacks, hair slightly tousled, as he typed something furiously into his laptop. He didn’t look up when you stirred, but you noticed the subtle clench of his jaw.

“I trust you slept well?” Hongjoong asked, lowering his glasses to stare straight at you.

You willed for your heartbeat to stop thumping so much for fear of him hearing it. You stared straight back at him, noticing the faint shadow under his eyes. “I suppose so,” you said. “You didn’t, though.”

“I’ll say,” he shut his laptop off, reaching for a folder beside it, before leaning on the couch, crossing his arms, his sharp eyes trained on you. “You did sleep on my bed, after all.”

You blinked, the words not sinking in your morning-addled brain yet, but when it did, your mouth dropped open in surprise. “I-I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, heat pooling in your lower belly at the information. No wonder the entire room smelled like him. “I didn’t sleep here on purpose—”

“I know,” he sighed. “I asked Seonghwa to bring you here. Lest you already forgot.”

He took his glasses off, rubbed the bridge of his nose like the weight of the world had been sitting there. “Next time, don’t run off in a storm just to prove a point.”

“That wasn’t what I was doing,” you frowned.

He looked at you then, brief and unreadable. “Then what were you doing?”

“Trying to breathe,” you croaked, your voice dropping down to a whisper that you wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t heard it. “Plus, you looked all night for me.”

He didn’t say anything at first. But the shift in his expression, the subtlety of it, was louder than words. “Freshen up and eat breakfast,” he muttered, tapping the folder in his hand twice. “I have a couple of questions for you.”

You weren’t in the mood to argue with him, certainly not after his obvious attempt in shutting down the conversation completely. Unsurprisingly, your body still ached from last night. You opted for a quick brush of your teeth, tying your hair presentably.

The scent of you had me dizzy. I have to get out of here.

You didn’t bother changing out of the pyjamas Seonghwa had provided for you since you didn’t have clothes here. It would give you an out, and you weren’t ready to face Hongjoong out of shame. That’s exactly what you did. You were about to slip out, when he cleared his throat.

“Where are you going?” Hongjoong stared at you, brows raised.

You gulped, feeling like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t. “Uhm. I’d hate to bother you further. Didn’t you tell me to have breakfast?”

“I did,” he confirmed, gesturing towards a particular direction of the room. “With me.”

Your brain almost shut off with the information. With him? He rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he stood up and opened the balcony door. Your heart practically leapt out of your chest, you were positive that the breakfast set up there wasn’t present when you woke up. Had he instructed someone to set it up while you were in the bathroom?

This was the first time you were ever going to eat with Hongjoong. Not beside him, not five feet across the room like some barely tolerated shadow. With him. And worse, he was making you so nervous that you felt like you’d forgotten how to walk properly as you followed him out, sitting across him awkwardly, not knowing how to place your stiff limbs properly.

You didn’t even register how your hands trembled until you reached for your fork and nearly knocked it off the table. You were just about to dig in, not knowing what else to do, when he stopped you. “Wait,” Hongjoong halted you brusquely.

“W-What?” You froze, hand still mid-air, wondering if you did something wrong.

Instead of replying, Hongjoong reached over your plate and began digging into your food with his chopsticks. You narrowed your eyes in slight annoyance, ready to mouth at him for possibly controlling what you ate and picking at your food without asking, but your heart dropped to your feet by the time he was lifting his chopsticks back up again.

He picked out a couple of raisins from your plate, setting them on his plate one by one as if this wasn’t the first time he’s done this. You stared, blinking rapidly to stop the sting behind your eyes. “I hate raisins,” you suspiciously pointed out.

He pauses, glances at you once through his lashes, before eating like you didn’t say anything. And suddenly, your chest ached with the weight of all the things he wouldn’t tell you. Before you could open that can of worms, he was already flipping open a folder he had brought to the table, effectively cutting off the topic with the sharp precision he was known for.

“I need you to look at a couple of faces for me,” he said, back in business as usual with his clipped utterrance. He slides the files towards you in one, smooth motion. “It’s imperative that you tell me immediately if you see a familiar looking face.”

You were confused, but you took the folder with ease, flipping through pages and pages of different photos of both men and women alike. Hongjoong staring dead into your soul was distracting, but you were sure you'd never seen these people before. You were going to tell him as such, until you stumbled upon the very last photo.

“Him,” you drawled out, surprised at both the face and yourself for pointing it out. “I’ve seen him before…”

The moment you showed him the photo, the tension in his shoulders snapped into visible rigidity. “Where?” he demanded, his voice sharp and urgent. “Where did you see him?”

Truth be told, you would have forgotten about the man if it wasn’t for this. “I passed through him before I reached the park,” you frowned. “I remember him because he had this weird lip piercing.”

Hongjoong cursed under his breath, making the dread in your chest spread like a disease, before he hastily snatched the folder from your hands, his hands fisting the edge of the folder. “Finish your food, darling,” he said hurriedly, the darkness in his face making you nervous. “We’re going for a little trip downstairs after.”

“I-I don’t understand,” you frowned, doing as he says and stuffing your face with some bread. “You’ve been acting so damn weird lately, I’ve never seen this man in my entire life before yesterday.”

His head turned slightly, those unreadable eyes locking onto you again. “Rather,” he said slowly, voice dipping towards something ominous. “You’ve never paid enough attention.”

You stopped mid-chew to stare at him. This was the longest conversation you’ve had with Hongjoong and the foreboding feeling of potential sinisterness was the first thing he made you think about?

He held your gaze, his fingers curling gently around your chin. His voice dipped to a whisper, low and graveled, brushing across your skin like smoke. "Look closely," he murmured. “I want you to think about why you’re truly here.”

Your brows furrowed. “Because my uncle sold me to you—”

“Think, Y/N. Think,” his tone laced with a cutting sort of irritation. “I know that desiccated, dried-up brain of yours still works.”

You rolled your eyes, the backhanded insult slicing through the tension with a bitter familiarity, but it didn’t lessen the heat brewing behind your ribs. “I owe your uncle absolutely nothing,” he said, letting go of your chin with a scoff. “I could’ve killed him before you even set foot in this house.”

“Have you killed people?” You blurted out before you could stop yourself. He raised a brow like it was a question unworthy of a response. "A-Are you going to kill me?"

“Do you want me to?” Hongjoong countered, tilting his head.

Your blood began to thrum in your ears, anger bubbling up in your chest like acid. “I’m not that stupid, you know,” you whispered, your voice cracking with frustration. “I’m aware there are things I’ve no idea about, but I know what a lie tastes like when it’s shoved in my mouth.”

You looked back at the spread of photos he’d shown you. But something inside you stirred as your gaze landed on the photo again. It was faint, like a memory just out of reach and a sense of recognition that felt older than logic.

“Have you ever wondered,” Hongjoong said slowly. “Why I’ve been so adamant in keeping you here?”

You opened your mouth, but he held up a hand. “No,” he said. “Forget that. Ask yourself this, have you ever wondered why your uncle took you in back then?”

Your heart stopped, but he wasn’t finished. “Surely, he wasn’t the only family you had. Worst of all, of all the people he could have sold you to, it had to be me. I know you’ve done your research on who I am.”

Indeed, you did, and the Kim family was not to be messed around with. Your throat felt like it was closing. You wanted to speak, but your brain was too busy racing through every memory you had, trying to connect dots that refused to sit still. Was your uncle much, much worse than you gave him credit for?

Hongjoong leaned close just enough to make you squirm under the intensity of his focus. The movement was subtle, but it was calculated - a hunter testing the waters, seeing how far he could push without you breaking. “Predators don’t fear prey,” he said. “They fear another predator.”

A scream threatened to bubble from your chest just lying around the surface. His statement echoed in your head far, far worse than a broken record. It was the only thing you could think about the entire time you followed Hongjoong downstairs towards his office. You couldn’t even lament what happened here the last time, the money he threw at you already cleaned up as if they were never thrown at you like dirty rags in the first place.

You didn’t even notice that Mingi and Seonghwa were already in the office, seemingly waiting for the both of you to arrive and such, until Hongjoong started to talk to them again. “This,” he slammed the folder rather harshly on the table directly in front of Seonghwa, who just took it in stride and opened the file. “That snivelling bastard on the last page. I want him gone.”

“And you,” he turned back to you, eyes ablaze with newfound anger you didn’t even know was already there. You raised a defiant brow, why was he looking at you like this was your fault. “You’re not going out anymore, you hear me? Never let me repeat myself.”

You narrowed your eyes, the simmering tension in your bones finally boiling and tipping over into something far more dangerous than you’ve ever felt. Your jaw ached from how hard you were biting down on your tongue, and the polite mask you’d worn like second skin started to peel.

Your feet started to march towards the bane of your existence like a bull who found the red spot. You didn’t even care that Seonghwa’s mouth dropped slightly and he was subtly shaking his head, you still poked Hongjoong’s chest pointedly and boy, you were sure that hurt a little.

“You could at least tell me why,” you snapped, your voice low and trembling with rage. He narrowed his eyes in warning, but you were done caring. “Or is it because you can’t keep your dogs in line? Tightening my leash is the only way you won’t lose control over your goods? Maybe it’s not the outside world you’re afraid of, it’s that someone might realize your entire empire is built on fear.”

Silence. A sharp, immediate silence that sliced through the room like a guillotine. Mingi visibly stiffened, Seonghwa’s face paled, but Hongjoong? He started to laugh. At first it was soft, then it turned into a full-blown laughter so sarcastic, you wanted to cover your ears from the grating sound. “The wolves are at my door, waiting for my empire to fall. I won’t let you destroy it just because you refuse to fall in line, brat,” he sneered.

You laughed, not out of humour. It was cold, sharp, and laced with every ounce of your pent-up exhaustion and rage. “Frankly?” You said, meeting his glare with one of your own. “I don’t give a flying fuck. You want to talk about wolves? Look in the damn mirror, Hongjoong.”

You poked him twice more in his admittedly toned chest, and you did it hard, too, just so he could even an ounce of how heavy he’d made you feel. “I’m not some damsel you could fool around with just because I was thrust here. I won’t roll over just so you can stroke your ego.”

A slow, unreadable flicker crossed his face. His gaze sharpened, but his body relaxed, curious now, as he tilted his head, slowly. His expression didn’t change much, but you saw it, that glint of something deeper. Respect? Amusement? Recognition? “She bites,” Hongjoong murmured, his voice dropping to a note lower, smooth and quiet like a blade sliding from its sheath. He crossed his arms, a ghost of a smirk fleeting on his sinful lips. “Finally.”

He was still watching you, but it wasn’t the same stare anymore. It wasn’t the same power dynamic. You had shifted something, and he had noticed. “You’ve mistaken my compliance with submissiveness,” you replied, your voice steady, your pulse roaring in your ears. “I’m terribly sorry to tell you that you’re wrong.”

Hongjoong’s lips parted slightly, as if that, too, had surprised him. Or pleased him, you couldn’t tell, but when his smirked widened, you almost faltered. You gritted your teeth, cursing whichever God had molded him for making this demon so devilishly handsome, it was maddening.

“That doesn’t negate the point, little darling,” he continued, still sharp as glass. “I built this kingdom with my soul, and I am the king of this goddamn empire. Whether you like it or not, you are in it. ”

“I’ll bow to your king when he shows himself,” you said, clipped and cut. It was a direct dig towards him, it was a deliberate show of disobedience, but you didn’t flinch. You kept your chin up, gaze level as you started to walk away from him for the first time.

The adrenaline didn’t wear off even hours later as you paced around your room in heated anger. But God, that felt good. You’ve never directly expressed your grievances towards someone else like that and now that you’ve gotten a taste of it, you don’t think you could hold your mouth longer around the menace that was Kim Hongjoong. It might get you killed, but at this point, death might be the only salvation you’ll feel.

One was for sure - something had definitely changed ever since that nasty confrontation between the two of you. If before you’ve barely seen even his shadow, lately all you’ve been doing was butt heads with Hongjoong, and man, are you not happy about it.

“Was it you?” Hongjoong marched towards the living room one day with steam coming out of ears. “Did you set the thermostat at twenty-eight?”

“I did,” you sneered, not backing down. “Not everyone in this house has cold, dead blood like you.”

He scoffed in disbelief, pinching his nose bridge. “This isn’t a sauna, go outside where you belong if you’re so cold.”

You watched him stalk towards the thermostat, cranking the heat lower so roughly, you were a bit concerned it would break. Oh no you don’t, you dictating bastard. You got up from the couch, pushing him away to crank the thermostat back to low before giving him the stink eye.

“Fine,” he nodded stiffly, his glare so intense, it had you backing up slightly. “I’m locking it. Don’t expect me to lower it when summer hits.”

It was the littlest of things that set the both of you off, but if you were being completely frank, you more or less enjoyed his annoyed reaction. Serves him right for all the months he put you down.

“You finished all the cookies,” you glared at him heatedly one afternoon, pointing at the plate of half-eaten cookies that lay next to him on the coffee table as he read his newspaper. “I liked those cookies.”

He didn’t even look up from the newspaper. “That’s just too bad, isn’t it?”

You yanked the paper from his hands. “You don’t even like cookies! They were for me.”

“I bought them for the house,” he glared, snatching it back.

“Yeah?” You snarled, snapping your eyes towards the coffee mug you knew he was very, very particular about before a smug grin fills your face.

He stared in disbelief, his eyes widening at what you were about to do. “You insolent brat, don’t you dare—”

But it was too late, you gulped all his coffee in one go. You tried so hard not to grimace at the bitter taste, or else your pride will tank, but the redness in his face from sheer anger made it oh so worth it.

Everyone had definitely noticed at that point. Even the stoic Mingi would give his own father a dirty look whenever he’d catch that both of you mouth off to one another like you were in a damn competition. Woooyung, of course, was nonetheless fascinated about the turn of events.

“You two act like an old married couple, I love it,” he cackled while he ate dinner with you as you glared at Hongjoong’s turned back when he instructed the chef to put more raisins in your plate just to spite you. “I’m slowly getting over how my stepmother will only be like a decade older than me if this is the entertainment I’ll get for the rest of my life.”

You scoffed, grabbing a piece of raisin with a deep frown. “It’s not my fault he’s a petty bastard,” you said, flicking the raisin towards Hongjoong’s ear with an accuracy you didn’t even know.

Wooyoung laughed with you not-so discreetly while San paled ever so slightly at the scorching glare Hongjoong sent your way. “You are something special, Y/N,” he shook his head. “Boss would have had our heads a long, long time ago for something less.”

Unfortunately, you couldn’t fully finish your dinner. The taste of the raisins were so prevalent in the food even when you’ve removed all of them that the taste of it just permeated all over the dish.

You sneaked in the kitchen at two in the morning where you knew no one would be up just so you could ravage in the cupboard for some midnight snack, but you were so wrong. You squeaked, blinking at Hongjoong who was in the middle of drinking water and he blinked back at you.

“Couldn’t sleep from the guilt?” You asked, referring to you not eating dinner. And you knew that he knew, he was watching you the whole time smugly.

“No,” he muttered. “Just the sound of your attitude echoing through the halls.”

You snorted. “Wow. You’re real original for someone who thinks being emotionally constipated is a personality trait.”

He scoffed, shaking his head as he walked past you towards the exit. “Don’t hog all the snacks,” he brushed with your shoulder and it sent a zing of electricity through your spine. “Money isn’t as easy to come by, yes?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re good at it,” you countered with a snarl. “If being a raging psycho and asshole was your living, no wonder you’re filthy rich. Let’s not even mention your head count.”

You blinked as he walked back toward you. He stopped in front of you, his hands coming to rest beside your waist on the counter, trapping you. “Would you like to know my head count?” He asked, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I’d love to add you to that roster.”

You tried to breathe, his face was so close, your noses nearly brushed. His eyes dropped to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up. “Because I’ve been real patient,” he muttered. “But I’m tired of your mouth lately.”

And as quickly as he’d closed in, he pulled away with a sharp inhale, the smirk curling wider as he turned on his heel. “Sleep tight, darling,” he tossed over his shoulder, voice laced with poison and something dangerously sweet.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving behind blush on your cheeks, the thundering of your heart, and the faint scent of him clinging to your skin.

Usually, your banters were harmless. Dare anyone say that even though Hongjoong got under your skin, you’ve never felt more alive than you did whenever you’d cross paths with him. You didn’t know what it was; maybe it was because that finally, he wasn’t avoiding you like the plague even though nothing nice came from that mouth of his.

But this time, you didn’t know what completely set the both of you off. You just wanted to have lunch like normal, and today was very different, too. Usually you’d eat with one or two people only as everyone’s schedules didn’t quite align, but this time, even Seonghwa and Wooyoung were at the dining table.

You were laughing at something that Jongho had mentioned when Hongjoong’s cutting voice rang around the table. “Can you shut your mouth?” He snapped, cluttering his utensils against his paperwork. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”

You rolled your eyes. Ever since he got off a phone call he got before everyone started eating, he’s been in a horrible mood. “Get off the damn table if you can’t handle basic human interaction,” you snapped back.

He stared you down, voice ice sharp. “You’re not clever. You’re a loud, useless distraction and an irritation everyone’s sick of pretending to tolerate.”

“Father, stop it,” Mingi, who sat at Hongjoong’s left, shot back, eyeing the older man with warning. He turned to you and you almost faltered. How is it that his son was more intimidating than him? “And you. You’re not helping.”

“No, let her,” Hongjoong scoffed. “No wonder your uncle gave you away. You’re nothing but a liability.”

Patience was a trait you had that you were proud of, but not today. You can barely contain yourself, because that was a low, even for him. I'm sick to death of swallowing every single thing I'm fed. You slammed your hands on the table, rising swiftly, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. Everyone’s eyes followed you, wide and stunned. “Oh, give me a break, you belligerent, deluded, pompous prick,” you barked. The room stilled. You hadn’t raised your voice, but the words hung in the air like glass about to shatter.

Even Hongjoong seemed to falter a bit before his eyes narrowed once more. “Have you lost your fucking mind?” He yelled so loud it echoed through the halls, making everyone flinch. “Watch your tone, you ill-mannered disgrace—”

You scoffed in disbelief. “That’s tough shit coming from you who’s done nothing but make me miserable here.”

“That sounds like a you problem, darling,” Hongjoong’s eyes ticked.

“Well, to that, I say you're a cunt—” you were about to say, but your voice caught in your throat, the fierce words dying on your lips as a wave of dizziness swept over you. You faltered, mid-step, your knees threatening to give out.

He scoffed, the sharp edge of his haughtiness cutting through the silence. “Giving up already?” Hongjoong sneered with a smirk that promised he didn’t believe you had the strength to stand your ground.

No, this was different than anything you’ve felt before. Your breathing became laboured, the suddenness of it threatening the bile in your stomach to rise from your throat. You grabbed the nearest thing you could hold on to, but your grip slipped. “Hold on,” San balked, grabbing your arm in mild concern before his face shifted. “Y/N, are you okay?”

No, I’m not, you wanted to say, looking straight at Hongjoong just as your steps wobbled and your vision blurred. It was when his expression cracked, panic flickered across his face, eyes widening with sudden concern, breath hitching as he reached out instinctively.

But before he could reach you, Jongho was there, his strong arms catching you just in time. “Y/N? Oh, God,” he tapped your cheeks hardly, but to no avail, your eyes were closing. “Stay awake, fuck—”

Hongjoong’s face, the devastated, unsettled look you weren’t ready to see, and the way he grabbed your body was the last thing you registered before darkness swallowed you whole, but not before you heard Seonghwa mutter one word that would have made you faint regardless.

“Poison.”

All you could feel was pain. It hurt to try to move your limbs, it was more reminiscent of bones grinding against each other sharply against sandpaper, it hurt to take the smallest gulp of breath, hell, it hurt to even blink. It was like that car accident after your graduation all over again. Why did death love chasing after you? And why didn’t you chase it back?

But this time was different. You weren’t in a hospital bed, there were no nurses around, and there was none of that sterile scent you hated so much. Rather, there was warmth - warmth so comforting, you couldn’t help but snuggle into it, burying your head in hopes for the ache to go away.

“Fuck’s sake, It’s been days, why hasn’t she woken up yet?”

Even you could feel your subconscious frown at what you heard. Days. And you didn’t even feel better about it. “Give her time, Joong. I mean, look at her, so frail—”

“Frail, my ass,” a rough, familiar voice snapped just as you felt your arms being squeezed so tight, it would have woken you up if you hadn’t already. “She’s my little fighter, poison isn’t going to break her. Have you not heard the way she talks back to me?”

A deep laughter resonated through the entire room. It wasn’t quite like Mingi’s - not that Hongjoong Jr. would ever act normal around you - no, but this was richer, familiar, even. If you could just open your eyes and see.

“I see she hasn’t changed. Good to know you’re getting your money’s worth, Dad. You should go eat something. Anyway, I need a complete rundown, Hwa. I didn’t fly here for nothing, and I need to go back soon. The longer I stay, the more danger we attract.”

The warmth you had disappeared followed by a door closing nearby. Silence envelops the room and the familiar sigh of Seonghwa fills it. “Well, like we said, it’s poison. Someone who isn’t supposed to be here is here.”

“But how? What are the odds? It could’ve been anyone at that dining table. You think it’s Yoo Jaehwan?”

“Who else? To do it not only in his house, but right in front of Hongjoong’s face…whoever did it is asking for death.”

“Should’ve seen your father’s face,” San clicked his tongue. “I swear something inside him died.”

“Well, fuck, maybe because she could’ve died?” The familiar, deeper voice counteracted with a sass that knocked in your memory. “Because that’s not just a wife he’s protecting, that’s someone he’d burn the world for.”

“Anyhow. We should come back later. I have to check on your father to see if he’s eating or I might have to get your older brother to tie him up or something.”

Half of that conversation went through your head. You weren’t a total idiot, you knew what most of it entailed, but all you could think about was the missing warmth that enveloped you. You forced yourself to come to, your weak arms supporting your upper body as you tried to sit up. It was hell as your eyelids fluttered open against a dull ache pounding in your skull, but you needed to move your stiff limbs before they started to throb from prolonged unuse.

Just then, the door opened. Silently, carefully, like doing so would trigger another bout of faintness in you and you were met with the surprised eyes of Hongjoong. He froze in the doorway like he’d walked in on something sacred.

For a moment, he just stood there, unmoving. Then, the tension in his shoulders released slightly, only to be replaced by something else entirely - pure, unadulterated relief. You didn’t have to touch him to know that he was the warmth that kept you stabilized the entire time you rested.

He started to walk toward you in slow, controlled steps. His glasses were gone, his hair a mess, and there was a tremble in the hand that rolled up the sleeves of his unusually wrinkled shirt like he’d been gripping it in fistfuls.

Most of all, his eyes were tired. He sat on the bed next to you, his eyes never leaving yours, and you thought that was it. You certainly weren’t prepared for the way he lightly gripped your shoulders to pull you into a hug, and just like that, the warmth you’ve been craving for had returned.

“Get off,” you rasped weakly, but your voice betrayed the fight you didn’t have in you. Still, your pride flared, because nothing stung more than collapsing in front of him.

He didn’t budge. “Don’t even try,” he said through clenched teeth, his arms tightening around you. “Stay still and let me have this even for a moment.”

It was in the way he gripped you too tightly, in the quiet desperation of that whispered please. You didn’t even realize he was trembling slightly. His arms weren’t caging you, rather, he was a man holding on to you as if he was sinking at the bottom of the ocean and you were the balance he needed to stay afloat.

Pride be damned. You wrapped your arms around him, silent tears falling from your eyes as you held onto him. This was all you wanted, what you didn’t have back then when you had nobody. The prospect of never waking up was settling into you and you didn’t have enough strength to keep holding it in together.

“I’m still angry at you,” you sniffled.

“Get angrier. The sooner you get your strength back, the sooner you can talk back again like the brat you are,” he shushed, the tremble in his hand now visible at the way he smoothed the damp strands away from your face along with your tears.

“As touching as this is, I believe we have more pressing matters at hand.”

You tried to pull away, but Hongjoong wasn’t letting you - though if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t even really want to - so you opted to look over your shoulder at the source of the voice.

Hongjoong groaned when you pushed him away, your breath caught in your throat. Your eyes widened slowly, your hand flying up to cover your mouth in shock. “Y-Yeosang?” You whispered, like saying his name too loud might shatter the fragile reality in front of you.

The man in question stood from the plush armchair, casual in his posture but carrying an unmistakable grin, one you hadn’t seen in years. “The one and only,” Yeosang said with a lopsided smile, walking toward you. “How have you been, Miss Jeong?”

You stared at him in disbelief, the air knocked clean from your lungs. “I-I haven’t seen you since…” your voice faltered, because the rest of that sentence hung heavy in your throat.

Yeosang seemed to know what you meant without you saying it, because his expression softened as he gently pulled you into a hug. “Y-You’re the last person I expected to see here,” you mumbled against his shoulder, pulling back to get a proper look at him. “Wait, what are you doing here?”

The both of you turned around to look at Hongjoong when he cleared his throat. “You wretch,” he looked pointedly at Yeosang with a bitter scowl. “Aren’t you supposed to be down there with everyone?”

Yeosang scoffed, rolling his eyes so dramatically you were surprised they didn’t get stuck up his skull. “You were the one who called me and threatened to cut my allowance if I didn’t fly here soon,” he deadpanned as he pulled away from you to stand up. “Relax, she was my mentor. I’m allowed to say hello, Dad.”

Your eyes flew between the two men in shock. “Dad?” You blurted out. “How many kids do you have? Because holy sh—”

“Soon to be two if this one doesn’t shut his trap,” Hongjoong hissed. “I can still cut your allowance, Kang Yeosang. Don’t test me.”

“Oh, please. You need me,” he chuckled sarcastically, tapping on the stethoscope he had around his neck that you didn’t notice was there. You stared at him proudly, remembering the young Yeosang who always told you of his dreams to become a doctor one day back then.

“Anyway, you need to get out of here, Dad,” Yeosang said in urgency. “Mingi will take care of everything. It’s good training for the future, anyway. We need to purge your staff and I need to test every single surface of the manor to see if there’s more antifreeze contamination.”

Goosebumps erupted on your skin. Antifreeze. It was how you found yourself saying goodbye to Yeosang, with the promise of catching up as soon as everything was safe, and then the others before you were dressing up to go with Hongjoong to his supposed safe house.

“I can walk, you know?” You frowned when Hongjoong walked beside you the whole time, steadying you with a firm hold on your elbow. You hated how flustered it made you - how close he was, how natural it felt.

He glanced at you once, opting to ignore you as he opened the car door for you. But just before you could step in, he stilled. Hongjoong plucked a single sunflower and he tucked it carefully behind your ear. His eyes didn’t meet yours, but his touch lingered longer than necessary.

Your heart stuttered so sharply it almost hurt. It fluttered against your ribs, traitorous and soft, the way it always did when he did something gentle without meaning to. The warmth of his fingers near your cheek lingered longer than the sunflower itself.

He helped you into the backseat, settled beside you without hesitation, and closed the door. You thought he’d pull away once the engine started. You thought he’d sit back in his own thoughts like always.

But he didn’t. He pulled you close, gently but without question, and you leaned against his chest. His arm wrapped around you, fingers curling slightly against your side, grounding you. He held you the entire ride. And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest quieted.

“Where are we going?” You couldn’t help but ask, giving in to what your body currently needed and letting yourself lean onto his firm chest for once.

“Must you always ask irrelevant questions?” Hongjoong sighed.

You scoffed softly, thumping on his chest lightly. “How do I know you’re not leading me to my death?“

“Are you stupid?” Hongjoong snapped, his eyes widening slightly in irritation. You met them with an equal force of annoyance. He sighed exasperatedly, already sick of your antics. “One of my rest houses. It’s on the far end of the city, almost near the suburbs. You should sleep.”

“Would you still hold me when I wake up?” You croaked, not knowing what you were thinking when you blurted the words out.

His thumb, which had been idly brushing against your arm, stilled. You didn’t dare look up, didn’t even breathe, until you felt the slow, deliberate way his hand curled tighter around you. “Yes, darling,” he murmured, fixing the flower on your ear before fixing your hair.

It was infuriating, really, how a man who so easily sliced you open with his words could undo you completely with a simple touch. Your pulse betrayed you, and you didn’t dare look at him, afraid he might see just how deeply that one small act had shaken you.

You couldn’t sleep, not after that. Not while Hongjoong held you in his arms the entire time, his hand brushing your hair away from your face every fifteen minutes and he did so until the car stopped moving and he was helping you get down again.

“Easy, there,” he frowned when you took the wrong step and almost tripped.

“Don’t pretend you care now,” you raised a brow, even as your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his shirt.

“I don’t,” he said too quickly, too defensively. But he was still holding you like you were made of glass and you couldn’t help but fist the front of Hongjoong’s shirt. He didn’t push you away and neither did you pull away.

Surprisingly, the rest house was of modest stature, situated in the middle of a small town. It was smart, blending in would be easy. It was simple and cozy, there was the typical small kitchen, a bathroom, and one bedroom with one bed. You stared. Hongjoong stared back.

“We’ll manage,” he said as he set the bags down, looking away and avoiding eye contact. “It’s easier to keep an eye on you this way.”

You opened your mouth to object, but your mouth wasn’t cooperating with your mouth today. “I-I'd love to sleep with you,” you blurted out without thinking.

Hongjoong froze mid-step, one brow raising with almost comical precision. It would’ve been endearing since you’ve never seen the usually poised man this caught-off guard before, but right now, you wanted to dig a hole, crawl in it, and never see the light of day again.

“I mean sleep as in literally sleep–I didn’t, I meant to say I don’t mind sleeping with you, uh, literally—oh my God,” you stammered, hands flying up to cover your face in pure panic.

“Why don’t you, uh, relax on the balcony while I do this?” Hongjoong said, and you didn’t miss the smirk on his face as he turned back to the bag he was unpacking.

You slept facing opposite sides that night. But somehow, the air between you was tighter than before. You lay stiffly on your back, eyes on the ceiling, acutely aware of every tiny shift in the sheets with each of his movements. “Can you stop fidgeting too much?” Hongjoong clicked his tongue. “I’m not going to eat you.”

You scoffed softly. “You don’t hear me complain about your awful breathing sounds.”

“You want me to stop breathing, then?”

“That’s literally not what I said,” you turned sharply toward him, only to find him already watching you. The two of you blinked at each other in silence. Eventually, you turned away again, cheeks burning, pulling the covers over your head.

You tried to find a comfortable position to sleep on, tossing and turning until your body felt right, but when the right angle had your leg up on Hongjoong’s by accident, he didn’t move, and neither did you.

And when you woke up the next day with your arm wrapped around his chest with his own arm cradling your head to his neck, you both didn’t say a word about it, but he didn’t move, and neither did you. “Hongjoong,” you rasped, half of your brain still dead from the world. “...Joong.”

“Hmm?” He hummed huskily from sleep, the vibrations of his chest traveling straight to your spine.

“I’m hungry,” you said. “Haven’t eaten since last night.”

You felt him turn his head, his lips touching your hairline directly, the warmth of it searing on your skin. “Five more minutes,” he replied hoarsely. “Can you do that for me?”

You nod groggily while he molded you closer to him, your cheek pressing just a little firmer to the warm space beneath his collarbone. “Good girl,” he whispered softly, low, and utterly wrecked by sleep.

Your body tensed like someone had just poured ice water down your head. Your eyes snapped open as you felt your throat tighten, not daring to move or breathe too loud. You just lay there, heart hammering wildly in your chest, trying to pretend like you hadn’t just short-circuited. “Are you drinking my coffee?” he snapped at you the next day, catching sight of your cup. “Again?”

Just like that, the both of you were back to bickering like normal. “It’s not my fault you bought me that shitty sugar-free crap that tastes like nothing,” you said, sipping smugly. “Plus, your coffee tastes better.” He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes in annoyance. “It’s black with three shots of espresso. You can’t handle that.” “I can handle you, can’t I? Nothing worse than that.” He scoffed loudly in disbelief, muttering about how the younger generation was disrespectful before he snatched the cup and handed you a water bottle instead. “Hydrate before you pass out on me.”

You frowned, fully irritated at your caffeine being stolen. “Hey, I wasn’t don—” “And you call that breakfast?” He looked pointedly at your sad-looking toast. “It’s no wonder why I mistake your brain for an ornament sometimes.” You didn’t even get a chance to shoot back at his arrogance before he rolled his eyes but took your plate, setting down a neatly packed bento box. “Eat something that’s actually worth eating. Fuck’s sake, do I really have to do everything around here?”

The both of you went on like that for days, and as maddening as Hongjoong was, you were somehow thankful for how normal everything felt, though now, the change between you and Hongjoong was starting to become evident.

“How long would it take for you to clean this entire house?” He asked one day out of the blue. He stared disapprovingly at the phone in your hand. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was riling you up just to get a reaction out of you.

Your eyes ticked, but you didn’t look up at him. “It depends on how many helpers you want me to hire.”

“Why would you hire cleaners?” Hongjoong frowned.

“You asked.”

He scoffed, clearly displeased at the response. “No, I asked you. If you’re going to live here, you might as well do something that lessens the burden you put on me.”

“I did,” you shot back, finally looking up, mildly offended at the insinuation. “I made you dinner every night, one that you refused to eat.”

“Who told you I didn’t?” He raised a brow. Your expression froze, but before you could say anything, he waved a hand. “Anyway, you still need to clean. If I’m paying for your shit, I need something in return.”

Your mind was still reeling at the things unsaid between the lines. “Why the hell would I be doing free labour for you?”

“Well—”

You cut him off, refusing to go down. “I just got poisoned, in case you forgot. I should be resting, for God’s sake.”

“And I took you here to recuperate,” he replied sarcastically. “What now, then?”

“What about the times I had to deal with your grumpy ass? I don’t see you paying for my mental state.” You retorted back, putting your phone away to stand up to him.

He paused, blinking repeatedly in thought. “I could get you a therapist.”

“Yes,” you smiled brightly, a little too brightly. “I could also hire helpers to clean this house.”

His ears and neck redden in sheer frustration, and from here, you could see his mind malfunction slowly. “Shut up,” he muttered, refusing to admit you one-upped him.

“Well, why don’t you shut me up, then?”

You stilled, realizing what you just insinuated. His lips quirked, smug and amused, like he’d won a round you didn’t realize you were playing as he shook his head.

The nighttimes weren’t any better either. It was like bickering was both of yours’ defense mechanisms. “Turn off the light,” you yawn from under the covers.

“You turn it off,” Hongjoong replies from his side, brows raised in defiance. “You got in bed last.”

You groan, swing your legs over dramatically, but just as you reach the switch, the light clicks off behind you. You turn and find Hongjoong smirking, holding a small remote control in his hand. “We’re supposed to be a team here,” you hissed. “There is no “I” in team.”

“No, but there is in idiot,” he grinned.

Your mouth dropped, charging at him to hit him over and over again with a pillow, and he didn’t even let out a single sound as he deflected your so-called attacks. You huffed, trying to push off him, but the sheets had other plans. And truth be told, so did some strange, traitorous part of you.

Eventually, you both gave up, tangled under the blankets, breaths evening out against shared warmth. Once again, neither of you moved. In the hush that followed, you felt his thumb barely brush against your arm where it rested across his chest. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

And it would have stayed like that if it weren’t for the heavy weight that settled on your chest in the middle of the night. Literally. When you opened your eyes, an arm was pressing down your chest and you were met with Hongjoong’s glaring eyes.

“What—”, you were about to say when he covered your mouth hurriedly. He puts his finger to his lip to shush you and in your peripheral, you could see his arm slowly raising up a gun as he pointed at the door. Your eyes widen and your heart drops - someone was in the house.

Hongjoong didn’t say a word. He shifted, slow and precise, the mattress barely creaking as he slipped off it and tiptoed towards the door. You clutched the sheets to your chest, your breath lodged somewhere in your throat as the door clicked open. It was silent; too silent.

Bang. Bang. Pause. Bang. Bang.

Your ears rang. You flinched with each shot, your hands shaking as you sat in the dark, unable to move, unable to breathe. You shut your eyes, covering your eyes to will all the sounds to stay distant, the reality of who Hongjoong was dawning on you. It was just a couple of weeks ago when you asked him whether he had killed or not.

The door creaked open again, slower this time. You jumped, expecting the worst, but Hongjoong stepped in quietly, expression unreadable, but the blood spattered across his cheek told you more than words ever could. The gun was nowhere to be found.

He didn’t speak as he walked to the bed, just sat down at the edge and looked at you, eyes searching. You reached out, wiping the blood off gently. He closed his eyes at the touch, but it was enough. No words were exchanged, and there was nothing either of you could say that would ease the fear that settled in your gut.

So instead, he slipped under the covers again, pulled you into his chest, arms wound tightly around your body, trembling just a little. You closed your eyes, your hands digging onto his hand so hard, your fingertips might as well embed themselves on his skin.

“I wish my creator would tenderly wrap me in their own clothes to keep me sane and protected,” you murmured in the silence of the night. “God has abandoned us and my uncle was a cruel substitute.”

“Should we choose to remain here together, would you forget the world that’s waiting outside?” Hongjoong’s hand held yours just as tight. ”Would you let the world fall away, if only for a while?” The world has fallen the moment I set my eyes on you. You nodded, shivering when he tucked a finger under your chin, pulling your face closer to his to press the softest of kisses upon your lips as if the both of you had been holding your breath for years, and this, it was the first exhale. If only for a while.

You woke to an emptiness you hadn’t expected. The bed was still warm where he’d lain, but without Hongjoong’s arms around you, you felt oddly cold. But that wasn’t what woke you up. It was the voices that came from the living room, one of which was Hongjoong’s, and you didn’t have to listen in to know that he was in a heated argument with someone.

You tiptoed out quietly, careful not to make a sound, peeking from behind the hallway wall. Hongjoong lounged on the couch like it was his throne, legs spread, an elbow draped over the armrest with a smirk that screamed arrogance, like danger wrapped in lazy elegance.

The man standing in front of him, however, was anything but calm. He was tall, broad-shouldered, about the same age as Hongjoong, and radiating heat like a bonfire about to explode. His fists were clenched at his sides, jaw tight with restraint.

“You’ve got some nerve,” the stranger ground out. “Keeping her hidden this whole time like some secret you planned to hoard. If my men didn’t hear the gunshots the other day, I wouldn’t have known, you sick fuck.”

Your breath hitched. They were talking about you. Hongjoong chuckled, crossing his legs exaggeratedly. “The only regret I have is that I didn’t bring suppressors. We would have been out of here before you knew it. ”

“You bastard,” the tall man gritted his teeth, stepping closer to Hongjoong. “This is my territory, you don’t get to waltz in here with my niece and pretend I wouldn’t kill you for it.”

Your ears rang at two words - territory and niece. This man was in the same business as Hongjoong was, and apparently you were this man’s niece. Slowly, you stepped out from behind the hallway wall, the silence in the room growing razor-sharp with each step.

Hongjoong’s back stiffened, but the other man’s posture tenses completely at the sight of you. “Y/N,” he whispered, as if disbelieving he was seeing you in the flesh. “It’s really you…”

You stared at the man closely. He looked familiar, it clawed at the edges of a memory you didn’t know you still had. It wasn’t the way he moved; it was the way his eyes mirrored someone else’s eyes that you thought you’d never see again after all these years - your father’s.

And then, it hits you. You remembered the way his huge hands held yours every time he offered to babysit when both of your parents worked. His younger, puppy-like features were slowly coming to life in your head. “Uncle Yunho,” you blurted, eyes wide.

Yunho’s head jerked up, like he hadn’t dared hope you'd remember. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “It’s me, kid.”

Your knees nearly buckled, threatening to fall under the weight of the missing family that you could have had instead of your other uncle. Hongjoong was immediately by your side, catching you in his arms and holding you close and sitting you down beside him. “You can’t just come barging in here like you did,” he hissed. “You’re in my house, I could kill you and no one would know.”

“I’m her blood, you blithering fool,” Yunho’s lips twisted into fury. “You’re the idiot that dragged her into this mess when she had a family - me.”

Hongjoong’s expression darkened. “You weren’t there---”

“And you think you were the better option?” Yunho growled. “You’re like, what? A good thirteen years or so older than her? You’re too damn old to be with her!”

That made Hongjoong stand, slow and deliberate, his stance loose but lethal. “And who the fuck are you to tell me that? You weren’t there when shit hit the fan, don’t get too cocky now.”

“I would have been if you didn’t hide her from me,” Yunho scowled bitterly.

You barely registered your own shallow breathing, still stuck on the fact that your father’s older brother was there all along. All this time, you thought you were alone - that you had no one. Yunho’s eyes followed the sound, and when he saw you, all the anger on his face softened instantly.

He was about to walk towards you, but Hongjoong quickly raised a hand to stop him. “One more step and I swear I’ll end you right here,” he snarled. If you weren’t sitting beside him, you wouldn’t have noticed the way his eyes shifted into something a little more desperate.

Yunho scoffed, crossing his arms. “I wouldn’t act like this if I were you, Kim. You’ve had her in your manor all this time. By mafia standards, you should’ve married her within the first month. Why haven’t you? Did you want to keep her locked up like a secret no one else can touch? Or are you just dragging her through the mud?”

You flinched, the implication sinking in like stones in your gut. You immediately locked eyes with Hongjoong whose expression dropped, shaking his head ever so slightly as you stared at each other. That was right, why hasn’t Hongjoong married you yet? Come to think of it, the both of you haven’t even talked about anything marriage related - the date, the venue, the vows—hell, not even a promise.

Just tension, stolen touches, sleepless nights and a thousand unsaid things hanging heavy in the air. You swallowed thickly, trying not to let the sting of Yunho’s words show, but it was too late. Or worse, was he planning to secretly give you back to your uncle after all?

“Don’t listen to him,” he said tightly, crossing the room in three strides. His arm wrapped around you possessively, like shielding you from Yunho would shield you from the doubt unraveling in your chest. “She’s mine, Jeong. Get lost. It’s not like that, and you know it.”

Yunho’s lips pressed into a thin line. But he relented, lifting his hands in a gesture of peace. “Fine,” he muttered, then turned to you, his expression softening. “I’ll be back.”

You hesitated as you watched your uncle walk away, but something tugged at your heart. You pried yourself free from Hongjoong’s tight, possessive arms, despite his protests, to run as fast as you could to follow Yunho out. The chill of the morning rain bit at your skin as you stepped into the yard. “Wait, please!”

Yunho turned to face you fully. The hardness melted from his face, and in its place was something unbearably gentle. He completely halted in his steps, letting the rain soak through as he watched your pitiful form catch up to him. “Y/N–”

“There’s something I don’t understand,” you murmured, voice unsure. “I-I needed you when I was alone, I had no one. But why now? Why didn’t you ever come for me?”

He sighed, taking his trench coat off to gingerly put it over your head as a deterrent for the pouring rain. “I did,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I did. I never stopped. Even if I didn’t find you here, I still wouldn’t have stopped.”

And that, that was what broke you. Tears filled your eyes, sadness and relief pouring over you in waves. “Are you…in the same business as Hongjoong?” You asked wearily. “Were my parents?”

He pursed his lips, patting your head. It made your tears flow faster. Yunho had your father’s face, albeit older and more rounded. “There are so many things you don’t know,” he said softly. “Things you would have if you would’ve been with me when your parent’s died. It’s better this way. I’m still enraged that that bastard hid you from me, but he’ll keep you safe.”

But what did you know at this point? It was what plagued your mind the entire walk inside the house after Yunho had left after promising to catch up on lost time. You clutched the wet, dripping coat that still carried Yunho’s familiar scent in your hands that wrapped around your senses, nostalgia hitting you full-force.

You didn’t look up at Hongjoong, the haze of all the memories - of what could have been - attacking your mind. “Why didn’t you tell me?” You began, voice cracking, looking up at him with emotionless eyes. “You knew and—”

“Would you have gone with him if you knew?” Hongjoong cut off, the familiar sharpness in his eyes pinning you from where you stood.

“I don’t know that,” you replied sarcastically. “How could I give you something I had no idea about the entire time?”

“Oh, for the love of fucking God, Y/N. This, this is what pisses me off about you the most,” he snapped, stepping close, his gaze darkening. “Contrary to your belief, I’m not as callous as you deem me to be, and there are reasons for the things that I do around here—”

“And what about me?” Your hands balled at your sides. “What about the life I was robbed of? You don’t know what I’ve been through, you prick, the things that I had to endure. Yunho was right - you don’t want to marry me, in fact, you fucking hate me, don’t you? I didn’t even want any of this in the first place!” For the first time, Hongjoong’s expression fell, and you didn’t know what to feel about it. He was a beautiful man with a soul full of venom and a heart you weren’t convinced actually beat, but right now, his expression only told you one thing - I do, I do know what you’ve been through. His hand twitched at his side, and the muscle in his jaw jumped. “Don’t you dare say that.”

“Why not?” You seethed, shoving him backward with both hands. “Because it’s true, isn’t it? You had no plans in marrying me, but then again I was nothing but sold goods to you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up killing me in a ditch somewhere—”

Something snapped in him. He pushed you back until you stumbled against the wall. The air was electric. “Shut your mouth,” he seethed, but his voice was breaking, furious and wounded all at once. “You would have gone with Yunho, I don’t want you to go with him. You faltered, taken aback by how possessive he sounded. "I don’t need to see you walking away from me when we had just begun. You want to know why I didn’t tell you? I’ve already given up enough and I’m not giving you up again.”

Again? He just stood there, panting, one hand curled in a fist over his chest like the words had ripped something open in him. “You wouldn’t understand,” he snarled, shaking his head vehemently. “You never do.”

The silence afterward was deafening. You stared at him, chest heaving, tears hot and furious in your eyes, the confusion swirling in your head even more. It might be part of why your mouth moved on its own in either the best or worst decision of your life. “So make me,” you whispered in quiet desperation. “I’m so tired of being kept in the dark, I know you’re hiding things from me, make me understand—-”

He surged forward without warning, cupping your jaw as his mouth found yours like it had been searching, starving, waiting across lifetimes. The kiss was bruising, breath-stealing like he needed to taste the ache in your throat and the anger in your blood just to prove you were real. You gasped against him, and it was his undoing.

Your back hit the wall again, but it didn’t matter anymore. Not when his lips softened slightly, tracing the corner of your mouth like an apology. Not when his breath was hot and reverent against your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His forehead fell against yours, both of you breathless. “Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice shaking as his thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kiss. “Tell me now and I will.”

But your fingers were already curling into his shirt, pulling him close. “I can’t,” you whispered, voice wavering. “Don’t make me.”

And that was all it took. Your lips refused to part from his as he pulled you to the couch, there was no way the both of you were reaching the bedroom, your clothes slowly peeling themselves away from your bodies all the while your tongues clashed against one another. His hands roamed with reverence, memorizing every tremble, every sigh. You didn’t know where you ended and he began - just that the space between your bodies was no longer enough.

“Oh, fuck,” his lust-addled voice sounded through the hush whispers of the intimacy you both found yourselves in. “You’re beautiful, I knew you’d be, fuck…”

You couldn’t even have the nerve to cover your naked body as you stood in front of him; not when he was looking at you like you were the only salvation left in a world gone mad. He grabbed your hips, positioning you until you were straddling him as he sat plush on the couch. “You don’t have to do a thing, darling, I’ll take care of you,” he pressed a thumb on your swollen lips. “Would you let me?”

You nodded, feeling feverish in your head as he placed his hand on your hips, his hardness poking you in the spot where you wanted him the most. “Y-Yeah,” you said. “Please, I-I need you.”

The world could wait. Right now, it was just the two of you both bared, bruised, and still reaching for each other in the dark. He lifted your hips up, lowering you slowly onto his aching cock until your foreheads were clashing with each other. “Y/N,” he whispered, straining, summoning chills through your ears. “I’ll make it up to you next time, I’m not going to last. It’s been a while for me.”

You tilted your head, biting your lips to stop the lewd sounds threatening to come out from you. “W-What do you mean? You haven’t been with o-others?”

Hongjoong shook his head with an earnest smile. “No. Why would I when I have you?”

Your eye contact didn’t break even when Hongjoong pushed your plump ass to grind on him, your eyes fluttering shut as you moaned out earnestly. Your fingers tangled in his hair, his breath warm at your collarbone, and when his name left your lips, it prompted him to snap his hips up to meet your grinding.

“Hongjoong, ngh, fuck,” you gasped out, mouth slacked open at the force of his thrusts, your breasts bouncing their way freely at the pace he set. “H-Hongjoong—Joong.”

You both finally let yourselves feel it all. Not just the passion, but the ache of the longing between you both. You held his face between your hands when his eyes fluttered closed, and for once, he looked unguarded. “Mmm, ah, yes, yes, yes,” were all the sounds you could make amidst the skin slapping against skin as Hongjoong continuously pulled you up and down on his cock. “More?” Hongjoong’s voice trembled at the pleasure clouding his brain. “You can’t leave me, alright? Not when I’m making you feel so good like this.”

You nodded, mouth still open, snapping your eyes close in the pleasure of Hongjoong’s nails digging in your hips, scratching a line all the way to your chest until his hands were grabbing onto both of your plush tits. “So fucking good,” he growled, his other hand traveling to your head, grabbing your hair. “Come here.”

Your lips met into a feverish kiss, your heated moans of lust and longing being swallowed by Hongjoong’s sinful mouth, and when you subconsciously squeeze his impaling cock, it was his turn to groan into your lips and bite onto your lower lip until you opened to let his wild tongue mess with yours. The moans that fell from the both of you created a dizzying sound in combination of the wet tongue kiss and the slapping of his balls up your ass.

“Touch me, please,” you begged, grabbing onto his hand down to your throbbing clit. “T-Touch m-me, I need to come, Joong, p-please.”

“Fuck, you’re going to be the death of me,” he groaned, immediately drawing circles on your swollen bud, instantly drawing a garbled scream from you. “That’s it, baby, fuck me. Ride my fucking cock, yes.”

You had not once paused from bouncing, continues fucking yourself ardently onto his thick, intruding cock until you were nothing but a senseless doll. “You don’t understand how long I’ve wanted this,” he rasped, his voice rough and uneven, his lips kissing and sucking every surface of your skin he could claim.

“I’ve wanted you long before the day you looked me in the eye at that dining table. Each day was a risk I couldn’t afford to take, but God, I wanted you anyway. Every day. In every fucking way.”

He kissed you again, deeper, needier. It wasn’t just hunger - it was reprieve. Years of restraint burning away in the heat of a single truth finally spoken aloud. You were what he wanted. Always had been.

“Joong, a-ah, that feels so good,” you moaned out, all sense of mind gone from the feeling of him finally ravishing you the way you always wanted. “Just like that, say my name,” he gritted out, cupping your face tenderly in contrast to this thrusts, his eyes lidded and desperate. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say my damn name, baby, please, I’m begging you.”

“Hongjoong,” you let out, loud and clear. His cock twitched in your cunt, but you weren’t done yet. This was a man you had no problem seeing all of you. “Hongjoong, Hongjoong, Hongjoong.”

Soon enough, you exploded. It wasn’t the delicious rubbing of his fingertips in between young legs that or how deep his cock fucked that undid you, though that was a huge factor, but it was the way he kissed you, the way he looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky for him to admire. “Oh, I’m com—Hongjoong, Joong, Joong—”

Hongjoong didn’t last much longer. With his final thrusts, Hongjoong lifted his hips to fuck into you until all the both of you had was mind-blowing blankness fulled with heat and lust. Overstimulation coiled in your groin as your eyes rolled in the back of your head, your little whimpers spurring Hongjoong on until he came with a loud groan and spilled inside of you.

Everything slowed down with you slumped completely onto Hongjoong’s rising chest, meeting yours as you both tried to catch your breaths. The sex was fast, but it was all the both of you needed. “Good girl,” he whispered, turning your face to his for a quick kiss. “My good girl—hey, you don’t have to move yet, stay.”

You pulled out anyway, whimpering slightly at the sensation of Hongjoong’s cum dripping onto your thighs as you bent down to give him a kiss in return before sitting comfortably on his lap and laying your head on his chest, resting your head onto the crook of his neck as his arm quickly wrapped around you protectively. “It’s okay,” you whispered, your eyes slowly closing, your breath evening.

“You want to stay like this?” Hongjoong asked fondly, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your back.

But for naught. Sleep had caught on to you and the last thing you felt was Hongjoong carrying you as he chuckled affectionately at your drowsy state. It was the most peace you’ve felt in a while.

Just like everything in your life, nothing good seemed to last forever. In the beginning, everything was smooth sailing. You and Hongjoong went back to the manor the next day, and it was nothing short of chaos the moment you stepped in the house where everyone was already waiting by the entrance. Seonghwa was the one who greeted you at the front door and his brows almost reached his hairline with how close you stood next to Hongjoong.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” Hongjoong asked sharply. “Why are you looking at us like that?”

Seonghwa raised his hands, blinking innocently. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

You frowned, not noticing the way you linked your arms with Hongjoong’s, but everyone did. Not one step inside the manor and everyone was already looking at the both of you. Jongho bent to grab both of your suitcases, but paused when he took one look at the both of you. “Huh,” he whispered. “Weird.”

Even Mingi who greeted his father, and you albeit stiffly, raised a brow, but opted not to say anything, just walking away while looking back at the both of you repeatedly like he was seeing what he wasn’t supposed to be seeing. You and Hongjoong looked at each other, thoroughly confused, but shrugged it off.

And that’s when San walked by, carrying a tray of cookies you loved so much, only to freeze when he saw Hongjoong gently placing a hand on your back to guide you past a stray step. He blinked over and over again until all the cookies plopped down towards the floor. “I’m sorry, what have you done to my favourite dysfunctional couple?”

You were horrified, mouth agape as you stared at all the sugary goodness on the floor. “My cookies,” you frowned, tugging at Hongjoong’s sleeve. “Joong…”

It only got worse when Hongjoong leaned down, pressed a kiss to your cheek nonchalantly and murmured, “I have to work for a couple of hours to catch up while we were gone. I’ll be back to spoil you rotten, yeah? I’ll see if I can order cookies after, so be good.”

You blinked, stunned, and so did literally everyone else in the hallway. The silence that followed could’ve cracked glass. You stood there, flustered, a hand over your cheek where he just kissed you in front of everyone.

Wooyoung took one look at you, one look at Hongjoong’s retreating form as he walked away, before letting out a screech so loud and unholy that you covered your ears immediately. “Oh my fucking God, what was that?” Wooyoung shouted, flailing like a game show host on a sugar high. “Did you just call him Joong?”

But that was it, because after that, it was like everything never even happened. You weren’t sure what you expected. Hongjoong pulling you aside just to hold you again like he did that night? Instead, life resumed as if nothing had changed. He never really did get you those cookies nor did he spend time with you afterwards anymore.

He wasn’t snarling or glaring at you anymore, that was for sure, but he always kept you close even in the small gestures like sitting beside you or holding your hand, but that was it. You still slept in separate rooms, and there were no more whispers in the dark, no more soft kisses, no more of him asking for five more minutes in bed before he got up. No one questioned it.

It started small, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. During meals, he no longer sat beside you. He’ll speak, he’ll nod, but his body always angles away from you. That was when the absence of touch came next. Once, Hongjoong’s hand would find your lower back or brush yours when passing you a glass, but now, he didn’t reach out, didn’t accidentally graze your skin.

One afternoon, you entered the library. You hadn’t even called out his name, but the moment he saw you, he stood, gathered his things, and left. It was when his cold formality started again, never with warmth, and when he gave you instructions, he didn’t say your name. When you responded, his eyes would flicker, but he never truly looked at you.

By mafia standards, you should’ve married her within the first month.

Yunho’s words sank deeper than you wanted to admit. They curled under your skin like thorns. What if he was right? What if Hongjoong had never planned to marry you at all? Your eyes burned, and you blinked furiously to push the sting away. He had kissed you, held you, had made love to you. And now, he was walking around as if he hadn’t touched every inch of your soul.

You rubbed at your chest as if you could soothe the ache building there. What if this was it? What if this cold civility, this silence, was all he thought you were worth? Maybe he didn’t want to marry you. Maybe he never did.

Then came the locked doors. You never really hung out with him when he worked, but the locked door was suspicious. He also began sending people in his place. Hongjoong no longer filled your space, he ghosted it. You couldn’t even remember the last time he told you something directly.

You weren’t stupid. You knew how this world worked, how alliances were made and unmade at the flick of a wrist, at the spill of a secret. Maybe you had just been another deal. A piece of a war you weren’t meant to survive. Which was why you barged into his office one day without bothering to knock or close the door.

He didn’t seem at all surprised at your intrusion. He sighed, lowering his glasses and looking at you with tired eyes. “What’s this about, darling?”

“Do you regret us? Touching me? Kissing me?” You started, unable to stop the spiral now. “Or are you just pretending it didn’t happen so I don’t get any stupid ideas l-like marriage or a future?”

He didn’t answer. A bitter laugh escaped your lips, barely a sound. “I can’t believe you,” you murmured, your voice cracking around the edges. “Are you telling me what I felt was nothing? You almost had me fooled there, Hongjoong. I thought for sure hope wasn’t just a word anymore—”

“Can you not? How about this,” he sighed, placing his hands on your cheeks to cup it like he did before, and your traitorous body leaned onto his touch. “I’ll take you out later, okay? Let me just finish working. Sounds good?”

“Are you going to marry me?” You blurted out instead. He stiffened. You felt it immediately his arms didn’t fall away, but his hold loosened just enough for the space between you to feel colder than it had before. “Hongjoong?”

It spiraled. Your brain wouldn’t stop spinning. You didn’t remember pushing him and running away to the comfort of your room after locking the door. All you remember was his refusal to answer and look at you. And the way he never did take you out after.

And the worst of all, everyone had noticed. You had lost your spark, that light in your eyes, that drive in your walk. The anxiety, the paranoia, was slowly eating you alive. You were falling apart at the seams, and no one dared to say it out loud. But you could feel it; this immense pressure building in your chest like a ticking bomb.

Another thing was you were also starting to notice the way everyone was looking at you. It wasn’t quite pity, no, but it was akin to the end. To be fair, if Hongjoong was to keep acting like this, the end was nigh, indeed. What if this was all a game? What if he was keeping you close for power? Or pity?

You were thirty-three when your heart had failed you in a way that stayed. Your reflection in the mirror didn’t even look like you anymore. It looked like someone trying to be worthy of being chosen. Marrying Hongjoong was a want now, not a necessity, and that broke you.

And then, one day, it all seemed to shatter. You were passing by Hongjoong’s office, an excuse you’ve been telling yourself just to see if you were going to have a small glimpse of him, when you heard it. Voices low, urgent, and hushed. One of them was Hongjoong’s.

“It’s being finalized, then?” Hongjoong’s sharp, business-like voice asked.

“Yes,” Mingi replied, serious and deep. “I reckon we’ll be able to make a move soon and then everything will be settled. You could let her go after.”

You froze in place, feeling like ice has been poured over you. Seonghwa sighed. “It’s just…are we really doing this? After everything? Won’t it destroy her?”

“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Besides, it’s not knowledge she deserves to have, anyway. I didn’t go this far just for her to know. It’s better this way,” Hongjoong said curtly.

“Does she even know?” San’s voice now asked. “I’m confused. You both looked like you almost had it going, Joong. Why didn’t you tell her then?“

“No,” Seonghwa replied, sighing. “Hongjoong’s keeping her in the dark until all the loose ends are tied. Her bastard uncle did sign a contract after all, so technically she’s with us. It’s a good thing.”

Mingi clicked his tongue. “It shouldn’t have gone this far, Father. You’re lucky she’s still loyal after everything. You should’ve told her from the start this engagement was a fraud.”

Your heart stuttered. You covered your mouth, willing yourself to stay silent as tears started to pool on the side of your eyes.

“I still think it’s cruel,” San murmured. “Are you ever going to tell her, Hongjoong? You’re really gonna let her go? Just like that?”

There was a beat of silence that stretched for far too long before Hongjoong spoke again. “There was never supposed to be an ‘us’ anyway. It was a mistake that should have never happened.”

You couldn’t take it anymore, taking off as soon as that conversation ended. You sat on the floor of your room, knees tucked into your chest, the ache in your bones eclipsed only by the quiet, creeping devastation hollowing you out from the inside. Yunho’s words echoed in your mind like a curse you couldn’t shake. By mafia standards, you should’ve married her within the first month. Why haven’t you? Did you want to keep her locked up like a secret no one else can touch? Or are you just dragging her through the mud?

But now? Now, after hearing that conversation, after watching him pass you in the hallway like a stranger, after everyone’s pitying glances and whispered silences, it all felt so grotesquely clear - you weren’t something he was building a future with, you were someone he was using.

You tried to breathe, but it came out ragged, your chest too tight. The truth clawed at you with wild, unforgiving hands. Yunho had been right all along, and now you were stuck in a house that felt more like a mausoleum than a home with a name he would never give you and a heart he would never claim. You spent days like that, refusing to see anyone who noticed they haven’t seen your face in a while, leaving the trays of food placed on your door untouched, and only going out to use the bathroom. It was how you had accidentally left the door ajar for someone to find you, face blotchy and swollen when Jongho came in, eyes widened at your messed up state, as he helped you up to sit on the bed.

“Y/N, what happened to you?” He let out in concern. He stood up, and you thought for a second that he was giving you the space you clearly needed when you didn’t answer, but you were wrong. “I’m calling Hongjoong,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “I don’t know what happened, but you clearly need him.”

Something in your mind snapped into a quiet haze. Jongho was handsome. He was kind, and he was always there for you. For one breathless second, you wished that you could feel something, anything, other than the emptiness Hongjoong had left you with.

“Don’t call him,” you murmured, voice cracking as you reached for his hand. You looked up at Jongho, his brows furrowed in confusion. And before you could stop yourself, before you could think, you whispered, “Kiss me.”

Jongho’s entire body froze. His lips parted slightly, eyes widening, not with desire, but with shock and pity. He roze, the blood draining from his face. “Y/N, I don’t—”

“Please,” you begged. “I need to feel like I’m not losing everything—”

“Y/N?” Hongjoong’s voice suddenly crackled on the phone. “What’s going on? Jongho, what in God’s name are you doing?”

The call had connected after all, but you were done caring about Hongjoong. You grabbed Jongho’s shirt, lowering him to your lips. “I-I need to feel something, Jongho, please pretend I’m wanted,” your voice cracked.

“What the fuck is going on?” Hongjoong's voice roared through the speaker, frantic now. “I am going to skin you alive and drain your blood if you do it, don’t you dare, Jongho—”

But Jongho didn’t move. He respectfully held your shoulders, keeping you at arm’s length with utmost care. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice soft, heavy with pity but unwavering. “You don’t need more lies right now.”

On the other end of the phone, Hongjoong’s breathing was ragged, silent, tortured, like he was ready to rip through space to get to you before the line went dead. It was when you broke down, sobbing in Jongho’s arms apologizing through and through for your utterly shameful behaviour, thanking him for not taking advantage of your momentary weakness.

And then, the anger settled in. How dare Hongjoong act like that after what you overheard? What’s it to him that you wanted to kiss someone else’s lips besides his filthy ones? You remembered the way his voice sounded when told you that one dinner night that you were not to wear a ring. You should have known.

You made up your mind then - you were leaving him. You weren’t going to live trapped in the unknown. You’d spent years chained under your uncle’s care, and now under the illusion of Hongjoong’s protection, but no more. Maybe you’d stay with Yunho to start again and figure out who you really were outside of the Kim manor’s walls.

But first, you needed that damn contract. The one that bound you to Hongjoong as his property. After much deliberation, the easiest way would be to drive him out of his office long enough for him to not come back.

So you picked a fight, purposefully targeting his tendency to get possessive of you like you were his property. It spurred you on, and at first, he wasn’t budging, but when you mentioned off-handedly about the kiss you wanted from Jongho, he bit.

The effect was instant. Hongjoong instantly stopped what he was doing, his entire frame taut with tension, his eyes narrowed dangerously. “What did you say?” He asked coldly.

You bit your lip to hold your smirk back. “I said,” you drawled. “Maybe I should’ve asked Jongho to kiss me again.”

That did it. His steps toward you were slow, deliberate, dangerous. He growled low under his breath, shoving past you, practically vibrating with possessive rage. “I don’t know what game you’re playing at, but don’t test me, Y/N,” he snapped. “I’ve killed for less without blinking.”

Your heart beat erratically as you listened to Hongjoong’s furious commands to hand him his keys so he could drive off that were sounding further and further until you heard the front door slam so hard, you could practically feel it vibrate from where you were.

Perfect. Now all you had to do was find the damn contract - and whatever other secrets he’d been hiding.

Luckily for you, Hongjoong didn’t lock his cabinets. To be completely fair, nobody in their right mind - except you, apparently - would even dream of digging through his files while he wasn’t present. It was like finding a needle on a haystack, but whenever you’d recall the conversation you overheard here, it gave you a newfound sense of determination. Finally, you found it. With trembling hands, you gingerly took the contract that basically held your uncle’s life and bound you to Hongjoong. You hated your uncle for selling you, but at the same time, you couldn’t imagine not meeting Hongjoong at all.

This was it, you were done, and you were leaving. You had already packed what little you brought here and all that was left now was to burn the bridge behind you and never look back. Tears welled in your eyes, however, as you willed Hongjoong’s fond eyes as he looked at you out of your mind. Your story with him had happened, but now, it had to end.

You folded the contract resolutely. Just as you turned to leave, something fluttered from between the pages. It was a thinner piece of paper, tucked behind the contract, and it fell towards the floor, face up. You blinked in confusion, was this another part of the contract?

You crouched, hand shaky as you picked it up, but before you could touch it, you froze. Your pulse skipped, heart sinking the moment your eyes caught the title - it was a marriage contract and it had Hongjoong’s unmistakable signature on it.

You blinked once, twice, but the name didn’t change. The blood drained from your face, a sudden rush of nausea coiled in your gut with bile that started to burn your throat as you backed away from the fallen paper as if it had a contagious disease of some sort.

Was this it? The secret he’d been keeping? Your chest felt like it had caved in. No wonder he didn’t want to marry you - he literally couldn’t. He already belonged to someone else and you seeked comfort in his arms like you belonged in it when, in fact, you did not. You never did.

You ran out of the office, your pathetic tears finally falling from your eyes as you felt your heart starting to break. You didn’t bother stopping for Wooyoung, who looked genuinely worried for your state, and you pushed past a surprised Seonghwa, who was the last person you ever wanted to see besides Hongjoong.

You shoved the contract hastily in your luggage, trudging it silently towards the back door you knew nobody passed or guarded, each movement mechanical, like your soul detached itself long ago. The suitcase was filled with your clothes, but really, it's all the things you never meant to carry - bitterness and heartbreak.

You barely made it one step outside when a hand grabbed your arm from behind, spinning you unceremoniously. It was someone you never expected in a million years, and he was already waiting by the door like he knew you’d come out here. “Running away again, I see,” Mingi eyes your luggage. “Though it seems you have no plans of coming back.”

His features are etched from the same ice as his father's - cold, unreadable. He’s never spoken to you beyond what's necessary. You pulled your arm away harshly from his hold. “Not that it would matter,” you scoffed. “Hongjoong has no plans of marrying me, what’s the point?”

Realization seemed to dawn on him. “You found the certificate. Is that why Wooyoung said you’re crying?” He sighed, long and breathy, as if he wasn’t prepared for what he was about to say next. “I have to give it to you, you’re clever for driving him out of his office, but whatever it is you’re thinking, you’re dead wrong.”

You laugh once, bitter and sharp. “I saw it with my own two eyes, and the facts speak for themselves, don’t they? All he’s ever made me feel was that I was an inconvenience to him.”

“You’ve only seen what he’s allowed you to see,” Mingi says quietly. “You think my father doesn’t care about you, but Y/N, he’d sell his soul for you. For what it’s worth, we all think it should’ve never gone this far.”

“Yeah, well,” you exhaled sharply, turning to leave again. “It’s a little too late for that—”

“Don’t leave,” Mingi said, almost a whisper, almost a plea. You faltered, stunned at how he wasn’t letting you pass. He rubs his face between his hands in distress. “How about this, let me show you something, and if that still doesn’t change your mind, I’ll even help you walk away.” “Why?” You asked coldly, but followed him back to what seemed like Hongjoong’s office anyway. “You made it clear that you never liked me from the beginning.”

“Because I’m not going to let him lose you, not like this,” Mingi opened the door for you to enter. “And I never disliked you. You are my father’s one shot at the happiness he never got before, I could never dislike you for that.”

San was already there. He looked up as you entered, and your breath caught. In his hands was the very marriage certificate that had shattered you just moments ago. He eyed your luggage, resignation clear in his eyes. “Y/N, I am so, so sorry,” his voice cracked when you refused to meet his eye. “You deserve to know the truth before you walk away, at least.”

Mingi sighed and walked over to the far side of the desk. He reached under the edge, clicking something underneath. “This,” he held out a small recording device. “Is for protection and insurance whenever he invites people over here. It never stops recording. I’m sure you know where I’m going with this.”

And with that, he presses play. You didn’t speak, just listened. At first, you heard nothing, just pure static and a couple of movements before San fast forwarded it, stopping when he was satisfied.

“She’s beautiful, Hwa, my goodness. Her photos don’t do her justice,” Hongjoong’s familiar voice sounded all over the room, slightly startling you. “I-I must’ve looked like a fool during dinner. How am I supposed to pretend that I’m not head over heels in love with her?”

“You did look like a fool,” Seonghwa’s voice said next, deadpanned. “It’s embarrassing, Joong. Your own son had to tell you to stop staring.”

Head over heels? It didn’t make sense. Not when he avoided you for the longest time, not when he stood silent while you begged for clarity. San started fast forwarding again.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” The voice was unmistakably Hongjoong’s sharp, furious, and barely restrained. “Flirting with her in front of me? Do you want me to ship you back in Suwon, you uncultured swine?”

Wooyoung’s familiar laughter shrieked all over the room so loud, Mingi rolled his eyes. “My God, Dad, you are so down bad. I’ve never seen you so jealous in my life. I have no plans to steal your wife, relax.”

“That’s not the point,” Hongjoong snapped. “Don’t touch her like that again. Don’t talk to her like she’s anyone but mine. Do you understand me?”

You stood there, frozen. Your hands trembled slightly as you remembered that day so clearly in your head. San gave Mingi a glance before silently playing the recording again.

“I fucked up,” Honjoong started, but it was in a voice you’ve never heard on him before, and for some reason, it hurt your heart to hear. “I shouldn’t have shouted at her during dinner, she looked at me like I’d hit her. And I-I hate myself for it, she probably hates me—”

“You think?” Jongho’s voice responded, unusually sharp. “She looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Seriously, what were you thinking?”

“I shouldn’t have pushed the plate like that, but it had avocados in it,” Hongjoong’s voice faltered, like he was trying to rein himself in.

There was a pause in the recording, and in your head as well. You felt like you were about to faint. “Avocados?” San in the recording asked, clearly confused.

Hongjoong sighed heavily and you could practically hear him pacing in his office. “She’s allergic to avocados. Allergic enough for anaphylactic shock.”

“You could’ve just said something,” San replied, dry and disbelieving. “That wasn’t just over the line, Joong. It was humiliating.”

“That’s why she reacted like that when I told her about the dressing,” Jongho commented off-handedly. “But still, you scared her. Hell, you scared all of us.”

“I was scared as well, that’s why I’m furious,” Hongjoong snapped. “I clearly told the staff to not put avocados in her food. How was I supposed to tell her without arousing suspicion of the fucker that did it?”

That night, you’d gone to bed wondering if he hated you. Meanwhile, he was probably pacing the floor in this very room, wondering if you were still breathing, wondering if he should have just shouted your allergy across the table rather than risk letting you eat what could’ve killed you. “You okay to keep going?” San asked softly. When you nodded stiffly, he pressed play again.

“Did you order food out?” Wooyoung’s voice sounded out this time. “Oh, that actually looks good, can I have some—”

A loud smack can be heard in the background before Wooyoung’s yelp. “No,” Hongjoong’s light, almost boyish tone, smugly denied. “My love made this for me. Can you guys believe it? She’s literally perfect in every way, she even cooks well, too. A literal angel in every sense, I tell you.”

“Hold on, is that why she’s been hanging around the kitchen late?” Wooyoung asked, confused. “But she looks so down everytime—she doesn’t know you’re eating them, does she?”

There was a pause before Seonghwa spoke next, his voice quieter. “You have to tell her, Joong. Me and San have to carry the burden of seeing her tears the next day every single time we pretend to throw away the food the next day. She makes them with love, you know?”

Silence. Then Hongjoong sighed, deep and hollow. “God, I want to, but not yet. You know there’s a mole in the staff. If I let on that I care too much, it puts a target on her back. It’s the only way to protect her without tipping my hand.”

There was a pause. “She’s so bright when she cooks, and I never tell her,” he continued heavily. “I said nothing, like I always do. So for now, all I could do is savour her food, you know? It keeps my longing away for now.”

Something in your chest cracked. You remembered those nights. You never imagined he cherished every bite in silence, keeping up a mask to protect you from shadows you didn’t even know were looming. Suddenly, it transitioned into a conversation you knew far too well, the one you heard before you ran away to the playground.

“But you can’t keep doing this to keep giving her the cold shoulder, Joong,” Seonghwa clicked his tongue. “She’s too perceptive and you know she'll find out, what are you going to do then?”

“Give me time,” Hongjoong’s tone shifted into something darker. “We’re so close to caging in Yoo Jaehwan, that bastard ruined her life. Please, no one can know for now. I have to make sure he’ll pay for that car accident that almost cost her and Yeosang.”

You gasped audibly, almost tripping at what you just heard. There was only one car accident that had Yeosang and you in it, did this run deeper than you initially thought?

“She won’t be safe forever, you know that. San’s working on Mingi’s intel for the hit and run. It was damn near impossible to find who hit her parents back then. You think Jaehwan knows?”

“There’s no denying it. That bastard killed them. She will be safer here, so please, watch over her for me. I will never forgive myself if something happens to her. She’s my everything—who’s there?”

And all this time, the man you thought didn’t care,the man whose cold shoulder and distant silence had crushed you, had been carrying the weight of it all in secret. You shook your head in denial, if this wasn’t enough, your uncle had something to do with your parents’ death as well. “Make it stop,” you begged. “I-I can’t—”

“I’m sorry,” Mingi apologized, and you could see he was genuine this time. “We have to keep going. This is why Father was the way he was with you. You have to know.”

You heard a glass clink against another, followed by the unmistakable sound of Hongjoong’s tired hiccup, more human than you'd ever heard him, before the familiar sigh of Seonghwa followed. “That’s enough,” he gently coaxed. “You’re drunk, Joong. You’re half gone–”

“Half gone? I haven’t been whole since I lied to her,” Hongjoong’s drunk and pained voice slurred. “She ran away from me, Hwa. And I deserve it. I was prepared for her hate, but not her absence. When I couldn’t find her, I was so damn scared, none of you even understood.”

Hongjoong swallowed more alcohol. “I love her, Seonghwa. I love her more than this house, more than the empire, more than anything. But if she knew what I’ve done, she’d never stay.”

You clutch the edge of the table like it’s the only thing holding you upright. “There’s still time to tell her,” Seonghwa advised. “Mingi still thinks you shouldn’t hide this.”

“What if she realizes I’m the reason her life turned to hell?” Hongjoong cried out in melancholy. “I’m terrified she’ll disappear for good when she finds out what I’ve done and made the selfish decision to make her mine—”

“But she doesn’t know that,” Seonghwa said softly. “She doesn’t know you held her hand the whole time in the hospital. You did it to protect her. You married her, for God’s sake.”

Your knees nearly gave out. That hand - warm, calloused, unmoving but steady - had been the only thing tethering you to life. That hand was the only one that stayed when no one else did. Tears sprung to your eyes, that hand had been your lifeline, and after all this time, you had been his.

“I married her to settle a score. But somewhere along the line, I just,” Hongjoong sniffled. “I just loved her. Every day I don’t tell her, she drifts further from me. And I-I don’t know how to fix it.”

You swallowed audibly when the recording paused. There was only one question lingering in your head, one that San read on your face but refused to acknowledge. Instead, he reached forward and pressed play. The room was silent again, except for the soft static of the next recording beginning to play.

“I’ll bow to your king when he shows himself,” your voice played out this time, clipped and cut. You cringed internally. You remember how liberated you felt after that day, but now you were about to find out what happened after you stormed out.

Seonghwa and Mingi were in the room that day and you were expecting the three of them to talk about your utter disrespect, but you were not expecting Hongjoong’s laughter, loud, bubbly, and full of mirth after a few seconds of you walking away.

“Well, would you look at that,” Mingi snorted, but even through the recording, you could hear the subtle fondness in his voice. “You’ve finally found your match, Father.”

“God, I’m so proud of her,” Hongjoong said through his laughter, his voice breathless and utterly thrilled. “Did you see the way she stood up to me like a champ? I’ve never been that close to finishing on the spot.”

Mingi let out a sound of pure, exaggerated revulsion. “Please, never let me hear that again. That is fucking disgusting, this is why I get drunk often.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” Seonghwa chortled. “Did you see the way he looked at her? He was looking at her like he wanted her to break his neck and thank her for it. It was sickening. I wanted to bleach my eyes.”

“Shut up,” Hongjoong muttered, but there was no real heat behind it. You could hear the smile in his voice. It was small, secretive, a little lovesick.

“No, you shut up,” Seonghwa shot back with playful disbelief. “She literally insulted your bloodline and told you that you are not the king of your own empire in her eyes and you look like you’re ready to carve her name onto your chest.”

“Well, he just might,” Mingi answered dramatically. “You two make marriage look fun. My money’s on her, you know? Hell, everyone’s is at this point.”

Hongjoong laughed again, sounding more genuine, if that was possible. “So is mine.”

You’ve barely let that settle before the next recording sounded. You froze. This was the most recent, the catalyst that set this whole thing in motion. “I still think it’s cruel,” San murmured. “Are you ever going to tell her, Hongjoong? You’re really gonna let her go? Just like that?”

“There was never supposed to be an ‘us’ anyway. It was a mistake that should have never happened,” Hongjoong sighed and you were confused. You didn’t remember him sounding this torn about it. This was when you ran away crying to your room utterly heartbroken.

“That’s my wife, San. I don’t want to let her go, but it was cruel for me to take her secretly. I have to let her go if she doesn’t want to stay even if it hurts me. We go for the kill, but leave Jaehwan to me. I want to kill him, myself.”

The recording ended there, for good this time. You just stood there shaking, lips parted, eyes glassy. He hadn’t just tolerated you, he adored you - no, he loved you hopelessly with a hidden love that he kept choking down behind layers of silence and strategy.

You feel your knees weaken not from pain, but from the crushing, beautiful truth that maybe you were never unloved. “I-I don’t understand,” you blurted, tears blurring your vision. “T-There has to be a mistake. He’s married to someone else—”

San started to show you the marriage certificate again, but you didn’t want anything to do with it. “Y/N,” San said gently, catching your hand before you could shove the paper away. “Just look closer, please. At the bottom.”

Your gaze dropped, unwilling at first but your breath stopped, your mind stilling into chaotic silence when you saw it - your name and signature right beside Hongjoong’s. You blinked hard, heart thrashing in your chest. “I don’t remember this. I never - how could I not know I was married?”

“Our job is done. We shouldn’t be the ones explaining this. You need to hear it from him,” Mingi said as he stood and with a final glance, the door clicked shut, and you were left alone with your thoughts, the weight of the paper, and a heart that no longer knew what to believe.

You were shaking your head violently, eyes already welling up with tears you refused to acknowledge. One by one, everything started to make sense, even the little things you ignored for fear of falling too hard - your avocado allergy, how he picked raisins out of your food, your photo on his desk you now knew for sure he kept staring at every single day.

And everyone knew too, there were also the telltale signs of everyone slipping by accident - the way San froze when he found out your name was Jeong, Seonghwa telling you it was finally nice to meet you, overhearing Yeosang say you weren’t just a wife, you were someone Hongjoong would burn the world for.

You should’ve been angry, and you were, but underneath all of that was grief not just for yourself, but for him too. Your chest ached as you imagined all those nights he must have sat awake, planning, hiding, hurting. All those moments you begged him to speak, and he couldn’t not because he didn’t want to - but because he loved you too much to risk everything.

A sob clawed its way up your throat. You wiped your face with shaking hands, but the tears wouldn’t stop now. How long had he carried all this alone? How long had he loved you silently, forced to cage every affection? How could you hate someone for hurting you when all they ever wanted was to protect you? It must have been crushing.

Your heart was a tangled, desperate mess in your chest by the time the door finally opened. Hongjoong stepped in, his brows pinched together in confusion when he saw you there. When he saw the marriage certificate crumpled tightly in your hands, it was like the ground vanished beneath his feet.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes blown wide, his breath catching audibly. It was like you also held his heart in your hands. All the color drained from his face, but somewhere in his eyes, relief shone through. And you knew why - all the pretending has to stop now and you both knew it.

Hongjoong slowly closed the door behind him, eyes never leaving yours, and for once, he looked afraid, vulnerable and human. “We need to talk,” he said hoarsely, and there wasn’t a trace of command in his voice, only quiet pleading as he slowly approached you.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” You cried out, heart aching and throat tight, the paper trembling in your hands like the storm inside you that was finally meeting his. “Everything hurts, Hongjoong. I can’t breathe.”

Without another word, he knelt in front of you, like the wind had been knocked out of him, and reached for you with trembling hands. You collapsed into his chest, sobbing openly as he cradled you to him. His warmth surrounded you, his scent grounding you, and for the first time, his arms didn’t feel like a prison - they felt like home.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over again, his lips brushing your temple. “I’m so, so sorry. I never wanted you to find out like this, and I never wanted to hurt you. But I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

You shook your head against him, trying to make sense of the chaos in your chest. “I wanted so desperately for you to care for me, Hongjoong,” you confessed angrily, lamenting for all the times you spent yearning. “I wanted it so badly that I never blamed you for how you treated me, no matter how bad, I never blamed you.”

He clutched you tighter as if the very fabric of his soul depended on your forgiveness, his breath shaky, his words barely held together. “Blame me, Y/N. My soul can’t be saved if I sell you my sins and the scars in your heart are mine to atone, but don’t think for a second that I never loved you,” his voice cracked. “That I don’t love you now.”

Rage sets in as his words wrapped around your heart like a chain, heavy with the weight of long-buried truths. “You’re cruel, you know that?” You thumped your fists on his chest repeatedly. “After all the things you made me go through? You tell me this now?”

You could feel his tears now, each one a testament to the pain he had buried beneath the armor he wore for too long. “You think I’m cruel, but I’ve been your husband longer than you’ve known. And I’ve loved you every single day of it,” he whispered, his hands trembling.

Your breath caught as his words sank in, deeper than any wound he’d ever left behind. Husband. You wanted to scream, to cry, to pull away, to collapse into him all at once. How could he say it like that? So stripped of pride and power, like a man offering up the last piece of himself and hoping it would be enough? It was too much. It was everything.

He pressed his forehead to yours, lips barely apart from yours. “If you want the truth, I'll give you that. If you want to leave, I will never stop you."

But somehow, all you could do was hold him tighter. “I don’t want freedom from you, Hongjoong,” you whispered, breaking apart in his arms. “I just want the truth.”

Hongjoong didn’t speak at first. You felt his body tremble as he held you, as though the truth itself was too heavy to carry alone anymore. “I’m not the right person to tell you this, it would be Yunho, but to put it simply for now, your parents both served my father, and in turn, me after he passed away.”

You pulled back slightly, your breath catching in your throat. “M-My parents were in the mafia?” You asked, heart pounding with the realization already forming. Somehow, it made sense - they were absent throughout your teenage years and they did keep their career a secret.

“They were. Yunho took over your father after, but we didn’t get along much, but that’s another story,” Hongjoong said softly. “They were good people. One day I got myself into something I wasn’t supposed to. I would’ve been dead if it weren’t for them and my sons would be fatherless. I was young and stupid and they saved me. I owe them my life, I still do.”

He paused, voice tightening with grief. “I didn’t have much power back then, so I did the best thing I could. Assets, lots of them. I gave your parents millions, Y/N, but before I could fully ever thank them, before I could protect them…” Hongjoong looked away, sighing heavily.

“They died before they could use the money. My uncle wanted their money, didn’t he? Did he kill them?” You blurted out. His silence confirmed it and you shuddered, anguish and clarity warred within you as the weight of your stolen past pressed down on your chest.

“At first I didn’t have proof it was him,” you felt Hongjoong’s hands holding you steady, his warmth anchoring you to something real. “I was investigating their deaths for years. It was my way of getting back for them for saving me. It wasn’t until your car accident with Yeosang a couple of years back.”

You swallowed. This was it, this was the part you weren’t sure you were ready to hear. His face turned dark before he continued. “Yeosang was suspicious of the accident. We both thought the hit was for him at first since he’s my son. When I investigated, it was how I found out who you were. It felt like the universe just punched me in the gut.”

“W-What does this have to do with marrying me?”

“Everything,” his expression twisted, like it physically hurt him to relive it. “When your parents died, all that money went to you automatically. Do you remember that day when I asked you why your uncle took you in when Yunho was losing his mind looking for you all this time?”

You nodded, your stomach sinking. “He took you in to drain every cent out of you. He was bleeding you dry,” his jaw ticked in concealed anger. “He got impatient, that car accident back then would speed up the process.”

You shook your head, denial flaring. Your lungs were too tight, your heart racing painfully in your chest as you tried not to throw up. “So, what, you married me to stop him?”

“Not just that,” he said hoarsely, and then, softer. “I had to make it legally binding. As your husband, I could legally control your funds. It was the only way I knew how, so I married you in secret, in the hospital, while you were unconscious. And I held your hand while you signed.”

Your head snapped up at that. Your blood ran cold, because you remembered that day. The warmth of a hand in yours, grounding you while the world spun wildly. You thought it was just hospital consent forms. “That was the marriage certificate?” you whispered, your voice breaking. “But that was years before my uncle sold me to you, Hongjoong, that doesn’t make any sense—”

“I had to let you go back to him after,” he explained, eyes shut tight with regret. “He was desperate, and desperate men get dangerous. I needed time. I needed him to think he was still in control, still bleeding you dry while I worked behind the scenes.”

You stood there in stunned silence, your hands trembling with the weight of a truth you never asked for but now couldn’t ignore. “I watched you for years,” he continued, voice hollow but steady. “Always from a distance. I told myself it was enough.I kept telling myself I was doing it for your parents, that I owed them everything. That’s how it started. But then…”

His voice cracked, and for a moment he didn’t go on. “Then I fell in love with you,” he whispered, trembling. “Without even realizing it, I fell. Hard. And for that, I’m sorry. I will regret taking that choice away from you for as long as I live. The plan was to annul the marriage when I was done compiling evidence against him, and believe me, I tried to do it quickly. I didn’t want you to stay with him for long.”

Your breath caught when he smiled faintly, and it was the saddest, most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. “You were always strong, and I hated that I couldn’t tell you how proud I was. I’m sorry I got selfish because the thought of annulling the marriage just hurt me on the inside.”

You looked down, heart racing, remembering the moments. All that time you resented him for being locked in his office instead of being with you, he was working to finally set you free. “Then why keep it a secret?” You asked, voice fragile. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared you’d hate me. Scared that if you knew the truth, you’d want nothing to do with me. I didn’t want to rip open old wounds by making you relive the past. So I just… watched and made sure you were doing well.”

“But everything changed. One time I sent Jongho,” Hongjoong went on, voice turning sharp with memory. “We didn’t know he was violent with you. He caught him hurting you. That fucking bastard,” his cracked slightly. “Not only was he stealing from you, he was beating you up the entire time, I-I wanted to die when I found out—”

A lone tear escaped his eyes when you shushed him, putting your finger on his lips gently. He cracked a bitter smile, kissing your finger before continuing. “So I bankrupted his business. I had Seonghwa pose as his client, made him plant the seed that Kim Hongjoong was giving money for something in exchange. It worked, that’s how I got you into my house.”

You froze up, suddenly breathless. Your whole life - every twist and turn, every unexplained pain, every confusing encounter - was beginning to piece together like a puzzle you never knew existed. “You were never a liability used to pay a debt,” he growled. “Once you were under my roof, I knew you were safe. I could fully start making my move on your uncle. I sent Wooyoung to Suwon to start—”

“Suwon?” You blinked in surprise, remembering the very first time you met Wooyoung. “He went there…because of me? Because you told him to?”

He nodded. “The man your uncle hired who hit your parents were both hiding in Suwon. Mingi wanted to do it since he was the one who found them for me, but Wooyoung…let’s say that son of mine is a little trigger-happy. Trust me, he was more than glad to do it.”

You felt your chest caving in. All this time, everyone - San, Seonghwa, Jongho, Wooyoung, and even Mingi - had been watching, protecting, quietly fighting battles for you that you didn’t even know existed.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you stared at the man who had haunted your days and nights with confusion, rage, longing - only to discover that, all along, he had loved you in silence.

“What now?” You sniffled. “What are we going to do?”

“I was going to kill him and then come clean to you,” he admitted ruefully. “But death is a salvation that he doesn’t deserve. I have all the evidence I need to send him to jail, because there’s one more thing your uncle cost me, ” he said, voice low and rough. “Yeosang.”

You felt your chest twist. “I had to send my own son away,” he spat the words like poison. “Because if your uncle ever saw him around, he would’ve figured it out that Yeosang was the one who called me, panicked, sobbing, begging me to save you.”

You knew that Hongjoong called Yeosang in a panic when you were poisoned to wherever he was hiding from to come and treat you. He risked all of it to save you. “Your uncle didn’t just steal from you,” he growled. “He didn’t just beat you, he stole from me too. He robbed me of time with you, your parents, and my son.”

He dropped to his knees again. “I did terrible things to keep you safe,” he said quietly. “And I can’t undo them. But if there’s anything left in your heart for me, even just a piece, I swear to you, I will make it right.”

Hongjoong was a man weighed down by guilt, someone laying every wound bare before you. You looked at him, this broken, bleeding man who had shielded you in ways you never even saw. And now, maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop surviving and start living. You gripped his hands tightly now, because for the first time, you understood.

“I hated you,” you whispered. His jaw clenched, and he closed his eyes like your words were blades, but he took it like he promised he would. “But I think I hated myself more for still loving you anyway.”

His eyes snapped open, wide and raw and shimmering with a hope he tried to suppress. “Y-You still do?” His broken voice stuttered.

“I don’t know how not to,” you said, your lips trembling. “I didn’t realize how much I fell for you until you started pulling back. Even when you pushed me so far away I thought I’d disappear, I kept looking for you.”

His breath hitched, and then he was kissing you, not out of possession or dominance, not like a man taking what he believed was his, but like someone starved for something he’d already mourned the loss of. His lips trembled against yours, and you tasted your shared sorrow, your silent tears, your aching, stupid, impossible love.

Hongjoong exhaled shakily, as if the weight of everything unsaid was finally buckling his knees. Now that you were in front of him, there was no more holding back. “I never meant to ignore you,” he said, voice rough and uneven. “These past few months, I-I know I’ve made you feel unwanted, like you were nothing but a pawn to me, but you never were.”

His eyes flicked to yours. “We were so close to getting your uncle. I could taste it, that justice. And I lost myself. I thought, just a little more time and I could finally give you peace.”

You opened your mouth to speak, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but he shook his head. “No,” he whispered with a bitter smile. “It is my fault. I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t supposed to love you, I was supposed to distance myself because your uncle’s mole was watching us. But how could I not?”

“Hongjoong,” you tried to coax him out of these thoughts, but to no avail. Your vision blurred as his words sank in.

“How could I not hold back when you looked at the world with eyes that still trusted even after everything?” Hongjoong continued. “Every time you touched me, I felt like I was being forgiven for sins I hadn’t even confessed yet. Every night you were in my house, pretending not to care that I was cruel, pretending it didn’t hurt, I wanted to fall to my knees and curse every God out there for doing this to me, to us.”

He took your hands, his thumbs brushing your knuckles, and he held you like you were something fragile. “I even got you poisoned,” he said, pressing your hands to his chest, where his heart thundered violently. “Because I let my guard down. I’ve lived every day terrified that loving you would be the death of you, but it turns out, not loving you openly was killing me.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, thick and hot. When he finally pulled back, it was only just enough to whisper. “I married you once to protect you and I’d marry you again just to love you. Marry me, Y/N, please.”

You looked at him, the man who had fought in silence for you, bled in shadows for you, and lost you just to keep you alive. And for the first time, you saw him as the only person who had ever loved you enough to break his own heart to save yours. “You already have me,” you said softly, hands rising to cup his cheeks.

His exhale of relief and wonder, grief and gratitude all at once. No more pretending, no more secrets. Just the two of you, finally choosing each other in the light. You were already his long before you knew it and he’s always been yours.

“Let me get this straight,” Yunho uncrossed his long legs, his upper body leaning forward ever so slightly as his sharp, glaring eyes trained on Hongjoong’s flat, expressionless ones. “You’re telling me that you’ve been married to her this entire time? That you made her suffer in your slimy presence for the grand scheme of catching Jaehwan when you could’ve just left her with me?”

He removed his glasses to put it on top of the coffee table in front of him, its reflective surface and visual lightness made it a striking centerpiece while keeping the room feeling uncluttered and elegant, very befitting of someone like Yunho who exuded an exorbitant amount of grace. The way he scoffed after was anything of, however.

“You fucking bastard,” he seethed, banging his fist on said table with a sarcastic laugh that left his lips in a disbelieving pace of staccato. “I ought to kill you on the spot, Kim Hongjoong. I cannot believe you thought that this was normal, you’re not right in the head, I’m telling—”

“Now, now Yunho,” Hongjoong - or should you say, your husband - smirked smugly, snaking his arm around your waist to pull you closer. “In front of Y/N, really?”

“You won’t get away with this, also you mean my niece—”

“Don’t you mean my wife?” Hongjoong grinned, all of his teeth bared out in a daring show of possessiveness that was not to be messed with, clearly not even Yunho. “And I already have,” he turned to look at you, his eyes softening significantly as he smiled. “Isn’t that right, darling?”

Yunho balked at the blatant display of Hongjoong’s disrespect towards him. He looked at you expectantly, but all you could do was give him a sheepish smile as you toyed with the ring on your finger.

“Sorry, Uncle,” you giggled. “You heard my husband.”

Hongjoong whispered ‘that’s my girl’ softly on your ear as Yunho let out the most undignified squawk you’ve ever heard a grown man do.

Yunho covered his face with his hands and groaned. “You love him,” he deadpanned. “And you, you manipulative, delusional, leather-wearing tax fraud—”

“Tax fraud?” Hongjoong raised a brow, a slow grin spreading across his face like ink in water. “Really, Yunho? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“---you love her. Oh, Sungho is probably rolling in his grave right now,” he groaned, and you laughed at how he whispered his grievances in your dad's name.

He sat up, reclining back with one arm thrown over the couch. “Well, if you ever come to your senses, I know a great divorce lawyer,” he said dryly. “My door is always open for you, little love.”

You bit back the urge to laugh when Hongjoong rolled his eyes dramatically. “I’ll keep it in mind, Uncle,” you grinned. “But you should know by now that I have a type.”

Hongjoong only smirked from his seat, one arm slung lazily over the backrest behind you like this was his damn throne. “You’re just bitter I won,” he snorted at Yunho.

“Oh, I’ll be bitter until my dying breath,” Yunho snapped. “You married her and didn't even invite me to the wedding. I was supposed to walk her down the aisle.”

“Then die—”

“Fuck you,” he retorted. Yunho waved his hand, the humor in his eyes dimming slightly as his tone shifted, more measured now. “Alright, jokes aside. What happened to the motherfucker that is Jaehwan?”

Hongjoong’s arm around you tightened as his entire posture changed. “We got him. He’s in jail.”

The words dropped like a stone in the room. You looked down, purposefully grabbing the mug to take a sip, your mind flashing with the bright lights of one shot that gradually turned into two, three, four shots. Yunho’s brows furrowed. “You’re serious?”

“Deadly,” Hongjoong tried not to smirk, side-eyeing you with intent. “Nothing crazy, really. He doesn’t deserve anything theatrical for everything that he’s done. I had my men watch him for a couple of days, ambushed him when he least expected it, and that’s that. You recall that car accident from a couple of years ago, yes?”

You closed your eyes, the faux splatters of sticky red coating your face feeling realistic enough if you concentrated. Lifeless, hollow eyes stared back behind your eyes before you opened them again. Hongjoong’s fingers massaged yours with purpose back then, too. You kept your mouth from curling too far at the corners.

“How could I not? You took her that night,” Yunho scoffed, sitting forward again, steepling his fingers under his chin. “I was this close to finding Y/N at that time. I dislike talking about this, but it was hard. Years of failure meant I failed her father.”

Hongjoong hummed, ignoring Yunho’s pointed look. “My son was also there, you remember my middle son? He’s a neurosurgeon now,” he replied softly, his fingers playing with yours. “You could say I had a different drive back then. I had my reasons.”

Yunho’s brows shot up in mild surprise before they softened ever so slightly. “I didn’t know, I’m terribly sorry that your son got caught up in this fiasco,” he murmured, his soft eyes landing on you. “I suppose everything that happened was like a trigger set in motion, wouldn’t you say, Y/N?”

You shrugged as you gave Hongjoong a look. You let your lashes lower slightly and adjusted your posture, just like you did when after the kickback from the trigger that had made your shoulders ache. “Perhaps.”

“Anyway, it’s over,” Hongjoong said with a clipped edge. “There’s enough evidence now to tie him to the attempted murder, fraud, and embezzlement. Stalking as well. The bastard didn't even stop at the mole in my house, he always sent his sleazy men around the area in case she went out. He’s done, I'll make sure of it.”

“Good riddance,” Yunho said with an unsurprising amount of venom. His shoulders sank, years and years of burden lifting off of his shoulders. Relief settles in his expression, and though it made him look a decade younger, the faraway look of a thousand suns in his eyes told you otherwise. “I knew your father would be proud of you," he sighed. "That bastard took everything from our family. But you…you gave it back.”

The man who haunted your childhood, the one who used your grief as a tool to strip you of everything, was finally out of your life. You squeezed Yunho’s hand, hoping that it said everything you couldn’t say out loud. You stayed quiet for a moment, trying to absorb the weight of what Yunho was saying.

There was no reminiscing on your end, no smirk, no memories; just the hurt between two people who have lost their loved ones. He held your hand, holding it tight. “And your mom,” he added softly. She would’ve held you so tight. You look like Sohee, you know? Same fire, same goddamn backbone. Perfect for your father.”

“I hope they’re at peace now,” you said quietly.

“They are,” Yunho replied with a surety that only blood could lend. “Because you’re finally safe. And I can finally breathe again.”

You took in his words, the finality of them. The war was over now, justice had been served. And it sounded like a dull thud of a body hitting the floor, the heaviness of it almost satisfying in your ears. The conversation shifted into something lighthearted, with you and Yunho reminiscing about how he babysat you when you were younger, how your own father was when they were both teenagers, to all the mundane things like how your father would have reacted to your marriage with Hongjoong.

And Hongjoong was just there, laughing and smiling along like he’s always meant to be there with you. He would quip once or twice with his own accounts about your parents and you fell a little harder for the man, for the way he spoke about your parents with unparalleled fondness was something to behold. He truly adored them, and it just made you miss them even more.

“We should go,” you said gently, standing up, smoothing your dress daintily with a small smile. “I want to visit my parents today. It’s a good day and I haven’t been to ever since I was in college.”

Yunho, ever the gentleman that he was, walked both you and Hongjoong all the way to the door to see you out instead of sending his right-hand man like a man of his status should. The shift in his demeanor was immediate, but you tried your best to not pay attention to it as he hugged you goodbye.

“She’ll be back, Yunho,” Hongjoong rolled his eyes, noticing the small tension, subtly pulling you away back to his side with a curt chuckle. “Stop smothering her.”

Yunho didn’t answer with words. He just stared long, quiet, and with enough weight behind his gaze to make most men sweat as both you and Hongjoong speed walked all the way to the car to try and get away, but of course, there was no escaping. You were a Jeong, after all, and so was he. “Stop,” he spoke out, firm and absolute.

You halted from walking, giving Hongjoong a knowing look, who only squeezed your hand supportively. “Hmm?”

“I know what you did,” Yunho said, his voice just a touch lower than before. He swept his gaze on you from head to toe, stopping lightly at your shoulders. "Your sore shoulders tells me everything."

Your spine straightened, barely enough to notice, unless someone was trained to notice. You turned your head over your shoulder, lips curled into an innocent, almost amused smile. “Oh?”

He smirked, his body stilling like a predator catching scent. You faltered, suddenly reminded that Yunho wasn’t just your uncle - he was mafia, just like Hongjoong. Worse, perhaps, more patient and more precise. Hongjoong took pride in the brutality of it all while he was the kind of man who could make a death look like a ghost story.

For a moment, he looked overtly threatening, his intelligence sharper, and his confrontation carrying a much colder, calculated menace. He tilted his head mockingly, willingly playing your game. “Must’ve felt good,” he chuckled. “I bet you looked him in the eye.”

You had to laugh out loud at that one, not confirming nor denying what he was insinuating. “Maybe I just found peace,” you said innocently.

“I see. Say, what jail is he in? Might have to pay him a visit,” Yunho smiled, truly smiled, wide and cold, but still, it was impossible to miss the adoration and pride in it. “Let me guess - it’s two feet wide and six foot deep.”

Hongjoong, who’d been watching you both with amusement simmering just beneath the surface, finally spoke. “What vivid imagination you have,” he mused, smirking with dark intent, his eyes shining sadistically as he looked at you with faux curiosity. “Don’t you think, darling?”

Yunho nodded slowly, pursing his lips in a poor attempt to stop himself from smiling. “Not vivid enough,” he shrugged playfully. “Humour me this, if someone were to, say, shoot someone…would it be better to aim for a quick kill or prolong the agony? Hypothetically.”

You tapped your chin thoroughly, pretending to think. “ I’d prolong the agony. Shoot them four times on pressure points. Hypothetically, of course.”

“Next one,” Yunho said, clearly enjoying himself. “You’re standing over the body, hypothetically, and he’s looking at you, what would you say?”

“Hypothetically? You pondered, tilting your head as if you were really thinking about what to say. “I would have said ��you should have killed me when you had the chance.’”

Hongjoong exhaled, something like reverence in his breath. “God, I love you.”

“Just one more,” Yunho said softly, his voice losing its teasing edge, now carrying the quiet weight of someone who’d once held you as a child, who had once promised your father to protect you. “Was it clean?”

You met his gaze evenly, nodding very subtly with a serene smile, one that he returned with all the love and unwavering support only someone who truly cared for you would do.

You wanted to tell him that it was so clean that after your hands didn’t even shake as you pulled the trigger and that the air smelled sweeter. Instead you said, “Like it never even happened.”

Yunho stared at you for a long moment, his eyes melting into something rawer, wearier. “If anyone asks,” he said lowly, the gravity in his tone undeniable now. “You were with me that night. Both of you were the entire time.”

His gaze cut to Hongjoong, who for once, looked struck silent. The air between them simmered with unspoken understanding. He nodded deeply with reverence. It wasn’t flashy, but it was sincere and genuine enough that Yunho didn’t mock him for it. “Thank you.”

Yunho just waved a hand, though his voice cracked slightly when he said, “Don’t thank me, you bastard. Just keep her safe or I swear, I’ll drag your sorry ass down and make you wish you’d stayed single.”

Hongjoong chuckled low in his throat. His hand settled gently on the small of your back as he led you forward. “Don’t worry, she married a man who never stopped watching her back.”

“God help us all,” Yunho rolled his eyes in mock disgrace, staring at the two of you as you both got in the car before he called for the last time. “Tell your parents I said hi.”

You looked back to see him watching you as Hongjoong started to drive away, arms crossed, but eyes glassy. And though he didn’t say it, you understood. You were safe, you were home, and he’d go to hell and back before anyone took that from you again.

The car ride was quiet at first, not from discomfort, but from something softer. Reverent. Hongjoong kept one hand on the wheel while the other was placed on your lap. It reminded you of that one stormy night when he sought out to find you in that lone playground. He turned to look at you, knowing that he was thinking the same as you were.

“I love you,” he said, pulling your hand up to kiss your knuckles. His eyes searched your face like he was memorizing it all over again, as though he still couldn’t believe you were here. “I should’ve said it a long time ago, I feel for you so much that it almost hurts.”

You blinked back the sudden tears, the sincerity in his voice cracking something wide open inside you. You laughed wetly. “That’s very sweet of you, I believe you, but why now?”

“I wanted to wait until everything was said and done,” he continued, pressing another kiss to your fingers. “I want to give you everything. A house to grow old with, a bed where you always feel safe, dinners where I burn the rice and you make fun of me for it. I want lazy Sundays and soft arguments and kisses, just like we’ve always done it.”

You looked at him, heart aching with how badly you wanted to believe in all of it and how, against all odds, you did. “You’re serious?” You asked softly, squeezing his hand back.

He placed a hand over his heart in a rare show of insecurity. “I would place a piece of my soul in every time and place you’d ever felt lonely, just so you wouldn’t be alone. I love you enough for the both of us, and there must be something about me worth loving if you would just see–”

You leaned in and kissed him the moment he parked, slow and sweet and full of the kind of hope neither of you had dared to hold onto before. When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “I want that too,” you whispered. “I want everything with you, Hongjoong.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years. “Then we start today,” he smiled as bright as the brightest star. “We say hello to your parents. We tell them you’re safe, then we build a life that’s entirely ours, okay?”

You nodded, your smile trembling. You finally look up at the sky after all these years, tearing up as the clouds seem to part way for the sun to finally shine, the rays beaming down at your parents’ tombstones. Finally, justice has been served, they can rest in peace now. You couldn’t help but stare if only for a little while.

Hongjoong approached the stones first, his head bowing low between them. He placed one hand gently on your mother’s grave, the other on your father’s. He didn’t speak loudly, but you saw his lips move, whispering something too quiet for even you to hear. It could’ve been anything - a greeting, a promise, or perhaps maybe even a thank you.

You didn’t ask what he said. You didn’t need to. For the first time, the cemetery didn’t feel like an end. It felt like a door closing softly behind you because the weight of grief was gone now. They could rest and so could you. You stood by Hongjoong’s side smiling at him as he gave you a small kiss on the forehead, coaxing you to talk to your own parents just like he did.

You brought your hands to your lips, kissed your palms, and pressed them reverently to each stone. “Rest easy now, Mom, Dad,” you whispered full of love and release, voice catching as you tried not to tear up. “I’m safe now, and I’m very happy. Happier than I’d ever been.”

You turned to look at the man standing just a few steps behind you - your husband, your protector, your love - watching you with a smile so soft, it nearly broke you open again. “I’m married now. It’s Hongjoong, remember him? Please bless our marriage, I really love him,” you paused, taking a deep breath. “I-I wish you were both here, I miss you…”

Then, slowly, you stepped back and began to walk away, hand in hand with Hongjoong. But before, you glanced back one last time, your heart feeling lighter at the sight of the wind blowing from the tombstones to your face lightly. You couldn’t help the serene smile on your face.

Hongjoong will take over now, he’ll take care of me like you would’ve wanted.

You were thirty-four years old when you finally found your peace that didn’t feel like a surrender this time and instead felt like home, hand in hand with the love of your life.

𝙽𝚎𝚝s - @keopihaus @dove-net @othersideoutlawsnetwork @illusionnet @pirateeznet @ksmutsociety @cromernet

Dividers by: @enchanthings and @anitalenia

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wooyoungiewritings · 1 month ago

Text

P☆RNSTAR - Park Seonghwa x Reader

Inspired by the song "P☆RNSTAR" by Nessa Barrett

"Show me who you are, pornstar"

Summary: You're a sharp, ambitious journalist who's assigned on a column about Park Seonghwa, the biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. He's a pornstar. But from the moment he turns his sharp eyes on you, everything shifts. He reads you too easily, teases you too precisely, unraveling every line you swore you wouldn’t cross. What begins as a probing interview turns into a game of control, tension, and exposed desires neither of you saw coming.

Word count: 17K

Genre: Pornstar!Seonghwa, reporter!reader, oneshot, smut

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), oneshot, smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), masturbation, oral sex (f/m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, spitting, unprotected sex, cum play, Hwa is very dominant (he's a pornstar, he knows what he's doing lmao), lmk if I missed anything!

The office smells like cheap coffee and stale ambition. You sit on the edge of a squeaky swivel chair, scrolling through the latest assignment email with a sinking feeling.

New project: “The Lives Behind the Screens” — a column digging into the unseen realities of internet celebrities and adult entertainers.

Great.

You thought journalism would be different. Real stories, real people. Not this digital voyeurism dressed up as “content.” But here you are, fresh out of college, with a degree gathering dust and a boss breathing down your neck.

Your editor’s voice plays in your head: “Next up? Park Seonghwa. The biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. Viral, iconic, untouchable. And you? You’re going to tell his story. Follow him. Watch him. Don’t fall for the fantasy.”

You click the link your editor attached and his face fills the screen, high-definition, impossibly symmetrical, built for the camera. Dark hair, parted just enough to frame his cheekbones like they were carved. A mouth that looks both sinful and soft, depending on the angle. Eyes like velvet, sharp, unreadable, expensive. He doesn’t smile in most of his photos. Doesn’t need to.

The headline reads: "The Pornstar Prince of the Internet."

You roll your eyes. But you keep scrolling.

Clips. Gifs. Edits. Reposts. Commentary threads that worship him like religion. "God-tier performance." "Unreal stamina." "He makes you feel like he’s looking right at you." You keep reading. Watching. Studying.

You find a clip, thirty seconds, muted, of him on a dimly lit set, shirt hanging off one shoulder, smirking at someone off-camera. He doesn’t blink much. He doesn’t need to. His body language is all ease, all control. Not arrogance. Not exactly. It’s more like... confidence that’s been sharpened into a weapon.

You don't look away.

Not because you’re turned on, not really. You’re... intrigued.

***

You show up ten minutes early, because you're not about to let a pornstar, no matter how famous, be the one waiting for you. The building is tucked between a yoga studio and a wellness café, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and minimalist signage that makes you feel underdressed just for breathing near it.

You expected neon lights. Maybe a couch no one should sit on. Definitely something sleazy.

But inside, it’s... clean.

Modern. Quiet. A tall woman with a tablet and black pumps greets you like you’re here for a boardroom pitch, not a profile piece on one of the internet’s most prolific sex symbols.

“You’re here for Mr. Park?”

Mr. Park.

You have to bite your tongue to stop from smirking.

“Yes. I’m with-”

“I know who you’re with,” she says politely, tapping something on her screen. “He’s finishing up a call. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Water? Coffee? Champagne? You half expect the offer to end in something absurd like cocaine or compliments. But instead, you shake your head politely and she gestures toward a plush couch in a waiting area that looks more like a magazine launch office than a porn empire.

You sit, legs crossed, notebook in your lap, and glance around.

There are no posters. No half-naked shots. No trophies shaped like body parts. Just soft lighting, neutral palettes, and a low hum of quiet professionalism that makes your spine tighten.

You don’t like this.

You were ready for something raw. Tacky. Exposed. You were ready to roll your eyes and keep your emotional distance.

Instead, this place feels... corporate. Intentional. Curated.

You wonder if it’s a reflection or a deflection. You wonder what the perfectly polished floor is hiding.

“He’s ready for you now,” the assistant says, voice crisp but warm. “Down the hall. Last door on the right.”

You smooth your jacket, grip your notebook, and stand.

You walk down the hall, heels dull against the polished concrete, every surface too clean, too careful. The door is slightly ajar, the only one without a nameplate. That feels intentional.

You push it open.

And there he is.

Not behind a desk, not seated with polite formality, not postured for you, just leaning against the wide windowsill, half-turned to the city below, a cigarette balanced loosely between two fingers.

Dark hair, slightly tousled like he hasn’t bothered to tame it. His shirt, black, sheer, loose at the collar. A thin chain around his throat catches the light. And his nails, black polish, chipped at the edges. Purposefully imperfect. Like he’s above caring, or maybe it’s the only thing he cares about.

He glances over his shoulder when you step in. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you.

The eyes are worse than the photos. Darker. Sharper. Too direct. Like he’s already bored, already curious. Like he sees everything, and he’s trying to decide if you’re worth keeping his attention on.

He flicks ash into a small black tray on the ledge. There’s nothing else on it. No papers, no phone. Just him.

He finally speaks, voice low and warm with the edges of smoke, like it could wrap around your neck if you let it.

“So you’re the one who wants to figure me out.” It’s not a question. But his eyes don’t move from yours. They don’t flinch. “You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You offer the smallest shrug. “I could say the same.”

That earns the hint of a laugh. Just a breath, barely there.

He stubs out the cigarette, gestures toward the lone armchair behind you. “You can sit. I won’t bite.”

You don’t say anything. Just take the seat, notebook still closed in your lap. He stays standing. Of course he does. You can tell he likes the distance, the height, likes watching from above. Not out of arrogance, but out of habit. He’s used to reading people, measuring how they move when they’re inside a space that belongs to him.

“I’m working on a column,” you say finally. “Series called The Lives Behind the Screens.”

“I’ve heard.” He nods once. “They sent me your articles. You ask better questions than most.”

You glance up. “You actually read them?”

His mouth quirks into a crooked kind of smile. Dry, a little arrogant, but not in a way that pushes you away. If anything, it pulls you in.

“I like knowing who’s about to ask if I’ve always been this good with my hands.”

That draws a smile from you, small, tight. Not because it’s funny. But because you expected that line. He’s testing the waters.

“I’m not here just to talk about your sex life,” you say.

There’s a flicker at the corner of his lips. Something amused. Not quite a grin, just a suggestion of one, like he’s trying to decide if he’s impressed or annoyed.

“Shame,” he murmurs. “That’s usually the fun part.” there’s a languid rhythm to the way he speaks, each word stretched just enough to make you feel it.

The silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable. Just... charged. Like you’re both waiting to see who steps forward first.

Across the room, Seonghwa moves toward the bookshelf along the far wall. Not performative, not for your benefit. He’s just giving you time to look at him.

So you do.

He’s taller than you realized. Lean, but strong in the way dancers are. He walks like he knows people are watching, not cocky, just aware. The kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention, it assumes it. And the longer you observe, the more it’s clear: nothing about him is accidental.

The sheer shirt might as well be part of his skin. It moves when he moves. His black jeans are worn soft at the seams, sitting low on his hips. No belt. Just a silver chain around one wrist, around his neck and that single piercing. A bar through his eyebrow.

When he turns to face you again, he doesn't sit.

“I’m guessing you’ve already read everything about me,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

“I tried to,” you admit, finally jotting something down, the way he speaks without looking for approval, the confidence that isn’t loud. “But I don’t think it matters.”

That earns you a longer look. His head tilts. “Why not?”

You don’t glance up from your page. “Because none of it’s yours. It's press releases. Magazine quotes. Fan rumors. It’s the version of you people think they want to believe in.”

He’s silent for a beat too long. When you do meet his eyes again, there’s something softer around the edges. Not exposed. But interested.

“And what version are you looking for?” he asks.

“I’m here to figure out if there’s a man behind the star,” you say, tone even. “Or if you’ve just become the thing people want from you.”

That lands. You can feel it. His jaw shifts slightly, but he doesn’t look away.

“I could lie,” he offers, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Make up some tragic story. Childhood trauma. First heartbreak. Tell you something that’ll look good in a pull quote.”

“You could,” you nod, pen tapping once against the paper. “But I’d know.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again, but this time there’s no amusement in it. Just curiosity. A quiet spark behind his eyes that says you’ve surprised him.

He moves closer.

Only a few steps, measured, unrushed, and then leans against the back of the leather armchair opposite yours. His arms fold loosely across his chest, and he studies you like a mirror. Like you’re suddenly the one under scrutiny.

“You don’t flirt,” he observes.

You blink. “Is that a problem?”

“Most people do,” he says simply. “Even the ones who say they won’t.”

You meet his gaze, hold it. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to work out how you got under his skin without touching him. “You’re not.”

For a moment, something spreads between you. You’re not even sure what it is yet. But it’s there, between you. Not attraction. But interest. A tension that hums like a wire strung too tight.

You look away first, not out of defeat, but control. Your voice is smooth as you ask, “What’s the worst assumption people make about you?”

Seonghwa exhales through his nose. A faint smile, but more thoughtful this time. He leans his head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling like he’s weighing the cost of honesty.

“That's easy,” he says eventually. “All of it. That I just show up and look good and take my clothes off, and somehow, that’s enough.”

You nod once, pen moving again.

“And is it?” you ask, without looking up.

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “But sometimes I wish it were.”

The vulnerability slips through so subtly, you almost miss it. But it’s there. And he lets it hang in the space between you, bare, unpolished.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just underline the sentence on your page, twice.

When you glance at him again, he’s already watching you.

Not in the way men look at women. Not like he’s trying to undress you.

He looks at you like he wants to know what you look like with your guard down.

“What made you start doing this?” you ask again, pushing a little harder this time.

Seonghwa exhales through his nose, grabs another cigarette from his pocket and lights it with an unreadable expression. He taps ash into the glass tray on the table between you.

“I like sex,” he says simply, lips curving just slightly. “Turns out, I’m good at it. People like to watch. Seemed like a win-win.”

You don’t blink. Don’t smile back.

“I’m sure that’s true,” you say evenly. “But that’s not really an answer.”

His brows lift. Just a fraction. You think you catch the flicker of something else in his eyes, not surprise, exactly, but interest. Curiosity. Most people probably take the bait and laugh. Move on.

You don’t.

“So what kind of answer are you looking for?” he asks, his tone lighter now. It’s playful. Not mocking, but there’s a dare underneath it.

“The real kind,” you say. “Unless that’s too much to ask.”

He looks at you for a beat too long. Then, just when the silence starts to turn into something heavier, he grins. It’s not the polished smile from his photoshoots or the cocky smirk from his scenes. It’s crooked. Defensive.

“You’re intense,” he says.

“You’re guarded,” you shoot back.

That actually gets a laugh out of him, low and warm. He places the cigarette between his lips again, holding your gaze as he breathes in. He smells like smoke and sandalwood, expensive and addictive.

“Is it hard to get hard when you don’t actually want the person touching you?”

That makes him go still.

No smirk. No clever deflection. Just a small shift in his eyes, like a curtain tugged half an inch to the side.

“That’s a hell of a question,” he says eventually, exhaling smoke slowly through his nose.

You wait.

The jewelry on his fingers glints in the soft light. He taps the cigarette out with one hand, stubs it, and doesn’t light another.

“Sometimes it’s hard,” he says eventually. “Not physically. Mechanically, there are tricks. Prep. It’s part of the job. But mentally…” He shrugs. “Some days you show up and your body does the work, but your head isn’t anywhere near it.”

“Where does it go?” you ask.

That question lands harder than you expected. He doesn’t answer it right away.

“You like making people uncomfortable, don’t you?” he says instead, with a sharp little smile.

“I like watching people flinch when they’re used to being worshipped,” you shoot back.

That does it, a soft laugh, almost disbelieving. He runs a hand through his dark hair, the first sign of agitation. Or maybe… intrigue.

“You think I’m used to being worshipped?”

“I think you’ve made a career off of it,” you say. “And I think you’re smart enough to know none of it’s real.”

He straightens up slowly, standing to full height. Not a threat, but a shift in dynamic. He towers, but doesn’t loom. He just exists fully, commandingly, in the space. Smoke, sex, control, all wrapped in the body of a man who knows what power feels like in his palm.

“Tomorrow,” he says, tone clipped now. “Be on set at ten. Don’t be late.”

You nod, but don’t move yet. “And you’ll show me?”

He lifts a brow. “Show you what?”

“What it looks like when you stop pretending.”

The look he gives you is unreadable. Half danger, half fascination.

Then he says, “Careful what you wish for.”

***

You don’t expect to be alone when he finds you.

You’re standing just beyond the edge of the set, not quite hidden but far enough away that you don’t feel like you’re intruding. The lights are half-up, the crew moving with quiet efficiency, adjusting equipment, taping marks to the floor. It’s all so… normal. Not chaotic. Not hypersexualized. Not what you thought a porn set would look like.

There’s nothing cheap about it. No sleaze. No haze of something you can’t name.

Just calm. Controlled. Professional.

Then you feel him before you hear him.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to show up early to this,” Seonghwa says.

You turn.

He’s closer than you expected, but not too close, just inside your space enough to remind you this is his world. His set. His rules.

He’s dressed down. Black pants. Loose black tank. Hair still damp, like he just showered. Barefoot. There’s a quiet confidence to him, the kind that doesn’t need announcing. And that damn eyebrow piercing catches the light when he looks at you.

“I figured you’d bail,” he says, "Didn’t think this kind of work was your thing.”

You glance over your notepad without looking up. “It’s not.”

He tilts his head. “Dedicated. Or just curious?”

“I’m here to work.”

“You keep saying that,” he muses. “Like you’re trying to convince someone.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “Would it make you more comfortable if I pretended to be flustered around you?”

He laughs, soft, warm. “No,” he says. “That’s the problem. You don’t pretend.”

You say nothing, but your fingers tighten slightly around your notebook. He catches it.

His smile sharpens, but his voice stays casual. “So,” he says, “first time seeing something like this in person?”

You nod.

“No nerves?”

“A few,” you admit. “But I’ve done harder interviews.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Harder than watching me fuck someone ten feet in front of you?”

Your throat tightens, just slightly. Not enough to show. But something shifts in your expression. His eyes track it.

He grins.

You look back at him, carefully composed. “I’m still here.”

“That you are,” he says, quieter now. “And you’ll watch? Even if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think it will.”

A beat passes. His gaze lingers on your face. Then he nods, almost approvingly.

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s see how much you’re really ready for.”

He turns, just like that, walking toward the set. The curtain parts behind him.

And just before it closes, he glances over his shoulder.

“Try not to fall for me,” he says with a crooked smile. “It gets messy.”

You don’t answer. You just grip your notebook a little tighter.

You’re here. Watching, really watching.

The red light blinks above like a warning and a promise, casting a harsh glow over the small, claustrophobic set. Seonghwa stands center stage, muscles taut beneath his soaked black tank top, sweat glistening on his skin like he’s been moving for hours.

He doesn’t look up as he starts, he’s not just touching her, his set-partner. He’s worshipping every inch.

She’s moaning, low, ragged sounds that fill the room, vibrating against your skin. His fingers find her, moving inside her with a steady, expert pressure that makes her cry out in pleasure. His mouth covers hers, rough and demanding, teeth grazing her bottom lip, swallowing every protest she might have.

His hips thrust hard, the tank top clinging to every muscle twitch, sweat dripping down the curve of his spine. He grunts low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest as he drives her higher, faster.

And then, just when you think you can’t bear it, he looks up.

His eyes catch yours across the room, sharp and knowing. It’s like he can see right through your carefully constructed wall, the cool, detached journalist trying to stay professional, and he’s amused by it. Maybe even hungry for it. There’s a flicker of cocky challenge there, a silent dare: Keep watching.

The way his mouth curves into a slow, teasing smile sends a jolt through you, and you realize this isn’t just a show for the cameras. This is his playground, and you’re the unexpected audience he wants to mesmerize.

You feel heat rise between your legs, your breath catching in your throat despite yourself. This is supposed to be work. But your body betrays you, tightening, aching, wanting. Your skin prickles as the two of them writhe, tangled in lust and need, so raw, so real, it’s impossible to pretend it’s not affecting you.

Every moan, every bite, every slick slide of his fingers on her wetness is a punch straight to your gut. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be feeling this. But you are.

And it terrifies you.

You wait alone in the dim waiting room, the muffled sounds of the set still echoing faintly beyond the door. Your fingers drum nervously against the notebook in your arms, mind spinning with what you just witnessed. The intoxicating mix of raw power, control, and vulnerability, everything about him pulls at you in ways you didn’t expect.

The door swings open without warning.

He steps inside, still dripping with sweat, the black robe hanging loose and wet against his skin. His dark hair is tangled, strands plastered to his forehead and neck, but he looks effortless, like he just conquered the world or at least that room.

His gaze lands on you, smirking as if he knows exactly what’s racing through your mind. “So,” he says, voice low and husky, “did the show live up to your expectations?”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “It was... intense. Different than anything I imagined.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, the heat radiating off him making your skin flush. “I told you, this isn’t some act. It’s real.”

You don’t look away, but take a small step back so you feel the wall behind you. “I saw that. You’re not faking it.”

His smirk deepens. “I don’t do fake. My body knows what to do.” He lets the robe slip slightly off one shoulder, revealing the sweat-slick skin beneath. “But now, I want to see you. What happens when you drop the act?”

Your breath catches. “I’m not the one putting on a show.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel his warmth, eyes locked on yours with a playful challenge. “Maybe you’re hiding better than I thought. But I don’t scare easy. You push me, I’ll push back.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of your chair. “Then push.”

Seonghwa leans in just a fraction closer, his dark eyes locked onto yours with that smoldering mix of cocky challenge and genuine curiosity. The faint scent of sweat and something uniquely his, clean, but with a wild edge, fills the small space between you. He lets the robe slip a little more off his shoulder, just enough to tease, but not enough to give everything away.

“So, what’s your move, reporter?”

His gaze narrows, sharp and piercing as he lets his fingers trail just a breath away from your skin, deliberately not touching, drawing out the moment. Neither of you is blinking.

“You want answers,” he says, voice low and teasing. “But answers come at a price. You think you can handle what you don’t expect?”

You hold his stare, heart pounding, refusing to flinch. “I’m not here to be intimidated.”

He lets out a slow, dark laugh, amused and a little impressed. “Good. Because I’m not here to entertain you… at least, not yet.”

He steps back, letting the space between you swell with the weight of what just passed, then pulls his robe tighter around his frame with a smooth motion. “But here’s a deal: I’ll give you the story you want. The real me, the part behind the flashing lights and staged scenes. On one condition.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Which is?”

He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice a rough whisper. “You come back. You don’t flinch. You keep pushing. No matter how messy it gets. You keep digging, even when it hurts. No backing down. And maybe… just maybe, you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

He pulls away, smirking like he’s already won the game. “Think it over. I’ll be waiting.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his challenge ringing louder than any spotlight.

***

When the elevator dings on his floor, you step out into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The walls are a cool gray, the faint smell of leather and something smoky wafting up from behind one door.

You take a breath and knock lightly.

The door swings open before you finish the knock, revealing Seonghwa. “Come in,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. He steps aside, letting you slip inside.

The air smells faintly of cologne and smoke, the leftover echo of whatever he did on set lingering like something physical. The windows are wide, letting in the soft amber of the city outside. It should feel casual. It doesn’t.

You take it all in quietly, feeling the weight of his space, the echo of the man who lives here.

You settle into the dark gray couch, eyes never leaving him as he moves with casual ease.

Seonghwa walks toward the open-plan kitchen, barefoot, hair damp from a quick shower. He’s once again a robe, black, slung loose around him, revealing toned legs and glimpses of his chest when the fabric parts with each lazy step. You pretend not to notice. You do. It’s impossible not to.

He grabs a lighter from the counter, flicks it without looking, and lights the cigarette already tucked between his lips. The inhale is long. Slow. A sigh through his nose. Then he turns toward you.

“You look like you’re in a dentist’s waiting room,” he murmurs. Voice warm. Slightly mocking.

He exhales smoke and walks closer, staying on his side of the room but dropping into the armchair across from you, in the middle of the two couches, slouching low like he owns the place. Which, of course, he does.

The room shrinks around you, charged with something unspoken and raw. You don’t like it. You don’t want it. But you can’t look away.

“Okay, then,” you say, voice sharp. “You like being watched?”

A lazy smirk curls his mouth. “Doesn’t everyone?” He leans forward, arms resting on his thighs, cigarette perched between his fingers. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling.

Then he speaks again. “I like control,” he says. “I like knowing what people want and giving it to them. It’s… intimate. But safe. And when you’re good at it? They forget it’s a performance.”

Your throat tightens slightly, but you nod. “So it’s about power?”

“It’s about reading people,” he corrects. Then, smoothly, “My turn.” He tilts his head, studying you like you’re the subject now.

“Who broke you?”

Your stomach tightens. “What?”

He grins, slow and wicked. “You walk around like you’re armored, like you’ve got barbed wire under your skin. So who put it there?”

“I’m not here to talk about me.”

His voice drops, velvet smooth. “Show me who you are.”

Your lips tighten. “No one broke me.”

“Everyone’s broken somewhere,” he says, quietly. “You just hide it well.”

He eyes you again. “My turn, again. Because you didn't answer properly before-”

You shake your head. “I’m the interviewer.” you interrupt.

“And I’m interested in you.” His smile grows.

You feel your breath hitch, but hide it behind a slow blink.

The tension between you burns like the end of his cigarette. He stubs it out, stands slowly, robe slipping slightly off his shoulder as he crosses the space between you.

Then he pauses in front of you, not quite touching, looking down.

“You want more access?” he asks, voice velvet smooth. “Then let me have the same.”

You look up, chin raised. “What are you proposing?”

“A deal.” His eyes darken. “I’ll answer anything. All of your questions. But I get to ask whatever I want too. I get to dig just as deep.”

You hesitate. He sees it. Feeds off it.

“And if you can’t handle that,” he adds, soft and cutting, “you should probably go.”

You grit your teeth. Your pulse pounds in your throat. Your body leans forward before your mind catches up.

“Fine,” you breathe. “Deal.”

He grins.

“Good,” he says. “Now, let’s really begin.”

You’re still on the couch when he lowers himself beside you, not in the armchair across the room, not at a polite distance, but next to you. His thigh brushes yours. The robe shifts again, riding high on his legs, revealing toned skin and hints of muscle that make it hard to focus.

He’s warm. Too warm. And the silence between you goes thick and heavy, soaked in everything you aren’t saying.

“Alright,” you say, keeping your voice flat, composed, even though your heart is hammering in your chest. “You made a deal. Ask.”

He smirks, eyes raking over your face like he’s deciding where to begin.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

Your breath catches, like he’s slapped you with the question instead of asking it. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“You said I could ask a question,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-smooth. “I’m just playing by the rules.”

You recover quickly, jaw tightening. “Next question.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You want honesty? Fine,” You meet his eyes, sharp, challenging. “I think about what it feels like to stop controlling everything. To not be the one driving. To let someone else take over, just for a while.”

His expression shifts, only slightly, but you see it. Something almost thoughtful in the cocky glint of his gaze. He leans back, just a little, arm along the top of the couch behind you.

“Interesting,” he says. “So you like to let go.”

Your turn. “How often do you sleep with someone off-camera?”

He shrugs. “Less than people think. When sex becomes work, it’s harder to want it just for fun. But when I do… I make sure it’s worth it.”

Your pulse skips. You force yourself not to look away.

He leans in. His voice drops, brushing your skin like it knows what it’s doing.

“Would you ever let go with someone like me?”

You stare at him. Hard. “Would you ever stop performing with someone like me?”

A beat. A flicker of surprise behind his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve performed once since you walked through my door.”

“Liar.”

He laughs, low, rough, the sound curling down your spine. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

You should move. You don’t. He’s closer now, his thigh pressing against yours, the robe parting slightly as he turns toward you.

“And what about you?” he asks. “What’s under your perfect little armor?”

You stare back at him, fingers curling around the edges of your notebook.

He continues, tone deceptively light. “You come in here, all calm and collected. Like you’re not flustered. Like watching me get someone off in front of a room full of people didn’t do something to you.”

Your spine straightens.

“It didn’t,” you lie.

He grins slowly. “Sure. Let me guess, you’re just doing your job. You don’t feel anything.”

You don’t answer.

“I think you feel more than you let on,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’re too busy trying to prove you’re better than all of this. That you’re above it.”

You meet his gaze, and something inside you cracks. Just a little. “You think you know me?” you whisper.

“I think you wear control like I wear seduction. Like armor.” He leans back again, watching you with something that’s dangerously close to fascination. “But no one ever asks what happens when you take it off.”

You suck in a breath. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to earn respect in a world that doesn’t take women seriously unless they’re agreeable.”

He tilts his head. “And you don’t know what it’s like to be only wanted for what your body can do, not who you are.”

There it is.

The stillness between you is different now, warmer, denser. It hums beneath your skin.

He says it softer, like he means it. “No one gives a fuck about what I think. Just what I can make them feel.”

The words sit heavy in your chest. There’s a moment of silence. This is biggest crack you’ve managed to get out of his guarded shell.

Then his voice softens again, teasing this time. “Alright, journalist. My turn. Last question.”

Your stomach coils, tight with anticipation.

“Have you ever imagined someone fucking you so good it ruins you for everyone else?”

Your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t blink. “Not just the act. The aftermath. The kind of sex that stays in your bones, makes everything after feel like a cheap imitation. You ever wondered what it’d take to break you like that?”

There’s no teasing in his voice now. Just quiet curiosity. Like it’s a scientific inquiry. You look at him, really look at him, and it’s suddenly so obvious he’s not just asking for the sake of it.

He wants to know if he could do it.

Your breath hitches.

And he sees it.

The smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, that smug spark in his eye, you’ve just confirmed something for him.

He ashes the cigarette again, slow and easy. “Thought so,” he murmurs.

And the worst part?

You can’t even bring yourself to deny it.

***

You lie on your back in the dark, your sheets cool against your skin but your body too warm.

It’s late. Later than you meant to be awake. Your bedside lamp casts a muted glow across the ceiling, and you’ve already scrolled through every app on your phone twice. But your mind won’t stop replaying the evening.

You shift under the covers. They’re soft but do nothing to ease the heat crawling under your skin.

He got to you.

You hate that. You hate knowing that.

All of it replays in your mind on a loop, the cocky slant of his mouth, the lazy sprawl of his body across the couch, the way he tossed you that question like a match and watched it catch fire between your thighs.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

The nerve. And still, your stomach twisted.

But it wasn’t just the question. It was the way he said it. The way he looked at you like he already knew the answer. Like he could read it on your skin.

You shouldn’t care. He’s your subject. Your project. Your assignment. You’re here to peel back the layers, uncover the man behind the persona.

And yet, here you are. Lying in your bed. Thinking about him.

You open your browser on your phone. Start to type.

Park Seonghwa.

A breath hitches in your throat as the name autofills. You press enter.

Links bloom across the screen in a chaotic sprawl. Clips. Interviews. Promo photos. Glossy thumbnails of sex.

But it’s the one at the very top that stops you.

No clickbait. No dramatic title. Just:

Park Seonghwa – Solo | Intimate POV.

You stare at the thumbnail. It’s dark, soft-red-lit, just a close-up of his face. Damp hair pushed back. His lips slightly parted. His eyes. direct, dark, focused. On the camera. On you.

You hesitate.

Then your finger taps the screen.

The video loads slowly, black for a beat, and then…

There he is.

The camera is positioned low on the nightstand, the frame unsteady but intimate, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to see. The soft red lighting of Seonghwa’s bedroom casts red shadows over his skin, the familiar surroundings of his private apartment making the moment feel even more forbidden. This isn’t a set. It’s his space. His bed. His sheets.

And he’s standing at the edge of it, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the waistband barely clinging to his skin. His black-painted fingers trace a path along his abdomen.

His voice cuts through the quiet, low and rough, like he’s talking to himself as much as to whoever’s watching.

“I’m all alone tonight,” he says, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Just me, my hands, and this hard fucking cock. You watching this in your bed, baby?” he murmurs, voice low, laced with that cocky softness that makes your stomach twist. “Lying there all sweet and needy, just for me?”

The waistband slips lower. Your breath catches.

The camera captures it all, his cock, thick and hard, gradually revealed, the flushed head slick with precome, shining under the dim red light. Veins curl along the shaft like cords pulled tight with anticipation, each one pulsing with restrained tension.

“Mm, look at that. Fucking myself… but every thought? You. Every touch? You.” he drawls, spitting into his palm and wrapping his hand around himself with a practiced grip. He groans, low and deep, as he spreads the slickness over his cock. “I wish you were here, on this bed, touching yourself just like I am. Knowing I’m watching. Knowing you belong to me tonight.”

He starts to stroke himself, slow and teasing, watching the camera like he can see right through it. “Don’t touch yet,” he warns, voice sharp. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

He talks like he sees you, sees directly through the screen and into your eyes. Like he knows what you’re doing in your own room, alone, totally under his control.

He leans back against the edge of the bed, one hand behind him to steady him, the other still wrapped around his cock.

Then, his gaze sharpens again. “Alright, baby. Now you can touch. Let me see it. Fingers deep. Rub that clit slow and soft, don’t rush it. I want to hear how messy it gets.”

Your fingers tremble as you slide your hand beneath your clothes, cheeks flushing hot with a mix of shame and desperate need. Your breath hitches as your fingers meet your slick folds. Heat coils in your gut, sharp and needy.

“Good girl,” he groans. “That’s it. Just like that. Take your time. I want you fucking ruined by the end of this.”

He’s so fucking good at this. He’s a goddamn star.

His voice drops, ragged with arousal now. “Faster. Rub that little clit hard, don’t you dare stop. Fuck yourself for me, just like I told you.”

You whimper, body writhing under your sheets. Your shirt is already pushed up, one hand squeezing your phone tightly, the other between your thighs, fingers slick with arousal. Your hips roll into your own touch, matching the rhythm of his strokes.

He groans again, low and filthy, his voice rough with lust. “You better be touching yourself exactly like I told you. I want to hear you come for me, baby. Say my name loud.”

Your breath stutters as your fingers circle your clit faster, the wet sounds of your need echoing in your room. “Seonghwa… I-, please…”

“Fingers deeper,” he growls. “Rub that clit while you fuck yourself, baby, don’t make me say it again. I want you moaning my name, legs shaking, begging for more even when you can’t take it.”

You obey without hesitation, sprawled on your bed, one hand buried between your thighs, soaked with your own slick.

But it’s not enough.

Your eyes flutter shut, body already moving in rhythm with his voice, his words, his breath. And then you let go. You pretend it’s not your fingers. You imagine it’s him.

That it’s Seonghwa between your legs, kneeling over you on your bed. His hands are the ones parting your thighs, his fingers circling your clit in teasing, torturously slow circles. You imagine the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his chest above yours, his cock hard against your stomach as he whispers filth right into your ear.

Your eyes snap open. They find the screen in your hand, find him.

“Look at you,” he pants, stroking faster now, spit and precome shining along the thick length of his cock. “Fucking yourself like a good little slut. You’d let me wreck you, wouldn’t you? You’d take every inch and still ask for more. I want you crying because it feels so fucking good.”

Your breath hitches, hips lifting into your own touch, and you pretend it’s him holding you down, not your trembling hand. That it’s his lips grazing your neck as he groans how tight and wet you are for him.

You moan, high and broken, hips jerking up against your fingers. “Yes-, yes, Seonghwa, please, I-”

Tears sting your lashes from how good it feels, how overwhelming it is to be seen and controlled, even from across a screen.

Then, suddenly, his voice softens just enough to ruin you. “Come for me now, pretty girl. Say my fucking name. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You cry out, body seizing as pleasure crashes over you in waves. “Seonghwa-, fuck, Seonghwa!”

And all the while, his eyes never leave the camera. Never leave you.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans, his strokes turning desperate now, almost harsh, as he chases his own release. “Look what you do to me.”

His body tenses, abs flexing, brows drawn tight with pleasure, lips parted as a strangled sound leaves him. And then he comes, cock jerking in his fist, thick ropes spilling over his stomach. His whole body shakes with it, moans leaving his beautiful mouth.

The video ends with him slumping back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat shining on his skin, his hair a mess across his forehead. The smirk that curls on his lips is smug, victorious, as if he’s just claimed something from you without lifting a finger.

“Fucking perfect,” he says softly. “Next time, maybe you’ll be here.”

And the video ends.

You’re left panting, flushed, utterly undone.

You set the phone down, heart still racing, skin still tingling. Embarrassment floods you, but beneath it is a darker craving, a need that won’t be satisfied anytime soon.

***

On Friday, you knock on the door, hesitate for a second, then push it open.

Same office. Same dark walls, same black armchair in the corner, same lingering scent of something expensive and musky. But today, none of it feels the same.

Your chest tightens with a rush of heat and embarrassment of seeing him. You remind yourself to focus, to stay professional. But the memory of the other night, the video you couldn’t stop watching, presses against your thoughts, making your cheeks flush.

He doesn’t notice.

Because the man sitting there doesn’t look like the one you met earlier this week.

Seonghwa is sunk deep into the armchair near the window, hood up, legs stretched out. A lit cigarette dangles between his fingers, ash clinging stubbornly to the end. His usual polished precision is nowhere in sight.

And neither is that smirk.

You pause in the doorway. “Morning.”

He lifts his head just barely, eyes narrowing like the light annoys him. “Oh. Right.. Today.”

No charm. No grin. Not even the cool confidence he always wears like armor.

“I texted you last night. Said I’d be here at ten.”

“Doesn’t mean I remembered,” he mutters, dragging from the cigarette. The smoke curls between you, soft and lazy, but his tone cuts through it like glass.

You step into the room, letting the door click softly behind you. “Are you okay?”

He gives you a look that makes it very clear that was the wrong question. “Peachy.”

You pause, scanning him. The hoodie. The mess of papers on his desk. A barely touched coffee going cold beside his laptop. The light in here is dim, drawn shades casting thin slats across the floor. You can feel the heat of his mood before he says another word.

“You don’t have to fake concern,” he mutters, taking another drag. “It’s not gonna make the column sound any less curated.”

Your brows knit. “Excuse me?”

He waves a hand toward you, toward the room. “This. All of this. Let’s not pretend this is anything other than you getting your material.”

You shift on your feet, a slow flare of irritation lighting your chest. “What do you think I want from this?”

“I think you care about getting the most interesting version of me. The wounded, brooding performer with something to hide.” His mouth twists into something sharp. “It’s exactly what you wanted to see, right?” His gaze cuts to you, sharp and flat. “Congratulations. You’re getting it.”

Your chest tightens, but you stay still. “You think I want you like this?”

“I think you want truth,” he snaps, tapping the ash into the tray. “And this is it. The version I try to keep under wraps because it doesn’t sell. Because it doesn’t make anyone hard or fall in love.”

You glance at the clock. “Do we still do this today? Or should I come back another time?”

He exhales a long breath, rubs a hand over his jaw. “Let’s get it over with.”

And for the first time since this whole thing began, you see him not as the man who holds all the cards, but as someone who hates being looked at too closely.

The day unfolds in fragments.

Meetings. Scripts. Phone calls. Camera tests.

You follow him like you’re supposed to, your notebook tucked under your arm, phone in your pocket, voice recorder untouched. Seonghwa walks ahead of you like he forgot you were even there, hood still up, sleeves shoved halfway to his elbows, the fraying hem of his sweatshirt twitching with each agitated movement.

The production assistant tries to make a joke as he hands Seonghwa a stack of papers. Seonghwa doesn’t smile.

It’s the little things. The way his knee bounces restlessly beneath the conference table. The way he pinches the bridge of his nose when he thinks no one’s looking. The way he zooms out when no one is talking.

You’re silent, mostly. Observing. But it’s impossible not to feel how much he doesn’t want you here.

Not just today, maybe at all.

When the others clear out of the room for a break, you’re left standing near the window. He lights another cigarette and leans back in his chair, exhaling with all the exhaustion of a man three times his age.

You glance at him. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Do I look okay?”

“No. That’s why I asked.”

He drags in another breath of smoke, eyes fixed somewhere past the window.

You take a step closer. “I’m not here to-”

“To fix anything,” he says, voice quieter now, less bite in it. He finally meets your eyes, and something in his expression softens just enough to hurt. “You’re here to tell a story. I get it.”

“That’s not all I’m doing. That’s not fair.”

He shrugs, more resigned than cold. “It’s not meant to be. It’s just… easier to believe you’re doing your job than actually giving a fuck.”

And it hits you then, he’s not trying to shut you out to be cruel. He’s doing it to keep himself from hoping for something more. You hate that he means it. That he believes it. That somewhere between the tension and the peeling back of layers, he still doesn’t trust you enough to believe you care.

Today’s studio space is colder than the hallway, industrial lights buzzing overhead, metal rigs stacked along the walls, and a makeshift bed propped under the camera setup.

You step in behind Seonghwa, careful not to bump into the maze of cords and crew. It’s eerily quiet for a shoot day. But maybe that’s because everyone’s waiting for him.

He’s in his hoodie, the hood still pulled over his head like armor. Hands in his pockets, spine tense. His steps are heavy, slow. Like walking into this room costs him something. And the moment people notice him, something shifts. Not respect. Not admiration. Something more primal.

“God, look at that,” someone murmurs near the lighting board. “Even with a hoodie on, he looks like sex.”

A grip elbows his buddy. “Bet they have him jack off again. He’s too good at it not to.”

Laughter buzzes through the set like a current. You pretend not to hear.

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t respond. You watch his expression from the side, blank. Guarded. Not new to this.

The director finally enters, a man in a designer tee and sunglasses indoors, and claps his hands together with a wide, lazy grin. His eyes go straight to Seonghwa.

“There he is! My masterpiece,” he says with a grin. “Fuck, you’re still so fuckable it’s actually unfair. Even with that tired little pout, perfect. Stay like that.” He steps in close, fingers curling under the hem of Seonghwa’s hoodie and lifting it uninvited. “Yeah, we’ll use this for the thumbnail. Boys wanna be you, girls wanna ride you. And the ones in between? They’re paying double. Let’s not waste time on foreplay, you're losing the pants before we hit four minutes anyways.”

You blink. He doesn’t even ask.

“Today’s just a solo,” the director continues, already talking to the crew. “I want long shots of the buildup. Give me that lazy jerk-off style he does. Like he just woke up and couldn’t help himself. And get tight on his abs when he clenches, viewers love that shit. Make the fuckers at home feel like they’re right there, breathing down his neck.“

He turns back to Seonghwa. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just stroke it, look hot, moan a little, and come when I tell you.”

The words land with the weight of indifference. Like Seonghwa’s just a prop. A function. A dick and a face with a pulse.

You glance up at him. His jaw is tight. His mouth a flat line. Not angry, no. This isn’t new to him. It’s routine. Expected. A part of the job he doesn’t get to question.

You speak without thinking. “He’s not just a prop.”

That earns you a look. Not just from the director, but Seonghwa too. Something flickers in his eyes, shock, maybe surprise.

The director barks a laugh. “Relax. Don’t get righteous. It’s the industry, sweetheart. If you don’t like it, you’re in the wrong room.” He walks off before you can respond, barking something about angles and cumshots.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

Seonghwa doesn’t move at first. When he finally does, it’s slow, measured. His jaw works, but his voice is low, almost too quiet to hear. “It’s not about what I want,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor. “It never is.” He doesn’t say more. Just shrugs off the hoodie and walks toward the set.

You don’t say a word.

But the director’s yelling grabs attention, half-distracted by his phone.

“Come on, Seonghwa. Slower. Let’s really feel that stroke. Sell it like you mean it.”

He doesn’t flinch, not outwardly.

You watch him slip into the rhythm. One hand curls lightly at the base of his stomach, the other resting behind him. He’s not touching himself, not yet.

He looks like a sculpture: smooth, stunning, perfect, and completely lifeless inside. The charm is gone. The Seonghwa you’ve gotten glimpses of, the one with the bitter laugh and the razor wit, the one who says too much when he’s tired and smokes like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, isn’t here. He’s been replaced by a fantasy. A tool.

And no one seems to care.

“Yeah,” the director says absently, standing near the monitor. “God, your face does most of the work for you, doesn’t it? You could just stand there and they’d still fucking come.”

There’s laughter around the room. Like Seonghwa isn’t even present, like he’s just a prop they’re manipulating.

And it makes your chest ache.

You take a slow breath and step back from the edge of the set. There’s nothing for you to do here. Nothing to say that wouldn’t sound hollow, or patronizing, or worse, just like everyone else who pretends to care while still benefiting from his body.

So you turn and quietly leave the room. The hallway outside feels colder, quieter. You don’t know what you’re allowed to feel in this moment. Anger? Sympathy? Guilt?

You just know you couldn't watch anymore.

Not when he clearly didn’t want you to. Not when the man you came here to understand was being stripped away, piece by piece, until only the image was left.

And that image? That glossy, controlled performance?

That’s what they want. Not him. Not the real him.

And somehow, that realization hurts more than you expected.

The dressing room smells faintly of cologne, latex, and sweat. You sit on the edge of the black bench against the wall when the door opens. The sound is sharp in the stillness, followed by footsteps that slow as they see you.

Seonghwa walks in, his hoodie bunched in one hand, hair damp, jaw clenched. He’s wearing only his sweatpants, his skin still glistening with leftover oil. His expression flickers, not anger, but something edged. Tired. Wary.

He walks past you, heading to the corner where a small fridge hums beside the dressing table. Rows of expensive liquor line the shelves. Vodka, whiskey, soju, even a few overly expensive wine bottles. Every possible way to forget himself sits chilled and ready. But he ignores them all, reaching instead for a plain bottle of water. He drinks slowly, throat moving, his other hand flexing once at his side like he’s holding something in.

"You left." His voice is rough. Not accusing. Just...surprised.

You meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t think that would bother you,” He drops the hoodie onto a chair, drags a towel off a hook and wipes at his face. “You’ve seen me do worse.”

“I didn’t leave because I couldn’t handle the scene,” you say. “I left because you looked like you couldn’t.”

His movements slow. The towel lowers slightly.

“I’ve seen you do this before. At the studio, with the woman. You were in it. Comfortable. Maybe even enjoying it.”

He scoffs under his breath and turns away, tossing the towel onto the counter. “That was a different day. Different shoot. Different director.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Back then, it looked like a choice. Like you were in control. Today it didn’t.”

He leans both hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders tense. “You know what the difference is?” He looks at you in the mirror, not turning. “That shoot? I liked the director. I liked the setting. I was in the fucking mood. It worked because it came from me. This-” He laughs hollowly, a crack of frustration. “This was someone powerful enough to say do it or get out. Someone I can’t afford to say no to. So, I did it.”

You don’t speak. You let him.

“I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t want anyone touching me. Didn’t want to fuck, didn’t want to look sexy, didn’t want to perform, but I had to.” He shakes his head. “There are days that feels like a goddamn prison sentence.”

He finally turns, leaning back against the counter now. Arms crossed. His chest rises slowly, like he’s trying not to show how much he said just cost him.

You watch him carefully, the hard edges softening just enough to see the man behind the mask.

“You said you don’t fake it,” you say quietly. “So… what was that?”

He sighs, eyes flicking away before meeting yours again. “Survival,” he admits, voice low but steady. “I love what I do. I’m proud of who I’ve become, what I’ve built from nothing. I own this life. The good, the bad, all of it. But like any job, there are parts you hate. Parts that drain you.” He taps the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “That scene? That was me bending to someone else’s will. I swallowed it because I had to. Because I don’t get to pick every day. And sometimes surviving means doing things you hate, even when you don’t want to.”

The silence stretches between you. Something hangs in the air, too heavy for neither of you to grab.

“No one’s ever walked away before,” he says finally. His voice is lower now. “They usually just...watch. Or enjoy the show.”

Slowly, you rise to your feet, the movement drawing his attention. He lowers his gaze, fingers dragging over his jaw. There's exhaustion etched into his features, but beneath it, something quieter, heavier. Resignation.

“I didn’t come here to feed on the worst version of you,” you say. “I came here to see the real one. That’s not the same thing.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw flexes once. He’s quiet for a beat too long, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry, or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he doesn’t know how to respond.

Then, finally, a dry sound leaves his throat. Almost a laugh.

“Well,” he says softer, glancing over at you again, voice softer, “congrats. You got him.” His gaze sharpens, a little of that old arrogance flickering behind it. “Grumpy. Tired. Mentally undressing people out of sheer boredom. You sure that’s the ‘real’ me you wanted?”

You lift a brow. “If this is you flirting again, it’s deeply depressing.”

He snorts, pushing off the dressing table to pace the small room with slow steps.

“You make it hard not to,” he says.

There’s something in his walk, looser than before, more relaxed, like some of the tension’s drained from his muscles.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, more thoughtful. “You know, I usually expect people to want things from me. Attention. A show. Something they can get off to, or write about, or pretend to care about just long enough to take.”

You meet his eyes.

“And what do I want?” you ask.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says, a little smile curling at his lips now. “But it’s starting to piss me off.”

You let out a short laugh. “Good.”

He steps closer.

Not too close. Just enough to tilt the atmosphere again. To remind you of how he carries himself when he’s not being forced to play a role, but when he chooses to.

“Maybe you’re the first one who didn’t want the performance,” he murmurs. “But that means you might actually want me. And that’s… far more dangerous.”

He steps closer. Enough to make you feel like he could cage you.

Your mouth twists. “I can handle dangerous.”

“I know you can,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before rising again. “Which is probably why I keep wondering what it’d take to ruin you.”

Your breath catches, just barely. But you recover fast, narrowing your eyes.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in control here.”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I remember. You’ve been trying to control me from day one.”

You smirk. “Trying?”

The air between you charges again, a slow rise of energy you’ve both become addicted to, banter as foreplay, tension as currency.

He leans in just slightly, voice a whisper now. “You keep poking at the beast, sweetheart, and one day it’s gonna bite.”

You don’t back down. You never do. Instead, you tilt your head, eyes bright, tone playful but edged.

“Show me who you are, pornstar.”

And this time, it’s him left watching your back as you leave the room, a slow grin curving at the edge of his mouth.

The day drags on, marked by long meetings, quick walks between sets, and endless discussions about scripts, schedules, and contracts. From the outside, Seonghwa is in professional, his face a carefully guarded mask as he navigates a world that rarely sees past his looks.

But you notice the small things that slip through the cracks.

When a new intern drops a clipboard near him, he crouches without hesitation, helping her gather the pages. “It happens,” he murmurs, flashing a small, crooked smile. She blushes. He doesn’t notice, he’s too focused on making sure the papers aren’t bent.

You see how he checks in with his scene partner when going through an upcoming scene. Not just the “are you okay?” they’re supposed to say, but the quiet, real kind. “Do you want to run through it first?” “Is there a word you don’t like hearing?” “Tell me what makes you feel safe.” His voice never dips into showmanship. He means it.

He holds the boom operator’s ladder while they’re adjusting the rig, just instinct. Offers his hoodie to a grip when the studio AC kicks in too hard. Tells the runner she can take his spot in line for catering because she’s been on her feet all day.

The day’s light was fading as you wrapped up, the set slowly emptying out around you. You felt the weight of the last few days settle in, a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. On Monday, this all would be just words on a page, a story told from your view. But tonight, there was still unfinished business. A handful of questions you needed to ask him before publishing on Monday.

He didn’t say much as you left the set together. When you arrived at his apartment, the familiar scent of his space settled around you like a cloak, dark wood, leather, a faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air.

The city outside buzzed faintly, but inside, it was different. More intimate. Raw.

In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle. You expect something like whiskey or beer, something to match the rough edges you’ve seen in him, but instead, he grabs a sparkling water and pops the cap with a practiced flick. He drinks without hesitation, eyes locked on the glass.

You watch for a moment. He drinks other things, coffee, energy drinks, soda, but not alcohol. Curious, you finally address it, “You never touch alcohol.”

He exhales slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m sober. Used to drink, back when I started all this,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the industry chaos outside. “Made things easier, especially scenes I didn’t want to do. Just numb the brain, let the body do the work. But it didn’t stay easy. Became a problem.”

He shrugs, a little bitter. “Quit cold turkey. Stuck to cigarettes. They don’t fuck with me the way alcohol did.”

You take that in, the weight behind his words settling between you.

He glances up, a spark of that familiar cocky edge in his eyes. “Same deal as last time,” he says quietly. “You get to ask whatever you want, I get to ask you back.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod, meeting his gaze steadily. “Fair enough.”

The room shifts subtly, the air thickening as you settle on the couch, the glow of the city filtering in through the blinds. He drops onto the couch opposite you, propping an elbow on the armrest and flicking a glance your way that’s half teasing, half challenging. The familiar smirk curling at the corner of his lips, the kind that warns you he’s gearing up to push boundaries.

“So,” he starts, voice low and teasing, “what’s the first thing you want to know? Don’t hold back. You’re not here for small talk.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the heat of it, the sharpness wrapped in that easy confidence. “Alright then,” you say, “what’s the one thing about you that no one’s ever bothered to ask?”

His smirk deepens. “Curious. I like that.” He taps his finger against his chin. “I guess… people never ask what scares me. Everyone’s so obsessed with the surface, nobody wants to know what actually keeps me up at night.”

He leans back in the couch, arm resting casually on the armrest, his gaze locked on you with that familiar cocky glint. “Alright,” he says, voice low and slow like he’s savoring every word. “Your turn to answer. But I’m not asking about your favorite color or some safe, boring shit.” He tilts his head, like he’s about to deliver a verdict. “What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever imagined me doing to you? Don’t hide it, I know you’ve thought about it.”

Your breath hitches. You want to look away, but his gaze pins you, sharp and relentless. “You don’t know a thing about me,” you say, voice tight but quiet.

“Just admit that I get under your skin.” he pushes.

The air thickens between you, every word a spark, every look a flame. You don’t answer, but the tension says everything.

He tips his head toward you, a slow grin pulling at his lips. “Alright,” he says, voice low and playful. “Speed round. No thinking, just answer.”

You bite back a smirk. “Fine. But same rules for you.”

He raises his hand, palm open in mock surrender. “Deal.” A pause. He leans forward, eyes glinting. “Lights on or off?”

You roll your eyes. “Off.” You don’t hesitate. “What was your first scene like?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Awful. Cheap hotel room, bad lighting, guy behind the camera eating chips the whole time. I hated every second of it, until the money hit.”

You nod, filing it away.

His eyes flicker over you. “Ever had someone make you come so hard you forgot your own name?”

You blink, caught off guard, but you recover quickly. “No.”

He raises a brow. “No?”

You shake your head. “Next question.”

He’s grinning now. “Cold. I like it.”

You tilt your head. “What makes a scene enjoyable for you?”

“Chemistry,” he answers easily. “Real tension. Not just moaning on command.” He doesn’t wait. “Where do you like to be touched first?”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

“I’m not here for your journalism,” he says smoothly. “I want the truth.”

You shift in your seat. “Fine. Shoulders, my neck,” You exhale, shifting in your seat. “Rough or slow?”

His gaze darkens just a shade. “Both. Start slow, end ruined.” His eyes glitter as he tilts his head. “When you touched yourself the other night… what did you picture me doing?”

The question hits like a slap, fast, sharp, completely out of nowhere.

You freeze.

It’s just for a second. A breath, a blink. But it’s all he needs.

His smirk blooms, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the flavor of your silence.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and rich. “That’s all the answer I need.”

Your eyes narrow, heart beating faster. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was better than one,” he murmurs. “You should see your face right now.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, every line of him tuned in. “So what was it? Me between your thighs? My fingers? My mouth?” He grins. “Or did you watch a video of mine?”

You hate that he’s right. You hate even more how much of this is true. How a few nights ago, in your bed, you had slipped your hand between your thighs with the very image of him in your head, voice, mouth, body, all of it.

And now he’s sitting across from you, as if he knows.

You shift in your seat, your heart beating in your neck, tightening your jaw. “Do you always get off on making people flustered?”

He smiles, utterly unbothered. “Only when they’re pretending they’re not dying to be fucked.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches you from across the room, legs spread comfortably on the couch opposite yours, his elbow draped lazily over the armrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then, without a word, he rises.

You don’t track him with your eyes, but you feel it, his slow, easy steps as he walks around the coffee table and then behind your couch. Your breath hitches when you sense him close, the faint scent of his cologne and smoke drifting down as he pauses behind you. You stiffen slightly, unsure of his next move.

And then his fingers touch your shoulders.

His voice comes low beside your ear, thick with promise and filth. “So what was I doing in that pretty little head of yours?”

You inhale sharply, but say nothing.

“Was it my mouth?” he continues, fingertips trailing with maddening gentleness over the curve of your shoulder. “My tongue?”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

His hand pauses, then brushes a little more firmly down your upper arm. “Or were you fucking yourself to a video? The kitchen one, maybe? The way I bend her over the counter and make her beg? That one tends to be a favorite,”

Your legs press together without thinking, and you feel his pause, feel the smirk in it.

“Oh,” he says softly. “So it was a video.”

Behind you, his voice lowers.

“Maybe it wasn’t one of the rough ones,” he murmurs. “Maybe it wasn’t even with a partner. Maybe…” His fingers pause, then brush inwards, tracing just beneath the neckline of your shirt, not quite slipping in, but enough to make your skin tighten. “Maybe it was one of the solo ones from my own bed.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. But the heat climbing up your chest gives you away.

“Those are always my favorites,” he adds, almost conversationally, but there's a layer beneath it, quieter, more real. “No director. No lights. Just me. In my space. Needing something.”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep control, but it’s already slipping. Your thighs press tighter together, and he must know.

He keeps going.

He leans in closer, breath warm against your skin. “Did you watch me stroke myself slow? Did you imagine kneeling between my legs, watching the way my hand moves? Did you-”

A sound escapes you, too soft to be a word, too loud to be ignored.

“Was I good?” he whispers.

Your breathe halters. You scoff, weakly. “You think too highly of yourself.”

He pushes, knowing what this is doing to you. “Did I make you come fast? Or did you take your time, pretending it was my fingers inside you?”

His hands settle gently at your shoulders again, and this time, his thumbs drag over the base of your neck.

“And now I’m right here,” he murmurs. “Right behind you. Talking you through it. Wanting to see when you give in.”

His thumbs sweep in lazy circles over the tops of your shoulders, light enough to keep you aching for more.

“I could make you feel so fucking good right now,” he says, voice silken and low. “You don’t even know.”

You grip the edge of the couch cushion, nails digging in. You still don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your breath is shallow, not when you’re afraid he’ll see just how badly you want it.

He chuckles, not mocking, but knowing.

“I see it in the way you breathe,” he says, “the way your thighs press together when I talk like this. You’re imagining it, aren’t you? Me between your legs. My mouth. My hands. My cock.”

Your entire body tenses, heat pulsing through your core like a current.

“But I’m not touching you yet,” he says, dragging his fingers higher, along the side of your neck this time, slow, reverent. “You want it. But I need you to give it to me. Say the word. Look at me. Move. Something.”

His fingers still, barely resting against your skin.

“I won’t take unless you give,” he murmurs. “But sweetheart, if you do give…” His voice dips, dark and sweet like molasses, “... I’ll ruin you in the best fucking way.”

You stay frozen for half a beat longer, heart thundering, torn between pride and hunger, between control and the deep, unbearable need rising in your chest.

Then, you shift.

Your voice is quiet. Barely above a whisper.

“Then take me.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t lunge for you. He doesn't devour or drag or tear, no, Seonghwa moves like he’s been waiting years for this, like he knows exactly how to handle something delicate, how to cherish what’s willingly offered. His hands leave your shoulders and slide down your arms, slow and grounding, as he steps around the couch and kneels before you.

His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, breath shaky. “I want you.”

And then he kisses you.

Not with aggression, but with intensity, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way your breath catches when he deepens it. His hands press to your thighs, parting them slightly so he can move closer, fitting between them like he belongs there.

You wrap your arms around him, needing him more than you’d ever dare to admit.

His fingers skim beneath the hem of your shirt but don’t push, just touch, warm and open-palmed against your waist, your ribs, your spine.

You let out a moan just from his touch.

He grins against your neck, the cocky bastard, but it’s laced with something deeper, that maddening adoration, the one you’re not ready to look too closely at.

“I’m going to make it better than you imagined,” he says. “I promise you that.”

His tank top clings to his toned muscles, black nail polish catching the light, and that eyebrow piercing, sharp and bold, reminds you exactly who he is. A fucking pornstar. And he owns every part of that.

He doesn’t even look away as he drags down your jeans and they hit the floor. His hands stay on your thighs, spreading them apart like it’s instinct. Confident. Unshakable. His thumbs brush over your inner skin, slow and unhurried, like he’s already memorizing what makes you squirm.

And you do, just a little. Just enough.

“God, you’re so damn easy to read,” he breathes, his fingers trace up, catching at the edge of your panties, not pulling, just letting the pressure build.

One hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady. The other slips beneath the fabric, knuckles dragging slow and hot across your skin. His fingers slide through the slick mess between your legs, and he groans, low, appreciative, like he’s savoring it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough against your skin. “You’re soaked for me. This wet just from my voice, my mouth…” His words brush against your thigh like heat. But it’s his fingers that undo you, two of them buried deep, dragging slow, perfect pressure inside you, curling just right.

You try to hold back the sounds, but you can’t. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with him touching you like this.

“I want to know,” he murmurs, voice dark and steady, eyes locked on yours as his fingers work inside you, steady and relentless. “Which one did you watch?”

You hesitate, jaw tight, breath shaky. His thumb finds your clit again and circles, soft, slow, teasing.

“Was it one of the rough ones?” he continues, cocking his head.

You shake your head. Your voice barely escapes you, breathless and shame-warm. “It was… one of the solo ones.”

He stills for just a second. “Yeah?,” he breathes, pushing deeper, harder. “You watched me touch myself? Stroke my cock for the camera like I was thinking of someone like you?” He groans, fucking you slow with his fingers. “Was that it?”

His fingers slip out of you only long enough to hook into your panties, tugging them down in one smooth motion. He doesn’t rush it. He watches every inch of your skin as he reveals it, his eyes hot, hungry, reverent.

When they’re off, he drops them to the floor without a second thought, gaze trailing up the inside of your thighs like a promise.

“Tell me what you liked about it,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “That video. Tell me what made you soak your sheets. Was I dirty enough? Rough? Did you picture me fucking you slow, or fast and ruthless?”

You hesitate, but his mouth moves higher, a wet kiss just beside your center, and your hips twitch.

He smiles against your skin. “Come on. You watched me stroke my cock in that bed, didn’t you? The way I moaned, the way I whispered filthy shit to the camera like I knew someone like you was watching.” His tongue traces a line slowly up your thigh. “You fucking loved it.”

Your voice cracks. “You… looked so good. The way you touched yourself. Slow. Like you weren’t in a rush. Like you really felt it.”

He groans, soft and deep. “I did feel it, baby. I was thinking of a mouth like yours. Of a pussy just like this…” He leans in and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. You gasp, thighs jumping. “And now I get to taste you for real.”

He doesn’t wait.

His mouth is there, tongue dragging firm and slow over your clit like he’s claiming it, sucking it between his lips with a low growl that vibrates right through you.

You arch up, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the couch, already unraveling.

“Tell me more,” he murmurs against you. “What made you come?”

You can barely breathe. “When you-” Your hips jerk as he flicks his tongue again. “When you moaned. The way your eyes looked when you came. Like… like you needed it.”

He moans in response, mouth working deeper now, and slides two fingers into you again, curling them just right.

“Yeah? You like seeing me lose it?” he groans. “Wanna see it again, real and messy? Feel it instead of watching it?”

You nod, desperate, hips grinding against his mouth, chasing his tongue. He laughs softly, dark and full of heat. “You’re so fucking responsive. That’s my favorite kind of girl, one who can’t fake it, can’t hide it.”

His fingers work with unrelenting precision, pornstar skill, yes, but this is personal. Focused. For you.

He eats you like it’s his favorite meal. His mouth and fingers work in perfect rhythm, slow at first, then faster when your moans rise. He pulls you to the edge and keeps you there, not letting up, not letting go, until-

You shatter.

It rips through you like lightning, your moan breaking out loud and needy, hips bucking, thighs clenching around his head. He holds you through it, groaning into your pussy like your orgasm is everything he’s ever wanted.

You’re still trying to catch your breath, thighs trembling, body slack against the couch when he rises up from between your legs.

He looks wrecked, in the most beautiful way. Lips wet, hair mussed from your hands, chest rising and falling beneath that goddamn tank top that clings to him like a second skin. His eyes never leave yours, dark and full of something primal.

“You taste fucking amazing,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you, deep, tongue slipping into your mouth, making sure you feel how filthy he is. How much he wants more.

You kiss him back, instinctive now, desperate and starved, the lingering taste of yourself on his tongue only turning you on more.

He pulls back just enough to tug his tank top over his head and toss it aside. His body is ridiculous. Toned, cut, a living ad for sin.

He unbuttons his pants, unzips, and pulls them down, revealing hard thighs and that heavy bulge beneath his briefs. You can’t help the way your eyes lock there, at the thick outline of him, the part of him you’ve seen in clips, in curated fantasies, shadows of it from across a room, but never this close, never this real.

He smirks, catches your gaze. “Want to see what you touched yourself to?”

Your throat dries. You nod slowly.

He pushes his briefs down, cock springing free, thick, veined, flushed, already hard and leaking at the tip. Bigger than you remembered. Even more intimidating in person. Even more fucking perfect.

He wraps a hand around himself, stroking once, slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“This what you watched?” he murmurs. “Me in my bed, stroking it slow, saying your name without even knowing it?”

You nod again, breathless.

You stay right where you are, seated on the edge of the couch, looking up at him, and he looks fucking godlike. His cock is thick and hard, and he’s looking at you like he’s about to ruin you all over again.

You reach for him, wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, thick and warm and pulsing in your hand, and the sound he makes is low, choked, like he wasn’t expecting how good it would feel already. His head falls back for just a second as you stroke him, your thumb brushing over the bead of pre-cum at the tip.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of him, from base to tip, your tongue flat and teasing. His thighs flex, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I watched you do this,” you whisper, licking your lips. “In that solo video. In your bed. Your hand wrapped around your cock just like this.”

His thumb wipes the mess from your bottom lip, but there’s nothing gentle about it now. There’s a fire behind his eyes, hunger sharpened into something rough, possessive.

“Open,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You do.

He slides his cock back between your lips, his hand finds the back of your head, threading through your hair, not rough, but firm. Grounding.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, breath hitching. “Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose. Just let me in.”

You focus on your breath. Inhale, exhale. You relax your jaw, tongue flat, letting him take up space, letting him show you how.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that.”

This time, when he pushes deeper, it’s smoother. Less panic, more control. Your body adjusts. Your mouth opens wider for him, your throat yielding, and it feels good. Powerful, even.

He groans, deep in his chest. “You feel that? That little click when it goes in deeper? That’s your throat giving up. That’s perfect, sweetheart.”

You hum around him, and he shudders.

“God, look at you. Taking me so fucking well. You learn fast.”

His praise makes your stomach twist, heat pooling low. Your eyes flutter up to meet his, wet and wide, and the look on his face, awe, hunger, something almost reverent, makes you want to show off.

You press forward on your own this time, let him slip fully into your throat.

He hisses, hips jerking.

“Fuck. Good girl. That’s it-, fuck, that’s it.”

His free hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw, watching every twitch of your expression like it’s art. Like you’re art.

He’s fucking your face now.

Your nails dig into his thighs, eyes locked on his, and he can see it. The want. The ache. You need this. You need him. He pulls out slowly, finally, letting you gasp for air, spit trailing from your lip to his cock. Your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth red and swollen, and you’ve never felt more ruined, or more alive.

His hand stays on your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

“You still with me, sweetheart?”

You nod, breathing hard, voice wrecked. “More.”

That word? It’s all he needs.

He grips your jaw, your throat sore, spit clinging to your lips and chin. Your eyes are glassy, lashes wet, cheeks flushed from being fucked so deep, so hard, and he can’t take it.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, staring at you like he’s ready to devour you. “You don’t even know what you look like right now.”

Your lips part like you might try to answer, but he doesn’t let you. He hauls you to your feet with one firm pull, fingers still tangled in your hair, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not sweet.

It’s desperate.

He kisses you like he owns your breath, like he needs to taste himself on your tongue, like the filthy mess you’ve become under his hands only makes him hungrier.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb wipes at the trail of spit along your cheek, slow and deliberate.

Without a word, he turns and drops into the black armchair behind him, legs spread, cock flushed and heavy, glistening with your spit. His fingers curl in a come here motion as he leans back, one brow lifted.

“Come sit, sweetheart,” he says, voice like smoke and sin. “I want to see everything.”

You hesitate, just a second. Enough for his grin to deepen.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs. “You’ve already had me fuck your mouth. Be a good girl and let me fill you up.”

Your pulse stutters, but your body moves on instinct. You slide into his lap, thighs spread wide, and his hands are instantly on you, firm on your hips, anchoring you in place. He’s so fucking hard beneath you, the thick weight of him resting right where you need it.

“Look at you,” he says, gaze locked on yours. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. And you’re all mine right now.”

You shift slightly, the friction making you gasp, and his hands tighten.

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice low, like a promise. “Right here. Just like this. I want to feel all of you.”

He’s a pornstar, yes. But right now, with you, he’s so much more, an expert, a predator, a lover who knows every move to make you unravel.

Your hands grip his shoulders, grounding yourself. His hands slide up your thighs, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin near your hips before he reaches between you both and takes his cock in hand. He doesn’t rush, just rubs the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in your wetness.

“God, you’re soaked,” he groans. “You want me to fuck you, baby? Want me to fill that tight little pussy?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

He lines himself up and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch making your eyes flutter shut, your breath catch. He’s thick, hot, perfect, and when he’s fully seated inside you, the moan you let out is unfiltered, broken.

His head falls back against the chair, jaw clenched. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s how you take cock, baby. Just like that.”

You’re start bounce your hips, both of you breathless, sweat clinging to skin, when Seonghwa leans forward and fists the hem of your top.

“Off,” he growls against your neck, voice low and ragged. “I want to see all of you.”

He peels the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without breaking eye contact. His gaze drops to your bare chest, and for a moment, just a moment, he laughs, low and rich, like you're too unreal to fathom. His tongue flicks over your nipple and you arch into him, hands tangled in his hair.

His hand slides up to your throat, not tight, just there, possessive, grounding, as his other arm wraps around your back, pulling you in tighter. He kisses you again, tongue claiming yours, messy and hot and hungry.

Then he shifts, just slightly, one hand sliding between your bodies, his fingers curling around your hips.

“Here,” he says, voice low and firm. “Tilt forward a little. Right there, now roll your hips when I fuck into you. Not just up and down, roll. You’ll feel it hit deeper.”

You do as he says, and the second your hips adjust, your breath catches. Fuck. It’s like the angle unlocks something, you feel him right against that spot inside you, that sharp, aching pressure that steals the words from your mouth.

“Oh-, oh my god-”

“There you go,” he groans, watching your face twist. “That’s it. You feel that now?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, slow, rolling circles, grinding down as he thrusts up, every inch of him dragging right over that spot he told you to find.

His mouth finds your jaw, your ear. “Fucking knew you’d be good at this,” he breathes. “Smart girl. Feel how deep I am now? That’s all you. That’s you fucking yourself on my cock, just like I told you.”

You moan, loud and raw, body starting to tremble.

Suddenly, he shifts under you, standing in one fluid motion with your legs still wrapped around him, his arms securing you like you weigh nothing. You cling to him instinctively, arms around his neck, heart thudding like a war drum against your ribs.

He carries you through the dim hallway, but his eyes, his eyes are locked on you the whole way, like he doesn’t dare blink.

When he steps into the bedroom, it hits you.

The layout. The red lighting. The exact angle of the bed. The nightstand where the camera had been.

This is where he filmed it.

Your breath stutters, and he feels it. He knows.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. More like something darker. “You recognize it.”

Before you can even say anything, he throws you down on the mattress, already dragging your legs apart, standing by the edge, looking down at you like he owns the whole fucking room. Like he owns you.

“You watched me stroke my cock on this bed? Come right here?” he asks, glancing down at the sheets beneath you.

You nod slowly, breath shallow.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark with promise, “Let’s make it fair.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers spreading you open with no hesitation. His gaze flicks down, then back to your face, hungry.

And before you can ask what he means, he spits.

A slow, deliberate string lands between your legs, hitting right where you’re already dripping for him. He watches it drip, then reaches down to smear it in with two fingers, slow, messy circles that make your hips jerk.

He strokes himself lazily with his other hand, the head flushed and slick as he guides it up against your entrance again, but doesn’t push in.

“Now you’re getting the exclusive.” His smirk is wicked. “First-hand experience.”

And with no more warning, he pushes in, slow, deep, endless, his hips staying flush to yours as he lets you feel all of it. No rush. No mercy.

The stretch makes your spine arch, legs trembling where they dangle off the edge of the bed.

His hands grip your thighs, keeping you wide open, keeping you in place. His hips draw back just enough to make you whimper, then slam back in, harder this time.

You cry out, unfiltered, aching, and his mouth curves up. Another thrust, deeper. Your hands claw at the sheets.

“God-”

“No, baby.” His voice drops, taunting. “Say it right.”

You meet his eyes, panting. “Seonghwa.”

“Mmm,” he groans like it feeds him. “That’s better.”

You yelp, a high, broken sound, and he only grins, dragging your legs up to rest over his shoulders without warning.

“Fuck, look at you,” he pants, the shift angling him deeper, harder, like he’s trying to reach the part of you no one else has ever touched. His hips pound into you in a relentless rhythm, practiced, ruthless, like every stroke is calculated to make your body obey him.

“Fuck-, Seonghwa-”

“Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this. Bet no one’s ever earned it like I have.”

You shake your head, breathless. “N-No-, never-”

Seonghwa keeps his grip locked around your thighs, holding your legs over his shoulders, your body folded perfectly for him. His thrusts stay deep and steady, measured, intentional, devastating.

“Please-, please don’t stop-” you gasp, nails digging into the sheets. “You feel so good-, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he hisses, thrusting harder now. “You’re gonna take all of it, sweetheart. You’re gonna come again with me standing right here, fucking you like no one ever has.”

The bed creaks beneath you. His grip is bruising now, one hand sliding to your waist to hold you still as he picks up speed, hips slapping against you with ruthless precision.

Your body’s not just close, it’s on the edge, tipping over.

“Good girl,” he murmurs darkly. “Now cum on this cock. Let me feel it. Let me fucking have it.”

Your back arches, your body convulsing as you fall apart again, crying out his name like it’s the only word you know. Your walls clamp down around him, wet and tight and perfect, and he groans deep from his chest, like your pleasure physically wrecks him.

He doesn't slow. Doesn't stop.

"Where do you want it, baby?" he pants, voice low, urgent, dangerous. "Tell me where I can come."

You barely manage to speak, voice wrecked and raw with need. “Inside,” you breathe. “Please-, want it in me.”

His eyes flare. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck,” he snarls, grip tightening on your thighs as he buries himself to the hilt, hard and deep. His pace turns brutal, hips snapping forward with mindless hunger. “You want me to fill you up? Want me to stuff you full like a good girl?”

“Yes-, yes, Seonghwa-, please, give it to me-”

He lets out a desperate, broken sound, then his whole body seizes, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills everything, hot and thick and endless, painting your walls with every last drop. His head hangs forward, jaw clenched, muscles flexed with the effort of holding himself up.

He stays inside for a beat. Just breathing.

Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, still watching you, and watches as his cum spills out of you, slow and messy, dribbling down your skin and pooling on the sheets beneath.

His fingers drift to your inner thigh, spreading you wider, watching more of it leak from your swollen entrance.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

Then, without hesitation, his fingers press inside you again, pushing gently but firmly to shove back every last drop he can.

“Can’t let any of this go to waste,” he growls, possessive and rough.

You shiver at how desperate and controlling he sounds, but beneath that rough edge, there’s a strange reverence in his touch, like he’s worshipping the mark he’s left on you.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, coated with his warmth, and lifts them to your lips, eyes never leaving your flushed, gasping face. You open for him, trembling, sucking his fingers wet and slow, tasting both of you on his fingers. He watches with that smug, greedy smile, like he’s already claiming you completely.

He leans down, lips pressing against yours in a slow, soft kiss that melts away the sharp edges of the moment. His hands cup your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing gentle circles as if grounding you back to the here and now.

He stands up, flexing his shoulders, and walks over to the mini fridge near the dressing table. You hear the familiar click-hiss of a water bottle cap twisting.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from everything, “take your time. No rush.”

He walks back to you, places the bottle into your hand, and taps your fingers lightly until you hold it.

“Drink,” he says. “You’ll thank me in twenty minutes.”

You take it, but your fingers are still trembling. Whether from the rush or the way he’s looking at you now, you can’t quite tell.

“Dizzy?” he asks, settling onto the bed next to you. Not touching, just close enough that his warmth bleeds into your skin.

“A little,” you admit.

“That happens,” he says, voice lower now, gentler. “You came hard, probably held your breath. Let your body level out. You’ll be okay. I’m right here.” He reaches up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his eyes warm and steady.

There’s a pause. You take a sip of water.

“I didn’t expect you to be so...” You search for the word, then settle on it. “Attentive.”

He raises a brow, something amused flickering in his eyes. “You thought I just fuck and leave?”

“No. I just...” You shrug. “Didn’t think the guy who made that video would also bring me water. Be so soft after.”

“It’s not softness. It’s responsibility.” He smiles, a small, tender curve of his mouth that reaches his eyes. “I’m not just the guy in the video, you know. I don’t just show up, take what I want, and disappear.” His voice is steady, warm.

“They don't show this part in the videos. I thought it was different,” you whisper.

He shakes his head gently, as if it’s the simplest truth. “It’s not about being different. It’s about respect. About care. You deserve that."

He leans forward, brushing your hair off your forehead with a gentle touch, like he can’t stop touching you.

“And besides,” he adds, his voice dipping again, “you didn’t just watch the video. You liked it.” His thumb lingers at your temple. “You deserve to be taken care of after finally getting what you wanted.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

As you sip you water again, he grabs a towel from the dresser, and gently parts your legs again. His touch is slower now, deliberate, but no less confident. He wipes you down with care, checking your reaction with every motion, watching for discomfort.

He catches your gaze once, smirking at whatever expression you’re making. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, teasing. “You’re the one who wanted it inside.”

You let out a weak sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

His fingers press a little more firmly at your thigh, not sexual, just grounding. “Still with me?”

You nod.

“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to place a kiss just above your knee. Then another on your hip. Then your stomach. Not tender, possessive. A little filthy, like a promise that he could do it all over again if you weren’t trembling already.

He pulls the blanket up, not too high, just enough to cover the heat cooling on your skin. He settles beside you, moving slowly like he’s careful not to jostle you. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you in gently, not possessive, not demanding. Just there. Anchoring. And the moment you let your head rest against his chest, he exhales like he’s been waiting for you to do that.

His fingers wander lightly over your skin, warm and steady, drawing lazy circles against your hipbone, then trailing up the line of your side. Over and over, same rhythm. Like he’s reminding your body that it’s safe now. That he’s still here.

You’re still flushed, still a little dazed, but he watches you like he’s tracking every breath. Not because he’s worried, but because he knows exactly what this moment means. This part. The calm after the wreckage.

“You okay?” he asks, tone softer now. Not teasing.

You nod, your cheek pressed to his chest. “Mhm. More than okay.”

He hums, pleased. “Didn’t expect you to let go like that,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your shoulder without thinking. “You surprise me.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is.” His mouth quirks at the edge, and he kisses the same spot again, just because he can. “You were good. So fucking good.”

You glance up at him, the daze still clinging to your lashes. Then, after a long beat, he smirks, voice dipping again into that familiar cocky charm.

“Responsive. Loud. The camera would love you.”

“Don’t get ideas,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, eyes closed now.

“Too late.”

And before you can roll your eyes or protest, he leans in again, presses a final kiss to your bare shoulder, and settles back, satisfied, smug, and still entirely himself.

***

Monday morning light filters softly through your window as you sit at your desk, fingers poised above the keyboard. The weekend had slipped away in a blur, days spent pouring over notes, replaying moments, shaping words into something honest.

Your column isn’t about the headlines, the shock factor, or the rumors swirling around Park Seonghwa. It’s about the man beneath the surface, the one who’s more than just a pornstar or a carefully crafted persona.

You write about his quiet moments, the way he listens, how he’s sharp and cocky but never cruel. You describe how his confidence is real, born from years of experience and knowing exactly who he is, not just the image he projects.

There’s a paragraph about his past struggles, how he battled his own demons, found sobriety, and reclaimed control over his life, a story of resilience rarely told in the industry he dominates.

You reflect on the subtle ways he cares, the small, almost invisible acts of kindness and attention he offers to those around him. How his cocky charm is layered with vulnerability, even if he’s the first to hide it.

With a slow breath, you hit send. The column goes live.

You feel a strange mix of relief and anticipation, this is more than just a story. It’s a reckoning, a quiet unveiling of someone you’ve come to know in ways no one else has.

The day passes at the office, and before you know it, it’s afternoon.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and push through the office doors, stepping into the late afternoon light. You start walking away from the building, the click of your heels echoing on the sidewalk. The buzz of the street pulls at you, but then, unexpectedly, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey.”

You stop and glance over your shoulder. There he is, Seonghwa, leaning casually against the brick wall a few steps away. Black tank top, black pants, eyebrow piercing catching the light, and that wicked, confident smirk you know so well.

You try to hide the quickening of your heart.

“Hey” You raise an eyebrow, trying not to react. “You following me now?”

He pushes off the wall with a lazy kind of grace, hands in his pockets as he strolls toward you. “Would you be mad if I said yes?”

“I’d be impressed you admitted it.”

He chuckles, stopping in front of you, close, but not too close. “I read your column.”

Your heart skips, but you keep your tone cool. “Oh? Didn’t peg you as the literary type.”

His voice drops, amused. “Let’s see…” He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “‘Park Seonghwa is more than what meets the eye,’” he begins, voice low and teasing. “‘Behind the piercing gaze and confident smirk is a man who understands what it means to be seen, truly seen, beyond the surface.’” He looks up, smirk widening. “That almost sounded sincere.”

“I have my moments.”

His smirk deepens. “And here I thought you just tolerated me.” He scrolls a little more, then reads with a wicked grin, “‘And maybe, that’s what makes him not just the best in his field, but someone impossible to forget.’”. He looks up at you. “Now I know that wasn’t for the readers.”

You flush slightly but play it off. “Believe it or not, I write for an audience. Not for your ego.”

He leans in just a little closer, eyes glinting with amusement. “Guess I’m not as bad as you thought, huh?”

You shrug, fighting a smile. “Maybe.”

That’s when he moves.

Slow, like he knows exactly how to set you off. He steps in, close enough that you have to tilt your chin slightly to keep eye contact. One hand comes up, fingertips skimming along your jaw, then drifting down the side of your neck. Light. Barely there. But very, very intentional.

His voice drops, velvet-soft. “So tell me this…” His thumb brushes under your jaw, coaxing your chin up just a touch. “Who’d you really write it for?”

You meet his gaze, lips twitching. “My editor.”

That smirk of his sharpens. “Mm. Liar.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, lips hovering over yours. His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek as if daring you to close the gap between you.

“Don’t think this is the end of the story, though. I like where this is headed,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with promise.

You don’t hesitate. Your confidence hums beneath your skin as you step forward, closing the last fraction of space. Your hand presses firmly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Leaning in, your lips brush just along the curve of his ear, a breathy, teasing whisper that drips with cocky challenge.

“Then keep up, pornstar.”

His breath catches, just for a second.

You pull back with a wicked smile, tapping his chest once before turning on your heel and strolling off like he didn’t just get flipped on his own script.

You don’t look back.

But you feel his stare, burning, amused, and turned on as hell.

And behind you, Seonghwa watches with a smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glued to your retreating figure.

Yeah. The story’s just getting good.

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planetherk · 1 month ago

Text

OFF LIMITS

in which Seonghwa cant get enough of Mingi's little sister

park seonghwa x fem!reader (third person)

tw: smut, 18+, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names (angel, baby), seonghwa wants her sooo bad, fem user, forbidden love, reader is 18, minors dni, non idol au

my seonghwa fever is getting worse, especially after the lemon drop mv...

wc: 5,7k

There were a few unspoken rules in the Song household. One: never blast loud music after midnight. Two: Mingi gets control of the aux in the car—no arguments. And three, the most sacred of them all—Park Seonghwa was strictly, eternally, absolutely off limits. At least, that’s what Mingi always said to his little sister.

She was eighteen now. Legally an adult. Technically allowed to vote, sign her own documents, and finally order iced Americanos without her brother making a face like she’d committed treason. But in Mingi’s eyes, she was still that tiny girl who used to follow him around the neighborhood in mismatched socks and two pigtails, trailing behind him like a puppy. That made things complicated. Because Park Seonghwa had been Mingi’s best friend since middle school.

And she had had a hopeless, fluttery, chest-squeezing crush on him for exactly that long.

She still remembered the first time she met him. She was ten, a little shy and quiet, peeking around the corner to spy on the tall, handsome boy who’d come over to play video games with Mingi. He had this soft, almost angelic face—kind eyes, a gentle smile—and he’d said hi to her in that voice that made her ears warm.

Now, eight years later, nothing had changed. At least not for her.

Well, okay, maybe some things had changed. Like how she had grown into herself—still sweet, still a little shy around new people, but prettier than she gave herself credit for. Polite to a fault, soft-spoken, and with a kind of delicate presence that people tended to notice without her even trying. But when it came to Seonghwa, she still turned to jelly.

He was in his last year of university and still best friends with her brother. He came over often, flopping down on the couch like he lived there, teasing Mingi with that lazy grin and tousled black hair that made her want to run into a hole and never come back out.

Because it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush anymore. It was deeper now. Softer. The way he’d pass her a mug of hot chocolate without being asked. The way he’d say, “You look good,” in passing like it was just a fact. And the way his eyes would sometimes linger—just a second too long—when she smiled at him. But he never acted on it. Never crossed that line. Never let himself.

Because she was Mingi’s little sister. And Mingi would absolutely commit murder if he ever found out his best friend looked at her that way.

But what she didn’t know—what anyone couldn’t know—was that Seonghwa was already halfway in too deep.

He didn’t remember when it started, exactly. Maybe it was that day last winter when he found her asleep on the couch, curled up like a kitten, a book fallen across her chest. Or maybe it was the way her laugh lit up the whole room when she finally let herself be comfortable. But now it was impossible to ignore. The softness in her gaze, the subtle scent of her shampoo when she brushed past him, the way she chewed her lip when she was nervous—

He was screwed.

And yet, he kept showing up. Kept pretending he didn’t feel it. Kept pushing it down, like some heavy weight pressing into his ribs. Because her brother trusted him.

So when Mingi decided to throw another party, his excuse being halloween, claiming it would be the only thing to cure his boredom, Seonghwa, being the good friend he is, immediately offered to help.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

Upstairs, some hours before the party, she was putting the final touches on her costume. The bathroom was small and a little stuffy from the heat of her hair curler and the flurry of makeup she had been working on for the last half hour. The mirror was fogged at the corners, the counter a mess of brushes, glitter, and tiny containers. She tugged at the hem of her dress — if you could even call it that. It was small, shorter than she expected when she ordered it, and so delicate it almost looked like it would dissolve if someone touched it. White lace clung to her body in all the right — or wrong — places, little sparkles catching the bathroom light. She wore thigh-high white stockings, thin and lacy too, giving her an almost sinful kind of sweetness. Her angel costume. And she definitely didn’t wear it for him.

And when Seonghwa saw her, he almost lost it.

She looks so... fucking perfect.

He couldn't stop the thoughts from flooding in again—this time even more intense than any other time. He was dangerously close to forgetting all the reasons why he should stay away. She was beautiful, radiant, flawless in every sense, and she seemed so completely out of reach.

I can't keep doing this, he thought, trying desperately to distance himself from his own feelings. She’s not mine. She never will be. But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest, the tension that was still building between them. His jaw clenched as he crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze never straying from her. She would be the death of him.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

The party was in full swing now—noisy, wild, and exactly the chaos Mingi had wanted.

The bass from the DJ's massive speakers made the floor vibrate under their feet, lights flashing between red, blue, and green, giving the whole house an almost surreal, dreamlike feeling. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, drinks in hand, some dancing in the living room, some gathered in the kitchen, shouting conversations over the heavy beat. Mingi had somehow managed to turn the whole place into a mini nightclub, and it was obvious the college crowd was loving it.

She was somewhere near the middle of it all, surrounded by her friends, laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol she’d been sipping—sweet drinks that went down like water—and her smile was bright, a little looser than usual. Her friends were dressed just as cute as she was—some in sparkly tops and tiny skirts, others in barely-there witch costumes—but none of them even touched the way she looked tonight. She stood out like a soft, shining light in the middle of it all—her white lacy dress and wings making her look almost untouchable.

And college boys, already buzzed and confident from their drinks, had been flocking around her friendgroup like moths to a flame. She didn’t mind the attention, exactly—she giggled when they flirted, batted her lashes once or twice—but even as she joked around and clinked red plastic cups with strangers, her mind kept wandering back to one person. Seonghwa.

Her eyes flickered to him without meaning to, seeking him out instinctively. And there he was—standing across the room by the makeshift bar Mingi had set up in the corner, leaning against the counter, a cup in his hand, casually talking to San over the thundering music.

He looked so good like this. Relaxed but sharp, his costume fitting him too well, his slicked-back hair and intense gaze making him look even hotter than she remembered from earlier. The blood spatter on his shirt and collarbone only added to it somehow. And the worst part was that his eyes never left hers the whole night. Even while he nodded at something San was saying, Seonghwa’s eyes barely left her body. His gaze was heavy, following her every move—the way she leaned into her friends, the way she laughed, the way her dress clung to her hips when she shifted.

It was killing him. Absolutely fucking killing him.

He took a sip from his cup, pretending to be nonchalant, but inside, he was a mess. Every inch of him was taut, straining not to walk over there, grab her, and make it clear to every other guy that she wasn’t available—even if she technically was. Next to him, San caught the direction of his gaze easily, even through the haze of music and lights. He smirked, nudging Seonghwa’s side with his elbow. "You're so fucking screwed," San shouted over the bass, laughing as Seonghwa shot him a quick, warning look.

Seonghwa scowled, tilting his head like he hadn’t heard right. "What?"

San only laughed harder. "You’re not even hiding it, hyung. You keep staring at her like you’re two seconds from dragging her upstairs. Mingi’s little sister," he added pointedly. "You’re dead if you even think about it."

Seonghwa barked out a low, humorless laugh and shook his head, forcing himself to act normal. "You’re drunk," he lied easily, taking another sip of his drink. "I’m not staring at her."

San arched a brow, clearly not buying it. "Sure, man. Whatever you say."

Seonghwa didn’t argue further. There was no point. He knew it was dangerous. He knew it was wrong. But fuck if he could help himself.

He watched as some college guy with too much confidence leaned too close to her, making her laugh again, and his jaw tightened painfully.

Stay cool, he told himself. Stay fucking cool.

He couldn’t act on it. He wouldn’t. No matter how badly he wanted her—how badly he wanted to be the only one making her laugh like that. Because San was right. If Mingi even suspected how Seonghwa felt about his little sister… He’d kill him. And worse, he would deserve it. He was supposed to protect her. Not fantasize about bending her over the nearest surface.

Still, even as he told himself all these rational things, his eyes refused to leave her, drawn back to her like she was the only real thing in the entire crowded house.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

As a few hours passed, he music was deafening, drinks had been flowing like water, and she was officially gone. She was a giggling mess, her cheeks flushed pink, her hair a little tousled from dancing and moving around so much. Her angel wings were slightly crooked on her back, but she didn’t seem to care. She and her friends had been dancing non-stop earlier, but now they were getting bored — the DJ had switched to some slow, repetitive beats that weren't nearly as fun, and she pouted, dramatically whining over the music.

"I need to fix this," she slurred to her friends, determination flashing in her tipsy eyes.

She spun around, trying to find Mingi — he was the host after all, he could tell the DJ to change it — but in the packed, sweaty crowd, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Still, she was stubborn, stumbling a little as she weaved through bodies, her drink almost tipping over.

That’s when she bumped right into someone’s solid chest.

And of course it was fucking Seonghwa.

He turned instantly at the light shove, his hand shooting out to steady her by her hips without even thinking. And when he saw her—her wide, glazed eyes, her little pout, the way she swayed slightly on her heels—his whole demeanor shifted. He went so soft for her.

"Hey," he said, lowering his head closer so she could hear over the heavy bass. "You okay, angel?"

She giggled at the nickname, swaying again. "M'fine!" she chirped, nodding too hard.

Seonghwa didn’t look convinced. He kept one hand lightly on her waist just to make sure she didn’t topple over again. She leaned closer, getting on her tiptoes slightly to speak near his ear.

"I needa... change the music," she explained seriously, her words a little jumbled, her breath warm against his skin. "It's boring now. We need, like—" she hiccupped cutely, frowning, "I don’t know… some spanish songs."

Seonghwa chuckled lowly, heart squeezing at how adorable she was like this — so determined and tipsy and so irresistible. "Alright, alright," he murmured, giving her waist a gentle squeeze. "Let’s fix it."

Without giving her a chance to get lost again, he grabbed her hand — her tiny fingers slotting against his — and started leading her toward the DJ booth, parting the crowd easily with his larger frame. She stumbled after him, wings bobbing slightly behind her, her grip tight and trusting in his hand.

When they got to the DJ, Seonghwa stood right next to her, close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest every time she shifted. He watched, amused and fond, as she leaned into the DJ’s ear, pleading cutely for "some spanish songs, pleaseeee." The DJ laughed and gave her a thumbs up, scrolling quickly through his playlist.

He couldn't take his eyes off her.

The way her dress clung to her curves, the way her makeup glittered under the flashing lights, the way her lips curved into that triumphant little smile when the opening beats of Chantaje came blasting through the speakers.

Before he could even react, she turned back to him, beaming up at him, her eyes sparkling.

"Come dance with me," she said, grabbing his hand again, tugging him toward the middle of the floor.

Seonghwa didn’t even hesitate. "Yeah," he said, his voice low and sure. "I’ll dance with you."

At first, it was innocent enough. They laughed, moved together easily to the upbeat song, spinning and hopping around like idiots. She threw her arms up, her wings bouncing with her movements, and Seonghwa couldn't stop smiling, completely charmed. But as the music shifted into a slower, heavier bass beat—more sultry, more rhythmic—their movements began to change too.

Still tipsy and emboldened, she moved closer. Her body brushed against his. Then pressed. Her hips started swaying in a slow, hypnotic way that made Seonghwa’s throat go dry.

He didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

His hands found her waist again, holding her there gently, but firmly.

She looked up at him through her lashes, all coy and mischievous, her body rolling to the beat, her ass brushing against his hips as she moved. Seonghwa sucked in a breath, sharp and strained, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist.

She’s drunk, his brain screamed. She doesn’t mean it.

But another, darker part of him, the part that had been craving her for months now, whispered: She wants you.

Her scent was dizzying — sweet perfume and vanilla and alcohol — and she felt so fucking good against him he thought he might actually lose his mind.

The music throbbed around them, but all he could focus on was the way she was moving — for him, against him — her laughter, the way her hips fit so perfectly against his. She wasn’t even aware of what she was doing to him, and it made it even worse. Seonghwa dipped his head closer to hers, fighting every instinct to not pull her even tighter.

Seonghwa was rock hard at this point, the front of his pants unbearably tight, every brush of her hips against his enough to make his hands twitch at his sides. He tried—God, he tried—to keep himself in check. To tell himself she was just drunk and having fun. That she didn’t mean it. That it didn’t mean anything.

But when the girl leaned her body back more fully against him, her ass pressing flush against his aching cock through the thin lace of her dress and hispants, Seonghwa’s self-control cracked.

His hands shot to her waist—gripping it tight—and for a second, he just held her there, breathing hard against the back of her head. And when she kept moving—kept grinding against him like she had no idea what she was doing to him—his hands slid lower, gripping her hips, his thumbs dangerously close to the curve of her ass.

"Stop," he rasped into her ear, barely audible over the music, but his hands betrayed him, tightening almost possessively.

But she only laughed, soft and tipsy, and turned around in his hold—tilting her head up, eyes gleaming. And without thinking, without caring, Seonghwa crushed his mouth to hers.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate.

Months and months of pent-up longing exploded between them. She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head while the other stayed firm on her waist, holding her tight against his body so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him.

Their kiss was messy, needy — all teeth and tongues and muffled moans. Her hands fisted the front of his bloody costume, pulling him closer, and he deepened the kiss, tilting her head back just to taste more of her.

She was kissing him back like she wanted him, like she needed him just as badly.

He wanted to lift her up and fuck her right there against the wall. He wanted to tear that little dress off her and worship every inch of her body like he’d dreamed about so many nights. He wanted her.

But reality crashed back into him like a cold slap.

She was drunk. She wasn’t thinking clearly. He couldn’t take advantage of her. Not like this. Never like this.

Breaking the kiss felt like ripping his own heart out of his chest. He pulled back sharply, panting hard, staring at her swollen lips, her half-lidded, dazed eyes.

“Come on,” he muttered hoarsely, grabbing her hand again before he did something even worse. “We need to get you some water.”

She pouted, confused and frustrated, but she let him tug her through the crowd.

Seonghwa barely noticed the people around them. His brain was a haze of her and you fucking idiot, get it together. He dragged her into the kitchen — blessedly quieter — and let go of her hand only to grab a bottle of water off the counter.

“Here,” he said, shoving it into her hands. His voice was still rough, his heart hammering against his ribs.

She blinked at him, still looking a little dazed, her lips parted and he groaned internally and pushed the bottle closer. “Drink, angel,” he said more gently. “You need to sober up.”

Obediently, she brought the bottle to her lips, taking small sips at first, then longer gulps.

Seonghwa leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as if that could somehow cage the overwhelming need clawing inside him. She looked like sin itself, standing there in that tiny white dress, her wings slightly crooked, her cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing, her lips still red and kiss-swollen from him.

He closed his eyes briefly, breathing deep through his nose. He needed to get a fucking grip. Because if he didn’t he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself a second time.

"Slow down, angel," he murmured when she tried to chug the rest of the bottle, stepping closer and curling his fingers gently around her wrist. His touch was careful this time. Controlled.

She looked up at him, cheeks puffed slightly from drinking too fast, and giggled. he smiled despite himself, soft and fond, smoothing a stray piece of hair from her face. And when she lifted her head to look at him after some minutes, her big eyes soft and a bit clearer, her mouth parting slightly like she wanted to say something he snapped.

He dropped the water bottle onto the counter with a dull clatter and stepped right into her space. She barely had time to gasp before he was cupping her jaw and crashing his mouth onto hers again.

This time, there was no hesitation. Just pure, desperate need.

She kissed him back immediately, almost hungrily, her hands flying up to fist the front of his shirt. Seonghwa groaned deep in his chest, kissing her harder, pushing her backward until her hips bumped against the counter. He didn’t even stop to give her a second to breathe.

His hands roamed greedily — one tangled in her soft hair, the other sliding down her back, gripping her ass through the scandalously short lace dress. She made a little needy sound against his mouth when he squeezed, and he swallowed it down like a man starved. Her dress was so fucking thin. Seonghwa could feel the heat of her skin right through it. He broke the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, to her neck, sucking gently at her pulse point.

She whimpered, arching into him, her nails scraping lightly at his chest, and it drove him wild.

"You have no idea," he muttered against her skin, voice rough and wrecked, "no fucking idea how long I've wanted this."

She shivered under him, her hands moving up, framing his face, pulling him back up to her mouth. He kissed her like he was claiming her, like he needed her more than he needed air. She whimpered again when his hands slipped down to her thighs, squeezing and lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. Her wings shifted and rustled behind her, but neither of them cared.

From this angle, she was so perfect—sitting pretty in her tiny white dress and lace stockings, flushed and panting, her thighs spreading naturally for him.

Seonghwa's hand slid up one of her bare thighs, fingertips brushing along the edge of her stockings, feeling the slight bump where lace met soft skin.

He pulled back just barely, breathing heavily, forehead resting against hers.

"You’re dangerous," he rasped, his voice almost trembling with how much he was holding back. "So fucking dangerous, angel."

He kissed her again, rougher this time, swallowing her little gasps, his hands greedy, sliding up under her skirt now, feeling the heat of her bare thighs. She moaned into his mouth, shifting closer, her legs wrapping around his waist without even thinking. Seonghwa was losing it. She was so warm, so soft, so fucking willing. It took everything inside him not to rip that little dress right off her body. Not to drop to his knees and worship her the way she deserved.

When he finally broke away again, panting, he rested his forehead against hers, trying to calm down, but it was useless.

"I need to get you alone," he whispered hoarsely, voice wrecked with want.

She giggled breathlessly against his lips, her fingers still playing with the collar of his costume.

"Then take me," she whispered back, mischief glinting in her pretty eyes.

Seonghwa growled low in his throat, already spinning plans in his mind— how to get her upstairs, how to lock the door, how to finally, finally touch every inch of her he’d been dreaming about. He was going to make her his. And he wasn’t going to let anything or anyone stop him. He slipped his hands under her thighs, lifting her off the counter like she weighed nothing. she gasped and clutched his shoulders, giggling quietly as he carried her across the kitchen.

He kept her close against his chest, weaving through the crowd carefully, taking a side route avoiding the main hallway, avoiding Mingi, avoiding any possible disaster.

All that existed for him right now was her. He was so fucking hard it hurt.

They made it upstairs somehow, slipping into her room, and the second the door closed, Seonghwa pinned her against it. His mouth was back on hers before either of them could breathe, his hands greedy, roaming everywhere at once down her sides, over her hips, squeezing her ass with both hands and pressing her harder against the door.

She moaned sweetly against his mouth, rolling her hips up into him without shame, feeling how desperate he was for her.

"Hwa—" she whimpered, tugging at his hair, kissing him back with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.

"You’re driving me fucking crazy," Seonghwa growled against her lips, grinding into her, making her feel just how hard he was.

He kissed down her neck hungrily, sucking a dark mark just under her jawline where her brother wouldn’t see it later. His hands slid up her thighs, under the barely-there lace of her dress, until his fingers brushed between her legs. And he froze.

"Fuck," he rasped, pulling back just enough to look down at her, his hand still pressed firmly against the heat between her thighs. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"You’re killing me, angel," he muttered, voice wrecked, eyes dark and hungry.

She giggled softly, slightly drunk on the way he touched her, on the way he looked at her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

"I wanted to be good for you," she whispered, biting her lip.

Seonghwa almost lost it right there.

Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of her, pulling her thighs apart with his large hands. She gasped, blushing fiercely, her wings trembling slightly behind her as she steadied herself against the door. He kissed the inside of her thigh first, slow and deliberate, making her shiver. Then higher. And higher. Until he was mouthing at the place she was already slick and needy for him, her sweet little wet pussy dragging a moan from her lips.

"Seonghwa—!" she gasped, her fingers burying themselves in his hair.

He groaned against her, the taste of her driving him wild, and he started working her open with slow, lazy licks, like he had all the time in the world to devour her. She whimpered and bucked her hips, desperate, but he kept her pinned, spreading her thighs wider, feasting on her like he was starving. Oh, she tasted so sweet. So fucking sweet.

When he finally slipped a finger inside her — slow, careful —she gasped again, her whole body trembling against the door. "So perfect," he muttered against her, curling his finger just right, making her sob. "So fucking sweet."

He kept going, slow and relentless, adding another finger, his mouth still working her, until she was writhing, tugging his hair, sobbing his name over and over. It didn’t take long.

She came with a loud, breathy cry, her thighs shaking around his shoulders, and Seonghwa grinned against her, helping her ride it out with slow, gentle kisses.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

He stood up again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her hard — letting her taste herself on his tongue.

She was dazed, breathing hard, clinging to his shirt.

"Bed," he rasped against her lips. "Now."

She stumbled backward, letting her wings fall off as she crawled onto the bed, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He stripped his shirt off, not caring about the costume anymore, revealing a lean, sculpted body that made her mouth go dry. He crawled onto the bed after her, catching her mouth in another hot, desperate kiss, grinding against her slowly.

She could feel him now — hot, thick, pressing against her — and she whined softly, squirming beneath him.

"You want me?" he murmured, kissing down her neck, nipping at her collarbone. "Tell me, angel."

"Please," she whimpered, arching into him. "Hwa, please..."

He groaned, his last bit of control slipping. He yanked her dress up, and his fingers found her nipples, hardened by the cold of the room. He started pinching them, taking one in his mouth and started sucking, leaving her a moaning, desperate mess. When he was satisfied, he pushed her thighs apart, and finally — finally — slid inside her in one long, slow thrust.

Both of them moaned at the feeling, Seonghwa clenching his jaw, trying not to come instantly at how tight and warm she was, and she was moaning, her nails raking down his back. He stayed still for a moment, breathing heavily into her neck.

"So perfect," he whispered again, almost reverently. "So fucking tight for me."

Then he started moving. At first his thrusts were slow, deep, that had her gasping and clinging to him, then faster, rougher, pounding into her, making her cry out with every stroke.

Their bodies moved together like they were made for each other, sweaty and desperate, moaning each other's names like prayers. She wrapped her legs around him tighter, pulling him deeper, and Seonghwa buried his face in her neck, losing himself completely.

"You’re mine," he growled into her skin, thrusting harder. "You hear me, angel? Mine."

"Yours," she gasped back, barely able to breathe, barely able to think — all she could feel was him, everywhere, overwhelming and perfect.

It didn’t take long before she was tipping over the edge again, sobbing his name as she came around him, and the feeling of her clenching so tightly around him pushed Seonghwa right over the edge too. He groaned brokenly against her throat, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside her. They stayed tangled together afterward — sweaty, trembling, kissing each other slowly, lazily, like they never wanted it to end.

Seonghwa brushed a strand of hair from her face, kissing her forehead gently. "My angel," he whispered. She just smiled up at him, dazed and happy, and tugged him down into another kiss. The room was thick with heat, the faint pulse of the party's bass still thudding distantly through the walls. But here, in the dim light of her bedroom, nothing else existed except them.

She was sprawled beneath him, flushed and beautiful, her body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks. He hovered over her, breathing hard, his skin slick with sweat, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead. He kissed her again, slow at first, savoring it, then deeper, hungrier, his hand sliding down her side, squeezing her hip.

And she whimpered softly against his mouth, her body already arching back into him, wanting more.

"You’re killing me," Seonghwa muttered, voice low and wrecked. "You’re so fucking addictive."

Before she could say anything, he was kissing down her neck again, nipping her skin, sucking another dark mark just above her breast. His hand slid between her legs finding her still slick and sensitive and he groaned deeply.

"So wet for me still," he breathed, dragging his fingers slowly through her folds, teasing her.

She gasped, clenching the sheets, her thighs already falling open for him.

"You want more, angel?" he asked, kissing lower, his mouth now between her tits again, as he loved how soft and plump they were.

"Yeah," she breathed out, desperate. Seonghwa chuckled darkly against her skin — then without warning, he grabbed her thighs and flipped her over onto her stomach.

The girl yelped in surprise, giggling, but the giggle turned into a moan when Seonghwa dragged her hips up, forcing her to kneel on shaky legs while her chest stayed pressed to the mattress.

"Fuck," Seonghwa hissed under his breath, just looking at her flushed skin, the glitter of her stockings, the soft curve of her ass presented perfectly for him. He ran his hands slowly down her back, over the swell of her hips, squeezing her roughly. Then he leaned in and bit the inside of her thigh, making her whimper.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he growled, lining himself up again — teasing her, rubbing the thick head of his cock through her wetness but not pushing in yet.

"Hwa, please—" she whined, pushing back against him needily.

"Patience," he smirked, slapping her ass lightly, making her jump.

She whined again, trying to push her ass back, to grind on him, to feel something, but he was having none of it. He slapped the soft flesh of her ass, which turned into a pale red color, which made her cry out but stay still. Then, with one slow, brutal thrust — he pushed back inside her, burying himself to the hilt.

"oh my god," she gasped, clawing at the sheets.

Seonghwa groaned low in his chest, gripping her hips tight as he started moving, setting a hard, punishing rhythm that had the bed creaking under them. The filthy sounds of skin slapping skin, her whimpering, his grunts, was obscene, and he loved every second of it.

"Look at you," he panted, slamming into her harder. "So needy for me. So perfect."

She could barely answer — all she could do was moan, her body completely at his mercy, so cock drunk.

Seonghwa reached forward, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her up so her back was flush against his chest. She gasped, the new angle making him hit even deeper, her legs shaking uncontrollably. He kissed along her shoulder, murmuring filth into her ear between his deep thrusts.

"Feel how deep I am, angel? You’re made for me. Fuck, I could live inside you."

She sobbed his name, her nails digging into his arms, and he slammed against her skin.

"You’re mine," he whispered roughly. "No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to have you."

"Only you," she whimpered, clenching around him, and Seonghwa cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering from how fucking good she felt. He slid a hand down between her thighs, rubbing tight, fast circles over her swollen clit, pushing her closer and closer to the edge again.

"Come for me," he growled into her ear, thrusting harder. "Come all over my cock, angel. Let go for me."

It didn’t take long. With a loud, broken cry, she shattered again, her whole body convulsing, squeezing him so tight he almost blacked out. Seonghwa cursed, slamming into her a few more times before spilling deep inside her again with a low, wrecked groan.

They collapsed onto the bed together, panting, sweaty, trembling.

He kissed her shoulder softly, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her against him protectively.

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his forehead against her back. "I’m never gonna get enough of you."

She giggled weakly, turning in his arms to face him, her cheeks still flushed.

"This will be our little secret, okay? We can’t have anyone knowing baby. Especially your brother." He said as he slowly slid out of her, looking at the mess they both made.

1K notes · View notes

holybibly · 6 months ago

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♡ 𝔓𝔞𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤: pornstar Seonghwa х pornstar reader

♡ 𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: After a few years in the porn industry, you've developed a certain routine and a general understanding of what you like in the bedroom. But a new scene with the trendy, glamorous Park Seonghwa and his art porn studio Pink Star Production will turn your head. Or Seonghwa fucking your throat with his very long tongue, and it's definitely a sight to behold.

♡ 𝔊𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢 / 𝔄𝔲 / 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢: smut, pornstar!AU

♡ ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: 18+ / 21+ / MDNI

♡ 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 4.8 k

♡ 𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: dom!seonghwa, sub!reader, sex work, voyeurism, exhibitionism, face fucking, spit kink, tongue fucking, lots of sperm/saliva, fingering, pet names, dirty talk, oral, praise kink, squirt, pussy slapping, wet and dirty, explicit sexual content, explicit language, and more.

♡ net: @cultofdionysusnet @k-vanity

♡ 𝔄|𝔑: So my bunnies, this is what you've all been waiting for. We're starting this year with a new universe and something completely unique and fresh. This is my special gift to you sugar babies, so stock up on fresh panties and your favourite toys, because Pink Star Productions is presenting its new film

♡ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 at the end of the post.

♡ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔦𝔟𝔩𝔶 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 - check for more

𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖗𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖉 - Your love makes all this possible

"Be a good girl for me, angel, and open that pretty little mouth of yours." Seonghwa purrs sultrily as he runs the tips of his long, elegant fingers along the contours of your swollen, reddened lips from the blowjob. You don't hesitate to obey his sensual command. Your kissable, plump lips, still moist and glistening with a mixture of sperm, saliva, and viscous pink cotton candy-flavoured lip gloss, open for him with ease, soft and trembling like flower petals, giving Seonghwa a glimpse of the sharp tip of your tongue sticking out between your teeth. A dirty, smug grin flashes across Hwa's handsome face as he sees how obediently and easily you carry out his every command, and for a moment he just looks down at you, admiring the sweet, fucked expression on your lovely face. He should be thanking his great agent for inviting you to participate in this shoot, although Seonghwa isn't surprised; after all, Wooyoung knows exactly what kind of girls he likes to fuck. "Stick out your tongue and don't swallow; I want to see you drooling for me, gorgeous."

You slowly stick your tongue out of your mouth and stare at Seonghwa unabashedly through the thick lace of your long, doll-like eyelashes, covered in a thick coat of pink mascara with large silver glitter dots. Your already flushed cheeks blush further as one of Hwa's long fingers slips into the warm, inviting wetness of your mouth, and you give a barely audible moan as you feel the honeyed saltiness of his golden skin on your tongue. The first finger is quickly followed by a second and then a third, and you clutch your lips lightly around them. The long phalanges press harder against the base of your soft tongue because of what his fingertips sliding deeper into your throat. The silky, narrow walls quiver slightly at the intrusion, in a reflexive attempt to push the long appendages out, but you still keep your mouth open and motionless.

Seonghwa languidly strokes your delicate, slippery tongue, groping the inside of your cheeks, tracing the ridges of your palate and the rows of small, pearly teeth before his fingertips slip back into the depths of your throat. Your saliva runs copiously down the length of his phalanges into the palm of his hand. It dripping from the corners of your mouth, falling in thick droplets from the edge of your jaw onto your tits covered with bite marks and dark purple hickeys. You cover your eyes and open your sticky, plump lips wider for Seonghwa as you let him play with your mouth the way he wants to.

From the side, this scene looks so fucking stunning—dirty, wet, lewd—but despite all that, there's still a certain exquisite eroticism and perverse luxury that's an essential part of sex-art films. And that's what makes Pink Star Productions' films so popular and highly rated, although you have to admit that Seonghwa's beautiful, wiry cock and fuckable mouth played no small part in this. Fucking Seonghwa was like fucking a god, but in contrast to the second one, Hwa liked to spray his cum on the face instead of the pussy.

Through the loud sounds of Hwa's hoarse, lingering moans and sighs, mixed with your heavy breathing and the wet, gurgling sound you make as you choke around the long fingers shoved down your throat, you can hear the praise and enthusiastic comments from the staff about how this film is going to make them a hell of a lot of money and how you and Seonghwa look perfect in the frame. You mentally pat yourself on the back and say, 'Well done, babe, you're doing a great job. Keep fucking." And you relax completely, plunging headlong into the sensation of Hwa's long fingers insistently riding in your pliable mouth.

"Ah, my baby angel, just look at you; you've made such a big mess. The sweet little slut has been drooling for me." Thin, stringy strands of drool stretch from your lips to Seonghwa's fingertips as he pulls long appendages from your warm mouth.

He brings his fingers, smeared with a mixture of drool and sugary lip gloss, up to his fuckable mouth, only to obscene move his tongue between them in a graphic imitation of greedy, skilful cunt licking. This messy but no less sexy spectacle makes your pussy clench around nothing, causing even more clear, viscous fluid to spurt from your quivering little hole, soaking your folds and coating your plump labia with a sticky glaze. Seonghwa does this a few more times, each one more lewd and dirty than the last; it's such a sinful sight you almost want to cover your eyes in embarrassment. His eyes roll back in pleasure, and Hwa moans so loudly and lewdly as if you were once again holding his firm, velvety testicles in your moist, warm mouth, caressing and licking them with your tongue while the pad of your thumb rubs the swollen, dark pink head of his beautiful, thick cock.

Seonghwa, tilting his head slightly to the side, looks up at you with heavy siren eyes, his tongue continuing to slide relentlessly between his spread V-shaped fingers, and you know exactly what his gaze means. Your hand slides between your juicy, thick thighs to run its fingers around your swollen, flushed clit, shamelessly caressing yourself to the sound of Hwa's pornographic moans, before you slap your dainty palm on your plump, sticky cunt a few times, causing you to squirt immediately.

"Ah, f-fuck... Seonghwa. I feel so goddamn good..." You sob loudly as you rub the entire surface of your palm quickly and sloppily over your trembling, tender folds, splashing your juices around even more intensely. "Fuck, you make me feel so fucking good.".

"Mmm, it really is, my precious baby angel." Seonghwa purrs and smiles at you lustfully. "But words are not enough. Don't be shy, gorgeous. Show me that sweet little cunt of yours." He languidly licks his fuckable, filthy mouth, watching unashamedly as your fingers obediently pull your plump labia apart to expose your tight, oozing-with-arousal hole. "What a lovely pink cunt you have there, my angel. You know, darling, cunts like yours I like to fuck raw.Fuck, just the thought of your sweet, tender hole licking my cock as I pull you onto my thick length like a fucking glove could make me cum. I bet you'd be the perfect sleeve for my cock." Seonghwa's voice is deep and husky, and your skin is tingling with excitement, as if he's sending a faint charge of electricity through it. There's a hungry look on his devilishly handsome face, his lush lips curling into a sensual smile, his dark, glossy eyes glittering like bottomless black holes, seductive and dangerous, and you catch your breath at the sight of him.

He looks like a goddamn deity, and you can barely contain your excitement as you continue to act like a professional, trying your best to restrain yourself from starting to beg him to fuck you right here and now.

Seonghwa's entire body is glistening with the luxurious shimmering oil, drops of sweat dripping down the smooth relief of his heaving chest and his pronounced six-pack abs. The massive girth of his beautiful cock presses perfectly against his flat stomach; a clear, viscous liquid oozes from the swollen, dark pink head and trickles down the silky length, coating it with a thick layer of glaze, making his cock gleam faintly in the dim light of the film set. You want to take it back into your mouth to suck it like candy, and you unconsciously lick your lips, hoping to taste his cum on your tongue again. From the outside, Hwa looks so relaxed and at ease, but you can see how the golden muscles of his thighs are quivering and tensing with suppressed excitement underneath the smooth, wet, heated skin.

You and Seonghwa still have a few scenes to shoot before you get to the main part of the film, the one where he fucks you with his big, wiry cock, and damn, you hope that Hwa will do exactly what he said he would do—fuck you raw. Well, in the meantime, Hwa's two long fingers are slipping between your slutty lips again and he starts to fuck you in your mouth to the sweet rhythm of your moaning and whimpering. Seonghwa moves his fingers back and forth, over and over again, riding your tongue with them, occasionally thrusting them so deep into your throat that you begin to choke. The soft, slippery walls of your throat clench around the long, elegant appendages, either wanting to push them out or the opposite, wanting to let them in even deeper.

'Oh God...Hwa.' You let out a breath as he gives you a brief pause, giving you a chance to get your breathing back to normal and to swallow the drool that has collected in your mouth. You can barely remember your lines and the story as a whole; your brain is practically refusing to function, and all your thoughts are unfocused and confused. All you can concentrate on is the hot, tugging feeling of arousal in the pit of your stomach and how badly you want to be fucked in all your holes. "Seonghwa, I need this so much... please..." You fall silent, feigning innocence, and shyly bite down on your plump lower lip.

"And what do you want, my slutty little angel?' Seonghwa asks, running the tip of his long, pointed tongue over his fuckable, overly plump lips in anticipation. And even though he knows exactly what you are going to ask him, it doesn't make the whole situation any less dirty and erotic.

"Mmm, Seonghwa... I want...' You stopped speaking halfway through the sentence, paused dramatically, and looked at Seonghwa with big, wet eyes through your thickly painted pink eyelashes. ‘I want to...’ You start again, sugary pouting your swollen lips, and you hope that your mouth smeared with drool, cum, and glistening lip gloss looks good enough to make anyone watching this film want to spurt their cum on your tongue. ‘I want your tongue, please, Hwa.’

"Ah, so that's what this is about, angel. You want my tongue, don't you? You know, beautiful, you should be more specific about what you want, baby. You want to feel my tongue deep inside your needy little cunt, or maybe I should tickle your pretty, sweet clit. Oh, I know, baby, I bet you're thinking about me spreading your thick, juicy cheeks and licking you between them, or would it be better if I rubbed my tongue over your firm, tantalising nipples, huh? There are so many things I can do to you, angel." Seonghwa purrs, and in the deep, velvety tone of his voice, there's a sensual promise of the dirtiest and hottest pleasures that sends shivers of excitement through your body.

Oh shit, that sounds way too kinky and filthy, even for a porno. How the hell are you supposed to stay professional and stick to the script when he talks to you like that? Sure, you've heard rumours that Seonghwa was damn good at dirty talk and had an amazing way with words, but you couldn't even imagine that much. Fuck, this stunning pink star really did have a magnificent, skilful mouth, and not only when it came to eating pussy.

'I... I want to...' You stammer out the words a little, shyly lowering your eyes to the ground and pretending that you're really embarrassed by what you're about to ask him to do. From the outside, you have an almost innocent look on your face, which fits the story perfectly, but all your actions and words are nothing more than an exquisite illusion—if you and Hwa were alone right now, you'd have been riding on his cock or that unjustly beautiful face a long time ago. "I... I want you to fuck my throat with your tongue." You breathe out softly. The honeyed tone of your voice licks against golden, sweaty Seonghwa's skin, and out of the corner of your eye, you notice his cock twitching at the luscious, sticky notes in your words, and you barely hold back a victorious, smug grin, instead pouting your pretty lips even more and spreading your legs wider for him so that Hwa can enjoy the sight of your glistening, sugar nectar oozing from your little cunt. "Please, Seonghwa... I want it so bad..." You add even more softly.

'There you are, my angel." The deep, velvety sound of Seonghwa's voice reminds you of the seductive purr of a big cat of prey. He stretches his hand out to your face, running the knuckles of his graceful fingers over your soft, flushed cheek in a loving gesture. "How can I say no to you when you are behaving in such an obedient and sweet manner towards me?" Songhwa's touch was barely perceptible against your flushed, heated skin—airy and weightless, yet there was something so sinful and solid about it all that it almost made you lose your mind.

You can barely keep yourself from falling into subspace from all the sensual, lustful, purring praise flying off from Hwa's lush, unjustly beautiful lips. Every single letter he utters feels more like a lingering, scalding kiss that takes your breath away and makes your toes curl. But in Seonghwa's case, it's more like the feel of a skilled tongue sliding roughly and insatiably over your swollen clit, or the slight burning sensation of stretching as the thick, swollen head of his cock slowly pushes into your tight, needy cunt.

Fuck, it seems like you still haven't fully recovered from the feelings and emotions you felt during your last shoot with Yunho, and right now it's all just intensified, fuelled by Seonghwa's dark sexual energy. Now you should be more careful and make sure that you don't fall into your submissive subspace. You're also making a mental note to warn your agent never to schedule another shoot with that fucking slutty siren in the future right after you've had your brains completely fucked by a professional hardcore dom.

But you don't have too much time to think about it, because Seonghwa has stopped caressing your face and has wrapped his elegant hand around your thin, delicate neck instead. His grip tightens, and his magnetic, glossy-black eyes flash with childish delight as his actions cause a faint, treacherous half moan of pure ecstasy to erupt from your chest.

And maybe his hand wasn't as big as Yunho's to almost completely wrap around your neck, or as rough and possessive as Mingi's, but still, you had to admit, Hwa was doing an excellent job of effectively choking you to the point where black dots began to appear in your peripheral vision and fireworks began to erupt under your skin. You are absolutely sure that if he were to spit in your mouth right now, you would come without being touched.

But you know you should keep this hot fantasy to yourself, at least for now, and maybe the next time you make a film for Pink Star Productions, Seonghwa will fuck you like a bitch in heat—rough and hard, choking you and spitting in your mouth and pussy and maybe even on your tits, as he will stuff all your holes with his amazingly thick, sinewy cock.

This image is so vivid and real in your mind that your pretty pussy tingles with sensual anticipation. It spurting out a fresh batch of viscous fluid that coats your lecherously open labia with a transparent glaze. You're sure that your cunt looks so appetising right now that you'd lick yourself if you could. And it makes you wish that you and Hwa would just move on to the next scene where he pushes his beautiful, divine face between your legs.

However, if you don't get to shoot a cunnilingus scene today, you can take the shameless, cheeky vixen who concurrently is Seonghwa's assistant home with you. And you have to say that Wooyoung looks just as attractive and fuckable as his employer, so you won't be too upset if he is the one whose face you bury in your cunt tonight.

"Come on, baby angel, open that little mouth of yours." Seonghwa orders you once more, and this time there's nothing but pure sex in his deep voice. He doesn't have to repeat himself twice, because your lips are parted at once, and your soft tongue is sticking out just to meet the flow of warm, viscous saliva that Hwa is spitting into your expectant mouth. He purrs contentedly at the sight of the thick drop of liquid rolling down your rosy, silky appendage. "Swallow, gorgeous." And you obey, greedily swallowing everything he's given you. "You're the sweetest, most obedient girl, aren't you? Keep it up and I'll let you call me Mommy."

Oh fuck, and here you were thinking that Seonghwa couldn't get any hotter, but Hwa seemed to be ready to prove you wrong. You weren't new to this; you've been in a couple of movies with the 'mommy' kink in boys before, and the last one was literally a couple of weeks ago. You have to say it was a fucking incredible experience. When you first met Yeosang on set, you were expecting you and him to have another 'vanilla' scene, with a meagre and simple set of positions and a classic creampie. But hell, you had no idea that this enchanting Tinker Bell would fuck you so hard you literally couldn't walk. And the way he made you rub your pussy against his gorgeous, chiselled abs until you squirted all over him as he spanked your tits and fingered your mouth, you're not even starting to talk about it. So the thought of what Mommy Seonghwa might be able to do to you is making your cunt quiver.

You hold your breath as Seonghwa suddenly leans so close to your face that you can feel his hot, wet breath washing over your open, pink mouth. This is it, damn it; he's going to fuck your mouth with his tongue right now.

'Please...' You whimper into his luxurious, pornographic mouth, and you don't know if you're following the script or if you're really begging him. But whatever it is, it doesn't matter at all, especially when Seonghwa's long, slippery tongue slides a little roughly between your lips and takes up residence in the warm, inviting wetness of your craving mouth.

At the first touch of his hot, wet appendage against your tongue, you let out a high, obscene moan that turns into a pitiful whimper as Seonghwa insistently pushes his tongue deeper past your lips, filling all the small space of your mouth that you have to offer him. He slides further along your tongue and deeper into your throat, and you start to choke, but Hwa's elegant hand on your neck holds you in place, preventing you from pulling away.

Enough drool pours from your open mouth that it begins to drip down your face and onto your large, plump tits. It runs down the soft flesh in clear, cooling streams until your saliva covers your hard, swollen nipples with a glistening layer of moisture.

You are so lost in the sensation of Seonghwa's feverishly hot breath and soft, long tongue that you are completely unaware of the way his free hand reaches up to your breast to run his fingertips over your pretty, sensitive nipples. By now you have become so highly aroused that even this slight stimulation is enough to send a shiver down your entire body and cause a loud sigh of pleasure to escape from you.

The way the walls of your throat move apart at that sound is perfect for Seonghwa's tongue to penetrate even deeper until it's completely inside of you and your lips finally meet in a kinky, dirty kiss. Seonghwa lets out a low, satisfied growl that comes from deep inside his chest, and you can feel how your sticky cunt, bleeding with desire, clenches at the sound of it.

Seonghwa's tongue wriggles down your throat, licking and caressing the hot, quivering walls that contract around the fleshy, skilful appendage. Your own tongue presses against the base of your mouth, moving weakly in a reciprocal caress, hoping to give Hwa exactly the same pleasure you're experiencing right now. You can barely make a sound other than a pitiful whimper, muffled by the long tongue snaking its way down your mouth and throat.

Damn, until today you had no idea that something like this could be so pleasurable, or even possible at all. The whole concept of fucking throat with someone's tongue was pretty dodgy, and you had to ask your agent a few times to make sure you got it right. But God, whether it was because Seonghwa had an incredibly talented, skilful, and very long tongue, or because it was just incredibly pleasurable and you found your new kink, it doesn't matter at all, because you really enjoyed what was going on, and you definitely want to try this with your other sex partners as well.

It seems like an eternity before Hwa pulls away from you, his tongue slipping out of your mouth with an embarrassingly loud squelch and a stream of saliva pouring out of your swollen, exhausted lips almost like a waterfall. And maybe a lot of people would find that disgusting, but not Seonghwa, as he can't help himself but greedily and lewdly lick your mouth, spectacularly licking up all the drool that has mixed with your lusciously sweet lip gloss.

'Seonghwa...' You whisper in a cracked voice. Your lungs are still burning from the lack of oxygen, and your thighs are trembling from the uncomfortable position you've been in for so long, but it's all nothing compared to the incredible feeling of lust and excitement you're experiencing right now.

And maybe all that languid, art porn aesthetic was much worse than the rough and fast hardcore scenario, at least you'd know that your pussy and ass would not be empty for a second in a one-on-one scenes with Hongjoong or Mingi, unlike Seonghwa who seemed to prefer to shake your brains out completely by making you nothing more than his cute, empty-headed cockslut before he filling your hole with his amazing cock. Damn, sometimes you really miss being filmed in a gangbang, when all you had to do was spread your legs and take one cock after another, and sometimes even several at the same time.

As if he could read your mind, Seonghwa lets out a grim chuckle and finally lets go of the palm of his hand on your throat, letting it slide down your body instead, before he slaps your pussy a little viciously, making you squirt for him right away.

'Ah, fuck!' You scream as a stream of liquid spurts out of your quivering hole, splashing everywhere and it gathering in a puddle on the floor beneath you.

"I'm not done with you yet, gorgeous." Hwa whispers in a sultry voice before he presses his lips against your mouth again.

This time it's completely different, his tongue immediately penetrates your mouth completely, wriggling and penetrating deep into your throat like you've never experienced before. What he gave you before was a just preparation for that, but the fucking training season is over and now Seonghwa is absolutely ruthless with you. His hand returns to your neck, only to wrap his fingers tightly around it, choking you and turning your throat into the perfect vessel for his tongue to fuck you with.

You begin to choke again, gurgling and panting as the hot appendage snakes and twists between your tight walls. You love it so much, all that burning, painful sensation mixed with almost euphoric pleasure, and you start to cry, unable to contain yourself. Thick tears flow from your eyes, streaming down your flushed face in a mixture of pink mascara and glitter, and you barely manage to wipe the heavy drops from your doll-like, clumpy eyelashes and lift your eyes up to meet the black, magnetic holes of Seonghwa's irises. Those incredible, fierce siren eyes watch you sob for him with pleasure as you fall apart, sinking into complete and utter submission.

In and out, over and over again, his tongue moving in a strange, serpentine rhythm that you can't understand, but to be honest, you don't really try, not when he pulls away from you for a second just to whisper right into your lips.

"Go and fuck yourself with your sweet fingers, my angel. Squirt for me again, I want to see that pussy all wet and fucked." How the hell are you going to look at other men after that? Okay, maybe you're exaggerating, because there's still San and his awesome nine-inch cock, but still. But that's something you'll have to think about later, because Seonghwa's tongue comes back to your mouth and immediately slides in deeper, and your hand finds a place on your silky, slime-covered folds of your cunt to start caressing yourself as Hwa told you to do.

You try to adjust to the rhythm of the thrust of his tongue down your throat, first inserting a one finger into your tiny, tender hole, quickly followed by a second one, but it's no use as Hwa does something inexplicable in your mouth, literally drinking your breath and completely taking you under his control. You feel as if you're intoxicated, your fingers moving almost automatically, stretching your hole and rubbing against the silky, slippery walls of your pretty cunt. This continues for a few moments before a final hard thrust of Seonghwa's tongue down your throat, accompanied by the pads of your fingers finally pressing against your sweet spot, brings you to orgasm.

Your eyes roll back from the overwhelming, sharp pleasure coursing through your entire body; your hips quiver, your pussy squirts, pushing your fingers out with a copious stream of your juice, and a rough, squeezed sound of ecstasy erupts from deep in your throat. Holy fuck. It's a fucking out-of-body experience. And all because of his tongue; you can't imagine what his cock will do to you then.

As you collapse helplessly in his arms, your throat still tightens and your mouth opens wider so that Hwa can lick you clean one last time. His long tongue wraps around your swollen lips, then your jaw, licking up everything you have to offer and savouring the taste of your skin.

"And, cut!" The director's voice breaks, and the room erupts in loud applause and praise for a job well done.

'Breathe, beautiful.' Seonghwa whispers, and you have to gather what little consciousness and professionalism you have left after such an overwhelming orgasm to look at him and heed his words. You do as Hwa tells you and take a few deep, calm breaths. "You did a great job today, Y/N. Too bad we're running out of time to film cunnilingus tonight, but how about a private rehearsal? And maybe you wouldn't mind if Wooyoung joined us; after all, he was the one who found you."

You turn your head slightly in the direction where the crew and cameramen are crowded around the monitors to watch the replay of your and Hwa's scene tonight. But you have little interest in all these people; your eyes are searching for someone in particular, and when you finally catch a glimpse of the relaxed, slightly cocky figure of Seonghwa's personal assistant, Jung Wooyoung, you are greeted with a lecherous grin and a hot, dark, foxy gaze that can't seem to tear itself away from your heaving bare breasts for more than a second.

"Ooh, I don't mind at all, you know. He seems to have a thing for boobs." You giggle as you pull away from Seonghwa and look around for your robe.

"Here.' Hwa holds a black silk dressing gown in front of you, which you gratefully take from him before you pull the soft, cool material over your heated, naked body. "Hmm, you're right, yes, Woo loves tits, but he has many different sides to him, and I'm more than sure he'd love to show them off tonight."

"That sounds very promising, Hwa." You smile and head for your dressing room. You stop for a moment at the closed door, turn over your shoulder, and give Seonghwa your best seductive smile and heavy bedroom eyes. "And I hope you'll show me your special sides too, Seonghwa. I've been told that a beautiful pink star can easily make someone faint from orgasm; I really hope that's exactly what you're going to do to me tonight."

❣ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ❣ Part I @tiny-apocalypse @captain-joongz @alicedawitchbish @woohwababes @wlv-asteria @wisejudgedragonhairdo @mingisprincesss @lavishloving @teagietots @spooo00oky @sousydive @hwapou @bunnliix @softwsan @mjyungi @fantasy2wonderland @noirsfantasy @cassies-cookies @renaholicss @luffypants @hyukssunflower @watermelon2319 @peachygiku @bunnyxoxodarling @stolasisyourparent @soranosnowbunny @certifiedmoa @sanglix @slvtiny @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad @hecateslittlewitchling @xxawl @pastellbunno @starlletsblog @seonghwasstar @hwanring @vtyb23 @pearltinyy @minjaeum @chasevixx @bomi-ja @onedumbho3 @sanglix @cursedeastern @itza-meee @pinkies-things @atinism @mxnsxngie @nenefix-on @therealcuppicake @annafeebou @sharksandminhos @@lixies-pixieboy @@vampzity @0rangemilk @yellow-foxxing @claimmeyourprincess

❣ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ❣ Part II @unholywriters @hey-syia @hrts4nohee @vnessalau @mlink64 @tessakleine @fr34k4c1dr41n @313hwa @lilyuwon @tiziamattaga @un-knew @wiaxul @siyah-staryis @seonghwasbbgirl @mingisfavgf @bunnyluvr25 @roserperfume @lose-lose07 @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @lelaleleb @bubblebisk @silverlight-h @ chloe-elise-2000 @cookiesandcreammy @mxnsxngie @ghostlovesworld @i-love-ateez @mingisprincesss @vampscan @peachygiku @vampqueen777 @miyaluvvsyou @stay-tiny-things @moondanse94 @thyvessel

❣ ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶 𝔅𝔲𝔫𝔫𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔗𝔞𝔤 𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ❣ Part III @yyaurii @infrenchexit @sanniesbum @jaxyy219 @lostxxgirl @m1sss1mp @manipulatedstars @cotton-candycloudz @kienhawon @flowerxsin @londonbridges01 @fluffyyongbokie @sang-09 @hobarihope @sanniesaur @luvbit3z @sanriomilk @s4erin @sanhwalvr @mallielovssyou @slytherinslays @your-bloodbag @cherricola-star @passionandsuga @hwasangel @yyaurii @nevermoreraven1 @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @unholywriters @mortal-advocate

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domm1etae · 6 months ago

Text

where you cover your face shyly with your hands when you are getting fucked. only for hongjoong to grab said hands and pin them to the bed so you can't hide.

the moment hongjoong caught the sight of your hands flying up to your face, his jaw tightened, and his pace faltered for a split second. you were beneath him, flushed and trembling, trying to hide the soft, breathy moans spilling out of you and the way your eyes rolled back every time he thrust deeper.

"nah," he muttered, voice low and rough, grabbing your wrists and pinning them to the mattress above your head. "don’t hide from me."

your lips parted in a stifled whimper as his grip tightened, his hips snapping forward hard enough to knock the breath out of you. the drag of his cock against your walls was maddening, every inch making you squirm under his hold.

"look at me," he demanded, his tone sharp but laced with something dark, hungry. his eyes burned into yours as he pressed his forehead against yours, his body never losing its relentless rhythm. "lemme see you. wanna watch every little expression you make when i’m fucking you this good."

you bit your lip, your face turning away, but his grip on your wrists didn’t let up. if anything, it got stronger. "don’t do that," he growled, nipping at the corner of your mouth before biting down on your jaw. "don’t act shy when i know how bad you want this. how bad you want me."

his words sent heat flooding through you, your walls fluttering around him, and he smirked when he felt it. "yeah, that’s what i thought," he rasped, his voice thick with satisfaction. "your body doesn’t lie, baby."

his pace quickened, each thrust hitting so deep it had you crying out, your shy protests turning into desperate, high-pitched moans that filled the room. hongjoong grinned, his breath hot against your neck.

"fuck, you’re so good for me," he groaned, his cock twitching inside you as he dragged your body closer to his. "you feel how deep i am? how much i’m stretching you out? bet it’s driving you crazy, huh? bet you’re close already."

your head tilted back, your hands twisting in his grip as you tugged weakly, but he didn’t let go. instead, he leaned down, catching your lips in a messy, heated kiss that left you gasping for air.

"don’t hide from me, y/n," he murmured against your lips, his voice low and teasing. "wanna see every fucking second of you falling apart on my cock."

the way his hips snapped into yours, the way his eyes stayed locked on your face, watching every twitch, every moan, every little tremor that rolled through you—it was too much. the heat in your stomach coiled

tighter and tighter until it finally snapped, your body arching off the bed as you came with a loud cry.

hongjoong cursed under his breath, his pace turning rougher, sloppier, chasing his own release. "that’s it," he groaned, his voice wrecked as he buried himself as deep as he could, his release spilling into you with a sharp gasp.

he stayed there for a moment, catching his breath, his body pressed against yours. when he finally pulled back, his hands loosened around your wrists, but he didn’t let you go completely. instead, he leaned in, pressing a slow, almost lazy kiss to your lips.

"you don’t get to hide from me, baby," he murmured, his grin wicked and smug. "not when you’re this fucking pretty taking my cock."

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stxrrywoo · 2 months ago

Text

GYM ACTIVITES ── c.sn

synopsis ; when san finally grows tired of your constant whining that you're bored he drags you to the gym with him, but you didn't want to at least not until you couldn't find yourself able to tear your gaze away from your best friends muscles.

pairing(s) ; bsf!san x f!reader

☆ ── wc. ; 2.8k ☆ ── genre ; smut, fluff, friends to lovers ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, kissing, reader is thirsty asf and not the dehydrated kind, public sex, petnames (princess, baby...), unprotected sex, clit play, fingering, biting/marking, teasing, slight size kink, shower(?) sex, sloppy make out, strength kink, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, creampie, san covers the readers mouth, getting caught, lmk if I missed anything!! ☆ ── notes ; hehe this idea is all thanks to @kitten4sannie and her post about gym rat san, so I present to you...

“San, I don’t wanna go.” You whined as the dark-haired male pulled you into the building, the sun barely broken over the horizon behind you.

“You keep complaining that you’re bored, and I am quite frankly getting tired of it, so…” He tugged on your wrist until you were standing beside him, the mostly empty gym before you. “I found a solution. You can work out with me or sit there and be bored, your choice.”

“You’re so mean.” You pouted, but the male just patted your head before walking further into the facility.

You stood there for a few moments contemplating just walking right back out, but the gym was about twenty minutes away from your apartment, and it was far too cold even to try to walk back. So with a defeated sigh, you stepped in looking for where your feline-eyed friend had disappeared to.

It didn’t take you too long to find him, seeing as there weren’t very many people in the building to begin with and because you could recognize his back almost anywhere. Walking over, you caught San’s attention, and he turned his head with a smirk.

“Finally decided to join me?” He teased, causing you to roll your eyes, and walk over to the bench in front of the mirror.

“In your dreams, pretty boy. I’m gonna sit here, bored mind you, while you do your thing.” You sat down, crossing your legs underneath your body.

San chuckled but went back to what he was doing nonetheless, while you pulled your phone out to scroll through Pinterest mindlessly. You regretted taking your earbuds out of your pocket this morning before San showed up because you had to sit in the still silence, the only sound being the dull thrum of the air conditioning.

Letting out a huff, you dropped your phone into your lap, getting ready to start complaining once more, but the words caught in your throat as you took in the sight before you. San was doing pull-ups with his back turned towards you, the grey tank top he was wearing stuck to his form, and you could see the way the muscles in his back and arms flexed every time he pulled himself up.

You never went with San to the gym for one reason, and this was the very reason. You weren't sure whether it was because you were ovulating or San had just bulked up in recent years, but you found yourself more drawn to him. More than a friend should be.

The moment he dropped back to the floor, you snapped out of your trance, quickly picking your phone back up and praying that he didn’t notice you gawking. However, San wasn’t dumb; he had seen you staring through the mirror on the opposite side.

“You’re awfully quiet, whatcha doin over there?” He asked, a smirk tugging on the corner of his lips, as you barely even looked up at him.

“Doomscrooling on Pinterest.” You told him, willing your voice not to crack as you wanted to scream at yourself for getting so worked up.

“Oh?” He started walking towards you, causing your heart to start racing, but you almost let out a sigh of relief when he walked over to the weight rack next to you. “Looking at anything in particular?”

“You.” As soon as those words fell from your lips, your eyes grew wide, and you wanted to slap yourself. Hearing the sound of San’s laugh wasn’t any help either, seeing as how heat flushed your face, painting your cheeks a bright shade of red.

“I didn’t know I had pictures on Pinterest.” San teased, grabbing one of the weights, and you turned your head to tell him that it was just a dumb animal, but as soon as you saw his flexed arm, veins running along his forearm, all words and thoughts left your head.

“I-It’s–” Your voice cracked, and you wished that the floor would swallow you whole as he looked over, catching your eyes.

“It’s what?” The teasing tone in his voice was starting to drive you insane, so you stood to your feet, almost falling as your knees buckled underneath your weight.

“Nothing.” You spoke quickly, averting your gaze away from his smiling form, “I need a hairtie, where’s your bag?”

San chuckled, a wide, dimpled grin spread across his face because he knew very well that you didn’t have any hairties in his bag. You hated having your hair tied up because it gave you headaches when you did. However, he was intrigued and decided to play along.

“In the locker room.”

“Thanks.” You scurried away as San watched you, the smile never leaving his face.

–

Walking into the locker room, you pressed your back against the sturdy wooden door, trying to will your racing heart to calm down. Closing your eyes and tilting your head back, you let out a deep breath.

Once you had calmed slightly, you opened your eyes and pushed yourself off the door before walking over to the sink across the room. Turning the tap on, you cupped your hand, filling it with the cool water and splashing it over your heated face. The water seemed to help a bit, keyword, a bit. Because every time you closed your eyes, you would see flashes of your best friend and how his muscles ripped with every movement. It was driving you up the wall.

“Curse you Choi San and your ridiculous body, got me feeling like a damn dog in heat.” You groaned, rubbing the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to get some of the frustration out.

But then there was a noise heard from behind you.

A chuckle.

One that you could recognize even in a room full of people. One that had your body go rigid. One that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand tall. One that left your gut swirling and had heat pool in your core.

Slowly, you moved your hands from your eyes, blinking to clear your vision, and through the mirror, you could see him standing behind you, leaning against one of the lockers.

“You were taking your sweet time, so I came to see if you needed help.” His voice was deep, and there was a gleam in his chocolate eyes as he stared at you. It was a look that left you weak in the knees.

“S-San.” You choked on your words as you turned to look at him, a nervous laugh falling from your lips, hoping that he hadn’t heard what you just said.

“Only to find you cursing me.” He pushed himself off the lockers and stalked towards you.

Oh, he had definitely heard what you said. Tears involuntarily brimmed in your eyes as you became extremely overwhelmed. You stumbled back the closer he got to you until the small of your back hit the edge of the sink, your fingers wrapping around the smooth porcelain.

“That’s not very nice, princess.” He gave you a faux hurt expression as he stopped merely inches away from your body.

You gulped as you looked up at him, unsure of what to say that would get you out of this situation. However, the moment San’s arms appeared on either side of your body, ultimately trapping you, you knew there was no getting out of this.

“I wasn’t.” Your voice trembled as he leaned closer to you, the heat of his body making your mind spiral.

“Oh, but you were.” San smirked when your eyes fluttered shut the closer he got, “did you just need some dick? Is that why you were being such a whiny brat?”

“N-No!” You stammered, eyes flying open at his words, and your heart ready to beat out of your chest. “It’s just–” Your breath hitched in your throat when he pressed his body closer to yours, his head dipping down until his lips brushed over your ear.

“Just what?” He hummed, the vibrations flowing through your body, and it felt like you were going to fall over at any moment.

“You.” The word fell from your lips before you could even comprehend it, and your fingers tightened around the sink until your knuckles turned a ghostly shade of white.

“What about me, princess?” San asked, lips ghosting over your ear as he pulled away to look at you, that same annoying smirk playing on his lips.

You weren’t sure if it was the heat getting to your head or your patients snapping, but words started to tumble from your lips.

“You are driving me insane, no matter what I seem to do, you’re there with those stupid muscles of yours. I swear I can’t even think straight anymore because all I can imagine is you pinning me to the wall and having your way–”

Before you could even finish your sentence, his lips were on yours with a bruising force, knocking all of the air out of your lungs. A small squeak fell from your lips at the rudeness, but the moment his hand grabbed your hip, your body melted against his. Your fingers finally released the sink and wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as you returned his kiss with the same amount of fever.

Your brain started to feel fuzzy as his hands roamed your body, groping at any skin he could get to. His lips left yours to trail down your jaw, leaving hot and wet kisses along your skin until he found purchase on your neck, biting down just enough to elicit a soft whine from you.

San felt like he was in a dream, not believing this day had finally come. He had been crushing on you for months now, but he never acted on it because you always acted indifferent around him. However, now that he has you, he is going to make the most of it.

“S-San.” You choked out when his hand led down to your gym shorts, fingers just shy of your throbbing core.

“God, you sound so cute saying my name like that.” He groaned against your skin, his hand moving down to cup your clothed cunt in the palm of his hand. The moan that left your swollen lips made his blood run completely south, making him even harder if that were even possible.

San pulled away from your neck as he let his hand slip past the waistband of your shorts and underwear. An almost animalistic groan left his lips as he felt how wet you were, your slick coating his fingers.

“Fuck you’re soaked.” He leaned down until his nose bumped against yours. “Is this because of me, princess?”

“W-Who else?” You asked before your jaw fell slack when his finger pressed against your aching clit, a soft moan falling from your mouth.

His fingers worked against you in a slow, teasing manner, leaving you a panting and whiny mess. San watched in amusement as you gripped his shirt, eyes pleading with him.

“So needy aren’t you, baby.” He teased, kissing the corner of your lips before sealing his over them once more, just to swallow all of your sweet noises when he picked up his pace.

Your whole body jerked at the sudden change in speed, and your nails dug into San’s chest, leaving behind crescent marks in their wake.

“San– I can’t.” You gasped as the coil in the pit of your stomach tightened in record time.

“It’s okay, let go.” He cooed against your lips as he suddenly pressed two fingers past your entrance while his thumb worked against your clit.

“San!” You cried out as your legs trembled, your high crashing over you, leaving your eyes rolling back.

San whispered sweet nothings as he worked you through your orgasm until you felt yourself slowly start to come back.

“C’mere.” San pulled his hand from your shorts before grabbing the back of your thighs, hoisting you up onto his hips. A pathetic moan fell from your lips when you felt his bulge against your sensitive pussy.

San moved both of you into one of the showers with ease, sliding the curtain shut in the process. Neither of your lips left the other as he pressed your back against the cool tiles.

“Is this what you wanted, princess?” San teased you, pulling away from your lips to take in your dazed expression.

You cupped his face, leaning closer to him before whispering, “It’s even better, but…” Rolling your hips against his, you elicited a soft mewl from your own lips, “I need you in me, so bad.”

No other words were spoken as he dropped you down just long enough to discard all of your clothes. Lips clashing against each other is a messy kiss, as his hands found your hips once more.

Picking you up again a sharp moan fell from your lips swallowed by San’s as you felt the tip of his cock proding at your entrance. San’s thumbs rubbed soothing circles on your hip as he pulled you closer to him.

“Ready?” His voice was hoarse, and a chill ran through your body at the sound, your brain starting to melt the longer he wasn’t buried in you.

“P-Please.” You mewled, pressing your lips against his once more in a sloppy kiss; however, your jaw fell slack, and your nails dug into his shoulder as he started to push into you.

A choked gasp fell from your lips as he fully filled you to the hilt, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes at the full feeling.

“Sannie–” You whined, body trembling in his hold as pleasure overwhelmed your senses.

“Fuck you feel so good baby.” He groaned, head falling to the crook of your neck.

The moment you gave him the green light, he slowly pulled out to just the tip before snapping his hips back into yours, knocking the air right out of your lungs. A strangled cry tore from yoru throat as your hand flew back against the wall, accidentally hitting the shower knob and turning the water on.

It didn’t slow San down though, no he continued to fuck into you with rough strokes and you had no choice but to take it because he had you pinned to the wall. White spots started to cloud your vision when he began to suck marks on your neck, the pleasure almost becoming unbearable.

When his hips shifted just a bit, your moans grew louder in pitch as your nails raked down his back.

“Shh, baby, everyone is gonna hear you if you’re too loud.” He chuckled as you looked at him with a fucked out expression that left his dick twitching.

“I-I can’t. You just feel so good!” You cried out, head falling back against the tiles, when his pace picked up.

“Oh so you want everyone to hear how good I’m fucking you, is that it?” He cooed, moving one hand from your hip to grab your jaw, tilting your head back down to look at him.

“N-No.” You mewled, but the way your cunt was squeezing around his swollen dick told him otherwise.

“I bet you do. You want everyone to hear your pretty noises, don’t you?”

“S-San–” The air was knocked from your lungs when he brushed over your sweet spot, your moans bouncing off the walls. “I’m close! San, I can’t!”

Your cries spurred the dark-haired male on, fucking his cock deep into your cunt, hitting spots that no one ever has before and bringing you closer to your climax. Sensing that you were about to cum San released your jaw before placing his palm over your mouth muffling the loud cry that tore from your lungs just as your high hit.

“Holy shit, baby you’re squeezing me so tight.” He groaned as he fucked you through your high as your cunt kept sucking him in.

“Sannie!” Your muffled moan of his name was almost enough to push him over the edge but when he looked up and saw your teary eyes pleading with him over his hand he felt his dick twitch before he was painting your gummy walls white with his cum.

His hips slowed as he fucked his cum back into your spazzing cunt, watching as your eyebrows scrunched togrhtrt from the overstimulation. Then his hips stilled, and he leaned against you, lips ghosting over your neck as his hand fell from your mouth.

Your hand found the back of his head as yours fell back against the tiles, your erratic breathing becoming steady once more.

“San.” You called out his name, voice hoarse.

“Hmm?” he hummed against you, reaching over to turn the shower off so he could hear you. However, as soon as the water was off, you could hear the sounds of the locker room door shutting, and your heart stopped.

“If we get banned from this gym, just know that it’s your fault.” You told him, causing him to laugh softly, pulling his face from your neck.

“Worth it though.” He mumbled before pulling you into a sweet kiss, ignoring the nearing footsteps.

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

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iannmin · 10 months ago

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too big | j.yh 정윤호

tags + warnings: 18+ mdni, huge!yunho x small!reader, size kink, breeding kink, short drabble

synopsis: yunho’s huge, everything about him is huge, and it’s all fun and games until -

a/n: really think yunho would do this tbh, making you feel small and helpless as you take him so well :((

୨୧ ‘ masterlist ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

messy bangs and sweat dripping down his forehead, he attempted to breach your entrance. you gasped “s’big…nnnngh…too big” His red veiny tip was barely through your folds and you were already blabbering incoherently, nails digging into his back. as if it wasn’t enough, he grabbed your thighs and hooked it over his shoulder, setting you up in a mating press, trapping you in the sheets. now there’s no escape. “shhh..you can take this princess c’mon”. He pressed a gentle and light kiss on your forehead, “it’s gonna fit. I’ll make it fit.” he whispers, wrapping his left hand around your tiny waist, hands so huge that it covered the majority of your waistline. he put his right hand on your mouth, and in one snap, he sinks his entire length into your heat. you let out a muffled scream, eyes rolling backwards, tears threatening to fall from your eyes. You swear you felt your walls tear from the stretch. “s-so mean..yunho meanie….nnnngh..hurts” he smiles innocently at your broken words “but I made it fit princess” he takes your left hand that was helplessly gripping the sheets, and placed it on top of your belly, and that’s when you felt it. a bulge in your stomach. his huge bulge. he lets out a groan of relief, burying his low moans against the crook of your neck. “m’gonna breed you so full, so so full.”

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onlyforwoosan · 2 months ago

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Wicked, Wild, and Yours— ℧

Pairing: Choi San (Outlaw Hunter!AU) × Female Outlaw Reader (Enemies to Obsession)

Wordcount: 4.8k

Synopsis: You’re a wanted outlaw. He’s the bounty hunter sent to catch you — but San doesn’t want the reward. He wants you. One chase, one fight, and one night where he makes sure you never run again.

Genre: Smut, Dark Western Romance, Enemies to Lust to Something Else, Outlaw Hunter!AU

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Rough sex, Dominant behavior, Gun violence, Knife use, Blood, Hair pulling, Dirty talk (degrading & possessive), Overstimulation, Handcuffs, Emotionally charged tension, Light gore (during fight scenes), Power play (consensual)

The night was quiet—too quiet for your liking.

The bar was mostly dead, except for the usual drunks and card players who were too broke to leave. Oil lamps flickered across creaky floorboards, casting a soft golden light over the worn mahogany bar. You wiped down the same glass for the fifth time, listening to the low hum of murmured conversation and the occasional thump of boots on wood.

Then you heard him.

The sharp clack of spurs hitting the porch. The heavy sound of a man who walked like he owned the dirt beneath his feet. You turned your head just in time to see him tie up his horse, one hand adjusting the brim of his dark hat, the other resting near the holster on his hip like it belonged there.

And then he walked in.

Choi San.

You froze.

Your breath caught, fingers locking around the glass as he strolled through the doorway. The man was sin carved in leather and bone, his coat swaying behind him like the wings of death itself. He waved to a few folks who recognized him—either too stupid or too scared to avoid his gaze. A hunter. The kind of man people whispered about in other outlaw camps. The kind who didn't take prisoners.

You'd seen posters of him before. "Bounty hunter. Ruthless. Gets the job done." You thought he looked dangerous in the sketches.

But nothing prepared you for the real thing.

Your heart pounded harder than it should’ve. You couldn’t tell if it was panic or... something worse.

He didn’t glance at anyone else. Just walked right up to the bar and sat down directly in front of you. When he finally looked up, straight into your eyes—it was like he was already aiming.

"Evenin'," he said smoothly.

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Evenin’.” He tipped his head slightly, giving you a once-over that was anything but subtle. “You new in town?”

You kept your tone neutral, your face still. “Been around.”

“Hm.” His eyes flickered with interest. “You don’t sound local.”

You shrugged. “A lotta folks ain’t.”

He smiled then—slow, deliberate, and just shy of cocky. “Fair enough. Whiskey. Neat.”

You turned your back to pour the drink, your hands moving automatically. But your mind was racing. What the fuck is he doing here?

Choi San didn’t just wander into towns like this. He hunted—tracked people down, flushed them out. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions unless he already knew the answers.

And you... were most definitely on someone's list.

You tried to steady your breathing, but it felt like your lungs were trying to crawl up your throat. He couldn’t possibly know who you were, right? You’d changed your hair. Wore different clothes. You were careful, goddammit.

But not careful enough.

You’d been caught once. Only once. That was all it took to get your face on a poster. And San? He didn’t miss.

You brought the drink over and set it down in front of him. “Here.” He took a sip, eyes never leaving yours.

“Y’know,” he said slowly, “I’ve seen a lotta faces. Yours… looks mighty familiar.”

Your throat dried up. “Do it?” you managed. He nodded, eyes sharp now. “Mm. Got one of those looks. Dangerous. Pretty.”

You flushed—goddammit, get a grip—and quickly glanced away, pretending to busy yourself with the bar rag.

“Where’d you say you were from again?” he added, voice light but laced with meaning.

“I didn’t.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Feisty.”

You forced a polite smile, muttered something about checking stock, and excused yourself to the back.

The saloon’s back room was hazy with smoke and dust. You slipped in, shutting the door behind you, your chest rising and falling fast. “Haechan!” you hissed.

Your partner in crime—both literally and figuratively—was leaned against the back wall, cigarette hanging from his lips and a bottle of bourbon in his hand.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing you. “What crawled up your—”

“San’s here.”

That made him freeze… He took the cigarette out of his mouth slowly. “The bounty hunter?”

You nodded. “He’s at the bar. He looked right at me. I think he knows.”

Haechan cursed under his breath. “You said he was on the other side of the territory. How the hell did he find us this fast?”

“I don’t know! Maybe someone ratted, maybe I slipped up.” You grabbed your head. “God, Haechan—he’s gonna kill me. You’ve heard what he does.”

He studied you for a second, serious now. “Then don’t give him the chance. Get out. Go out the back, take the alley, and run.”

You hesitated. “We said no splitting up.”

“We also said don’t get caught,” he shot back. “You’re the one they have posters of. You got made. I didn’t. I’ll cover for you if I can, but you’ve gotta move.”

You peeked through the crack in the door. San was still at the bar. Still watching. Like he knew. He lifted his glass and took a slow sip—then winked at you.

Your stomach dropped. Haechan stepped closer. “Go. Now.” You turned, breath shaky, every instinct screaming to bolt. But something held you there. Fear? Curiosity? Or the heat that still lingered in your skin from the way his eyes had trailed over you?

No. You had to focus. You straightened your spine, took one last look at Haechan, and pushed back through the door.

Back at the bar, San looked completely at ease, fingers tapping against the rim of his glass. You swallowed hard and approached. “Sorry about that. Had to check something.”

“All good,” he replied smoothly. “We were just getting to the fun part anyway.”

You arched a brow. “Fun part?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “The part where you tell me your name. The real one.”

Your blood turned cold.

You stared at him, trying to find something casual to say, some smart remark, but your mouth wouldn’t move.. He smirked and reached into his coat. That was all it took… You bolted.

You didn’t wait to see what he was reaching for—gun, badge, poster—you weren’t about to find out. You shoved through the back door, hit the alley running, heart pounding, boots skidding across the dirt. You vaulted over a crate, ducked under a fence, and disappeared into the night.

Behind you, you heard the door slam open and a voice shout, “Shit—!”

You didn’t look back.

By the time San got to the alley, the only thing left was the echo of your boots and the swirling dust in the wind.

He stood there for a moment, glaring into the dark.

Then he smiled.

“She’s fast,” he muttered, already mounting his horse. “But not fast enough.”

Three days had passed since you vanished into the night, slipping through San’s fingers like smoke.

Three fucking days.

He wasn’t used to people getting away—especially not pretty little things who blushed under his stare and ran before he could even finish his sentence.

Now, the hunter was the one being haunted.

San rode through the outskirts of the dusty town under the silver sheen of moonlight. His horse’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against the dirt trail, a low wind stirring the brush. He had one hand on the reins, the other holding a small, battered communicator—cheap tech smuggled in from an old mining town. Outlaws didn’t trust satellites, but he and Woo had their ways.

“You still on her trail?” Wooyoung’s voice crackled through the speaker.

San sighed. “Yeah. She’s hiding good.”

“No shit. You let her run, remember?” San scowled at his best friend's comment. “She was fast.”

“She was hot,” Woo corrected, laughing.

San didn’t say anything. “Oh my god,” Wooyoung continued, smug as hell. “You do think she’s hot.”

“I said she was fast.”

“You said she was cute first. Then fast.”

There was a pause. San sighed again. “She was cute,” he admitted under his breath, just loud enough for Wooyoung to hear.

“Bro.” Wooyoung practically screamed. “Are you catching feelings for a felon?”

“She’s not just a felon,” San said. “She’s... wanted. Like—seriously wanted.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

San rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue. “I’m just saying... she’s interesting. I usually don’t remember faces. I can’t stop remembering hers.”

Woo whistled. “You gonna kill her?”

“...I don’t know yet.”

San hung up before Woo could answer. And then he heard it.

Voices—angry. Shouts. The sharp echo of a gunshot.

He clicked his tongue and pulled the reins, guiding his horse toward the source. A moment later, he spotted movement ahead.

A fight. No—a brawl.

Three figures. You, some guy beside you—firing back-to-back—and a third, dressed in outlaw hunter gear. The third was large, bleeding from the shoulder, but still charging.

You.

San’s stomach flipped. His hand went to the revolver at his side.

You had a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. Your lip was bleeding, dirt on your skin, your shirt torn at the shoulder. You looked fucking feral—cornered, animal-like, panting as you turned and stabbed the hunter in the side. He grunted and backhanded you hard enough to knock you against the rocks.

San didn’t think.

He jumped off the horse mid-gallop, landing hard and rolling once before rising with his gun already drawn.

Haechan noticed him first.

San caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes before the kid bolted, disappearing behind a cluster of crumbling mining shacks.

You—bloodied, dazed—shoved yourself up from the ground and screamed after him, “You fucking coward!”

And then you turned—and froze.

San stood there, silhouetted in moonlight, revolver drawn and pointed—not at you, but at the hunter who had just recovered and was turning back around.

The man squinted at San. “This ain’t your business, bounty—”

Bang.

San shot him in the thigh. Then again, in the shoulder. The man dropped, screaming.

You stood in stunned silence, barely able to breathe. Your ears were ringing, your head pounding. Blood dripped from your chin. You watched San approach you slowly, holstering his gun like nothing had happened.

You stumbled backward. “What the hell—”

He grabbed you by the wrist before you could bolt.

“Nope. Learned that trick last time.”

With a swift motion, he yanked a pair of worn steel cuffs from his belt and clink—latched one around your wrist. The other he clipped to a leather strap on his horse’s saddle nearby.

“What the fuck, San?!” you spat, struggling.

“You ran once. Not again.” His voice was low, sharp, like a blade gliding against skin.

You tried to pull away, but the chain only rattled. “You just killed him!”

“He was gonna kill you.”

“I had it under control—!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. pissed.

“Your face says otherwise,” San growled, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him.

His thumb brushed your split lip, slow, deliberate.

You winced—but didn’t pull away.

The tension between you thickened instantly, charged and volatile. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was firm. Commanding. The way he looked at you wasn’t like a hunter and prey—it was something darker. Needier.

“You alright?” he asked, quieter now. He was a little guilty from snarling at you.

You stared at him, stunned. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.” His eyes flicked down to your mouth. “Just don’t want damaged goods.”

“Wow. Charming.”

He smirked and released your chin. He turned toward the hunter, who was now crawling away, blood trailing behind him. San didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his second pistol and walked right up behind the man.

“Please—” the hunter gasped.

Bang.

You flinched. The sound echoed through the hills, and then silence.

San returned to you calmly, like he’d just taken out the trash. You sat in stunned silence, chained to his fucking horse, blood on your lip, your stomach twisted.

He kneeled in front of you again, this time slower, his movements careful.

“Next time,” he murmured, “don’t get caught in the dark.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were outnumbered.”

“I had Haechan—”

“Your boyfriend, who ran?” San snorted. “Yeah. Real dependable.”

You look disgusted. Haechan was most definitely not your boyfriend. He would never be. “Ew! He's my best friend!” You snapped back at him. He looked a little surprised but was kind of happy. Maybe he had a chance..

“My bad, Y/N…”

You glared at him, cheeks flushed with rage. How dare he even use your name? “You think you’re so much better than everyone else because you’ve got guns and a goddamn horse?”

He leaned in close. “No. I think I’m better because I don’t leave people behind.”

You stopped talking. The words hit something raw in you. Something unspoken. Maybe something you’d tried not to feel for years.

San rose, tugging gently on the chain that led to your wrist. “Let’s go.”

You scowled. “What, now?”

“Unless you’d rather sleep next to a corpse.”

You rolled your eyes but stood, dragging your feet. He helped you onto his horse roughly, but not painfully. One hand on your hip, another guiding your thigh up. You yelped when the saddle caught your bruised leg, and he smirked.

“Sensitive, huh?”

“Go to hell.”

“You first, sweetheart.”

He climbed up behind you, his chest pressed to your back, one hand firmly holding the reins, the other lightly resting on your waist.

“You don’t need to hold me like that,” you muttered.

“Don’t flatter yourself. Just don’t want you falling.”

And with that, he clicked the horse into motion.

The ride was brutal at first—every gallop jostled your aching body. You bit your lip to avoid making a sound, even as you bounced against him, your back slamming into his chest.

When he sped up suddenly, you let out a sharp gasp.

“Easy,” he chuckled. “Didn’t take you for the jumpy type.”

“I’m bleeding, you dick.”

“You’re alive,” he replied smoothly.

The wind picked up, cold and sharp, stinging the open cut on your lip. You winced, and he must’ve felt it.

“You sure you okay?” he asked.

“Why are you being nice?”

“I’m not.”

“Right. Just a bounty to you, huh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, softer than before: “Not just.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glimpse him over your shoulder. His face was unreadable in the moonlight, but there was something in his eyes—something unsettling. Like, even he wasn’t sure what he meant.

You faced forward again, heartbeat thumping loudly in your ears The rest of the ride was silent. But you could feel him—every breath, every muscle shift, every time his gloved fingers brushed your waist or gripped the reins just a little tighter when you leaned back too far.

And worst of all?

You didn’t hate it.

The ride to San’s hideout was long, but the tension made it feel shorter.

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t talk. And San didn’t offer explanations.

The horse slowed just before dawn, stopping at a secluded ranch tucked behind a dead patch of forest. Weather-worn fencing framed the property, and the barn looked half-collapsed. But the house—it was quiet, sturdy, and unsettlingly normal. Too normal for a man who just shot someone in the skull two hours ago.

San dismounted first, then helped you down—not with kindness, but with control.

His fingers didn’t linger, but his eyes did.

He pulled the chain on your cuff taut and led you up the porch. The door creaked as it opened, revealing a dim interior filled with dust, warm light, and weapons. Guns lined the walls in neat rows. A single table sat under a bare bulb, with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

No Wooyoung.

You noticed.

San locked the door behind you. “He’s gone,” he muttered. “Bar hopping. Or fucking someone. Or both.”

You didn’t say anything, but you did blush a little.. Fuck– you blushed a lot.

You just kept scanning the space, taking note of the exits. Of the heavy boots by the door. Of the butcher knife, half-cleaned in the sink.

San watched your eyes track everything. “Smart girl,” he said. “But don’t bother. You run, I’ll just find you again.”

You glared. “You cuffed me to a horse.”

He smirked. “You looked cute like that.”

You scowled, but before you could respond, he grabbed your arm and dragged you further inside, pushing you down into a wooden chair near the table. He crouched in front of you, eyes locked on yours, fingers gripping your chin again.

“Let’s try this again.”

You didn’t resist—but you didn’t look at him, either.

“I wanna know who you were working with. Names. Routes. Safehouses.”

You scoffed. “Like I’d give you shit.”

He tilted his head. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

He grinned slowly. “You’re not leaving here unless I say so.”

You bristled. But something in your stomach flipped again—something sharp and dangerous and unwanted. He’s insane, you thought. But then he said—

“You thirsty?”

You blinked.

“What?”

San stood and reached for a nearby jug of water. He poured some into a clean glass and set it down in front of you.

You stared at it, confused.

“What the fuck? You were just being an ass.”

He chuckled. “I was always being an ass. Doesn’t mean I won’t give you water.”

You didn’t trust it, but you were parched. You grabbed it and drank. The metal of your cuffs clicked as you shifted. San sat down across from you, one ankle propped over his knee. He watched you sip, then spoke casually.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I should kill you. Would make my job easier.”

You tensed.

“But…” He leaned forward, eyes dragging over your body. “There’s another option.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What. A deal?”

He smiled darkly. “No. A punishment.”

Your heart jumped. “The fuck is that supposed to mean—”

His voice dropped low, sultry and razor-sharp. “Punishment like fucking that sweet pussy of yours until you forget your name.”

Heat exploded in your face. “You’re insane.”

“You’re wet.”

“Fuck you—”

“Exactly.”

He stood and crossed the room. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Your body was frozen—but not from fear. From want.

He returned with a small key and crouched beside you again. “I’ll unlock the cuffs. But if you run, I’ll catch you. And next time, I won’t be gentle.”

He unlocked the chain.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t want to.

He stood again and offered his hand. “Your choice,” he said, voice low and rough. “Out that door… or to my bed.”

You stared at him, then glanced at the door. You didn’t move. “Thought so.”

He took your wrist, pulled you up, and led you down a hallway. His room was worse than you expected. Dark wood walls. An unmade bed. Guns everywhere. Antlers mounted above the headboard. Shelves lined with bullets, whiskey bottles, and half-ripped wanted posters.

You paused—because three of those posters were yours. One was pinned near the bed. And it was stained.You didn’t ask what the white smear was.

San noticed you looking.

He smirked, leaned in behind you, and whispered, “Got real familiar with you before I met you.”

You swallowed hard.

His hand slid around your waist. The other gripped your shoulder.

He bent you over the edge of the bed, body flush to yours, breath hot on your ear.

“No more talking.”

Then the rip.

He grabbed the back of your shirt and tore it straight down the spine, fabric splitting like paper. Your bra snapped loose seconds later. You gasped, but his palm was already on your back, keeping you bent.

He dropped to his knees behind you, fingers roughly yanking your pants down to your thighs. He didn’t prep. Didn’t pause. You felt him move behind you, heard the telltale crack of a condom being torn open.

Then—

One hard thrust.

You screamed—half in shock, half in need.

“Shhh.. i’ve got you..” he growled, voice hot at your shoulder. “You can take it.”

“F- fuck!” You moaned as he slammed into you again, then again, his hips snapping rough against yours, one hand buried in your hair, the other gripping your hip like he owned you. You couldnt lie, you loved it. Him treating you like this.

“Fuckin’ tight little outlaw cunt,” he grunted. “You needed this, didn’t you?”

You moaned through gritted teeth, body on fire, legs trembling. “S–sannie..”

“You like being bent over like a prize?” he snarled. “Like a bounty?”

You didn’t answer—so he spanked you. Hard. You cried out, biting the sheets.

“Answer me, baby..”

“Yes,” you hissed. “Yes—fuck—yes.”

He fucked you harder.

No mercy. No pause.

He filled you like he was trying to ruin you from the inside out, rough and fast and filthy. He whispered the nastiest shit in your ear—how good your pussy felt, how pretty you sounded begging, how much he was going to fuck you until you couldn’t walk.

Your voice cracked as you tried to breathe his name, hips trembling under the weight of his body.

“S–Sannie…”

It came out broken, high and desperate. You weren’t even sure if you were begging him to stop or begging for more. The sound of it made him still for just a second — just long enough for him to lower his chest against your back, wrapping one strong arm around your waist to hold you close.

His breath was warm at your ear, the edge in his voice softening.

“There she is…” he murmured, lips grazing your temple. “My sweet girl.”

You whimpered again, tears clinging to your lashes. “I–I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” he said, quieter now, but no less intense. “You’re takin’ me so well. So perfect… you were made for this. Made for me.”

His thrusts slowed — deep and steady now — more like he was savoring you, not just claiming you. His fingers tangled with yours over the sheets, his other hand rubbing soothing circles over your ribs as you tried to catch your breath.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “All messed up for me. Cryin’ for me.”

You nodded shakily, voice trembling, “S–Sannie… it’s too much.. G–gonna cum.”

He kissed your shoulder, moving gently now — hips rolling slow and thick inside you, coaxing every gasp and moan from your throat.

“I know, baby,” he said. “But I’ve got you. You don’t gotta run anymore. You’re safe now… right here with me.”

And with the way his arms wrapped around you, the way his voice dipped into something raw and real, you almost believed him.

Your legs almost gave out—but he held you up, cock driving into you over and over until you were trembling, moaning his name in broken gasps.

When your body clenched and you came hard around him, he cursed, pulled out, and flipped you over.

“On my lap.”

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you into his lap, straddling him as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He was already hard again. Already rolling another condom on.

You whimpered.

He grabbed your hips and slammed you down onto him.

You gasped—eyes wide, back arching.

He leaned forward, grabbed his cowboy hat, and placed it on your head.

“There,” he smirked. “Now you look real pretty.”

You couldn’t speak.

You just rode him—driven by some fever you couldn’t explain, some need that had been burning for days. He held your waist and fucked up into you, your bodies slamming together, the hat slipping down your forehead.

He groaned every time you clenched, every time you whispered his name, every time you lost rhythm and whimpered into his neck.

“Naughty fuckin’ little outlaw,” he breathed. “Could’ve been mine this whole time.”

“You’re insane,” you whispered.

“And you’re soaked.”

You shuddered.

He let you ride him until your thighs burned and your legs collapsed. Your forehead stayed pressed to his as your hips moved faster, his hands gripping you tighter like he was trying to anchor both of you. San's breath was ragged, warm puffs against your mouth as he looked at you — not just your body, but you.

“I’m close,” you whispered, voice barely holding together, “Sannie, I—”

His hands slid up your back, one curling into your hair, tugging gently to tilt your face to his. “I know, baby. Just let go. I’ve got you.”

Your fingers dug into his chest as you ground down on him harder, chasing that high that sat right on the edge of every nerve in your body. His mouth brushed yours — not quite a kiss, just breath and warmth and the tremble of restraint in him.

“That’s it,” he whispered again, voice thick. “Ride it out for me. Take everything I give you.”

You cried out his name — sharp and breathless — as your body finally broke, pleasure rolling through you like a wave that knocked the air from your lungs. You clung to him, gasping, the world spinning around you as your muscles tensed and fluttered with each pulse of release.

San groaned deep in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as he bucked up into you once, twice, chasing his own edge. “You’re perfect,” he choked out. “So fucking perfect.”

Then he pulled you fully against his chest, burying his face in your neck as he followed you over the edge — body shuddering, breath caught between a curse and your name.

Then he laid you down.

The bed creaked as he hovered over you, finally slow, finally controlled.

He kissed your neck once—just once.

Then he slid into you again, slow and deep.

You gasped, already sensitive.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Let me feel you.”

This time, he didn’t pound you.

He rolled his hips with care, like he was learning your body. His hand found yours and pinned it over your head, his other hand gripping your jaw as he looked into your eyes.

“You were always gonna be mine,” he murmured.

Your lips parted.

You believed him.

And when you came again—shaking and breathless—he followed you, burying his face in your neck as his body tensed and trembled against yours.

“I’ve got you, sweetie..” He murmured in your ear.. You held onto his biceps.. Your eyes starting to close…

The bed was cold.

San’s hand dragged across the sheets as his eyes blinked open, muscles sore and head fuzzy from a sleep that felt far too short. The room was quiet—too quiet. No footsteps. No smartass remarks. No soft, sleepy breaths beside him.

He sat up quickly, heart already racing.

You were gone.

The cuffs were off. The door hadn’t slammed. You’d slipped out quietly, like smoke through a crack in the wall.

He cursed under his breath and scanned the room. That’s when he saw it:

A folded note, sitting crooked on the nightstand, weighted down by one of your spent bullets—small, but unmistakably yours.

He stared at it for a moment, jaw tight.

Then picked it up.

The paper smelled faintly like you—leather, dirt, and something sweeter underneath. He unfolded it carefully, like if he opened it too fast you might vanish for good.

Your handwriting spilled across the page, messy but confident.

“Morning, cowboy. Didn’t mean to disappear without a kiss. You were snoring too loud.”

“Don’t get your ego all twisted. Last night wasn’t a surrender—it was a draw. A damn good one, though.”

“I liked the way you touched me like you owned me. Even if I don’t belong to anyone… not really.”

“You’re dangerous. All coiled muscle and rough hands and a mouth that makes it impossible to think straight. Guess that’s why I didn’t shoot you when I had the chance.”

“But I’m not good at staying. Never was. Never tried to be. There’s always a bounty, always someone chasing me, always another dusty town to disappear into.”

“Still… you felt different. Even if I won’t say it out loud.”

“And maybe I’m stupid for leaving. Maybe I’m scared. Maybe both.”

“But if you find me again—really find me—”

“I’ll stay.”

“Because for all my running, I think I’ve been yours since the second you walked into that bar.”

—Yours. Always.”

“p.s .. I love you.”

San didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The note trembled slightly in his hand as he sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, marked up with scratches and bites you’d left behind. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes locked on the paper like it might say more if he just stared long enough.

She’s gone, he thought.

But she’s not lost.

He folded the note gently and tucked it inside his coat—right next to his heart. Then he grabbed his belt, holstered his revolver, and headed for the door.

There was only one thought in his mind now.

He wasn’t mad. Not even close.

Because now?

He had a reason to hunt you again...

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fadedtoneverland · 2 months ago

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gamer boyfriend | j.yh

synopsis: yunho’s on an overwatch game with his best friends. despite wanting to get some good rounds in, his sexy girlfriend just had to come ruin his winning streak in the sexiest way possible

pairing: gamer boyfriend!yunho x fem!reader (ft. gamer!woosan)

theme: smut ❣︎

a/n: originally was gonna be a timestamp fic… but i made it too long 💔 enjoyyy~

cw: smut, cockwarming, hickeys and marking, unprotected sex (wrap it up!!), cumming inside, praise, slight exhibitionism, manhandling near the end

cockwarming gamer!yunho while he’s in a game with his friends…

your boyfriend just wanted to hang with his homies. get in a couple of good rounds on overwatch, and slowly climb up the ranks.

yunho’s fingers tapped furiously across his special LED keyboard, subtly glowing a rainbow hue underneath the keypads. his tongue stuck out in concentration, trying to deal with the enemy team ambushing their payload.

“this fuckin’ reaper is flanking me,” yunho murmured, his voice sounding almost too strained. “woo! i need some help here!”

“at your service, pookie~!” wooyoung chimed in cheerily, currently playing as mercy and diving in to save yunho’s doomfist.

“please never say pookie again, wooyoung.” san piped in the voice call, taking out some enemies from afar as hanzo.

the game was tense and high stakes, at least in the world of gamers. yunho narrowed all of the energy and hand-eye coordination skill he could trying to complete the task, determined to keep his and his friend’s clean win streak so far.

and yunho was pretty determined to complete this, almost… too determined.

and when he gets too determined on something, you just have to come ruin his peace.

“damn, yuyu. you must be locked in! you’re barely sayin’ anything.” wooyoung laughed while juking some of the enemy team players.

yunho strained a smile, acting like wooyoung could see it despite being on voice call. “yeah- that’s exactly it.”

he was mustering up every ounce of self-control to keep his voice from straining, considering the fact that his incredibly hot girlfriend was currently cockwarming him. straddling his lap and buried her face into the crook of his neck.

you chuckled naughtily when you faintly heard wooyoung’s comment from yunho’s headset, nuzzling even further into yunho’s neck.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered into his creamy skin, nipping at his neck and leaving blossoming marks. “just gotta make sure they don’t notice. make sure you win this game, yeah?”

yunho’s right hand practically clawed at his mouse, the other tapping the WASD keys furiously as he steeled his nerves to make sure he didn’t fucking lose it right then and there. you always that this way of swaying him even when he’s most composed, like a damn siren. he is but a weak man, and only for you.

and yunho could barely keep himself straight, not when your sweet pussy was clenching around his thick shaft so good that fireworks exploded behind his eyelids. your juices dripped down his balls, and he could feel every fucking second of it, barely resisting the urge to just fuck up into you.

too distracted, yunho took some damage from an ambushing genji, and barely recovered in time. san noticed too, and quirked an eyebrow from the other side.

“ayo get your head in the game, yuyu! you were so locked in earlier. we’re so close to finishing this thing!” san reminded, speeding up ahead to clear up the pathway for the payload.

“yeah, yunho.” you sighed quietly, the sound way too filthy against the shell of his ear.

“get your head in the game.”

yunho grit his teeth even harder, starting to get irritated that your cunt was costing him the game.

“i know,” yunho groaned into the mic. “just— more jittery than usual- i guess.. agh—“

“you good, man?” wooyoung chirped through the speaker. “you sound out of breath… are you sick or something?”

shit. they were onto him now. god, why couldn’t they play animal crossing. yunho felt like his entire dignity was on the line, and it pretty much was at the moment.

you clenched harder around him as he almost replied to wooyoung, and he barely got his voice straight. “shit— i’m fine… just- just really into this round right now.”

“mhm, sure man.” san sarcastically commented, but quickly focused back on his task.

this game was going well so far for yunho, even with his dick getting wet for the past ten minutes or so. but even when he managed to get his body under control, there was nothing he could do about that dirty mouth of yours.

“almost got caught, baby.. so naughty,” you sang softly into his ear, giggling like a damn minx. “it’s like you almost want them to figure out what’s happening, huh? you’d be into that, wouldn’t you?”

“shut the fuck up—“ yunho hissed to you, choking on a quiet moan when you ground down harder onto him in response, a sound the mic definitely picked up.

you could practically hear wooyoung raise an eyebrow at the sound, visualizing his flabbergasted face. “yunho, what the fuck was that?”

“nothing. sore throat.” yunho hashed out firmly, definitely getting distracted and not focusing on the payload that was getting mobbed. san and wooyoung were too locked in to further question it, but now we’re both very suspicious.

you giggled softly into his throat, rocking your hips harder and feeling the tip of his bulbous head nudging against your sweet spot continuously. clit grinding against his pelvis, and your increased ragged breathing, had yunho silently going feral.

“fuck, baby. so hard… so good..” you whined silently against his fair skin, biting softly. yunho ground his teeth together so hard he felt they were gonna shatter.

“are you gonna cum inside me, yuyu?”

“no— fuck no- i’m.. agh- i’m busy—“

too late. you rutted yourself harder and quicker onto him. the force has his chair squeaking, and yunho couldn’t take it anymore.

his hands left the keyboard and flew to your hips, which cost him the game, but he wasn’t thinking about that. with one hard, slick thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you and came hard. thick ropes of hot cum painting your insides white, and you shuddered at the feeling of his load filling you up.

yunho groaned loudly and slumped against the chair, pulling you down to caress your body. meanwhile, san and wooyoung were too busy raging about losing the game to even notice their friend just had the best nut in weeks.

“DUDE! we almost had it! what happened?!” san yelled through the mic, his staticky voice snapping yunho out of his post-orgasmic bliss.

yunho sat up, and brought the headset mic closed to his lips, voice now darkened. “i have to go.”

“what—!”

click. yunho muted himself.

with that, yunho visited you up in his arms, clawed his head set off, and threw you down onto his bed. a shocked gasp left your lips as you bounced on his mattress, and he quickly climbed on top of you.

the look in his eyes was downright filthy. he bit his lip and firmly grabbed your chin, making you look at him.

“you better strap in, cause i’m not gonna stop fucking you ‘till you soak my damn sheets.”

you gulped, a flicker of excitement in your eyes, finally getting what you’ve been craving.

“yes, sir.”

▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆▆

#ateez #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #kpop fanfic #kpop bg #ateez x reader #jeong yunho #yunho smut #yunho x reader #atz smut #jeong yunho smut #kpop smut #ateez fluff #ateez hard hours

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yundeob · 1 year ago

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A NIGHT IN HOLLYWOOD ☆ | ATEEZ SERIES

— featuring ot8!ateez in iconic HOLLYWOOD romance and rom-com movies

— TICKET BOOTH IS CLOSED! 🎟️ : the movies are about to start! all fics will have MATURE CONTENT! MDNI!

sit back, relax, grab your popcorn and tissues, and enjoy the silver screen . . .

THE PARENT TRAP ☆ | KHJ

TROPE: exes to lovers! divorced!au

TAGS: nsfw, smut, fluff, angst, crack, slice of life

AS DIVORCED PARENTS to two twin daughters, you and hongjoong have your fair share of work cut out. Driving to piano lessons, cheering at hockey games, drop offs at each other’s houses, it can all be a little much. But could a relaxing summer retreat as a whole family possibly rekindle past emotions you’ve swept under the rug? . . .

— IN THEATRES

DIRTY DANCING ☆ | PSH

TROPE: bad boy!seonghwa, enemies to lovers!au , 60s!au

TAGS: nsfw, smut, angst, crack

THAT WAS THE SUMMER before JFK got shot, before the beatles came, and when you were working part time at your aunts summer resort. That was also the summer you met resident heart breaker and cocky entertainment crew member, Park Seonghwa. Remind yourself why you’re suddenly dance partners with him again? . . .

— IN THEATRES

PRETTY WOMAN ☆ | JYH

TROPE: dilf!yunho x formerstripper!reader, strangers to lovers!au, contract lovers!au,

TAGS: nsfw, smut, fluff, angst

LIVING IN BEVERLY HILLS comes with its perks. But for two different people such as yourself and multimillionaire business tycoon, Jeong Yunho, both of you can’t seem to find what you’re looking for in the so called ‘Land of Dreams’. So the proposal is simple really… let him spoil you with money, jewelry and clothes while in return, you stay by his side. . .

— not yet in theatres . . .

MR AND MRS KANG ☆ | KYS

TROPE: marriage!au, established relationship, spy!au, assasin!au

TAGS: nsfw, smut, fluff, ANGST, crack

WHO WOULD’VE THOUGHT picture perfect suburban neighbourhood couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kang would be at each others necks trying to kill each other first. You’ve both come this far in your marriage while hiding your secret identities, but it looks like only one person can remain standing. I guess you both did promise “in sickness and in health”. . .

— not yet in theatres . . .

ROMAN HOLIDAY ☆ | CS

TROPE: royalty!au, princess!reader x reporter!san, strangers to lovers!

TAGS: nsfw, smut, fluff, angst

AS CROWN PRINCESS, you’re on a tightly scheduled tour of European capital cities. But after an especially rough day in Rome, you sneak out of the embassy to explore the so called Eternal City, running into no other than celebrity news reporter, Choi San, looking out for his next big royal scandal. . .

— not yet in theatres . . .

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU ☆ | SMG

TROPE: college!au, stoner!mingi, enemies to lovers!au, fakedating(?)au, y2k aesthetic

TAGS: nsfw, smut, fluff, angst, crack, slice of life

YOUR YOUNGER BROTHER Wooyoung is desperate in getting you, his older sister in college, to date so that he can finally date in highschool. The options for potential candidates are scarce, considering men flock away like birds the second you’re near. Good thing campus stoner and weirdo, Song Mingi is the same as well. . .

— not yet in theatres . . .

HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS ☆ | JWY

TROPE: fashioncolumnist!reader x advertiser!wooyoung, y2k aesthetic, fake dating(?)au, enemies to lovers!au, mutual pining

TAGS: nsfw, smut, fluff, angst, crack, slice of life

LISTEN, IF IT MEANS getting a promotion at your editorial company as a news journalist instead of pop culture and lifestyle columnist, you’d do anything. And that includes pretending to be the most annoying and clingiest girlfriend to some guy for 10 whole days. But just so you know, Wooyoung likes clingy. . .

— not yet in theatres . . .

ROMEO & JULIET ☆ | CJH

TROPE: unrequited love, star crossed lovers!au, mutual pining, secret romance (shakespeare be rolling in his grave rn)

TAGS: nsfw, smut, fluff, ANGST

FOR CENTURIES, a plague of hatred and hostility has been present in the relations between the House of Choi and your own. You know you can’t be together, but yet why do you keep catching that dark haired boy staring at you so longingly? And why do you want him just as bad?. . .

— not yet in theatres . . .

a/n: for updates, follow my blog! this will be a work-in-progress so I ask for your support:(🙏

taglist: @vent-stink @dazzlingstarrs @vcutparis @xpixie @potatos-on-clouds @showingmafandomlove @bibbleypoof @kpop-will-kill-me @avantalem @beabatiny @gabrielle-brugger @nsixns @amaranth1ne @stayminho @myblovedjyh @kkeshia @rebekah-reads @yoonbroom @4kwp @butterflydemons @iwaizumiismybae @soobinsputnik @stayatinykatsy @atitties @justconniez @kitten4sannie @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @cheolsthicthighs @morethingsfandom @geminiml95 @byuntrash101 @quailbagutte @syubseokie @newworldwritings @urmom26john @sleepy-kat-here @pearltinyy @hjshyhyssnmgwyjh @cursedeastern @starryunho @piratekingateez2001 @jiminbility @paumll @drinkingrumandcocacola @roomsofangel @channies-bbg-room @meanaonthemoon @teeztopia @pommelex @kiln9z @sanhwalvr @youresolivlie @edawg77 @a-0206 @summer-gyu @bvidzsoo @yoongzsmile28 @tournesol155

taglist became too long so find the second taglist here💀 no longer taking requests

11/1/25 update: i apologize for how slow this is taking😭 yes, i still am 100% fully committed to finishing this series! I ask for your patience and understanding🫶🏼

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wooyoungiewritings · 2 months ago

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A Spoonful of Trouble - Wooyoung x Reader

Summary: Three years of living with your best friend Wooyoung, and it’s all been chill… until a run-in with your old coworker, who’s dating your ex, forces you to lie. You tell her you’re in a relationship with Wooyoung, and now you both have to fake a relationship at a couples’ dinner. Wooyoung’s plan? Make your ex jealous. What starts as a harmless game soon sparks something you didn’t see coming.

Word count: 17.4K

Genre: Best-friend/Roomie Wooyoung, fake dating, comedy (it’s wooyoung, ofc its fun), friends-to-lovers, oneshot, smut

Warnings: Jealous undertones, Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), dom Wooyoung, he’s a tease, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking and hair pulling, ass slaps and pussy slaps (lmao sorry) dirtytalk, unprotected sex, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I was requested a Wooyoung fanfic (preferably friends to lovers) and your wish is my command. Also, I haven't read this through, so I excuse if there are any mistakes!

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Wooyoung in any way.

You didn’t know Wooyoung before you moved in with him.

It wasn’t some childhood-friends-to-roommates situation. It was a Facebook listing, a desperate rent situation, and a quick video call where he grinned and said, “I’m clean, I cook, and I only walk around shirtless on laundry days, deal?”

Your boyfriend had just cheated on you and you were too broke to be picky.

You moved in two weeks later.

That was three years ago.

When you first moved in, things were simple. Polite nods in the hallway, careful division of chores, messages like “Can I use your oat milk?” and “Trash day’s Thursday.” You were strangers learning how to coexist. He was respectful, charming, funny in a careful kind of way.

But that changed. Slowly. Naturally.

There was the night he knocked on your door with two bowls of ramen after hearing you cry through the wall. The time he fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie, and you let him stay there. The mornings where he started making two cups of coffee without asking, and the way he never forgot which mug was your favorite.

Little things, at first. But they stacked up.

Now he knows your coffee order and your worst ex’s name. He doesn’t knock anymore when your door is open. And you don’t bother pretending to be annoyed when he drapes himself across the couch you’re already sitting on, like there’s not an entire empty seat next to you. You know his favorite hoodie and the playlist he only listens to when he’s feeling off.

You don’t even remember when it happened. When “roommate” became “friend,” and “friend” slowly became “best friend”.

He’s the first person you turn to when something happens, good or bad. You’ve become so used to him and his playful, flirtatious nature, that it’s just... normal now.

This morning, you wake up to the sound of a pan sizzling.

It’s not unusual. Wooyoung does most of the cooking in the apartment, partly because he’s better at it, mostly because he refuses to eat anything bland. You’ve learned not to interfere when he’s in his element, your only job is to show up and eat.

Still, it’s early, and he’s making a bit too much noise for someone who claims to love you “platonically.”

You shuffle out of your room, hair a mess, socks mismatched. The kitchen smells like garlic and eggs, and you see him standing at the stove, completely in his zone. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, spatula in hand, flipping something with a finesse that makes it obvious he knows he looks good doing it.

“You’re showing off,” you mutter, leaning against the doorframe.

He doesn’t look away from the pan. “You’re welcome.”

You make a beeline for your favorite mug, the one he always pretends to hate but still washes carefully every time you leave it in the sink.

“I figured you’d sleep in,” he says. “You stayed up late.”

“Yea, because someone wasn’t leaving my room.” you send him a glare.

“I like hanging out with you! and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the story about the geek and the popular girl from my old highschool. That story is cute as hell.” he points the spatula with you like it’s a weapon.

You smirk behind the mug. “Okay, that one was kinda good.”

He grins, plating scrambled eggs and what looks like roasted vegetables. He slides the plate toward your usual spot at the counter like he’s done it a hundred times, because he has.

“How was your date?” you ask, poking your fork into a roasted tomato.

Wooyoung groans. “Disaster.”

“That bad?”

“She asked if I was in love with her halfway through the appetizer.”

“Bold of her,” you say, chewing.

“And when I said no, she looked at me like I kicked her in the face. Then she told me I ‘give off commitment issues.’”

You grin. “You do give off commitment issues.”

He glares playfully. “Okay, rude. I’m extremely loyal.”

“To me.”

“Exactly. My loyalty quota is full. Sorry to the rest of the world.” he shoots you a wink, nothing dramatic, just one of those natural, easy gestures he does without thinking. You don’t blush. Not anymore.

You're used to it. In the beginning, back when you were still adjusting to living with someone who looks like that, who flirts with the air he breathes, who walks around shirtless and steals fries from your plate and calls you “babe” just to watch your reaction, it was different.

But now? Immunity.

Mostly.

It’s easy with him, always has been. Closeness that doesn’t need explanation. No boundaries, because you don’t need them. Not when you’ve seen each other through every version of a day.

He sits beside you at the counter instead of across, thigh brushing yours like it’s second nature.

Because it is.

***

“You know,” you say, pushing the cart down the cereal aisle, “you could just admit you have the taste buds of a hyperactive child.”

Wooyoung gasps, dramatically offended as he holds up a neon box of chocolate puffs. “This is not childish. This is elite. You wouldn’t understand the depth of this flavor profile.”

Grocery shopping with Wooyoung is basically a weekly ritual at this point. Not because you can’t go alone, but because he insists on it. Claims you’d forget half the list and come back with snacks and nothing else. Which, to be fair, is kind of true.

You’re halfway through the cereal aisle, walking behind the cart as Wooyoung wanders a few feet ahead, eyes locked on the shelf like he’s making a life-or-death decision between sugary clusters or chocolate swirls.

He’s in his element, mumbling ingredients under his breath, holding one box up to the light like he’s reading ancient scrolls. You smile to yourself, letting him do his thing as you slow down, scanning your phone for the rest of your shared grocery list.

And then, just your luck, you hear it.

“Oh my god, Y/N?”

You look up too slowly.

Hana.

You turn, putting on the most polite expression you can muster as she approaches, all bright eyes and perfect hair and the same aggressive enthusiasm she used to bring to Monday morning staff meetings.

“Hana,” you say, trying to sound surprised instead of resigned. “Wow. Hi.”

“I thought that was you! Oh my god, it’s been what, like, forever? You look so… Anyways, it’s so good to see you!” She eyes you, then glances down into your cart before you can respond. “Frozen dumplings, instant rice, oh my god I love those snacks, they’re so bad but soooo addictive, right? Wait-, this kimchi brand is the worst. You should try the one from Jihyun’s Market across town. It’s organic.”

You blink. “I... like this one.”

“Sure, sure. I mean, I just think it’s better to be picky with fermented stuff, you know? Especially when you’re eating it alone.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t wait.

“Gosh, how are you? I remember how you were always the chill one at work. So responsible. So put together. Like, you were always the single one! We called you "The Independent Icon" behind your back. Not in a mean way!”

You hadn’t planned on staying single forever. But a few years ago, your boyfriend cheated on you while he was on vacation, called you from the airport like it was no big deal. After that, you decided you were done. No dating for a while, no more risks. It was easier to be alone than to be blindsided again. Eventually, people stopped asking. Then they started assuming.

Your stomach twists. You glance down the aisle. Wooyoung is still several feet away, crouched in front of a lower shelf now, examining cereal boxes like he’s an art critic. Totally out of earshot.

“Oh, I didn’t know people talked about that,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Hana waves a hand. “Only in admiration, really. I mean, you’ve never brought a guy to any of our dinners. I think Minji even thought you were secretly dating a girl for a while, totally cool if you are! No judgment! But I told her, no way. Y/N is just focused. Did I tell you I got married, by the way? I don’t think you ever met my husband. We got married last year, tiny ceremony, super last minute. Here-, he’s gonna kill me for showing this, but look how ridiculous he looks in this suit.”

She pulls out her phone, swipes once, then holds it up to you.

You freeze.

You know that face.

The sharp jawline. The dimple on his left cheek. The same stupid smile he had when he came back from that trip and told you, casually, like it was weather, that he’d slept with someone else. “It didn’t mean anything,” he said, “we were just having a rough patch, right?”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s him,” Hana says proudly. “Total goofball, but he’s the best. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d find someone like him. But don’t worry, you’ll find someone too some day!”

Hana is still talking but her words blur.

You could say nothing. You could just smile, nod, and escape with your overpriced kimchi and frozen dumplings. But you nod slowly, eyes darting to the end of the aisle again. Suddenly, you hear yourself say, voice too quick and too loud:

“Actually, I’m dating someone.”

Hana’s brows lift. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.” You point down the aisle.

She turns.

Wooyoung, still crouched, is now reading the back of a cereal box, completely oblivious to your social spiral.

“Oh?” Hana’s eyes are practically sparkling now, thrilled by this newfound information. “Look at you! I know you had it in you!” she says, nudging your arm. “You have to bring him to dinner. We’re doing a little couples night this Friday. Just a few of us from work, old and new. Minji’s coming, and Jihyun, and my husband’s inviting one of his coworkers and their girlfriend. You two should come!”

You hesitate, already internally spiraling. “Oh, I don’t know-”

“Come on! It’ll be fun. I need someone there who doesn’t talk about babies every ten seconds. Please.”

She’s already taking your nod as confirmation before you’ve fully given it. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details, I still have your number. You better show up.”

Just as she’s about to walk away, Wooyoung returns, holding two cereal boxes and strolling up casually.

Hana’s face lights up again. “See you soon!” she says brightly to him, giving you both a final little wave before disappearing around the corner.

Wooyoung blinks after her, then looks at you, eyebrows raised. “...Why do I feel like I just missed something deeply important?”

You stare at him, trying to decide where to begin.

He holds up the cereal boxes, undeterred. “Okay. Fruity Loops or Cinnamon Sugar Swirls. One has slightly fewer chemicals. I won’t say which.”

You inhale slowly, exhale even slower. “So, remember when you left me alone for two minutes?”

“Tragically, yes.”

“Well… in those two minutes, I may have… sort of… told someone we’re dating.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Wooyoung blinks. “You what?”

You gesture weakly down the aisle. “That was Hana. Old coworker. She’s always been weirdly obsessed with the fact that I’m single. She was doing her usual thing, and I panicked, and I pointed at you, and now she thinks we’re together, and- surprise! We’re going to a couples dinner on Friday.”

Wooyoung looks at you. Then at the cereal. Then back at you.

And then he grins.

Like really grins.

“Oh my God,” he says, eyes wide with delight. “This is amazing.”

“Wooyoung.”

“We’re fake dating? We’re doing the thing? Like the romcoms?”

You press a hand to your face. “It gets worse.”

His grin somehow grows. “I’m listening.”

“She’s married to my ex.”

Wooyoung blinks. “The ex?”

You nod. “She showed me a wedding photo. It’s him. The one who cheated on me while he was on vacation. The reason I swore off dating for like, three years.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops, then slowly morphs into something almost unhinged with glee.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “This is so much better than I thought.”

“Why are you happy?”

“Because,” he says, absolutely glowing, “I get to sit across from the guy who cheated on my best friend and pretend to be the hot, attentive boyfriend who’s so in love with her he’d die for her. I’m going to be so annoying. I’m going to feed you food.”

“Wooyoung.”

“I’m going to wipe sauce off your mouth. I’m going to put my arm around your chair. I’m going to call you baby in front of him.”

You groan. “This is going to kill me.”

“This is going to heal you,” he says. “You know what, this counts for both of the cereals. Sweet childhood nostalgia and the one that turns milk radioactive pink.” He throws the cereals into the cart with dramatic flair. “This is the best grocery trip of my life.”

***

Friday morning

He’s already in the kitchen when you shuffle in, still half-asleep, arms wrapped around yourself. The smell of eggs and butter greets you first.

“Good morning, my beautiful fake girlfriend!” he beams.

You groan. “Please don’t start.”

“Too late,” he sings, doing a dramatic spin with the spatula. “Do you want toast with your lies or just plain guilt?”

You drop your head onto the counter with a sigh. “I’m not built for this level of energy before caffeine.”

He slides a mug your way, your mug, with your preferred coffee, made just right. “I knew you’d be a flight risk this morning.”

You mutter a thank-you and take a long sip. It helps. But not enough.

“I think I’m panicking,” you say into the mug.

He sets your breakfast in front of you and leans on the counter across from where you sit. “Hey. We’ve got this. All we have to do is show up, eat some overpriced cheese cubes, pretend we’re madly in love, make your ex suffer for being the biggest asshole known to man, and leave. Easy.”

“Madly in love,” you echo flatly.

“Yes, madly.” His smile grows. “Madly, stupidly in love. To the point where your ex is going to regret every single life choice he made after cheating on you. And enough to make Hana go, ‘oh wow, they’re so cute, maybe I am a terrible friend for shaming her for being single for the entire time I’ve known her.’”

You blink. “You really hate him, don’t you?”

“I’ve never even met him and I already hope he has the biggest receding hairline I’ve ever seen.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“And besides,” he adds, stealing a bite of your toast, “we got chemistry.”

You make a face.

“We do, though. We’re best friends. We’re comfortable. We finish each other’s-”

“Don’t.”

“-sentences.”

You hurl a piece of toast crust at him. He dodges it with a smirk.

But he’s right. You are comfortable. You already know what shirt he’s going to wear tonight and that he’s going to pretend he didn’t plan it. You know he’s going to be charming and make everyone laugh and completely forget he’s pretending.

And that’s the part that begins to make your stomach twist.

The day goes faster than you anticipated, and before you know it, you’re both getting ready for the dinner.

You’re halfway through checking your bag for the fourth time when he walks out of his room, and everything in you stills.

He’s adjusting the sleeves of his black button-down, casually rolling them up past his elbows. He tucks his phone into his back pocket, grabs a bottle of wine off the counter. He’s talking, saying something about the wine in his hands, but you don’t hear a word.

Because damn. He looks good.

His black hair is styled a little messier than usual, in that perfectly undone way that probably took way too much effort. He’s tucked his shirt into dark slacks that fit just right, and he’s wearing that silver chain he only brings out for “important” nights.

Like fake dates, apparently.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. He looks like this is just how he always looks. Like he doesn’t know that he’s the kind of guy women cross sidewalks for just to sneak a better glance.

And you should be used to that. You live with him. You see him fresh out of bed, half-asleep, shirtless and in the same ratty sweats every Sunday. But this is different.

You recover fast, mutter something closer to sounds than actual words and spin on your heel toward the bathroom.

You need a second. Maybe two.

You close the door behind you and lean against it, willing your heart to calm down. It's just Wooyoung. Your best friend. Your roommate. Your fake boyfriend for the night. Nothing to get flustered over.

You run a hand down your dress, fix your lipstick, try not to think about how the curve of his smile made your stomach flutter.

Then, without a sound, the door cracks open.

He leans casually against the doorframe, watching you through the reflection. “Hey.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror, and for a second, you forget what you’re doing, because his gaze isn’t neutral.

It drops. Lingers.

Slides down the line of your black dress, the way it hugs your hips, the bare skin of your shoulders. It’s not crude, not obvious, but you can feel it. Like a slow drag of heat over your body.

You blink. “You’re not allowed to just come in here.”

“I knocked.”

You glare.

He lifts his hands, innocent. “You just didn’t hear it. Selective hearing, maybe.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t move. Just stay there, eyes trailing from your hair to your lips to the way you’re fidgeting with your rings.

“What’s up?” you ask, voice soft.

He tilts his head slightly, smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Funny,” he deadpans. Then after a beat, “I was wondering how much of a boyfriend I’m allowed to be tonight.”

Your stomach tightens.

He says it lightly, but there’s something in his voice, something teasing, but slower. More deliberate.

You meet his gaze in the mirror again. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, stepping a little further into the room, “can I hold your hand? Whisper something in your ear if it gets boring? Pull you in when he’s watching?”

You swallow. He’s close now, not too close, but close enough that the air feels warmer.

“Or maybe,” he continues, eyes flicking to your lips just for a second, “kiss your cheek. You know. If it feels natural. Just enough to make him wonder.” There’s something electric in his voice now, light, amused, but edged with something darker. He smiles, wider this time, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Actually… can I make your ex jealous as fuck? Is that allowed?”

“What do you want to do?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

“I mean… if you give me even a little room to play…” He leans in, just slightly, not touching. “I swear I’ll ruin his whole fucking night.”

You’re still staring when he backs away, grin wide, eyes too pleased.

“No pressure," he says, putting both of his hands up, he smiles again, but this time it’s softer. “I’ll do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Your mouth is dry.

“Do whatever you want,” you manage. “Just… don’t be weird.”

He grins. “I make no promises”

You’re smiling, even as you turn away to grab your perfume, trying not to let him see how warm your cheeks are.

And as he walks out, he says it over his shoulder.

“You didn’t say no to the kiss.”

***

The knock sounds louder than you expect. You suddenly feel overdressed, underprepared, and painfully aware of the fact that your hand is linked with Wooyoung’s.

You didn’t mean to hold hands.

It just sort of… happened. One second you were adjusting your sleeve, the next his fingers found yours, no hesitation, like they’d done it a thousand times. And now it’s too late to pull away without it being weird.

“Y/N! Oh my god, finally! Come in!” Hana screams as she opens the door. You’re barely stepping inside when she notices the man next to you, her eyes widening. “And this is…?”

“Wooyoung,” he says smoothly, offering the wine bottle with both charm and ease. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana takes it with a delighted hum, already ushering you both inside. You barely get a foot in before her voice lifts again. “Babe, come meet my old co-worker!”

And there he is.

Standing a few steps inside the hallway, one hand curled loosely around a drink. He turns at the sound and freezes. Just for a second, quick enough to pass for nothing, but not to you. You see it. His eyes widen slightly, and something flickers across his face. Confusion. Surprise. Like he wasn’t told. Like he wasn’t ready.

But you smile, smooth and pleasant. Step forward, extend your hand like you’ve never seen him before in your life.

“Hi,” you say. “Nice to meet you.”

You smile like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know him. Like he’s just another name you’ll forget by morning. There’s the barest pause before he sets the glass down and shakes your hand. “Yeah,” he says, guarded, eyes flicking to Wooyoung. “You too.”

Before you can say anything, Wooyoung steps forward smoothly, hand outstretched, “Hi,” he says, voice warm and a little too cheerful. “I’m Wooyoung. Her boyfriend.”

There’s a pause. One breath too long. Your ex shifts, not quite hiding the way his eyes flick to your still-joined hands.

“…Right,” he says finally, taking Wooyoung’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana, being the overly-excited host that she is, smiles at the situation. “Everyone’s in the kitchen. Come on, we’re just doing drinks and snacks before dinner.”

You glance toward the kitchen, grateful for the distraction, but not before you feel Wooyoung’s hand press gently against your lower back, guiding you forward.

As if to say: I’ve got you.

But also…

Watch me work.

The house is warm and golden-lit, filled with soft music and the quiet sounds of people mingling. Laughter drifts from the back, layered over the clink of glasses and the sizzle of something on the stove.

The kitchen is full, couples leaning against counters, clustered near the island, perched on stools. Everyone looks up when you enter, and Hana claps her hands once. “Everyone, this is Y/N and her boyfriend, Wooyoung.”

You swear the word echoes for a second. Boyfriend.

Wooyoung just nods with a relaxed smile, greeting the group like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s introduced to a few of the guys first, and within a minute he’s already laughing at something, fully immersed in conversation.

You hang back, trying not to fidget, trying to ignore how good he looks tonight, sleeves rolled, watch glinting, hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try. And then, as if on cue, Hana pipes up from across the room, tossing the words over her shoulder like they’re harmless.

“I still can’t believe Y/N’s in a relationship now,” she says brightly, like it’s a funny little update. “I didn’t believe it at first, Y/N in a relationship? We all thought she was allergic to commitment!”

There’s a few laughs, light, not cruel. The kind of laugh that happens when people think they’re in on something. The moment the words leave Hana’s mouth, your ex looks up. His expression flickers with a hint of surprise.

You open your mouth, unsure what to say. But before you can speak, Wooyoung cuts in. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even look particularly bothered. He just glances over at Hana with an easy, almost lazy kind of smile.

“If loving her is a commitment, then it’s the easiest type of commitment I’ve ever made.”

You blink.

Your ex doesn’t say anything. His lips press into a tight line, but his eyes narrow further, jaw clenching slightly as he watches Wooyoung.

But Wooyoung’s gaze never shifts away from you, his hand finding yours again, linking your fingers effortlessly. His smile is small, but there’s a touch of pride behind it. He’s enjoying this.

The women smile. A couple guys glance over like damn. And Hana? She laughs, charmed. “Wow, okay. You’re already winning points.”

You try to smile like your heart didn’t just skip an entire beat.

Hana insists on giving you and Wooyoung a quick tour before dinner. “It’s not huge,” she says, with a laugh that’s anything but modest. “We just really wanted something simple but tasteful. Natural light was a must. You know how it is.”

Wooyoung nods beside you like he deeply, deeply understands the weight of natural light, and you catch the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“And this-” Hana gestures grandly as she opens a set of double doors. “This is my favorite room. The light in here at golden hour? Unreal. We had the cushions custom made to match the ceiling beams. And the books are mostly for decoration, but it kind of gives the right mood, don’t you think?”

You nod along politely, half-listening, while Wooyoung leans down slightly, his voice warm and low against your ear.

“Do you think if I mention natural light three more times, we unlock a secret level of the tour?”

Your breath hitches with a soft laugh, and before you can stop yourself, you tilt your head slightly toward him, shoulder brushing his chest. His smile lingers like he’s proud of himself, but there’s something else behind it too, something quieter. The way your face lights up when you laugh, how you don’t pull away. It flickers in his chest and sits there, unexpected.

His hand lingers a little longer at the small of your back as you follow Hana to the next room.

The dinner table is lively, plates are passed around, and glasses are filled as casual conversation flows. Across the table, your ex is quiet. He hasn’t said much all night, just observed. His smile is polite, his presence steady, but you can feel his gaze on you every now and then, especially when Wooyoung leans in to refill your glass or casually touches your wrist while talking.

The group is in a comfortable rhythm, and just as you're about to take a bite of your food, one of the guests leans back in their chair with a curious smile.

“So how did you two meet each other?”

You freeze, your mind racing. And across from you, you swear you see your ex stiffen slightly, eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit.

Wooyoung notices immediately.

He smiles at you, that teasing, mischievous look in his eyes as he leans forward, taking the cue. He opens his mouth, and suddenly, his voice fills the room. Smooth, charming, and effortlessly natural.

"Oh, this one’s my favorite story," he says, his voice warm and playful, his eyes lighting up as if he's about to tell the most incredible tale.

He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing at you, making sure you’re paying attention. You give him a quick nod, still unsure of where he’s going with this.

“It was one of those nights you’re not even supposed to go out, you know? I almost canceled.” He lets out a soft laugh, glancing at you. “But then she walked in.”

Everyone leans in slightly, curious.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there either, actually. Our friend had to convince her. She was tired, had a long week,” He looks at you briefly, as if asking permission with his eyes, but his smile says he already knows you’ll let him go on.

“She came in late, a little out of breath, tucking her hair behind her ear, apologizing even though no one noticed. And I swear-” He leans back, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “-the second I saw her, I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence. Just totally lost it. My friend thought I was choking on my drink.”

Soft laughter bubbles around the table. Your cheeks warm.

“She sat right across from me, and I swear I didn’t hear a single thing anyone else said the whole night. I spent the night trying to make her laugh.”

It’s smooth, too smooth, but his tone is light, playful, like he’s just telling a fond memory, not spinning an elaborate lie. He continues, eyes sparkling.

“I asked for her number before we left, and she said no.”

A small gasp comes from someone at the table, and Wooyoung grins like he’s telling a bedtime story.

“She said I seemed like the kind of guy who flirts with everyone.” More laughter. Wooyoung presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Which-, okay, fair. But I wasn't flirting with her… or maybe I was, but I just wanted to keep talking to her. So I said, ‘If she doesn’t want to give it to me, fine, I’ll earn it.’ And I kept showing up whenever our friend invited people out. I'd always make sure to sit next to her. Always brought something small. Coffee, gum, dumb stuff, just to have an excuse to talk.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“And eventually… she let me walk her home.”

Someone lets out a little aww.

“I didn’t try anything,” he adds. “I just wanted to stretch out the moment as long as I could. I think we stood outside her door for half an hour just talking. I memorized the color of her front light. The chipped tile on her step. Her laugh.”

The table is completely silent.

“And the next time?” His smile curves wider. “She kissed me first. Which I will never let her forget.”

The table is enchanted.

For a moment after Wooyoung finishes, there’s a soft, stunned silence, like everyone’s holding their breath without realizing it. Then:

“Oh my God,” someone breathes.

The woman across from you nudges her partner. “You never chased me like that.”

“You didn’t run,” he deadpans.

“So you’re telling me you saw her once and just knew?” another friend adds, reaching for more wine.

“I told our mutual friend to introduce us, and he said ‘don’t bother.’” He stretches his arm along the back of your chair, fingers lightly brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “So obviously I did the exact opposite.”

The table erupts with laughter. Real, full, warm.

“God, that sounds so like you,” Hana laughs, sending you a playful glance.

Laughter bubbles around the table, easy and entertained.

But not from everyone.

Across the table, your ex’s grip on his fork tightens, just for a moment. Not dramatic, not enough to draw attention from anyone else, but you see it. The twitch in his jaw. The way he shifts back in his chair like he needs space to breathe.

Wooyoung leans in slightly, hand still resting lightly behind your neck now, fingers brushing just enough to make it look natural. Intimate.

“And when she finally said yes,” he adds, voice lower now, more deliberate, “I knew I wasn’t gonna let her go.”

Your chest tightens.

The air feels heavier.

Meanwhile, you’re frozen in place, staring at your wine glass, heart racing as if you lived every second of that made-up story. You catch someone across the table watching you with a knowing smile, clearly convinced you're the luckiest girl alive.

And for a second, just one, you almost believe it too.

The rest of the dinner unfolds like a well-rehearsed play. Light laughter, wine refills, soft clinks of cutlery against porcelain. Conversation drifts easily between the couples, like they’ve all known each other forever, even if some only met tonight. And somehow, you and Wooyoung fall into it without trying.

After the dinner, the buzz of conversation in the living room fades as you step quietly down the hallway toward the bathroom. You need a second to breathe, just a minute alone after everything that’s happened tonight.

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Wooyoung’s charming story about how you met still lingers in your mind, and the way everyone seemed so enchanted by him... it felt like something out of a movie. It had been easy to get swept up in it all, even though it was completely fabricated.

After a few moments, you open the bathroom door and nearly jump out of your skin.

Wooyoung is standing right there in the hallway, hands in his pockets like he’s just been casually waiting. His gaze flicks up to meet yours immediately, and a slow, knowing smile pulls at his lips.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms now crossed, like he’s settling in.

You swallow hard. “You scared me.”

“Did I?” His voice is low, soft. Like a secret passed between friends. “Sorry. You just disappeared.”

“I needed a second. Too many couples,” you say, attempting a light laugh that comes out a bit thin. “Too much… love.”

“So?” he murmurs beside you. “How am I doing?”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised.

“The fake boyfriend thing,” he adds with a sly grin. “Convincing enough for you?”

You shrug, but your smile gives you away. “I’ve seen worse performances.”

“Cold,” he mutters, holding a hand over his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Here I am, carrying the entire romance on my back.”

You laugh quietly, then shake your head, your voice dropping again. “Honestly, I think everyone at the table wants to date you now.”

“Jealous?” he says, all teeth and sparkle, but his voice is soft, teasing rather than cocky.

You roll your eyes, even as your stomach flips. “Please.”

Then he tilts his head, studying you. His tone shifts, still playful, but quieter. “You know, you’re still a little pink.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your cheeks,” he says, nodding toward them. “Blushing. Again.”

You cross your arms instinctively, heart picking up pace. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he whispers. He leans a little closer. “It’s kinda cute.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re insufferable,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

The moment hangs, just a little too long. You’re standing in the dim hallway, lights soft, voices muffled behind walls, and he’s looking at you like this is his favorite part of the night.

You clear your throat, trying to reset something in the air. “We should go back.”

“Yeah,” he says, straightening slowly. “Before someone thinks we’re sneaking off to make out.”

Wooyoung straightens just a little, the moment sliding away like water off skin. He gives you one last glance, a wink for good measure, then turns and walks toward the others. That leaves you standing in the hallway, heart racing, wondering why his lazy confidence always makes it hard to tell when he’s joking and when he isn’t.

You follow behind, still feeling the blush he called out.

You offer to help Hana out in the kitchen. Wooyoung is busy winning everybody’s hearts with his charm, so you aren’t concerned about him.

You rinse off a plate, hands moving on autopilot as you stack it neatly on the drying rack. Hana leans against the counter beside you, sipping the last of her wine, her smile still painted on from dinner. “Seriously though,” she says, nudging your hip with hers, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with someone like that.”

You huff a laugh. “Like what?”

“Like… funny. Hot. Charismatic. The way he talks about you?” She raises a brow. “Unreal.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Yeah. He’s something.”

“I mean…” She grins. “You glow around him. It’s wild. Like, he looks at you like he’s already picking out your wedding venue.”

You laugh, quiet, awkward. “He’s just… sweet.”

Hana raises her brows. “He’s obsessed. In a good way.” She tilts her head toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go grab the wine opener. Don’t let me forget it again. Be back in a sec.”

The back door clicks shut behind her, and silence settles again. It’s nice for a moment, just you, the clink of cutlery, the steam from the sink. You keep washing dishes, grateful for the moment alone.

But it doesn’t last.

You hear movement behind you. Slow. Hesitant.

You turn your head and freeze.

It’s him.

Your ex.

He stands just past the threshold, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on you. He steps in without saying anything at first. Just lingers a little too close to the kitchen island, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

You dry your hands on a towel, steadying yourself. “Clearly.”

He takes a step in. Not too close, but enough to unsettle you.

His eyes flick around the room, then land back on you. “You look good.”

You sigh quietly, turning back to the sink. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m just saying.”

Another beat.

You hear him shift again, leaning slightly against the island behind you. You can feel his eyes on your back.

“That guy,” he says finally. “The one who came with you. Wooyoung.”

You don’t look at him. “What about him?”

He hesitates. Then, carefully: “Are you two… serious?”

You pause, then shrug. “That’s none of your business.”

He lets out a low breath. “So that’s a yes.”

You turn slowly, facing him now. “Why are you here, really?”

“In my own house?”

“No,” you say. “Why are you in this kitchen, right now?”

He stares at you. Silent.

“I fucked up,” he blurts, “Okay? I know I did. I’ve been thinking about it since-”

“Don’t,” you snap, but still keeping your voice down so the rest of the party won't hear. “You don’t get to come here, pretend we’re still something, and then act surprised that I moved on. You’re married.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He looks at you like you’ve just hit him.

“You moved on?” he repeats, like the words are bitter on his tongue. “With him?”

You step back. “You don’t know him.”

He scoffs. “I might not, but I can still see how insufferable he is.”

You stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He takes another step forward, eyes sharper now. “I just don’t get it. After everything-”

“No,” you say firmly, holding your hand up. “You don’t get anything. You lost the right to have an opinion the second you slept with someone else.”

There’s a beat of silence. Your heart pounds in your ears.

And then…

“Everything okay in here?” Wooyoung’s voice is cold. Threatening almost.

You don’t need to look. You feel it, the air shifting, the way the atmosphere bends around his presence. But you still turn your head. And it steadies you instantly.

He’s leaning in the doorway. One hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other hanging loose at his side. His posture is relaxed. His expression? Somewhere between nonchalance and interest.

But his eyes?

They’re fixed on your ex.

And they could kill.

Your ex straightens, caught off guard. “Uh-, yeah. We were just-”

Wooyoung steps fully into the room like he’s walking through water, unconcerned by the tension that’s thick enough to drown in. He nods once, a polite gesture with razor edges, then glances at you.

His voice lowers. Smooth, velvety. Unmistakably his.

“You okay, baby?”

The pet name slips out effortlessly. Like it belongs there. Like you belong to him. Then he closes the space between you and him, his hand brushing the small of your back with casual ownership.

Your breath stutters. “I’m fine.”

His gaze lingers on your ex, sharp enough to make the air hum.

“Then I’ll ask one more time,” he murmurs, voice dipped in steel, eyes locked on your ex. “Is there a problem?”

Your ex lets out a quiet scoff, trying to play it cool. “No problem at all.”

Wooyoung breathes in once, slow.

“Then I’ll make this simple,” he says, softly now. Dangerous soft. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.” He tilts his head, the barest shift of muscle. His smile is slight, almost gentle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If not…” His jaw tightens just once. “Walk away before you make me repeat myself.”

Your ex doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t look at you. Just leaves.

And Wooyoung watches every step. Tracks him with the kind of gaze that doesn’t flinch. It says everything he hasn’t:

Try it again. I dare you.

When it’s just the two of you again, Wooyoung’s fingers trace your spine once, barely there. A silent check-in.

Then, slowly, his focus shifts. Back to you.

His voice drops. Low. Controlled.

“You okay?”

You nod once, but it’s tight. Too tight. And he sees it.

His brows pinch just slightly. “Did he say something?”

“No,” you whisper, and it’s true, mostly. “He was just… being him.”

Wooyoung exhales slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Like he’s trying not to say something that would ruin the whole night. But then he looks at you, really looks at you, and something in him softens. Just a little.

His hand slides from your back to your waist, anchoring you close. He studies your face for a moment, like he’s not fully convinced, but then he exhales and gives a small nod back.

“I didn’t want to step in too early,” he says, voice soft now. “You looked like you had it under control. You did.”

There’s something warm in your chest at that, that he trusted you to hold your own.

You meet his eyes.

He’s not angry.

He’s present.

“I know you don’t need anyone to defend you,” he says, quieter now. “But I’m here. If you ever want me to.”

That part lingers. A gentle offering.

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He leans just a little closer, his voice dipping like he doesn’t want to be overheard, even by the walls, and something wicked flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to make it clearer you’re taken.”

Your heart skips a beat.

His hand gives your waist the faintest squeeze, not possessive, just sure. Then he straightens up, tone lighter, a glint in his eye as he teases, “You ready to go back out there, or should we hide out in here a little longer?”

You smile. “Let’s go.”

Wooyoung laces his fingers with yours as you step out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say much. Just keeps his hand on you, sometimes at your back, sometimes curled around your fingers, like he doesn’t trust the room not to try and touch you.

The energy around him simmers low. Controlled. Patient.

But it’s there.

You feel it in the way his gaze lingers a little too long when you make eye contact The way his thumb brushes your skin when you pass your ex. Like a fuse waiting for flame.

The evening moves on. Laughter. Drinks. Music humming low in the background. But that energy never leaves him.

Then, after another drink, his palm slides against your waist as he leans in, murmuring just low enough for only you to hear. “Come outside with me for a sec?”

You glance up, surprised by the quiet invitation, but nod. “Yeah. Okay."

He takes your hand and leads you through the back door, into the cool hush of the backyard. String lights sway gently above. A few scattered chairs dot the patio, mostly empty.

He pulls you just far enough into the yard that you’re framed under the golden light, a sight impossible to miss. Then he stops just enough to pull you in close, his hands resting firmly on your waist. His breath brushes your neck as he leans in, voice low and a little teasing.

“Do you trust me?”

You meet his gaze, smiling without hesitation, but a little confused. “Of course.”

But before you can say anything more, he leans in, no warning, no hesitation, and his mouth finds your neck.

Slow. Deliberate. Unapologetically possessive.

His grip on your waist tightens, firm and grounding, like he's anchoring himself to you, or maybe keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Your fingers twitch, aching to clutch at his shirt, his shoulders, anything. But he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps moving, tongue flicking, lips parting as he sucks softly at the spot just above your collarbone, lazy, indulgent, filthy in how intimate it feels.

You gasp, hips tilting forward instinctively, heat already pooling low and heavy in your belly. He doesn’t miss it, he hums against your throat like he felt it happen.

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to murmur, voice thick and close to your ear, “You weren’t expecting that, huh?”

His tone is teasing, pleased, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Then he leans back in, grazing your neck again, his nose brushing over the same spot he just kissed.

“Fake boyfriend of the year, right?” he adds, a low smirk in his voice.

It pulls a laugh from you, too real, too soft, and he chuckles under his breath like he lives for the sound.

And then he looks up.

Over your shoulder.

Still smiling.

You don’t turn. You don’t even realize why his gaze has sharpened. But Wooyoung knows. He’s known from the moment he stepped outside.

“Oh, hey,” he says, just loud enough, like the thought only now occurred to him. “Didn’t see you there.”

You blink, startled, then turn.

And there he is.

Your ex is sitting in the far corner of the backyard, posture stiff, one hand loosely holding a glass of something amber that he’s no longer drinking. He’s been watching, long enough, clearly. His eyes flick from your face to where Wooyoung’s hand rests against your hip like it was made to be there. His mouth is drawn in a line so tight it might split.

He’d been watching.

Wooyoung's arm wraps a little tighter around your waist. Not possessive. Not aggressive. Just… secure. Like he has every right to hold you like this. Like he dares anyone to question it.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Wooyoung says, cool and lazy.

Your ex stares, jaw tight.

Wooyoung doesn’t wait. His posture is casual, but there’s a glint in his eye that betrays him, too amused, too at-ease.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” he adds, like it’s nothing. “Stars out. Music inside. My girl tastes like sangria. Hard to complain.”

You stiffen slightly, but Wooyoung doesn’t flinch. He’s still smiling faintly, watching you with that unbothered, pretty-boy charm that somehow makes everything worse.

Your ex lifts his drink and mutters, “Some of us came out here to be alone.”

Wooyoung cocks his head. “Oh, totally fair. Should’ve said something.”

There’s a beat of silence, sharp enough to cut through. But he doesn’t move. He stays planted right there beside you, hand still snug on your waist like it belongs there.

Then he blinks, as if struck by a thought.

“Oh-, wait,” he says, voice still sweet. “You want us back inside?” He huffs a quiet laugh, almost apologetic. “Damn. That’s on me.”

Your ex sets his glass down with a soft clink on the stone railing. “You always this annoying?”

Wooyoung grins. “Only when I’m in a good mood.”

“Y/N! Wooyoung!”

Hana bursts out, loud and glowing, wine glass in one hand, joy practically spilling out of her. Her eyes land on you both and she lights up like the fourth of July.

“Oh my God, there you are!” she grins. “I was about to come get you, everyone keeps asking where the hot couple went!”

You see your ex stiffen. Wooyoung’s smile stretches.

“Hot couple,” he echoes, biting back a laugh.

Hana gasps dramatically. “Don’t act shy now! You two are disgusting. I love it.”

“I'm not mad about it. She’s got great taste,” Wooyoung teases with a little shrug, for a second glancing over at your ex. “Eventually.”

Your ex’s jaw tightens. He looks like he might speak.

But Wooyoung leans in one last time, whispering low into your ear, voice soft enough to make your skin spark:

"Success, baby"

He smirks before sliding his hand into yours, pulling you gently toward the house where Hana is waiting, oblivious to the tension left behind.

The night has mellowed. The lights are dim, the wine is flowing, and laughter has started to echo easier around the table. Someone’s passed around dessert, tiramisu in glass jars, and Wooyoung’s excused himself to the bathroom with that lazy, effortless vibe only he can pull off without trying. You’d felt his hand brush your shoulder as he left, and it still lingers there somehow, phantom-warm.

Hana’s had just enough wine to get bold. She sits across from you, grinning over the rim of her glass.

“Okay,” she says, loudly enough to cut across the overlapping chatter. “New question for the couples.”

The table quiets, interest piqued.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight. “What’s your favorite physical thing about your partner?”

A few groans. Someone throws a napkin in her direction.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” she warns, laughing. “And no safe answers either. I don’t want to hear about how they ‘have a nice smile’ or ‘beautiful eyes’, everyone says that. I want the thing. The detail. The part of them that does it for you when you’re not even trying to look. The one that makes your brain short-circuit a little.”

You laugh, swallowing a little too quickly. The wine burns, and suddenly the air feels too warm.

“I’ll go last,” Hana says, clearly loving this. “Y/N, go.”

You freeze. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Her smile is practically villainous. “He’s not even here. You can be honest.”

Everyone chuckles. The pressure thickens.

You hesitate, lips parting, unsure. Your eyes flick toward the hallway where Wooyoung disappeared. As if he might walk in just in time to save you.

But he doesn’t.

You clear your throat and say, maybe a little too honestly, “His hands.”

“Ooh,” someone says. “That’s a good one.”

You glance down at the table, fingers curling around your wine glass. “They’re just… nice,” you say, not looking up. “He moves them a lot when he talks. And they’re always doing something. Tapping, pulling at a sleeve, playing with his rings or-, whatever. Just always… moving.”

Your voice quiets as the room listens. You feel exposed, like you said something too intimate.

You don’t realize the room has fallen silent. Until it hits you that no one’s said anything back.

And then...

“I should leave more often if this is what I get to come back to.”

And Wooyoung is standing just behind you, leaning lazily against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised in interest.

Your breath halts.

There’s laughter again around the table, but your throat goes dry. Hana’s grinning at the perfect timing. “There he is,” she says, wiggling her brows. “Right on cue. We’re playing favorites.”

Wooyoung raises a brow. “Favorites?”

“Favorite physical thing about each other,” she explains, eyes sparkling. “And no cop-outs like smile or eyes. We’re talking the thing. The detail that ruins you. Your turn”

He chuckles under his breath, clearly amused. He doesn’t hesitate.

“Her neck.”

A beat of silence. His voice is smooth but deliberate, like the words were waiting in his mouth.

You feel your body go still.

Then he moves, slowly, stepping closer behind your chair, his hand brushing your shoulder as he comes to a stop. You’re suddenly very aware of how exposed your skin is where your top dips to your collarbone, of how warm the air feels even though he hasn’t touched you.

“She’s got this curve,” he says, quieter now, like he’s letting everyone else fade out. “Right here," His fingers trace the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, so lightly it barely counts as a touch. “Right where her hair rests.”

Then his tone shifts, warmer, quieter. Real.

“In the mornings,” he says, like he’s letting the rest of the room fall away, “when she’s still half-asleep and pulls her hair up without thinking. Stretching, yawning, no makeup, nothing, this part’s just exposed. The light hits it, and I swear to God-” He cuts himself off with a low exhale, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “It makes it really hard to be on time for anything.”

The silence that follows is a different kind of hush. Not teasing. Not performative.

It’s weighted. Personal.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t making any of that up. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he pulls back, barely.

“Plus,” he adds, a lazy grin playing on his lips, “it’s really unfair that you smell the way you do.”

“Okay, damn,” someone says from across the table, but you can’t even register who.

Wooyoung finally moves, slipping back into the seat beside you. But he doesn’t lean back, doesn’t settle into comfort like before. He sits just a little closer than he needs to. His thigh brushes yours. Warm. Steady. You don’t move.

The game rolls on, Hana gesturing to the couple across from you with a flourish, their answer met with giggles and teasing. But the background fades, soft, foggy, because you feel it. The weight of Wooyoung’s stare.

When you finally turn your head, you find him already watching you.

And everything in his face is different.

Gone is the cocky smile, the playful glint in his eye. He’s quiet now. Studying you, like he’s not sure where the line is anymore. Like maybe he doesn’t want to know.

And then, another gaze.

You catch it from the corner of your eye: your ex, sitting stiff at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable. He’s watching Wooyoung like a hawk, jaw tight, mouth set in a firm line.

Wooyoung senses it. You can feel the shift in him, the small breath he takes. The flicker of heat in his chest, like he might respond, say something, smirk just to provoke.

But he doesn’t.

Because it’s not about him anymore.

After a few more rounds of the game, you step into the hallway and let your back hit the wall with a quiet sigh. The noise from the living room still hums faintly behind you, laughter, the clink of glasses, someone shuffling a deck of cards. It’s warm in there, but your skin feels too tight. You just need a minute.

You close your eyes.

Footsteps approach, soft, familiar.

Wooyoung slips into the hallway like he’s done it a hundred times, like he always knows when you need the space. He falls in beside you, close but not crowding, his shoulder hovering just shy of yours as he leans against the wall.

“You always vanish when it gets too loud,” he says, his voice low.

You keep your eyes forward, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t vanish. I relocate.”

He hums. “Right. Into hallways. Or kitchen corners. Or that one time it was behind the couch.”

“That was one time.”

“It was still dramatic,” he teases, nudging your arm lightly. Your breath catches, just a little. It’s playful. It’s Wooyoung. But something about the way he talks makes your stomach flip.

“You look really pretty tonight.”

The words land like a spark, and your breath catches before you can help it. You blink up at him, startled.

“I-, what?”

He grins, slow and lopsided. “Just saying. I don’t think I told you earlier.”

You feel your face flush, warmth blooming across your cheeks, down your neck. You look away instantly, trying to mask it with a half-laugh.

“I’m honest,” he counters, still looking at you. You can feel it, the weight of his gaze, the way it lingers. “I mean, you always look good, but tonight…” His voice dips, softer now. “It’s kind of unfair.”

You glance away, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, leaning just slightly toward you. “Is it that hard to believe? Do I need to be faking a relationship for you to believe it?”

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can. Your heart’s already too loud in your ears.

He nudges your arm gently. “You know, for someone who lives with me, you’re really bad at accepting compliments.”

You try to play it off. “Maybe you just give too many.”

“Mm,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just really easy to compliment.”

You let out a breathy sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, tucking your chin down in embarrassment. “Can you not?”

You finally glance at him, and he’s already watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable look, somewhere between playful and serious. Like he’s holding back.

He doesn’t say anything else for a second. He just looks at you.

And somehow, that says more than the rest.

You try not to smile. You fail.

Wooyoung pushes himself off the wall with a lazy stretch, then turns his body to face you, effectively placing his back toward the living room.

“Come back in when you’re ready,” he says softly, his voice carrying that usual teasing warmth. “You don’t have to rush. But I’ll be on my seat, being distractingly attractive… in case that helps.”

You almost laugh, but then your eyes drift past him.

Your stomach dips.

Your ex is standing just inside the living room, half-shadowed but unmistakably watching. His expression is unreadable, his eyes sharp and fixed directly on you.

“Wait,” you breathe, reaching out without thinking.

You grab Wooyoung’s shirt and pull him a little closer. He stumbles forward a step, surprised but not resisting. His brows furrow slightly in confusion as he looks down at you.

“Do you trust me?” you ask now, your voice quieter now. There’s a tremor in it, not fear, but urgency. Purpose.

Wooyoung’s expression shifts, softening. “Yes,” he says, instantly. “Of course.”

That’s all you need.

Your hands move quickly, one sliding up to the back of his neck, the other gripping the front of his shirt. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. Firm and deliberate. Lips meeting his in a way that leaves no room for questions. His mouth parts slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

When you break the kiss just slightly, you don’t step back. You stay close, close enough that your lips graze his as you whisper, “He’s watchi-,”

You don’t get to finish. Wooyoung’s lips are on yours again before you even register, like they need to be. Like he doesn’t care about why you kissed him, or for who, but because he can’t stop now that you’ve let it happen.

This time it’s deeper. Hungrier.

You can’t help but deepen the kiss when he slides his tongue slightly into your mouth, and one of his hands slips down to your lower back, guiding you closer. The other lifts to your jaw, gentle but sure. l

You feel your back press lightly into the wall behind you as he moves with you, not rough, but insistent. The kind of kiss that drowns everything else out, conversation, footsteps, your ex’s presence across the room.

His lips part yours, his breath hot and heavy against your cheek between kisses. His grip tightens at your waist, grounding you. You respond instinctively, hands curling into his shirt, lips moving with his, matching every shift and tilt of his head.

It’s a performance. That’s how it started.

But it doesn’t feel like one anymore.

It feels like heat, like want, like a spark that caught fire the second you gave it permission. And he’s kissing you like he’s not planning to stop anytime soon.

And for just a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.

But then… it passes.

The air changes again.

You blink and glance over to the living room. Your ex is gone. Vanished back into the room. Wooyoung slows, then stops. His hands remain on you, his breath still a little uneven.

You pull back first, just enough to look at him.

His eyes are already on you. There’s something different there now, an emotion you haven’t seen from him before. Not just playfulness, not just comfort. Something heavier. Hungrier.

You force a small, awkward smile and drop your hands from his neck, stepping back just slightly. “Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “I think that worked.”

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything for a second. He just studies you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. Then he nods, slow and unreadable, and finally, he smiles. But it’s not quite the same. Something about it is quieter. Almost reverent.

At the end of the night, shoes shuffle at the door. Coats rustle. The air is heavy with the kind of tired that follows too much wine and too much pretending.

“Get home safe, okay?” Hana says warmly, stepping toward you both as you’re about to leave. Her smile is soft, a little teasing. “You two are seriously adorable. Like… sickening. I love it.”

You laugh, a bit breathlessly, already halfway into your coat. But before you can say anything, Wooyoung’s arm snakes naturally around your waist, casual, confident. You feel his fingers press into your side, warm through the fabric.

“Thanks, Hana,” he says, flashing her a grin. “She keeps me in line.”

You roll your eyes and glance up at him, but the smile tugging at your lips is real, too real. “Barely,” you murmur, playing along.

His eyes flick to yours for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

Hana grins and gives you both a quick hug before stepping back into the house. “Bye, lovebirds.”

The door closes behind you.

The air outside bites cold against your skin.

And just like that, his arm drops from your waist. The performance ends.

Neither of you says a word as you walk to the curb. You don’t know if it’s the silence or the absence of his touch that makes the air feel heavier now, but it’s different.

The cab pulls up with a soft screech. He opens the door for you like always, waits for you to slide in, then follows without a word. The car is warm, too warm, and too quiet.

You're both staring straight ahead.

The streetlights flicker past, painting gold across his face. In the confined space, the silence between you buzzes, thick with something unspoken, something ignited hours ago that neither of you has dared to acknowledge.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you with a softness that feels far too loud in the quiet.

Coats are hung. Shoes are kicked off. The scent of his usual candle lingers in the air, citrus and something darker underneath. Normally comforting. Now it just makes your heart beat faster.

Wooyoung heads to the kitchen without a word. His shoulders are relaxed, but there’s something taut underneath it all. You hesitate in the hallway, watching him open the cabinet, sleeves pushed to his elbows, veins still prominent down his forearms from earlier, and you hate how you notice.

You drift into the kitchen slowly, lingering by the edge of the counter.

“So,” you offer, light and a little too bright, “that was fun, right? Peak acting performance. Someone give us Oscars.”

No answer. He fills the glass with water from the tap, moves with that same quiet ease, but doesn’t glance at you once.

You try again, a bit more playful. “Think we fooled them? I mean, your story about how we met really sold it. Ten out of ten commitment.”

He finally looks at you, just looks. And it’s a look that completely steals the breath from your chest. Calm, dark, unreadable. His eyes are locked on yours like he's waiting for you to crack first. And suddenly you're hyperaware of everything. How hot your cheeks feel, how your voice might've sounded too eager, how the silence seems to wrap around your body like a second skin.

You clear yours softly. “Anyway. Um. I’m gonna-, I think I’m just gonna head to bed.”

Still nothing from him.

You nod quickly. “Night.”

You turn, heart hammering now, and you’ve only made it a step or two down the hall when his voice floats to you, quiet, even.

“If you ever need a fake boyfriend again…”

You stop. Your fingers twitch at your side.

“…you know where to find me.”

You turn back toward him slowly. He’s still in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand, eyes unreadable, but fixed on you like he’s daring you to say something. To ask him what he means. To call him out.

You don’t.

You meet his gaze, and it’s only for a second, but something heavy passes between you, something weighty and unspoken that neither of you wants to name.

Then you nod.

Not a joking nod. Not one meant to brush things off. Just… quiet acknowledgement. You walk off with your heartbeat pounding in your ears, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up with. You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes on you the whole way down the hall.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

And for a long time, you just stand there in the silence of your room, pulse racing, breath held, trying to figure out what exactly that was.

You don’t even remember walking to your vanity. You’ve just been standing here, fingers curled loosely along the edge, eyes locked on your reflection like it might give you answers. But all it gives you is the echo of him. His words. His gaze. His lips on yours. The way your body reacted like it knew something you didn’t.

There’s a knock.

A soft one.

You straighten up fast, like you’re guilty of something. “Come in.”

The door creaks open behind you.

You meet his gaze through the mirror as he strolls in, easy and casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be here, in your space, late at night.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you.

You manage a breath. “Not tired?”

His shoulders lift in the faintest shrug. “Not really.”

Then silence again.

But it’s not awkward, it’s thick. Charged.

“I was thinking about something,” he finally says, his voice smooth, a little playful.

You glance at him in the mirror, trying not to let your pulse jump. “Yeah? About what?”

Wooyoung pushes off the frame, making his way toward you at an unhurried pace. “You’re better at this whole fake relationship thing than you give yourself credit for.”

You attempt a shrug. “Just playing along.”

A soft laugh leaves him. “Mm. Sure.”

He walks further into the room. Not quickly. Not even directly toward you. He slows as he passes by your bed, eyes roaming lazily over the space like he’s trying to memorize it. But you know that’s not what this is.

He’s letting the silence stretch.

He’s letting you squirm.

You glance at him through the mirror, just as he finally makes his way behind you.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He stops right behind you, not touching, but close. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror, but it’s no use. He’s everywhere now. In your space. In your breath.

“And the things you said tonight,” he says, voice soft but pointed. “Those were part of the act too?”

You try to keep your tone even. “What things?”

He tilts his head. “The part where you said you like my hands. That you stare at them when I’m not looking.”

You freeze just slightly.

"I-, uhm... I dont-..." You glance down instinctively, suddenly very aware of your own hands fidgeting.

“Funny,” he says softly, “You think I haven’t noticed? When I’m cooking. When I’m fixing something around the apartment. You always get quiet.”

His hand lifts, fingertips brushing your hair gently off your shoulder. You shiver as he lowers his voice again.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he says. “I do love your neck.”

You don’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to.

“In the mornings,” he murmurs. “When you’re in the kitchen, still half asleep, standing by the window. Your head tilts just a little. That soft little spot here,” he gestures near your collarbone, but still doesn’t touch. “barely covered.”

You’re not breathing properly now.

“And I try,” he continues, “I really try to keep it together, but you standing there like that…? That does something to me.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly.

His fingers trail lightly along the back of your neck, not quite touching skin yet, but enough to make you lean into it. He steps in fully now, his hands finding your waist, and you instinctively lean back into him.

And then, finally, his mouth brushes your neck. Gentle. Slow. A teasing press that turns into something deeper. You feel the smile against your skin as he kisses again, and again, lower this time, until your knees threaten to give.

You gasp, just a little, and he smiles against your throat.

“You know,” he starts, voice casual, “if this wasn’t fake…”

Your breath hitches.

“…I would’ve done a lot of things differently tonight.”

You swallow hard. “Like what?”

He trails one finger along your side, feather-light, just enough to make you squirm.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he begins, like it’s casual, like he’s not setting you on fire, “I wouldn’t have let you leave my side once tonight. I would’ve had my hand on you the whole dinner, your thigh, your back, the curve of your hip, just to remind you who you belong to.”

Your stomach tightens.

He brushes his fingers lightly along your sides, not quite ticklish, just maddeningly slow.

“I’d bring you home,” he continues, lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, “take your hand, lead you to your room like I’ve been waiting to all night. And I wouldn’t rush it. No pretending, no performance. Just you. Me. And the dress I’ve been dying to take off you.”

He trails his knuckles lightly down your side, slow and reverent.

“I’d unzip it real slow…”

You hear the faintest shift of fabric.

“Let it slip off your shoulders while I kissed right here…” he presses a single, feather-light kiss to the side of your neck, “and here…” another just below your ear, “until you were shivering.”

Your eyes flutter closed, and he watches your reflection like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers just below your ear.

You’re at a loss for words but you’re hungry for more. You shake your head as you swallow, but realise how dry your mouth is. His hands slide up your sides, warm, sure, with a smile on his face.

“If it hadn't been fake, I’d press you against this vanity,” he goes on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Make you watch as I touched every inch of your skin.”

You can’t look away from the mirror, from the image of his hands exploring you, slow and confident, like he’s known this body forever.

“I’d hold your hips right here.” His hands grip you firmly, positioning your body with ease. “And I’d make sure the only thing you remembered from tonight was how I made you feel.”

"Yeah?" you manage to say, too invested in everything he's saying.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he murmurs, his hands still on you, tracing the curve of your body as if he owns it. “I’d make you see stars. I’d fuck you right here, make you forget you were ever pretending.”

You let out a light gasp, feeling your heart in your throat.

He presses against you, his hand finding its way to your neck, just enough to make you tilt your head back, exposing more of that sensitive skin. He breathes softly against it.

“You’d be mine. I’d make sure you knew it, every fucking inch of you.”

You’re a breath away from crumbling, your chest rising and falling in rapid succession as you realize how much you want him, how easily you’re giving into the fantasy.

His lips are still close to your ear, breath warm, voice impossibly soft.

“But then again…” he murmurs, the barest smile in his tone, “this is all fake… isn’t it?”

You stiffen.

He lets out a low chuckle, his nose skimming the line of your jaw as he continues, casually cruel in the way only he can be. “None of this would actually happen. I mean, why would it?”

"Why not?" you barely let out a whisper.

His fingers drag slowly down your sides, feather-light, torturously teasing. He’s pretending to think, pretending to be thoughtful, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You and me, coming home after a night like that, all dressed up, all tense and wired… and me just…” His hand glides over your hips. “Peeling you out of this dress and fucking you over your vanity?”

He hums, tilting his head. “Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

You inhale sharply, your body practically trembling from restraint.

He leans in again, lips just at your neck now. “You haven’t said much,” he whispers, his hand brushing lower, just enough to make you flinch. “Should I stop?” His fingers press gently into your thighs now, possessive even in their softness. “Because we’re faking it, right?” He lets out a slow, amused breath. “And I’d hate to make things confusing.”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, your skin flushed everywhere.

“Unless you want me to keep going,” he murmurs, eyes locking with yours in the reflection, darker now, heavy with intent. “But you’d have to say it, sweetheart.”

His fingers trail between your legs, light as a threat.

You grip the edge of the vanity with white knuckles, heart pounding in your throat. “Wooyoung…”

His hand slides up, over your stomach, between your breasts, up to your throat, never squeezing, just there. Possessive. Protective. His lips trail along your shoulder, just above the strap of your dress, while the other hand finally finds the zipper.

“I’d take you like this,” he says lowly, kissing the back of your neck. “Make you look at yourself while I ruin you, slow… deep… mine.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He presses forward just a little more, breath ragged now against your skin. “But maybe we should stop.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and shake your head.

“No, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like the last wall crumbling. "Don't stop."

His hands freeze for just a moment, then he smirks, low and satisfied.

“There she is.”

His smirk deepens, wicked, triumphant. He doesn’t say a word.

Then, with deliberate force, he turns you.

Your back meets the cool edge of the vanity. Before you can fully catch your breath, his veiny hand is already on your throat, firm but careful, guiding your head back just enough to look up at him.

You gasp from the way it makes your knees go weak, the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

His gaze drops to your lips. Then slowly, almost torturously, he leans in, breath brushing your mouth, letting you feel the heat of it before he claims you.

The kiss is devastating. Nothing sweet. Nothing soft.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starved for it, tongue, teeth, everything. He takes and takes, groaning low in his throat the moment you moan against him. That tiny, helpless sound makes his fingers tighten slightly on your neck, his other hand sliding possessively down your side to your hip.

“God, you sound so pretty when you do that,” he breathes between kisses, voice wrecked.

You melt under him, into him, letting him press you back against the vanity like he wants to fuse you to it. He breaks the kiss with a growl, breath hot against your lips, then suddenly, he spins you again.

You can’t speak. You can’t think. All you can do is feel his hands on your hips, feel the way his body aligns with yours so perfectly it’s almost cruel.

“Still pretending?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or can I finally touch you like I’ve wanted to all fucking night?”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence. "Yes-, yes please," you whimper, hips tilting back into his, head tipping to give him more of your neck.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Thought so.”

You don’t have a chance to respond before his hands are on you again, more urgent this time. His fingers find the zipper of your dress, and he pulls it down, letting you feel every inch of his focus on you.

The dress slides off your body, pooling at your feet, and he’s quick to step back just enough to take you in. His eyes rake over you like he’s starving. You stand there, vulnerable, under his gaze, and you can’t help the way your body reacts to him. The heat between your legs intensifies, the ache in your chest growing stronger.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you from behind. “You’re a goddamn dream.”

You gasp as he presses you into the vanity, your body trapped between the cool wood and the heat of him. His hands slide down to your thighs, pulling them apart slowly, giving him access, making sure you feel every moment of it. His voice drops to a velvet growl. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby. Right here.” His lips press behind your ear again, “Tell me you want it,” he demands.

And you can’t hold back anymore. The tension in your body snaps, and you nod, your breath quickening. “I want it.”

He smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Good girl.”

His hand presses firmly between your thighs, rubbing you through the soaked fabric with just enough pressure to make your legs weaken beneath you.

He chuckles against your skin when he feels you tremble. “Already this wet for me, baby?”

You nod helplessly, and his free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair, pulling your head to the side to expose more of your neck.

His teeth graze your pulse point, and you moan again, louder this time. "Look in the mirror as I touch you."

Your breath stutters, lashes fluttering as your gaze locks on the reflection. “Fuck, Wooyoung…” you whisper, already unsteady, your thighs trembling under his stare alone.

Then, with no warning, he hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs, letting them fall. Cool air brushes against your wetness, and your whole body jolts in response.

“Jesus-” you exhale, shivering.

His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, just enough pressure to make you twitch. You moan, sharp and helpless, eyes fluttering closed for a second until he tuts softly beside your ear.

“Eyes open, sweetheart. I said look.”

You obey, forcing your eyes to the mirror again, and the sight of you, glowing, needy, lips parted, legs trembling, draws a sound from deep in your throat.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing just below your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, he pushes in, just one finger at first, thick and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He presses in knuckle by knuckle, watching your face in the mirror as your lips part and your back arches. The way your body welcomes him makes his cock twitch under the fabrics.

“There we go,” he whispers, dark and pleased. “So fucking tight.”

He gives you a moment to adjust, curling that single finger just right, then pulls back, almost all the way, before pushing in again, deeper this time. You whimper, soft and broken.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw. “You let me in so easily.”

When he slides in a second finger, your knees nearly give out, but he catches you, pressing his chest to your back and flattening his palm over your belly.

You cry out, raw and desperate, body jerking in his arms.

“Right there,” you gasp. “Fuck, right there-, don’t stop, please don’t stop-”

His lips trace your jaw, voice molten.

“Good girl,” he whispers, moving his fingers just the way you need. “Let me hear you.”

And you do.

Loud, unfiltered, desperate for more.

Your hands grip the edge of the vanity. He watches in the mirror as your face twists in pleasure, breath shuddering every time he pumps into you. He doesn’t relent. His fingers are steady, coaxing, relentless, fucking you precisely, like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands softly.

“So good,” you breathe. “It’s-, god, Wooyoung-”

“That’s right,” he cuts in, curling his fingers deeper. “Say my name like that.”

He shifts just slightly, just enough to hit the spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes, and keeps that rhythm. Over and over.

“Come on,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

You nod, desperately, eyes fluttering shut.

But he doesn’t let you. His free hand curls around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, guiding you back to the mirror.

“No. Look,” he growls, his voice low and possessive. “I want you to see how good I make you feel. How pretty you look falling apart just for me.”

You force your eyes open, lips parted, eye makeup already smudged, breath shaking, and what you see unravels you: his body pressed to yours, his hand moving between your legs like he owns you, his gaze fixed entirely on your reflection.

The sight of it, the feeling of him everywhere, inside and around you, tips you over the edge.

You cry out, helpless and raw, as your body clenches hard around his fingers. He doesn’t slow. He works you through it, murmuring praise against your ear.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s my good girl. So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”

Your hips jerk, grinding into his palm as your orgasm pulses through you, long and overwhelming. When the waves finally ease, your body limp and trembling, he slowly withdraws his fingers, slick and shining.

You shiver, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his hips against you, the thick hardness of him pressing against your thighs.

He suddenly guides you forward, one hand on your back, he presses you down firmly, bending you over.

“Stay just like that,” he commands, stepping back slightly to admire the view, your ass pushed out, your eyes wide in the mirror, lips already parted. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then you feel it, his hands on your thighs, spreading them, dragging his fingers slowly along your skin. His shirt hangs open, wrinkled and useless now, clinging to one shoulder, exposing his toned chest, flushed and rising with every harsh breath. His palm presses to the center of your back, bending you over the vanity with a firm, unyielding push.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs, voice low and dark. “I want you spread out. Pretty. Obedient.”

You obey without thinking, chest against the cool surface. Then, with excruciating slowness, he undoes his belt. The sound alone makes your breath hitch. He keeps his eyes locked on yours in the mirror as he pushes his pants down just enough and frees himself, fingers wrapping around his cock like he’s been aching for this.

And when you see him… you go still.

He’s thick, long, flushed and heavy in his hand, already glistening at the tip.

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it.

“Oh?” he smirks, stroking himself lazily, intentionally, letting your eyes drink in every inch. “Surprised?”

You hear the sound of him spitting in his hand, stroking himself once, twice, and then that thick, hard length is sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance.

His hand slides into your hair, not rough, but controlling, guiding your eyes back to the mirror.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he commands, hand fisting your hair just enough to lift your gaze. “You’re gonna watch what it looks like when your best friend finally fucks you.”

Then, with one slow, devastating thrust, he sinks into you.

Deep.

Possessive.

Claiming.

He groans behind you, head falling forward, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.

“God-, fuck, you’re big,” you gasp, hands scrambling to grip the edge of the vanity.

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in, hard enough to make the vanity rattle.

You gasp, fingers scrambling for the edge, and he laughs behind you, breathless.

“More,” you cry, pushing back into him, shaking. “Don’t stop-, fuck, please don’t stop.”

“You want more?” he hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head up so you’re forced to look at yourself in the mirror. “Look at this mess. Look what I’m doing to you.”

He slams into you harder. Filthy. Relentless. His palm lands on your ass, then rubs over the sting like he owns every inch of your body.

Then he snaps, hips continually slamming into you with a rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Over and over again. The sound of skin against skin echoes, obscene and raw, as he pounds into you like he’s lost all restraint. He leans over you suddenly, chest pressing to your back. His breath fans hot across your skin as his lips find your shoulder.

He kisses it once. Then again, slower.

“You gonna come like this?” he demands, voice thick and breathless. “Bent over, ass red, stuffed full of me?”

“Yes-,”

But he doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

Just when your body tenses, right on the edge, he pulls out halfway and stills.

You let out a sob, raw and desperate, collapsing onto your elbows against the vanity.

“No…” you whimper, voice trembling. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because I said so,” he growls behind you, breathing hard. “And if you’re mine now… you come when I let you.”

A sharp slap lands on your ass, the heat blooming instantly, making you cry out and he grins at the way your thighs twitch, how your body tries to grind back into him without thinking.

“Oh, you like that,” he mutters, dragging his palm over the curve of your ass, then gripping both cheeks hard, spreading you open as he groans. “Look at this view. Fucking perfect. So pretty and messy for me.”

His hand grabs your wrist, dragging you upright, spinning you to face him. His mouth crashes into yours in a messy, heated kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless need. You barely have time to cling to him before he’s walking you backward toward the bed.

“You think I was gonna finish you over a vanity?” he growls against your lips. “Not a fucking chance.”

You fall back onto the mattress with a gasp, legs spread slightly, chest heaving, body already trembling from the way he’s used you, and he just stands there for a second, looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

Then his eyes narrow.

“Spread your legs wider.”

You do, instantly.

His shirt is half off, a desperate tug of fabric, and as he pulls his pants fully down, he’s not wasting any time to let you get a full look at him. His cock stands heavy, dripping with need, leaking as he strokes himself with a low growl.

You open your mouth, but the words die as he moves closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed. His hand wraps around your ankle and drags you toward him, his grip firm, claiming. He leans over you, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly along your inner thigh.

“Tell me,” he demands, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Did it turn you on? Knowing he saw you with me? Knowing he saw how badly I wanted to rip that dress off you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, breath hitching.

Then he’s kissing you again, slower this time but just as possessive. His hand wraps behind your neck, holding you in place as he takes what he wants, savoring your reactions, feeding off every moan that escapes you.

“Look at this,” he mutters, gaze locked between your legs. “So swollen. So wet. All for me.”

His hand drags slowly down your stomach, the heat of his palm branding every inch of skin it touches. It’s not hurried, no, it’s maddeningly slow, his fingers grazing along the dip below your navel, making your muscles jump with anticipation.

Then his fingers reach your folds, gliding through your slickness, deliberately lazy. You twitch under his touch, hips tilting up instinctively.

And then-

He slaps your pussy. Open palm. Quick.

The sound cracks through the room, sharp and obscene. The sting hits you a second later, blooming heat across your center, and your whole body jolts, legs trembling.

“Fuck-!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Wooyoung-,”

He smirks down at you, all dark satisfaction. “Oh yeah,” he says, eyes heavy with lust. “You liked that.”

Before you can catch your breath, he does it again. A second slap, just as sharp. The impact makes your thighs jerk apart, a cry tearing from your throat.

He moans, actually moans at the sight of you coming undone. “God, you’re so fucking hot when you take it like that.”

Your body is pulsing, burning, begging.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, breath hot as he leans closer, dragging two fingers through your folds again. “Dripping. You get this wet from just my hand?”

He rubs your clit in tight, quick circles, pressure unforgiving but just right, sending sparks up your spine. The contrast of pain and pleasure makes your head spin.

Your hands grip the sheets hard enough to cramp. “Fuck, Wooyoung-, don’t stop-”

He chuckles low and hungry. “Didn’t plan on it.”

With one smooth motion, he shifts, settling between your thighs. His cock, thick, flushed, already leaking, presses against your entrance, the tip catching on your slick folds. He rubs himself through your arousal, slow and teasing, just enough to make your hips chase him.

You try to lift your hips, to take him in, but he pins you back down, eyes wild.

“No. I get to fuck you when I say so,” he growls, mouth crashing down onto yours, kissing you hard, deep, messy, like he’s starving. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s ever tasted good.

When he finally thrusts in, it’s a single, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt and knocking the air right out of your lungs.

“Fuck,-” you gasp, eyes rolling back.

He doesn’t give you a second to adjust before pulling back and slamming into you again, the force of it leaving you breathless.

He doesn’t stop. He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, body caging you in like a predator. His mouth finds yours, kissing you like he’s drowning, messy and hot and desperate. Teeth, tongue, breathless moans between every clashing movement.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he growls against your lips. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

So you do.

His pupils are blown, his hair a mess, sweat on his brow, mouth parted. But it’s his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted, and that makes your heart slam against your ribs.

You’re gasping, crying out, and he swallows every sound, his kiss never softening, only growing more frenzied as his hips pound into you.

“You feel that?” he pants into your mouth. “That’s mine. This pussy’s mine.”

He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab your thigh, throw your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, angle harsher. His grip is punishing, like he needs to hold you down to keep from losing his mind.

“Shit-,” you sob, clinging to him now. “You’re so deep-, I can’t-,”

“You can,” he growls. “Oh, fuck, baby-, that’s it,” he smirks, sweat dripping down from his neck. “You feel so good-, so fucking tight, so wet, I could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

He drops his head to your neck, biting and sucking bruises into your skin, marking you as his hands move constantly, palming your breast, gripping your hip, dragging across your thigh, he can’t stop touching you.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me make you feel so fucking good.”

You clench around him and he nearly loses it, thrusts getting sloppier, harder, messier. He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to his.

“Please-, Wooyoung, I’m close-”

“Yeah? Let me hear you. Come for me. Come on my cock, baby, let me feel you.”

And it hits you, fast and deep, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes through you like a wave you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

Wooyoung watches it take you, and it wrecks him.

“God, baby,” he growls, suddenly losing all rhythm, all control. “You feel so-, fuck, I’m not gonna last-,”

You reach up, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you just like he did to you. “Don’t stop. Give it to me.”

That does it.

With a strangled moan of your name, he buries himself in you with a final, desperate thrust. His whole body tenses as he gives in, letting himself fall apart.

You can’t help but look at his face as that wave of pleasure overtakes him. His mouth is parted, lips trembling with the sounds he can’t hold back, brows drawn together in a tight knot like he’s fighting to stay grounded. The muscles in his jaw twitch, veins standing out along his neck and arms, his whole body straining as he spills everything into you.

When he finally exhales, it’s a ragged, shaky breath, and his body slowly relaxes, chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to come back down. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t say a word. He just lowers his weight over you gently, careful not to crush you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

You can still feel the warmth of him inside you, the lingering tension of release pulsing between your bodies.

Then he lifts his head, just barely, and looks down at you, really looks. His gaze roams over your flushed cheeks, kiss-bitten lips, the way you’re still dazed and boneless beneath him.

And then he grins. Slow, smug, wicked.

“God,” he says, voice low and pleased.

You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his eyes drag over you like he’s memorizing everything. The mess he’s made of you. The way you still haven’t caught your breath.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply, but it lands heavy in your chest. “Like… stupid beautiful.”

Heat rushes to your face. You instinctively turn your head, trying to hide the way your lips curl, the way you can’t even look at him right now.

But that just makes him laugh, low and breathless.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, fingers catching your chin, turning your face back to his. “don’t get all shy on me now. Not after the things I just did to you.”

“Wooyoung-“ you try to protest, flustered, but it’s useless.

He shifts suddenly, his hand pinning your wrist to the bed as he leans in, eyes blazing. “Nope,” he growls playfully.

When his mouth crashes into yours, it’s not sweet or teasing, it’s intense. Deep and all-consuming, like he’s starving for you. His tongue claims yours, every movement deliberate, dominant.

When he finally pulls back, barely an inch, his lips are swollen and his voice is wrecked.

“I’m never gonna get enough of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Never.”

***

You wake up slowly, the soft light of the morning creeping into the room, bathing everything in a warm glow. His arm is still draped over you, his breath steady and calm. You shift gently, trying not to wake him, but you can’t help but linger for a moment, watching his peaceful expression. He looks so content, so relaxed, last night still feels like a dream.

Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist and slip out of bed. As you stand, you glance back at him. His face is soft, his black hair a little messy, and the sight of him, even in his sleep, makes your heart flutter. You try to suppress the smile that tugs at your lips, but you can’t help it.

Quietly, you make your way to the kitchen. The cool air of the morning greets you as you open the cabinet and pull out his cereal box.

You’re perched on the kitchen counter, bare legs dangling, quietly munching on a bowl of Wooyoung’s ridiculous neon-colored cereal. The box sits beside you, obnoxiously bright. You’d teased him for years about how awful it looked, and secretly craved it every time.

You hear the soft shuffle of feet before you see him.

Wooyoung emerges from the hallway, shirtless, his hair a messy halo of waves, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks like a dream and somehow worse for your heart in the morning light. A familiar ache stirs in your chest. This is your best friend. Your roommate. The same guy who left his laundry in the hallway and screamed at horror games.

The same guy who had his hands all over you last night and made you come like no one else.

“Morning, roomie,” he mutters, voice low and rough, smirking when his eyes catch yours. They linger. “Is that my cereal?”

You nod, trying not to choke on it now that your mouth’s gone dry. “It was calling to me.”

He walks right up to you, stepping between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times. Only now, there’s nothing innocent about the way he crowds your space.

You glance down, gripping the bowl a little tighter. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant. “You, uh… want some?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just takes the spoon from your hand, still warm from your touch, and scoops up a bite like it’s nothing. His other hand settles on your thigh, casual but firm. You forget how to breathe.

He hums like it’s gourmet. “God, I love this shit.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it’s weak. He’s too close. Too warm. Too real.

And then, without warning, he leans in close, mouth brushing your ear.

“Good morning, beautiful,”

Before you can say anything else, before your heart can fully flip in your chest, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but then it deepens, and the world around you fades. There’s no rush, no frantic need, just the slow, steady push and pull of lips, the quiet hum of connection between you two, something that’s always been there but is only now being acknowledged.

His lips linger just long enough to make your stomach twist in the best way before he pulls back, barely.

You stare at him, still a little dazed. He smirks.

“What?” he says, all fake innocence. “You gonna yell at me for stealing your cereal or for kissing you?”

You eye him, lips twitching. “Still weighing my options.”

He shrugs, hands still warm where they’re resting on your thighs. “Take your time. I’ve got all morning.”

“You’re literally the most impatient person I know,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he hums, brushing his thumb just under the hem of your shorts, right where it makes your breath catch. “Not when it comes to you. I like watching you squirm too much.”

You exhale a laugh, trying not to give him the satisfaction. He just grins wider, enjoying seeing you like this.

It’s completely unfair, the way he looks so relaxed. Like this, you and him and whatever happened last night, isn’t a big deal. Like waking up tangled together, touching each other like that, was just the natural next step.

And maybe… maybe it was.

“You know,” he adds after a beat, glancing at your bowl again, “I thought about that last night.”

“What, the cereal?” you ask, trying to level your voice.

He nods, all faux-innocent. “Had this whole internal debate. Go finish the box or save you some.”

You squint at him. “You didn’t even eat any.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “Fell asleep. Dreamt about it. Woke up, and there you were. Stealing the first bowl like some greedy little gremlin.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

“And hungry,” he adds, stealing your spoon without looking. He takes another bite, still watching you, chewing like he’s thinking about sin. “Might be craving something a little messier, though.”

You scoff, but your thighs tense around his hips, pulling him in closer. He feels it. Of course he does.

You think that’s the end of it, but then he tilts his head a little, voice dropping. “Also, you were real cute sneaking around out here like I couldn’t hear you. Hair all messy. Wearing nothing but your-”

“Stop,” you cut in, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

He just laughs, clearly enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying. Round two almost happened right then and there.”

You shoot him a look. “I was literally getting cereal.”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek again before he murmurs, “Yeah, and you still looked hot.”

You go quiet, too aware of his mouth near yours and the fact that he’s still standing between your knees like he belongs there.

You open your mouth, no idea what you’re even going to say, but he’s already leaning in.

And then he kisses you again, easy, unhurried, like it’s just what he does now. Like kissing you is second nature.

And god, maybe it is.

#ateez smut #ateez fanfic #ateez au #ateez x reader #ateez fluff #kpop fanfic #ateez scenarios #atz fanfic #ateez #ateez fic #jung wooyoung #atz wooyoung #ateez wooyoung #fanfic #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fic #kpop smut

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mimgki · 4 months ago

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yunho as your boyfriend texts

warnings: freak yunho, freak fem!reader, yunho calls reader tiny, suggestive, NSFW, implied sex (😱), minors do not interact!!

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

#ateez x reader #yunho x reader #ateez texts #yunho #ateez yunho #ateez x you #x reader #ateez fake texts #atz yunho

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kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

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The Moment I Saw You || C.San

Pairing: Rookie.Idol!Reader x Idol!San

Requested: Yes

Word Count: 10,495 words ; Reading Time: 40-ish mins

Synopsis: They called you the "guitar rookie" — cool, mysterious, and unforgettable on stage. But for San, it only took one performance to fall completely under your spell. What starts as quiet glances and backstage banter slowly turns into secret texting, emotional confessions, and late-night comfort. But fame is cruel, and love in the spotlight even more so. When the hate gets brutal, San does something no one expects — he fights for you.

Author’s Note: This story’s a love letter to that electric spark between two people who meet in the whirlwind of fame and find peace in each other. I adore writing flustered San, loyal San, "ride-or-die" San — so this fic gave me life. Hope you enjoy the slow burn, tension, and soft chaos.

The air in the practice room always smelled faintly of sweat and ambition, a potent cocktail that you had grown accustomed to. Just six months into your solo debut, the buzz around you was a low hum, a quiet acknowledgment of the raw talent that crackled through your live performances. In a sea of perfectly synchronized dance routines and polished pop anthems, you offered something different: grit. Authenticity. And a damn good electric guitar.

Your company, a smaller label that had taken a gamble on your unique blend of idol charm and rockstar edge, was cautiously optimistic. Your digital single had performed respectably, earning you a small but fiercely loyal fanbase who appreciated your self-composed tracks and the way your fingers danced across the fretboard during live stages – a genuine rarity in the current idol landscape.

You yourself preferred the quiet hum of anticipation to the deafening roar of immediate fame. It gave you space to breathe, to hone your craft, to let the music speak for itself. Your stage presence was a carefully constructed paradox: cool and composed, almost aloof, yet undeniably magnetic. There was a mysterious charm about the way you’d offer a fleeting smirk after a particularly sharp riff, the way your dark eyes would scan the crowd with an unreadable intensity.

Tonight, however, the quiet hum was about to be amplified to a deafening roar. Tonight was the culmination of a year’s worth of relentless work: the prestigious Gayo Daejun. The air backstage thrummed with nervous energy, a chaotic symphony of hurried footsteps, last-minute mic checks, and the hushed excitement of idols from every corner of the industry.

Your own dressing room felt like a small island of calm amidst the storm. Your black custom guitar, affectionately nicknamed 'Shadow', leaned against the wall, its sleek body gleaming under the soft lighting. Your stylist fussed with the subtle silver chains adorning your black leather jacket, while your makeup artist dabbed at your already flawless smoky eye.

“Ready, Y/N-ah?” your manager, a kind but perpetually stressed man named Mr. Kim, poked his head in.

You offered a small, confident nod. Inside, however, a familiar flutter of nerves danced in your stomach. This was the biggest stage you’d ever performed on. The audience wasn’t just your fans; it was the entire Korean entertainment industry, fellow idols you admired, and millions watching at home.

As the minutes ticked by, the tension backstage thickened. Snippets of other performances drifted into your room – the booming bass of a powerful dance track, the soaring vocals of a ballad. Then, Mr. Kim gave you the signal. It was time.

Walking towards the stage felt surreal. The backstage area was a blur of glittering costumes and anxious faces. You took a deep breath, the scent of hairspray and expensive perfume filling your lungs. The roar of the crowd beyond the heavy curtains was a tangible thing, a wave of sound that promised both exhilaration and potential disaster.

Your name flashed on the monitor, and a surge of adrenaline coursed through your veins. This was it.

The lights dimmed, and a single spotlight pierced the darkness, landing squarely on your silhouette as you stood center stage, Shadow slung low across your hips. A hush fell over the arena, a pregnant silence that amplified the frantic beating of your own heart.

Then, you raised your hand, your fingers hovering over the strings. A single, clean note rang out, cutting through the silence. It was the opening of your self-composed track, a raw and edgy anthem about breaking free. The crowd responded with a wave of cheers, but you barely registered it. Your focus narrowed, your world shrinking to the six strings beneath your fingertips.

The first chord hit like a punch to the gut – a gritty, distorted power chord that reverberated through the stadium. The stage lights pulsed in time with the music, casting sharp shadows that danced around you. Your cool composure settled over you like a second skin. Head tilted slightly, you launched into the opening riff, your fingers a blur of practiced precision.

From the side of the stage, hidden in the shadows after the explosive finale of his own group’s performance, Choi San stood catching his breath. Ateez had just delivered a high-octane set, leaving the crowd in a frenzy. He was about to grab a water bottle when a lone figure walked onto the stage. He barely glanced up, expecting another flashy dance number.

But then, the first chord struck.

San froze. The plastic water bottle slipped from his suddenly numb fingers, clattering unnoticed on the floor. His jaw went slack, his breath catching in his throat. It wasn’t just the sound – though the raw, live tone of the electric guitar was a shock in itself – it was the sheer confidence emanating from the figure bathed in the spotlight.

His heart, which had been pounding from Ateez’s intense performance, now seemed to have vanished entirely, replaced by a strange, hollow ache.

He watched, unblinking, as you moved with a fluid grace that belied the aggressive energy of your music and your soft voice blending well. The way your head would snap back with a flick of your dark hair during a particularly powerful strum, the fleeting smirk that would play on your lips as you effortlessly shredded a solo – it was captivating.

The music surged, a tidal wave of sound washing over the arena. San was oblivious to the cheers of the crowd, the flashing lights, the murmurs of his own members nearby. His entire world had narrowed to the figure on stage, the girl with the guitar, the raw talent that seemed to bleed from her fingertips.

He watched as you stepped closer to the edge of the stage during a particularly intricate solo, your eyes locking with unseen members of the audience. There was a fire in them, a fierce passion that resonated deep within him.

The final chord crashed, echoing through the stadium before fading into a sudden, profound silence. Then, the arena erupted. The cheers were deafening, a testament to the captivating performance they had just witnessed.

You offered a small bow, the corner of your lips tilting into that enigmatic smirk one last time before you turned and walked off stage, disappearing behind the curtain.

San remained rooted to the spot, his mind a complete blank. The echoes of the music still vibrated in his chest. It wasn't just that you were talented; there was something else, something that had resonated with him on a visceral level.

Finally, as his members started to nudge him, concern etched on their faces, San managed a single, breathless utterance, his voice barely a whisper amidst the lingering roar of the crowd.

“…who is she?”

The adrenaline from Ateez’s performance had long since faded, replaced by a persistent, almost unsettling hum within San. Back in their dorm, the usual boisterous energy of the members felt muted, a backdrop to the insistent replay echoing in his mind. He’d excused himself shortly after they’d arrived, claiming exhaustion, but instead, he’d retreated to his bunk, phone clutched tightly in his hand.

The YouTube video title glowed on the screen: “Y/N - Iconic Solo Debut Stage @ Gayo Daejun” He’d found it within minutes of searching, the algorithm already attuned to the sudden spike in interest surrounding the mysterious guitarist.

He pressed play.

The opening chord of ‘[Your Song Title]’ reverberated through his earbuds, sending a familiar jolt through him. He watched, his eyes glued to the screen, as you stepped into the spotlight. Every subtle movement, every confident strum, every flick of your hair was magnified, imbued with a significance he couldn’t quite articulate.

He watched the entire performance again, and then again. A strange tension coiled in his stomach, a feeling he hadn’t experienced before. It wasn’t just admiration for your talent; it was something deeper, something that felt intensely personal.

On the fourth viewing, he paused the video. It was a fleeting moment, almost imperceptible – a small, genuine smile that flickered across your lips after nailing a particularly challenging riff. It wasn’t a practiced idol smile for the cameras; it was a flash of pure, unadulterated joy, a glimpse behind the cool facade. San’s thumb hovered over the screen, tracing the curve of your smile as if he could somehow capture the feeling it evoked within him. His chest tightened.

He replayed the solo, the intricate melody and the raw energy of your playing sending shivers down his spine. He’d always appreciated good musicianship, but this… this was different. It wasn't just skill; it was soul. It was like the music was an extension of you, a direct line to something honest and captivating.

A restless energy began to build within him. He needed to know more.

He exited YouTube and opened his browser, typing in your stage name. Information flooded the screen: your full name, your company, the name of your debut single, even a few interviews where you spoke shyly about your music and your unconventional path as a guitar-playing idol. He clicked on every link, devouring every piece of information, piecing together a fragmented image of the person behind the captivating performer.

He learned you were a soloist, which surprised him. Your stage presence felt like it could command an entire band. He scrolled through fan forums, reading comments that echoed his own fascination: “Who is this girl?”, “That guitar solo was insane!”, “Her vibe is so cool.”

Later, when a few of the members had gathered in the common room, their post-show buzz slowly dissipating into comfortable exhaustion, San couldn’t contain it any longer. He wandered in, his phone still clutched in his hand.

“Do you guys know the rookie guitarist from tonight?” he asked, his voice a little too eager.

Wooyoung, sprawled on the couch scrolling through his own phone, looked up, a playful smirk already forming on his lips. “You mean the one you haven’t stopped watching on your phone?”

San flushed slightly, trying to appear nonchalant. “I was just… impressed. Her live playing was really something.”

Jongho, ever the straightforward one, nodded. “She was good. Definitely stood out.”

Hongjoong, who had been quietly sketching in a notebook, looked up, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Bro. You’ve watched that clip six times since we got back.”

San’s ears burned. He hadn’t realized he’d been that obvious. He mumbled something about needing to analyze different performance styles.

Hongjoong leaned back, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. “Analyzing, huh? Or maybe… admiring?” He tapped his pen against his chin thoughtfully. “She did have a certain… je ne sais quoi.”

San avoided his leader’s gaze, suddenly finding the pattern on the rug intensely interesting.

“Just ask her out already, Romeo,” Hongjoong added, his voice laced with playful teasing.

San’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “Hyung! What? No! I just… I was curious about her music.”

The other members exchanged knowing glances, a chorus of suppressed chuckles filling the room. San knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. The image of you on stage, bathed in that single spotlight, the raw sound of your guitar echoing in his ears, was firmly imprinted in his mind. The quiet hum of curiosity had morphed into something far more insistent, a burgeoning fascination that felt dangerously close to… obsession. And he had a feeling this was just the beginning.

The fluorescent lights of the music show backstage buzzed with a familiar, almost sterile energy. A few days had passed since the Gayo Daejun, and the memory of your performance still lingered in San’s mind like a favorite song he couldn’t stop humming. He’d tried to play it cool around his members, deflecting their teasing with awkward jokes and feigned disinterest. But the truth was, he’d spent a significant amount of his downtime rewatching your stage and scrolling through any new information he could find about you. He even found a few fan-made compilation videos of your live guitar moments, each one further solidifying his initial captivated impression.

Fate, or perhaps his own carefully orchestrated movements, had brought them both to the same music show today. Ateez had an early performance slot, and San had been surprisingly subdued throughout their pre-show preparations, his usual playful energy noticeably absent. His mind was elsewhere, a nervous anticipation thrumming beneath his skin. He kept replaying Hongjoong’s teasing words – “Just ask her out already, Romeo” – and a ridiculous scenario where he tripped over his own feet while trying to introduce himself.

He’d subtly inquired about your schedule from one of the staff members he knew, feigning general interest in the lineup. When he learned your dressing room was on the same floor, a few doors down from Ateez’s, a plan began to form – a flimsy, transparent excuse to be in your vicinity. He’d even rehearsed a few potential opening lines in his head, ranging from a simple “Hello” to a more elaborate (and probably disastrous) compliment about your guitar tone.

Now, his heart hammered against his ribs as he stood outside your dressing room, a half-empty water bottle clutched in his hand. He’d “coincidentally” run out of water just as Ateez’s segment wrapped up, and this hallway, he’d reasoned, was the most logical place to find a water dispenser. He leaned against the cool wall, trying to project an air of casual nonchalance, taking slow, deliberate sips. Every distant footstep echoing down the corridor sent a jolt of nervous energy through him. He silently berated himself for his lack of composure. He was Choi San, for crying out loud. He commanded stages filled with roaring fans. Why was this one potential interaction turning him into a stammering mess?

Then, the door to your dressing room opened.

San’s breath hitched. You stepped out, your manager, a slightly harried-looking man in a crisp suit, a few paces behind you, both seemingly engrossed in a quiet conversation. You were dressed in a stylishly understated outfit for your post-performance interviews – dark wash jeans, a slightly oversized band tee, and a delicate silver necklace peeking out from beneath the collar. Your dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail that accentuated the sharp angles of your jawline and the delicate curve of your neck. San’s gaze lingered for a fraction too long.

For a split second, your eyes met his. Your expression was neutral, a polite acknowledgment of a familiar face in the industry. But for San, it felt like a spotlight had suddenly illuminated him. He froze, his carefully constructed facade of nonchalance crumbling into a jumbled mess of nerves and a sudden, intense awareness of his own slightly sweaty post-performance state.

He hadn’t planned what to say, hadn’t rehearsed any smooth lines that could possibly convey the impact your performance had had on him. All the witty remarks and carefully crafted compliments he’d mentally conjured vanished from his brain, leaving him with a single, overwhelming thought: it’s really her. Up close, the intensity he’d witnessed on stage was somehow both amplified and softened.

As you drew closer, his throat suddenly felt incredibly dry. He pushed himself off the wall, his legs feeling strangely unsteady, like he’d just finished a particularly grueling choreography session. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but all that came out was a strangled, almost bird-like sound. He winced internally.

“You were…” he finally managed, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly in the relatively quiet hallway, and tried again, his gaze fixed somewhere around your shoulder, unable to meet your eyes directly. “You were… amazing. At the Gayo… the guitar part? Insane.” He cringed internally at his utterly inadequate delivery. Insane? Really, San? That’s the best you could come up with?

You stopped walking, a genuine hint of surprise flickering in your dark eyes. You shyly tucked a loose strand of hair that had escaped your ponytail behind your ear, a delicate, almost unconscious gesture that San found inexplicably endearing. A faint blush, barely perceptible, dusted your cheeks. You lowered your gaze slightly.

“Thank you,” you replied softly, your voice even more melodic and nuanced than he’d expected from your powerful yet soft singing voice. “I… I didn’t think anyone noticed. It felt a little… out of place, maybe, amidst all the other amazing performances.” You offered a small, self-deprecating smile.

San’s internal monologue was a chaotic scream of flailing limbs and incoherent noises. She doesn’t think anyone noticed?! It was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen! Tell her! Tell her how it made you feel! Tell her you haven’t stopped thinking about it!

But outwardly, he could only manage a slightly wider, albeit still awkward, smile and a more emphatic nod. “Noticed? Are you kidding? It was… captivating. The way you played, the energy… it was completely different. In a really, really good way.” He finally managed to meet your eyes, and the intensity he felt seemed to momentarily surprise you. He quickly looked away again, suddenly feeling like he was staring.

He wanted to say so much more – to tell you how the rawness of your sound had cut through the usual polished perfection, how your confidence with the guitar had been incredibly inspiring, how he’d rewatched your solo countless times. But the words seemed trapped in his throat, choked by a sudden wave of self-consciousness and the unexpected reality of you standing right in front of him.

He offered another small, slightly less awkward smile, hoping it conveyed at least a fraction of the genuine admiration and burgeoning fascination he felt. You returned the smile, a brief, shy curve of your lips that sent another unexpected jolt through him, settling somewhere warm and unfamiliar in his chest.

Then, your manager, who had been patiently observing the exchange, gently placed a hand on your arm. “We should probably get going, Y/N-ah. The interview with Star News is starting soon, and they’re waiting.”

“Right,” you said, nodding apologetically. You offered San another quick, polite nod, your eyes briefly meeting his again with a hint of something he couldn’t quite decipher before continuing down the hallway with your manager.

San watched you walk away, your ponytail swaying gently with each step, his mind still reeling from the brief but impactful interaction. He’d actually spoken to you. He’d sounded like a complete idiot, but he’d spoken to you. He replayed the exchange in his head, dissecting every word, every glance, the shy tuck of your hair, the soft melody of your voice.

He took a long, shaky gulp of water, the coolness doing little to quell the heat rising in his cheeks. He leaned back against the wall again, a goofy, starstruck grin slowly spreading across his face. Choi San, the charismatic performer known for his powerful stage presence and confident charm, was officially a flustered mess. And he had a distinct feeling that this brief backstage run-in was just the beginning of a much more complicated – and potentially exhilarating – chapter.

The weeks that followed the music show took on a surreal quality for both you and San. For you, the unexpected compliment from a senior idol, especially one as charismatic as San of Ateez, had been a pleasant surprise. You’d replayed the brief interaction in your mind a few times, a faint warmth spreading through you at the memory of his earnest, if slightly stammering, praise. You’d even found yourself looking up Ateez’s performances afterwards, a newfound curiosity piqued by his intense stage presence and the powerful dynamic of his group.

Then, the “bump-ins” began.

It started subtly. At the company cafeteria, you’d be mid-bite into your kimbap when you’d glance up to find Ateez at a nearby table, their usual boisterous energy filling the space. More often than not, your eyes would meet San’s, and he’d offer a quick, friendly smile, sometimes accompanied by a small wave. You’d offer a shy nod in return, a blush creeping up your neck.

At music show waiting rooms, their paths seemed to intersect with increasing frequency. He’d always find a reason to approach – a casual “Hey, Y/N-ssi, your performance today was great,” or a lighthearted comment about the chaos backstage. Once, he’d even complimented the unique design on your guitar strap, sparking a brief, slightly awkward but undeniably pleasant conversation about your musical influences.

You tried to rationalize it as coincidence, the inevitable overlap of schedules in the relatively small and interconnected idol world. But a persistent feeling, a delicate dance of anticipation and nervousness, began to bloom in your chest. Every time his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at you, a little spark ignited within you.

You found yourself paying more attention to your appearance on days you knew Ateez would be at the same events, and a nervous flutter would erupt in your stomach whenever you heard their distinct laughter echoing down the hallway.

San, on his end, was far from relying on mere chance. He’d become a surprisingly adept strategist, his internal radar constantly pinging for any sign of your presence. He’d casually inquire about your schedule from friendly staff members, linger a little longer near common areas he knew you sometimes frequented, like the practice room hallways or the studio lounges, and even subtly enlist the help of Wooyoung and Seonghwa to “casually” scout ahead.

His members, initially amused by his sudden, laser-like focus, were now exchanging knowing glances and offering increasingly unsubtle teases. “Looking for your sunshine again, San-ah?” Hongjoong had quipped one afternoon, earning him a playful shove.

Then came the official announcement that sent a genuine tremor of excitement through the industry: a special collaboration stage for the upcoming Golden Disc Awards. And your name was listed alongside Ateez. Specifically, the press release detailed a duet and a joint performance piece that would culminate in a powerful instrumental break featuring your guitar playing alongside Ateez’s signature dynamic energy. And the duet partner? Choi San.

A wave of surprise, quickly followed by a surge of nervous excitement that made your palms sweat, washed over you when your manager relayed the news. A collaboration with a group as globally recognized and incredibly talented as Ateez was a monumental opportunity, a chance to reach a wider audience. But the thought of working so intimately with San, the idol who had sparked this unexpected and rather persistent flutter in your heart, sent a different kind of thrill, a more personal and slightly dizzying sensation, through you.

Rehearsals began a week later, a whirlwind of choreography practices with Ateez’s formidable dance line, vocal run-throughs where your voices surprisingly blended with a unique harmony, and meticulous stage blocking sessions. The song was a powerful, emotionally charged ballad that built to an explosive instrumental bridge, perfectly designed to showcase both Ateez’s dramatic performance skills and your raw, emotive guitar prowess.

During these rehearsals, San’s attention was often, though not always overtly, fixed on you. It wasn’t the intense, unwavering gaze from the Gayo stage, but a softer, more curious observation. When you were carefully tuning Shadow before a run-through, the delicate movements of your fingers across the fretboard seemed to captivate him.

He’d lean against the wall, his usual playful banter momentarily silenced, his eyes following your every adjustment. Once, he’d even asked, his voice genuinely curious, “What tuning are you using for this song? It sounds… different.” You’d explained the drop-D tuning and how it lent a heavier feel to the lower register, and he’d listened intently, nodding thoughtfully.

Between takes, as you’d often hum the melody to yourself, lost in the intricacies of the arrangement, his gaze would linger on you, a soft, almost fond smile playing on his lips. Sometimes, he’d even hum along quietly, and you’d catch his eye, a shared moment of musical connection passing between you.

From his perspective, every small detail about you seemed to be etching itself into his memory. The way your brow would furrow in intense concentration as you worked out a particularly complex chord progression, the way you’d tap your foot rhythmically even when you weren’t playing, the small, almost imperceptible sigh you’d let out after a particularly demanding vocal section.

Even the subtle scent that seemed to perpetually surround you – a delicate blend of warm vanilla and a bright, refreshing citrus – became a comforting and uniquely yours sensory detail that he’d subconsciously started to associate with moments of quiet focus and unexpected smiles.

He started calling you “sunshine.” It began innocently enough, a casual remark during a particularly grueling rehearsal when you’d offered a quiet but encouraging word to a visibly tired Wooyoung. “You’re like sunshine, Y/N -ssi,” he’d said with a genuine smile, and the nickname had stuck.

He used it sparingly, mostly during lighter moments or when he wanted to offer encouragement. But the way your cheeks would instantly flush a delicate pink every time the nickname escaped his lips, the way your gaze would momentarily soften and then quickly dart away, told him it had a deeper, more personal impact.

You tried your best to maintain your professional composure, focusing intently on the intricate vocal harmonies you shared with San and the precise timing required for your guitar solo within Ateez’s powerful choreography. But it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the warmth that spread through you every time San’s gaze lingered a little too long, or the way your heart did a little flip-flop whenever he offered you a genuine, encouraging smile, often accompanied by that endearing nickname.

His presence was a constant, gentle distraction, a warm current that made it harder to maintain your focus but also made the often-stressful rehearsal process feel surprisingly lighter, filled with stolen glances and unspoken understandings.

The tension between you was building, an invisible thread stretching taut with each shared rehearsal and fleeting interaction. It wasn’t just the pressure of the highly anticipated Golden Disc performance; it was the undeniable pull of mutual attraction, a silent conversation conducted through lingering glances, shy smiles, and the shared language of music.

You both knew something was subtly shifting, a delicate connection forming beneath the surface of polite professional interactions. The Golden Disc stage was looming, and with it, the tantalizing promise of a closer collaboration, and perhaps, something significantly more.

The exchange of phone numbers had been a purely practical affair, orchestrated with the efficiency of a military operation by your respective managers under the guise of “seamless rehearsal coordination” for the Golden Disc collaboration. Your contact list now held a new, somewhat official-sounding entry: “San (Ateez) 🎤.” You’d sent a polite introductory text confirming your number, a brief “Hi San-ssi, it’s Y/N. Got your number,” and he’d replied with a simple but friendly, “Got it! Looking forward to working with you, Y/N-ssi :)”. The initial exchange felt formal, almost anticlimactic, leaving you wondering if that would be the extent of your direct communication outside of rehearsals.

However, as the intense rehearsal schedule for the Golden Disc Awards kicked into high gear, the need for direct communication occasionally and organically arose. A last-minute change in the choreography blocking that affected your stage positioning, a question from San about the specific tone you were aiming for during the instrumental break, a quick confirmation needed on shared wardrobe elements to ensure visual harmony on stage.

These exchanges were usually brief and strictly professional, yet each notification that popped up on your screen displaying San’s name still elicited a subtle, almost involuntary quickening of your pulse, a tiny flutter of anticipation that you tried to suppress.

Then came the night after a particularly grueling full dress rehearsal that had stretched late into the evening. You were finally back in the quiet solitude of your dorm room, the distant hum of the city lights painting faint, blurry streaks across your ceiling.

Your body ached in places you didn’t even know existed, your mind still buzzing with the complex choreography, the intricate vocal harmonies you shared with San, and the soaring melody of the collaboration song that had been looping in your head for hours. You’d changed into comfortable pajamas and were mindlessly scrolling through social media on your phone, a familiar and usually effective way to unwind before sleep claimed you, when your phone vibrated with a new message.

The contact name displayed brightly on your screen read “San (Ateez) 🎤.” Your thumb hovered over the notification for a long moment, a strange and unfamiliar mix of anticipation, nervousness, and a touch of something akin to excitement swirling within you. It was late; you hadn’t expected to hear from him.

San (1:03 am): Were you nervous that night? At the Gayo. You didn’t look it at all. Like you owned that stage from the moment you stepped on it.

A small, genuine smile touched your lips. He was thinking about your debut stage again. It felt like a lifetime ago in the whirlwind of the past few months, yet the memory of the intense spotlight, the roar of the crowd, and the raw, unfiltered energy of your music was still incredibly vivid. You hesitated for a moment before replying, carefully considering your words, unsure of how much vulnerability to reveal.

You (1:04 am): Terrified. Honestly. My palms were sweating so much I thought I might drop Shadow. I just didn’t want to screw up on such a big stage, especially as a relatively new face.

Your reply felt honest, stripped of the cool, composed confidence you consciously projected on stage. You wondered if he’d find it surprising, perhaps even disappointing, that the seemingly fearless guitarist had been battling a storm of nerves underneath.

His response came almost immediately, the speed of it making you smile again.

San (1:04 am): Seriously? You were incredible. You commanded that stage like it was your own. The way you moved, the way you connected with the music… and that guitar solo… still gives me chills every time I watch it. You have such a unique energy.

A warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your chest at his words. It was different from the polite, often generic compliments you usually received from industry colleagues. There was a genuine enthusiasm and a keen observation in his message that felt… real and deeply validating.

San (1:05 am): Next time you’re on a big stage like that, I’m cheering for you from the front row. Promise. I’ll even bring a giant banner with your name on it!! :}

Your heart did a little unexpected flutter at that playful promise. A promise from Choi San, delivered in the quiet intimacy of a late-night text message. You typed out a simple “Thank you :]” but deleted it, feeling it was far too inadequate to express the warmth that was blossoming within you.

You (1:06 am): That means a lot, San-ssi. Really. It’s… reassuring to hear that.

The late-night texts slowly but surely became a more regular, almost anticipated occurrence. They were often initiated by San, usually after both of your demanding schedules had finally wound down for the day, when the rest of the bustling idol world seemed to have finally fallen silent.

They talked about everything and nothing – the unique pressures and unexpected joys of being an idol, their individual musical tastes and surprising shared interests in obscure indie artists, funny and sometimes slightly embarrassing anecdotes from their respective days.

You found yourself genuinely looking forward to these digital exchanges, the quiet intimacy of sharing your thoughts and feelings with someone who seemed to genuinely understand the unique and often isolating pressures you faced in the industry.

San was surprisingly easy to talk to, his digital persona mirroring the warm and playful energy he exuded in person, but with an added layer of thoughtful curiosity. His texts were often punctuated with a liberal use of playful emojis and genuine, insightful questions.

He’d delve into your songwriting process, asking about your lyrical inspirations and the emotions you aimed to convey through your music. He even remembered the name of your guitar, Shadow, and would occasionally ask about it, curious about its history and your connection to it.

You found yourself opening up to him in a way you hadn’t with many others in the industry, the relative anonymity and unspoken understanding of the late-night messages creating a safe and comfortable space for vulnerability.

One particularly hectic afternoon, in the midst of a chaotic day of back-to-back schedules that included a radio interview and a photoshoot, your phone buzzed with a picture message from San. Your initial thought was that it was probably another funny meme his members had sent him.

But when you opened it, your breath hitched slightly. It was a selfie of him, looking slightly tired but grinning broadly, his dark hair a little tousled, holding up a piece of slightly crumpled white paper. Scrawled on it in playful, slightly uneven lettering, adorned with a few charmingly crooked doodles, were the words: “Team Y/N”. He’d even drawn a little stick figure playing a guitar next to your name, its shape endearingly lopsided.

A genuine, unguarded smile bloomed on your face, chasing away some of the day’s accumulated stress. You quickly saved the picture to a private album in your gallery, tucking it away amongst your personal photos, a secret little treasure.

Every now and then, when the relentless pressures of the industry felt particularly overwhelming or isolating, you’d find yourself subconsciously scrolling through your gallery and stumbling upon that silly, heartfelt selfie, and a wave of unexpected warmth and quiet support would wash over you, a tangible reminder of the connection you were slowly building. The late-night whispers in the digital darkness were undeniably weaving a delicate but strengthening thread of something special and undeniably personal between you and Choi San.

The Golden Disc Awards ceremony was a blur of flashing lights, roaring applause, and the nervous energy that permeated every corner of the massive venue. Your collaboration stage with Ateez had been a resounding success.

The ballad, initially a gentle blend of your vocals and San’s, had built in intensity, culminating in the powerful instrumental break where your guitar solo intertwined seamlessly with Ateez’s dynamic performance. The crowd had been captivated, a sea of glowing lightsticks swaying in unison.

Backstage, the atmosphere was electric with post-performance adrenaline. You exchanged exhausted but exhilarated smiles with the Ateez members, a sense of shared accomplishment hanging in the air. San’s eyes had met yours a few times amidst the congratulatory chaos, a soft, knowing smile passing between you that spoke volumes without uttering a single word.

As the evening progressed, and the awards ceremony moved onto other performances and announcements, the opportunity for a private moment felt increasingly elusive. Yet, a silent understanding seemed to exist between you and San, a shared desire to acknowledge the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface of rehearsals and late-night texts.

Finally, during a brief intermission, amidst the flurry of idols heading to the refreshment areas or making quick phone calls, San caught your eye from across the bustling backstage corridor. He offered a subtle nod towards a less-trafficked hallway leading towards the emergency exits, a silent invitation.

Your heart skipped a beat. You made a quick excuse to your manager about needing some fresh air and followed him, your steps light with a mixture of anticipation and nervous excitement.

The hallway was dimly lit and blessedly quiet, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos you’d just escaped. San was leaning against the cool wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his stylish stage jacket. He looked up as you approached, his usual playful energy replaced by a soft, almost vulnerable expression.

A comfortable silence settled between you for a moment, the unspoken tension thick in the air. You fiddled with the hem of your dress, your gaze fixed on the patterned carpet.

“That was… incredible,” you murmured, breaking the silence, the adrenaline of the performance still coursing through you. “Thank you for… for everything during rehearsals. It was amazing working with you all.”

San pushed himself off the wall, taking a step closer. His gaze was intense, focused solely on you. “The pleasure was all ours, Y/N-ah. Your playing… it added a whole other dimension to the song.” He paused, then his voice softened. “But you know… tonight… when we were performing…”

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, a question in your eyes.

You murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, the words feeling both inevitable and terrifying to voice, “You weren’t looking at the audience tonight, San-ssi. Not really. You were looking at me.”

A soft, almost shy smile spread across his face, a smile that reached his eyes and made your heart do that familiar little flip. He took another step closer, closing the remaining distance between you.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low and husky, his gaze never leaving yours. “Yeah, I was. And you’re right.” He took a deep breath, as if gathering his courage. “That’s… that’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

He reached out, his fingers gently brushing against your hand, sending a jolt of electricity through you. He didn’t take your hand fully, but the light touch was enough.

“From the moment I saw you on that Gayo stage,” he continued, his voice earnest and sincere, “there was something… I don’t know. Something about your passion, your talent… it just… it hit me. Hard.” He chuckled softly, a nervous sound. “And then getting to know you during rehearsals, those late-night texts… it just confirmed what I was already starting to feel.”

He finally met your gaze fully, his eyes filled with a vulnerability that mirrored your own. “I… I really like you, [Your Stage Name]-ah. A lot. And I know this is probably crazy, especially with our careers and everything… but I wanted to be honest with you. I want to give this a real shot. If… if you’re okay with it.”

The sincerity in his voice, the gentle touch of his fingers, the vulnerability in his eyes – it all washed over you, confirming the feelings that had been quietly blossoming in your own heart. The late-night conversations, the stolen glances during rehearsals, the unexpected warmth of his attention – it had all pointed to this moment.

A soft smile bloomed on your own lips, mirroring his. You finally laced your fingers through his, your touch tentative but firm.

“San-ssi,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, “I… I like you too. A lot more than I probably should.” You took a deep breath, your gaze locked with his. “I was… I was falling too.”

A wave of relief washed over his face, his grip on your hand tightening gently. The quiet hallway suddenly felt like the only place in the world, the hushed silence amplifying the unspoken emotions that hung between you. In that dimly lit space, amidst the whirlwind of the idol world, a new chapter had quietly begun.

The initial secrecy of your relationship with San was a fragile, precious thing. It thrived in the quiet moments, in the stolen glances across crowded rooms, and the coded language of late-night texts. Small, tangible tokens of affection became your secret communication.

Notes, folded into impossibly small squares, would appear nestled amongst the strings of Shadow, San’s playful handwriting a stark contrast to the serious intent of his sweet messages. Bubble teas, delivered with a knowing smile by a staff member who’d clearly been briefed, were a small, sweet rebellion against the demands of your schedules. You, in turn, would leave little gifts in Ateez’s studio, a silent acknowledgment of the connection that was growing stronger with each passing day.

But the digital world offered no true sanctuary. The leaked photo, blurry and taken from a distance, was enough to shatter the illusion of privacy. Two figures, walking hand-in-hand under the dim glow of a streetlamp – San’s unmistakable silhouette, your smaller frame – were all it took to ignite the internet.

The explosion was immediate and brutal. Comment sections became battlegrounds, initial curiosity quickly morphing into a torrent of negativity. Accusations of using San for fame were rampant, your talent dismissed, your worth questioned. “She’s just a leech!” one comment screamed. “Riding on Ateez’s success!”

The rigid expectations of idol life fueled the fire. “A rookie dating? Unbelievable!” another user fumed. “She should be focused on her career, not boys!” The attacks grew increasingly personal, descending into cruel insults about your appearance and unfounded rumors about your character. “She’s so plain,” one anonymous commenter sneered. “No wonder she has to cling to someone famous.”

Yet, in the face of this online onslaught, your fans stood firm. They defended your talent, your hard work, your right to a private life. “Leave her alone! She’s an amazing artist!” their voices echoed across the digital space. Surprisingly, a significant number of ATINYs joined their ranks, their support for San extending to his personal happiness. “If San is happy, we should be happy for him,” one ATINY wrote, a sentiment that resonated with many.

Despite this unwavering support, the sheer volume of hate was overwhelming. The negativity seeped into the real world. Your company’s social media was flooded with abusive messages. Your manager’s phone rang non-stop with angry calls.

Then came the chilling delivery. A stark white box. Inside, funeral flowers – white chrysanthemums. A typed note, its words a venomous threat, a stark warning to stay away from San.

The sight of those flowers, a tangible manifestation of such intense hatred, sent a cold wave of fear through you. The joy of your new relationship was instantly poisoned.

San, who had been watching the online storm with growing fury, finally snapped when he learned about the funeral flowers. The image of those stark white blooms, the direct threat against you, ignited a protective rage. He couldn't stand by while you were subjected to such vicious malice.

The playful, loving man you were falling for was momentarily consumed by a fierce, unwavering determination to shield you from the darkness that had descended upon you.

The notification popped up on countless screens simultaneously: “ATEEZ San is live.” Within seconds, the number of viewers skyrocketed. Fans, still reeling from the leaked photo and the ensuing chaos, flooded the chat with questions and worried emojis. San’s lives were usually energetic, filled with playful banter and updates on Ateez’s activities. This felt different.

The camera focused on San’s face, his expression uncharacteristically serious, his eyes holding a raw intensity that made viewers instantly fall silent. He was in what looked like a quiet corner of their dorm, the usual playful clutter noticeably absent. He took a deep breath, his gaze steady and direct.

“Atinys,” he began, his voice lower than usual, carrying a weight that commanded attention. “And… everyone else who is watching.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the unseen viewers. “Over the past few days, there has been a lot of… speculation and negativity online. Regarding the recent photos that were circulated.”

He didn’t name you directly, but everyone knew who he was talking about. The chat, which had been a torrent of messages moments before, slowed to a crawl, a collective holding of breath.

“I usually try to keep my personal life private,” San continued, his voice firm. “But the level of hate and maliciousness that has been directed towards… someone I care deeply about… it cannot be ignored.”

His jaw tightened. “So, I want to be clear about a few things. Firstly, the hateful comments, the personal attacks, the threats… they have gone too far. My company, KQ Entertainment, is already collecting evidence, and if this does not stop immediately, we will be taking strict legal action against those responsible. This is not a request; it is a warning.”

A hush fell over the internet. The mention of legal action, especially from a company known for its protective stance towards its artists, was a serious deterrent.

San’s gaze softened slightly, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes. “Secondly,” he continued, his voice dropping a notch, becoming more personal. “I have seen a lot of unfair accusations being thrown around. Especially towards… her.”

He paused again, taking another deep breath. “So, let me be absolutely clear on this. She did not pursue me. She did not initiate anything. If anyone is to blame for… for us… it is me. I was the one who was captivated from the moment I saw her on stage. I was the one who sought her out. She didn’t confess; I did.”

The impact of his words was palpable. The narrative that had been so viciously constructed online, painting you as an opportunistic rookie, crumbled in an instant.

San’s expression hardened again, his eyes blazing with a fierce protectiveness. “Finally,” he said, his voice ringing with conviction. “The person you are all attacking… she is not some fantasy you have created in your minds. She is not some character in a story. She is a real person. She has feelings, she has dreams, she has worked incredibly hard to get where she is.”

He looked directly into the camera, his gaze unwavering. “And yes,” he stated, his voice firm and resolute, each word carrying weight. “She is mine.”

The internet seemed to hold its breath. The usual rapid-fire commentary in the live chat was replaced by a stunned silence. San’s raw honesty, his direct address of the hate, and his unequivocal declaration had landed like a shockwave.

Slowly, tentatively, the tide began to turn. The sheer force of his statement, coupled with the explicit threat of legal action, had a chilling effect. The most vicious hate comments began to subside, replaced by more cautious and uncertain messages. The fear of facing legal repercussions started to outweigh the anonymity and perceived impunity of online hate.

The narrative had shifted, propelled by San’s unwavering defense of the person he loved. The silence on the internet was heavy, pregnant with the aftermath of his words, and the dawning realization that they had crossed a line they might now have to answer for.

The moment San ended the live stream, the adrenaline that had coursed through him began to recede, leaving behind a raw ache of anxiety. Had he said too much? Had he made things worse for you? The uncertainty gnawed at him as he practically sprinted out of the dorm, his members watching with a mixture of concern and understanding. He didn't offer any explanations, his only focus was getting to you.

The drive to your dorm felt like an eternity. Every red light, every slow-moving car, amplified his fear. He imagined you alone, facing the fallout of the scandal, the weight of the hate, and now, the potential repercussions of his public declaration. He cursed himself for not being there sooner, for not being able to shield you from any of it.

Finally, he reached your building, his heart pounding in his chest. He practically flew up the stairs to your floor, his knuckles rapping urgently against your door. Every second felt like a lifetime.

The door creaked open, and there you stood. Your eyes were red-rimmed, and your face was pale, but the sight of him seemed to bring a flicker of relief. Before either of you could speak, he pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a fierce protectiveness. He held you so close he could feel the tremor that ran through your body.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so, so sorry for all of this.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne a small anchor in the storm of your emotions. Your own voice was muffled against his jacket as you finally spoke.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, San-ah,” you whispered, your words catching on a sob. “You… you didn’t cause this.”

The dam of your carefully held emotions finally broke. Tears streamed down your face, hot and heavy against his shirt. The fear, the anger, the exhaustion of the past few days – it all poured out in a torrent of silent weeping.

He held you tighter, his hand stroking your hair soothingly. He didn’t try to stop your tears; he simply held you, offering a silent reassurance, a solid presence in your moment of vulnerability. He knew words were inadequate. What you needed was comfort, understanding, and the knowledge that you weren't alone.

He held you like that for a long time, until your sobs gradually subsided, leaving behind a quiet hiccuping. He gently pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with a deep tenderness. He brushed a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Are you… are you okay?” he asked softly, his voice laced with concern.

You managed a small, shaky nod. “Just… scared.”

“I know,” he whispered, pulling you back into his embrace. “I know. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He stayed with you that night. You didn’t talk much, the silence filled with a comfortable understanding, a shared exhaustion. He held you close on your small couch, his presence a warm and reassuring weight. Sleep eventually claimed you both, a fragile peace found in each other’s arms amidst the wreckage of the scandal.

The aftermath of San’s live stream was a strange mix of relief and lingering tension. The most vitriolic hate comments online did indeed slow down, replaced by a hesitant uncertainty. The fear of legal action had cast a pall over the most aggressive antis. However, the underlying prejudice and negativity hadn’t vanished entirely.

In the days and weeks that followed, healing became a slow, deliberate process. You leaned on each other, finding strength in your shared experience. San was a constant source of support, his presence a quiet reassurance that helped to soothe your frayed nerves. You talked, tentatively at first, then more openly, sharing your fears and anxieties. He listened without judgment, offering comfort and unwavering support.

Your company, emboldened by San’s public stance and the threat of legal action, stepped up their efforts to protect you, increasing security and actively pursuing legal avenues against the most egregious offenders. The storm hadn't completely passed, but the intensity had lessened, a fragile calm beginning to settle in its wake. The healing had begun, nurtured by the quiet strength of your connection.

Eleven months. The memory of the scandal’s harsh glare had begun to soften around the edges, like a photograph left in the sun. In its place bloomed a quiet resilience, a steadfast focus on the music that truly defined you. The songs you’d poured your heart into during those months of healing, each note and lyric a testament to your journey, were finally seeing the light.

Your new album, a collection of melodies that whispered of romance and longing, resonated with a global audience in a way that surpassed all expectations. The vulnerability and emotions in your voice, the delicate arrangements, the raw honesty of your lyrics – they spoke a universal language of the heart. Fans, who had witnessed the subtle shifts in your music and your demeanor, intuitively understood the quiet inspiration woven into each track.

You watched, a profound sense of gratitude washing over you, as your album soared up international charts, your name now synonymous with a unique blend of idol charm and genuine musical artistry. The label of “rookie guitarist” had faded, replaced by the recognition of a rising star, your music captivating hearts across continents.

Throughout this whirlwind of success, San remained your unwavering anchor, your most enthusiastic supporter. His encouragement was a constant, a quiet strength that buoyed you through every demanding schedule and nerve-wracking performance. He’d be the first to text after a show, his messages a flurry of emojis and heartfelt praise. The Ateez dorm often echoed with your new tracks, his members offering good-natured teases while secretly humming along to the catchy melodies.

And when your solo concerts began, San made sure he was there. He’d often slip into the venue unnoticed, a face in the crowd, his gaze never leaving you as you commanded the stage. From the shadows, his phone would capture fleeting moments – the intense concentration etched on your face during a complex guitar solo, the radiant smile that bloomed when the audience sang your lyrics back to you, the sheer joy that radiated from you as you connected with your fans through your music. His phone gallery became a secret testament to your talent and the pride he felt.

One night, after an electrifying concert in Las Vegas, the energy between you and the roaring audience a tangible force, San felt an overwhelming wave of love and admiration. He wanted the world to know the depth of his feelings, the sheer luck he felt in having you in his life.

Back in his hotel room, the glittering cityscape spread out before him, he scrolled through the candid shots he’d taken that night. He selected a few that truly captured your essence – the focused intensity in your eyes as you played, the pure joy in your laughter as you interacted with the crowd, your silhouette a powerful presence against the vibrant stage lights.

He opened his public Instagram account, his thumb hovering over the share button. He wanted to express his feelings honestly, openly, for all to see. Finally, he typed a caption, his heart laid bare:

“Watching you shine so brightly tonight, Y/N, fills me with a happiness I can barely describe. Your talent is breathtaking, your passion is infectious, and the way you connect with everyone who hears your music is truly magical. I feel incredibly lucky, every single day, to have you in my life. You inspire me endlessly. ❤️🎸”

He attached the soft, candid photos, a public declaration of his love and admiration. The post went live, and the internet responded with an outpouring of warmth and support. Fans, who had long sensed the depth of your connection, were touched by his heartfelt words and the genuine pride that shone through.

The image of the charismatic idol so openly celebrating his partner resonated deeply, solidifying their perception of your relationship as a source of strength and inspiration. The rise of your star was no longer just your own triumph; it was a shared journey, a testament to the enduring power of love that had weathered the storm and now shone brightly for the world to witness.

The relentless pace of idol life often blurred into a continuous cycle of performances, recordings, and travel. But tucked away in the quiet corners of their shared apartment, a haven carved out amidst the chaos, existed a different reality – a space where the bright lights faded and the masks came off.

Tonight was one of those nights. You were curled up on the plush couch, a worn paperback novel open in your lap, bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp. San’s oversized hoodie swallowed your small frame, the sleeves pulled down over your hands. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head, secured with a stray hair tie, and your glasses rested on the bridge of your nose, your makeup-free skin looking soft and natural. You were completely absorbed in your book, oblivious to the world outside and the adoring gaze fixed upon you.

San, who had been quietly tinkering with some music equipment across the room, paused, his eyes drawn to the picture of domestic bliss you presented. A soft smile touched his lips. He reached for his phone, snapping a quick, candid photo of you, your brow furrowed in concentration as you turned a page.

Without a word, he opened his phone settings and set the photo as his wallpaper, a private reminder of the quiet joy you brought to his life. You remained engrossed in your book, completely unaware of his silent adoration and the new image gracing his phone screen.

A mischievous glint suddenly sparked in San’s eyes. He moved silently towards the couch, a playful grin spreading across his face. In one swift motion, he scooped you up in his arms, lifting you with surprising ease.

“San!” you exclaimed, your eyes widening in surprise as you were suddenly airborne. The book tumbled to the floor, landing with a soft thud.

He carried you the few steps to the bedroom, his grin widening with each flustered protest you made. “Operation: Relocate the Bookworm!” he declared in a mock-heroic voice. With a playful grunt, he gently tossed you onto the soft mattress.

You landed with a soft bounce, your glasses askew, your heart hammering in your chest. You stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless. “Oh my god, San, I’m a virgin I don’t think you’ll fit—”

San froze mid-chuckle, his playful expression instantly morphing into one of utter shock. He stood there, a statue of bewildered surprise, his mouth slightly agape, his eyebrows practically reaching his hairline.

A beat of stunned silence hung in the air, broken only by your slightly panicked breathing. Then, a slow dawning of realization crossed San’s face, followed by a flicker of something akin to amusement struggling to break through the surprise.

“…I was trying to cuddle?” he finally managed, his voice a hesitant whisper, a bewildered question mark hanging in the air. He even gestured vaguely with his hands, as if demonstrating the concept of a platonic embrace.

Another beat of silence. Your eyes widened further, the color rising in your cheeks as the full implication of your utterly mortifying statement hit you. You squeezed your eyes shut, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

San’s eyebrows shot up even higher. “…Wait,” he said slowly, his gaze searching yours with a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding. “You’ve never—?” He trailed off, a slow, knowing smile starting to play on his lips.

Your face flushed a deep, uncontrollable crimson. You became a flustered mess of tangled limbs and stammered denials. “NO! I mean… I’m waiting… I—ugh! This is so unbelievably embarrassing! Can we just… can we just forget I said anything?” You buried your face in the pillows, mortified beyond words.

A soft chuckle rumbled in San’s chest, a sound that held genuine amusement but also a surprising tenderness. He gently sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to carefully pull you into his arms. You kept your face hidden, your cheeks burning like twin embers.

“Hey, sunshine,” he murmured softly, his lips brushing against your temple. “It’s okay. Really. There’s absolutely no pressure, no expectations. You take all the time you need, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He held you close, his arms a comforting and reassuring embrace. He kissed your temple again, a lingering, tender gesture.

A playful smirk tugged at his lips, and a mischievous glint returned to his eyes. “But,” he whispered, his voice laced with amusement, “I am definitely teasing you about this forever. You know that, right? Like, for the rest of our lives.”

You groaned into his chest, but a small, reluctant smile finally broke through your embarrassment. “Oh, you wouldn’t dare,” you mumbled, though the lack of conviction in your voice betrayed you.

“Oh, I would dare,” he said, his chuckle deepening. “In fact, I’m already planning the anniversary celebrations for ‘The Night Sunshine Thought I Wouldn’t Fit.’” He punctuated his words with a playful squeeze.

You swatted playfully at his arm, your face still buried in his chest. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s a little funny,” he countered, his voice full of mirth. “Especially the look on your face. Priceless. I should have taken a picture.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe I still can? For posterity?” He made a mock attempt to reach for his phone.

You tightened your grip on his hoodie. “Don’t you even think about it, Choi San.”

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that filled the room. “Alright, alright. My lips are sealed… for now. But just so you know, the next time we’re cuddling, and you look even remotely tense…” He trailed off suggestively, raising a playful eyebrow.

You playfully punched his arm again, a giggle escaping despite your lingering embarrassment. “You are the worst.”

“The worst… but you love me,” he finished, nuzzling his face into your hair.

You sighed contentedly, the warmth of his embrace chasing away the last vestiges of your mortification. “Unfortunately,” you mumbled into his chest.

“See? Admitted it,” he teased triumphantly. “Now, about that book you were reading… maybe we can cuddle and just read?” He emphasized the word “just” with a playful wink that you couldn’t see but could definitely feel in his tone.

You finally lifted your head, a genuine smile gracing your lips. “Maybe,” you said, leaning into him. “But if you even think about bringing up the ‘fitting’ thing again…”

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wouldn’t dream of it… for at least five minutes.”

You rolled your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest was a testament to the comfortable, playful love that defined your quiet moments together, even the hilariously awkward ones. In the safe haven of their shared home, amidst the endless teasing and the deep, unwavering affection, their unique and tender story continued to unfold, one laugh, one cuddle, and one mortifyingly iconic misunderstanding at a time.

-- The end <33

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sweetinsaniiity · 4 months ago

Note

can you write something for soft turned hard dom san? i don't have a full idea yet but he asks reader if he'll let her do whatever he wants to her and when she responds yes he says aww thank you baby and then proceeds to ruin her

I'm very, very picky when fulfilling requests, but this one caught my eye immediately. You should be very proud of yourself, sweetheart.

Plug In, Baby

genre/au: soft!Sannie, he's too soft tbh, very respectful (we love a man who respects boundaries), established relationship, falling in love rating/warning: PG-18+ so MDNI!!! (you know how it is), this is pure smut without any sort of plot or whatnot, really just pure filth with a side of creampie, scratching, degradation, dacryphilia, bruises, biting, dom!San, no protection (do NOT do this!) word count: 8.2K words (genuinely enjoyed writing this)

Today marked three months of being with San and you were getting ready for the special dinner he said he'd take you. You already felt giddy thinking about it as you paced in front of the mirror to check your outfit. You met San through a mutual friend of yours, Wooyoung, and the connection was undeniable. You two formed a relationship within the week, and the first time he held your hand, you didn't even notice. He was so hesitant, so careful.

In fact, he still is. Granted, you two weren't together for long, still learning each other day by day, but sometimes, San was a little too careful for your liking. Like right now.

"My goodness, you scared me," you giggled, savouring the way San's arms wrapped at you from behind.

He smiled tenderly at you, giving you a quick kiss on your temple. You couldn't but frown slightly when the hug didn't last. "You look beautiful, baby," he murmured. "How did I get so lucky?" You hummed, tilting your head when he leaned in, kissing you softly on the lips, that air of hesitancy still there like this was the first time you had kissed. He treated you like fine glass, but that was fine. You heard him yelp behind his throat when you licked his lips open.

"O-Oh, uhm, wow," he pulled away, blushing beet red from his neck all the way up to the tips of his ears.

"What, you didn't like it?" You teased.

His eyes widened comically. "N-No! I mean, I d-did," San stammered.

You laughed out loud at his predicament. Cute, you thought. Every time you smiled at him, he looked away, cheeks pink, like he wasn’t sure how to handle the attention. All San could do was stare at you as your laughter filled the air, smiling as well.

He loved you a lot, though he hasn't said it before. He just gets extremely nervous around you. You might give him a heart attack one day, that's how much he feels about you.

And it wasn't like you didn't know this. San was naturally shy and meek, something you found extremely endearing on him.

"You sure you don't regret being with me yet?" San mumbled, refusing to look at you, pretending to fix his collar as he cleared his throat.

You frowned, confused. "Now, why would you say that?"

San sighed. "Baby, I don't know if you noticed, but you're way out of my league. I'm still surprised to this day when you said you liked me back. I probably had a mini attack."

It was always like this, and so, you reassured your boyfriend once more that he was fine the way he was, that you genuinely liked him for him despite his reservations about himself. You would never get tired of doing it because you were telling the truth.

He made another small, flustered noise, but this time, after a moment of hesitation, he did something that made your heart stutter.

He leaned in—just slightly, just enough for his shoulder to press against yours. And even if he didn’t say anything, you knew what it meant.

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat again. “Can I ask you something?”

“You know you can, Sannie,” you smiled, tilting your head curiously at him.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, visibly struggling. His nervous energy was practically vibrating off him. You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling widely at how cute your boyfriend was.

You smiled softly. “Hey,” you murmured, lifting your free hand to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He practically melted at the touch, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “Take your time.”

He nodded quickly, swallowing hard, before finally forcing the words out.

“Do you...wanna do it tonight?”

Oh, God. He was so painfully endearing.

“You really want to?” You asked gently, running your thumbs over the heat of his cheeks.

His breath hitched, and after a long moment of hesitation, he nodded. “Y-Yeah,” he whispered, voice barely there. “Sorry, baby. I just want to make sure. You know I love the way your body feels with mine.”

It was your turn to blush. “Me too. I want everything with you...”

You were pretty sure you were falling slowly for this man, if you haven't yet. You had never met a man who was such a gentleman, someone who respected you and your boundaries but never failed to make you happy. You just hoped you made San happy, too.

Sex with him was what you'd describe as making love. Slow, soft love making. It was filled with gentle touches and passionate, deep, long kisses that always set your insides on fire. San had the body of a Greek god and it always fascinated you that he was just a sweetheart.

Everything about him was soft, and you loved it.

As you both walked in the restaurant towards the entrance, the way he opened the car door for you and the way he offered his arms for you to link with his made your heart flutter. "I'll give you a good time, yeah?" San smiled.

"I believe it," you giggled.

He shook his head at you with a small chuckle, like he couldn't believe you were real to begin with.

He directed his smile at the receptionist ahead, albeit more respectful and polite this time. "Hi," he began, keeping his voice quiet like he didn’t want to impose. "Reservation for Choi San, please?"

True to his words, he took you to a really nice place, a seaside nighttime restaurant. You were a bit surprised, you mentioned in passing a couple of weeks back while all your mutual friends were over that you've never been to one and you would love to experience it at least once in your life.

"Wow," you grinned, leaning on the railing that overlooked the sunset that reflected over the sea. "Sannie, this place is gorgeous."

He leaned towards the railing as well, a small smile plastered on his face as he stared at your face. "Yeah," he said, not looking away. "Gorgeous."

The way he snaked his arms around you as he guided you to your seat was gentle, like he was always second-guessing himself. The way he moved, careful and deliberate, never the type to rush. These were the things that made you want to be with him, you just hoped San understood that.

You gave the waiter a small 'thank you' as they walked away after handing you your dinner. The night went on better than you imagined, not that you doubted it in the first place. Anywhere with San was a guaranteed enjoyment for you, not because of where he would bring you, definitely not because of what he can offer you, but because you wanted to spend time with San.

You couldn't help but stare at him from across the table as he peacefully ate his food. You wanted to shake your head, how could this man think that he was out of your league? He had poise and grace that you didn't have, and he was genuinely the kindest man you've ever been with.

Your cheeks reddened when his eyes fleeted up and met yours. "You're staring, baby," he smirked, not breaking eye contact as he put the fork in his mouth and chewed on his steak slowly.

You bit your lip subconsciously. It doesn't escape San's attention. Something passes in his eyes that you couldn't really read before it goes away. As shy as San can be, sometimes he didn't know how deadly he could act. What makes it worse is that you know that he's not doing it on purpose.

You chuckled, then winked. "Am I not allowed to stare at my boyfriend?"

That seemed to bring him down to Earth and you can physically see his mind short-circuit. Without thinking, you held his delicate hands to press a quick kiss to his knuckles.

You could swear that you could feel the heat radiating off his face. He made a tiny, helpless sound - something between a squeak and a whimper - then hid his face in his sleeve.

“Baby,” San whined, grabbing onto your hand and caressing his thumb over it despite his flustered state. “Y-You can’t just do that.”

“Do you want me to do it again?” You teased, watching his ears turn an even deeper shade of red.

He pouted, and it took you everything not to combust where you were seated, nodding his head slightly before looking around hesitantly. "Here?"

You shrugged, grinning widely at him while you got up from your seat to lean across the table and give San a sweet peck on the tip of the nose. When you sat back down, he blinked owlishly at you as his mouth opened and closed repeatedly. His face was effectively the reddest you've ever seen.

Oh my God, you thought. Did you finally break your boyfriend?

Dinner ended without any hijinks. He got up before you and shyly offered his hand. "Walk with me, precious?" San smiled, his dimples convincing you like you ever even needed it. "The night is young. I wanted to spend more time with you before I take you home."

San and you lived separately. It was too soon to live together for the both of you, but as you walked side by side by the sea shore, maybe you could bring it up to him. You liked him enough to do so.

The moonlight illuminated his facial features as he stared on. San was beautiful, that you couldn't deny, but he wasn't the only shy one. Sometimes, you wish you could just tell him how much he meant to you.

Then, just as you were about to say something, you felt the lightest touch against your hands. When you glanced at San, he still wasn't looking at you, but you couldn't miss the nervousness in his gait.

His head was tilted down, hair falling over his eyes, as if he was bracing himself for rejection before he’d even really tried. Your heart clenched.

Slowly, carefully, you turned your palm outward, offering an unspoken invitation. "Baby," you whispered. "I appreciate you being careful with me since we're both basically new to this relationship, but I'd like it if you can hold my hand whenever you want next time."

His fingers curled around yours, and you smiled, giving his warm hand the smallest squeeze. “Okay,” his voice was barely above a whisper.

A beat of silence. Then, slowly, so slowly, his grip tightened, just a little. His face was still turned away, but you could see the way he pressed his lips together like he was trying to fight back a smile.

God, he was cute.

And somehow, the simple weight of his hand in yours felt more important than anything else in the world.

The drive home was tense, though. At least, on your end. San wanted to have sex with you the moment you stepped inside your house. You pressed your thighs together in an attempt to soothe the burning arousal that crept up your wettened core.

It was definitely an unspoken spark, the anticipation of what you both knew was going to happen later. The tension was delicious, and you couldn't wait.

"Did you want to stay the night?" You asked, trying to break the sparked silence in the car.

He hummed, it was deep and it vibrated down to your core, not responding with words. He side-eyed you once, one hand leaning against the car window, covering his mouth while his other hand held the steering wheel, before he turned back to the road.

It would have been odd behaviour from him if it didn't turn you on.

It didn't really escape your attention at how rigid San sat. You could see the way his chest rose and fell too quickly, his breath uneven. He looked like he was currently struggling to hold back as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down every single time he swallowed.

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, jaw tense as his eyes flicked to you again. "Did you want me to stay the night?" San exhaled, the sound low, controlled.

Oh?

That was interesting. You turned your head to the side, opting to stare at the window so San couldn't see the pleased expression on your face. He was a lot more turned on than you thought he was. You preened, happy that you had this effect on him.

By the time we pulled into your apartment, he was practically out of breath as he turned off the engine. When you looked at you, you wanted nothing but to jump at him, barely holding yourself back.

You smirked, reaching for his hand, letting your fingers lace through his, slow and deliberate. Teasing him was your favourite thing to do, you loved seeing his reactions. “Everything okay?" You asked innocently.

He nodded quickly. “Y-Yeah,” his voice cracked.

You smiled, tilting your head. "Shall we go inside?"

His lips parted slightly like he was about to talk, his fingers twitched against his thigh like he was debating something. You smirked when he wordlessly got out of the car and started walking inside your apartment, his hand subtly adjusting his pants. Oh, you were going to have fun teasing him.

But you frowned, confused, when San didn't make a move on you like you thought he would when you both walked in. Instead, he stared at you, shifting his weight from foot to foot, before he walked to your room to presumably change his clothes.

"San, wait," you stopped him, your heart beating fast, as you walked towards him slowly.

He freezes in his steps, looking back at you with vulnerable eyes. You stepped closer, using your free hand to cup his cheek, tilting his face.

“We don't have to do anything tonight,” you said softly. “I know you’re nervous. We don’t have to do anything tonight. Just being with you is enough. We have all the time in the world.”

And you meant it. Your heart broke when his eyes shone with sadness. He turned his head to kiss your palms. "I'm sorry, baby. I don't know why I'm like this."

You giggled, opting to pinch his cheeks, much to his chagrin, to break the tension and change the scenario. "Let's watch a movie. You can pick."

His eyes lightened up significantly. If there was something better than the sex you thought would happen tonight, it was cuddles with San. Your fluffy boyfriend was the perfect cuddle material, his arms always felt perfect whenever they would wrap around you.

"Comfy?" he murmured, said arms tightening their hold on you as you both curled up on your bed with the laptop placed in front of you.

Your smiled, eyes still on the screen. "Mhm. You’re warm."

San chuckled, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head. "Human heater, at your service."

The movie was good, but the warmth of San’s arms, the way his heartbeat was a steady rhythm, made it all the better. Yeah, you could stay like this forever.

However, you couldn't concentrate on the movie. Occasionally, San would shift, pressing his body against yours, his body heat transferring to you. His head leaned down, and at first, you thought that he was just going to lean on your shoulders.

Imagine your surprise when he pressed a hot kiss to the crook of your neck. He pulled away like nothing happened. You froze, not thinking anything of it. San loved skinship, this was nothing new to him.

But when his fingers started tracing slow, absentminded circles against your bare shoulders, shivers traveled down your spine. The first time, you passed it as a passing thought on his end. The second, you started to doubt it, but by the third, you couldn't help but surrender to his little touches.

You swallowed audibly when his nimble fingers held the thin strap of your top, lifting it slightly before letting go and letting it snap against your skin. You couldn't move, not even bothering to concentrate on the movie. Certainly not bothering to turn around to look at his face. For all you know, he could just be fidgeting like he always did when he was nervous.

It was difficult to even breathe. You held back a squeak when San snaked his arm around your waist, slightly lifting your top up, his fingers barely brushing against your bare skin as if he had all the time in the world to explore you.

You sucked in a breath, but he didn’t stop. His fingertips trailed along the dip of your waist, tracing the curve with agonizing patience. It was your turn to be nervous now. This has never happened before.

"You okay, baby?" San's husky voice asked from behind you. He sounded strained, though you knew that he knew what he was doing.

You swallowed, but before you could answer, his other hand moved, but this time, it landed on your thigh. He squeezed ever so slightly while his thumb brushed slow, hypnotic circles against your waist, slipping a little higher with each pass.

His fingers pinch a part of your skin that you didn't even know was sensitive and you jerked, your thighs subconsciously spreading wider. Your cheeks burned for two reasons - the position was almost lewd, and San's low groan sent wetness pooling down there.

"Tilt your head up, baby," he commanded softly. There was no hesitation on your end. "Hmm. A little bit sideways---good."

A small, breathy moan escapes from your lips when his lips automatically latch on your neck, barely just touching you, but enough for you to feel everything, especially when he nipped your teeth before sucking the sensitive skin.

"Sannie," you whined, your eyes fluttering close.

"Shh," his voice was deeper now, rougher. His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The desire was slowly clouding your mind, though at the back of your mind, you were thoroughly confused at what was currently happening. Not that you were complaining - your body did all the work for you. And so did San's lips.

You mewled when you felt him smile against your skin as his hand started to lift your shirt a bit above your tummy. To say you were surprised would be an understatement, the San you knew would be too shy to even make a move. It was one of his best qualities and you can't help but fall for him for it.

But this? You didn't even know what to do.

Your hand moves by itself, placing it on top of San's hand that was making abstract shapes on your tummy while he gives your neck little kitten kisses.

"You’re so soft," he murmured, lifting your leg slightly to shift you closer.

"S-San, what are you d-doing," your breathy voice couldn't even properly formulate a question.

His movements slow down, but not completely stop. He lifted his lips from your neck, and you had to stop the urge to pout at the sudden loss of contact. You let out a little gasp when you looked at him - his eyes were so dark, that the intensity of it had you reeling.

This wasn't the San you, but you'd be damned if you didn't admit to yourself that you didn't mind knowing who this was.

His grip on your waist tightened, his thumb pressing firmly into your skin as he studied you, his breathing heavy, controlled, but barely.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, voice rough, almost strained.

It sent a shiver down your spine, an ache pooling low in your stomach. "And what exactly do I do to you?"

For a second, a hint of hesitation flashes into his eyes, but when you darted your tongue slowly across your lips, it disappears entirely. You could tell that he was still nervous, that he was testing the waters here to see how far he'd go and how far you'd let him.

You held your breath when he gently held your shoulders to guide you down your couch, effectively splaying your body for him to crawl on top of. He tenderly tucks the strays hairs that made their way in front of your face, ignoring the way your eyes slightly widened and the way your mouth opened to say something, though no words ever did come out.

For a moment, all you did was stare at each other. If only San knew how nervous you were. Initiation was lost on San most of the time, if not all the time, so this was new - a totally uncharted territory.

"You look so pretty, baby," he whispered, eyes raking all over your form, rounded with such innocence that you couldn't help but sputter at the unexpected statement.

"Uh, thank you?" You questioned rather than answered.

He giggled, and your heart almost burst out of your chest. It was the type where his eyes disappeared as they crinkled upwards, where his dimples deepened impossibly so. Truly, you knew you were drowning then and there.

"You want this, right?" San leaned down, his face mere inches away from yours, his huge arms trapping your head in between. "Would you let me do what I want to you if I asked?"

"Y-Yeah," you stammered.

Your head grew weary with dizzy. A subtle nod from you was enough for his lips to twitch with anticipation. San's brow quirked upwards.

"Anything?"

Between you and San, you would consider yourself to be the more outgoing one; the type who was always sure of themself, the one who would usually take the lead because you had no problem getting the things you wanted for yourself.

So, why were you getting wet at the prospect of San just taking whatever the hell he wanted from you?

This was your sweet, sweet Sannie. It would be criminal of you to deny him anything. When you nodded again, your heart fluttered dangerously when those dimples of his showed up again.

"Aww," he cooed, leaning down to kiss your temple. "Thank you, baby."

Your brows furrowed a bit. The way he said it, it settled heavily down your stomach. You couldn't help the sharp hiss that escaped your mouth when you realized how mocking it sounded.

It was too late, though. San leaned away, his wide, dark eyes were hazy with something you couldn’t quite place - not just nervousness, but something darker. You knew you were in for a wild ride when he yanked your hair, almost painfully, upwards to crash your lips onto his.

Your stifled moans get swallowed by San's rough claim on your lips, his primal growls echoing your arousal. The kiss was no less than filthy, the wet sounds of lips smacking with each other were all you could hear in the wide expanse of your living room.

You've never felt like this before. There was fire coiling in your tummy at San's roughness. You had half the mind to wonder where your sweet San went, but if you were being honest with yourself, this was a long time coming, anyway.

And as if he read your mind, he leaned away, an evil smirk plastered on his face as he pressed your swollen lips with his thumb while his other hand tightened its hold on your hair, the pain making you groan lewdly. "S-San---"

"I'm going to ruin you," he said flatly, something borderline demonic passing through his face as he spoke further. "All you have to do is say yes, darling."

Darling. That was new. Shivers made their way up your spine, and San had the gall to chuckle darkly when he felt the way you spasmed in his hold. "Y-Yes," you whined.

You were fully shaking at this point, resembling a wet, trembling kitten in front of a waiting predator. And that San was - a predator. A ravening grin slowly stretches his mouth. It honestly terrifies you, you've never seen such expression on him.

Shame creeps all over you - you were a hypocrite because you were getting so turned on from how different San was acting. You weren't privy to all the times you did imagine how it would be like if San snapped one day and just manhandled you. Not that you didn't like your lovemaking session, because you genuinely did, but there was something about how animalistic he was slowly becoming right in front of you.

"Fuck," he huffed an ominous laugh, his eyes completely shrouded with lust as he peered down at you. More rounds of shivers went through you.

This might sound unbelievable to other people, but to those who knew San, he was never one to curse. Even when you had sex with him, he never really did.

You yelped when he pushed your head down as his free hand cupped your clothed breast brutally. Your hands automatically flew to his muscular arm, hoping to ease the pressure he used to pin your forehead down the couch, but all that did was make him pinch your nipple through your lace bra.

"Aww, does that hurt, darling?" San chuckled maliciously.

"A l-little," you mewled, the pain traveling straight down there.

"Nah," he drawled out, a sinister grin still displayed on his face. Your instincts told you to scoot away when he started to lean down your face with fake, mocking concern. "You know what does hurt, though?"

Before you could answer, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, lapping and biting the sensitive parts of your flesh. White, searing pain commands your mouth open with a silent scream. He bit hard enough to draw blood, but not enough to pierce your skin.

A diabolical cackle sounds through the air as you thrash from his hold. All San did was to push his hips down, his hardening cock pulsing against your core to keep you down. Soon enough, the pain becomes pleasure. A soft moan involuntarily slips from your mouth, letting San know that you were enjoying this.

You felt him smile against your skin when he let your skin go from his teeth and planted a loving kiss on the bite mark, letting you know this time that he'd actually never hurt you.

That didn't mean he wouldn't inflict a little bit of it, though.

"So," he began, his hands finding their place on either side of your hips, holding you flush underneath him as he rolled his hips teasingly against you. "How does being my dirty little slut for tonight sound to you?"

You blinked owlishly at him, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly as your brain malfunctioned then and there. Behind the predatory look was amusement that danced in his eyes as he watched you practically melt at the indication.

"Ow, Sannie, h-hurts," you gasped as you felt his nails digging on your hips, but if that didn't turn you on, you didn't know what.

"Good," he barked, his nails now dragging up your sides deeply until they reached your chest. You yelped in response. It hurt, but it hurt so good.

You almost whined when he got off of you, but not for long. He grabbed your trembling body and made his way to your bedroom, unceremoniously slamming you onto your bed, where he tore your clothes off of you, haphazardly throwing them in random spots of your room without care.

"Come here," he growled, pulling on your feet until you were at the edge of the bed, your ass plush against his thighs.

He was about to dive down to explore your body but you panicked mildly, quickly jutting your hand out to push his head away gently from you. You swallowed and, oh, he did not like that at all. San's eyes narrowed dangerously, one brow raised, giving you a pointed look.

"I-I haven't showered yet," you stammered pathetically. "I'm g-gross and yucky---"

"Shut up," he hissed fiercely, effectively stopping you before you even continued that line of thought.

A whine escaped you when he spread your legs wide before he started kissing and biting everywhere his lips touched. You couldn't help but pull his hair every single time he would bite a sensitive part, something you didn't even think possible since you had no idea those parts were sensitive to begin with.

"God, you taste so fucking sweet, darling," he bit the soft expanse of your breasts, back and forth to make them even, before squeezing them painfully hard. "I've always wanted to do this, you know? Watch you writhe like this against my hold, scared to death waiting and anticipating at how hard I'd fuck you."

"S-San, t-that h-hurts---"

"I don't care," he snapped, sucking a brand new bruise in your inner thighs, holding you down harshly as he swirled his tongue on the sensitive flesh. "Besides," he chuckled. "You love this. Don't be a lying whore."

"Oh, fuck," you whined involuntarily, thoroughly turned on at being degraded. Your eyes widened as you quickly covered your mouth. You hadn't meant for that to come out the way it did.

Your skin was marked with multiple scratches, bite marks, and love bites. You knew you would regret it the next day since you had to go to work, but frankly, you didn't give a fuck. You'd wear them proudly for the world to see. It wasn't difficult to see that San was marking his territory with you, and by God, you loved it.

You felt his hand caress your inner thigh, waiting no more as his finger lightly grazed your sopping wetness. You couldn't help but whine at the delicious sensation.

"Such a dirty, little whore you are, my darling," he laughed. He wasted no time dipping two fingers inside you. "You like that, beautiful?"

You almost blacked out at the pleasure that automatically rendered your body into jelly. "Oh, God, San, shit," you rambled, bucking your hips unintentionally.

San wasn't your first, but you sincerely hoped that he was your last. He was the only one to genuinely care for you like he did. He was the only one to make you shudder and moan like this, the only you let in and gave yourself fully.

And he was the only one you'd ever let rough you up like this.

"Yes, just like that, darling, give it to me," he said through gritted teeth as his fingers drove into you roughly, the wet, squelching sounds from your pussy lewdly filling up the room.

"S-San, please," you practically cried, fisting the blankets around you until your knuckles were white. "I-I wanna come on your c-cock--"

"No," he snarled, flicking his wrist in an angle that had you screaming loudly. "You're going to come right now. Come on, love, give it to me."

His fingers demanded an orgasm, forcing pleasure out of your body that enticed you to surrender. And that, he'll get.

You've never really come from just fingering, alone, and San knew that, so when you started to scream and thrash around from the force of your orgasm, you didn't want to come down from your high. But San had different plans.

You hadn't noticed him taking all of his clothes off. You certainly hadn't noticed him hike your legs up to prop them on his wide shoulders before sliding inside you in one go.

"Oh, fucking hell," he hissed through gritted teeth. He thrust once, groaning lowly from within his chest at the feel of you.

Goosebumps formed on your skin and you couldn't help the small scream that erupted from you. "Fuck---"

You couldn't even finish it, not when San began pounding away at you like never before. "Oh, Sannie---"

He chuckled at how your eyes rolled behind your head at the unrelenting pace of his thrusts, and by God, you loved every second of how animalistic and how uncaring San seemed even though you knew he wouldn't hurt you.

"I should've done this from the very beginning," he trapped his tongue between his teeth cockily before grabbing your chin and squeezing it tight. "You like this, slut?"

You whined when he squeezed your face even tighter, the pain blooming in your brain, mixing with the heady pleasure San offered you. "You're going to let me use this slutty pussy," he sneered, diving down to claim your lips.

You wrapped your arms around him, parting your lips naturally to receive his sinful tongue. You weren't going to last long at all. Whenever San's cock entered you, he usually took it slow and sensual as he loved the look on your face whenever your bodies would connect as one.

"Ngh, you feel so b-big," you groaned, not even thinking about it.

Blush crept up your cheeks. Just because you were more outgoing, doesn't mean you didn't have your shy moments. You've always wanted to tell San that fact, but you were too afraid that he wouldn't receive it well because of how reserved he was.

He raised a mocking brow at you as he chuckled lowly - maliciously, even. "I know," he said.

His callous way of saying it made you squeeze around his cock on reflex, your hips bucking up in response. San hissed, and for a split second, his hips stuttered at how impossibly tight you felt around him.

"Do that again," he barked out, bending down to suck the sensitive flesh of your shoulder, your legs getting folded in half as he went in deeper on you, hitting you in places you didn't think possible.

"Like this?" You squeezed on command, a surge of pride going through you when San shuddered, his body shaking with ecstasy . It was a physical manifestation of what you do to him.

He didn't let up, his hips drove into you over and over again without rest or fail, the sound of skin slapping against skin prevalent, the lewdness of it turning the both of you on even more. Every time San's hips hit your behind, you couldn't help your moans that turned into a staccato mess.

You gasped when he suddenly yanked your arms away from his shoulders, growling under his breath as he roughly pinned your hands on top of your head as he took your deep and hard, cursing over and over again and making you scream.

"S-San, fuck, s-so good," you panted heavily, not expecting the restraint to make you feel this good.

"You're mine," he growled, pushing into your body viciously. "Mine."

"Yours, yours, f-fuck, ah, y-yours," you cried out.

Oh, he loved that. He took a small moment to stare at your panting form, tears forming on the corners of your eyes as your glossy eyes stared into nothing. Fuck, he thought. You were a vision like this. He digs his fingers into your wrists.

"Tell me," he began. "Is that too tight?"

You shook your head vigorously, stray tears landing on the sheets, your red-rimmed eyes widened. "N-No," you stuttered. "L-Love it."

"Of course, you do," he scoffed, pushing down on your hands more, enough to temporarily cut blood off. There would be bruises tomorrow, and they would haunt him badly, but right now, he couldn't find any fucks about it. You were completely his tonight, both body and soul.

Even when you whined because your legs were starting to get numb, he still didn't lift the pressure from your wrists as you changed position. It was the psychological aspect of it; you trusted San not to exert too much power on you and he dominated you just enough for him to show you how much he cared about your pleasure even though every drag of his cock against your velvety walls defined how much he also used you for his pleasure as if you were a ragdoll only made for his cum.

"Wrap your legs around me, baby," he ordered. You wasted no time doing so with San pulling you to him at the same time as he held deep within you. He pauses, composing himself. "Kiss me."

His free hand frames your face, angling his head to immediately slip his tongue inside your mouth, coaxing yours to dance with his in a filthy battle for dominance. San pulls away, kissing the corner of your mouth to resume fucking into you, but he gets caught off guard when he makes eye contact with you.

You looked deeply into his eyes. For a moment, all was forgotten - your nakedness, the bruises forming on your wrists, the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, his panting breaths, everything. It was just the two of you conveying everything you both couldn't say at the moment with just your eyes.

You swallowed audibly, mustering the courage to keep staring into San's eyes despite you wanting to do nothing but hide away. It was intense, it burned through you, it made you feel special.

"Fuck me, San," you whined - begged - buckling your hips to meet his.

Darkness covered his entire features. He didn't need to be told twice. He gave you a quick kiss before pounding back into you with so much force, your bed began squeaking obnoxiously, the headboards knocking over the walls repeatedly.

He lets your wrists go to grabs the sides of your hips, pulling you to meet his cock with a loud, prolonged growl. "Not gonna last long, baby, fuck," he slams your hips over and over again so roughly, your hipbones began to hurt, but you could care less.

His fingers makes their way to your clit, rubbing it fast in tandem with his maddening thrusts. Electricity made their way through your spine, your body thrashing. "N-No, Sannie, baby, I-I can't," your hips bucked higher. "San!"

You were shaking violently against his hold, overstimulation messing with your brain at all the different onslaughts San was doing to your body. "It's too much, please," you begged, voice wavering

"I don't give a fuck," San roared, the brashness of his voice surprising you, the fire in his eyes as he glared at you spurring your pleasure to different heights. "You told me you'd do anything," he kept rubbing your clit, pinching it for effect. "Well, you better take what I fucking give you. Even if I force it out of you."

"San, please, please!" You screamed pitifully, sobbing with full force at the domineering pain that overtook your entire core.

"You're mine, Y/N. End of story. Shut up and take my cock."

He was stretching you to your limits, and it was almost unbearable, but you couldn't find it in you to tell him to stop. This was different, there was no easing into it like he usually did before he even started, and there were absolutely no words of affirmation from him to let your orgasm take over you. This was pure fucking on his end, a mission to ruin you like he promised, and you'd welcome it with open arms.

"A-Ah, ngh, S-San! I really c-can't, please," you sobbed, the overstimulation alternating between unbearable pain and toe-curling pleasure.

Fresh tears made their way down your face all the way down to your sweaty neck as your body shook violently. You were close, that much you can tell. San could tell. You gasped when he pressed his muscular arm on your neck with little pressure, enough to just keep you in place, but the dominant gesture literally made your vision go black.

He leaned down to lick a stripe from your neck to your ear, collecting your tears lewdly. You cried when he bit your earlobe. "You will," he whispered vehemently. "You fucking will. You're going to come hard on my fucking cock, and you're going to scream my name."

You gurgled on your spit when he pressed his arms on your windpipe, the cutoff of the blood elevating your pleasure. He bared his teeth at the erotic sight. "You hear me, darling? My fucking name. Come for me, right fucking," he lets out a primal scream as he pummels his cock with bruising effort like his life depended on it. "Now."

He releases your neck to bury his face on the crook of your neck, and with a loud gasp, you completely let go as you screamed San's name so hard, your voice started cracking towards the end. The aftershocks of your orgasm shook you underneath his body. It was enough for San to let himself go.

He rammed into you a couple of times before he sank into you one last time, his release devastatingly strong that his legs almost gave out on him. It took a bit of effort on his end to not collapse on top of you and crush you with his weight.

Heavy pants filled your ears as you gasped to catch your own breath. You realized too late that you had both forgotten and forgone the use of protection, but if you were being honest to yourself, you couldn't even begin to care, let alone regret it, and you knew you never will.

You must've passed out shortly afterwards and the next time you came to, you were clean and already dressed in one of your favourite pyjamas, laying down comfortably on a San's chest as your body pressed against his sides, his hand wrapped loosely on your shoulders.

San didn't notice when you stirred awake. His other hand held a book, one that you knew he'd been binge-reading for a while now, his face relaxed lest you count his furrowed brows as he concentrated. If you weren't tired, you would've cooed at the endearing sight.

He looked good, especially with the black-rimmed glasses perched up his straight nose. Your heart skipped a beat - you had this wild urge to kiss him dizzy as if the both of you didn't just have the most mind-blowing sex.

Finally, he notices you and he does a comical double take when he makes eye contact with you. A soft smile tugged at your lips as he fumbled with his book, dropping it like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing.

"H-Hey, baby," he laughed nervously, trying to pry off his glasses with both hands, whining in embarrassment when he realized that both of his hands were occupied. "I, uh, didn't want to disturb you. You, uhm, looked so peaceful, I just..."

You bit your lip to stop yourself from giggling when he put his book down on his lap to take the glasses off, but his clammy hands prevented him from doing so and it kept slipping off of his fingers.

"I got it, don't worry," you breathed out, lifting your hand to hold onto his, guiding it so he'd have a better grip, but his hand was shaking a bit too much that the glasses ended up slipping once more, only this time, they tumbled off of the bed.

He froze. "Oh crap, oh my God, uhm."

San was a cute bundle of nervous energy. Long gone was the man who dominated you like he did it everyday. He muttered something to himself, his cheeks burning bright. You wanted to give him some reprieve - mercy, if you will.

"it's alright, Sannie, relax," you chuckled, adjusting yourself to try and put his book away, yourself, so he could grab his glasses back from the floor. "Here, let me---"

But he seemed to have the same idea. The moment you lifted your head, was the moment he tilted his head down, causing your foreheads to knock off of each other. You both groaned in surprise, and before you could help it, you laughed out loud, the absurdity of it all getting to you. Oh, this man was cute.

"Please, don't laugh," he whined, more embarrassed than ever. "A-Are you okay? I am so sorry, I swear I'm not usually this clumsy!"

You were still laughing, it was uncontrollable at this point, and then you let out the loudest snort you've ever heard yourself do.

Your eyes went wide in mortification, clamping your hand over your mouth in shock. San froze, not knowing what to say at first, but then, he surprised you when he started laughing so hard, his entire body shook yours and he even let out a loud snort, himself.

"Oh, God, we're such a m-mess," you laughed even harder, wiping the lone tear from your eye.

"I'll say," he shook his head amusingly.

Your heart skipped a beat at the warmth in his voice. The awkwardness, the snorts, the blunders, it didn’t matter. You were laughing together, and somehow, in that moment, it felt perfect.

"You're adorable," he whispered, pulling you to him to plant the softest kiss on your forehead. Suddenly, he pulled away, as if disbelieving that he just did that.

Just like that, the laughter died down. The air simmered with a light tension, not the awkward kind, only the type that came from someone who didn't want to overstep their boundaries.

He lifted your hands, touching the bruises that were beginning to form on your wrists with such gentleness that it actually hurt you to see him this way. "I'm sorry," he croaked, his finger lingering on the bruises as if he was trying to erase them.

"San," you spoke with conviction, cupping his face firmly. "It's okay, I, uhm, I liked it."

You flushed crimson at the admission. He didn't say anything, the grief in his eyes still visible, but lessened as you assured him that it was okay.

"How long was I out?" You asked, breaking the ice lightly.

"A little more than an hour," he hummed, clearing his throat before turning to you. "Listen, I- I just wanted to make sure you're okay. I know we've never really spent the night before, but I didn't want to leave you. It didn't feel right to me."

That made your heart soar, but it also almost struck a pang in your chest, his uncertainty was palpable. "Did I hurt you?" San asked, his voice quiet. "I was too rough, wasn't I? I'm worried I might have crossed some lines with you."

You softened at the concern in his eyes. You could tell he was genuinely troubled, his usual confidence now replaced with hesitation. You shook your head with a reassuring smile. "You didn't, not even close," you gave him a small peck on the cheek to make your point across. "I'm glad you stayed."

His brows lifted in surprise as you pulled away, his eyes never leaving yours to search for any signs of discomfort. "I don't know what came over me," he admitted, voice strained. "You just looked so damn good, I-I couldn't resist."

You stayed silent, letting him continue. San fidgeted with his finger to find the right things to say to you without overthinking too much. "What I'm trying to say is," he sighed. "I just want it to be perfect for you."

You hadn't expected him to be this open. Something warm coats your chest. it felt serene, calming even. "I don't want perfection, San," you shook your head. "But you are perfect for me."

His eyes widened, mouth hanging slightly at your admission. "Really?" San asked, as if he weren't expecting you to say anything of the like.

His expression softened, and he reached out, gently brushing his fingers against yours. The simple touch felt electric, as if everything until now had shifted into something more open, more real.

Everything seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you with a quiet understanding. No more uncertainty, no more hesitation. Just the simple truth of what was there all along.

"This is what I want," you said. "You're very kind, San. You listen, and you care. When I'm with you, I'm not pressured to be someone I'm not. I don't even have to because I know you'll be there for me."

He didn't speak, his gaze just lingering on you as if he was seeing you for the very first time. There was something in the way he looked at you, something unspoken, that made everything feel so clear. The depth of his affection was almost suffocating, but if that was the case, you'd drown in it willingly.

And San knew that you could feel it. He tucked the strays of your hair behind your ears before settling on your face. He smiled softly, still as shy as ever, and in between the knowing looks you both shared, he just hoped that his sincerity was enough.

"I think I want to love you one day," he murmured, heart beating wildly in his chest at the confession. "I would love to fall madly for you."

There were no words need to be said. The connotation was there, and you both knew it. You closed your eyes, a split second of imagination playing in your head. It was too soon, you two basically just met and you were still at that stage where you were still learning about each other, but you could almost see it then and there.

Still, the revelation left you reeling. Breathless, even.

"I think I want to love you one day, too," you confessed with a smile. "I can honestly see myself falling in love with you, San."

And if his smile wasn't an indicator of how happy he was, you didn't know what. You were happy, too.

Dividers by : @dollywons Like my work? Click here to view my previous story.

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