railedby8tz

[railedby8tz]

bad habits (look a lot like devotion in the dark) (j.yh)

summary: yunho hates this venue, he hates this gig, he hates every single thing that's gone wrong today. but he especially hates seeing you in the crowd, the girl that cheated, the girl that left him, the girl who broke his heart (and the girl he still dreams about every fucking night). 🔗 read it on ao3 📚fic masterlist

note: i wrote this in a feverish haze after watching approximately three clips of yunho from back! stage.... something about yunho smoking, yelling, and fighting left my mind spinning and we got here. it's not really edited so forgive me, i just went feral and wanted to share. also the band is still called orange taxi club because I couldn't think of a better name, but this has nothing really to do with his film.

warnings: altrock!yunho, fem!reader, photographer!reader, miscommunications, cheating / suspected cheating, exes, bad and messy breakups, name calling, shouting, over protective yunho, handsy guy at the bar but it's fine, a ton of alcohol consumption, public sex (they're in the venue bathroom), technically they're just buzzed for the sexual encounter but dubious!consent if you're sensitive to that, rough sex, and I mean punishing rough hate sex, they're really working out a lot of feelings in that bathroom, slapping, no prep sex, reader has pierced nipples, clothed sex, messy sex, creampie, a lot of dirty talk where they say they hate each other while they're fucking each other essentially..... additionally: financial insecurity, allusions to assault while intoxicated (brief), fist fight, blood and minor injury, angst, and lots and lots and lots of smoking

pairings: altrock!yunho x exgf!reader

genre: smut, hurt/comfort

word count: 17k

The lighter’s flame sputters in the wind, refusing to catch. Yunho’s jaw tightens, cigarette jutting from his lips as he cups his hands around it before sparking it again. He leans into the now steady flame and takes a long drag to get it to ignite, smoke burning a path down his throat as he flips the lighter closed and stuffs it into the front pocket of his jeans. 

He lets the smoke linger in his chest for a long second, but then he exhales as he sinks back against the alley wall of the venue. Another Friday night, another dingy club with a sticky floor and terrible acoustics. Another promise from their self-elected manager that this gig could get them noticed by the right people. Another check that was too small to split between four people. 

The band was tired, he was tired. Every rehearsal lately had felt like dragging themselves through wet cement, and every gig something went wrong. Last month they were dropped down from headlining to third down on the billing, last week they got another rejection on their EP. Managing themselves without a label was bullshit, and it was starting to feel like all the reasons they used to have for clinging to self representation were starting to ring hollow. 

Selling out might hurt worse than this, but selling out definitely paid the fucking bills. 

Taking another drag, Yunho ignores the latent throb in the back of his skull and lets his eyes go unfocused on the wall across from him, blank, gray, and uninteresting. 

His mind cards through the details of the day, starting with the way tonight’s gig dropped in their laps when one of the bands pulled out at the last minute. It was a godsend for a group that had no gigs lined up for a weekend, but from there, the day went sideways. It started with his landlord reminding him he was late on the rent, and then every little thing kept going wrong. His guitar string snapping at rehearsal, his bike having an oil leak, his last pack of smokes dwindling, the way he woke up with the ghost of her name on his tongue again. 

He hadn’t let the thought of her really push him off balance in a while, but last night he had dreamt of her. He had imagined his body curled around her smaller one, always warm, soft, his. He had dreamt of kissing her, of a soft Saturday morning in spring, bodies tangling in the sheets. Her laugh, the feeling of her hands on his shoulders, the breathy hitch she always used to make at the first thrust inside her. 

He had woken up hard in an empty bed in the gray light of early winter. 

Yunho tries not to let his mind wander back to that dream, but it does. 

He smokes until the cigarette is down to the filter, and then he crushes it against the wet brick, his hands instinctively going back to his pack to light another. He’s got four left which is barely enough to get him through the set let alone the whole night, but he just curses and lights a second one anyways. 

He wants this night over. 

A heavy bang of the metal stage door swinging open pulls his focus and he turns his head to see San, his band’s bassist. 

“Five minutes,” San says tightly, “smoke faster.” 

Yunho takes a heavy drag, nodding. 

There’s an expression on San’s face that’s something between annoyance and concern, but he covers it well, “You good?” 

“Yeah.” 

He’s not good, and San knows it, but he lets it lie all the same.

San looks down at his phone and then sighs, “Four minutes,” and then he’s gone, letting the door swing shut with a heavy clang. 

“Fuck,” Yunho’s jaw tightens and relaxes again, tension tight in his body, but he rolls his shoulders and pushes himself off the wall. He’s played through worse days, he just needs to put it away, there’s almost nothing a stage and a guitar strapped to his chest can’t fix, he just has to let it. 

He takes two more long drags of his cigarette and then snuffs it out against the wall, careful not to crumple the last few centimeters of unsmoked tobacco. He checks that it's fully out before tucking the half smoked butt back into the pack for later. 

The metal door swings open again. 

Yunho rolls his eyes as he puts the pack away, “San, fuck off, I’m coming,” he says, but his words die off as he realizes it’s just a random person from the bar. 

The guy collapses onto the wet alley street and heaves, losing the contents of his stomach all over the pavement and very nearly missing Yunho’s shoes. 

“Jesus,” Yunho steps around the mess to get to the door, “it’s only like ten thirty,” 

The man wretches again, drunkenly managing a retort, “Fuck you, man,”

“Yeah,” Yunho grabs the handle for the backdoor and pulls, “what’s fucking new,” 

Sound pours out of the open door, the band playing before them thanking the applauding crowd and clearly wrapping up. 

Yunho takes a breath and steps inside. 

The only way to get to the end of this night is to go through it, so he goes. 

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You really hate this venue. It’s always too dark, too loud, and you swear to god every other beer you get here is flat. But it’s also a popular venue for up and coming artists, charges way less for a bottle of soju than other spots in this neighborhood, and doesn’t do bag checks so you can always sneak your DSLR camera in without a problem. 

There are two bands on the line up that you have a vague interest in shooting, an all female punk group that’s been making some waves on Instagram, and a rock group whose last single you’ve had on repeat for weeks. Both groups were promising, and both groups would benefit from some proper concert photography to showcase on their websites and socials. You just had to take the pictures first, and then beg them via DM to actually read your messages and want to work with you. 

The other acts you could really care less about. You had seen a few of the bands play here and there, but your plan was to stay focused on the groups you came for, and then relax with your friends for a cheap drink. 

You warm up with a shot of soju, let the night roll, and slip your camera discreetly out of your bag when the music starts. 

By the time you’re done shooting, camera hanging off your shoulder, your friends have made it here and found you through the fray. 

“It’s hotter than hell in here,” Jiwoo says when she makes it to you, “it’s fucking December,”

“And the guy at coat check grabbed my ass,” Somin rolls her eyes. 

Your two best friends are a force, coming in hot wherever they go. They both hate this venue too, but they love you and they love a night out, so they always show up wherever you’re shooting to keep you company. Especially this past year, but you don’t like to think about that.

“Need a drink?” You ask, glancing up to the stage where some techs in all black are changing things over for the next band. 

“Terra,” Jiwoo nods, “but I got it, do we need shots yet?” 

Somin nods, “Hell yes,” 

You shake your head, “Not of your shit,” you reply, “last time you got me a shot I was on my ass after two. Soju, please,” 

Jiwoo smiles, “Fine, fine,” 

She pushes her way between two men at the bar, smiling flirtatiously to get a better spot for the bartender and you huff a laugh before turning back to Somin. 

“So,” She says, pushing her long dark hair over her shoulder, “how was the band you came for? The punk one,” 

“Intense,” You nod, lifting your camera, “but killer, you’ve got to see some of these shots,” 

A girl from the side bumps into your shoulder and you cradle the camera closer to keep it safe. 

“Later,” Somin gently pushes the camera back down, “but I bet they’re great, they’ll be idiots not to want your stuff,” 

She doesn’t know half of what you do, neither one of your friends really does, they’re not as into music or photography or any of it really, but it’s a nice thing to say all the same, “Thanks, girl.” 

“Mhm,” She smiles, “one of these days you’re going to get scooped up and get so famous,” 

“I don’t think concert photographers get famous,” You laugh as you secure your camera in its case and push it to the bottom of your bag. 

“Whatever,” She eyerolls again, “some group will get famous because of your insane photos and then the money will roll in,” 

You smile again, close-lipped, “Whatever I have to do to stop shooting weddings,” 

Her nose crinkles in agreement. 

Wedding photography pays the bills, but after what happened last year, getting your nose rubbed in romance every week is a special kind of hell. 

The lights of the venue change, the crowd shifting to account for the next group on the lineup, but if you remember the list correctly this isn’t really one of the groups you’re that into. 

Jiwoo turns back from the bar and passes you one Terra, and then two for Somin before paying the tab and gathering up three shot glasses. Two whiskeys for her and Somin, and one soju for you. 

Behind you, the sound of a mic check, amps, the band readying themself to get started. 

Jiwoo steps into your little circle and grins, “To another Friday night,” she starts to say, but then you watch as she looks up to the stage, her expression going slack, lips parting in shock. 

“Ji?” 

Somin turns to look, “Oh, shit,” 

Realization sinks in your gut like a heavy stone. You don’t need to ask, you don’t need to look, you know. 

“Don’t look,” Jiwoo says, as both your best friends shift their attention fully back on you, “fuck these drinks, let’s just go,” 

Before you can say a word, there’s a tap against a microphone.

You feel your whole body brace in anticipation.  

“We’re Orange Taxi Club,” A voice, his voice, says from the stage, echoing all around you in the venue, smooth and rich and exactly like you remember, “and this is Devotion.” 

There’s some cheers from the crowd, but they’re immediately drowned out as the music sparks. 

They sound good, they sound better than good really, and you have no idea what they’re doing in this shitty venue when they weren’t even on the line up.

“Babe,” Somin says, loud enough that it shakes you out of your stupor. 

“Fuck,” Your body starts working again, and you reach for one of the whiskey shots, pulling it from Jiwoo’s fingers and knocking it back in one disgusting, burning gulp, “we’re staying.” 

Jiwoo’s eyes widen, and then a smirk pulls at her mouth, “I’ll get us another round,” 

Somin takes the soju shot on your behalf and nods, “Let’s make him sweat.” 

With her hand laced in yours, you finally get up the nerve to turn around, but when you do, when you finally look, the shock of seeing him almost bowls you over. 

You had almost forgotten just how good he always looks on stage. The way he grips the microphone, the way his eyes always close when he sings from deep in his chest. He always looks like a rockstar, even in the tiniest, most busted venues in Seoul, the light always manages to catch him just right. He looks tired, but then again, he always did, running on caffeine and cigarettes and late nights. His shoulders look broader somehow, filling out the dark jacket, and a silver chain bounces against his chest when he takes a step back from the microphone to slam out a chord on his guitar. 

It’s been a year. A year since he said the most unforgivable things to you, a year since you walked out of your shared apartment and never came home. You spent last Christmas crying into a bottle of wine on Jiwoo’s sofa, half of you hoping he would call and the other half hoping he would show up in person to grovel, but he never did. 

I never want to see your fucking face again. 

You can hear it clear as day, ringing in your ears. In retrospect, you’re pretty sure he didn’t expect you to take him seriously, but you did, you left him and you disappeared to lick your wounds and recover after he broke your heart clean in two. You try not to think about how often he still crosses your mind. 

They’re playing your song, the one Yunho wrote for you a few months into dating, the one that made you fall in love with him the first time he played it for you. It’s one of their most popular, and you wonder how much it hurts him to perform now after everything, or if he let that go as easily as he let you go.

You watch his mouth as he sings, the tense tendons of his neck as he belts out a line. Your chest aches with the sight of him, and you lean into Somin, “He looks good,” 

“He looks like shit,” Somin counters, even though that’s not even kind of true. 

His long fingers stretch over the guitar frets, and a smile lights up his face when he exchanges a look with Mingi to his left. Your stomach flip flops like the first time you saw him all those years ago, no matter how angry you’ve been with him, you’re not blind. 

You swallow tightly and finally let your eyes flick over the whole band. Mingi at his keyboard, his same old production deck at the side, still duct taped together and covered in stickers. San stays steady on the bass, looking every bit as handsome and serious as ever, but his hair is cropped shorter now, and his biceps flex as he grips his own mic to lean in and harmonize with Yunho. Yeosang is behind them all on the drums, his face a smooth mask of passive intensity, his hair a shock of coppery red. 

You see photo after photo as you watch them, and if you weren’t so angry at the frontman, you’d probably pull your camera back out. 

Jiwoo pushes another shot into your hands, soju this time, and you throw it back before chasing it with a long sip of beer. 

“He looks like shit,” Jiwoo says, echoing Somin’s statement. 

“He doesn’t,” You shake your head and take another sip, “the bastard.”

Somin turns to you and nudges you with her shoulder, “You look fucking fantastic though,” 

“Exactly,” Jiwoo nods, “he’s going to choke the second he sees you,” 

“Regret every word,” Somin adds. 

Before you can reply, the song ends, the crowd erupts, and Yunho laughs into the microphone. You can’t stop your heart from skipping in your chest, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss that sound, but like a trained response you hear the echo of his words from the last night you saw him. 

You embarrassed me. You made a fool of me. 

Your throat tightens. 

And then the second song starts, and moments later Yunho’s eyes find yours. 

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“You good?” Mingi’s deep voice hits him as he rounds the corner to the green room to grab his guitar, the smell of cigarettes still lingering heavily on him. 

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” Yunho sighs, rubbing at his tired eyes. 

“If you seemed good, I wouldn’t be asking,” Mingi says flatly. 

“Didn’t sleep,” Yunho brushes it off, “anyways are you good?” 

Mingi’s lip twitches in irritation, “Yeah, Yunho,” he sighs, “I’m good,” 

“Great,” San interjects, pushing Yunho’s guitar into his chest, “we’re all good, let’s go,” 

Yeosang follows behind San, drumsticks sticking out of his back pocket as he secures the top half of his wavy red hair in a tie. As usual, he doesn’t say much, but Yunho doesn’t need to ask if he’s ready for the stage, Yeosang’s always ready. 

Mingi turns to follow, jerking his head to beckon Yunho along, “Forty minutes,” he says, “and we’ll grab drinks after.” 

For the first time all night, Yunho feels his shoulders relax a little, “Yeah, cool,” 

Minjae, their self-elected manager and friend since college grabs them at the edge of the stage, “Next Saturday, I’ve got a good one,” 

“Yeah?” Mingi asks, eyebrow raised. 

He names the venue, still looking at the details on his phone, “And it pays,” 

“Better than this, I hope,” Yunho comments and Yeosang throws him a sideways glance. 

“Yah,” A grungy girl with green hair and a septum piercing interjects sharply, a clipboard in her hands, “you’re the replacement band, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Minjae answers for them. 

“Call time,” She nods at the clock, “two minutes ago.” 

“Jesus,” Yunho breathes. 

Mingi nods once, and then the four of them gather at the stage edge. 

When they walk out, there’s some amount of applauding, a few people in the audience who recognize them, but this wasn’t supposed to be their show so it’s not exactly their crowd. Yunho takes a deep breath, settling up at the front of the stage with his guitar and adjusting the mic stand to his height. The air smells stale, sweat and beer and the metallic tang of something unidentified. It’s hot in the venue, but it’s hotter on the stage under the lights, and Yunho wishes for a second he wasn’t wearing this jacket. 

But he shifts into his stage self a second later, the weight of the guitar strap, the feeling of the mic under his hand. He lets it all fall away. He exchanges a look with his members, and they’re ready, every conflict left backstage, and then he leans into the microphone and introduces them. 

“This is Devotion,” He says before they start to play, guided into unison by the sharp crack of Yeosang’s drumsticks counting them down. 

The first chords hit, a surge of sound around them, from them, and the day disappears. Despite it all, they’re playing tight. For four minutes he forgets about her face, even though he wrote this song for her, it’s just him and his bandmates and the stage, the crowd, the thrum of bodies and the heat of the lights. 

It’s somewhere in the middle of the second song when he feels like he’s hitting his stride when he sees you. Looking out over the crowd as he sings the chorus, he finds you almost immediately. You’re not close enough to touch, you’re back by the bar and only lit by the side lights but he’d know your face anywhere. Yunho hits the next chord too hard, the sound a little too harsh through the speakers, but he recovers quickly as he refocuses on the stage, ignoring a questioning look from Mingi. 

He tries to focus anywhere else, but his eyes are drawn back to your side of the stage again and again. 

You look good, too good, like last year just rolled off your shoulders and left you looking lighter, freer. He sees your best friends crowded close on either side of you, Jiwoo whispering something into your ear that makes you smile a little and it hits him smack in the center of his chest. 

On the next glance over, when your eyes connect and you look away fast like you’ve been caught, it knocks the breath straight out of him. For a split second he forgets the lyrics. All he can think is of course you’re here, almost a year to the day since you left him, here to reopen the wounds you left that he still couldn’t figure out how to heal. 

He makes it through the set, feeling a little less electric than he did after the first song, and when the last chord plays out in an echo through the speakers he mutters a hoarse thank you into the mic and ducks off stage. The crowd liked them, he can hear that, but they’re not the headliners and there’s no encore, they almost never get an encore. 

Stumbling into the narrow corridor backstage, Yunho shoves his guitar into its case and grabs an unopened water bottle. It’s lukewarm, but it doesn’t matter, his throat is burning and he’s itching for a smoke. All he can see is your face. That little smile to your friends, the way you looked away when your eyes locked. He feels a twisting mix of anger and curiosity, and he shuts his guitar case harder than he means to as he tries to shake off the image of you. 

Before his members can ask him anything, look at him with that look, he spins on his heel for the hallway that leads to the exit door. 

His hands connect with the heavy push bar that will unhinge the lock, and then he hears you. 

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When Yunho walks off stage, an idea forms in your gut that might be a terrible one, but you don’t really care. 

“I’ll be back,” You tell your friends, pushing your half drunk Terra into Jiwoo’s hands. 

“Oh, fuck no,” She replies, “you are not going to talk to him.” 

“Ji,” You sigh, “I’m fine, and we were bound to run into each other eventually.”

“He should come talk to you,” Somin points out, “he’s the asshole, here.” 

“Relax,” You tell her, “I’m just going to tell them the set was good, see if he has anything to say,” 

“This is a stupid idea,” Jiwoo says with a sigh, “but you look hot, I hope he chokes on it.” 

You grin, “Thanks.”

Somin nudges your shoulder, “You got this,” 

You nod, taking a steadying breath, “Okay, here we go,” 

You move before your legs stop working again, winding your way through the crowd towards the back hallway that leads past the bathrooms, towards the roped off area of backstage. You slip through a throng of girls at the bathroom who are all giggling and drunk, and then you see him. 

Yunho ducks past the backstage barrier and heads straight for the outside access door. 

“Yunho,” His name leaves your lips before you can even think of anything else to say. 

He freezes, his hands on the door, and then he turns. 

Here, closer, your heart starts to beat harder. He looks a bit like he’s seen a ghost, and you’re pretty sure you look exactly the same. 

“y/n,” He manages. 

You can’t think of anything to say, but you were the one who tracked him down, so you steel yourself and take a few steps towards him so you can hear each other. 

“I didn’t realize this was your gig,” You finally say.

“Just filling in,” He explains, his voice a little rough from singing for the past forty minutes. 

You nod, and fight the urge to look away. His gaze is intense, it always was. Yunho has a way of looking at you and making you feel like you’re the only person in the world, his attention completely and totally focused on you and you alone. It used to make you feel special, but now all you feel is pinned in place. 

Wetting your lips, you clear your throat, “It was a really good set,” 

You watch the change in his expression, from wary to irritated, and he huffs a humorless laugh before dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair, “Sure, thanks.” 

“Right,” Your fists tighten but you stay cordial, “well, that’s it.” 

“Sure,” 

He doesn’t say it’s nice to see you or that you look good, he doesn’t offer any platitudes at all, even when you came over and offered an olive branch, trying to be the bigger person. 

“Goodbye, Yunho,” You turn on your heel sharply and leave him behind you, anger curling in your belly. 

When you make it back to your friends, you’re ready to swing, “Let’s get drunk,” 

“It went that well?” Jiwoo grimaces. 

“I said ‘good set’,” You take a long swig of your beer, “and he said ‘sure’,” 

“Yikes,” Somin spins to the bar to order more drinks. 

“I don’t know what the hell I ever saw in him,” 

Except you know exactly what you used to see in him. For two years your relationship was good, electric. He loved you right, made you feel like anything was possible, right up until his jealousy got the better of him and he twisted one misunderstood moment into perceived betrayal. 

“He’s 6’2”,” Somin throws back a shot, “that fucks us all up sometimes,” 

“Asshole,” You mutter under your breath, and when Jiwoo turns around with more drinks, you take them with open hands. 

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Yunho watches you walk away with a tightness in his throat he hasn’t felt in months. His chest feels heavy, like there’s a weight pressing right down over his sternum. 

He expected you to apologize, or even just to say something real, but instead you looked at him like nothing happened, like he didn’t get home after a gig to the apartment emptied out of every trace of you and a stack of bills on the kitchen island to cover your half of the rent.

A hand claps down on his shoulder hard enough to shock him out of his stupor, and Mingi leans in, “We played clean, the crowd wasn’t dead, let’s drink.” 

Yunho shrugs off his hand just as San, Yeosang, and Minjae appear. Yunho’s ears are still ringing from the show, his voice feeling raw. He wants a smoke, and after seeing you only a few feet away, all he wants is to disappear home and go to bed. He knows he’s fucked either way though, you’re here in the flesh, but the ghost of you is still all over his apartment.

Mingi sees Yunho’s expression and shakes his head, “One drink,” he says, “and then we can sulk about the sorry state of our bank accounts.” 

Yeosang nods, “The bar’s running a special, a shot and a beer and get a second draft,” he notes, “we might as well lose our money efficiently.” 

Yunho cracks a smile at that while the guys laugh, and even though he’s bone tired, he agrees. 

“Alright,” Yunho nods, “one drink.” 

Yunho follows them out to the bar, where thankfully you are no longer standing, and then he clicks back into the conversation. 

“So how much is next Saturday paying,” Mingi is saying to Minjae. 

Yunho half listens, only contributing when one of their other friends, Hyun, a bassist for another one of the bands comes and joins their circle. For a little while things are fine, normal, listening to the next band and talking about nothing. 

It only takes two shots of soju for him to start looking for you again, his back to the venue wall as he tunes out the group on stage and drifts out of the conversation in front of him. 

When he finally finds you again, he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol or the dream from this morning that makes his breath catch sharp in his chest. You’re at a high-top table with your friends near the back half of the venue adjacent to the bar. Your camera’s tucked away now, and he catches you right as your head tips back in laughter. He can’t hear the sound of it over the music, but he doesn’t need to, he remembers it perfectly. He remembers what it used to feel like when it was his jokes you laughed at, his shoulder you leaned into, his glass you reached for without asking. 

Beside him, Minjae is still talking and Hyun and Yeosang are doubled over laughing. Mingi is pouring more shots of soju out, pushing one into San’s reluctant hands, but Yunho can’t pull his eyes away from you. 

It guts him watching you like this. 

He watches you run a hand through your hair, the shape of your lips around the words – I love this song. He watches you nod your head to the music, your hair shifting around your shoulders with every motion, and his stomach tightens. You’re beautiful, magnetic even now, even with how angry he’s been at the memory of you. Underneath the tension in his chest he still feels that pull, that way that one look from you across a crowded room would draw him in, leave him all but stumbling straight for you for just a breath of your same air. 

You had always joked that it was him who had that power, you would blush and tell him that you’re just behind the camera, but Yunho has always known better. No other girl has ever made him feel that, before or since. 

The thought drives him to tip back the rest of his beer in one long pull. 

By the time he lowers the empty glass though, there’s movement at your table that makes him straighten up and crane his neck to see better. Some guy, not Jiwoo’s boyfriend, not anyone Yunho recognizes, is sliding up too close. He’s leaning in like he owns space at the table, loud and drunk, angled towards you in a way that makes Yunho’s jaw flex. 

At first you manage it fine, that tight tiny smile of yours on your lips, brushing him off politely. He doesn’t take the hint though, and the longer Yunho watches, the more his pulse starts to spike. 

Your friends shift closer, but the drunk guy still stays. He laughs at something only he thinks is funny, and then he steps closer to you and drops his hand low on your hip, before sliding it down to cup your ass. 

Yunho moves before he even thinks about it. 

San’s head jerks up at the sound of his glass hitting the bar top hard, but Yunho ignores him and cuts through the crowd like a knife. The haze of cheap beer, bad stage lights, and feedback from the speakers all fade out until he’s focused in on a single sharp point: the look on your face when his hand clamps down over your wrist. 

Yunho’s hands are balled in tight fists, and he steps cleanly between you and the drunk, “Take your fucking hands off her.” 

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You had already told this guy to fuck off twice, in very certain terms, when he slid his hand over your ass. It didn’t phase you exactly, it happens especially with so many drunk people in a dark venue, but it pisses you off all the same. 

“Yeah, no,” You push his hand off you, “go bother someone else,” 

“One drink,” You’re pretty sure this guy thinks he’s being charming, but he’s about three drinks past that and entering belligerent. 

“No,” You say flatly, about to shake off the loose loop of his hand around your wrist, when a body cuts between you. 

“Take your fucking hands off her,” 

Yunho. 

The man’s hand drops off your wrist, and Yunho takes a step forwards that leaves the drunk stumbling a step back. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Jiwoo says under her breath. 

Your teeth tighten together, anger curling in your gut, sharp and unmistakable. 

“She said no,” Yunho continues, towering over the drunk. 

“What’s it to you, asshole?” The man fires back, alcohol clearly giving him too much confidence for this confrontation when Yunho has at least five inches on him, “We were just talking,” 

You watch Yunho’s hands pulse into a fist, his shoulders squaring, “Last warning. Back up, fuck off.” 

Something registers in the drunk’s face at that, and his hands go up. You don’t catch the last thing he says under his breath, but he stumbles off towards the crowded floor. 

You drop your drink back on the table and stand up from your stool. 

“Here we go,” Somin sing-songs a little drunkenly under her breath to Jiwoo. 

Yunho turns around, eyes finding you, “You okay?” 

Emotional whiplash was not on your bingo card for the night, and heat spikes up your spine, the words finally snapping out of you, “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

He blinks, shaking his head, “But he–,” 

“Was an asshole,” You run right over him, “and I’m fine. I can take care of myself,” 

Yunho huffs, starting to roll his eyes, but you step tightly into his space. 

“You don’t get to act all protective now,” You grit out, “you didn’t give a shit before.” 

Yunho’s eyes go wide, his mouth dropping open, and then you see the twitch of his lip, “What was I supposed to do? Let him put his hands all over you?” 

“Yunho,” You bite back, “I had it handled,” 

“Handled?” His voice spikes, “He was about two seconds from,” 

“From what?” Your voice gets louder, matching his, “From stumbling off? I had it, he’s not even the first guy tonight,” 

“I was just trying to,” 

“You were trying to play hero,” Anger bubbles inside, the past year flooding forwards, “and after what you did? I don’t need that, Yunho, I don’t need you anymore.” 

His eyes harden, but the silence that follows is knife-edged, broken only by the thrum of bass from the stage and the drunken cheer of strangers. Jiwoo’s hand tightens on your upper arm, Somin’s glare doesn’t falter, but all you see is him, taller than anyone else in the room, anger written across every line of his body, and underneath it something more raw, something that makes you look away. 

You shove past him, shoulder clipping hard against his chest, “Stay the hell out of my life,” 

Heat tugs inside you, the threat of tears pricking at the back of your eyes, but you move through the crowd and try to steady your shaking hands. You’re directionless, but still move with purpose, and you make it as far as the back hallway before he catches up to you, darting in front of you with his hands raised.

“What?” You bite out, trying to side step him, but he’s matching you move for move. 

“Don’t walk away from me,” His voice cuts low against the noise of the venue. 

Fury pushes against your ribs, “You don’t get to tell me what to do,” 

The hallway yawns around you, half-lit by neon spill from the bar. It’s a little muffled here, the thick wall between you and the majority of the venue, it’s darker, quieter. 

Yunho steps closer, his eyes dark, “Stop acting like I’m the enemy here when all I did was help,” 

“All you did,” You laugh, the sound hollow in your chest, “you think I’m mad about tonight? You think I’m this pissed at you because you scared off some drunk?” 

His jaw clenches tight and he swallows tightly, “You’re the one who’s pissed? After what you did to me?” 

“What I did?” The words explode out of you, “Don’t you fucking dare put this on me, you wrecked us, Yunho. Not me,”

He moves a step closer, the heat of his body radiating through his shirt, “Are you forgetting about fucking one of my best friends?” 

“I never fucked anyone and you know it,” You push against him, the firm ripple of his abdominal muscles, and make space between you, “you saw one kiss decided you knew what happened, you didn’t even ask me,” 

He flinches, but then he shakes his head and his voice rises right back up, “Don’t twist this around on me, you’re the one who left. I came back from that gig and all your shit was gone, y/n.” 

“What was I supposed to do?” You shout, “Wait at home for you and grovel when you called me a fucking whore?” 

He rears back, “I never said that, I would never say something like that to you.” 

“You might as well have,” You bite out as you hear the echo of his voice from that night in the back of your mind.  

Which other friends of mine have you fucked?

“We were together for two years,” He counters, “and you left me with an empty apartment and rent money like I was a roommate,” 

“Two years,” You fight back the press of tears and push right back, “two years of me shooting every show, coming to every gig, and loving you, and you think I’d throw it all away like that?” 

His throat works and he shakes his head, running a hand over his face as frustration vibrates through him, “I saw what I saw,” 

“You saw what you wanted to see,” You cut in, “you saw two seconds at a party and decided I wasn’t worth trusting anymore.” 

The hallway feels suddenly stifling. You need to get away from this, from him, you can’t have this fight with him again, not after it left you cracked open and aching for the better part of this year. 

One of the two bathroom doors suddenly opens, a girl darting out and getting out of your way, and you take the exit with fast feet, pushing your way into the bathroom for a second of privacy. 

The door doesn’t swing shut right away though, and you spin on your heel the second you hear Yunho push in after you. 

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” You hiss, the door clicking shut and the sounds of the venue dulling to a muffled throb through the walls. 

“Then kick me out,” Yunho snaps, clicking the lock closed so no one can interrupt you, “but you’re going to listen to me first,” 

“Yunho,” You sigh, shaking your head. You don’t know what more there is to say. 

“Don’t run from this, not again,” He insists. 

“Run?” You scrub your hands over your face, through your hair, “You think I’m running? I’ve been waiting for you to figure this out and talk to me for a year,” 

Yunho bristles, “What’s there to figure out? I went looking for you at the party, and saw you kissing him. Your mouth was on his, it was pretty fucking clear, and when I confronted him he told me everything,” 

That detail is news to you, and your stomach bottoms out, “He what?” 

“Minjae told me,” Yunho steps closer, his body inches from yours, anger and heat radiating from him, “he told me how you came onto him, that you told him you weren’t happy with me, that you wanted him and he turned you down.”

Your head is spinning. That’s not what happened, that’s not even close to what happened, but you can’t find the words. 

Yunho takes your silence as admission and he keeps going, “You threw yourself at him at the party and he pushed you off. He apologized to me because he’s a good friend, but you couldn’t even be honest with me,” 

Your head is swimming, but you shake your head, “I loved you for two years, and you just took his word?” 

“With the way you left?” His eyes flick over you, pressing into your space, “Felt like confirmation to me. You didn’t even try to explain.” 

His words play on a loop – You embarrassed me. You made a fool out of me. Don’t bother coming back. 

“You called me an embarrassment, Yunho,” You shove against him but this time his feet are planted and he doesn’t let you move him, “you were cruel. You didn’t want an explanation, you wanted a fight, and I left because if that’s all it took to believe I would do that to you? Then you never loved me at all.” 

“Never loved you?” His voice is deep, angry, and his eyes flick over your face, “Don’t you dare. If you want to explain so badly, then do it. I’m here now, explain now.” 

“Fuck you,” The words burst out of you, “I’m not wasting my breath defending myself to someone who clearly never trusted me in the first place.” 

“There it is,” 

You shake your head, moving to dart around him but he catches your arms and pushes you right back to where you were, “Yunho, stop,” 

His hands drop away from you, but his words keep you rooted to the spot, “I was drunk,” he concedes, “I was angry. I said things I never should have said, and I am fucking sorry for that. But you hurt me with what you did, you broke us, you did that when you–,” 

“Yunho,” You shake your head.

“I was hurt. I wanted to hurt you back.”

The rasp of his voice pulls at your chest, his expression lost, and a little part of you aches to sink into his chest. You exhale a tired breath and shake your head, “Well, you did,” 

“But none of that changes what I saw,” Yunho says then, still hanging onto the lie. 

Something snaps inside you, your vision going red, and your palm cracks across his cheek before you can even think, the sound of it all but echoing off the tiles. 

He reels back half a step, head snapping to the side with the blow, the red imprint of your palm already blooming on his skin, your hand tingling. You gasp, your tingling hand flying to cover your shocked mouth, and slowly, he turns back to you. 

“I’m sorry,” You shake your head in disbelief, “I shouldn’t have done that, I should have never,” 

He swallows tightly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and then he leans in tightly to your space, “You’re not sorry,” he grinds out, “you’ve been waiting to do that for a year.” 

“Yunho,” 

His body is close, breath warm across your cheek. You can feel the heat of him, smell the tangled scent of sweat, aftershave, and cigarettes. Your eyes flick to his plush lips, back up to his eyes, the freckles on his cheek visible when he’s this close. 

“The least we can do now is stop lying to each other,” Yunho shakes his head, “I’m so fucking tired of being angry with you,” 

“Maybe I’m not tired of being angry with you,” The words bubble up. 

His jaw jumps as he tightens his teeth together. 

He’s so close, too close, and your head is dizzy with the proximity. He breathes out a sharp, angry breath through his nose, and just as he starts to lean back from you, your body moves on its own. 

Your hands close tight around the front of his jacket and you’re tugging him down, crushing your mouth against his. He grunts into the sudden press, a surprised shake of his head, but he makes no move to separate your lips. Instead his hands snap to your waist like instinct, pulling you up against his chest hard and fast. 

You both stumble back hard into the bathroom wall, your back flush against the peeling red paint and chaotic array of stickers and sharpied graffiti. You slide your arms up over his shoulders, fingers tangled in the shaggy hair at the nape of his neck and he groans a little against your lips. 

When your other hand slides over the warm spot on his jaw where you struck him, the kiss breaks and you shake your head, “I shouldn’t have done that,” you echo. 

“Shut up,” Yunho all but growls, sealing his mouth over yours, and then he tugs you clean off the floor and into his arms. 

Heat barrels through your veins, need and ache, and every inch of history with him sparking the match fast. Your legs wrap around his waist like muscle memory. He shouldn’t feel this good, he shouldn’t kiss this good, but your stomach is already knotting up tight with the desperate tug of arousal. 

“Fuck you,” you curse against his mouth. 

“Yeah?” He huffs a laugh, one of his hands cupping the back of your head as he dives in for another kiss, “Fuck you too, baby.” 

You groan against his mouth, a heady makeout of lips, tongue, and teeth. Both of you letting every ounce of frustration into every touch. Your heart is pounding, your stomach bubbling, the heat in your belly such a mix of anger and unfettered need you don’t know what’s up and what’s down. 

Yunho nips at your lip and presses you back again against the bathroom wall. 

You gasp sharply when his hips slot deeper into yours, his weight pinning you to the wall. Everything feels like it’s on fire, his chest rising and falling against your ribs with every heavy breath, his hands sliding rough and greedy over your body, the firm line of his cock grinding against your clothed center. 

You make a tight noise, your hand flying to brace against the wall at the sensation of him right there, right where you need him, but he just kisses you harder, hotter, his tongue sweeping over yours like he’s relearning every inch of your mouth until every breath tastes like him, cigarettes, beer, and something else that’s only Yunho, something you had forgotten until this exact moment. 

Your teeth catch hard on the curve of his bottom lip and he hisses, dragging you up higher against him. 

“God,” He rasps out, his words smudged by kisses, “you make me fucking crazy,” 

Your head falls back with a thump against the wall when he nips down your jaw, teeth scraping the edge of your throat before he sucks perfectly on your pulsepoint the way he always used to. The sharp sting of it makes your body buckle and jerk in his hands, but he just holds you tighter to the wall. 

Heat twists in your belly. 

Yunho’s tongue licks a hot stripe up your throat and you shudder, “Mm,” he groans, “I’m still pissed at you,” 

Emotion pulls at your chest, he sounds wrecked, he sounds like you feel, and you pull him back up to your lips with a hand on his jaw to shut him up. He meets you breath for breath, but then he pushes his hips forwards and grinds his cock hard against you. 

“Feel that?” He grinds again, “You still get me harder than anyone,” 

The words scorch through you, your core clenching around nothing, and your hips roll on instinct, panting against his mouth as you bite back a moan. 

“I bet you’re so fucking wet,” His hands grip your hips hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have bruises tomorrow, “mad at me and still grinding all over this cock,” 

Your back arches, your body straining into his, and the friction makes your head spin. It’s too much, it’s not enough, it’s everything, and the words break loose from your chest, “Fuck,” you choke, “you make me so messed up,” 

He lets out a jagged laugh, “Good,” he says, his lips hot at your ear, “now you know how you left me.”

Your gasp catches sharply in your throat, but he kisses it away, his tongue dipping into your mouth to deepen it. Your body rolls against him and he groans in reply, fingers flexing on your hips.  

His words swirl in your mind, and you swallow back tears, clinging to his shoulders, “I hate you.” 

He ignores it, but then he pushes off the wall with one broad hand. You stay locked to his chest as he moves, spinning you in the small space of the bathroom to drop you onto the bathroom counter. It’s a small space, just a single stand alone sink and a few inches of cheap countertop on either side. There’s barely any space for you to sit, but he sets you there anyway and you brace yourself with one hand against the metal paper towel dispenser and the other slipping on the wet rim of porcelain, your back colliding with a dingy mirror. 

His hands adjust, holding you steady, and then his mouth is everywhere. Your jaw again, the long column of your throat, back up to your lips, his kisses hot, messy, and demanding. 

“I hate you,” You breathe again. 

Yunho bites down on the soft skin of your earlobe, just enough to make you jump in his hands, “Liar,” he breathes, his hands sliding down from your waist to your thighs to push your legs open wider. 

You feel the hot rush of need building in your belly, but when you speak your words don’t match your body, “You don’t get to do this,” you moan as he yanks your hips forwards, his body pressed between your splayed knees, “you don’t get to touch me like this anymore,” 

“You kissed me,” He reminds you sharply with another urgent press of his lips on yours, but then he pulls back to meet your eyes, “tell me to stop, right now.” 

You could. You could push him off, you could end this. You could tell him the truth about what happened a year ago and leave that crater between the two of you. It would be easy. 

But you don’t do any of that. Instead, you yank him back down by the collar of his jacket, “Fuck you, Yunho.” 

His laugh is sharp, wrecked, “Say it again,” he says, his hands shoving your skirt up high around your hips, “say my name like that again.” 

“Fuck you,” You say instead, your hands dropping frantically to his belt, tugging it open with clumsy, furious hands, “God, I fucking hate you.” 

“You don’t,” He rasps, tugging you closer to grind against you before his zipper is even undone, “you never did,” 

He pushes you back with sure hands until you’re leaning against the mirror, and your hands return to where they were braced before. He kisses down your chest, sliding the straps of your tank top down as his lips work over your skin.

Your breath catches, your hands gripping the sink and the metal corner of the dispenser as he licks and kisses his way down your sternum. You whimper when he makes it to the soft swell of your breasts. 

“I’ll say it if you won’t,” He says against your skin, one hand tight on your bare thigh while the other teases the top edge of your blouse, “you think I haven’t missed this? Haven’t missed you every fucking night,” 

Your heart stutters in your chest, “Shut up,” you say, but you can’t fight the way your hips buck into him. 

“Make me,” He tugs at your top roughly, and your breasts spill out, nipples tightening in the cool air of the bathroom. 

You moan, head pressing against the glass of the mirror, body arching under his attention, but Yunho stops dead, his chest heaving and his eyes locked on your chest, “Holy shit,” he breathes.

Your eyes snap back down, and you realize he’s seeing your nipples fully pierced for the first time. A barbell through each, silver jewelry clear as day. Your cheeks heat. You got them a few weeks after the break up, angry and missing him and wanting to do something that might piss him off or make him regret leaving you if a moment like this ever happened. 

“You pierced them?” He asks, even though the answer’s right in front of him, and he blinks in relative disbelief. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his hand slides back up from your shirt to your breast, the rough pad of his thumb grazing just under your nipple, not quite touching the jewlery, “Did you,” his voice is tight and threaded with lust, “fuck, did you do this for me?” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” You shoot back, but the tone of your voice and your downcast eyes betray you, warmth flooding your cheeks in embarrassment that he caught onto you so quickly. 

“Yeah?” He says, edge in his voice, “So, you didn’t think about how I’d lose my mind if I ever saw naked again?” 

Before you can deny it, his thumb moves up and flicks over the bar, sending a lightning bolt of sensation straight through your chest, down your belly, straight to your core, and you moan. 

His eyes flick up to yours, heat heavy in his eyes and then he smiles, and dips his head. His lips close around your nipple, his tongue circling the metal before tugging gently with his teeth. The contrast of slick warmth and sharp edges make your whole body jolt, and your hand flies from the sink to the back of his head. 

He hums against your skin, pleased, and then his tongue works in tender flicks against your piercing. You moan into the sensation, and then he switches to your other breast to lavish the same attention, tonguing the barbell and your pebbled nipple like he’s determined to make you come just from this. 

Your thighs shake where they’re clamped around his waist, the sink creaking under the shifting weight, “Please,” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. 

Yunho pulls back, just enough to look up at you, his lips wet and his voice rough, “These are mine now,” he says, “I don’t give a fuck who you got them for, they’re mine.” 

The air leaves you, your mouth falling open. You should argue, you should shove him away and tell him off, but the filthy heat of his words melts through your veins so quick all you can do is nod and drop your head back against the mirror to let him touch you. 

His teeth graze one of the barbells once more, and then he drags himself back up off your chest to his full height, his lips flushed, eyes dark and hungry. 

“Fuck this,” He pants, fumbling at his belt with frantic hands, the clink of metal harsh in the cramped bathroom, “I can’t wait another second,” 

“Yunho,” 

He cuts you off with another searing kiss, tongue swallowing your protest as his zipper slides open. A beat later his cock is free, hot and heavy against your inner thigh, and his hands ruck your skirt up higher until it’s bunched around your hips, until all that’s between you is the thin cotton of your panties. 

His hand slides between your thighs, yanking them to the side, and he slides his fingers up through your folds once, not to tease, but to make sure you’re wet enough to take him, a groan on his lips that makes you shiver, “Soaked,” 

Your head spins, your body already jerking against his touch, but then he’s standing tall again and lining himself up, the blunt head of his cock notching against your entrance. 

“W-wait,” You scramble, not even sure what you’re begging for, but your plea breaks off into a sharp cry as he thrusts forward in one brutal, desperate push, sinking into you to the hilt.  

Your body breaks at the sudden stretch of him, the sharp ache that blurs right into hot pleasure, and you moan sharply, hand skidding against the sink.

He exhales, his mouth falling open, eyes hot as he takes in the sight of you under him, braced against the sink with his cock stuffed inside you, your chest heaving with every breath. 

“Jesus Christ,” He manages, and then he folds over you, locking his lips on yours, “fuck,” 

You moan again, but his mouth swallows your sounds, before his forehead presses tight to yours, “So fucking tight,” he breathes, “just like I remember.” 

Your pussy flutters around him, “Don’t,” 

“Don’t what?” He pistons his hips once, dragging his cock back out and slamming back in, “Don’t remind you what it feels like? Don’t remind you how good I fit inside you?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” You pant against his mouth, clinging to him as he start to thrust. 

This kiss is brutal, sparking heat through every nerve ending. You can’t remember the last time you kissed him outside of this bathroom, but this one is rewriting your first one into dust. 

Yunho pumps his hips, both of you groaning as he starts to find the rhythm. Your head tips back, moans spilling out as he buries himself deep, over and over, every stroke hitting the spot inside you that makes your vision blur. 

A sharp series of bangs against the bathroom door leave you gasping and Yunho’s pace faltering, the door rattling with the force of the knocks, a voice slurring from the other side, “Hey! Hurry the fuck up in there!”

Your body clenches tightly around him, and Yunho makes a ragged sound at the sudden squeeze of your cunt, his hips stutter once, and then he catches your hips in his hands to keep you upright on the counter. 

You both stay quiet, and then the handle jiggles. 

Yunho’s forehead drops against yours, but his thrusts don’t stop, only getting rougher now, like he couldn’t pull out even if he tried. His breath ghosts hot against your lips, and then he straightens up when the handle jiggles again, “Fuck off!”

Whoever it is shouts something else, hand slamming the door once more in frustration, and your eyes flick to the door. Yunho doesn’t stop, he just grips you tight and keeps fucking you, and you realize in a dizzy rush that even with the risk of being caught, his body is locked to yours, too desperate to feel you to let go. That thought alone makes your cunt squeeze tighter, makes you slicker around his thick length. 

“Hey,” Yunho’s says, his hands smoothing down and up your thighs, “eyes on me,” he pants, pulling you closer to the edge of the sink until you feel like you might fall right off the edge, “don’t think about them, it’s just me, right here.” 

Your breath hitches, and your hand slips off the edge of the counter to brace against his forearm, your nails digging into his skin. 

His hands cup your hips firmly to drag you into his thrusts, and your hand slips off the metal dispenser, a gasp in your throat as you reach for him, thighs tightening on his hips to hold yourself steady. 

“I got you,” He promises roughly, “hold on to me,” 

Your walls flutter and tense around him, letting your hips hang off the edge properly now as his cock plunges in and out of you. He’s the only one who’s ever fucked you like he means it, like he needs you just as much as you need him. No amount of time or messy feelings could ever change that truth between you two. 

“Fuck, Yunho,” You moan, your voice caught in a heady whine, fingers tight on any part of him you can grab. 

“That’s it, say it like that,” He pants, his hands angling your hips just right before his thrusts pick up the pace, each sharp connection of his hips to yours knocking the breath out of you, “say my name, baby, say it like you used to,” 

 Your head goes fuzzy, pressing back against the mirror as your hands slip down to his forearms, nails digging into his skin, “Y-Yunho, Yunho!”

He groans, his plush lips parting as he watches your body under him, your breasts bouncing with every thrust, skin slick with sweat. He fucks you harder, faster, desperate like he’s been starved for this just like you have, “That’s it,” he breathes, “that’s my girl,” 

Your body arches, but you shake your head, “I hate you,” 

Yunho just tightens his hands, breath thready, “Yeah?” He says smiling down at you like he knows the truth, “then hate me harder,” 

Every inch of him feels like it’s too much and not enough all at once, splitting you wide open and filling you until your whole body is trembling. Pleasure spikes up and down your spine, your body clenching around him, nipples tight and sending shocks of heat through you with every bounce of your body. 

“God,” He rasps, pulling you close until your forehead is pressed against yours, “you feel the same, like you were made for this cock,” 

You moan, shuddering in his hands. 

He has you now, he knows it. As much as you hate it, he knows how to play your body to perfection, and he laughs, desperate and hot, before burying his face in your throat to suck at your neck, leaving tender marks the way he used to. His pace is ruthless, his hips sharp and pressing his cock deep, and your hand slips to brace yourself on the counter again. 

“Every night,” He says against your skin, “every fucking night, I thought about this pussy. I thought about how you’d sound when I fucked you open again,” 

Your eyes roll, cunt clenching around him, “S-stop talking,” 

“No,” Yunho groans, his cock sliding over that spot inside you again and again until your toes curl in your heels, “not when you’re dripping for me like this, you missed it, I can feel how much you missed it,” 

Your body betrays you, his words sending sharp need through your core, and you arch, “Yunho!”

“Yes,” His lips find yours again, his hands digging into the creases of your hips to hold you steady as he pounds into you, “again,” 

“Yunho!” You manage, voice breaking around the syllables, walls clenching tight around him as your orgasm winds tighter and tighter inside you. 

He pants once, hot and heavy, his eyes locked on yours as he fucks you like he’s chasing down your pleasure. 

The heat builds in your belly, one hand slipping on the edge of the sink while the other digs into his skin, “I–,” you moan, “I can’t,” 

“Yes, you can,” He groans, “you’re gonna come for me,” 

You moan sharply, pleasure popping apart inside you. 

“Hate me, love me, whatever the fuck you want,” He says, breathless as he thrusts, “but you’re coming on my cock, right now.” 

The words hit like the drop of a match into gasoline, a sudden flood of heat, and then the coil inside you snaps, the orgasm tearing through you so violently that you choke on his name and curl up into his body, pussy pulsing desperately around his cock. 

Yunho chokes, grinding deep through your climax, holding you pinned to the counter as he fucks you through every pulse, every cry, “Fuck, yes, that’s it,” he groans, lost in the way you’re shaking under him, “give it to me, let go,” 

Your body is still trembling, still buzzing with the aftershocks that ripple through your thighs and belly, but he doesn’t stop. He’s groaning raggedly against your throat, his pace stuttering as he pumps into your clenching core.

Suddenly, he bottoms out, burying himself to the hilt and holding there, and you gasp sharply, bucking into the overwhelming sensation of his cock kissing the deepest parts of your fluttering cunt. He shifts you so quickly in his arms you have to hold onto his shoulders, but you’re firmly back on the counter with one hand tugging your thigh open wider while his other rough palm spreads wide over your belly.

Your hips jerk when he moves his hand lower, pushing the rumpled fabric of your skirt out of the way and sliding his thumb over your swollen, untouched clit. You jolt, nails biting into him, “Y-Yunho!”

“Come on,” He says roughly, forehead still pressed to yours, sweat dripping hot between you in this twisted frantic position. His thumb starts to circle, and then he finds the pace, hard and relentless, “I’ve got you, baby. Give me another, right here,” 

The aftershocks of your first orgasm haven’t even faded, and already the sparks of pleasure are reigniting under your skin into something sharper, messier. Your thighs shake against his hips, legs tensing straighter as your body starts to bow to the sensation. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s vibrating, right on the precipice again, and he grinds his cock inside you with a rock of his hips while his thumb works your clit with merciless, familiar precision. 

“I’m, I’m,” Your hand flutters uselessly at his shoulder before slamming down on the counter and gripping tight, “too much, it’s too much,” you gasp, but your pussy is pulsing around him, the sound of him working you wet and obscene in the cramped space. 

“Not enough,” He pants, “come on, baby, come on,” 

Your vision whites out when it hits, your second orgasm hitting you so hard you almost sob, it’s fast and brutal and your whole body spasms in his arms, kissing him hard to muffle the moan that surely would have been heard by every single person in the venue if you let it out. 

You’re trembling, rocking against him, your body moving on its own, “Yunho, Yunho,” you’re babbling, shaking your head, pleasured tears pricking at your eyes. 

“Shh,” He kisses you, “there you go, that’s it,” 

Even as you shudder, his thumb just softens to soothe you through the aftershocks until you’re boneless in his arms. Your head sinking into his shoulder, panting against his neck, and his cock still throbs inside you, but for a moment he doesn’t move, just holding you steady and close through the tremors. 

Yunho’s hand comes to the back of your head, “You okay?” he asks, a moment of softness in this frantic fuck.

You nod weakly, and press a kiss to his throat, and when your hips roll the tiniest bit against him, you give him all the permission he needs to keep going. 

“Fuck,” Yunho chokes, adjusting his hands to brace you better, and then he drags his cock out slow before pumping in sharply with a wet snap that makes your body jolt, “Oh my god,” 

The rhythm builds faster again, reckless. His hips a steady drumbeat that leaves you bumping back into the counter again and again, and your hand flies up to brace against the mirror, slipping against the slick surface. 

“Jesus, baby,” He groans, sweat dripping down his temple, “you ruin me, nobody, fuck, nobody even comes close,” 

Your eyes fly up to his face, your body tightening around him at the raw honesty of his words as his pace roughens, “Yunho,” you breathe, a whimper breaking from your lips. 

“You think I didn’t try?” He rasps, “I tried, but God, y/n, no one takes me like you, no one feels like you,” He pumps sharper, deeper, and you cry out under him, “your body was made for me,” 

“Y-yes, yes,” You reach for him, hands gripping his shoulders and letting him hold you entirely, just his hands, and your precarious perch on the creaking counter. One of his hands slides up your chest until he palms your breast, thumbs brushing over one of your hard piercings until you jolt and whine. 

“Look at you,” Yunho groans, dragging his thumb back over the barbell before pinching it between his fingers, “making me lose my fuckind mind for you,” 

The words make your cheeks hot, and your hips buck into him. 

“Baby,” He pants, his voice wrecked now, “I’m close,” 

You whimper, needy, your walls still pulsing around him like you’re milking his cock and you feel him falter, his thrusts turning more artless and desperate, his body folding back over yours, forehead pressed to yours, anchoring himself to you. 

“Tell me where,” He gasps, “where do you want me?” 

Your eyes blow wide, glassy and dark, your lips parting. 

He groans, grinding into you and clinging to your hips, “Inside? Hm? You want me to fill you up?” His teeth catch your lip and you gasp against him, “Or should I pull out? Fuck, fuck, tell me, baby before I lose it,” 

Your chest heaves, liquid pleasure still sparking low in your belly, and you clutch at his shoulders like you’ll fall apart without him in you, “Inside,” your voice is raw, hoarse, “please, Yunho, please,” 

That’s all it takes. He shudders, one more hard thrust, then another, and then he holds himself deep as he spills inside you, a broken moan tearing from his throat as his cock throbs deep in your center. 

“Fuck, baby,” He grinds his hips up, deep, deep, “oh, fuck,” 

His release is hot, heavy and thick, pulse after pulse filling you as he holds you tight against him, tight to the counter, his whole body shaking with the force of it. His lips crash down over yours, your name on his lips, this time his voice desperate and ruined.

Your body flutters around him with every twitch, dragging out every drop until he’s trembling above you, panting hard against your mouth, his hips grinding messily into you like he can’t stand the thought of pulling out. 

When it finally ebbs, he slumps forwards and gathers you close, his cock still buried deep. One hand cradles your head while the other still grips your thigh so tightly it borders on painful, “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. 

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, holding yourself to him, your body still shuddering, heart pounding. For a moment, the whole world shrinks to nothing but this, your legs around his hips, your lips swollen and red, bruises blooming on both your skin. 

There’s just silence, only ragged breathing between you, the buzz of the fluorescents, and the thump of the music beyond the door. 

For a long moment, neither one of you moves, but then his hand shifts from the back of your head to cup your cheek. His palm is warm, rough and tender in a way that steals the air from your lungs, and his thumb drags gently back and forth across your jaw. It’s devastating in its familiarity, this small gentle motion cutting sharper than anything that either one of you yelled. 

Yunho exhales, still shaky, his eyes closed. 

Your own hand slides over his arm, and without thinking you rest it over his wrist like you used to, holding his hand to you and grounding yourself in an old comfort that you thought you’d never touch again. 

The words whisper out of you without a thought, your voice still cracked and rough, “Yunho,” you murmur, “you still think about me?” 

Your whispered words hang between you, fragile as glass, and impossible to take back. 

His eyes open, raw and searching, a pinch between his brows. His thumb still strokes your cheek like muscle memory and he takes a staggered breath, “Every fucking day.” 

For a second you can’t breathe at the truth of it, and then Yunho groans softly, pulling his hips back just enough to slip out of you and pull up his jeans. You shiver at the sudden emptiness inside, but before you can blink he’s moving gently, carefully, pulling the top of your shirt up to cover your breasts and smoothing your hair back from your damp forehead. His hands are steady in that old way, like every nerve in him is still wired to take care of you, even when everything else is broken. 

That undoes you more than the sex. 

Your throat tightens, tears pricking hot at the back of your eyes. His tenderness is unbearable, it reminds you of every quiet morning, every night he tucked you close against his chest, every version of Yunho that wasn’t your last moments with him, cruel, drunk, and angry. He cleans you up between your thighs with a damp paper towel and smooths down your skirt, his eyes staying downcast as he sets you right. 

This time the tears bubble up properly, and you know it, you can’t let this lie sit between you anymore. 

You suck in a sharp breath, and Yunho’s head snaps up, “Hey, hey, no,” he softens, cupping your cheeks, “please don’t cry,” 

“I have to tell you something,” Your voice breaks, a tear slipping down and catching on his thumb. He brushes it away and you shudder, “I can’t… I can’t let you keep thinking I—”

“Shh,” He softens, “you’re okay, you’re with me,” 

Your heart breaks in your chest, but you force yourself to take in a deep, steadying breath, your hands coming up to cup his, pulling them away from your face, “Yunho,” 

For once, he goes still, focused in a way that you haven’t seen in so long. He doesn’t cut you off, or push for answers, he just waits.

Your nails bite into your palms as you force the words out, “You didn’t see the whole story that night.” 

His brow furrows, but he stays quiet. 

“Minjae,” You breathe, shaking your head, “he had been bothering me for weeks,” 

His eyes sharpen. 

You keep going, your words thick in your throat, “Texts, waiting for me after rehearsal, after gigs. He was always showing up when you weren’t looking, and I told him no. I kept telling him no, but he wouldn’t let up.” 

You watch his jaw tick, his throat working as he swallows it down. 

“The party was insane, there were people everywhere, and you were with the guys,” You explain, “but he just kept showing up. Every time I turned around, he was there with another drink, and it all felt harmless until it didn’t,” 

He drags in a breath. 

“He pulled me down the hall, kissed me against the wall, that part you saw,” You tell him, brushing tears away, “but he kissed me, not the other way around.” 

You pause for a second, and then Yunho murmurs, “And then?” 

“I was so drunk,” You explain, “Yunho, I was so, I didn’t even know what was happening at first. And then I realized it was him, and not you, and I tried to shove him off,” 

“y/n,” He whispers, dread falling over his face. 

“I pushed him, told him to leave me alone,” You tell him honestly, “he scared me a little, and that sobered me up enough to go looking for you but you were gone, I got Jiwoo to bring me home when I couldn’t find you.” 

His eyes flick down to the floor. 

“I know what it looked like,” You manage, “when I came home in the middle of the night, I know what it seemed like, but I swear to you. I swear to God, Yunho, I never cheated. I never would. I loved you, I–,” 

Yunho exhales heavily, like he’s been gut-punched, and his whole body sags against the counter, one hand on either side of you where you stay perched against the sink. When he looks back up at you, his eyes are glassy, and he shakes his head, “Baby,” 

For the first time in every ounce of fighting, he sees you. 

“Baby,” He says it again, the word pained on his lips and he shakes his head, “fuck, and I blamed you. I yelled at you, I didn’t even…” He breaks off and grits his teeth like he can’t stand himself, “no wonder you left,” 

Your tears snake hot down your cheeks, faster now, and he blinks away his own. 

“I thought,” His voice cracks, and he rubs a broad hand over his face, “I thought you didn’t love me enough to stay, that you didn’t want me anymore. And the things I said, I can’t fucking–,” 

“Don’t,” You reach up for him, stopping his words, “I know, I know what you said, but don’t.” 

He flinches, like the memory of your argument is hitting him again, and then something shifts in his expression, his face hardening, and his voice drops low, “He was bothering you for weeks?” 

“What?” 

“That’s what you said,” Yunho replies, “for weeks?” 

Your breath catches, but you nod, “He was getting you gigs,” you explain, “and he knows people, and the band was finally doing well, there was money coming in, I didn’t want to,” 

“Didn’t want to what?” Yunho rears back, his temper flaring again, “Bother me? He’s my friend, and he was harassing you, he put his hands on you, he got you drunk, he, he could’ve,” 

“I didn’t want to cause problems,” You explain, “and I thought you trusted me, I thought I could explain after the kiss, I thought you’d see,” 

Anger curls in his throat, thick and sharp and mixing with shame until it’s so heavy he might choke on it, “Oh my god,” his voice cracks, “what the fuck did I do to you?” 

“No, no,” You reach for him but he steps back. 

“I let him do this to you, to us,” His jaw clenches, everything crashing down between you. 

You shake your head, trying to settle him, but he just exhales a ragged breath, raking both his hands through his hair, his chest heaving. 

“He lied to me for a year,” Yunho says, his voice raw, disbelief threading through his tone, “he looked me dead in the eye and he told me that you were the one,” 

“I wasn’t,” You murmur like a promise. 

He cuts himself off then, his jaw locking tight, and then suddenly he pushes back from you and fumbles with his jeans, zipping them and buckling his belt with rough, clipped motions. 

“Yunho,” You slip off the counter onto unsteady feet. 

“Stay here,” His words are short, final, and his eyes are on fire, his body taut with barely restrained violence. 

“Don’t,” you start, alarm catching in your throat, “Yunho,” 

He shakes his head, already turning for the door, “I mean it, y/n, stay here.” 

You reach for him, grabbing his arm like you could drag him back and keep him here with you, but he just shakes his head and slips his arm out of your panicked grasp. 

“He touched you,” Yunho says plainly, “he harassed you, and I… I fucking let him, and I blamed you for it,” 

“Yunho,” Your voice cracks, “you don’t fix this by fighting him, please,” 

“Stay here.”

The door is open and closed before you can say another word, Yunho gone, out of the bathroom and into the hallway, and your heart pounds in your chest, you’re dizzy on your feet. And then you reach frantically for the door to follow him. 

The hallway is crowded, someone curses at you for taking too long in the bathroom, but you don’t pay attention to it at all. You’re pushing through bodies, music still pounding from the stage, lights cutting colors across the haze of smoke and figures in the half dark. Yunho’s broad back cuts straight through it, furious, and you shove after him, stumbling to try and keep pace. 

“Yunho, please!” You call after him, but he doesn’t even turn his head. 

He’s locked in. 

You see the moment he spots Minjae where he’s leaning against the bar, beer in hand, laughing with the rest of the band. Yunho falters, and for a split second you think maybe he’s going to stop, maybe he’s listening and won’t solve this problem with a fight, but then you see his fists tighten before he surges forwards. He barrels through the press of people by the bar until his hands close around Minjae’s shirt, and the laugh dies on his lips, shock widening his eyes right before Yunho slams him back hard into the bar. Glasses tip, spilling beer and drinks everywhere, the sound of the collision cutting through the rest of the noise. 

The bartender shouts, people scramble. 

“You lying piece of shit,” Yunho shakes him hard like a ragdoll. 

Minjae shoves at him weakly, sputtering, “What the fuck, Y-Yunho, what–,” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” Yunho spits, leaning into his space, “you harassed her, cornered her, kissed her when she was too drunk to fight you off, and then you looked me in the eye and told me she came onto you. You lied to me for a year,” 

The color drains from Minjae’s face, mouth opening and closing, “That’s not,” 

“She told me everything,” Yunho leans in, “and you made me believe it was her,” 

“You’re drunk,” Minjae tries, shaking his head. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Yunho doesn’t let him finish, and then in a flash his fist comes down hard, cracking against Minjae’s jaw with a sickening sound. 

Gasps erupt around you, the crowd making a semi-circle, and the band on stage falters mid-song. Minjae crumples with the hit and Yunho lets him, hitting the sticky floor, but Yunho follows and hauls him back up by his collar to slam another punch into him before Minjae can even catch his breath. 

“Yunho!” You dart forwards, cutting through the bodies, but before you can get to them a pair of strong arms wrap around your middle and haul you back. 

“Don’t,” Mingi hisses in your ear, his grip iron tight, “he’s gone, y/n, you’ll just get hurt,” 

“Let me go!” You thrash, “He’ll kill him! Somebody fucking do something!”

Yunho drops, straddling Minjae, his fist connecting again, and then another. San and Yeosang move in a coordinated flash, dragging Yunho back roughly until he’s half standing, struggling against his bandmates. He’s cursing, chest heaving, all while Minjae lies dazed on the floor, blood blooming bright from a viciously broken nose. 

The band plays on, but in your corner of the venue everything draws tight in an uneasy silence, tension stretched like a wire. Minjae wipes blood from his face, dragging himself up and leaning heavily against the bar, his eyes furious and glassy. 

Yunho’s chest is still heaving, but San and Yeosang ease off him. 

“You’re done,” Yunho says sharply, “you’re fucking fired. Don’t come near me, don’t come near the band, and don’t even look at her ever again.” 

For a heartbeat, you think that’s it. The crowd is murmuring, shifting back towards the stage, and Mingi’s arms loosen around you, letting you step free. It’s all ending here, until Minjae laughs, the sound mean and ugly, “She’s not even worth all this,” he spits blood onto the venue floor, “wasn’t worth it that night either. Should have seen how fucking easy she –,” 

Your stomach drops, and Yunho lunges. 

You move forward too, desperate to stop him before it all explodes again, but Mingi’s too slow to catch you this time. As Yunho and Minjae connect, fists flying, you tug at Yunho’s shirt and try to push them apart, “Stop! Please, please, Yunho!”

Yunho’s left arm crosses in front of you, his hand on your hip as he tries to push you back, “Baby, move,” he says firmly, no room for negotiation, but the warning comes a split second too late. 

Minjae’s sloppy, his fist swinging wide in the wild haze of alcohol and rage, and it misses Yunho clean before clipping hard across your cheek. 

Pain blooms through your cheekbone, your eye, and you make a tight sound as you stumble. 

Yunho’s eyes go wide, jerking you fully behind him so that his body shields yours, even as his other fist cracks across Minjae’s jaw with brutal force. 

He drops, sprawling across the floor again, dazed. 

“Touch her again,” Yunho’s voice is low and lethal, “I’ll kill you,” 

Your head drops into his back, his hand still bracing your body there, tears pricking at your eyes and a stinging throb hot across your cheek. 

Minjae stays down, and Yunho relaxes a fraction. 

At your side, the crowd parts and Jiwoo and Somin break through the crush, their faces pale as they spot you, the rest of the band still keyed up and confused from the fight. The whole floor feels like it’s shifted around you, your friends circling tight around you, but all you can see is Yunho as he turns to you. 

He’s on you in a second, both hands cupping your face and tilting your head towards the light, “y/n,” he says, his voice tight, “it’s okay, let me see,” 

Your one eye is still wincing closed, and you flinch when his fingers press over your cheekbone and your eye socket. 

His jaw clenches tight, “You’re alright,” he soothes, “can you open your eye?” 

You nod a little, letting your face relax and your closed eye creep open. 

He gently moves your face, studying your eye and nods, “You’re okay, I know it hurt, but you’re alright,” 

“God,” You manage, wincing again as he brushes over the tender skin, “I’ve never been hit before,” 

“I know,” He soothes, his brow pinched in worry. 

Your throat tightens but you blink your eyes open fully again, working your jaw as you get used to the blooming pain, “It fucking sucks,” 

His lips crack into a relieved smile, exhaling sharply, and then he leans forward to press a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead, “You scared me,” he murmurs against your skin. Your best friends linger behind you, you can practically feel their death glares, but you and Yunho stay focused just here, just on each other. 

His fingers brush over your cheekbone again, gentler this time so he doesn’t make you wince again, but then his expression hardens. His voice cuts through the ringing in your ears, steady and commanding, “Never, ever do that again,” his thumb brushes your cheek again, “don’t you ever put yourself between me and someone else like that, do you hear me?” 

You blink up at him, startled at the seriousness of his tone. 

His eyes are fierce and focused on you, “You could have been hurt so much worse,” 

“I just–,” You shake your head, “I didn’t want you to get hurt,” 

He softens just a little, “I know,” he says, “but I’ve been in fights since I was fifteen, I know what I’m doing. I can take a hit just fine, I can take a dozen,” he brushes your cheek softly again, “but not you, do you understand me?” 

The sharp edge of his voice breaks something open in you, and he sinks forwards to press his forehead against yours. The fight, the crowd, the rough sting of your cheek, it all fades away under the feeling of his body on yours, his breath soft on your face. 

Instead of pushing back, instead of bristling and fighting, this time you let yourself tip forwards into him. Your arms slide around his middle, clinging to the sweat damp fabric of his shirt, his heart pounding strong enough you can feel it against your uninjured cheek as you press yourself against him. 

He exhales, shaky, and then he breaks, “I’m so fucking sorry,” he whispers, the words hot against your hair as they tumble out rough and uneven. His arms wrap around you tight, one arm banded firm across your back and the other cradling the back of your head, “I’m sorry for tonight, for before, for every fucking thing I said to you that night. God, baby, I’m so sorry,” 

Your throat closes, your eyes pressed shut as you hold him just as tight. 

Around you, the world is still spinning though. 

Security muscles their way through the crowd, voices raised, the band half-shouting over each other as they all argue about what happened, defending you and Yunho even if Yunho started the fight. Minjae is still mouthing off, you can hear that even as security drags him out, but you don’t care. 

There’s no explaining though, and security ushers you all roughly outside into the night, their voices raised and clipped with authority. It’s a flurry to make sure the band has their instruments, their bags, and then you’re stumbling into the rainy alley, your jacket left behind in the coat check. 

“You just got yourself banned,” Someone from security says, and you wrap your arms around yourself to watch the band respond. 

“This venue fucking sucks,” Mingi flips off the security guard, “we’re good,” 

The security guy bristles, says something under his breath you can’t catch. 

Out in the alley, the heavy metal door swings shut to the venue, the air damp and cool, and the sodium streetlamp buzzes faintly overhead. 

Jiwoo and Somin rush to you, Jiwoo’s hands fluttering towards your cheek, Somin glancing over her shoulder to stare daggers at Yunho. 

“Let me see,” Jiwoo insists, catching your chin and tilting your face, her mouth twisting when she sees the redness blooming there, “it’s already swelling, we need to get you some ice.” 

“It’s fine,” You protest. 

Somin’s voice is sharp when she interrupts, “It’s not fine,” she insists, “he dragged you into this mess and you’re standing here acting like… like what exactly? Thirty minutes you couldn’t stand him,” 

Yunho flinches, but he still steps close, hovering and waiting for you, his eyes unreadable. 

You draw in a breath, pulling Jiwoo’s hands away from your face, “Please,” you take a step back, “not right now, okay? We… we worked it out,” 

Somin scoffs, arms crossing over her chest, “Worked it out? Is that what you call this?” She gestures back towards the bar.

“It’s not what you think, alright?” You say firmly, the words snapping louder than you mean them. 

“Then what,” Jiwoo starts but you shake your head. 

“Later,” You reach for Yunho, a hand closing on his shirt, “I need to talk to him,” 

Jiwoo and Somin exchange a look, both wholly unconvinced, “We’re not going far,” Jiwoo says flatly, “say what you need to say, but we’re not leaving you alone out here.” 

You nod, grateful and guilty all at once, but then you tug Yunho deeper into the alley, “Come here,” 

He hesitates for a flicker, but then he follows you a few steps farther, away from the watchful eyes, where you can talk low just the two of you. 

You stop below the lamplight, the cool glow brushing across his face. When you shiver in the December air, Yunho shrugs off his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. For a second, you can’t speak, you just look up at him, broad and battered and still breathing hard like he hasn’t fully come down from the adrenaline of the night yet. 

Yunho speaks first, “We worked it out?” He asks quietly, echoing your words from before. 

You smile a little, “We worked something out in there,” 

He doesn’t smile back, he’s waiting, studying your face to guess your next words. 

You shake your head and press your palms to his chest, the damp fabric of his shirt warm beneath your fingers, “You’ve got a lot of grovelling to do,” you admit, your voice shaking, “and God, Yunho, you have to stop solving every problem with a fight,” 

His eyes shine as he watches you. 

“I’m not saying this is fixed,” You breathe, “I’m not saying that I forgive you,” 

His throat works, and his hands hover near your waist but he doesn’t touch you yet. 

Emotion tugs at your chest and you sigh, “But I’m so tired of missing you,” you confess, staring at the spot where your fingers clutch his shirt, “and I could never hate you, Yunho, not when I still,” the words choke off and you force yourself to lift your gaze to his, “I still love you so much,” 

Yunho exhales hard, his expression breaking, and he lifts his hand to your bruised cheek, thumb brushing featherlight across the tender skin. He leans in, stepping close, his voice rough when he finally speaks, “Let me make it right,” he murmurs, “just give me the chance,” 

Yunho dips forward, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead before dropping his head to yours, his thumb still brushing carefully along your cheek with a touch so tender, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he’s not gentle enough. 

Your eyes slip closed. 

“I love you,” Yunho whispers, his voice rough, “I never stopped. Even when I hated you, I loved you. I tried to bury it, drown it out of me, but sweetheart, you’re in me. You always were.” 

Your throat tightens, tears hot behind your eyes. 

His other hand finds your waist, “Please,” he murmurs, his voice barely a breath, “come home,” 

Your chest caves, everything inside you straining towards him. You want him, you want to, the thought of being in his arms again, back in your bed, in the warmth of the life you had a year ago, it aches so deep that you almost say yes without thinking. 

You shake your head, tears spilling down your cheeks, “I can’t,” you whisper, “not yet. I want to, I do, but Yunho, I need time. We have to rebuild this right, or we’ll just break it again.” 

His breath hitches, but he nods against you, brushing your tears away with the soft pads of his thumbs, “But you want to?”

“I want to,” You breathe. 

He kisses your damp cheek, “Then okay,” he murmurs. 

“Okay,” you tuck into his chest, arms tight around him. 

You scrub away another wave of tears and he rocks you gently in his arms, “I got you,” he whispers, “I love you,” 

For the first time in a year, you let yourself melt into his arms, and let yourself sink into the truth that you still want him just as much as you always did, even after everything. You stay wrapped around each other for a little longer, both of you afraid to break the moment, but eventually someone clears their throat loudly, pointedly, and breaks you back to reality. 

When you and Yunho finally drift back to the others, Jiwoo and Somin are still side by side with their arms crossed tight and their expressions sharp, while the band leans against the far cement wall.  All of them look up when you approach, Yunho’s hand still warm and steady at your back. His other hand is bleeding, knuckles split raw, dark smears already drying against his skin. Your cheek throbs, every pulse of your heart reminding you of the blow you took.

“So,” San looks between you, “what the hell happened in there?” 

“A year ago when we,” Yunho looks to you, trying to find the right words, “broke up,”

You let out a tiny exhale at that. 

“Minjae lied to me, he said a bunch of shit about y/n that wasn’t true,” Yunho continues. 

Jiwoo and Somin are looking between the two of you, to where Yunho’s hand curls around your waist. 

“So,” Jiwoo interrupts, her voice calm when she says, “now you listen, and everything’s fixed?”

“No, everything’s not fixed,” You sigh, running a hand through your hair, “but we worked out the big stuff, and whatever happens now is our business, alright?” 

“Big ask, babe.” Somin says. 

“Listen,” Yunho holds you a little closer, “I know you hate me right now, I kind of hate me right now. Minjae lied, but I fucked up and believed the wrong person and that’s on me.” His words are blunt and heavy in the air, “But if she lets me fix this, then I’m going to do that with everything I have, okay?” 

Your best friends exchange a quick glance, and then Somin nods, “Okay.” 

“You hurt her, I kill you,” Jiwoo adds. 

Yunho smiles, nodding, “That’s fair,” 

“So Minjae’s out?” Yeosang cuts back in and you both refocus on the band. 

“Yeah,” Yunho says flatly. 

“We heard what you said at the bar,” San comments, glancing at you, “if that’s true, then yeah, he’s out.” 

“It’s true.” Yunho squeezes your hip. 

“We don’t have a manager anymore,” Yeosang comments. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Yunho offers. 

There’s a long beat, everyone taking that in while the music still pumps inside, but then Mingi shrugs, “Well, we’ve got a gig next Saturday,” he says, “y/n, you cool to shoot it?” 

“What?” You blink up at him. 

Mingi raises his hand and mimes a camera shutter click, “You’re still shooting right? Not that much changed in a year did it?” 

“Yeah,” You nod, “I’m still shooting.” 

“You in?” 

“Yeah,” You relax into Yunho’s side, “I’m in.”

“Saturday then,” Mingi scrubs a hand over his face, “alright, I’m out,” 

Exhaustion is heavy in the air for all of you, the adrenaline crash after the fight, their long night on stage, the lingering drinks in your systems. Your body aches from the bathroom too, but it’s the right kind of ache, in every inch of you. 

San claps Yunho on the shoulder and it brings you back to the present, “I’m out too,” he says, but then he nods to you, “nice to have you back.” 

As simple as that. 

Yeosang leaves behind him, and Jiwoo and Somin make their excuses too, passing back your bag and making sure you’re good with Yunho, and suddenly it’s just the two of you alone in the alley. It feels like no time has passed at all, just you and him, your camera and his guitar. 

His eyes are soft when you look up at him, and he adjusts his jacket around your shoulders before zipping it closed and brushing over your injured cheek. He makes a soft sound with his tongue behind his teeth and shakes his head, “We need to get you some ice,” 

You nod. 

“Should we–,” He starts to say but you interject. 

“Come to my place?” You feel like your heart’s in your throat. 

His eyebrow quirks, “I thought you needed time?” 

You sigh, “I don’t know,” you admit, “but your place, our place, has too many memories right now.” 

He nods, he knows that intimately, he’s been living inside that for a year. 

“So come to mine,” You thread your fingers with his, “we’ll talk, we’ll, I don’t know, just come with me,” 

“I’ll come,” He smiles, fully, broadly, and your heart jumps in your chest. 

You let out a long breath and pull him towards the street. 

Yunho slides his guitar case on his back and throws an arm around your shoulders, keeping you close as you start to walk through the dark night. He pulls out a crumpled back of cigarettes from his pocket, flipping back the top of the pack and catching one of the smokes on his wet lip before pocketing the pack and finding his lighter. 

His steps slow down as he tries to light it one-handed, but the wind keeps snuffing out the light. 

“Here,” You cup your hand around the lighter so he can keep his other arm around you, and a smile quirks at the corner of his mouth as he leans into your cupped hand. The glow of the lighter sparks, flares, and then smoke curls into the night as he takes his first long drag. 

You press a quick kiss to the back of his hand and then look up at him, “You’re still smoking too much,” you murmur, but you say it with affection, with no real bite behind your words. 

He nods, taking another drag, “I know,” he concedes, “it picked up more after you left,” 

You squeeze his hand, “You should quit,”

He looks down at you, his eyes dark but steady, “Maybe I could now,” 

Your breath catches, and he leans down to press his lips to your temple, smoke curling around you both. When he speaks again his voice is low against your skin, rough and honest, “I’m not very good at quitting things,” he straightens up and holds you close as you keep walking, “I’m a stubborn bastard,” 

“Yeah,” You breathe, the ache in your chest finally easing, “so am I,”

Yunho takes another long drag, his hand lacing with yours, and slowly, you lead him home. 

─────────────── . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ ♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ . ݁₊ . ݁˖⊹.────────────── 

Next Saturday, the venue is bigger and packed wall to wall, bodies close and the rumble of the crowd vibrating through the floor. The houselights are dim, colored gels flicker over the stage, amps buzzing warm with the promise of new noise. 

Your camera hangs from its strap against your chest, familiar and grounding, and backstage you test the focus, snapping a quick shot of San mid-laugh as he messes with a mic stand, Mingi rolling his eyes behind him. Yeosang catches you aiming at him and doesn’t move, just stares down the camera with that steady, statuesque calm, his drumsticks in one hand. 

And then Yunho steps into the frame, dressed in black tonight with his guitar slung low on his back and his shaggy hair falling across his forehead. You adjust the focus on him this time, but he looks up and notices you with the camera, his mouth curving into a small, private smile. 

You feel the electricity of it straight down your spine. 

They’re minutes from going up on stage, but while the others drift towards the greenroom door, Yunho makes a detour for you. 

“Hey,” You smile as his hands brush your waist, thumb skimming over a sliver of bare skin. 

“You’ll be out front?” He asks, even though he already knows. 

You nod, “Front and center,” 

He leans in, kissing you soft and quick, a warm, certain press of his lips to yours. 

When he pulls back, your lips are tingling, your pulse racing, and the boys are already hollering from the hall for him to hurry up. 

“Go,” You tell him, your face breaking into a smile, “get out there,” 

He grins wide, kissing you once more, fast and dizzying, before jogging out into the hall. 

You hear the crowd erupt for them as you make your way into the pit, your credentials giving you what you need to move right to the front, and as the first chords start through the speakers, you shiver. Mingi’s beats are heavy, San’s bass is rolling smooth, Yeosang’s soft drumming picks up tension with every second, and Yunho grabs the mic and the crowd erupts. 

You lift your camera, finger on the shutter, eyes on Yunho. 

He finds you mid-song, across the flashing lights and the bodies, through the wall of sound his gaze snags on yours, and for a heartbeat it’s just the two of you again. His mouth curves into that same half-smile, and your shutter clicks to freeze the moment, the boy you lost, the man you’re finding again. 

It’s not perfect, your cheek still aches, and his knuckles are still bruised raw. The trust between you is still tender, fragile, but it’s better. It’s getting better. 

With your camera up and his voice filling the room, you finally believe that might be enough.

[railedby8tz]

https://www.tumblr.com/thirstkanaphan/788358093911277568

yunho's being possessive af on fromm again... just thought u would like to know :)

ask sent August 8, 2025

OK so this is the post, the original by Somsatangpie and the link as provided by anon is to Thirstkanaphan's reblog.

Copying and pasting from OP's post, Yunho said the below in translation right after the second Incheon Concert, July 6, 2025, for the In Your Fantasy tour.

"Let's stay together until the end. Sure.. when you're writing something there's usually an ending...but I really want to keep writing. I don't want to close the book. I want to keep writing even the last chapter. That's how I feel. I really like this moment right now too so let's keep writing it for a lifetime. Since you are able to love me that much...I'll do even better for you so don't go anywhere. Okay? You get that.. right? I can give you even more love than I do now. "

When he does this sort of thing, what Yunho is doing is basically writing and also enacting a self-insert fanfic, extemporaneously, out loud, from the point of view of the star where he ships himself with the anonymized hybrid fan entity of his own invention, that he calls Our Atiny. It is SO FUCKING WEIRD. Our Atiny is mute and can only communicate in a sort of schizophrenic and multiple personality induced text frenzy, given all the disparate consciousnesses inside 'her.' And "Yunho" who wants to "love" her and keep her "with" him and monopolize her attention "forever and ever and ever"? He picks and chooses which of "her" utterances he wants to respond to at any given time. Oh and of course, "Yunho" completely controls when Our Atiny ever gets to say anything at all, because he is the one who can turn the chat on and off. Recently he's taken to anticipating what "she" is going to say, and then answers the statements he knows "she" is going to make, without even bothering for the text to echo what he instructed it to say.

The KQ editrixes are not joking when they say he's actually the weirdest person in Ateez. He seriously is. And it makes me incredibly furious that I am so fascinated by his weirdness.

Excuse me, I have to go kick something.

[railedby8tz]

how am i doing after seeing clips from back! stage? not good!!!!!! i blacked seeing him smoking and am now writing a fic from yunho’s pov???? rocker!yunho x ex gf! reader, complete with miscommunication, big feelings, shouting matches, and a frantic fuck in bar bathroom

this one’s kind of fun though im writing it in layered pov shifts. so the entire thing swaps back and forth between them as they both unfold their side of the relationship betrayals until the bathroom hate fuck and reveal of the truth it’s kind of different for me structurally i’m excited to try this out

anyways i’m hype just wanted to share ☺️ i hope everyone is as insane over this scene as me!!!

[railedby8tz]

I'm in dire need to get this one WIP off my shoulders because once I step foot in Korea again, I might not be able to write as much as I could right now...

Should I release it?

[railedby8tz]

I remember on D1 of Incheon my jaw was on the floor for most of the solos because ?????????? DAMN

EXCUSE ME!! YUNHO WHAT IS THIS!!!

[railedby8tz]

Warning!Nsfw audio

Mingi is definitely the type to tell you that he loves you when he’s filling you up🖤

[railedby8tz]

the shape of breath (j.yh)

summary: life has been too much. too big, too loud, too present. you ask yunho to take you further than you've ever gone, and he does, with every rope and every inch of your surrender. i want my eroticism mixed with love, and deep love one does not experience often. - anaïs nin 🔗 read it on ao3 📚 fic masterlist 🪢 shibari glossary & resource library 🌹 anchor point mood board

note: this work is a one-shot of romance and erotica, and is set between yunho and reader, a couple both in a romantic relationship and an established d/s dynamic. anchor point has not been published yet, but is a series that will tell their story of trauma, recovery, and rope play. this story is set several years in the future, when they have come to their version of a happily ever after.

warnings: dom!yunho, rigger!yunho, sub!reader, rope bottom!reader, shibari, kinbaku, bdsm dynamics, d/s dynamics, rope play, partial suspension, full suspension, predicament ties, pain play, hard dom yunho, subspace, pushing limits, on page consent checks, use of the color system, on-page discussion of the scene both pre-play and post-play, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, bites, marks, heavy use of "sir" and very formal d/s dynamics, kneeling, total submission, body manipulation, rough handling, fingering, oral (f receiving), internal vibrator, nipple play, impact play (light), hair pulling, slapping, breath play, penetrative sex, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, implied belly kink/belly focus, daddy kink, creampie, use of the word 'little', praise, degradation, lots of aftercare, additionally there are references to past physical trauma within a bdsm scene including SA but mention is brief, this will be handled in the full anchor point series later on. mention of injuries sustained from a past rigger / traumatic rope scene.

pairings: rigger!yunho x fem!reader

genre: smut, hurt/comfort, bdsm erotica

word count: 21k please be mindful of the tags on this one, and reference both the resource library and the disclaimer under the cut if you're not sure if you want to proceed.

disclaimer:

this work is a big leap of faith for me, and a foray into a kink and a bdsm practice that is extremely detailed and nuanced. i do not practice shibari personally (though i am looking into it and would like to) but i have done extensive research in an effort to write this honestly and accurately. if you practice shibari or know more about this than i do, and you catch anything written here that is inaccurate, or potentially if any of the ties/suspensions or combinations i've written are unsafe, please let me know. i do not believe in producing work that spreads misinformation about bdsm, and am more than willing to listen, learn, and adjust an existing work to ensure that future readers have a safe and genuine experience reading. further, if this is your first introduction to shibari, bdsm, or pain play i encourage you to go in with an open mind. if any of these dynamics, particularly the dynamics of shibari or dominance and submission interest you personally, please make sure that you do your own research and find your own limits before engaging in any of the acts i've described here. reader and yunho have been in a relationship for six years in this work, they are fully established. i would never recommend jumping into anything this intense with a new partner or without your own full understanding of these dynamics. that said.... this work is super personal to me. i truly hope you enjoy it. please check out the resource library for a glossary of terms, reference images to the ties and suspensions listed in this work, and free resources to watch shibari scenes to get a fuller understanding of these dynamics. thank you for reading. ♡

Your rope room is a sacred space. 

His and yours alone. 

Most of the time, the door stays closed, shut and sealed off from your regular lives. It’s a world away from your nine to five, it doesn’t factor into your morning coffee or your game nights with friends. 

It’s private, it’s ritual. 

To you and to Yunho, it’s holy. 

It’s been weeks since you’ve used the room properly, months if you’re being honest. Life has been leaning on you heavily lately, in that sweet spot between work, more work, and every little thing going wrong that could go wrong. You’re working late nights, getting up earlier and earlier, kissing him with a perfunctory peck on your way out the door. You haven’t connected in too long. Not with dates, or sex, or intimacy, and certainly not with rope. 

The door has been closed. Occasionally he pulls it open to grab supplies for a workshop he’s teaching or a rope jam you’re attending, but lately it’s just been shut and you haven’t had the space or the energy to try and push it open. 

Tonight is different though.

The large sliding door that closes off this space is wide open when you get home from work, and you can feel the tension in your shoulders starting to unspool just at the sight of it. You had planned this with Yunho in excruciating detail, just like you always do, but it’s still a surprising comfort to see it as you walk through the front door of your shared loft. 

You suppress the urge to call out and let him know you’re home from work, you know that if he’s already in the room that means he’s already preparing, getting his mind and his body ready for tonight, and so you quietly slip through the apartment to do the same. 

You discard your stiff outside clothes, freshen up for the night ahead, and slip on your softest silk robe. On quiet feet, you pad over to the open door and look inside, leaning against the outer wall as you watch him. 

The lights are low, warmth spilling from the lamps, but your chest warms at the sight of the candles. White, long stemmed, and placed throughout the room, strategically far from your play mat, but adding a flickering glow to the space. The rig hangs in the center of the room, a thick bamboo bar anchored firmly to the ceiling, glowing almost golden in the low light. 

Yunho’s back is to you, but you watch as he shakes out a match, a curl of smoke blooming from the end, the sharp smell of sulfur and flame dissipating along with it into the air. He’s dressed comfortably, in loose, breathable fabric. Soft black pants that shift with him as he moves, and a gently fitted black tank top, no sleeves to catch against the ropes as he works, nothing to interrupt his flow or his attention on you. 

With a slow breath, in and out like you’re walking into a yoga class or a meditative retreat, you let the day fade behind you and you step inside. 

His head turns at the first sound of you, barefoot on the tatami mat, the soft give of the bound straw under your feet as you make your way towards him. You let the smell of jute and beeswax take you, the way it curls around your senses like a soft hand against your spine, guiding you into the center of the space. 

Yunho’s eyes flicker down your body, not in hunger or anticipation, but for health. His practiced eyes study your steps, the set of your shoulders, your posture, your expression, the tension you carry into the room.

It relaxes you instantly. 

“Come here, baby,” His voice is warm, tender. 

It pulls you, like a cord tied to your breastbone, tethering you to him, and you go. 

You step past his rope bag and the tools set up on the table. Clean towels, room temperature water in a glass carafe, a new pair of medical trauma shears. 

As you step to him, he reaches for your waist with one hand and brings the other to your face, cupping your cheek so gently it makes your chest ache. 

“Hi,” he murmurs. 

“Hi,” 

A small smile pulls at his lips, “You good to be here tonight?” 

You nod, sinking into the touch of his hand unconsciously. 

He arches a gentle brow. 

“Yes, sir,” You correct yourself. 

He studies you a little longer, his thumb brushing a tender line over your cheekbone, and then he dips forwards to press a kiss to your forehead, “Take a breath,” he instructs gently, “let it go.” 

You inhale, and with your exhale, you let the weight of your week fall away. 

He takes a step back, and this time when he speaks his tone shifts, still gentle, but anchored in something deeper, “Let’s check in.” 

As he reaches for the water carafe and pours you a glass, you take your familiar place on the mat, the rig behind you as you kneel into the perfect picture of submission, feet tucked under your backside, hands resting open and up on your thighs. 

Yunho kneels before you, a mirror of your body, and passes you the water glass as he begins his ritual. 

You take a sip, waiting patiently. 

“Any pain today?” He starts off. 

“My right hamstring is a bit tight,” You answer honestly, “everything else is okay.” 

His hand smooths over your thigh, his fingers skating along the seam of your folded legs, “We’ll keep this leg grounded,” he says, “you tell me if things feel tighter or sharper.” 

“Yes, sir,” 

His eyes flick to yours, pleased, “Your shoulder?” 

You roll it to show him, “Feels good.” 

His hand skims up over your arm and rests over the cap of your left shoulder, just for a moment. The gentle pressure of his hand communicates a silent vow, a promise to protect you here, to guard you from pain, from memory. 

It’s been a long time since it’s pained you in a scene, and a long time since you’ve found yourself tumbling back into difficult memories of your last rigger and that final, terrible scene with him. ‘Scene’ isn’t even the right word for what it was, but you don’t like to think of it often. It’s just the night that left your arm damaged and numb and clinging to physical therapy while you latched onto your best friend, to Yunho’s sure safety in the aftermath of it all. 

No matter how many years it’s been, he still checks your shoulder every time. You think he always will. 

“Any changes to your hard limits, today?” He asks as his hands settle on his own thighs, palms down and grounded. 

You sip your water, “No,” you say as you shake your head, “but still no gags.” 

He’s ready for that, he always is. It’s your firmest limit, the one that you have to echo at the beginning of every scene just to let your body relax the right way. Yunho understands with perfect clarity, as the one who pulled you down from the amateur rig, cut you out of dangerously wrapped rope, and stitched your body and your mind back together over years. He’d never even suggest a gag, and he’s the only man you trust now to hold you like this, but you still have to say it.

He smiles faintly at your own ritual, “Wouldn’t dream of it,” 

A thought occurs and you blink, “No inversion today,” 

His gaze sharpens, “Of course,” he nods, “tell me,” 

“I had a headache a few days ago,” You explain, “it took a little while to shake it, full inversion’s probably not the best right now,” 

“Understood,” He says, “if you start to feel it, or if you get dizzy, you call yellow.”

“Yes, sir.” 

He nods, “And soft limits? Anything new?” 

Warmth curls in you and you nod, “If you want breath, I’d like to try.” 

He takes a beat, taking in your words, “Tell me how,” 

You steady yourself, “Your hand only,” you tell him softly, “and I want to be able to pull away.” 

“Always,” He replies, “anything else?” 

“No, sir,” 

His eyes soften up considerably for just a moment, “Drink your water, sweetheart.” 

You bring the glass back to your lips and take small sips. 

“Did you eat today?” 

“A light lunch, around three?”

“Good girl,” He reaches for the glass as you finish it, and a flutter bursts in your chest at his warm words. 

You rest your hands on your thighs once again, palms up, fingers soft and curled. 

“Tell me your colors,” He asks. 

“Green, I’m good, continue.” 

He nods.

“Yellow, slow down, verbal check-ins, potentially end suspension.” 

He nods again. 

“Red,” You say, the word still an echoing shape in your mouth even years after that night, “stop, end the scene, cut me out.” 

“Good.” He nods. 

You hardly need to review limits with him, not after years and years of developing this language and this intimacy with one another, but after the things you experienced before him, after having ‘red’ be ignored by your previous rigger, Yunho maintains verbal clarity with you no matter what. 

You love him for it. 

“You know your body,” He says gently, “and I’ll be watching like I always do,” 

You nod. 

“But sharp pain, total numbness, anything you haven’t felt with me before,” He says, “I do not want you pushing yourself through that tonight.” 

Your eyes flick over him. You want to clarify, to ask, especially since you had discussed new ties for tonight, specific predicament positions you wanted. Some amount of challenge and newness with that is to be expected, and his words throw you off, but he continues before you even open your mouth. 

“It’s been a difficult week, a difficult month,” He corrects, “I’ll hold you through that, and everything we discussed last weekend is still on the table, but we haven’t tied like this in a while. We’re not here to please me, we’re here to process.” 

Soft realization blooms in you, “Understood.” 

Yunho lets that sink in, and then leans forwards, kissing you gently on the lips once. 

When he leans back, you watch as something settles in his chest, his posture, the way his expression smooths into something almost passive. 

“Are you asking me to take control?” 

“Yes, sir,” 

“Willingly?” He asks, as he always does, “Without pressure?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The faintest smile tugs at the corner of his lips, “Then I accept.” 

Liquid heat spreads inside you, from your chest to your belly, creeping into every limb. 

Yunho shifts, rising slowly back to his feet, tall and sure above you, and reaches for the first coil of jute. He moves around you slowly, letting himself sink into his dominance, the rope a familiar weight in his hand as he assesses you. 

Your body thrums in anticipation, in aching interest, a nervous flutter in your belly like the rapid beat of hummingbird wings. 

He settles by your side into a crouch, bare feet on the mat, his knees bracketing your chest and back as he encroaches into your space. 

You swallow tightly, but keep your eyes trained on the wall ahead. 

“This rope belongs to me,” He murmurs softly, a coarse curl of it brushing over your tricep. 

You stay quiet. 

“And this body,” His hot hand slides across your chest, fingertips grazing against your collarbone, “this body is mine alone for as long as you give it.” 

“Yes,” You breathe, “yes, sir.”

His voice hardens, not unkind, just clear and sure, “Then give it to me.” 

Your body melts, head turning to him and dipping low in supplication until your forehead gently connects with his inner thigh. 

His hand rests over the back of your neck, warm and tight on your skin. 

He hasn’t even wrapped you yet, and you already feel like you're flying. 

Yunho shifts back, clearing space, and slowly pushes your head to the mat until you’re settled into a deep bow. 

You don’t shift or sway, you don’t try to get more comfortable, not now. Now, you wait, just as you always do.

You wait and you breathe. 

The warm scent of the rice straw, the flicker of candle light, the warmth of his gaze as he slides behind you. 

Gently, Yunho finds the tie to your robe and tugs it free, guiding the fabric down and off your body until it’s pooled around you like a frame. His fingertips glide along the visible line of your spine, emphasized in this folded position, his hands mapping you with every brush. 

You can feel yourself trembling, not in fear, but in anticipation, and he strokes your back once more. 

Quietly, he finally speaks, “Sit up, sweet girl.” 

You breath hitches, something tight and warm in you at his words, and slowly you raise back up to your kneeling position, back straight and head high. Your skin prickles at the cool air of the room and the weight of his eyes on you. 

He sighs once, pleasantly, but when he moves again it’s with complete and total control. 

Yunho slides close, the heat of his body behind you its own kind of weight. 

You let your eyes unfocus, let the knot in your belly start to unfurl. 

“Breathe,” He reminds you gently, and then his hands skim over your arms with intimate care. 

“Yes, sir,” 

There’s no music, no sound but your mingled breath and skin brushing along skin, but the way he moves with you and the way he handles rope always feels like a dance. A new rhythm every time, new steps, but a song between your bodies that only you two can play. 

Yunho’s large hands slide over your forearms until he cups yours in each of his, fingers curling over to press into your palms as he guides your arms up and into position. 

You let him take you, lead you, until your arms are lifted and folded– elbows tucked against your ribs, palms facing front, thumbs brushing your shoulders. 

Your shoulderblades naturally tuck together, chest lifting and opening. 

His hands drift away, but you stay in position, and then finally, you feel it. 

He draws the rope over your right shoulder, not to tie, just draping it there. Quietly, he gives you the weight of it, the scratch of the fiber, the intention. 

You exhale on instinct. 

He says nothing, but you feel his fingertips ghost along the small of your back, and the sharp sensation of rope over skin as he pulls the draped cord quickly back into his own hands, his work hidden behind you. 

You swallow tightly, audibly. 

He’s skilled at this, the way he builds anticipation with every breath. The gentlest touches of rope to skin, the soft pads of his fingers, changing pace from fast to slow and back to fast, all of it marrying together to make a rhythm you have to submit to. Something that makes you let go and accept the not knowing. 

With your arms in this position though, the first coil comes exactly where you know it will, a looped single column tie around your upper left arm just above the bicep. He cinches the knot snugly, checking the seam of the rope against your skin with two fingers, and adjusting the knot into place. His hand settles on your shoulder again, his thumb rolling slowly over the joint. 

“Color?” He asks gently. 

“Green.” 

The rope shifts as he continues to wrap, looping under your right arm and curling back over, and with the guided pressure of the rope as it slides over your skin your arms tuck back, shoulder blades tighter together now. 

He checks the cuffs, locking off the first knots with loops of jute, his body warm at your back, silent, and solid. 

Your spine is straight, shoulders together, chest open wide to the front of the room. It’s already hard to maintain composure. There’s overwhelming intimacy in this, the way he attends to your body, the way he knows you. It’s not arousal yet, but the anticipation of it leaves your body thrumming.

With a sudden breath against your hair, Yunho leans in against you, and wraps the length of cord over your chest, situated in a familiar arc above your breasts before wrapping back and locking into the cuffs binding your arms into position. He secures knots with sure hands, attaching another length of rope to the center point behind you, and here you feel the scene start to really begin. 

The heat of him envelops you as he leans in close, body cocooning yours from behind, his lips against your cheek as he wraps the next cord around your ribs, high, just under your breasts to make a pretty picture of your chest. 

His free hand settles high over your abdomen, just under your breastbone, “Breathe for me,” 

You inhale, full and deep, holding the air as he feels your body under his wraps, and then exhale. 

He locks off the cord that wraps over your ribs behind you, and settles close again, both hands flat on your skin, chest, belly, “Again.” 

You do. 

He’s watching your ribs, your diaphragm, the way the rope moves with your breath. He looks for how the knots settle, if the cords slip on a hard exhale, if they pull, stretch, or cut into your skin on an inhale. 

“Good girl,” He murmurs roughly against your temple, “how are your shoulders?” 

He leans away as he asks it, his fingers pressing into your palms and testing your responses carefully, but you reply with ease, “Good, sir.” 

“Color?” 

“Green.” 

He continues the Tengu Harness with sure fingers. A line of cord between your breasts to tighten the top and bottom line of the chest harness, new cuffs wrapped around either wrist, loops from wrist over open palm, a rough line of rope in the soft juncture of your hand between thumb and index finger, all anchored to the knots between your shoulders to hold you open. 

Yunho checks your hands again, and then slides his whole body in front of you. His eyes study you, but he looks nothing but pleased at the gentle softness in your expression. 

He adds one more coil of rope in a decorative pattern over your upper chest below the hollow of your throat, pretty loops and knots for him to admire as he plays with you, but it adds no extra pressure or tightness to the already snug harness you’re bound in. 

He sighs pleasantly as he looks you over, and then he reaches for the next wrapped coil of jute. 

You watch him move, but you’re focused entirely on the sensations in your arms, your chest. The tight hug of the ropes around you, the way they press into you pleasantly with every breath, the rough warmth of as it holds you. 

“Legs now,” Yunho says, his hands settling on your hips to guide your movements. 

You follow the gentle pressure of his hands, sinking out of your kneeling position onto your right hip, letting Yunho guide your legs out from under you’re seated criss-crossed in front of him. 

He loops the cord over, under, and around your crossed ankles until they’re loosely bound together, preventing you from straightening or separating your legs. 

The position holds you casually open, locked in vulnerability without added tension or pressure on your thighs or knees. 

He’s seen you bound and naked a thousand times, but every time you’re in a position like this, spread, exposed, it still stokes something needy and hot inside you like it’s the first time. He hasn’t looked between your thighs once, simply focused on your ankles, but the shape of your body starts to make an offering, and you settle into it. 

His fingers skim under your thigh, on the hamstring you mentioned, “Tight like this?” 

“Not here,” You assure him.

“Tell me if it cramps,” He gives your thigh a soft squeeze, “don’t wait.” 

“I won’t,” You promise. 

He checks the tension in your ankle ropes once more, fingertips feeling your pulse to make sure your circulation is where he wants it, and then he ties off and steps back. 

The absence of him is sudden, like a rush of cold air, and your eyes snap up to his. 

He’s watching you, and for a long, long moment he doesn’t say a word. You feel his gaze travel over your body, not possessive yet, just precise, a rope rigger’s eye measuring balance, pressure, breath. Taking in what he’s done, what he will do. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” He murmurs finally, his eyes tracking over the way the ropes frame you, revealing parts of you hidden even to yourself. 

His words settle something in your chest. 

Yunho hums, a small sound not even really meant for you, and then he kneels in front of you again. His brown eyes are deep, full of reverent tenderness, and his thumb skims up and down the column of your throat as he cups your neck, his touch featherlight and centering. 

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation take you. 

The pad of his thumb presses against your jaw, “Lift your chin, sweetheart.” 

Your eyes flutter open, and you’re quick to obey. 

“How’s your breath?” He asks. 

“Good,” You reply, taking in a strong inhale and letting it go to show him. 

He nods, satisfied. 

“Now,” he murmurs, his hands coming to cradle your body as he shifts forwards, “relax for me.” 

Your muscles loosen, like you’re trained to the commands of his voice. 

Slowly, he applies pressure and dips you backwards, holding your weight in his sure hands as he rocks you back and guides you flat to the floor. 

You settle carefully into position, a curve in your low back as your hips stay anchored to the mat, legs still crossed with your knees wide, your tucked shoulderblades connecting softly with the tatami mat, head falling back last like you’re going vertebrae by vertebrae to the floor. 

Your body is humming, aching tightness where the ropes cross over your skin, but you don’t feel the first flush of heat until Yunho leans away and his eyes finally flick down once to take in the sight of your spread thighs, your cunt exposed and on display for him. 

He makes no move to praise you, to call you beautiful, to reach out and touch what’s open and on offer. He merely looks away and reaches for another line of jute, and it makes the tense spool of need inside you start to wind tighter. 

“Color?” He asks as he crouches at your side, his fingers pressing down on your breastbone, searching your flesh under the wrapped ropes for his entry point. 

“Green, sir.” 

“Upline,” He tells you as he threads another loop of rope under the lines of your chest harness, squarely over the place where your ribs meet your sternum. 

You let your head fall back, eyes going soft as you watch the sway of the bamboo bar overhead, trusting the sensation of his hands on you as he manipulates the ropes into something firm and safe for suspension. 

You don’t need to look to know the way he ties. He’s talked you through this harness before, twists of rope, a secured epsilon, a doubled bight to provide the loop he needs to hoist you. 

His hands are steady, quick and experienced, and when he stands to draw the working line over the bamboo bar, your head softly rolls against the mat to watch him. He passes the end of the line, now looped securely over the bar, through the loop left on your chest harness and then with practiced slowness, he pulls. 

Your back bends, chest lifting with the guide of the ropes. 

A soft sound echoes from your lips, and you watch him check your expression before pulling more, bringing you higher. 

Inch by inch, your upper body lifts away from the mat. Shoulders no longer touching, your head lolling back as you let your head hang. 

“Breathe,” He reminds you. 

You do, and on your second inhale, he pulls the cord again. 

The pressure across your ribs increases, the harness tightening its hold around you as it bears your weight, and you feel your shoulders draw back slightly, your chest more open than ever as your upper body is pulled up and away towards the rig. 

This isn’t full flight, not yet, but it’s just as intimate, just as open. 

Your back arches. 

Your spine curves. 

Your hips stay grounded and open wide. 

The suspension line shifts as he ties things off, securing the lines into a careful lock off that can be easily released if you need to be dropped quickly. 

Yunho stands slowly, and circles you, his bare feet soft on the padded floor. 

The pose has you curved open, a back bend of subtle elegance that leaves your pelvis tilted, your breasts high, your sex open and bared to his gaze. 

“You’re stunning like this,” He says, his voice deep and warm, “held open just for me.” 

You sigh, muscles relaxing further into the cradle of the ropes. 

“Keep breathing,” He says, and then you feel the next brush. 

A rough drag of rope over your exposed belly, and then a loop, loop, loop above your hips. 

A waist tie. 

Your breath catches as he locks it off, watching your body carefully as your abdomen expands and contracts under the ties. 

You steady your breath, he doesn’t need to tell you again. 

The long line of the rope wraps and coils over the bamboo bar, giving him another connection point, another axis of control. 

This time, when he threads and lifts, the effect is instant. As he draws tension into the waist tie, the curve of your back deepens, your hips tilting more open. The delicious ache of the chest harness feels tighter as you dip deeper into its precious hold. 

Yunho adjusts his position, standing directly in front of your splayed knees, and then suddenly he pulls. His movement isn’t fast, but it is more. A new guided direction, a tug of the waist tie towards himself not towards the ceiling that pulls your body deeper into the stretch until your back bends to its limit and your hips angle farther, your cunt lifted in its display. 

You whimper, heat bubbling through your limbs, tingles in your skin and something hungrier building in your belly. 

“Too much?” He checks. 

“No, sir.” You answer, breathless. 

“Color?” 

“Green.” 

He locks off the line of the waist harness to keep you here, “Then rest,” he says softly.

Around you, the room hums. Your mind goes soft. 

There’s still no sound, nothing to focus on, but lifted and wrapped like this you’ve never been more aware. The soft creak of the rope and the rig, the sharp sizzle of a candle extinguishing as wax over takes a wick, steady breath, slow breath. 

This tie doesn’t hurt, but it does demand something of you. 

Predicaments often offer just that, a decision point between one axis of pain and another. Let one body part relax, and another enters strain, a beautiful balance of tension and control all wrapped in ropes. But this is about time, about center and space, to really accept this, you have to breathe into it and stay in awareness. The longer you spend open, the more it starts to burn, pulse, ache, and the more the outside world dissipates. 

Bound like this, your body just exists and offers. The ties may keep you locked in place, rooted where he placed you, but it’s your obedience that gives you both everything.

As you hang, the air grazes the soft, bared skin between your legs. You start to feel the ache center there too, a slow pulse between your thighs that asks for an answer, but Yunho hasn’t touched you since the last knot. 

All you can do is breathe. 

Yunho watches, circling you, studying you. Occasionally he adjusts a line, small calibrations of the knots, a little tighter here, a small shift of your weight there. Every soft tug at the tension line of the waist tie sends a new shiver through your pelvis, not painful, but a reminder of who owns it.

Your eyes close, and the whole world narrows to the feeling of the rope, the stretch of your back, the soft ache in your thighs, and the knowledge that he’s still there even when he’s silent, seeing you and choosing not to touch you yet. 

It’s maddening in its perfection

He stands there, arms crossed, the flickering candlelight catching on the long line of his jaw as he watches you with familiar, analytical silence. 

You’ve floated for long stretches before, you’ve been tied more tightly, bent even deeper, but something about the stillness now makes your skin feel thin like you’re stripped down to the nerves.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

Your breath shudders.

The ropes hold you steady as he looks, your chest still cradled, but the waist rope is cruel in its elegance. That’s the line that keeps your hips arched high, your pelvis barely on the mat, your body bare and on display. 

Finally you feel him crouch next to you again, and you tense in anticipation, your eyes opening. 

Yunho’s thumb traces the rope that cuts across your sternum and you twitch at the sensation of his warm hand. You’re trembling, and he knows it. 

“Name it,” He instructs softly. 

Your breath feels thready at his sudden proximity, but you swallow and follow his words, “Exposed,” you start off, letting the words come naturally, “overwhelmed, wide, held.” 

He hums in approval, “That’s what I wanted,” he tells you, “for you to give yourself this way, there’s no hiding with me in this room.” 

His fingers trail over your side, over the edge of the waist tie, and you suck in a sharp breath. He presses, not enough to really move you, but enough to remind you that he can if he chooses to. 

A whimper escapes you before you can catch it. 

“Need to say something, sweetheart?” His fingers fall away from the tie, and his words seem soft, seem caring, but you hear the edge of heat that tells you the scene is about to change. 

“N-no, sir.” You manage. 

With a soft hand, he brushes two knuckles over the skin of your chest, ghosting towards the curve of your breast. He catalogs your breath, your sensation, fingers travelling over your skin from collarbones to sternum. 

When he finally moves his hand lower, skimming lightly over the swell of your breast, he doesn’t apply pressure, doesn’t linger, it’s just a pass of his flesh over yours. 

Your nipple tightens at the barest sensation, and he notices. Of course, he notices. 

“Oh,” He hums, “is that what you want?” 

You suck in a breath, but say nothing. 

His thumb passes intentionally over your nipple this time, still soft, but deliberate. 

You can’t fight the gasp that leaves you at the sudden spike of heat, your body arching into the ropes. 

His eyes sharpen on your chest, “Needy, are we?” 

“Yes, sir,” You whisper, voice hoarse. 

He raises a brow, but doesn’t look up, “I wasn’t asking you,” 

You flush hard, heat pooling in your cheeks, lips parting around a soundless protest, and then Yunho leans in and the warmth of his mouth ghosts over the sharp peak of your breast. He doesn’t kiss it, or lick it, or suck it, or even bite it, he just lets his breath tickle across the skin before he pulls back entirely. 

The denial burns. 

“So pretty like this,” He muses, still not really talking to you, “every breath, every twitch. I could play with your body for hours and never get tired,” 

Your hips shift, just an inch, an involuntary move that leaves him smirking. 

“Frustrated?” He murmurs. 

“I–,” You take a breath, trying to control your voice, “I want your hands on me,” 

“They’re on you,” He says, feigning naivety, his palm brushing over your lifted ribcage. 

You whimper. 

“What, sweetheart?” He croons, a mask of concern. 

“Lower, sir,” You all but beg, “please,” 

He traces a single fingertip over your navel, “Oh,” he says, “you mean here?” 

“Lower,” You bite your lip. 

His fingers skate down until they’re resting just above your mound, so, so close, and then he pulls away entirely. 

“Mm,” He sighs, standing and circling around you again, “I don’t think I understand,” 

Your body aches, thrumming with awareness and arousal now. 

The rope creaks as you struggle to stay still, to stay grounded in the hold of his ropes and to obey. He steps around you slowly, watching you as he tests your submission, letting you unravel under the weight of what he hasn’t given you yet. 

You’ve missed this, you’ve missed him. 

You ache to be good for him, but your body arches as his fingers tap the waist line, hips tilting and opening more towards nothing. 

“Please,” The word pulls from your chest, “please, touch me,” 

He crouches by your hip, and without a word he brushes his fingers once between your thighs, just the barest graze over the line of your slit, a whisper light pass of his knuckle against your wet heat. He sighs, “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “is this what has you squirming?” 

Despite the hang of your head, you nod, “Y-yes, yes sir,” 

His knuckles pass over you once more, and then disappears as he stands again. 

“Messy little thing,” He murmurs, “one touch and you’re dripping,” 

You whine, helpless and locked open for him, under him. 

“Shh, shh,” He shakes his head, “we’re just getting started.” 

Your body is strung tight with need. The ache between your legs is no longer gentle or suggestive. It’s present, throbbing and hot, unbearable in the most beautiful way. And still, Yunho moves like he has all the time in the world. 

He watches you. Every breath. Every tremble. 

Your thighs strain softly against the ankle bind. Your hips shift as far as they’re allowed. Your chest rises and falls, caught in the tension of the Tengu harness.

You suck in a breath, but then he settles next to you, and finally, finally his hands return. 

One slides up your leg, the other cups your breast, and he squeezes both with firm pressure. 

Your body sings at the contact, a rough moan on your lips. 

“Color?” He checks. 

“Green,” You gasp, “God, green, sir,” 

“Good girl.” He says it with heat, with promise, and then he moves with purpose, one hand parting your folds while the other finds your taut nipple, his body suddenly close and real and everywhere. 

Two fingers dip through your slick slit, applying real pressure and real intent. He doesn’t rush it, and he doesn’t yet push inside you, but he explores you with his touch and with the rapt attention of his eyes, spreading you open and mapping you again like he’s relearning the shape of your pleasure under his fingertips. 

You moan, soft, wrecked. 

He circles your clit lightly. Once, then again, and watches as you fight to stay still, the rope creaking with effort. 

“You can move,” he says, “you can buck a little, let me see how much you want it.” Your hips lift, seeking him, guided by the tilt of the waist tie. It only deepens the pressure across your chest and ribs, and you moan at the compounded sensation.

You chase his touch without thinking, trying to rock into him with the little movement you’re allowed.

“Needy, needy,” he teases, “and I haven’t even put anything in you yet.”

“P-please,” Your voice is strained. 

He answers you with a finger, dipping one inside slow and deep. 

Your thighs twitch, your hands tightening into fists around the coils of rope. 

“There she is,” He breathes, curling his finger just enough to brush against that tender spot inside that makes you see stars.

“More,” You strain against the ropes. 

“Hush,” He delivers one tight slap to your inner thigh, the stinging heat of it leaving you gasping, “you’ll take what I give you.”

A second finger pushes inside, thick and sure. Yunho knows your body better than anyone, sometimes even better than you know it yourself. He knows exactly what he’s doing, how deep to press, how slow to build. His free hand rests just above your pubic bone, a steady anchor while his fingers work a slow, devastating rhythm inside you. 

You’re embarrassingly close, too close. 

Yunho smirks as he feels your muscles fluttering and tensing around his fingers, “Already?” He teases, his voice low, “I’ve barely touched you.” 

“Please,” Your voice is deep, hoarse, not a trace of vanity in it as you beg properly, “please, sir,” 

He huffs a small sound, and then he bends forwards, his lips connecting with your stomach, a lingering kiss just below your navel. He hums pleasantly against your skin, breath warm. 

You gasp as he adds another, an open mouthed caress, the hot line of his tongue on your belly. 

“A-ah, ah,” You shudder, eyes fluttering. 

“Not yet,” He murmurs, “you don’t come until I say,” 

You nod as best you can, your hips aching in the ropes. 

He keeps the pressure building, a slow pulse of his fingers dragging in and out and crooked just right, his thumb flicking against your clit, but never for long enough, never hard enough. 

He keeps you strung tight on the edge of pleasure. 

“I need to,” You sob, a breathy sound as you balance on the edge of coming, “please, fuck, please,” 

His hand stops moving. 

“N-no,” You suck in a sharp breath, “god, please, sir,” 

He sits up again, eyes meeting yours with steady calm, “Do you trust me?” 

You swallow, throat thick with want, but you nod, “Yes, sir.” 

“Then wait.” He says it clearly, crystalline in its command. 

You nod, the first tug of tears at the back of your eyes as you bend to him. 

He shifts his position, tucked close to your side on the mat. The ties still hold you suspended, back arched and hips tilted, your arms still locked up and open. He slides one leg under the suspended curve of your spine, and you feel the heat of his thigh as he presses upwards, a soft rest from below to hold you steady. 

One arm reaches around, his hand cupping the back of your head, and he draws you close to him, holding you tenderly in his wide palm. 

“You’re going to come now,” He tells you, matter of fact, “and when you do, it will be because I say so. Understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” You breathe. 

His fingers slide up and down over your swollen, tender clit just once, “I’ll count back from ten,” He says, “you don’t let go until I get to one.” 

Your breath hitches. 

“Say it,” He instructs. 

“I’ll hold it,” You manage, “I won’t come until you say, until one.” 

He nods once, and then his fingers return, slick and fast and fucking you with steady confidence. Every stroke pushes you higher, every pulse sends waves of tight pleasure rocking through you. 

Yunho’s eyes never leave your face. 

You're caught in his gaze, lips parted in silent, painful pleasure. 

“Ten,” He says as the rhythm of his fingers deepens, “nine.” 

Your breath catches sharply in your throat, a bloom of need inside you. 

“Eight,” His voice is low, grounding, “seven.” 

You’re shaking, your whole body clenched and ready, “Sir, fuck, please–,” 

“Six,” His thumb circles your clit, and your vision goes white with pleasure, “five.” 

Tears spill down your temples, your hips jerking into his fingers. 

“Four,” He continues, “that’s it, hold it,” 

Your hands lock tight over the ropes against your palms, “I can’t, I can’t,” 

“Three,” He continues, “yes, you can.” 

Your orgasm swells, hot pressure dropping inside you, and you don’t know if you can make it, if you can wait. You’re not sure if he’s letting the space between numbers stretch or if your mind is so dizzy with almost pleasure that time is slowing down, but it doesn’t matter. You’re a breath away, and you’re not at one. 

“Two,” 

You sob roughly. 

His hand holds your head steady, eyes locked on yours, “One.” 

“Yunho!” The feeling rips through you, a hot knife slicing from your center up through your chest. 

“Yes, now,” He holds you close, tucking your spasming body to his shoulder, “come on baby, let go,” 

You come like he summoned it out of you, your body breaking apart in the harness. Your hips shake, thighs twitching, your breath lost completely to the waves. 

He holds you steady, cradled against his thigh, his shoulder, his fingers still working you through the tremors to make it last just a little more, just a bit longer. 

“Good girl,” He whispers, pride laced in his tone, “that’s my girl,” 

Your release stretches long, your body wet and unspooled, and the rope creaks faintly as your weight shifts in its embrace. 

Normally, this is where he would slow down. After an orgasm like that, there’s softness, stillness, a grounding ritual to bring you back into your body as the ropes fall away, but something's different tonight. An echo of your words from the weekend flicker through you – I want you to push me. 

His hand on your head tightens suddenly, his fingers threading into your hair to lock you in place with sharp, sweet control, and his fingers start to move again. 

This time harder, pushing fast and deep into your still fluttering pussy. 

Your hips jolt, “Sir!”

You barely manage the word before he cuts it off with a kiss to your forehead, his lips on your skin warm and steady and unmovable. 

“Again,” He says in a breath, “you’re not done.” 

“I c-can’t, you d-don’t,” You’re a babbling mess, blinking and frantic. 

“I know,” He croons, “I know what I usually do, but I’m not finished with you.” 

His fingers thrust deep, a relentless pulse, his palm connecting with your clit on each hot push in. The edge builds so fast inside you that it hurts, sharp and aching. 

“Fuck, oh god,” You shudder, “sir, sir, it’s too–,” 

He cuts your words, “No, it isn’t.” 

You choke, pleasure sparking up and down your body in hot bursts. 

“You’re going to take it,” He whispers against your forehead, “you’re going to let me break you open, pretty girl.” 

You whimper, hips straining for something, anything, but the ropes hold you steady and wide. 

“I’ve got you,” He promises with a kiss to your hairline, “you’re mine, you’re safe, let it hurt, let it come.” 

Sharp sensation spikes in you, tears coming hot and fast as his fingers work you with precision and purpose. 

And then, just like he told you to, you let it come. 

Your hands relax, body going soft, mind sinking.

He takes, he gives. 

Nothing in the world exists but him, only his rope and his hands and his voice. Only the shape of his want and your body bowed to him. 

He feels the way you coil tight, strained and ready. 

“Again,” He urges, fingers tugging at your scalp, “give it to me, come. Right now, right now.” 

Your orgasm slams into you like a body blow, sharp and vicious. It feels like a release, but it’s harder, tighter and more heady, his name on your lips and tears on your cheeks as your body tries to fold together. 

His hands never let go, coaxing every last tremor, every pulse, until you’re gathered into his lap, wrecked and wet and wholly his. 

Your body sags in his arms despite the suspension, your back bowed but boneless, and he keeps his hands cradling you, his mouth at your temple. 

“You did beautifully, sweetheart,” He murmurs, his lips brushing your sweat-damp skin, “you gave me everything,” 

You breathe in, out, and shudder open. 

Your body still floats, but now your mind isn’t far behind.

Yunho feels it the second your breathing goes thin, your hands falling open and relaxed while your eyes go hazy. 

He moves immediately, still slowly but with direction. His fingers withdraw from your core and he gently wipes them on a clean towel beside him, before bringing one strong arm under your body while the other works the lock off ties. 

You feel the ropes loosen incredibly slowly, your upper back eased back to the mat first followed by your waist tie, a slow relaxation of your body to the floor. Your spine eases out of its arched curve, and it takes a moment before you realize you’re breathing harder, not with arousal or pain, but with reentry. 

Yunho cups your cheek, drawing your gaze, “Sweetheart,” he says clearly, “eyes on me.” 

You blink slowly, your lashes still sticky with tears, and his thumb gently smooths them away. 

“There she is,” 

You swallow, trying to find words inside you, but none come. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “Color?” 

“Green,” You sigh, that you remember, “I’m just… floating,” 

“I know,” He murmurs, “you did so well for me,” 

Warmth pools again inside you. 

On a day with less planned, this might be the end of your scene. You’ve orgasmed, you’ve been lifted, Yunho’s touched you in a dozen sensual ways, but today it’s just beginning. He promised you flight tonight; boneless, weightless, bliss, and all you’ve called is green. 

He pulls apart the ties on your ankles with a sharp tug, the coils falling away to the mat, but then he moves. 

One hand locks under your thigh and spins your body quickly, a rough transition into a new direction, and then he claps a hand over your chest, fingers curling into the binds of your harness at your sternum, tugging you up off the mat with a single pull. 

You gasp, the sudden lift again leaving you swimming, and when you blink away the wave of motion blur you find yourself tugged up and in his arms, straddling his waist where he sits criss-crossed on the floor. 

One arm wraps around your back while the hand locked in your harness releases, his fingers suddenly transitioning to a tight pinch on your jaw, positioning your face where he pleases. 

You whimper. 

“We’re not done,” He tells you, his voice firm, “you’re not done.” 

You shudder a breath, caught in the sudden heat of his gaze. 

“Sweet girl,” Yunho’s breath is hot against your cheek when he leans in, his voice deep, that rich dominant tone that sinks into his chest in the middle of a scene, the one he only lets out when he lets himself fully take you apart, “are you ready to fly?” 

You melt into his touch, “Yes, sir.” 

He feels the way your body sinks, relaxes, opens. 

“Obedient girl,” You feel the curve of his smile against your cheek, and then his head dips to your neck, nipping a sharp bite that’s sure to leave a red crescent of his desire on the smooth column of your throat. 

You shudder. 

The hand on your back starts to work the ties that thread through your harness while Yunho kisses the bite, pain and tenderness always distributed in even measures with him. His body curves around you, not to cradle you into any rest, but to envelop and overwhelm you, and all you can do is let him. 

Your head drops naturally until it’s resting against his, as if any part of your body is too heavy to hold up on your own, and with all the heat and pressure of his need he moves. You stay tucked tight, pelvis to pelvis, but he quietly checks your arms and hands for responsiveness while his lips start to work hot kisses up your neck. 

“I want you open,” He says against your skin, his hands pressing into your waist to drag you tighter against him, “I want you coming apart until you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t exist outside of this room.” 

If your arms were unbound, you’d pull him closer, you’d beg, but pinned like this you just shudder, “Please,” 

“Please, what, baby?” He bites at your neck again, at the soft flesh that curves towards your shoulder. 

“Please, sir,” You suck in a sharp breath at the pain that tingles through your skin. 

“Better,” His hand grips your ass, a silent warning, and then with a sharp movement it cracks down into a shocking slap that leaves you twitching. 

“Oh,” Your body leans into him instinctually, “please, sir, yes, sir.” 

He huffs a laugh against your hair as he straightens up, “That’s supposed to be a punishment,” he teases, “did I not do it hard enough, baby?” 

Your brain feels like it’s going fuzzy, and you accidentally let out a non-committal sound. 

His hand laces into your hair, tight again, and wrenches you backwards to meet your eyes

The sound that leaves you now is tight, animal. 

He studies you, a flick of a smile on his lips, and then he slides you off his lap to the floor, “Stay.” 

You’re shaking, body trembling from the orgasms, from the binds, from the way he’s touching you, talking to you. You think by the time he’s done, you’ll be cracked open on this mat, nothing but pleasured wet putty. 

Yunho steps back to prepare the rig for full suspension and you watch him work once again. He’s planned this in detail, that much is always clear, and he moves through the motions with a confident set to his shoulders. Securing a large metal ring with wraps to the bamboo bar, he checks that everything’s secure and then checks again, testing it with a firm hand before he ever even thinks about lifting you off the ground. 

It only takes a few minutes, but the strange silence of the room without his eyes on you leaves you aching, his lack of attention more punishing than a sharp slap or a firm hand could ever be. 

The rig groans as he finishes the tie off. 

He sets a loop of spare rope aside, takes a slow inhale and exhale, and then he turns and his hands are on you. 

A soft, involuntary sound of surprise puffs through your lips as he grips your body, hauling you up to your feet like you’re just another piece in the scene, another tool to be arranged and prepared. Yunho sets you on your feet beside the rig, and keeps one firm hand on your back until he knows you’re steady on your feet, that your equilibrium hasn’t shattered. 

You focus on your breath, on the rooted feeling of your feet to the mat, awareness grounding you. 

“Spread,” Yunho says, not a suggestion, a command, and then he sinks to his knees in front of you. 

Your breath catches, a spike of need bubbling, but you shift your feet wider apart until he looks satisfied. 

“Good,” He praises this time with warmth in his tone, one broad hand cupping your right leg, “this leg stays free,” 

You nod. 

He touches your left now, “This one’s mine,” 

“Yes, sir,” You swallow, holding yourself steady and looking down at him. His skin is flushed, pink across his cheeks, his ears. His dark hair mussed and already a little damp with sweat. 

Yunho squeezes your thigh once and then holds your gaze, “Listen closely, baby.” 

His voice is low, and you zero in, lips parting softly. 

“I don’t want to hear a word out of that pretty mouth unless it’s a color,” He pinches your thigh this time, and you jolt a little at the sensation, “or an answer to a question, and it better end in ‘sir’. Understood?” 

You swallow, “Yes, sir.” 

He smiles, just a little and still close-lipped, “Color?” 

“Green, sir.” 

“Good girl.” 

Your heart is pounding in your chest. 

Yunho rubs the pad of his thumb over the spot on your thigh he had pinched a moment ago, and then he starts to wrap you again. 

Your top half is already encased in the Tengu, one of his favorites for the way it opens your chest, but also for its versatility. This harness can transition well into a full suspension, and so you know already that he’ll keep it. 

Your bottom half is another story entirely. He has options at his disposal, all different depending on the way he wants to see you held. When he starts with a loop of rope around your hips though, a diagonal cut across your low belly from right hip to left, you know it’s a gunslinger and you know you’re going up on your side. 

Yunho works these ropes quickly, efficiently. A cradle around your hips, loops around your upper thigh, nestled by the tendons of your groin. The ropes get knotted together with efficiency and protective care until you’re wearing the side leaning harness low on your left hip. 

Yunho sighs as he checks the ropes against your skin, his fingers deftly checking the meat of your inner thigh where the ropes cross tight but not too tight, making sure nothing’s pinched or pained. He’s always careful to make sure that if you hurt, it’s in the way he designed, not as a byproduct of his lack of care. 

As he checks you, his hands warm against your skin, he shifts forwards. You breathe in sharply, but hold silent, your body suddenly aware of how close he is to you from his perched position on his knees. 

“Hmm,” He hums, his fingers brushing over your exposed sex, “Look at you, pretty thing.” 

Your core clenches. 

His thumb brushes over your seam, two fingers then spreading your lower lips, his eyes locked on you. 

You’re dripping, you can feel it. 

“Mm, and this?” He sighs, and you can feel the ghosting touch of his breath, “Your cute little clit? All swollen and peeking out like that?” 

Your teeth clench to fight the sound that wants to bubble up. 

He sinks into your wet heat, hands braced on your hips now to keep you steady, as he lets his tongue slide over your swollen bud. 

You moan sharply, body trembling, and your head falls back. 

He licks a deep stripe from your fluttering hole back up to your clit, pulling you into him for the best angle, and he groans. He passes his tongue over you again, and once more, and then delivers a sharp suck to your clit before he leans back on his heels and looks up at you. 

For your dominant, he looks debauched. His face is covered in your slick wetness, his eyes blown wide and hot and hungry. 

“I’m feeling a bit greedy tonight,” He admits, and then he uses the bottom of his shirt to wipe off his face. 

You bite your lip at the peek of his bare abdomen. 

“Nothing to say?” He teases. 

“No, sir,” You breathe. 

Yunho smiles, and then reaches for his bag on the table to his side. When he turns back, your heart hammers hard in your chest. 

In one hand he holds heavy, metal carabiners that clink together as he sets them on the mat. In his other, he holds a gift for you. Or potentially a test, depending on how you look at it. 

Quietly, as if he’s not driving you crazy with every little thing he does, Yunho slicks up a pink egg shaped vibrator with a bit of lube, and then turns back to you. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t talk you through it, he just reaches between your legs and finds your entrance with the slick, tapered end of the lush vibrator and pushes. 

Your body jerks, naturally, just a little, and he steadies you with a hand to your hip. 

He pushes up a bit more, and you feel your body stretch around it, accept it, and then the egg gets sucked inside and nestled right against your g-spot where it belongs. 

Yunho smiles, and tucks the pink tail of the vibrator into place, “You’re throbbing, baby. I can see it,” He flicks your clit once with his thumb, “I haven’t even turned it on.” 

You sigh, teeth locked and still trembling. 

He doesn’t say anything else, but he also doesn’t turn the toy on. You swallow tightly, and watch him work as he prepares the rest. 

His fingers work deftly to loop the suspension lines into your harness, he makes quick work of getting the loops and knots of jute tied just right to hold your weight up at the side of your Tengu. 

The rope at your chest tugs softly with every breath, and the gunslinger at your hip feels heavy and secure, hugging you with perfect pressure. Your arms are still bound, hands forward and open, chest presented and offering, your legs parted, only one cradled in the pattern of the harness. He’s taking you up on your side, you knew it from the moment he placed the gunslinger, but you’re even more sure given where he ties the knots on your upper harness. 

You’re not flying just yet, but you will be. 

Yunho is quiet as he keeps preparing, working with precision, every movement deliberate and without urgency. He knows intimately how long you can last in ties like this, but also the importance of rigging you up safely so that you’re cradled at all the right pressure points. 

Without words, he presses a warm hand wide over your belly and presses, guiding you two steps backwards until you’re in the right spot under the suspension ring that hangs overhead. His eyes flick over your face, but finding no resistance or discomfort, he continues. 

With quick loops, he secures your chest lines to the ring above, checking and double checking the secured coils and lock offs. 

The rest happens quickly. 

He clips a sturdy metal carabiner through the thick side knot of the gunslinger and threads through an upline. Dropping to his knees again, he selects another long coil of rope and begins your third anchor point, a supporting tie around your upper thigh. His hands are warm and firm, his movements sure and practiced as he loops it into a secure single column around the thick center of your thigh, somewhere it won’t press too hard against the tender nerves that run along your inner thigh or add unnecessary stress to the joints of your knees. The rope bites in, but it’s not cruel, just exacting and direct, and his fingers tap along the skin to check the resistance and how it holds. 

“Pain?” He verifies softly. 

“No, sir,” You respond with ease, but that’s not exactly true. There is pain, but only the intentional kind, only the ache you’re chasing, nothing like the sharpness or discomfort he’d want to know about. 

He nods once. 

His thumb strokes over the top line of that wrap, and then he rises, threading the tail of that rope through the ring above you to make another line for his pulley. 

You know this lift well, it’s one he’s explained to you before. Three points of lift: your chest harness, the gunslinger at your hip, and the added support at your thigh line. It’s one that’s balanced in its tension, but anchored cleanly in the center where the ring lines up perfectly with your hip, a slow tilt into your side suspension until you’re weightless. 

His movements here are slow, controlled to allow you to ease into the motion, and as he pulls that thigh line, your left leg lifts. Your body is carried with the movement until he has enough of the tie through the O-ring above to gather all the uplines into one hand, and you balance on your one foot as your opposite knee raises. 

Pausing here, Yunho cups your cheek once, eyes on yours. 

You feel yourself soften, the tug of a smile on your closed lips. 

That’s all he needs. His fingers brush over your jaw gently, once, and then he steps behind you. 

You’ve done variations on these ties a thousand times, but never this exact connection, and something warm and fluttery rocks in your gut as he brushes one hand down your bare back, over the loops of jute. 

He takes a moment to gauge everything once more, stepping side to side to review the ties. He’s tall and focused, his bare feet soft on the tatami, his dark shirt clinging faintly to his skin where sweat has built up on his chest and back. Yunho moves like he’s part of the rope, purposeful and practiced. Fluid with every step and shift. 

His dominant hand rolls, wrapping the grouped suspension lines over the back of his hand until they’re secured in his fist, and then without warning, he pulls. 

It’s slow at first, and his left hand guides your shoulder to the side to encourage your body to lean in the way he wants you. You follow that guidance, your weight all centering over your right leg as your body tilts to the side. 

Yunho inhales, and on his next exhale, he pulls again. 

Ropes drag over the metal ring, your harnesses and wraps pull tight into a firm cradle, your weight distributing across the ties, body rotating naturally into the tilt. 

He breathes again, his feet firm and spread on the mat, core tight and engaged, his left hand finding the ropes now. Inhale, a soft beat of anticipation as you balance everything you are onto the ball of your right foot, and then exhale. 

A steady pull, pull, pull. 

Ropes creak, the bamboo rig makes a familiar groan, and then, you’re up. Your grounded foot lifts, your body tipping fully to the side, and your breath leaves you all at once. You hang like this for a moment, your body still sinking low into the hip that faces the ground below, and then Yunho moves. He doesn’t like to leave you in a transitional spot for long, mindful of the strain it can have on parts of your body that don’t need it. With another breath, you feel the steady heat of his knee press up into your right hip. He pushes up with his knee at the same time as he pulls down with both hands on the gathered suspension lines. 

With easy grace, he gets you perfectly positioned on your side and starts to lock the lines with quick fingers, lacing the three uplines through the O-Ring: a gathered u-lock, a wrapped half hitch, all firm but intentionally ready for quick release. 

With the loose tail, he tucks the rope through your thigh wrap, and quickly tightens it with a coil around the upline that leads from gunslinger to suspension point, drawing them tight together so that from the side it appears you’re only suspended from the point at your chest and the point at your hip, the third rope at your thigh nestled and concealed together with the gunslinger, and effectively dragging your bound leg higher and tighter. 

When his hands are on the ropes, you find yourself focused on him, on the sensation of movement and vibration through the jute, but when he steps back to review and all you have is weight and rope, then the pressure hits. 

The wraps around your chest hug tighter and the lines across your hip pull deep against your pelvis, into the thick meat of your right hip as your weight bears into it. Nothing hurts, but it burns, a delicious kind of ache that only weightless rope can bring, a feeling that grounds you into your body even while you’re flying. 

This final suspension is a warm kind of surrender. You’re held on your side, perfectly parallel with the floor, a weightless kind of vasisthasana – as if he lifted you from a side plank into the air and pressed pause. Left knee raised, hip cradled below, spine straight with your chest just a little lower than your bottom half to protect your back and keep pressure off your lower spine. Your neck relaxes, head hanging to the side but still supported in the position, nothing like the heavy helplessness of a full inversion. 

You’re cradled.

And Yunho is everywhere; in every wrap, every line, every point of pressure and controlled breath. 

He circles you slowly, eyes carefully watching every moment. He checks the lift from each side, stepping behind you, then forward again, quietly crouching low to look at the way they cradle you from beneath. 

You can feel yourself trembling already, but let yourself relax into it, sink deeper. 

Quietly, he adjusts the tuck of the loose ends of rope, and once he’s satisfied, he steps back to admire his work. 

You’re beyond open for him like this, legs spread wide and offering yourself to his pleasure, your chest presented, shoulderblades tucked and immobile, arms still pinned in place. You’re suspended, weightless, held. You let your eyes go soft, your vision relaxing without focus, taking in whatever exists in your field of vision and nowhere else. 

Yunho reaches, his fingers gently curling over your ankle, lifting your free leg gently to guide you into a new angle. Your body rotates, a soft spin in the air, his opposite hand cupping your waist to keep you steady in the sway. 

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to. 

This is his favorite part, and it’s yours too. 

The way the room holds you in such tender silence, the lift, the feeling of being nothing except breath and pressure. The way you exist singularly in his hands, for his hands. 

On a different day, he might pause here. The quiet click of his camera shutter capturing disparate moments of your pleasure, your pain, the aching release of letting go. Today, he just watches. Breathes. 

The ache in your body is already deepening, a warm pulse in your arms, your thighs, in your hip where the gunslinger bites tight and holds so much of your weight, but it’s not pain. Not really. It’s all a reminder, you’re not in control, and what’s more, you don’t need to be. 

“There she is,” Yunho hums softly, his hand finally cupping your jaw, “look at me,” 

You let your head tilt, finding his gaze. 

His eyes are steady, dark with affection, soft with something unspoken. 

“You’re flying now,” He says, “let it all go.” 

With a breath, your body sinking into the lines, you exhale. You let go. 

The ache settles into something steadier, your body swaying in a slow rotation as the rig creaks above you. The only sound in the room is the rope, your breathing. Held, tilted, and bound in the cradle of his binds you feel like for the first time in days, maybe longer, that you’re not responsible for anything, not needed for anything. 

You let your eyes close, and you float. 

For a little while, Yunho lets you. He stays quiet behind you, only pressing his fingers to your skin when he wants to double check your body for safety, for responsiveness. He’s learned you well though over the years, he knows what to watch with his eyes and what to be tactile about, he knows the exact shade your skin darkens to when your arms are bound right versus going dangerously numb. 

So you hang, and time stretches around you until you’ve lost track of it entirely. 

He changes the rhythm eventually though, first with his proximity, the heat of his body close, and then with the bare whisper of a touch. His fingertips skating over the arch of your foot, drawing a tender line over your anklebone, up and up, featherlight and exploratory. It’s almost absentminded, but you feel the intention of him all the way up your spine. 

A soft exhale blooms from your lips as awareness creeps back in. 

His touch rises higher, knuckles brushing across the inside of your tied thigh, the one that hangs suspended high and open, and all of a sudden, there’s heat in this touch, not just affection. 

You feel the spark of it deep in your gut. 

He says nothing when you twitch. 

Another pass, slower this time. His fingertips press into the muscle, dragging down the line of your inner thigh, and there’s a moment, just a bare single breath, when you think he’ll touch higher and brush close to the soaked seam between your legs, but he doesn’t. 

Your teeth tighten, mouth closing around a whimper. 

His hand lifts, his body circles you again. You feel Yunho move behind your back, and then he’s brushing over your spine, skimming over the loops of rope. He pushes your hair to the side with his palm, revealing the stretched column of your neck, and his thumb strokes here once, the muscles tensing under his touch as you take a tender swallow. 

You don’t expect a kiss, but he leans in, just a warm press of his mouth below your ear, and you shudder at the contact. His lips press lower on your neck, and then again on the crest of your shoulder, again at the top of your spine. He’s quiet, he’s careful, but everything feels deliberate now in a way that makes your breath catch. 

“Color?” He murmurs softly. 

You soften, “Green, sir.” 

“Good,” He hums. 

He shifts in front of you, fingertips dragging along your exposed stomach as he does. He doesn’t touch you more, not right away, and then his thumbs both brush against your nipples, just once. 

Lines of heat spike in your chest and you jolt like you’ve been shocked. 

The ropes press tighter at your sudden shift, and you can’t stop the moan that pulls from your lips as you wake up to his touch. 

“Feeling everything, jagi?” He smiles, his voice low and warm in his chest. 

“Y-yes, sir,” Yours is just a whisper. 

His thumbs circle again, just a teasing touch that makes your nipples pebble up with just the slightest attention, and between your splayed thighs, your clit throbs once. 

“Sensitive little thing,” He sighs, and you feel your mind go pleasantly soft at his tone, “hanging here all open and aching.” 

A tiny sound works its way out of your throat. 

His lip pulls, just a gentle smirk, and then you feel it. 

The toy inside you wakes up, a low, deep thrum in a steady pulse where it presses into your g-spot. You gasp, your back arching, hips jerking in the sling. You had forgotten it entirely, lost in the sensation of ropes and air, so sunken into the lift that you didn’t even see Yunho finding his phone, connecting to the toy, and pressing start on the low pattern that would drive you into a dizzy ache. 

“Oh, baby,” He says, mock sympathy in his tone, “you forgot, didn’t you?” 

“Y-yes, yes, sir,” You twitch in the ropes again, “fu–,” you bite down on the curse.

“That’s alright,” He cups the side of your face, finding your eyes, “I’ll remind you what it’s for.” 

You suck in a sharp breath, body rocking into the pulse of it. 

The vibration inside you is steady, but not aggressive, not yet. It’s just enough to start curling heat low in your belly again, to make your walls clench down around the toy in a desperate ache for more, muscles fluttering from your earlier orgasms. 

Yunho doesn’t give you more, not right away. He lets you sway in it, trembling and aching, until the gentle pulse becomes maddening. Never enough, not to push you anywhere except into the pulsing want for more. 

You sob when his fingers finally slip between your thighs, letting the warm pad of his middle finger press over the swollen nub of your clit. He barely strokes, he just lets the sensation start to build with gentle pressure, circles that sync with the toy’s throbs inside you. 

“God,” He murmurs, almost to himself, “you’re dripping down those pretty thighs. This is what you needed, hmm?” 

You nod, breath catching, “Yes, sir,” 

“Tied up and teased until your brain turned off,”

You whimper. 

His fingers dip a little lower to catch your messy wetness, and then when the rhythm returns to your clit it’s firmer. 

“You gonna come just from this?” His fingers increase their pace, “Hanging in my ropes, stuffed full of a vibrator, and your legs wide open?” 

You moan, nodding, not sure if he really wants a response or if he’s just getting himself hard at the idea of it, “Y-yes, sir, fuck–,”

“You will,” Yunho says, “you’re going to take it and come just like this.” 

Your hips buck, and then his other hand slides up your body. It’s not guiding, not here to soothe you or tease you, his fingers curl gently around your throat to hold. 

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes flying wide open. 

He doesn’t squeeze, he doesn’t press yet, he just lets the heat and the weight of his palm against the front of your throat feel heavy, fingers wrapped around the sides. 

You swallow tight under his palm, your body stiffening at the new sensation. 

He stills immediately, his thumb stroking softly once over your pulsepoint, “Alright?” He asks, his voice gentler for just a moment, waiting for you to communicate. 

It’s new, but god, it’s good. 

“Green,” You nod into his touch, “green, sir.” 

His eyes spark with heat, “Good girl.” 

His fingers on your clit speed up, firm circles, and he lets his hand stay steady on your throat. The idea of it alone is enough to make your thighs tremble with want. 

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs, “I’ve always got you,” 

Your head tilts back instinctively, exposing more of your throat, and that seems to break something in him. 

Yunho groans, and leans in close, mouth tight to his ear as his fingers work faster, “You want to come like this?” He sighs, “My hand right here? My cock not even inside you?” 

“Please, please,” You whimper, tears beading at the corner of your eyes, “yes, please, sir,” 

His hand squeezes slightly, a pulse of pressure on either side of your neck that makes your breath stutter and your head pulse, “Not yet,” he says as the stimulation on your clit just stops. 

You scream, or you would if his hand wasn’t holding your throat, no air behind the sound as you choke out a whimper, your clit pulsing as you seek more. 

“Shh,” He soothes, rubbing a slow circle on your inner thigh, “you can wait, you can take it.” 

Tears slip down your temples. 

“Be good for me,” He sighs, “can you be so good for me?” 

Your body is strung tight, achingly desperate, and the buzz of the toy inside you an insistent pulse that makes your head swim, but you answer him, “Yes, sir,” 

He waits two breaths, and then he gives it all back.

“You take so much for me,” He whispers, “you always give me everything,” 

You choke on a moan. 

His pace picks up, fingers working fast in a messy circle over your clit with just the right pressure. The ropes creak as you jolt in his hands, arching, aching. 

“Look at me,” He pulls back. 

Your eyes snap open at the command, vision blurry with hot tears. 

“Come.” 

It hits like lightning, a sudden strike that leaves your body locked and trembling, suspended in midair as the orgasm crashes through you. Your cunt pulses violently around the toy still stuffed deep inside you, your body wrecked and open and unable to do anything but feel. 

“Good girl,” He says, voice warm, pleased, “just like that, oh, good fucking girl,” 

Your head swims, pops of pleasure and color blooming behind your eyes, every nerve ending alight with your orgasm. 

Yunho holds you steady, his fingers still guiding your pleasure with ruthless precision, but when your body turns to reckless shakes, his hand slowly loosens its grip on your throat and he slides it up to cup your cheek and then you feel the toy inside you go still. 

“There’s my girl,” He breathes. 

You sob again, relief, release, it’s all the same. Your muscles go slack and you sway in the ropes, the heat of tears sliding down your face as the ropes hold you steady and Yunho holds everything else. 

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs softly, “I’ve got you.” 

You drift. Suspended, spent, breathless and open in the center of him.

Yunho falls quiet again and then his presence surrounds you. His hands are warm on your hip, brushing the sweat at your waist. The vibrator inside you has been still, quiet since he turned it off, but your body still clenches around it, twitching from the echo of what you gave him. 

His fingers move to the lines at your thigh, and things start to shift. Decisively he starts to work, pulling open the first of several lock offs that will let him guide you back down to the ground. His body presses close as he works, and you feel the heat of him immediately, the thick line of his cock under his soft pants grazing your leg as he unties. 

You twitch at the contact, the promise of it, but he doesn’t apologize, he doesn’t acknowledge it at all. 

He steadies you with one broad hand as he uncoils the rope with the other, feeding the lines through and unravelling the support with relaxed precision. 

Each tug and slide of the jute through the support ring eases you down a little, gravity returning to your body in precious little increments. The ropes creak, the bamboo bar lets out a whine, and your body dips as you drift downwards. 

His grip tightens, and then you feel the slide, a slow and controlled descent until your right foot kisses the floor, just the ball first, then toes, then heel as you find your footing. You’re not grounded yet, not while the rest of your body is still strung up in his devotion, but it’s the first touch of anything and you exhale heavily into the sensation change. 

More ropes slacken, the support line at your thigh coming first, and your leg releases with a hiss of the rope over metal. His hands follow the line down your leg, pressure along your inner thigh and then release, a check and a tease all at once as your other foot hits the mat.

Your rock unsteady on your feet, and Yunho tucks you smoothly into his side, unwrapping the gunslinger with nimble fingers before sliding you down and down, back to your knees on the rice paper mat. 

You let out a puff of air, soft and unfocused. 

He guides a hand over your hair, cupping your head for a moment, before he slides behind you on his own knees, his chest brushing your back as he reaches around you to work the knots of your chest harness upline. You feel the brush of his body, and then, as he leans forward, the brush of his hard length once again. 

Your breath catches, and he leans into you for just a moment longer. 

With gentle hands, he makes short work of unknotting the jute that kept you so cradled, your body shuddering and expanding with every line that falls away. Your skin prickles with gooseflesh as sensation pours back into your limbs and you shiver in his arms. 

You’re still upright on your knees, but barely, your body melting and your spine bowed with the effort of supporting yourself. His fingers unwrap the crosspoint at the back of the Tengu harness, loosening the coils and unwrapping your arms with quick slides of rough rope over your flesh. 

Every touch is grounding but somehow, with the heat radiating off him, equally claiming. 

As your arms start to fall, he catches them, presses his thumbs to the center of your palms. Instinctually you grip back, squeezing him with as much as you can muster, a silent answer to his question about how your body is coping. 

With that confirmation, Yunho lets your arms fall to your sides and he shifts again, this time on his knees in front of you. Your vision feels like it’s hazy, liquid and warm as you watch him. 

In the middle of a slow blink, his hand wraps around a line still looped to the center of your chest and with a sharp pull he tugs. 

You gasp sharply, falling forwards as his opposite hand catches your chin and drags your eyes up to him. 

The heat in his eyes now is unmistakable. His want is thick in the air, and he holds your gaze. 

Your body melts in submission. 

With another tug, he guides you right down, forwards to the mat, and you go easily. 

Your knees widen naturally for balance, sinking into a child’s pose with your arms slack at your sides, and you stay there, instinct guiding you on how to fold into his desires. 

Your body doesn’t try to rise, your mind doesn’t flick through shoulds and shouldn’ts, you’ve sunken into that delicious place where Yunho thinks for you and you just exist. 

His hand slides up the back of your neck, palm dragging roughly as his fingers sink into the loose waves of your hair. Gripping roughly, then releasing, he uses the pressure of his palm alone to push your head to the side, smoothing back your hair so he can watch your hazy expression. 

His fingers go back to work on your harness, loosening knots until they’re yawning off you. 

His hands search you, seek more of you, a soft brush on your ribs and a heavy drag against your skin. Fingers in your hair, soft, then rough, manipulating your body to his pleasure. 

Then release, absence, distance. 

And all at once a return to sensation, a soft brush of his hand against your head, smoothing your hair like water over a bowing sculpture. Then tight again, and tighter. 

He drifts between both, tender softness and rough control, until the ropes are released and pulled away, and his body is nestled behind you, his hips pressed flush against your ass. 

He’s still hard, still throbbing. 

Yunho releases a tight exhale, just a puff of air through his nose, but that’s all, until he slides one hot palm all the way down your back from lumbar to cervical spine. He grips the back of your neck with that hand while the other slides under your folded body to cup your ribs, and then again he lifts you. 

You lean back up, guided into the warmth of his chest behind you, the last of the ropes that were looped and tucked under you still sticking to your tender, slick skin. 

His arms wrap around you, his thumb hooking under the last loop, the longest one that started the wraps, and he pulls, drawing it up and away from your body, jute running rough against your skin slowly with every second of his intention. 

He watches how your body responds, breath catching, thighs still clenching, naturally sinking into the guidance of his touch. 

Finally, he lets the rope fall away. 

In his arms, you’re completely bare again. 

His lips nuzzle the side of your head, breath still warm, and his voice cuts low through the quiet, “Color?”

You shudder, sinking into his chest, “Green.”. 

He nods once, head heavy against yours, and then he wraps his arms tight around you before sliding across the floor. You cling to him, but this time when he lets you go and you fall backwards it’s against the soft cushion of the plush white futon that he rolled out for you both, just for this. 

“Open up for me,” Yunho says, tilting your pelvis as he sets you down, “let me see,” 

You keep your knees splayed wide open when he shifts back, looking down at you. Your mind is hazy, warm and delicious, but even in that you know what he’s seeing. Your body is soft, loose, slick and wet between your thighs, and covered in criss crossed indentations from the ropes. 

He wets his lips with his tongue, his breath a little ragged in his chest. 

He’s been holding himself back, for hours, days as he planned this, and now it’s his turn for pleasure. Your body aches in response, and if it’s possible to get wetter, you do. 

Yunho tugs his shirt off, tossing it beside your discarded robe, and pushes down his soft pants. His cock is already rock hard, leaking at the tip and dark with need. 

He strokes himself once, and then reaches between your legs to find the tail of the toy and gently remove it. 

You shiver as it comes out, and moan as his fingers sink in, testing your slickness, your ache. 

“Pretty girl,” He says, shifting between your open legs. 

You sigh, mind soft, mistaking his tone for praise and not an attempt to get your attention. 

A sharp tap on your cheek brings you back to center fast, Yunho’s fingers firm on your jaw, “You with me, babygirl?” 

Your core clenches, “Y-yes, sir,” 

“Still green?” He asks, careful whenever he sees your mind going gooey like this. 

“Very green,” You breathe. 

“Mm,” The hot head of his cock notches on your entrance. 

You moan sharply. 

“Yeah?” Yunho looks at you with mock sympathy, “you need it?” 

“Yes, yes, sir.” You nod. 

He smirks, just the pull of one side of his mouth as he appraises your need, “Beg for it.” 

And like a trained pet, you do: “Please,” Your voice is husky, desperate, even you can hear that through the fog, “please, sir, fuck me. Put your cock in me, plea–,” 

Yunho snaps his hips forwards in one brutal thrust, driving the thick, long length of him as deep as he can get it until your hips are pressed flush together. 

The sensation of him spearing you open is like hot fire, and you wrench back into an arched cry, fingers scrambling to find something to hold. Your nails dig into his thigh, the rough texture of the futon below you. 

“Fuck,” Tears are bubbling to your eyes already as you shudder, “fuck, sir, thank you, sir.” 

He groans at that, a curse you barely make out on his lips, and then he drops his weight over you. Yunho crowds you in missionary with your pelvis tilted up, legs hitching around his hips and your back flat to the cushion under you. He wraps you up in his arms, one hand cradling your head while the other caresses your cheek, your jaw. 

“Oh, baby,” He sinks his head down, forehead pressed to yours, “babygirl,” 

You let your hands settle on his shoulders, and you drag in a ragged, needy breath. 

He nuzzles you softly, just once, nose to nose. Your mind feels like liquid heat, like you’re floating in a hot spring just you and him. 

But the tenderness goes just as quickly as it comes, and Yunho pulls back to find your eyes, “Sweetheart,” he says, “what’s the rule?” 

“W-what?” You manage it. 

He lets that little transgression slide, amused at your hazy, fucked out expression, “When I’m inside you,” he says, enunciating clearly so you have no chace of misunderstanding, “what’s the rule?” 

“Oh,” The word leaves you in a puff of air, eyes widening. 

He really is pushing you tonight. Your mind can’t consciously understand that here, in this moment, but something inside you is opening, deepening, with every moment he leans harder into the dynamics you’ve built over the past six years, every confessed fantasy, every need. 

Yunho rocks his hips once, just a deep grind to remind you how far inside you he is. 

A strained whine bubbles up, your mouth slack in a silent something. 

“When I’m inside you,” He says again, his voice low, “when I’m fucking you, when I’m filling you, what is the rule?” 

The word snaps to the front of your mind, “Daddy,” 

“There you go,” He nods, thumb hot over your jawline, “I knew you could get there, baby.” 

You can’t stop the way your cunt clenches tight around him. 

He lets out a hot exhale from his nose, smiling as he glances down at your tangled bodies, “You’re so easy like this, aren’t you?” 

You nod, fingers tight on his broad shoulders. 

“Arent you?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” You rush to correct. 

Yunho’s eyes darken, his teeth catching his lip once as he looks down at you, and then his hips twitch, his cock pushing impossibly deeper with his subtle grind forwards. The weight of it, his body above you, cock thick and hard inside you, makes you tremble. 

His eyes stay locked on yours as he draws back, just enough to make you feel it, the stretch, the friction, and when he thrusts forward in one perfect, brutal stroke you lose your breath. 

You cry out, unguarded, desperate as your head lolls back on the cushion below you. 

His hand brushes your jaw, and then his fingers apply steady pressure to guide your head back, “Eyes on me,” he says. 

You follow his guide, blinking hazy eyes open to meet his gaze. 

“That’s better,” He murmurs low, the intensity in his expression leaving your body taut and aching. Yunho lets his hips roll, slow and deliberate until your legs are twitching around his hips, “You feel that, baby?” 

A whimper claws its way up your throat. 

He adjusts, tilting your pelvis deeper with one hand locked on your ass, and then his other trails down the side of your body. It dips over your breast, your ribs, and then settles on the soft plane of your belly. He holds himself up, hovering over you as he touches you there, pressing his palm low. 

“That’s where I am,” He murmurs, his voice low and certain, “deep inside this perfect little pussy.” 

Your breath seizes, and you nod, your muscles tightening in anticipation. 

Yunho thrusts, finding a slow dragging rhythm in and out that leaves you whining, but his hand stays steady over that spot. 

You’re shaking, pleasure blooming deep, sparking through your body from chest to toes. 

“This is mine, right?” His thumb presses into your skin, just above your tender mound. 

“Yes,” You jolt with a moan, “yes, Daddy,” 

A raw sound escapes him, his pace faltering for a beat, his eyes blown wide at your words, your tone, but he recovers and pushes himself harder, his thrusts firmer, needier. 

“You always let me in,” He says in a pant, “you let me fuck you like this,” 

All you can do is nod, heart racing, pulse skipping.

“Always let me make you mine,” He groans. 

You shudder as his cock connects again and again with that tender, soft spot inside you. 

His fingers tighten where he holds you, his eyes locked on yours, “You want me to fuck it in, don’t you?” 

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand flying to his shoulder and the other braced against the mattress. 

He exhales, hot, heavy, “Want me to fill that pretty belly, babygirl?” 

“Fuck–,” Your words get strangled in a keening cry, your head swimming, thoughts sparking. 

This need between you both is new. Calling him Daddy, the dirty talk, the filthy confessions about how much he wants to see you full of him, possessed by him, heavy with what he made. It’s not real yet, you’re not sure if it will ever be real, but here in this room, in play, none of that matters. Here, with his cock inside you and your mind soft and pliant, all you can think about is how much you need it. 

He groans something else you don’t catch, and then your hand is sliding from its locked place on the mattress to the swollen bud between your legs. 

He pants, lips pulled in a smile as he watches you, “Fuck,” he shakes his head, “you want it that badly?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” Your fingers find the right pace, working your clit fast and frantic. 

“That’s my good girl,” He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, kissing you fast, “touch yourself, come for me while I fuck you full,” 

All at once the room feels like it narrows to the sound of his voice, the slap of skin as his hips connect to yours, the heat of his body radiating down. All there is, is him, only him. 

You tumble into your orgasm, unexpected and sudden before you can brace for it. 

It pulses through you, pleasure rolling as your body locks down, your hand tight on his shoulder as your legs spasm. Yunho fucks you through it like this is what he’s been waiting for, his breath warm on your cheek. 

“There she is,” His forehead leans heavily against yours, his hand returning to your belly, “that’s my good fucking girl.” 

Your eyes flutter, vision white-hot, the way you respond whenever he touches you like that is a mystery even to yourself but your body craves it, bends to it, and you sink into the feeling. 

He exhales hard against your skin, and you realize through your hazy, fucked out brain that he’s trembling. 

You blink hard, tears caught in your lashes, and look up at him. Your dominant, your partner, your man. He’s still braced above you, his skin slick and damp with a sheen of sweat. His chest heaves, dark red blush spreading over his chest and up his neck, and his cock is still buried deep and twitching with need. His hand brushes over your belly again, and he sighs. 

“God,” His voice is tight, his forehead still pressed to yours, “you feel that, babygirl?” 

You whimper softly, nodding against him. 

His body rolls slowly, like he can’t stop moving, and the pace starts again as he curses under his breath, “You’re still so fucking tight,” 

You moan, pleasure still hot and fluttering at your center. 

“Your body doesn’t want to let me go, baby,” He kisses you hard, groaning against your lips before he lifts his head, just far enough to see you properly. 

You can’t speak, all you can do is cling to him, your hands both braced on his upper arms. 

“Do you know what you do to me?” He asks, his breath ragged, “every time you say that word, every time you let me in this deep,” 

His next thrust is deeper, pointed, and knocks the breath from your lungs. 

“I can’t fucking think,” 

Your head drops back against the cushion, mouth falling open, nodding. 

“I can’t,” He mutters it, like he’s the desperate one now, and he sinks down to kiss your skin. Lips tender on your cheekbone, your jaw. He nuzzles your head to the side so he can work his mouth down your neck, his thrusts still coming in steady pulses, his cock thick inside you and grounding you with every stroke. 

“You’re mine,” Yunho says against your collarbone, “my girl, my good girl,” 

Your brain is soft, and you nod, weak and floaty. 

He rocks his hips deeper, his hand tipping your thigh to open your legs wider, angling you for the next stroke. 

His cockhead connects sharply with something deep and primal inside you, and you moan sharply, your entire body jerking in response, “D-Daddy, Daddy,” your voice is slurred, pleasured, syrupy sweet to his ears. 

“Oh, there,” He breathes, pleased at finding that place inside you, “yeah, right there,” 

You whimper, but he stays, grinding over that spot again and again, his rhythm tight and focused now, like he’s working you open from the inside out. 

Your body gives in easily, if there was any thread of resistance in you, any whisper of your own thoughts, this feeling drives it all out and you soften for him that last little bit, sensitive, slick, his. 

“There,” You babble, hand drifting to your belly, settled over where he moves inside you. 

Yunho moans, head dipping to watch where your bodies meet, where your hand rests, the angle, the stretch, the flushed swell of it all and the way you cup your own body with a silent plea for more. 

“Yes, baby, there,” He murmurs, awe and affection laced in his voice, “right there,” 

You sob, taking every inch. Your body too weightless and pleasured to move, but your nails dig into his shoulder as heat spikes though you again. 

“Oh, shit,” He stutters, “fuck, baby,” 

You whimper as his hand presses over yours. 

“Needy girl,” He says, voice hoarse, “is that it? You’re desperate for Daddy to come in this perfect little body? Leave you full?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” The world sharpens again, your eyes snapping to him as he pumps into you. 

In a quick rush he adjusts your bodies, your words leaving him groaning and needing something more. He wraps an arm under your lower back to hug you to his chest so that when he slides up the mattress you’re safe in his hold, and then he maneuvers you. 

Legs spread impossibly wide and open, a deep mating press, and he gathers your hands in one of his, pinning them above your head firmly, wrists tight together in one of his large hands. 

Yunho runs his other hand through his mess of damp black hair and then sinks back into you properly. 

You cry out, twitching in his hold. 

His eyes rake over you, the fantasy swimming between you, “You’ll be so fucking pretty for me, won’t you baby?” 

You nod, mouth falling open. 

“Right here,” He drags his knuckle down your stomach, a steady press of pressure that leaves your cunt fluttering, “tight and swollen for me,” 

You gasp. 

“Everyone will know,” He teases you, “everyone will know that you let me fuck you raw like this,” 

“Ah, ah, fuck–,” You pant, and he’s not even moving, but some kind of tingling pleasure tugs inside you. 

His eyes flick up to yours, and then again he descends, his mouth hot on your skin and his hips moving again, relentless thrusts this time. Your voice catches, something between a moan and a scream, but he kisses it away, like he’s desperate for your mouth, for your breath. 

“Everyone will see you owned by me,” He pants, “won’t they, baby?” 

“Yes, Daddy, fuck,” Your hands tighten in his hold. 

“Do you think they’ll know you cried for it?” He shudders, overwhelming you with his touch, “That you took my cock and called me ‘Daddy’? That you begged me again and again to fuck you full of my baby?” 

Your mind spins, eyes locking shut tight as you arch into his touch, “Please, please, god, please,” 

His breath stutters, and you can feel him getting close. His rhythm gets sharper, his heart pounding in his chest, and his voice goes soft and wild all at once as he chases his pleasure. 

“Gonna give it to you,” He groans, lips dragging against your ear, “fill you up, pump you so fucking full of me,” 

Another orgasm rises in you, a sudden tightening and pressure low in you where he pulses his cock in and out again and again, and you whimper, head tucked into his shoulder as you hold onto him through the building waves. 

“Tell me you want it,” He shudders, his hands tight on you, holding you impossibly close as he works you both up to the edge. 

“Need it,” You choke against his slick skin, “want you to come, Daddy, please, want you to get me pregnant, please,” 

He moans, “Again, say it again,” 

Your mind goes soft, “Get me pregnant,” you beg, “make me a mommy, please, please,”

He lets out a rough, choked sound, his body jerking, and then he thrusts deep one last time. 

You could swear the world tilts, everything going fuzzy and white and hot, and then you feel him pulse in you, a groan against your ear as he empties himself deep, his cock pumping rope after rope of his release against your fluttering womb. 

It’s a flood of warmth, and he keeps you locked tight to the hilt with his hand on your hip, like if he moves an inch he’d risk losing a single drop. 

“Fucking god,” He buries his face in your neck, a broken moan, “that’s it, baby, take me just like that,” 

You tremble in his arms, the promise of your own orgasm strung tight and waiting on tender hooks as he lets go. 

“My girl,” He sighs heavy, kisses travelling over your skin, wherever his lips land, “my fucking girl, god,” 

You’re still shaking, body coiled tight and still right there, right at the edge of tipping into pleasure one last time. Stretched out under him, filled, locked in his hold with your hands pinned above you and his body still pressed in the cradle of your hips. 

You feel every full, heavy breath he takes. Every twitch of his cock still hard inside you. 

Your eyes are full of unshed tears, your walls pulsing with need around him, and he sucks in a sharp breath. 

His hand releases your wrists, and he gathers you close in his arms, cradling you against him, under him, one hand at the back of your head to hold you in his wide palm. 

His hips move slowly, just a rolling rock, subtle movement that is just enough to drag the thick, slick head of him against the soft, needy spot inside you that wants more. He shudders, sucks in a sharp breath like it hurts, an overstimulated groan on his lips as he sinks into you, but he doesn’t stop. 

“G-god,” Your hands fly to his shoulders, bracing yourself here. 

“I know,” He pants, “I’ve got you, baby.” 

Another roll, still not thrusting, just smooth, deep presses as he works that spot again. 

Your orgasm builds again, cresting with a vibrating heat that floods from your deep core up through your chest and you moan. 

“So full of me,” He sighs against your lips, kissing you slow, “you’re gonna come again.” 

You sob, gripping him, letting it take you. 

“You were so good for me,” He says like a confession, “took everything, gave me everything, my good fucking girl,” 

The praise lights up your brain, every nerve ending, just as his cock grinds just right against the place that’s been begging all along and you break under him. Pleasure washes over you in a hot wave. His words, the mess inside you, the way he’s giving you everything with just the smallest, most tender rocks of his hips. 

His lips are hot against your ear, and your world cracks open when he says, “So pretty and pregnant for me, aren’t you?”

You cry out, the sound raw and caught in a half sob, your entire body locking down around him, “Yunho!” You don’t mean to say his name, but it pulls out of you in a moment of wrecked dizziness, and you cling to him. 

“Oh, fuck,” He groans, sensitive and overstimulated, but he keeps moving just to make sure you’re carried through it, just to make sure you get every last drop of his release. 

Your mind whites out, hazy, everything just a blank except the feeling of him deep in you, his body above you. You hear the blood rushing in your ears, your heart stuttering in your chest. 

You don’t know how long you’re floating before you realize he’s still talking, soothing you with kisses and tender words like he can’t stop. His lips are reverent on your cheeks, your jaw, lips. He presses one to your forehead and sighs, “Breathe, just breathe.” 

Your breath hitches with something, a catch of emotion, sudden like a snap release. 

He’s stills, just letting himself stay heavy inside, and it’s voice that brings you back, “Shh, shh, baby, it’s okay, I’m right here, I’ve got you,” 

You blink your eyes back open, finding Yunho above you. His brow is pinched tight with something like concern, but his expression is tender, and he smooths tears away from your cheeks with his thumbs. 

Your body feels loose, relieved, sore in all the right ways. 

You sob, clinging to him, “I–,” words catch, “I’m,” 

“Easy,” He brushes damp hair back from your forehead and kisses you gently, “sweetheart, go easy, look at me,” 

Your eyes find his. 

“You’re safe.” He says that first, clear and calm, “You’re home, with me in our place.” 

You manage a nod, a shuddering breath leaving you. 

“The scene is over,” He cups your cheek, “right here, it’s done. You’re safe, you’re in my arms. Do you feel them?” 

His words ground you down into your body and you swallow, feeling the warmth of his embrace. You nod. 

“Good,” He murmurs, “doing so good,” 

Your chest swells with warmth. 

“Say it back, sweetheart,” He brushes away more tears, “tell me where you are.” 

You take a steadying breath, and bit by bit the world starts to settle in around you again. Your voice is hoarse, but yours, “Home,” you breathe, “with you.” 

He nods.          

You exhale heavily, sinking into his touch, “Safe with you,” 

His eyes shine, “Yes,” he nods again, “yes, you are.” 

More tears snake down your temples and into your hairline, but neither of you are scared of them. It’s release, relief, the kind of tears that spring up after something that intimate and intense, and he knows to just hold you through it.

Warmth settles in your chest and you sigh, “Love you,” 

He smiles, dipping to kiss your lips again, “I love you too,” he murmurs, “so much.” 

You melt. 

His lips press to yours again, just soft and present, and you can feel the way he loves you with every way his touch softens, every brush of his lips.

Everything is warm. 

You blink slowly, your lashes still wet, and Yunho’s fingers gently trail through your hair, clearing damp strands away from your cheeks and temples, tucking them behind your ear. He doesn’t ask for anything else yet, just a soft touch that reminds you it’s him, that you’re still safe. 

You stay pressed to his chest, your legs tangled together, and slowly the room starts to reform in the corners of your awareness. Your tears quell, and you shift your cheek, just a little nuzzle into the hollow below his collarbone. 

A little sound leaves your lips, and it makes him look down, “Still with me?” He murmurs. 

“Mhm,” You nod slowly, your fingers curling against his warm skin. 

 He smiles, warm, a kiss to your forehead, “Can I pull out, sweetheart?” 

“Mhm,”

Slowly, he slides back and uncouples your bodies, and you suck in a tender breath at the sensation. He brushes his thumbs over your waist and settles your legs down into a more natural position, “Let’s do a few checks, baby. You don’t have to move, alright?” 

You nod. 

It takes effort to stay still, not because you’re resisting anything, but from how completely soft your body feels. Every part of you wants to fall slack and open, and you try to come back into yourself so you can feel, so you can have some awareness of yourself as he works. 

His hands move in silence as he stays seated on his knees over you. 

Starting with your leg, the one that was bound and raised, his thumb drags over the joint and presses behind, then down the arch of your foot, a smooth touch of his palm and fingers working across the curve. When you twitch, a tickle of sensation, he smiles. 

He checks the rest of your leg with careful fingers, reviewing the line around your thigh, inspecting the skin for rope burns, his fingers skimming in the indentations. Your hips shift towards him at the touch, your body seeking his warmth naturally. 

He kisses your hip without a word. 

His hands slide again, over your arms this time, lifting them one by one and giving each his full attention as he twists you through gentle motion, rolling your wrist and then massaging each joint, each muscle.

Yunho’s touch is firm, patient, and loving. 

A slow exhale leaves you, and then another, and another. 

Without a conscious thought, your breath finds its way back into a natural rhythm, the room coming into sharper focus, your head no longer completely under water. 

“Doing okay?” He murmurs gently, resting your hands back down at your sides. 

When you nod this time, it’s a little steadier, “Yeah,” 

Leaning in, he kisses your shoulder, the one he’s always careful of, and then he nods, “Alright,” he breathes, “let’s get you cleaned up.” 

You reach for him, hands sliding over his broad, bare shoulders. 

Strong arms curl under your body, and he lifts you back up, keeping you tucked against his chest as he carries you out of the rope room and into your master bathroom, cool air passing gently over your warm skin. 

Your shower is well equipped for this, a bamboo bench installed along one of the natural stone walls, and he rests you there and before getting the warm water started. Steam starts to build, the glass doors fogging, and he leaves the lights low and warm as he slips into the spray. 

Kneeling in front of you, he keeps his eyes on your expression, quiet and watchful. He tests the warmth of the water on the back of his hand, making sure it’s not too hot, and then with the handheld showerhead he washes you, guides the water along your skin, letting you breathe into the sensation, the heat. 

He moves through the ritual quietly, washing your hair first, lathering it up with softly scented shampoo. You stay resting on the bench, your body coming back to yourself minute by minute as he cares for you. 

“Lean back, love,” He murmurs, and you follow his guiding hand. 

He supports your body gently as he rinses your hair clean, suds slipping over your wet skin and down the drain. He repeats the process with your conditioner, a kiss to the crown of your head as he finishes this first step. 

“With me?” He asks softly as he lathers a washcloth with soap, his hand passing over every inch of your body with slow, steady strokes. 

“Here,” You murmur quietly. 

You watch his hands move over your body, careful of the rope marks that are still visible in places, gently caressing one with his thumb as he washes you clean. 

Your shoulders roll back gently as you adjust, feeling coming back into your legs properly, and you look up at him. With a lazy smile, you sigh, “Hey,” 

“Hey,” He leans in and kisses your forehead, water sluicing down his jaw and onto your cheek. 

“You did so beautifully,” He murmurs against your skin. 

Emotion catches in your throat, something warm and full curling in your chest, “I missed you,” you confess quietly. 

Leaning back he brushes your cheek, “I’m here,” 

He finishes washing you off quietly, and moves through the quick work of his own shower. You watch him with soft eyes, body leaning into the cool rocks behind you. 

After a minute, he clicks off the water and wraps a towel around his own waist before bringing one in for you, freshly washed and soft, “Let’s get you dressed, okay?” 

“Mhm,” You murmur as he wraps the towel around you and guides you to your feet. 

Nothing’s rushed here, he takes it at your pace, easing you into the bathroom and drying you off with soft hands. When he slips the soft cotton robe over your body, it’s gently heated, fresh from the towel warmer and you sigh at the sensation. 

Sliding your arms through the sleeves, you look up at him as he pulls the front closed and knots the sash loosely at your waist. 

“How’s that?” He murmurs. 

“Good,” 

“Alright,” He kisses your forehead again, gentle, guiding you back towards the stool at your vanity, “Sit for me,” 

You sink onto it, finding your own eyes in the reflection, and his body behind you. 

You look flushed, healthy, your skin plump, eyes still a little hazy as you drift down from subspace. With quiet reverence, he picks up your hairbrush and starts to untangle the knots in your hair, beginning at the ends and working his way patiently upwards. 

His face in the reflection is calm, still focused as he moves through his ritual of care, but fully relaxed. Any tension in his brow is gone, and there’s a softness to his brown eyes, and the gentle curve of his lip. 

As he finishes, you reach up and touch his wrist, “Thank you,” 

He meets your eyes in the mirror before bending down to kiss your shoulder, “Stay right here for me,” 

You nod, and you wait. 

He steps out of the room for only a few moments, always prepared, and returns with a cool glass of water. He presses it into your hands, but lets his fingertips linger on the bottom of the glass to steady it as you bring it up to your lips. You sip slowly, and he waits until you’ve had half before accepting the glass back, and helping you to your feet again. 

He walks you out into the living room, lights dim here too, and tucks you into your favorite corner of the couch. He wraps the robe around your bare legs, adds a soft blanket over your lap, and brushes his hand over your damp hair ever so gently, before disappearing into the kitchen. 

Your body starts to hum again in that quiet, grounded way that it always does after he’s held you through something deep, after he’s taken you flying. 

Yunho moves through the kitchen quietly, and you listen as he works. The flick of the stove, the kiss of the fridge door, a knife on the cutting board and the familiar hiss of garlic as it connects to hot sesame oil in a shallow pot. Low music starts to flow through the space, punctuated by the chirping sound of your rice cooker announcing it’s hit another hour on the warming setting. 

You turn and watch him work, and when he looks up and sees your eyes already on him, he smiles. 

You smile back. 

He cooks you something simple, a shallow bowl of dak juk, the rice porridge warm and comforting, and the gentle aromatics of the garlic chicken feel like home. He’s added some gimjaban, a soy egg for flavor and protein, and a healthy sprinkle of spring onion.  

He sets the bowls onto a large tray, and then settles next to you on the sofa. 

You tuck your legs under you properly, shifting to give him room for the food, and look up when he sets a warm hand over thigh. 

“Try this first,” He murmurs, passing you the juk and a long silver spoon. 

You sink into the meal, the first bite perfectly warm and salty, just what your stomach had been too soft to remember it needed. You hum pleasantly into the bite, body unspooling that last little bit. 

“Yeah?” He brightens a little, “That good?” 

“So good,” You nod, taking another bite, “you’re getting good at these eggs,” 

He watches you for another moment, and then picks up his own bowl. 

You eat quietly for a few minutes, comfortably, each of you relaxing into your own bodies again, eyes meeting every few bites. 

When you reach for your water glass yourself, eyes a little clearer, he speaks up. 

“How are you, sweetheart?” He asks gently. 

You pause, asking yourself that question before you answer reflexively. Your spoon settles back into the warm bowl of porridge, and you nod. You’re back in your body now, mostly, but your mind still feels deliciously relaxed, and you catalog the warmth of him beside you, the heat of the food, the gentle but persistent ache in your thighs. 

“I’m–,” You start and then trail off, searching for the right words. 

He doesn’t fill the space or presume, he just waits. 

“I feel soft,” You manage first, looking up at him, “very held.” 

Yunho nods, watching you carefully as you parse through the emotions, his own bowl back on the tray so that all his focus is on you. 

“I don’t know that I’ve ever felt that deep in it,” You confess, “if I have, it’s been a long time.” 

His fingers gently brush along your forearm, “And now?” 

“Safe,” You look up, meeting his curious gaze, “and you held me safe the whole time, I felt that with everything,” 

He lets out a tight exhale and nods, tucking that truth away inside himself, “And the breath?” 

You glance down at your bowl and then back up, a tentative smile on your lips, “I was worried it would scare me,” you confess, “that I might have to safe out of that,” 

He nods. 

“It didn’t,” You admit, “I liked it, and you were so there,” 

“I’ll always be there,” His fingertips brush along your forearm again. 

It feels like a silly thing to say, of course he was there, but he knows what you mean without having to explain it. The way Yunho is so attuned to you, so sharpened to you and your needs, the level of presence he brings in a scene is indescribable, especially when you’re trying something new. 

He smiles softly after a moment, “I’m glad about that,” he adds, “I know it’s a vulnerable thing,” 

“I don’t know why,” You nod, “but it gave me something I didn’t know to ask for,” 

His smile is softer at that, eyes warm with pride, “You were incredible tonight,” he murmurs, “you gave me so much of yourself, you trusted me with so much,” 

You reach for his hand properly, lacing your fingers together, “I always trust you.” 

Emotion tugs at his expression, but he clears his throat, kisses the back of your hand and takes a steadying breath. It’s not lost on you, now that you’re back in your right mind, how much care Yunho puts into every scene with you. You can see that in every second of his relief after when you’re feeling like this. 

“I asked you to push me,” You murmur, setting your bowl aside and sliding closer to him on the cushion, “and you really did,” 

“Not too much?” He checks, cupping your cheek. 

“No, baby,” 

“You sure?” 

“Mhm,” You nod, turning your face to kiss his palm warmly, “I’m sure,” 

Yunho smiles, “You were so pretty wrapped like that,” he adds, “next time, when your right leg feels a little stronger, I’d like to guide that leg back,” 

“Yeah?” 

He nods, fingertips brushing down over your neck as he considers it, “We can work a harder predicament there when you’re open to it, I have a few ideas,” 

It’s been a while since you’ve been able to talk about tying like this, and you drift into the comfort of it, “Next time,” you agree. 

Keeping you close, Yunho reaches for your bowl of juk and presses it back into your hands, a silent instruction to keep eating while you talk. 

You tuck back into the meal without protest, but then remember something you wanted to tell him, “Mm,” you look up, swallowing a mouthful, “Yunho,” 

He hums to let you know he’s listening as he takes his own bite of food. 

“The untying tonight,” You murmur, “I liked that.” 

That surprises him, and his brows lift with a little amusement, “Yeah?” 

“Mm,” You nod, a soft smile curving on your lips, “you’re usually… softer by then? But you didn’t stop topping, even when the ropes were off you really kept me in it,” 

“I didn’t want things to feel disjointed for you,” He explains, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles, “and besides, I like you like that.” 

You laugh a little, “Massively subbie?” 

He huffs a laugh, “I was going to say soft, pliant. You get very honest when you surrender to me,” he cracks a smile, “but sure, massively subbie works too.” 

Knocking your shoulder with his, you look down, focused on the food in your lap. Flickers of his touch pass through your mind though. It’s never about being tied, the finished picture of it floating mid air, it’s always about how you get there. His hands, the jute, the dance of it that belongs only to you. 

Your eyes close for a moment, and you sigh, “You always make me feel like something sacred,” 

He stills, his spoon quietly dropping into the bowl, his hands gentle on your face as he guides your gaze back up, “That’s because you are,” he murmurs, “to me, you are.” 

There’s nothing to say, if you tried to you’d cry, so you manage a nod, a soft smile. 

“Alright,” He breathes, kissing your forehead, “two more bites, baby, for me,” 

You finish the bowl without complaint. 

When you’re done he clears away the food with ease, checks that you have everything you need in your little corner of the couch, and then steps away. 

His ritual for you is done, but this part is just for him. 

He disappears into the rope room for a little longer, and you relax into the cushions to listen. You hear the soft rustle of jute as he recoils the strands, organizing the mess back into something neat and tidy. You can almost picture it, you’ve seen him go through this routine a hundred times. 

Jute wrapped and packed, emergency tools tucked back into their proper places, mats wiped down, futon rolled away, candles extinguished and left to go cold. 

When he’s done, he turns out the lights and slides the hanji screen door shut with soft finality. 

The scene is done, it has been, but now it’s placed away, done, and honored. 

Yunho returns to the couch with an easy smile and soft shoulders, sinking down beside you with a stretch, “It’s late, but I don’t think I’m tired yet,” 

“Mm-mm,” You shake your head, “me either,” 

You curl into his side without thinking, his arm lifting to welcome you in, and you nestle against his chest. His hand settles over your hip, his thumb drawing mindless patterns into your skin. 

He reaches for the book on the coffee table, the one you’ve been reading but not finishing, and he tucks it into your lap before opening up a game on his phone, switching the track on the speaker and relaxing into the couch with you. 

You open your book, brushing open the pages and finding your place, and Yunho’s arm tightens to pull you in just a fraction closer. For a little while, you read and he plays his game, in companionable, sated silence. 

After a while, you yawn and he mirrors it back. 

“Still up for dinner tomorrow with San and Hwa?” He asks softly, “It’s been a while,” 

“If you’re up for it,” You reply without looking up, turning the page to a new chapter. 

“Mm,” He hums, “maybe somewhere outside, it’s supposed to be beautiful,” 

“I’d like that,” 

“I’ll check reservations in the morning,” 

You nod, sinking further into his side, your head starting to go heavy on his chest. 

“Tea,” He murmurs, squeezing your hip, “then bed, you’re exhausted, sweetheart.” 

You open your mouth to protest but find yourself yawning again, “Kay,” you concede. 

He makes you ginger tea while you finish the last few pages of your book, ushers you to bed with the same gentle hands he’s used all night. 

Tucked together under the covers he holds you close. Something in you just feels at ease, like he reached in and soothed the part of you that’s been fraying at the edges for months now. 

Yunho kisses you softly, your chest rising and falling to the same rhythm, his hand on your hip like a tether. This time when you exhale it doesn’t catch, every breath steady and sure, shaped around the way he loves you. 

In the hush that follows, you both rest.

[railedby8tz]

in your fantasy ═ chapter one

[ J. Yunho + S. Mingi ]

chapter one: devil in disguise, we know how this works

╚═════════

summary: y/n probably should of asked her brother more details about his job and coworkers because an exotic nightclub full of vampires was not on her bingo card

warning: dom yunho, dom mingi, possessive mingi, switch reader, mentions of blood, face riding, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, IT’S VAMPIRE SEX YALL

genre: vampire, romance, throuple, drama, smut

pairings: vamp yunho x human afab reader x vamp mingi

word count: 9.6k

chapter two coming soon

masterlist

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It was supposed to be just one night. That’s how it always started in New York, fast, impulsive, forgettable. Y/N hadn’t dressed for anything in particular, just a night out with her coworker at a Midtown club she didn’t even want to remember the name of. It had one of those obnoxious velvet ropes and a line wrapped around the block, but her friend knew the DJ, and a whisper at the entrance had the two of them sliding past security like smoke.

Inside, it was a crush of neon, perfume, and bass so deep it rattled in her bones. The crowd pulsed under kaleidoscopic strobes, faces blurred in the heat and sweat, bodies moving like water. Y/N wasn’t even looking for anyone. She was tired of men, of the letdowns and the lies and the fake deep small talk. She was in New York for a reset, not a rebound.

But then she saw him.

Across the dance floor, leaning casually against the bar like he owned it, tall, sharp jawed, and dressed in black from head to toe. The dim lights licked silver off his satin shirt and his hair looked too perfectly tousled to be an accident. His eyes were on her, dark and heavy like the air before a thunderstorm. He didn’t look away when she caught him staring. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

He smiled. Just barely. And it knocked the breath clean out of her.

She didn’t remember deciding to walk over. One second she was at the edge of the crowd, and the next she was standing in front of him, like she’d been pulled in by gravity.

“Do I know you?” she asked, already knowing the answer, almost cringing at her own ridiculous pick up line.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes still fixed on hers. “Not yet.”

His voice was low, velvet smooth and dipped in something dark. He held her gaze like he was reading something written on the inside of her skull.

She should’ve walked away.

She didn’t.

She didn’t remember what they drank. Just the clink of glasses, his fingers brushing hers when he passed her a cocktail she hadn’t asked for but somehow loved. She remembered the way he listened, like nothing else existed but her mouth and the way it moved. Like every laugh and story she shared was new, when she’d told it a hundred times to people who’d already forgotten.

He didn’t touch her much. Not at first. But when he did, fingers lightly resting on the small of her back as he guided her away from the bar, she nearly forgot her own name.

By midnight, they were in the back of a cab. His hand was on her thigh. Her head was spinning but not from alcohol.

“What’s your name?” she whispered, breath catching when he leaned close to her ear.

“Yunho.”

He said it like a secret. Like a promise.

His apartment was somewhere in the Lower East Side. Big windows. No lights. Just the soft glow from the city outside painting long shadows across the hardwood floors. She saw books stacked on tables, a guitar leaning against the wall, a coat rack with a black leather jacket and a dark flannel.

She turned to say something, but he was already close. One step, maybe two, and his hands were on her hips, his lips brushing hers like he was tasting the idea first.

She didn’t expect the kiss to feel like that, slow, devastating, like he wanted to memorize every second. Like he had time.

But when she moaned against his mouth, Yunho pressed her back into the wall like he’d been holding back the entire night. One hand cupped the back of her neck, the other slid beneath her shirt, palm burning hot against her skin. His tongue teased, deepened, until she felt like she was unraveling right there.

Yunho’s hand was still curled around the back of her neck as they moved toward his bedroom, her body warm against his chest, her breath hitching every time his fingers skimmed exposed skin. He didn’t rush. He couldn’t. Not with her.

Not with that scent.

It wrapped around him like silk soaked in sin, he smelled it the second she walked into that club, warm honey and crushed berries, threaded with adrenaline and the faintest edge of salt from her skin. And underneath it all, something deeper. Older. Something that whispered directly to the part of him he kept locked away.

God, he hadn’t wanted to feed in weeks, strictly on blood bags, and now? He could barely breathe without wanting to sink his teeth into her.

He didn’t understand it. Not really. She wasn’t the first human he’d taken to bed. Not the first who laughed too easily or kissed like she had nothing to lose. But there was something about her that coiled around his instincts like a fist.

And she didn’t even know.

She looked up at him as he backed her toward the edge of the bed, shirt already undone, her eyes wide and trusting and hungry all at once. Her lips were kiss swollen, pupils blown wide with desire, and Yunho’s jaw clenched so hard he thought his fangs might tear through on their own.

He swallowed hard, blinking away the faint red haze creeping at the edge of his vision.

Focus. You are not feeding tonight.

He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not with her. Not when it wasn’t… consensual. And not when it felt so much like fate it made his bones ache.

He tried not to think about how good her pulse sounded, how strong and steady it beat beneath her skin. How it fluttered faster when his hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, when his lips brushed her jaw, her throat.

Yunho paused there. Just for a second. His nose skimmed the soft curve below her ear, and he exhaled slowly, silently.

She smelled like temptation. Like the first inhale after being buried alive.

He pressed his mouth to her neck, open mouthed, kissing, not biting, but the way her body shivered against him had his control splintering.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling back for a moment and letting his forehead rest against hers.

“What?” she whispered, voice breathless and a little dazed.

Yunho forced a smile. “Nothing. Just… glad my roommate’s not home.”

That was true enough. If Mingi had walked in? One look at her and he’d smell it too. The sweetness. The pull. Yunho could already imagine Mingi’s teasing voice in his head.

But Mingi wasn’t home. And that meant Yunho didn’t have to share. Or explain.

She was on his bed now, knees on either side of his thighs, pulling her top over her head like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her bra matched nothing, her lipstick was smudged, and Yunho thought he’d never seen anyone look more dangerous.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

He wasn’t supposed to feel.

And yet, as he kissed her again, slow, desperate, reverent. She kissed him back like she was starving for him, mouth hot, open, wanting, and Yunho could feel her thighs tighten around his waist as she rocked forward, grinding slow and deep against where he was already hard beneath her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to send a bolt of want straight down his spine.

He groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated against her mouth, and when her lips curled into a smile, smug, teasing, he nearly lost it.

His hands slid up her back, fingers splaying across bare skin, mapping the soft curves of her spine like scripture. He’d seen her naked only minutes ago, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing about her ever would be. The more he touched, the more he needed. The closer she got, the more his body screamed to taste.

And his fangs were out.

Not fully dropped. Not bared. But lengthened, just enough to ache. Just enough to threaten. He could feel the pressure in his gums, that familiar pulse of hunger curling low and dangerous inside him. It wasn’t just bloodlust.

It was her.

Her heartbeat thundered against her chest, so close to his mouth. Her scent clung to his sheets, his hands, the very air around them. He dipped his head again, dragging his lips along her jaw, down her neck, just to inhale her. Just to torture himself.

She shivered. Not from fear, never fear. From pleasure. From want.

“Yunho…” she breathed, hips rolling into his. “Touch me.”

Oh, baby. If only you knew what kind of touch I’m trying to hold back.

His hand slid between them, slipping beneath her underwear, wet, hot, everything he shouldn’t be getting addicted to. She gasped, her whole body arching toward him, and Yunho kissed her again, trying to drown the beast inside his chest.

She didn’t notice. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t feel the sharp scrape of his fang just barely graze her lip.

Yunho froze, just for a second as the faintest taste of her blood hit his tongue.

Sweet. Silken. Pure fucking narcotic.

He pulled back, chest heaving like he’d just run through fire, hands trembling with restraint as he stared at her, panting, flushed, pupils blown wide.

“You okay?” she asked, voice soft, lips kiss bitten and glistening.

Yunho swallowed the hunger burning up his throat. Forced a small smile. “Yeah,” he lied, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just… you’re a lot.”

She grinned at that, tilting her head. “Too much?”

“No.” His voice came out lower than he meant it to. “Not even close.”

She smiled at him as she laid back on his bed, beckoning him with a crooked finger, and Yunho followed like a man under a spell.

He kissed his way down her chest, worshipped every inch with mouth and tongue and aching patience, even as his body begged him to feed.

But he didn’t.

Because she didn’t ask.

And Yunho might’ve been a vampire, but he wasn’t a monster.

At least… not tonight.

She laid back for him like a dream spun out of sin, her chest rising and falling with every shaky breath, thighs spread, her eyes locked on his with a look that said she didn’t even realize what she was doing to him.

And that was the worst part.

She didn’t know.

Didn’t know what it cost him to move slow. To kiss his way down her body instead of taking her the way his instincts howled for. Didn’t know that every inch of skin his lips touched made the hunger worse, not better.

Yunho pressed his mouth to the hollow of her throat first, tongue dragging lazily along the pulse he could feel hammering just beneath her skin. Her heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird, alive, fast, so so sweet. He didn’t suck. Didn’t bite. Just… lingered there. Breathing her in like she might disappear if he stopped.

She moaned softly, her fingers slipping into his hair. “Yunho…”

His name on her lips made his fangs throb.

He dragged his mouth lower, over the curve of one breast, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses down the slope of her ribcage, her stomach. His tongue flicked over her skin, slow and reverent, and every time her hips twitched or her breath caught, he closed his eyes and begged whatever god had abandoned him long ago to keep him from fucking up.

Don’t bite. Don’t bite. Don’t bite.

Her thighs trembled as he settled between them, spreading her open with hands that shook only slightly now. His mouth was so close to the heat of her, to the slick proof of her desire. Her scent was overwhelming this close, raw, intimate, addicting.

He leaned in and kissed her inner thigh, then the other, leaving a mark not with teeth, but with tongue and lips. She was already squirming, breath hitching, one hand clutching his sheets, the other still buried in his hair.

“Yunho…” she gasped, voice breaking like a spell being cast. “Please….”

He didn’t make her beg twice.

He licked up the center of her slowly, his tongue flat, broad, deliberate. Her entire body jolted beneath him.

She tasted like heat and sweetness and danger. Not blood. Not yet. But close. So fucking close.

He groaned into her, devouring her like a man starved, dragging the tip of his tongue in slow circles, teasing her clit until her hips lifted off the bed, chasing every flick, every pass of his mouth like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.

He slid one hand up to pin her hips down and slipped two fingers inside her, curling them expertly as he sucked her clit between his lips.

“Fuck…. oh my god, Yunho!”

Her voice cracked as her thighs tightened around his head, and Yunho’s fangs ached so badly now he could barely stand it. He felt them press against the inside of his lips as he growled into her, but still, she didn’t notice.

Too caught up in her own unraveling. Too lost in the way he was ruining her with his mouth.

And god help him, he loved it.

He worked her open with his fingers, fucking her slow while his tongue circled and pressed and worshipped her. Her moans got louder, breathless, wild, and Yunho knew she was close.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered, rolling her hips into his face. “Please…. don’t stop.”

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

She came with a cry, hips jerking, thighs trembling, her hand fisting in his hair like she was anchoring herself to the earth. He held her through it, slowed his tongue, eased the motion of his fingers until she was panting, twitching, glowing.

And all the while, he never bit.

Even though he wanted to.

Even though his lips were wet with her, his tongue tasting everything but the one thing he craved most.

He rested his head on her thigh, breathing in her scent like it might be the only thing keeping him alive now.

One night. That was what he told himself. Just one night. And then he’d forget her.

Even if… even if every part of him already knew he wouldn’t.

Her thighs were still trembling, lips parted in the aftermath of her orgasm, and Yunho thought she’d never looked more fucking devastating. Eyes half lidded, sweat at her temples, a dazed smile pulling at her lips like she didn’t even realize the kind of hell she was dragging him through.

He kissed the inside of her knee once more, slow and reverent, before beginning his slow ascent.

Up the soft of her thigh. Over her stomach, where his tongue traced the line of her navel. Across her ribs, where he felt her breath catch. Then higher still, his lips brushing between her breasts, teasing one nipple with a flick of his tongue before dragging his mouth up her chest.

She exhaled like a sigh, fingers already sliding down to his belt, fumbling slightly before getting the clasp undone. Her urgency wasn’t messy, just… hungry. Focused. She wanted him, and she wanted him now.

Yunho braced his hands on either side of her body, muscles coiled, heart thudding against bone that didn’t need it to beat. But when she pushed his pants down over his hips, past his thighs, all the way to the floor and he stepped out of them, her breath stuttered.

He watched her eyes drop. Watched them widen. “Jesus,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Yunho’s jaw clenched, throat dry as he watched her reach for him. Her hand wrapped around his dick, her grip just a little hesitant at first. He was hard, flushed, leaking at the tip and the way her thumb swiped across it, slow and curious, made his knees nearly buckle.

She sat up, licking her lips as she leaned in, and Yunho’s hand immediately slid into her hair, not guiding, just there. Needing to touch. Needing to feel her mouth on him.

The second she took him in, wet heat sliding over the tip, lips wrapping around him, tongue swirling, Yunho’s vision went red. His head dropped back with a hiss, muscles straining, fangs fully dropping with a sharp ache he barely registered. They tore through his gums, long and sharp and ready, his hunger howling now beneath the pleasure.

But she couldn’t see.

She was too focused, too far down.

Because she didn’t stop. She pushed lower, slowly, carefully, until her lips brushed the base and Yunho had to bite down on his own tongue just to keep from growling.

His hand clenched in her hair, eyes squeezed shut, throat working as he swallowed back every dark instinct clawing to the surface. Her mouth, fucking heaven. Her throat, warm and tight and perfect.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his voice raw and guttural. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She hummed in response, the vibration shooting straight through him, and Yunho’s eyes rolled back as his hips bucked forward just a fraction.

His fangs throbbed. His hunger coiled tighter. Every part of him screamed to bite, to claim, to feed.

But he didn’t.

Because even with his dick buried in her mouth and his fangs aching for blood, he still didn’t want to scare her.

He looked down, hand softening in her hair now, watching her work him with a hunger that almost matched his. Her lips were wet, stretched wide around him, eyes fluttering shut as she moved up and down, slick, filthy, perfect. He knew she couldn’t see his face like this, couldn’t see the way his mouth had shifted, his teeth glinting like a promise.

Thank god.

Because if she had?

She might’ve finally realized that what was groaning above her, twitching in her mouth, trembling at the edge of control…..

Wasn’t human.

Yunho’s hips jerked once, involuntarily, as her mouth dragged back up his dick, lips swollen and slick, tongue tracing a line that had him biting back a snarl. He was losing it. He could feel ii, muscles trembling, jaw tight, fangs fully out and pressing into the corners of his mouth.

If she kept going, if she looked up at him just once, if she so much as whispered his name like that again, he was going to bite her.

He slipped his hand down, fingers grazing her cheek, and then, gently, firmly, pulled her off. Her brows lifted slightly in surprise, lips wet, her breath warm against his skin. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, voice sweet and hoarse and drenched in innocence she didn’t even know she had.

Yunho shook his head, breathing hard. “No,” he said roughly. “You’re perfect. I just… I need you.”

The way her expression melted at that, her lips parting, legs already lifting to wrap around his waist, it was too much.

He leaned in and caught her mouth with his, kissing her like he needed it to breathe, like her lips were the only thing anchoring him to the idea of restraint.

Then he shifted forward, the tip of his dick sliding against her soaked entrance, his hand bracing her lower back. She gasped into his mouth when he began to press in, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“Yunho…” she whimpered, hips twitching, trying to adjust as he pushed in slowly, steadily.

And god, she was tight. Hot, slick, pulsing around him like she was trying to squeeze the soul out of him, and if he had one left, he would’ve offered it.

“Fuck,” he groaned against her skin, eyes fluttering shut. “You feel… you feel too good.”

She clung to him, panting into his neck. “You’re so big… fuck, Yunho….. how are you even…”

He stilled for a moment, letting her adjust, forehead pressed to hers. Her walls clenched around him with every breath, every needy little whimper, and Yunho fought the bloodlust roaring in his ears. Her throat was right there, bare, slick with sweat, throbbing with heat and life.

He pulled back slowly, then thrust in again, shallow, controlled. But her moans. The way her legs tightened around him. The way she wanted more, hips rocking up to meet him, he broke.

He sat back on the bed, adjusting his grip on her hips, and in one smooth motion, lifted her up, just enough so gravity made her drop back down onto him.

She cried out, head thrown back, her voice echoing off his walls like a fucking prayer.

Yunho growled low, his fingers digging into her thighs as he bounced her on his dick, harder now, deeper, thrusting up into her with a force he’d been holding back for too long.

Every time she moaned his name, he slammed into her harder. Every time her nails raked down his chest, he lost another piece of his restraint.

Her body rocked against his, and he used his strength to hold her just enough above the bed so he could fuck into her from beneath, the slap of skin on skin filling the room like a rhythm built for worship.

He was shaking. He was coming undone. And when she buried her face into his neck, panting into the curve of it, he almost bit her.

Almost.

But instead, he kissed her shoulder, gritted his teeth, and drove into her again, harder, faster, more desperate.

“Say my name,” he panted, breath ragged. “Please.”

She whimpered against his ear, body trembling. “Yunho…. fuck, Yunho… I’m close”

He held her tighter, chest to chest, every thrust deeper than the last. And as she came again, falling apart in his arms, gasping and writhing and sobbing his name, Yunho wished he could forget.

Forget what she smelled like. What she sounded like. What it felt like to lose control and still try so damn hard to be good.

She came in his arms, writhing, trembling, clinging to him like she never wanted to let go and Yunho was ready to die like this. Her body still fluttered around him, aftershocks rippling through every inch of her, her breath hot against his neck. He was barely holding on. His thighs were trembling. His hands still gripped her hips like she might disappear.

But then she moved.

Before he could process it, she was pushing against his chest, shifting her weight, muscles tightening around him as she rolled her hips with purpose. He blinked, dazed, as she pressed her palm against his sternum and flipped them.

And he let her. He didn’t know why. Didn’t question it. Because the second she settled above him, still impaled on his dick, her hands splayed across his chest and her eyes locked on his with that dark, curious heat, he couldn’t breathe. Not that he needed to.

She started moving again. Slow, deliberate, dragging her hips in deep circles, teasing every ridge of him inside her. Yunho’s jaw clenched as he groaned, his hands twitching where they hovered beside him, wanting to grab her, to slam her down harder, to take over. Use his vampire speed, his strength to ruin her.

But he didn’t.

He watched her.

The way her lips parted when she found the angle she liked. The way her nails traced down his chest, not scratching, claiming. The way she leaned over him, her sweat slick skin glowing in the moonlight that filtered through the blinds.

Her hand wrapped around his throat. Gently. Firmly. Possessively and Yunho’s breath hitched. She wasn’t choking him. Not really. She didn’t press hard, didn’t threaten. But her hand stayed there, daring him to stay still. Daring him not to take control.

No one had ever touched him like this.

Not in ninety years.

No one had ever tried to hold him down. No one had ever succeeded. No one had ever made him want to give in.

But she did.

And god help him, he let her. Her hips moved faster now, her pace rough and perfect, and Yunho moaned, eyes fluttering shut as he let her ride him into oblivion. His hands stayed flat against the mattress. Every muscle in his body burned with restraint, but he didn’t fight it.

He let her fuck him.

Let her take what she wanted.

And when her fingers flexed around his throat, when she leaned in and kissed his jaw, whispered, “Mine tonight,” Yunho shattered.

His fangs pulsed, aching to sink into the curve of her neck, but he didn’t move. Didn’t bite. Just groaned deep in his chest, hips bucking up into her in time with her rhythm, chasing the edge he’d been holding off all night.

“Y/N,” he rasped, voice cracked and raw. “Fuck… you feel too good…. if you don’t stop……”

She didn’t. She rode him harder. Filthier. Her body bouncing in perfect rhythm, breasts teasing his chest, sweat dripping from her temple. She looked like a vision of sin, a dream made flesh, a goddess riding the devil himself and making him beg.

He was going to come. He could feel it building, deep and hot and consuming. But he didn’t want to finish without her. Not until she fell apart one more time.

He reached between them, finally touching again, thumb circling her clit with practiced precision, watching her fall apart in real time.

She gasped. Moaned. Twitched.

And then she came again, with his name on her lips, her body collapsing against him, tight, pulsing, dragging him down with her.

He came with a roar. His hips jerked once, twice, driving deep as he spilled into her, vision going white at the edges. He grabbed the sheets, her hips, her back, anything but her neck, shaking as the orgasm ripped through him like something ancient and terrifying.

And when it was over, when she was still clinging to him, breathless and wrecked, he realized he’d let her have everything.

His control. His body. His restraint.

And the scariest part?

He liked it.

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Mingi hated mornings.

The sun didn’t kill him. It wasn’t that dramatic. But it drained him, left his limbs heavy, his head foggy, his patience nonexistent. That’s why his hoodie was up, his sunglasses on, and his mouth full of lukewarm coffee he’d barely swallowed by the time he opened the door to the apartment.

He stepped inside, nudged it shut with his hip, and yawned through his teeth.

The place was quiet.

Too quiet.

No music. No kettle boiling. No Yunho humming in the kitchen like he usually did after a long night of feeding, or fucking. The only sound was the lazy hum of the AC and the slow thud of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He dropped his keys in the dish by the door and was halfway through unzipping his hoodie when…. he smelled it.

Sweet. Sharp. Lingering.

Human.

The scent was intoxicating, sweet, salty, and slick with the kind of sex that clung to walls. It wasn’t fresh anymore. Just faded enough that it tickled the back of his tongue like the memory of a kiss he didn’t get.

It made him curious as he followed the scent to Yunho’s room where Mingi’s best friend for the last century was out cold. Face turned toward the wall, hair a mess, lips kiss bitten and parted like he’d been moaning in his sleep. One arm was slung across the mattress like he’d reached out for someone who wasn’t there anymore. The sheets barely covered his hips, just enough to be frustrating.

Mingi smirked.

“Well, fuck me,” he muttered, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. “Guess you did get your dick wet last night.”

He crouched beside the bed, not touching, just watching.

Yunho didn’t move.

Mingi leaned in just a little, voice dropping to a singsong whisper. “Yunhooo. Rise and grind, sex demon.”

A groan. Muffled. Annoyed.

Mingi grinned. “Oh, don’t go all shy on me now,” he said, nudging the mattress with his knee. “You smell like a goddamn porno. I thought you were trying to be low profile lately.”

Yunho’s voice was rough when he finally cracked one eye open. “You’re the worst person I know.”

“And yet, a century later and you still want to be my best friend.”

“Remind me to stake you later.”

Mingi laughed, flopping dramatically onto the edge of the bed, ignoring Yunho’s glare. “You should see yourself right now. You look fucked. Like, you let someone ride you until you lost consciousness kind of fucked. Who is it?”

Yunho blinked up at the ceiling, throat working. “No idea.”

“Oh,” Mingi grinned wider. “One of those nights.”

Yunho ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly at the sensitivity in his muscles. “She was… different.”

Mingi raised a brow. “Different how?”

Yunho didn’t answer right away. His eyes were distant. Haunted almost. “I let her take control,” he said finally. Voice quiet. Like he didn’t quite believe it himself.

Mingi sat up straighter. “Wait. You let someone on top of you?”

Yunho rolled his eyes, dragging a pillow over his face.

“That’s it. You’re in love. I’m calling Wooyoung. I need backup.”

“Get out.”

Mingi stood, heading toward the door but not before taking another deep inhale. That scent… it still lingered. Soft. Addicting.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

Two months in New York, and it was finally starting to feel like home.

Not perfect. Not easy. But familiar enough that Y/N didn’t wake up panicked every morning. The apartment she shared with her younger half brother, San, still smelled like paint and cheap coffee, but it was theirs.

San came out of his room around 6 PM, hair still damp from a shower, pulling on a black tee over his toned chest. He was distracted, again, but that wasn’t new.

“You working late?” she asked from the couch, half wrapped in a blanket with her laptop balanced on her knees, she wasn’t due for her shift at the diner, a job she hated, until later.

San grabbed his phone and keys from the counter, shoving them into his jacket. “Yeah. Jongho’s off tonight so I’m pulling the late shift.”

“Again?”

He shrugged. “Bar gets busy Thursdays. You know that.”

She hummed in response, not really thinking much of it. San had been working a lot lately, but she figured he was trying to impress his new boss.

Besides, she had her own distractions tonight.

Her friend and coworker, Santana, had texted her earlier about a party downtown. One of those rooftop things with overpriced drinks, pretty strangers, and the kind of music that made your thighs ache by midnight. Y/N wasn’t planning to stay long, just needed a night to feel something other than exhausted.

She got dressed after San left, black mini dress, chunky boots, leather jacket, lip gloss that looked like sin. She didn’t try hard. She didn’t need to. New York wasn’t LA. People noticed confidence here, not effort.

By the time she made it to the rooftop, the sky was deep indigo and the skyline was a blur of stars and light pollution. The music was loud. The crowd was already drunk. And Y/N? She didn’t care about either.

Not until she saw him.

Across the rooftop, tall, lean, broad shouldered. A black silk shirt half unbuttoned, chains around his neck, and the kind of energy that pulled attention like gravity. He had sunglasses on even though it was pitch black outside, and when he laughed at something the guy next to him said, his tongue peeked out just slightly and she felt it.

Somewhere in her gut. Somewhere low and coiled and dangerous. She didn’t know his name. Didn’t know he’d just fed an hour ago. Didn’t know he lived with the man who’d already ruined her once.

All she knew was that he was watching her now. And she wasn’t planning on going home alone.

“Okay, bitch,” Santana hissed beside her, snapping her gum. “Do you see that man over there? The one with the sunglasses on at night like he’s some dark and mysterious man candy out of a bad telenovela?”

Y/N laughed into her drink, sipping the cheap rum and pineapple combo Santana had shoved into her hand earlier. “You mean the one with the mouth I could sit on? Nope. No idea who you’re talking about.”

Santana wheezed. “Y/N.”

“What?”

“He is staring at you like he wants to eat you.”

Y/N side eyed her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No, baby, I say that like you might need holy water in your panties before the night’s over.”

Y/N snorted, but her smile tugged wider. She risked a glance over her shoulder.

Still watching her. His sunglasses were pushed up into his hair now, revealing dark hooded eyes lined in smudged black. His lips were slightly parted, the corner tilted in a faint smirk. Like he knew what they were talking about. Like he didn’t care. Like he was already imagining what she looked like underneath that dress.

And suddenly the air felt hotter.

“You should go talk to him,” Santana said, nudging her elbow.

“You’re the one always telling me not to hook up with strangers again.”

“Yeah, but that’s because most of them don’t look like they could snap me in half with their thighs and make me thank them.”

Y/N raised a brow. “You want me to thank him for you?”

“If you don’t go talk to him in the next thirty seconds, I will.”

That got her moving. “I’ll ride that man’s face like a fucking roller coaster.” She handed Santana her drink, smoothed the hem of her dress, and turned toward the inevitable. Each step across the rooftop pulsed like slow music in her ears. Her heels clicked on the concrete. His gaze didn’t flicker.

When she finally reached him, he didn’t say anything. Just looked her over, slow and unashamed, his head tilting slightly like she was prey and prize all at once.

“You’ve been staring,” she said, arms folding across her chest, trying to stay cool.

He smirked, teeth flashing faintly. “You noticed.” His voice was low, gravel smooth, and entirely too confident.

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek. “Not exactly subtle.”

“Didn’t want to be.”

Her breath caught as he stepped closer, not too close. Just enough that she could smell the faint hint of something earthy and sharp. Like smoke and cedar and something older.

She raised a brow. “Got a name?”

“Mingi.”

His hand extended casually, but there was nothing casual in the way he looked at her. Like he already knew how she’d taste. Like he already knew how she’d sound, moaning his name into a pillow or his mouth or both.

“Y/N,” she said, taking his hand.

He didn’t shake it.

He kissed it.

“Of course it is,” he murmured.

Mingi didn’t usually go to these things. Rooftop parties, open bar invites, the drunken hollowness of human lust echoing off cheap speakers and neon lights, it was all noise. And after a week of double shifts at Velvet Midnight, his tolerance for anything loud, flashy, or alive was razor thin.

But something pulled him here tonight.

And now, standing by the railing, drink untouched in his hand, he finally understood why.

She was walking toward him.

Legs like temptation, lips glossed in something sticky and sweet, black dress clinging to her body like it knew how he liked it. Her eyes locked on his like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to kiss him or slap him, and Mingi felt his pulse twitch in places that had no business reacting to a stranger.

Her scent hit him halfway across the rooftop. Warm, musky, sharp with the tang of sweat and skin and something richer underneath. Like crushed berries and honey and the faintest trace of a moan caught in silk sheets. Something familiar though he couldn’t place it.

It made his mouth water.

Made his gums ache.

His fangs threatened to drop right then and there.

But he held back.

Barely.

She stopped in front of him, arms crossed, chin tilted, confidence rolling off her like heat. “You’ve been staring.”

He almost smirked.

Almost.

Instead, he met her eyes, slow and deliberate, letting his gaze drag from her lips to her throat to the bare skin above her collarbone.

“You noticed,” he murmured.

She was already affecting him. That quick. That strong. And still, he couldn’t place it.

The scent. The way his instincts roared and purred and begged.

She to “Y/N.”

It hit him like a whisper he’d heard in a dream once and forgotten the second he woke up.

He kissed her hand, lips brushing her skin just lightly enough to taste her without tasting her.

They didn’t talk long.

They didn’t need to.

A few exchanged glances. One drink. His fingers brushed her hip, and she didn’t move away. When he asked her, casually, like it didn’t mean everything, “You wanna get out of here?”

She nodded once, slow, sure.

And they left together.

He still didn’t realize it.

Didn’t recognize the scent as the same one that had haunted his apartment two months ago, when he had come home to Yunho, ruined and useless for days, smelling like someone who had marked him from the inside out.

They climbed into the back of a cab, her laughing at something he said, fingers brushing his thigh, eyes glinting with reckless promise.

He still didn’t know.

That the human girl he was about to fuck tonight?

Was the same human girl Yunho never really came back from.

They barely made it out of the cab before Mingi had her pressed up against the brick outside her building, her fingers tangled in his shirt, her mouth hot and demanding against his. Her lips tasted like rum and sin, her body warm where it pressed against his, and he was already painfully hard, already imagining what she’d sound like if she moaned his name.

He was going to ruin her.

And she was going to love it.

They stumbled up the front steps, laughing between kisses, her breath short and her hands not exactly subtle as they slipped beneath the hem of his shirt. Mingi let her guide him through the lobby, down the hallway, until they stopped in front of a door with a scuffed up number on it.

She fished her keys out of her bag with a frustrated little huff, her hands shaking from adrenaline and want. Mingi stood just behind her, watching the way her dress clung to the curve of her hips, the way her breath caught when his fingers skimmed the bare skin just above the waistband.

She finally got the door unlocked, pushing it open. Warm light from a kitchen lamp spilled into the hallway, casting gold across the floor as she turned, silhouetted by the apartment behind her, one brow arched, lips still kiss swollen.

“You coming in?” she asked.

Mingi froze.

Just for a second.

The words echoed in his head. Ancient. Loaded. A trigger more powerful than any weapon and his lips curved slowly. Wolfish. Dangerous. Satisfied. Because she didn’t know. Didn’t realize what she’d just done.

Didn’t know that vampires couldn’t enter a human home uninvited, an old truth, buried in folklore and history, but still very real.

She’d just opened her door, her body, her whole life, to him. And he was going to take every inch she offered.

Mingi stepped forward, crossing the threshold like smoke, his eyes locked on hers. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The door shut behind them with a soft click. The apartment was warm. Lived in. Faint scent of cinnamon and sandalwood in the air. Two mugs in the sink. A jacket tossed over a chair.

But the space was empty.

Her roommate, whoever that was, wasn’t home. And Mingi?

He didn’t care. Not with her standing in front of him, slowly backing toward the couch, fingers already reaching for the zipper of her dress.

His shirt hit the floor first.

Then her laugh, low, wicked, inviting.

And just like that, Mingi crossed a different kind of threshold.

The moment she invited him in, Mingi was hers.

Not in any emotional sense, please, he wasn’t that far gone. But his body? His hunger? His focus?

Completely hers.

She reached for him, arms looping around his neck, pulling him into a kiss that stole the last breath of restraint from his chest. Her lips were soft and greedy, tongue slipping between his with practiced ease, and Mingi groaned low in his throat, gripping her waist, sliding his hands down to cup the backs of her thighs.

“Bedroom?” he muttered against her mouth, voice already ragged.

“Down the hall, second door on the left.”

He didn’t wait for further instruction. In one swift motion, he picked her up, effortless, her legs wrapped around his waist, her laugh breathy and wild in his ear as he carried her down the hall.

She peppered kisses along his jaw, nipping at his neck, completely unaware that she was playing with a fire far older than she’d ever known.

And Mingi? He was too caught up to care. He didn’t notice the framed photo on the entryway table. Didn’t glance at it. Didn’t even feel its importance brush against him.

If he had, he would’ve seen it, Two teenagers, her and a smiling boy with soft eyes and dimples, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Their parents behind them, all sun drenched and grinning.

San.

The same human Mingi had worked beside for the last two months. The only human dancing in Velvet Midnight.

But that realization? Wouldn’t come tonight.

He kicked her bedroom door open with one booted foot, crossing the threshold and laying her back on the bed like she was precious. She wasn’t, of course. Not really. But damn if she didn’t feel like it.

Her breath hitched as he looked down at her, reaching for his belt, but he caught her wrists gently, pinning them above her head as he leaned in. “You know,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers, “you keep letting me take the lead for someone who clearly likes being on top.”

She grinned, eyes hooded. “Then stop talking and show me what you’ve got.”

Mingi growled at her words, at her scent, hitting him like a brick wall. Slick, pulsing, pheromonal. It wasn’t just arousal, though she was soaking in it. It was her.Y/N.

And something about her scent was starting to unravel him. He didn’t understand it, he’d had his fill at the club the night before. No blood cravings. No hunger. But now? Now his throat was tight. His fangs were threatening to drop. His body was vibrating under his skin like it hadn’t in years.

She smelled like fucking temptation. And she didn’t even know. She didn’t flinch when he hovered over her, eyes dark and heavy lidded. She didn’t question the way he moved, predatory, smooth, slow like he had all the time in the world to devour her. She didn’t notice the tension in his jaw when she tilted her head and gave him full access to the delicate curve of her neck.

“God,” she whispered as he trailed kisses down her throat, her fingers in his hair. “You feel so good.”

He swallowed hard, lips brushing that warm, thudding pulse just beneath her skin. One bite. One slip. One second of letting go and…..

No.

He pulled back slightly, blinking through the haze.

Not yet. Not her. Not when she didn’t know.

Because whatever kind of human she was, she didn’t know what he was.

He kissed her harder. Rougher. Lower.

A distraction. For both of them.

She arched into him, hips lifting, legs wrapping around his waist again. Her dress was already hiked up, her thighs bare and trembling, and when she looked at him like she was ready to let him do anything, everything, he almost forgot what the hell he was trying to hold back.

“You okay?” she asked, breathless, brushing his hair back as he hovered above her.

He nodded slowly. Smirked.

“Just trying to be good.”

She grinned, pulling him down by his shirt. “Don’t be.”

He growled low in his throat. Not human. Not even close. But she didn’t hear it for what it was. Because all she knew was that Mingi kissed like he was starving, and touched like he already knew where she was going to fall apart.

And he was trying, really fucking trying, to stay in control.

She was already breathless beneath him, legs trembling around his hips, her dress bunched up around her waist and her underwear somewhere on the floor. Her hands gripped the collar of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her grounded, and Mingi? Mingi was floating somewhere between restraint and devastation.

Her scent was still clawing at him, curling around his ribs like smoke, rich and sweet and soaked into the air. His fangs were just barely held back, and if she tilted her head too far again, gave him another glance at that soft, pulsing throat, he wasn’t sure he’d survive the night without tasting her.

He suddenly remembered what she said. On the rooftop. Before she even walked over. He’d heard her. Every. Damn. Word.

You mean the one with the mouth I could sit on?

But it was what came next that had burned into the back of his brain like a brand.

I’d ride that man’s face like a fucking rollercoaster.

He’d choked on his drink when he heard it, hidden behind his sunglasses, pretending not to listen. He’d stored it away. Filed it under immediate priorities if things go right tonight.

And now? Now she was sprawled beneath him, chest rising fast, pupils blown wide, and he couldn’t stop himself from smirking.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low as he kissed a slow line down her jaw. She blinked up at him, dazed. “Hm?”

“You said you wanted to ride my face.”

She froze. “What?”

Mingi just grinned, that wolfish, smug, lazy grin that always meant trouble. “I think you should.”

She opened her mouth to question it, to ask how the hell he knew, but then his hands were already on her thighs, strong and steady, flipping her effortlessly until she was on top again.

“Mingi….” she started, but he cut her off with a kiss to the inside of her thigh, trailing lower, his breath hot and hungry.

“You want it or not?” he teased, dark eyes flicking up at her. She was already moving, crawling up his chest, breath shaking. “Don’t stop talking unless you’re choking on me.”

He growled. “Bossy,” he muttered, pleased as she lowered herself slowly, her thighs trembling around his head, hands braced on the wall behind the bed. Mingi’s mouth was already open, tongue flat and ready, licking up the center of her, groaning the second he tasted her fully.

Sweet. Slick. Fucking addicting. He buried himself in her, hands gripping her thighs, guiding her movements as he devoured her like worship. Tongue circling her clit, dipping down, fucking her slow and deep while her hips began to rock, testing, teasing.

Y/N gasped, the sound wrecked and desperate. “Oh my god… Mingi….”

He moaned into her, the vibration making her shudder, thighs clamping tighter around his head. He didn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. He let her grind down on his face, faster now, chasing her high with complete abandon. Her fingers fisted his hair. Her cries got louder. She didn’t even realize how deep his fangs had dropped, how close he was to biting, how completely gone he was in her taste.

And when she came, shaking above him, hips jerking uncontrollably as she moaned his name, he licked her through it, drank it in like salvation, and thought, I need more.

Her thighs were still shaking when she started to lift off of him, gasping, ruined, sweat dripping down the curve of her back.

Mingi didn’t let her get far. He grabbed her. One hand curled around her waist, the other braced at her hip as he flipped her effortlessly, pressing her down into the mattress with a force that had her breath stuttering out in a shocked, breathless sound.

She didn’t fight it. She moaned into the pillow, her body limp with afterglow and anticipation, back arched perfectly. Mingi sat up, removing his pants, boxers, all gone as Mingi ran his hand down her spine, slow, possessive.

“You okay, baby?” he rasped.

She nodded, but the sound that came out was closer to a whimper as he leaned down, bare skin pressing against her back, his dick heavy and hot against the curve of her ass as he pressed a slow kiss between her shoulder blades.

Then another. Lower. Another, just above her tailbone. His fangs grazed her skin, barely. Just enough to make her shiver and gasp into the sheets. He smirked against her skin. “Sensitive.”

And then, he sank into her. One slow, unforgiving thrust. Deep. Stretching. Complete. Her body arched like a bowstring, her mouth falling open around a sound that wasn’t even a moan, it was a broken, wrecked sob.

“F… fuck…. Mingi!”

“Shhh…” he whispered, brushing her hair back with one hand while the other gripped her hip like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You can take it.”

She felt too good. Hot and tight and pulsing around him like she was made for this, made for him. His vision blurred for a second, fangs throbbing, his breath coming out in ragged gasps as he fought the urge to bite her. Claim her. Fuck her into his mark.

But not yet. Not yet.

He rolled his hips back and thrust again, slow but deep, burying himself to the hilt. Her moan was muffled in the sheets, her fists gripping the blanket like she didn’t know what else to hold onto.

“Look at you,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to snap his hips forward again. “So fucking tight. Still trembling from riding my face and already falling apart again.”

She whimpered. “Y…. you’re so big…. fuck….”

He was fucking her now, harder, faster, his hips slamming into her ass as he pulled her back onto his dick with every thrust. Her body took it, melting beneath him, shaking under him.

And Mingi was unraveling. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to,” he hissed, voice dangerous and her answer was breathless, broken. “Y… you…. fuck… it’s yours, Mingi…. yours!”

She was choking on moans now, wrecked, shaking, her body stretched out beneath him as he drove into her harder, deeper, skin slapping against skin in a rhythm that felt eternal. Her hands gripped the sheets, her voice high and helpless.

“Fuck… Mingi….. I can’t” she gasped.

“Yes, you can,” he growled into her neck. “You’re gonna come for me again. I feel it…. you’re right there.”

She was tight, pulsing, fluttering around his dick like her body was trying to keep him inside forever. He shifted his angle just slightly, one hand slipping under her to circle her clit, the other gripping her hip hard enough to leave bruises.

That was it. She screamed his name, her body convulsing around him, thighs trembling, and then she snapped. Her back arched, legs kicking out, and with a helpless sob she squirted, hot and wet and completely undone, soaking his dick, his thighs, the sheets beneath them.

Mingi lost it. He groaned low and fucking feral, feeling her completely give out beneath him, body limp and twitching, breath catching in soft, ruined gasps. And that was when his fangs grazed her neck. Just a scratch. Just a slip.

He hadn’t meant to, he was just mouthing at her throat, drunk on her scent, on the way she shattered under him, and his fang caught skin.

Barely.

But it was enough.

He felt it the moment her blood hit his tongue, warm, rich, devastating. Everything stopped. The world tilted. His body froze. And then the taste bloomed in his mouth like velvet and fire.

Sweet. Pure. Unmistakably hers.

His dick throbbed inside her. His breath caught. And for the first time since he had first turned, he shuddered from the taste of blood alone.

Y/N didn’t even seem to notice. She was still whimpering into the sheets, her body spent, his name still whispered between breaths like a spell.

But Mingi? He was fucked. Because now that he’d tasted her, just that tiny scratch,

he knew he’d never forget it.

Never stop craving it.

She was trembling beneath him, body limp, thighs slick and shaking as her orgasm echoed in the messy wet beneath them. Her breath hitched with every aftershock, face buried in the sheets, completely wrecked.

And Mingi had never seen anything so fucking beautiful.

But he wasn’t done. He pulled out slowly, dragging his dick through the mess of her release, biting back a groan at how soaked she was, how perfect she still felt wrapped around him. Her back arched slightly as he shifted, and she turned her head to look at him, eyes glassy, lips swollen, a faint red mark on her neck where his fang had barely scratched her.

He didn’t look at it. He couldn’t. Instead, he slid his hands under her thighs and flipped her onto her back, her body rolling easily into his hold, pliant and breathless and blinking up at him like she didn’t even realize how completely she’d destroyed him.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he kissed her first, hard. Mouths colliding. Tongues messy. Teeth clashing. He gripped her thighs, lifted her legs onto his shoulders, the position angling her perfectly as he pressed forward again, thick and leaking and still hard as he slid back into her.

She gasped against his mouth, fingers clutching his shoulders. “Fuck…Mingi…..” she whined, already close again, already falling apart for him.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he growled against her lips, hips rolling deep, each thrust slamming into the spot that made her eyes flutter and her breath stutter. “Taking me so well, baby…. so tight, fuck”

She kissed him again, desperate, hands fisting in his hair, biting his lip. Hard. Sharp. Enough to sting. He hissed into her mouth, hips snapping faster, his body going rigid above her as the pain mixed with the pressure, the taste of her blood still on his tongue….

They came together.

Her legs tensed around his shoulders, her body trembling as she moaned his name like a curse and a prayer, while he groaned low and broken, thrusting deep one final time as he spilled into her, filling her completely.

His body shook with the release, intense, searing, fucking cosmic.

They stayed like that, bodies locked together, breath mingling, mouths pressed against each other as the heat faded slowly.

She whispered his name again, softer now.

And Mingi kissed her like he was afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

It was early afternoon, and the bar across the street from Velvet Midnight, Joong’s Fang, hadn’t opened to the public yet, which made it the perfect place for certain night creatures to get their caffeine fix. The lights were dim, the air still laced with the faint scent of whiskey and sweat from the night before, and Yunho was leaned against the counter sipping a cold brew like it might give him answers to life’s biggest regrets.

Across from him, San wiped down the bar in his usual calm, casual rhythm, black t shirt clinging to his arms, hair tucked behind his ears, a single silver ring glinting on his right hand. He looked like any human bartender.

But he wasn’t naive. Not anymore. He knew exactly who he was serving. What they were. What he was dancing beside almost every night.

And he kept that truth locked tight behind a calm smile.

“So,” Yunho drawled, “you just not gonna come home anymore? We still roommates or did you move out and forget to tell me?”

San arched a brow without looking up, wondering who the vampire was talking to and Yunho smirked, sipping again.

Then the door opened.

Mingi stumbled in, hoodie up, sunglasses on, hunched like a cat avoiding daylight.

“Speak of the devil,” Yunho muttered.

Mingi dropped onto the stool beside him with a dramatic sigh. “Fucking sun.”

“You reek,” Yunho said without looking at him.

“I reek of happiness,” Mingi shot back, peeling the hoodie off his head and pushing his glasses up. “And pussy.”

San paused, his grip on the rag didn’t change, but the wipe slowed just slightly. “Jesus.”

Yunho grimaced. “Classy.”

“You’re just jealous.”

Yunho side eyed him. “Please. You’re acting like you discovered sex for the first time.”

Mingi grinned, eyes still slightly glassy. “Nah, man. This one… different.”

“Oh?” Yunho said flatly. “Do tell.”

Mingi leaned back on the stool, draping his arm across the bar like he was lounging in a throne. “She’s got this laugh, man. And her mouth? Fucking sinful. Like… she came so hard she squirted all over my thighs and then begged me to keep going.”

San’s hand froze, wishing he was anywhere else than hearing the two vampires talk about the naive human girl Mingi fucked last night.

Yunho groaned. “Spare me the imagery.”

“I’m just saying.” Mingi smirked. “I didn’t sleep. Not for a second. Not with her riding me half the night and then kicking me out like, my brother’s gonna be home soon.”

Yunho rolled his eyes. “What, you in love now?”

Mingi shrugged. “Kinda feels like it. Like… turn me and spend eternity with me kinda love.”

Yunho choked on his drink. “You’re so pathetic.”

Mingi shoved his shoulder. “You were pathetic for a human what? A month ago?”

Yunho snapped his gaze to him. “I was not pathetic. And… it was like two months ago.”

“Totally pathetic.” Mingi grinned as San groaned loudly from behind the bar, the poor human oblivious that the human girl they were talking about was his sister.

And Yunho and Mingi had no idea their human girl was the same girl.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

permanent tag list: @straycat420 @autieofthevalley @dejatiny @hannahlilibet411 @xh01bri @jintastic-yuyu @maddycline @ultrapinkvoidbouquet @wooyoungsbrat @lucid-galaxys-world @ecriggs1990 @straytiny127 @sannies-tiddies @hannahstacos @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @love--in-stayville @hartsablaze @remi-young @bubbly-moon @fvxyxnh0

[railedby8tz]

Outscored 𝟐┃C.JH

Pairing: jock! Jongho x Reader

Genre/trope: enemies to lovers au

Word Count: 25.7k (💀) [it's gonna be a 2 parter]

Warnings: biker jongho (need I say more?), he is also a bit annoying, but he becomes a MAN at the end

AN: Ok I'm a sucker for jongho, u guys know it. And after he posted his picture I had a seizure. And I kinda slipped and wrote this whole thing. And yeah this is for all the jongho girlies out there like me. Please please please love this as I spent a lot of time writing this!

Masterlist

This is part two. Read part one here-

one | two

The project turned out better than either of them had expected, and when the professor handed back the grades, it was no surprise that YN and Jongho had scored the highest. The students in the class started whispering about them, dubbing them "the power partners."

YN, however, hated the nickname. She rolled her eyes every time she heard someone say it. “Why can’t people just mind their own business?” she muttered to Hanni one day in the cafeteria.

Hanni, ever the supportive friend, smirked. “Maybe because you and Jongho looked like an actual dream team. Admit it—you two killed that project.”

“Still,” YN huffed, stabbing her salad with unnecessary force, “I don’t like it.”

Over at the ATEEZ table, Jongho wasn’t exactly thrilled with the nickname either. He frowned as one of his friends, Wooyoung, teased him about it.

“Power partners, huh? Sounds about right,” Wooyoung said with a sly grin. “I mean, you two make a good team.”

“Shut up,” Jongho grumbled, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t like it either.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mingi teased, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t like it. But you don’t seem to mind being around her all the time.”

Jongho scowled, but before he could retort, Yeosang, who had been silently observing, spoke up. “Let’s be real, Jongho. Do you actually dislike her, or are you just saying that because you don’t want to admit something?”

“What’s there to admit?” Jongho snapped, crossing his arms.

Seonghwa, ever the voice of reason, sighed. “You’ve been weird about her since day one. You get irritated when she’s better than you, but you also can’t stop noticing every little thing about her. Either figure it out or let it go, because we’re tired of your denial.”

“Exactly,” San added with a grin. “Test it out. See if you actually like her or if she’s just in your head because she’s always in your space.”

Jongho glared at them all, but their words stuck with him. That night, as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. About the way she had taken charge during the project, the way she had cooked for him, the way she had looked at him when she smiled after their grade was announced.

“Do I… like her?” he muttered to himself, the thought making him feel uneasy.

He shook his head, frustrated. No, it couldn’t be that. It was just… annoyance. Competition. Nothing more.

But the thought lingered, and for the first time, Jongho wasn’t so sure of his own answer.

Jongho’s dilemma had become everyone else’s entertainment. His friends, fed up with his constant denial, decided to take matters into their own hands. They came up with a "foolproof" series of tests to help him figure out his feelings.

Test 1: The Jealousy Test

Hongjoong kicked things off by walking up to YN during lunch. With his signature smirk, he leaned casually against her table and said, “YN, you’re looking gorgeous today. How about we ditch class and grab some coffee?”

Jongho, sitting across the cafeteria, froze mid-bite. His eyes narrowed as he watched Hongjoong laugh at something YN said.

“Dude,” Mingi whispered, nudging him. “Why are you gripping your fork like you’re about to stab someone?”

“I’m not,” Jongho muttered through gritted teeth.

“Uh-huh,” Yeosang said, amused. “Sure looks like it.” Wooyoung winked at Jongho. “Yep, he’s pissed. Jealousy level: high.”

“I’m not jealous,” Jongho growled.

“Right,” Wooyoung said, grinning. “And I’m not handsome.”

Test 2: The Compliment Test

The next day, San decided to push Jongho’s buttons. During class, he loudly announced, “You know, YN is really something. She’s smart, funny, and have you seen her hair? Shiny like silk. I bet she smells amazing too.”

Jongho, who was sitting behind YN, audibly scoffed.

San turned around, feigning innocence. “What? You don’t agree, Jongho?”

“She’s… fine,” Jongho said flatly, avoiding everyone’s amused stares.

“Fine?” San repeated, pretending to be offended. “That’s all you’ve got? She’s perfect, and you know it.”

Jongho slouched lower in his seat, muttering, “Shut up, San.”

Test 3: The Heartbeat Test

Seonghwa, ever the schemer, pulled out a fitness tracker with a heart rate monitor. “Okay, Jongho,” he said, strapping it onto his wrist. “Time to see how you react to her.”

“This is stupid,” Jongho grumbled, but he didn’t resist when Seonghwa placed the tracker on his wrist.

As YN walked into the room, Jongho’s heart rate spiked immediately. The boys stared at the tracker in silence before bursting into laughter.

“Calm down, lover boy,” Mingi teased. “You’re about to break the machine.”

Jongho yanked the tracker off, his face red. “It’s broken,” he insisted.

“Sure it is,” Yeosang said with a knowing smirk.

Test 4: The Accidental Touch

Mingi "accidentally" bumped YN into Jongho while they were walking down the hallway. She stumbled, her hand brushing against Jongho’s arm as he steadied her.

“You okay?” Jongho asked, his voice unusually soft.

“I’m fine, thanks,” YN replied, smiling politely before walking off.

The boys, watching from a distance, erupted into cheers.

“Did you see that?” Wooyoung howled. “He didn’t even yell at her!”

Jongho ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I hate all of you.”

“Face it, man,” San said, clapping him on the back. “You’ve got it bad.”

Despite the teasing and their ridiculous tests, Jongho couldn’t shake the growing realization. No matter how much he denied it, his friends were right—YN had gotten under his skin, and there was no turning back.

YN paced back and forth in her dorm room, arms crossed and brows furrowed as she fumed. “What is their problem? Why can’t they just leave me alone?!” she practically yelled.

Hanni sat on the bed, nervously watching her friend explode. She held a notebook in her lap but had completely forgotten about it as she tried to calm YN down. “Okay, okay, breathe. Don’t let them get to you, YN. They’re just… being their usual chaotic selves.”

“No,” YN snapped, spinning around to face Hanni. “This isn’t just their usual chaos. They’re deliberately messing with me, and I’m done with it.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “What do they even want from me?!”

Hanni bit her lip. “I mean… maybe Jongho likes you?”

YN stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Hanni like she’d grown another head. “What? Jongho? Like me? Absolutely not.”

Hanni shrugged, holding up her hands in surrender. “I’m just saying! It’s not like he goes out of his way to mess with anyone else like this.”

YN groaned, pressing her palms to her temples. “Even if that were true, how does this make any sense? His friends are involved now too! They’re all acting like lunatics, and I’m losing my mind.”

Hanni got up, placing her hands on YN’s shoulders. “Okay, listen. You want peace, right?”

“Yes,” YN said through gritted teeth.

“Then confront them. March up to their table, call them out, and demand an answer. If Jongho or his friends don’t give you one, I’ll personally throw my coffee at Wooyoung.”

Despite her anger, YN couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “You’d really throw your coffee at Wooyoung?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Hanni said with a grin. “I’d make it iced so it stings more.”

YN sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Fine. Tomorrow, I’m confronting them. But if I don’t get a proper answer, they’d better be prepared.”

Hanni gave her a thumbs-up. “Now that’s the YN I know. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

The next day, YN stormed into the cafeteria during lunch. The usual buzz of chatter filled the room, but she had her sights set on one table: Ateez’s.

Without hesitation, she marched over and slammed her hands on the table, startling them all. The entire cafeteria seemed to quiet down as people turned to watch.

“What do you want from me?!” YN demanded, her voice firm.

The boys exchanged glances, some smirking, some looking a bit guilty. Jongho, sitting at the center, raised an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?” he asked calmly.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” YN snapped. “I know you’ve all been messing with me. Whatever weird little game this is, stop it. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

Wooyoung leaned back in his chair, grinning. “She’s feisty. I like her.”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa warned, giving him a look.

“Look,” YN continued, glaring at Jongho specifically, “I don’t care what your problem is. If you have something to say to me, say it. Otherwise, stay out of my way.”

Jongho leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he met her gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was low and steady. “Maybe I do have something to say.”

The tension was thick as YN folded her arms, her heart racing despite her anger. “Then say it.”

For a moment, it seemed like Jongho might actually confess something, but instead, he leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Not here. Later.”

YN rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, turning on her heel to leave.

Behind her, the boys chuckled, but Jongho remained quiet, his smirk fading as he watched her walk away.

The lecture droned on, the professor’s voice blending into the background as YN’s attention started to waver. She rested her chin on her hand, her fingers tapping lightly on the desk. Her focus drifted from the lesson, and she casually let her gaze wander around the classroom, trying to keep herself awake.

It was an innocent habit. A quick scan of the room, her eyes briefly passing over her classmates. But when her gaze landed on Jongho, she froze.

He was already looking at her.

It wasn’t just a passing glance or idle staring. His eyes were locked onto her with an intensity that felt borderline magnetic. His dark brown eyes were sharp, unwavering, and inexplicably powerful. It was like he wasn’t just looking at her—he was seeing straight through her.

YN’s breath hitched for a moment. Her stomach churned with unease, but at the same time, something unfamiliar twisted deep within her. She hated to admit it, but he looked… ridiculously attractive. His expression was calm but unreadable, his jawline accentuated by the way he tilted his head slightly.

Why does he look like that? she thought, trying to keep her composure. And why can’t I stop looking at him?

It reminded her of that night at the red light stop—the same piercing gaze through the black helmet. But this time, it felt more personal. There was no helmet to mask his features, no physical barrier between them. Just those impossibly striking eyes.

She quickly averted her gaze, her cheeks warming despite herself. Get it together, YN. It’s just Jongho.

But her heart wasn’t cooperating. It beat just a little faster than usual, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of his stare lingering even after she looked away.

Unbeknownst to her, Jongho smirked faintly. He had caught the way her face changed, the subtle way her lips parted in surprise before she turned away. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make him feel victorious.

Interesting, he thought, leaning back in his chair. So she’s not entirely unaffected after all.

Jongho was never the kind of person to overthink emotions. He dealt with things as they came, approaching life with confidence and logic. But when it came to YN, logic didn’t seem to work anymore. Every time he saw her, his feelings became more chaotic, more confusing, and undeniably more prominent. While he couldn’t fully grasp what he felt, his actions started to show it, whether he intended them to or not.

YN was seated in her usual spot, scribbling notes furiously as the professor explained a particularly complex topic. Jongho sat a few rows behind her, his eyes drifting toward her more often than his notebook.

The class was halfway through when the professor announced a quick pop quiz. Everyone groaned, including YN, who had just run out of ink in her pen.

“Great timing,” she muttered under her breath, shaking the pen in frustration. She rummaged through her pencil case, but it was clear she didn’t have a spare.

Jongho noticed immediately. He reached into his bag, pulling out an extra pen without hesitation. Instead of handing it over himself, he nudged the guy sitting next to him, gesturing toward YN.

“Pass this to her,” Jongho said, his voice low.

The pen made its way to YN, who blinked in surprise when it landed on her desk. She glanced over her shoulder to see who it came from, her eyes landing on Jongho. He didn’t say anything, just met her gaze briefly before looking away, as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“Thanks,” she whispered, though he didn’t acknowledge it.

It was a small gesture, but it left YN feeling oddly unsettled. For someone who usually went out of his way to annoy her, the act of kindness felt strange—almost deliberate.

YN sat at her usual corner table, flipping through a thick reference book for an upcoming assignment. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t notice Jongho entering the library until he pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

She looked up, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“Studying,” he said simply, pulling out his notebook.

She frowned. “There are plenty of other tables.”

“This one’s fine,” he replied, not looking at her as he started writing.

YN sighed, deciding to ignore him and focus on her own work. But as the minutes ticked by, she couldn’t help but notice him stealing glances at her. She tried to brush it off, thinking it was her imagination, until she reached for her coffee cup and accidentally knocked it over.

“Crap,” she muttered, quickly grabbing a tissue from her bag to clean up the spill.

Before she could fully manage, Jongho slid his notebook aside, pulling out a small packet of tissues from his jacket pocket. He handed it to her without a word.

YN paused, staring at him. “You carry tissues around?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “You never know when someone’s going to be clumsy.”

She rolled her eyes but took the tissues. “Thanks, I guess.”

Jongho smirked faintly but said nothing, leaning back in his chair as she cleaned up the mess.

As she continued working, YN couldn’t help but feel his presence more than usual. There was something different about him lately—something softer. And though she hated to admit it, it was starting to mess with her head.

Jongho, on the other hand, was quietly observing her, trying to figure out why watching her focus so intently on her work made him feel strangely… content.

It was one of those days where the world seemed to be falling apart for YN. She sat in the library, her head buried in her arms, tears streaming silently down her face. Her phone lay on the table next to her, the call from her mother still echoing in her mind. Her dad had suffered a stroke. The news had hit her like a freight train, and the helplessness of not being able to reach him was eating her alive.

She had tried everything—calling for train tickets, searching for buses, and even looking into flights—but nothing seemed to work. The distance to her hometown suddenly felt insurmountable, and it left her feeling trapped and powerless.

Hanni sat beside her, her own heart breaking at the sight of her best friend in such despair. She had never seen YN like this—so vulnerable, so broken. Hanni tried to console her, rubbing her back gently, but she knew words wouldn’t fix this.

“You need to go to him,” Hanni said softly.

“I can’t,” YN choked out, her voice barely above a whisper. “There’s no way to get there.”

Hanni clenched her fists, her mind racing. If no one else could help, then there was only one person who could. She didn’t hesitate. Standing up, she grabbed her bag and stormed out of the library, leaving YN behind.

Jongho and his friends were lounging in their usual spot outside the gym, the air filled with their loud chatter and occasional bursts of laughter. Mingi was tossing a football back and forth with San, while Wooyoung was busy showing off some absurd new trick with a deck of cards. Hongjoong leaned against a bench, scrolling through his phone, while Jongho sat quietly, sipping on his protein shake, his usual stoic presence anchoring the group.

The peace was shattered when Hanni stormed into the scene, her expression a mix of frustration and desperation. The group turned to her, their conversations dying mid-sentence.

“What’s this?” Wooyoung smirked, tossing the cards onto the table. “The library queen has graced us with her presence?”

Hanni ignored him completely, her eyes locking onto Jongho. “I need to talk to you.”

Jongho raised an eyebrow, setting down his drink. “What is it?”

“It’s YN,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Her dad had a stroke, and she needs to get home, but there are no tickets available. She’s stuck, and she’s losing it. You have a bike. You can take her.”

The guys exchanged glances, the playful atmosphere immediately shifting into something more serious.

“And why do you think he should do it?” San asked, crossing his arms.

“Because he’s the only one who can!” Hanni snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. “I wouldn’t trust you to get her there safely. Jongho can handle it.”

Jongho’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why me?”

“Because,” Hanni said, her voice softening, “for all your stupid games and ego battles, I know you care about her.”

The group went silent, all eyes on Jongho. He didn’t say anything at first, his jaw clenching slightly as he processed her words. Then, without a word, he stood up, grabbing his bag from the bench.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“The library,” Hanni said quickly.

“Alright,” he muttered, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

His friends watched as he started walking off, a mix of surprise and curiosity on their faces.

“Wait,” Wooyoung called out, smirking. “Is this your knight-in-shining-armor moment, Jongho? Should we start calling you Prince Charming now?”

“Shut up,” Jongho shot back, but there was no real heat in his tone.

As Hanni led him toward the library, she couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, there was a determined look in his eyes that gave her hope. Maybe, just maybe, YN had someone who would always be there when it truly mattered.

The library was eerily quiet as Hanni and Jongho stepped inside, the soft sound of turning pages and the occasional rustle of papers filling the air. Hanni led the way to the corner where YN was sitting, her head buried in her arms, silent tears streaming down her face.

Jongho’s jaw tightened at the sight. He didn’t hesitate. Striding up to her, he stopped just a step away and cleared his throat.

“YN,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

She lifted her head slowly, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She blinked up at him, confusion crossing her face.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“I’m taking you home,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Get your stuff and pack a bag. We’re leaving now.”

She stared at him for a moment, stunned by his words. Normally, she would’ve protested or argued back, but she was too emotionally drained to put up a fight. Instead, she just nodded, her movements slow and robotic as she stood and grabbed her bag.

Hanni watched the exchange with a mix of relief and curiosity. She had never seen Jongho so direct, so...caring, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“Thank you,” Hanni whispered to Jongho as YN gathered her things.

He didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on YN the entire time. Once she was ready, he turned on his heel and led the way out of the library, his stride confident.

The ride was quiet, the hum of the bike engine filling the silence as they sped down the highway. YN sat behind Jongho, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist as the cool night air whipped past them.

Jongho didn’t say a word, but he drove with an intensity that YN couldn’t ignore. Despite everything—the teasing, the bickering, the games—she felt a strange sense of safety in that moment.

She rested her head lightly against his back, her tears drying as the rhythm of the bike soothed her nerves. She didn’t know what to say, and for once, she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

Jongho, on the other hand, was acutely aware of her presence. Her warmth against his back, the way her arms tightened around him every time they turned a corner—it was all making his thoughts spiral. He didn’t understand why he felt so protective of her, why her tears had struck such a chord with him.

But one thing was certain: he would do whatever it took to get her home, no questions asked.

As they entered the hospital, the smell of antiseptic filled the air, mingling with the muffled sounds of machines and quiet conversations. YN wasted no time running toward the general ward, her heart pounding as she navigated the maze of hallways. Jongho followed closely behind, her bag slung over his shoulder, his usually calm expression now tinged with concern.

When she finally reached the ward, her heart sank. Her father was lying on a general bed, his face pale and drawn, wires and monitors attached to him. Her mother sat by his side, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, exhaustion etched into her features.

“Mom,” YN called, her voice trembling as she approached. “What’s going on? Why is he here? Why isn’t he in a proper room?”

Her mother looked up, her tired eyes meeting YN’s. “The hospital is full, sweetheart,” she said, her voice heavy. “There aren’t any rooms available right now. This was the only space they had.”

YN clenched her fists, her heart breaking at the sight of her father in such a crowded and uncomfortable setting. She looked around, taking in the other patients crammed into the small ward, the lack of privacy, and the impersonal atmosphere.

“This isn’t right,” she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. “He needs proper care.”

Just as the air in the room grew heavier with worry, a nurse approached them, her voice soft but clear.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking at YN’s mother. “A private room has just been arranged for your husband. We’ll move him there shortly.”

YN blinked, her mind racing with confusion. She looked at her mother, who appeared equally surprised, and then back at the nurse.

“Wait, what?” YN asked, standing up abruptly. “How did that happen? Who...who arranged it?”

The nurse didn't say anything, YN was shocked, glancing at Jongho, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“Someone already covered the charges,” the nurse said quietly.

YN’s gaze snapped to Jongho, her heart sinking and racing all at once. She stared at him, her eyes wide with a mix of disbelief, confusion, and something she couldn’t quite name.

“You...you paid for it?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

Jongho shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “It’s no big deal,” he said, his tone casual. “Your dad needed a proper room, and you didn’t have time to deal with all the red tape. That’s all.”

“No big deal?” YN repeated, her voice rising. She took a step closer to him, her emotions swirling in a chaotic storm. “Jongho, private rooms in a hospital cost a fortune! You can’t just—why would you even—”

He finally looked at her then, his gaze steady but tinged with something soft, something almost vulnerable. “Because you needed it,” he said simply. “That’s all that matters.”

For a moment, YN couldn’t speak. Her throat felt tight, and she wasn’t sure if it was from gratitude, anger, or something else entirely. She glanced at her mother, who was watching them with a knowing look, and then back at Jongho.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper.

“I wanted to,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The nurse cleared her throat gently, breaking the tension. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go make sure everything is ready for the transfer,” she said before walking away.

YN stood there, her emotions a whirlwind. She wanted to thank him, to argue with him, to understand why he would do something so selfless after everything they’d been through. But instead, she just nodded, her voice trembling as she said, “Thank you, Jongho. Really.”

He gave her a small nod, his stoic facade firmly in place. But as she turned back to her father, he allowed himself a brief moment to watch her, his chest tightening with an emotion he was finally starting to understand.

The hospital lobby was quiet except for the occasional announcements over the intercom. YN sat on one of the plastic chairs, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the floor. Jongho sat beside her, his legs stretched out, arms crossed, silent as ever. The check-up was still ongoing, and the wait felt endless.

She didn’t know why, but the weight in her chest felt unbearable. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the emotions swirling in her head. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long while, someone was sitting beside her, just… there. No judgment. No empty words of comfort. Just Jongho, quiet and solid.

Without really thinking, she spoke. “My dad is an alcoholic.”

Jongho turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing, but he didn’t say anything. He just listened.

“He wasn’t always like this,” she continued, her fingers clenching the fabric of her hoodie. “He used to be a good dad. He worked hard, took care of us, made stupid dad jokes. But then… something changed.”

Jongho didn’t ask what. He let her talk.

“He started drinking. At first, it was just a little. Stress, he said. Just a way to unwind. But then it got worse. He started losing jobs, coming home late, spending money we didn’t have. And the worst part was…” She swallowed. “He got angry. All the time. At everything.”

Jongho’s jaw tightened, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“He never hit us,” she clarified, her voice quieter now. “But the words… sometimes they cut deeper. The yelling, the accusations, the way he would just explode over the smallest things. My mom tried to handle it, but it wore her down. And me? I—I couldn’t stay. I had to get out. That’s why I left. That’s why I stay in dorms or anywhere but home.”

Jongho exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice lower than usual, he finally spoke.

“That’s why you never go back.”

YN blinked, turning to look at him. His face was calm, but there was an edge to his voice. Like he understood more than he let on.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t awkward. It was heavy, filled with things unsaid.

Then, Jongho shifted, resting his arms on his knees as he stared ahead. “Must’ve been hard.”

YN let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, well. Life’s not exactly a fairy tale.”

He glanced at her, his gaze softer than usual. “No. It’s not.”

Another silence. This time, it felt… different.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “You’re stronger than you think, you know that?”

YN turned to him sharply, caught off guard. “What?”

Jongho shrugged, looking away. “I’m just saying. You left. You got out. You built something for yourself instead of letting it trap you. That takes guts.”

YN didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t used to people saying things like this to her—especially not Jongho of all people.

Jongho leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. He rubbed his hands together, as if debating whether to speak or not. YN was still staring at him, her eyes searching, waiting.

“I guess… it’s only fair if I tell you something too,” he muttered, his voice quieter than usual.

YN didn’t push. She just nodded, silently telling him to continue.

“My parents,” he started, pausing for a second. “They never really cared about me.”

That caught her off guard. She had always imagined him coming from a well-off family, considering the way he carried himself, the expensive apartment, the confidence.

“They weren’t bad people,” he continued, staring at the floor. “They just… weren’t really parents. Their world was business, money, social status. I was more like a project than a kid. Something to mold into their perfect successor.” He scoffed. “But I wasn’t interested in any of that.”

YN stayed quiet, letting him talk at his own pace.

“I grew up in empty houses. Big, expensive places with no warmth. I had tutors, trainers, all that. But never them.” He clenched his jaw. “They were always too busy. Too far away. And when they were around, it was all about expectations. I had to be the best. Had to be strong. Had to be exactly what they wanted. If I wasn’t, I wasn’t worth their time.”

YN felt a strange tightness in her chest. She had never heard him talk like this before.

“But my friends?” He huffed a small laugh. “They’re my real family. They were the ones who actually cared. Looked out for me. Picked fights for me when I was pissed off. Made sure I ate when I was too stubborn to admit I was hungry. Taught me how to survive outside of what my parents wanted me to be.”

He glanced at her, his expression softer now. “That’s why I’m the way I am. Why I fight, why I stick with them no matter what. They’re all I’ve got.”

Silence settled between them again, heavy but not uncomfortable.

YN finally spoke, her voice gentle. “You’re lucky, you know?”

Jongho raised a brow. “Lucky?”

She nodded. “You found people who care about you. Even if it’s not in the way you expected.”

Jongho stared at her for a long moment, then smirked slightly. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

She didn’t say anything, just gave him a small smile in return. And for the first time since they’d met, they weren’t rivals, weren’t enemies. Just two people, sitting in a hospital lobby, understanding each other in a way no one else ever had.

For a moment, neither of them moved. YN had acted without thinking, driven by the strange warmth in her chest. She had never hugged him before—never even considered it. But right now, it just felt right.

Jongho stiffened, caught off guard. It's not like he was not hugged before, wooyoung and san always hug him, but this was different.

It was YN.

She held onto him tightly, her face buried in his shoulder, gripping his hoodie like she was afraid he’d disappear. She didn’t say anything, didn’t explain. She just stayed there, holding him like she needed him.

And what she didn’t know was that Jongho needed it just as much.

Slowly, his tense shoulders relaxed, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. His arms moved on their own, wrapping around her waist, holding her just as tightly.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

For once, there was no competition, no rivalry, no mind games. Just them.

Jongho closed his eyes, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head. He didn’t understand his feelings completely, but he knew one thing.

He didn’t want to let go.

Jongho had never felt this out of place before. Hospitals weren’t his thing—too quiet, too sterile, too full of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with. But YN had dragged him inside, refusing to let him just stand outside like some outsider.

“If you’re uncomfortable, you can just stand in the doorway,” she had said.

And that’s exactly what he did. Arms crossed, leaning against the frame, watching silently as YN sat beside her father’s bed, her mother beside her.

Her father was awake now, looking tired but stable. He still had that roughness to him, even as he weakly talked to YN, but it was clear he wasn’t the same man she had once feared.

Jongho didn’t say much, didn’t interfere, but YN’s mother noticed him. She had been watching him carefully, taking in his presence, the way he lingered like a silent guardian.

Then, with a warm but firm voice, she said, “You should come to dinner at our house.”

Jongho’s head snapped up. “Huh?”

“My daughter wouldn’t have made it here without you,” her mother continued. “Let me properly thank you.”

Jongho hesitated. Dinner? With YN’s family? That was… new. He wasn’t used to things like that.

“I don’t—” He started to refuse, but then he saw it.

The way YN was looking at him.

She wasn’t saying anything, but her expression said everything. She wanted him to say yes.

And damn it, if there was one person who could make him agree to things he normally wouldn’t… It was her.

“…Fine,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

YN smiled. And Jongho, despite himself, felt a little warmer inside.

Jongho had never really thought about how YN lived. He knew she stayed in the dorms, but seeing her actual home was… different.

The house wasn’t tiny, but it wasn’t big enough for three people to live comfortably either. There was only one bedroom, and judging by the way her mother moved around the space so naturally, it was clear that privacy wasn’t really a thing here.

As they paced around the room, Jongho’s sharp eyes caught every little detail—the slightly worn-out furniture, the faint scent of home-cooked meals, the single bed pushed against the wall, the small study desk that was clearly YN’s. She didn’t even have her own room.

He didn’t say anything, but YN must have caught the way he was observing everything because she suddenly crossed her arms and looked up at him.

“I know it’s not as big as your fancy apartment,” she said, a teasing edge to her voice, “but you’ll have to adjust.”

Jongho scoffed, shaking his head. “You think I care about that?”

YN blinked. “Don’t you?”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re the one who has to live here. I’m just visiting.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying you wouldn’t survive in a smaller home?”

Jongho leaned against the wall, smirking. “I’m saying you clearly think too much about what I think.”

YN opened her mouth, ready to argue, but before she could say anything, her mother called from the kitchen.

“Dinner’s ready!”

The conversation was left hanging, but Jongho didn’t miss the way YN shot him one last glare before turning on her heel and walking towards the dining table.

He shook his head, suppressing a small smile as he followed her.

Dinner was… different. Not in a bad way. Just different.

Jongho had expected it to be awkward. Maybe some polite conversation, a few “thank yous,” and then he’d be on his way. But YN’s mother? She was nothing like he expected.

From the moment they sat down, she treated him like he was one of her own.

“Eat more, Jongho. You need to keep up that strength, right?” she said, piling more food onto his plate before he could even respond.

Jongho blinked. “Uh—yeah, I guess.”

YN stifled a laugh as she watched her mother practically adopt him on the spot.

“You must work out a lot,” her mother continued, eyeing his broad frame. “No wonder you’re so strong! You know, YN never brings home any friends. I was starting to think she didn’t have any.”

“Mom!” YN groaned, her face heating up.

Jongho smirked, looking at YN. “Yeah? I’m the first?”

“She never even talks about anyone,” her mother added. “But I can tell she trusts you.”

YN glared at her mom like she just exposed a national secret, while Jongho simply took a bite of his food, feeling… warm.

The conversation flowed so naturally. Her mother asked him about his studies, his life, if he was eating properly, even scolding him a little when he admitted he mostly ordered takeout. She fussed over him in a way no one ever had before.

It was strange. It was new.

But it felt… nice.

For the first time in a long time, Jongho felt like he had a place at a family dinner. Not just as a guest, but as someone who belonged.

YN noticed. She watched the way Jongho let his guard down, how he actually smiled—a real one, not his usual cocky smirk. It made her feel happy.

He deserved this.

He deserved to feel this warmth.

After dinner, YN grabbed the trash bags and headed outside, leaving Jongho alone with her mother to clean up.

Jongho wasn’t used to doing dishes with anyone—he usually ate alone or with his friends, where everything was chaotic and someone else always handled the cleaning. But standing here, washing dishes beside YN’s mother, it felt… peaceful.

As they worked in comfortable silence, her mother suddenly spoke.

“She didn’t have a great childhood, you know.”

Jongho paused, glancing at her. He had already known that from what YN told him at the hospital, but hearing it from her mother hit differently.

She let out a soft sigh, scrubbing a plate. “I did my best, but… I still feel like I failed her.”

Jongho didn’t know what to say to that. He had never really thought about parents blaming themselves before. His own never did.

“I just want her to be happy,” she continued, her voice quieter now. “She pretends she’s strong, but she’s been through a lot.”

Jongho set down the dish he was holding, wiping his hands on a towel before turning to her.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice firm but sincere. “As long as I’m here, she will be happy.”

Her mother looked up at him, studying his expression. Then, she smiled—soft and knowing.

“I believe you.”

It had been a month since that night at YN’s home, and things between her and Jongho had… changed.

They weren’t enemies. They weren’t exactly friends either. But they had fallen into a routine—one that felt strangely domestic.

Jongho would casually grab an extra coffee for her in the mornings, placing it on her desk with a simple, “You looked half-dead, don’t read too much into it.”

YN, in return, would remind him to eat properly, sometimes even handing him snacks with a nonchalant, “I don’t want you fainting in the gym or something. That’d be embarrassing.”

They walked to class together, studied together, and even sat next to each other during lectures. If Jongho wasn’t around, people would ask YN where he was. And if YN was late, Jongho would just roll his eyes but keep the seat next to him open.

They bickered over stupid things.

“Why are you staring at me?” YN asked one day, feeling his eyes on her.

“I wasn’t.”

“You literally were.”

“I was just zoning out,” Jongho huffed, looking away.

Or when YN handed him an umbrella on a rainy day.

“Here,” she said, shoving it into his hands.

Jongho frowned. “I don’t need it.”

“Then get soaked. Not my problem.”

“Then why’d you bring me one?”

“You're too noisy. Shut up and take it.”

They acted like they were just tolerating each other, but everyone else saw the truth.

They were basically a couple.

Just two idiots too stubborn to admit it.

YN felt… different.

It wasn’t something she could explain easily, but it was there—a strange pull toward Jongho. Like a force of nature she had no control over.

And, of course, Hanni wouldn’t shut up about it.

“You’re in love,” Hanni declared one day, arms crossed as if she had just solved the biggest mystery of the century.

YN, horrified, immediately shut her down. “Shut up. No, I’m not.”

“Oh, really?” Hanni smirked. “Then why do you always look out for him?”

“I just—he’s stupid sometimes, I need to make sure he doesn’t die.”

“And why do you get sad when you don’t see him?”

“That’s… that’s normal! I see him all the time, it’s weird when he’s not there.”

“And why do you get weird feelings when you’re together?”

YN froze.

Because that was true.

She did feel weird things when they were together—like her heart deciding to sprint for no reason, or how she found herself staring at him longer than necessary. She noticed the way his jaw clenched when he was focused, how his voice was deeper when he was tired, and how his hands were always warm even when it was freezing outside.

Oh no.

Hanni grinned, seeing the realization dawn on YN’s face. “Yeah. You’re so in love it’s embarrassing.”

YN groaned, covering her face. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Jongho was losing his mind.

It started subtly—little things he noticed during their daily interactions. Like how small her hands were compared to his when she shoved a snack into his palm. Or how short she was, always tilting her head up to glare at him when they bickered.

And then it got worse.

One day, she was rambling about something, waving her hands dramatically, and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to squish her cheeks.

Another time, she got mad at him over something stupid—probably about stealing her drink—and the way her nose scrunched up made his fingers twitch. She looked like an angry little kitten, and he… he was the big bear who wanted to scoop her up and keep her in his arms.

“Are you even listening?” she huffed, crossing her arms.

No. No, he wasn’t.

Because his brain was too busy fighting the cuteness aggression building up inside him.

So instead of answering, he just reached out and flicked her forehead.

“Hey!” she whined, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”

Jongho smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Dunno. Just felt like it.”

If only she knew it was to stop himself from doing something even worse. Like pinching her cheeks until she smacked him.

He was doomed.

Like when they had gone out for ice cream, and YN, being herself, had managed to make a mess.

She was eating too quickly, and suddenly, a small drop of melted ice cream landed on the tip of her nose.

Jongho stared.

She blinked up at him, confused. “What?”

His grip on his cone tightened.

Was she real? Was this actually happening? Was she actually standing there, looking up at him with big eyes, ice cream on her nose, completely unaware of how devastatingly cute she was?

He exhaled sharply, leaned in, and—

Flick!

She yelped as he wiped the ice cream off with his thumb, scowling at her. “You’re a mess.”

She pouted. “You could’ve just told me.”

Yeah, well, if he had told her, he would’ve also had to admit that he was two seconds away from pinching her cheeks and calling her cute.

So no, thanks.

Or like when YN had forgotten her hair tie, so she dug into her bag and pulled out a tiny, pastel pink hair clip.

Jongho watched as she struggled to keep her hair out of her face with that.

The tiny clip was fighting for its life against her hair, barely holding anything in place. She kept adjusting it, pushing stray strands away with a frustrated huff.

Jongho’s jaw clenched.

It was too much.

The stupid little hair clip, her pouty concentration face, the way she kept huffing when the strands fell back—

Before he could stop himself, he reached out, plucked the clip from her hair, and smoothly tied it up with his own black hair tie which he conveniently had on his wrist.

She blinked at him. “...Oh.”

He crossed his arms. “There. Now you won’t look dumb.”

Her lips parted in offense. “Excuse you! My clip was working just fine—”

Jongho just flicked her forehead again and walked off before she could see the stupid grin threatening to break out on his face.

She was going to kill him one day.

Or worse—he was going to fall harder.

Jongho had always paid attention to the little things. It was something he’d always done, but now it was a bit more… personal.

The way YN would subtly try to avoid the topic of her birthday when it came up, how she’d always change the subject or even just shut it down completely. He never understood it until he saw it written in the corner of her notebook one day, almost as if it was an afterthought—her birthday was coming up.

Something about that made him pause.

He couldn’t help but wonder why she never celebrated it, why she never talked about it. It bothered him more than he realized. No one should feel like that about their birthday. It was supposed to be a day to feel special, to be loved.

But for YN… it didn’t seem that way at all.

YN stepped into Jongho's apartment, not knowing why he suddenly called her, but what she saw made her stop in her tracks. The entire place was decorated—soft, pastel colors, fairy lights hanging delicately from the walls, and small touches of things she liked scattered around the room. It felt like a scene straight out of one of those Pinterest boards she had secretly admired but never thought she'd experience herself.

On the table was a small cake, decorated with cream and flowers—exactly the way she liked it. But what really caught her eye was the little crown placed beside it.

Jongho stood by the door, hands in his pockets, nervously watching her reaction. His heart pounded as he waited for her to say something.

"Jongho..." YN started, her voice barely above a whisper as she took in the effort he’d put into everything. "What is all this?"

He scratched the back of his neck, feeling a little embarrassed now that she was actually here. "Well... I know you don't like big celebrations, but I thought you'd like something a little special, you know? Something just for you."

She blinked, stunned. "But... this is all for me?"

"Yeah, I mean, it's your birthday, right?" Jongho said casually, though there was a small, nervous grin tugging at his lips.

YN couldn't hide the smile that tugged at her own. She looked around, noticing the little details—soft cushions, a few of her favorite books stacked neatly on the shelf, the little crown, and the cake that seemed to have her name written all over it.

"Why the crown?" she asked, half-laughing, half-teary-eyed.

Jongho shrugged, a little embarrassed. "You deserve to feel like a queen today. No one should ever feel like they don't deserve to be celebrated."

That did it. YN's heart swelled, and for a moment, she couldn't speak. The thoughtfulness behind everything hit her hard. Her birthday had always been a quiet, unnoticed day, but here Jongho was, treating her like she was the most important person in the world.

He stepped forward, holding out the little crown. "Here, your majesty."

YN laughed softly, taking it from his hands and placing it on her head, feeling a warmth in her chest she hadn't expected. "This is... this is too much," she whispered, wiping a stray tear from her cheek.

"You deserve it," Jongho said, his voice low but warm, his eyes locking with hers in that moment. "Happy Birthday, YN."

Her heart skipped a beat, her emotions rushing to the surface. "Thank you," she whispered back, her voice cracking slightly. She looked at him, her gratitude overflowing. "Thank you for seeing me."

Jongho stepped a little closer, the two of them standing there amidst the cozy decorations, the soft glow of the fairy lights casting a warm hue on their faces.

"You’re welcome," he said simply, then took a step back, a playful grin appearing on his face. "Now, let’s eat this cake before I eat all of it myself."

YN laughed, feeling lighter than she had in a long time, her heart full of warmth from the little moments that had made this birthday unforgettable. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this special—this loved.

Jongho had done it. He had turned her quiet day into a celebration of everything she had ever wanted.

After cutting the cake and sharing a few playful bites, Jongho leaned back in his chair, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Alright, birthday girl, close your eyes."

YN raised an eyebrow, suspicious but amused. "Why?"

"Just do it," he said, rolling his eyes but still holding that teasing grin.

With a little sigh, she closed her eyes, sitting still as she waited. She could hear him moving around the room, the sound of rustling paper and something being set down on the table in front of her.

"Okay," he finally said, his voice a little softer than before. "You can open them now."

YN opened her eyes—and immediately, her breath hitched.

In front of her was something she never expected but instantly adored—a bouquet of books, beautifully wrapped in soft-colored paper with a ribbon tied neatly around them. Not just any books, but ones she had casually mentioned wanting to read, ones she had stared at in the library but never picked up, ones that he must have noticed her lingering over.

She blinked rapidly, her fingers tracing over the spines as if making sure they were real. "Jongho… you—"

"You like them?" he asked, voice steady but eyes betraying a hint of nervousness.

YN couldn't speak. The warmth in her chest was overwhelming, emotions bubbling up faster than she could control. Instead of answering, she got up from her seat and wrapped her arms around him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder.

Jongho stiffened for a second, but then, slowly, he relaxed into the hug, his arms coming around her just as tightly.

"You idiot," she mumbled against his hoodie, voice muffled but full of emotion. "This is the best gift ever."

Jongho let out a small chuckle, resting his chin lightly on her head. "Good," he said, a smile forming on his lips. "Because I wasn’t sure if you’d think it was lame."

YN shook her head against him, gripping onto his hoodie tighter. "It's not. It’s perfect."

And for a while, they just stayed like that, wrapped up in warmth and something unspoken between them—something soft, something real. Neither of them said it aloud, but they both knew.

They were falling, and this time, neither of them wanted to stop.

Jongho felt his heart race when he saw the small blush creeping up her cheeks, her eyes glistening with emotion as they met his. Her gaze lingered, vulnerable yet trusting, and something inside him clicked. All the words he'd been holding back, all the feelings he couldn't quite define-they came rushing forward.

Before he could even think, he cupped her face gently with his hands, tilting her chin up just slightly. She didn't pull away, her breath hitching as she stared at him, her lips parted slightly in confusion.

Without a second thought, he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a soft, tentative kiss. His heart pounded in his chest as the moment stretched between them-gentle, slow, and full of everything they had been holding back.

YN's breath caught as she froze for a moment, her mind catching up with what was happening. But then, instinctively, she closed her eyes and leaned into the kiss, her hands finding their way to his chest.

The world around them seemed to disappear as everything fell quiet, just the warmth of their bodies and the undeniable pull between them. Jongho's hand slid to the back of her neck, deepening the kiss, and YN's fingers clenched slightly around his hoodie, her heart thumping in her chest.When they finally pulled away, they were both breathless, their foreheads resting against each other. Jongho looked down at her, his thumb brushing her cheek as he caught his breath.

"YN," he whispered, his voice rough, "I... I don't know what this is, but I can't stop thinking about you."

YN's heart fluttered at his words, her cheeks still flushed. She could feel the sincerity in his voice, the way his hands were slightly trembling as they stayed gently on her face.

"I think I feel the same," she whispered back, her voice just above a breathless murmur.

His hands were still cradling her face as if she were something fragile—something precious. His usual sharp gaze was softer now, almost uncertain, but there was something firm in the way he held her.

“I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like,” he admitted, his voice low and honest. “But I know that when you’re not around, I don’t like it. And when you are, I feel… lighter. Like I actually want to be better.”

YN’s heart pounded against her ribs, her breath catching at his words.

“I want to stay with you,” he continued, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks. “If this is what love is, then let it be.”

Her eyes widened slightly, emotions swirling inside her. He was never the type to say things without meaning them, never the type to hesitate. And yet, here he was, standing in front of her, vulnerable and real.

She felt warmth bloom in her chest, something overwhelming yet comforting. Her hands slowly reached up, resting over his.

“Then let it be,” she whispered back, her lips curling into the softest of smiles.

Jongho exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath this whole time. He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a second, just taking in the moment.

Neither of them needed to say anything more. They had already said everything that mattered.

After his confession, YN quickly realized one thing—Jongho was insanely clingy. Not in the physical sense, no. He wasn’t the type to smother her with hugs in public or demand constant attention. But mentally? Emotionally? He was all over her.

Her phone never knew peace.

Jongho: Where are you?

Jongho: Why aren’t you answering?

Jongho: You’re not dead, right?

Jongho: Hanni said you left the library 15 minutes ago. Where are you now?

And if she didn’t respond fast enough? Oh, he’d find a way. One time, he literally called Hanni when YN ignored his messages during a movie marathon.

“You’re ignoring my texts,” he accused when she finally picked up.

“I was watching a movie,” she sighed.

“Oh,” he paused. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because… it’s a movie?”

“Tell me next time.”

YN groaned, but deep down, she found it cute—annoying, but cute.

Another time, she was just grabbing a coffee on campus, and before she could even sit down, she received a message:

Jongho: You didn’t tell me you were going to the café.

She blinked. Looked around. And there he was, sitting at a distance, sipping his own drink while watching her like a hawk.

She marched up to him. “Are you spying on me?”

He raised an eyebrow, completely unbothered. “I was here first. You should’ve told me you were coming.”

YN threw her hands up. “I didn’t know I needed permission to get coffee!”

“You don’t,” he said smoothly, “but if you told me, I would’ve gotten your order ready.”

And the worst part? He actually did. Because as she was about to go order, the barista handed her a drink. “Your boyfriend already paid for it.”

Jongho just shrugged at her bewildered expression, sipping his own coffee like nothing happened.

Yeah. He was absolutely clingy. But the way he looked after her, worried for her, cared for her in ways she didn’t even realize she needed?

She wouldn’t change it for the world.

You could never stay mad at him. No matter how much he annoyed you with his endless messages, his possessiveness, or his constant need to know where you were—one look at his big, boba-like eyes, and you were done for.

And he knew it.

That slight smile he had whenever he looked at you? It was because he knew you couldn’t resist him.

Whenever you pouted at him, complaining about how clingy he was, he’d just chuckle, pull you into one of his signature big bear hugs, and squeeze you tight. You always acted like you wanted to escape, but deep down, you never really tried.

And when you were alone? Oh, Jongho had no shame.

He’d squish your cheeks, stretching them like you were some kind of stress toy. “Why are you so cute, huh?” he’d mutter, poking at your puffed-up cheeks.

“Jongho, stop—”

Squish.

“Jongho!”

Squish.

And the moment you’d glare at him, trying to act serious, he’d just lean in and kiss you, completely ignoring your protests.

“Yah—”

Another kiss.

“Stop—”

Another.

And by the time you finally gave up, he’d smirk, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. “You talk too much sometimes.”

But you couldn’t even be mad. Not when he was him. Your annoying, possessive, clingy, yet completely lovable Jongho.

Though you and Jongho never officially announced your relationship at college, he made it clear as day that he was yours—and that you were his.

And he had his ways of making sure everyone knew.

Jongho had always been intimidating, but after you two got together, his death glares became ten times worse. If a guy so much as looked at you for too long, Jongho would lock eyes with them from across the room. No words needed—just a single, cold stare, and the poor guy would scurry away like a frightened puppy.

Hanni once joked, "You don't need a security system, girl. Just let Jongho sit outside your dorm and scare people away."

Jongho wasn’t big on PDA, but when it came to making a statement, he had his own subtle ways. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. A strong arm thrown over the back of your chair when another guy was getting too friendly. Holding onto the strap of your bag like it was a leash when you were walking together, just so he could keep you close.

The message was clear: Don’t even think about it.

His friends suffered the most. Jongho was always bringing you up in conversation, even when it wasn’t relevant.

“Jongho, pass me the notes.”

"YN already explained it to me. You should ask her—she’s smarter than all of us.”

"Jongho, do you want to come to the gym later?"

"Nah, I'm meeting YN. She gets grumpy if she doesn’t see me enough."

"Jongho, stop flexing your relationship, man—"

"I’m not flexing. I just have a girlfriend who happens to be better than yours."

“…None of us have girlfriends.”

"Exactly.”

The moment that really sealed it?

One day, some guy—clearly new to the college—had the audacity to flirt with you in the cafeteria. Nothing serious, just casual small talk.

Jongho, who had been sitting a few tables away, calmly stood up, strolled over, and without a word, took the spoon from your hand and ate your food from your spoon and even drank water from your cup.

You nearly choked.

The guy looked confused. Hanni was losing her mind in the background. Jongho? He just stared down at the poor guy, smirking slightly.

"Oh, were you saying something?" sitting down, he asked, his voice low and smooth, his arm resting on the back of your chair.

The guy got the message.

Jongho had never been the type to update his Instagram often. His feed was mostly filled with scenic shots—sunsets, cityscapes, the occasional black-and-white aesthetic post. He rarely posted selfies, let alone anything personal.

But now? Now his Instagram was practically a shrine dedicated to you.

It started subtly. A blurry candid of you sipping coffee at a café, captioned: “Not the coffee, just the person.”

Then came the next one—a picture of you reading in the library, chin resting on your palm, completely unaware of the photo being taken. “Genius girlfriend era.”

And then it became a habit.

— A mirror selfie of him at the gym… with you in the background, struggling with a dumbbell. “She’s trying.”

— A plate of food with your hands reaching for it. “I don’t get to eat in peace anymore.”

— A side-profile shot of you laughing. No caption. Just a red heart emoji.

Jongho wasn’t dumb. He knew there were girls lurking in his DMs, waiting for an opening. So he made sure they saw exactly why they had no chance.

Every post? Tagged @yn2001. Every story? Tagged @yn2001. Even in the comments, when someone asked, “Where’s this?”, he’d reply, “With @yn2001.”

Even his bio, which had previously been empty, now had:

“Taken. @yn2001.”

One day, he posted a picture of your intertwined hands, your fingers laced together on top of his lap. No faces, no explanation—just that.

And the caption?

"Mine.”

The DMs? Silent. The message? Loud and clear.

You were never the type to crave attention. Growing up, you had learned to blend into the background, to be self-sufficient. No one had ever really gone out of their way to make you feel special.

But Jongho? He changed everything.

The way he made it so obvious that you were his. How he walked beside you, making sure you were always safe. How his arm would find its way around your shoulders in crowded hallways. How he’d subtly block anyone who got too close.

The Instagram posts were one thing, but it was the little things that made you feel like a princess.

Like when he casually handed you his hoodie when you complained it was cold—without a word, just draping it over you like it was second nature. Or when he adjusted the straps of your bag because “It’s too loose, you’ll hurt your shoulder.”

Or how he always paid attention. If you so much as mentioned craving something, you’d find it mysteriously appearing in your dorm the next day. Kinder Joy? There. Your favorite drink? Waiting for you in class.

And the way he looked at you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

For the first time in your life, you were someone’s priority. And you loved it.

The winter air was biting as you arrived at Jongho’s apartment for the night. He had asked you so politely—almost shyly—that you couldn’t say no.

After dinner, which you cooked while he hovered behind you like a baby bear, occasionally wrapping his arms around your waist or resting his chin on your shoulder, you both settled in for the night.

Jongho sat on the couch, scrolling through his phone while you went to do your skincare routine in the bathroom. You were halfway through when you felt his presence at the door.

"What are you even doing?" he asked, arms crossed as he watched you pat a serum onto your face.

"Skincare," you replied, giving him a pointed look.

He scoffed. "Looks like sorcery to me."

You rolled your eyes and grabbed an extra headband, walking over to him. "Sit."

He raised an eyebrow. "No way."

"You asked me to stay over. This is part of the deal," you said with a smirk.

With a grumble, he let you pull him onto the bathroom stool. You pushed back his hair with the headband, suppressing a giggle at how unexpectedly adorable he looked with it on.

"Don't laugh," he muttered, glaring.

"I'm not!"

You squeezed some cleanser onto your hands and started rubbing it into his face. He blinked rapidly at the sudden sensation, grabbing your wrist.

"What the hell—"

"Relax, big guy. Just let it happen."

He huffed, but let you continue. His face was surprisingly soft under your fingertips, and for a moment, you were lost in the closeness of it. Jongho, however, was glaring at his reflection.

"Feels weird," he grumbled.

You chuckled. "You’ll thank me later when your skin is glowing."

After washing off the cleanser, you moved on to toner and serum, explaining each step. Jongho just sat there, staring at you with those soft, unreadable eyes.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing," he mumbled, looking away.

But his ears were red.

By the time you finished with moisturizer, he was pouting. "Feels sticky."

You flicked his forehead. "Beauty is pain."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t stop you when you applied lip balm on him, his lips parting slightly at the contact.

"All done," you declared, stepping back to admire your work.

Jongho looked at himself in the mirror, rubbing his face slightly. "Huh… not bad."

"Told you."

He turned to you, a sly grin forming. "So if I have good skin now, does that mean I get more kisses?"

You gaped at him, heat rushing to your cheeks. "Jongho!"

But he was already pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled into you.

"Thanks, princess," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

And just like that, your heart was gone.

You sighed, sitting on the edge of Jongho’s bed, your fingers idly playing with the hem of your oversized sweatshirt. He had just finished brushing his teeth, stepping into the room with his usual confident ease. His damp hair was slightly tousled, and his sharp eyes softened when they landed on you.

He tilted his head, noticing your hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

You hesitated for a moment before sighing. “I sleep weird.”

Jongho blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “What do you mean weird?”

“I mean…” You sighed again, fidgeting with your hands. “I move a lot in my sleep. I might—” You glanced at him briefly before looking away. “I might throw my leg over you. Or shove my feet under yours. Or, you know, hug you.” You rubbed the back of your neck. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

For a second, he just stared at you before a small, amused scoff left his lips. “That’s it? I thought you were about to say something serious.”

You frowned. “It is serious.”

He crossed his arms, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “What, you think I’m gonna throw you off the bed?”

“No, but—”

“You can do whatever you want. It won’t bother me.”

That was a lie. Jongho never liked being hugged in his sleep. He never liked people clinging to him or invading his space while he rested. It had always felt suffocating, and he never hesitated to shove someone off if they got too close.

But you? You were different.

So when you eventually curled up beside him, shifting in your sleep and unconsciously draping your arm over his waist, he didn’t push you away. When your leg tangled with his, searching for warmth, he let it be. And when, in your sleep, you tucked your cold feet under his, he only let out a small huff, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

What surprised him the most was the way he naturally responded. Without thinking, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer. His hand found the curve of your waist, his thumb absentmindedly stroking small circles into your skin through the fabric of your sweatshirt.

You sighed in content, unconsciously burrowing into his chest. Jongho glanced down at you, his lips twitching at the sight of you so comfortably nestled against him.

If it were anyone else, he would’ve been annoyed, but with you…

With you, he found himself pressing a lazy, almost absentminded kiss to your forehead before resting his chin atop your head.

Yeah. He loved this.

Divider from @/cafekitsune

[railedby8tz]

Outscored 𝟏┃C.JH

Pairing: jock!Jongho x Reader

Genre/trope: enemies to lovers au

Word Count: 25.7k (💀) [it's gonna be a 2 parter]

Warnings: biker jongho (need I say more?), he is also a bit annoying, but he becomes a MAN at the end

AN: Ok I'm a sucker for jongho, u guys know it. And after he posted his picture I had a seizure. And I kinda slipped and wrote this whole thing. And yeah this is for all the jongho girlies out there like me. Please please please love this as I spent a lot of time writing this!

Masterlist

This is part one. Read part two here-

one | two

The brisk winter air nipped at YN’s cheeks as she stood at the entrance of her new college. The towering brick building seemed almost menacing in the gray morning light, but she pushed the uneasiness aside. This was her fresh start—a chance to prove herself in a new environment. With her books clutched tightly to her chest, she took a deep breath and walked inside.

The first few days were a whirlwind of introductions, lectures, and navigating unfamiliar hallways. YN quickly found herself bonding with Hanni, a bright and cheerful girl who seemed to know everyone. Hanni made the transition easier, guiding YN through the social intricacies of the campus.

By the end of the week, YN noticed something odd. Every time a certain group walked down the hall, conversations died, students avoided eye contact, and some even went as far as turning around to take another route. She spotted them from a distance—eight guys, each exuding an air of dominance that seemed to make the air thicker. They moved like a pack, and the energy around them was impossible to ignore.

"Who are they?" YN finally asked Hanni during lunch, her curiosity outweighing her hesitance.

Hanni’s face turned serious as she glanced around to make sure no one else was listening. “That’s Ateez,” she whispered. “They’re…well, the jocks of the college. Everyone fears them.”

YN frowned. “Why?”

“They’re not just athletes. They’re...intense. If someone so much as looks at them the wrong way, things don’t end well.” Hanni hesitated, lowering her voice further. “I heard someone got sent to the hospital last year because of an argument with one of them.”

YN’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Hongjoong is their leader. He’s smart but scary. Seonghwa, his second-in-command, always has this calm but intimidating vibe. Yunho and Mingi are the muscle—you don’t want to get on their bad side. San and Wooyoung? Absolute chaos, always ready to start something. Yeosang is quiet, but people say he’s the sharpest one of them all. And Jongho…he’s the enforcer. If Hongjoong gives the word, Jongho makes sure it’s done.”

YN’s stomach twisted uneasily. “They sound like villains in a movie.”

Hanni shrugged. “It’s best to steer clear of them. Just focus on your studies and don’t give them a reason to notice you.”

YN didn’t respond to Hanni’s warning, opting instead to stay quiet and let the conversation drift to safer topics. Deep down, she wasn’t sure how she felt about this so-called fearsome group. They sounded like trouble, but she didn’t see how avoiding them would be difficult—she wasn’t the type to get involved with people like that anyway.

Later that afternoon, YN walked into her next lecture, the chill of the earlier conversation still lingering. She found her usual spot near the back of the classroom, quietly unpacking her notebook and pen. The room slowly filled with students, but the air shifted when a group entered.

She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Whispers and nervous glances rippled through the class, and her pulse quickened.

For the first time, YN let herself take a cautious look. There he was—Jongho. He was hard to miss, even without the murmurs. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried an aura of icy indifference, his sharp jawline and piercing gaze giving him an almost unapproachable air. He wore a simple hoodie, but somehow, it only emphasized his muscular frame.

YN quickly looked away, her heart pounding. So this is what Hanni meant. She had shared a class with him all week but hadn’t even realized it. She must have been too absorbed in adjusting to the new college life to notice.

Jongho took a seat a few rows ahead of her, close enough that she could see the subtle tension in his posture. He didn’t speak to anyone, his focus completely on the empty whiteboard at the front of the room. He radiated a coldness that seemed to push everyone away, yet she noticed how other students carefully avoided sitting near him.

Deciding to stick to her original plan, YN ignored his presence, keeping her eyes firmly on her notes throughout the lecture. But as the weeks passed, it became harder to pretend he wasn’t there. He was in more of her classes than she’d realized, and his presence was impossible to miss.

Jongho never caused a scene—he was silent, focused, and distant. Yet there was something about him that made her uneasy. He wasn’t just another student. There was a weight to him, a quiet strength that made the air feel heavier when he walked into a room.

And whether she wanted to admit it or not, YN was beginning to notice him more and more.

Jongho had never paid much attention to his classmates. He came to class, did what was required, and left—never lingering or engaging unless absolutely necessary. To him, school was simply a task to complete, something to cross off his list.

But one day, during a particularly grueling economics lecture, something caught his attention. The professor had asked a question—a tricky one that made most of the class go silent, their heads sinking lower to avoid eye contact.

And then, she spoke.

"Isn’t the answer related to the supply-demand equilibrium in a perfectly competitive market?"

Her voice was calm and self-assured, and when Jongho glanced up from his notebook, he saw her. She sat near the back, her expression thoughtful as she explained her reasoning. The professor nodded, impressed, and praised her for her detailed response.

Jongho’s brow furrowed. He hadn’t even considered answering that question—it had seemed too abstract to bother with. Yet, there she was, providing answers with ease.

At first, he shrugged it off. Maybe she just got lucky. But over the next few classes, he noticed it happening again. The professor would pose a difficult question, and before anyone else could muster the courage to speak, she’d answer it. Every time.

It started to bother him.

Jongho prided himself on being one of the smartest students in his classes, even if he didn’t flaunt it. He hated drawing attention to himself, but deep down, he knew he was sharp—more than capable of holding his own against anyone. Yet this transfer student, who barely even seemed to acknowledge anyone in the room, was constantly one step ahead.

“Who does she think she is?” he muttered under his breath after one particularly frustrating class.

From then on, Jongho found himself paying closer attention to her. He wasn’t sure if it was out of curiosity or sheer annoyance, but he started to notice little things about her. The way her hand shot up the moment a question was asked. The quiet determination in her eyes as she scribbled down notes. The slight smile she gave when the professor praised her responses.

It wasn’t just that she was smart—she was confident in her knowledge, and it was infuriating.

For the first time in a long time, Jongho felt like someone was challenging him. And he didn’t like it.

The buzz around campus was electric when the exam results were finally posted on the bulletin board. Students crowded around, eagerly scanning the list of names and scores. YN was among the last to approach, her usual calm demeanor giving way to quiet excitement.

When she finally found her name at the very top of the list, her heart soared. She had done it—topped her first major exam at the new college. Her efforts, countless late nights of studying, and meticulous note-taking had paid off.

Hanni squealed in delight when she saw the results. “YN! You’re at the top! I told you you’re a genius!”

YN laughed, the joy bubbling up inside her. “It’s just one exam, Hanni.”

“Doesn’t matter! You crushed it!” Hanni grinned and tugged her arm. “We’re celebrating. There’s this cute cafe nearby—my treat!”

They walked to the cafe, the chill of the winter day melting into the warmth of good company and coffee. YN felt proud, her confidence growing as Hanni hyped her up about her success.

But across campus, in a quieter corner of the library, Jongho wasn’t in such a celebratory mood.

He stared at the results list on his phone, his jaw clenched. Second place. He’d never been second. Not once. For as long as he could remember, his name had always been at the top. It was his thing—the one thing no one could take from him.

But now, there it was. YN. A name he hadn’t even bothered to remember until recently. The transfer student had dethroned him, and it stung.

Jongho closed his phone and leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His mind replayed the last few weeks: her quick answers in class, the way she always seemed to know everything, her calm confidence. He had brushed it off at first, but now it was clear—she wasn’t just smart. She was better than him, at least academically.

And Jongho hated losing.

“She’s just a transfer,” he muttered to himself, trying to shake off the irritation. “It’s probably beginner’s luck.”

But the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him. It wasn’t just the results—it was the way she seemed so unaffected by everything. While he was stewing in his frustration, she was probably out there celebrating, not even thinking twice about the fact that she had knocked him down.

For the first time in a long time, Jongho felt something unfamiliar—a mix of annoyance and determination. He wasn’t about to let this stand.

“Fine,” he thought, his jaw tightening. “Let’s see how long she can keep this up.”

Jongho's frustration only grew as the weeks turned into months. Every test, every quiz, every exam—YN was always at the top. It didn’t matter how much he studied or how hard he tried to reclaim his spot. Her name remained above his, and it gnawed at him.

His friends noticed the change in him.

During one of their usual hangouts, Wooyoung nudged Jongho with his elbow. “You’ve been acting weird lately. What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Jongho muttered, not bothering to look up from his phone.

San leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Don’t tell me it’s about those scores again. You’re still stuck on that, aren’t you?”

“I said it’s nothing,” Jongho snapped, his voice sharper than he intended.

Wooyoung raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s definitely something. You’ve been sulking since those results came out. What’s the deal with her? Did she do something to you?”

Jongho sighed, running a hand through his hair. “No, she didn’t do anything. She just—she keeps beating me. It’s annoying.”

Yeosang, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. “So what? You’re not used to competition?”

“It’s not just competition,” Jongho muttered. “It’s like…no matter what I do, she’s always one step ahead.”

The room fell silent for a moment before San shrugged. “Then maybe talk to her. Figure out what she’s doing that you’re not.”

Jongho scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, like I’m going to go up to her and ask for advice. She’s the reason I’m in this mess.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he knew San had a point. He couldn’t keep letting this get to him. If he wanted to understand why she was always on top, he’d have to confront her eventually.

Two months had passed since the first exam results, and YN’s streak hadn’t faltered. Every high score, every bit of praise from the professors only added to Jongho’s growing frustration. He’d tried ignoring it, tried telling himself it didn’t matter, but the truth was, it did.

He finally decided he couldn’t take it anymore. After class one afternoon, as the students began to trickle out of the lecture hall, Jongho stayed behind, his eyes fixed on YN as she packed her things.

She was just about to leave when he stood up, his tall frame casting a shadow over her desk.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and steady.

YN looked up, surprised to see him standing there. “Oh, hi.”

For a moment, he didn’t know what to say. He had spent so long stewing in his own thoughts that now, face-to-face with her, he felt unprepared.

“You’re YN, right?” he finally asked, even though he already knew the answer.

She nodded, her expression curious. “Yeah. And you’re Jongho.”

He was slightly taken aback that she knew his name, but he didn’t let it show. “We need to talk,” he said, his tone firm.

YN blinked, clearly confused. “About what?”

“About how you keep getting the highest scores,” he said bluntly. “And why you’re always ahead of me.”

Jongho froze as YN’s words echoed in his mind.

"Maybe it’s because you’re not studying enough."

She had said it so casually, so effortlessly, before slinging her bag over her shoulder and walking out of the room, leaving him standing there like a statue.

For a moment, all he could do was stare at the empty doorway. Then, something inside him snapped. A laugh escaped his lips, low and disbelieving at first, before growing louder.

When he walked out of the lecture hall and joined his friends, they immediately noticed something was off.

“Uh…why are you laughing like a maniac?” Wooyoung asked, leaning away from him as if Jongho had finally lost it.

“Did you finally crack under the pressure?” San teased, though there was genuine concern in his voice.

Jongho shook his head, the grin still lingering on his face. “She told me I don’t study enough,” he said, almost in disbelief, as if saying it out loud would make it sound less ridiculous.

Wooyoung blinked. “Wait. She said that?”

“The nerve,” San muttered, shaking his head.

Mingi, who had been quietly listening, tilted his head thoughtfully. “So…do you want us to talk to her? You know, scare her a bit? Make her think twice before pulling that again?”

Jongho’s laughter stopped abruptly. His expression hardened, and he gave Mingi a sharp look. “No.”

“No?” Wooyoung echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” Jongho repeated firmly, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not stooping to that level. I don’t need to threaten her to get what I want.”

“But she insulted you!” Wooyoung said, throwing his hands in the air.

“She didn’t insult me. She just…” Jongho paused, his jaw clenching as he searched for the right words. “She got under my skin.”

Yeosang, who had been leaning against the wall silently, finally spoke. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Jongho exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to beat her.”

“Hold up man what-” San frowned.

“In the next exam,” Jongho clarified, his eyes narrowing with determination. “I’m going to study harder than I ever have, and I’m going to take that top spot back. She thinks I’m not studying enough? Fine. I’ll show her exactly what I’m capable of.”

His friends exchanged glances, a mix of curiosity and concern on their faces.

Wooyoung leaned closer to San and whispered, “I give him three days before he snaps again.”

But Jongho ignored them, his mind already racing with plans. This wasn’t just about pride anymore. It was about proving to himself—and to her—that he was the best.

When Hanni heard what YN had said to Jongho, she nearly dropped her phone in shock.

“You told Jongho—the cold, terrifying Jongho—that he doesn’t study enough?” Hanni exclaimed, pacing back and forth in YN’s dorm room. Her voice was a mix of disbelief and panic, her hands flailing in the air.

YN, sitting calmly on her bed, shrugged as she sipped her coffee. “Yeah, I did. It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Hanni stopped pacing and stared at her friend like she had grown a second head. “YN, you don’t just say that to someone like him! Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? This is Jongho! The guy who could probably crush someone’s desk in half with his bare hands!”

YN smiled slightly, setting her cup down. “You’re exaggerating. He’s just another student, Hanni. Besides, it’s not like I insulted him. I gave him constructive criticism.”

“Constructive—YN, are you listening to yourself?!” Hanni groaned, clutching her head as if she could physically hold in her frustration. “I’m scared for you! What if he gets mad? What if his friends get involved? They’re not exactly known for handling things peacefully.”

“It’s fine,” YN said, her tone steady. “I don’t think he’s the type to do anything rash over something like this. He seems too...proud for that.”

“Proud?” Hanni snorted. “That’s putting it mildly.”

YN chuckled softly, leaning back against her pillows. “Look, Hanni, I appreciate you worrying about me, but it’s not a big deal. He’ll get over it. If anything, maybe it’ll motivate him to work harder.”

Hanni sat down heavily on the edge of YN’s bed, her arms crossed. “I hope you’re right. But if he so much as looks at you funny, I’m grabbing your hand and running for the hills. Got it?”

YN laughed, nudging her friend’s shoulder. “Got it. But trust me, I can handle myself.”

Hanni gave her a wary look but eventually sighed in defeat. “You’re way too calm about this. I don’t know whether to admire you or scream at you.”

YN just smiled, her confidence unwavering. Little did she know, Jongho wasn’t the type to let something like this go unnoticed—and he had no intention of backing down.

Jongho's determination was like a fire, burning through his focus as he buried himself in his books for weeks leading up to the next exam. He studied longer, harder—pushing his limits. He felt the tension, the pressure building in his chest every day. The thought of losing to YN again fueled his resolve. This time, he would prove he was the best.

But when the results came in, his stomach sank.

There it was again—YN's name at the top. Not his.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the paper with frustration boiling inside him. He had done everything right. He had pushed himself to the breaking point. And yet, once again, she had beaten him.

This time, it was different. This time, it wasn’t just about pride. Jongho could feel something snapping inside him, the pressure and disappointment manifesting as a tight ball of anger in his chest.

That day in class, he couldn’t focus. The words the professor spoke seemed distant and irrelevant, his mind consumed by the crushing weight of defeat. As he stared at the floor, barely registering the lecture, one of his classmates—someone who had clearly noticed his mood—decided to test him.

The guy leaned over and smirked, a sharp edge to his tone. "So, Jongho, how does it feel to be second to a girl? Maybe you should quit studying and leave it to the real people, huh?"

The words hit Jongho like a punch to the gut.

Before he could even think, he stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floor. His hands balled into fists. He didn’t say a word—he didn’t need to. The guy barely had time to react before Jongho stood up, took the guy's phone, slammed it to the ground, and crushed it under his boot.

The silence in the classroom was deafening.

But it wasn’t over.

Once class was dismissed, Jongho stormed out of the building, his anger blinding him. He found the guy outside, lurking near the campus gates, laughing to his friends about how "easy" it was to get under Jongho’s skin.

Jongho didn’t hesitate. He charged at the guy, grabbing him by the throat and pushing him against the nearest wall. The punches came fast and brutal, each one landing with a sickening thud.

The guy didn’t stand a chance.

It wasn’t until he was gasping for breath, barely conscious, that Jongho stopped. His knuckles were bloody, his anger slowly subsiding as the reality of what he had done set in.

When word of the fight spread through campus, it didn’t take long for YN to hear about it.

She had been in the library when a group of students started whispering, talking about how Jongho had beaten up some guy for talking trash about him. Her stomach twisted, and an unease settled in her chest.

The image of the cold, calculating Jongho she had always seen in class—silent, intense, and distant—was nothing compared to the picture that now formed in her mind. The guy had provoked him, sure, but it didn’t make the violence any less jarring.

That night, as she walked back to her dorm, her mind was racing. Jongho had never struck her as the violent type, but now she wasn’t so sure. The thought of him losing control scared her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

YN leaned against the door of her room, her hand lingering on the knob. She wanted to shake the unease off, tell herself it was just a one-off thing. But a part of her couldn’t stop wondering what else lay beneath the surface of his cold exterior.

For the first time, she was genuinely afraid.

And as she lay in bed that night, trying to push the thoughts away, one question lingered in her mind: What would happen if he ever lost control around her?

The tension between YN and Jongho had been building for weeks, and it finally reached a boiling point. The news of the fight still fresh in YN's mind, she couldn't shake the unease every time she saw Jongho. His cold, imposing presence was something she'd learned to ignore—until now.

It was an ordinary afternoon when she walked through the halls, lost in thought, heading to her next class. The campus was quieter than usual, most students already in their lecture halls. As she turned down a less-traveled corridor, she froze. Jongho stood at the far end, his broad frame blocking the only way out.

He didn’t say anything at first, just watched her with that unreadable expression. YN’s heart rate quickened, her pulse pounding in her ears. She could feel the familiar tension rising in her chest, the uneasy flutter of anxiety that crept in whenever she had to face him. But this time, it felt different. She could sense that something had shifted.

She instinctively took a step back, her back pressing against the cold wall. Jongho’s eyes flickered for a moment, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a scowl. He started walking toward her, each step deliberate, the weight of his presence sending a chill down her spine.

"You really think you're better than me, huh?" Jongho's voice was low, almost menacing. His height loomed over her as he stopped just inches away, trapping her between his muscular frame and the wall.

YN’s breath caught in her throat, but she held her ground. Her legs were tense, her mind racing for a way to escape this moment. "I didn’t say that," she replied, her voice shaky but firm. "I just did my best. It’s not my fault you can’t handle it."

Jongho’s eyes darkened, his arms leaning on the wall beside her, the air between them thick with a charged tension. "You think it’s just about scores?" he growled. "You think I care about that little competition? You’re making me look weak, YN. And I don’t like that."

YN's hands clenched into fists at her sides, her fear and anger mixing into a potent cocktail. I have to stand my ground, she thought. I can't let him intimidate me like this.

"You don't scare me, Jongho," she said, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. Her words were quieter than she wanted, but there was strength behind them. "If you have a problem with me, then deal with it without resorting to violence."

The moment she said it, Jongho’s smirk widened, a flash of something darker crossing his features. "Oh, but I do have a problem with you. You think you can just waltz in here and take what’s mine, huh? You think you're better than me because you’re smarter? You think you can just walk around untouched?"

YN’s breath quickened as she realized how cornered she truly was. She had thought she could handle him, but now, with him standing so close, all she could feel was the overwhelming presence of his body. The intimidating way he leaned into her personal space, his arms just above her shoulders, blocking any escape.

"I’m not afraid of you," she said again, though she could feel the doubt creeping in. She was scared—terrified, even—but she refused to let him see that.

Jongho leaned in closer, his face hovering just inches from hers. "You should be," he whispered. "You’ve made me look like a fool twice now. You’ve gone and crossed a line, YN."

For a split second, she could feel her heart pounding in her throat. Was he going to hurt her? Was he finally going to break the calm facade he always wore? But before she could react, something in him shifted, and his grip loosened just slightly.

“Don’t make me do this again,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to leave her with a sliver of space. The tension didn’t fully dissolve, but it was a temporary reprieve.

The silence between them was thick, each of them locked in their own thoughts. YN’s mind was racing. What just happened? She had stood up to him, but had it been enough? Would he let this go, or would this feud only escalate?

Jongho finally straightened up, casting one last look at her. "You’re not getting away with this, you know," he muttered before turning and walking away.

YN let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. Her legs were trembling, but she stood tall, refusing to let herself appear weak in front of him.

This was only the beginning. She knew that now. The rivalry between them had officially begun, and it would take everything she had to survive it.

The tension between YN and Jongho simmered beneath the surface, manifesting in small, irritating ways at first. It started with the little things—her pens went missing, her notes rearranged in ways that made no sense, and every now and then, she’d find her books out of order. At first, she thought it was just her imagination, or maybe even her own forgetfulness. But the longer it went on, the more she began to suspect that it wasn’t just random.

Then, one day, she was walking between classes when one of Jongho’s friends—Mingi, she recognized him from class—deliberately bumped into her, causing her to drop her bag and its contents. Papers scattered across the hallway, and YN scrambled to collect them, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

“Oops, sorry,” Mingi said, his tone dripping with false sweetness, though his grin said otherwise.

YN said nothing, biting her lip and standing up straight, trying to keep her composure. She quickly gathered her things, but as she bent down to pick up the last few papers, she saw the same smirk on his face, as if he were enjoying the scene.

It was deliberate, she thought, clenching her jaw as she stood up.

She could feel his gaze still on her as she gathered the rest of her things in silence. But she didn’t let it show—she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her flustered. When she walked away, she could sense his eyes lingering, but she kept her head high.

The following week, she arrived in class to find her desk had been vandalized. Not in a big, obvious way, but enough to leave a bad taste in her mouth. There were scribbles in the margins of her textbooks—crude drawings, insults, and even a few threatening words that made her skin crawl.

Jongho.

She didn’t have proof, but there was no mistaking it. She could feel his influence, like a shadow following her at every turn. And the worst part? It wasn’t just him. It was his friends, too. They were all in on it—targeting her, testing her patience, pushing her to the edge. They’d figured out how to get to her without crossing the line too far.

The final straw came one afternoon when she sat down at her desk and found her pencil case had been emptied out. It wasn’t just the pens this time; it was everything—everything scattered across the floor. When she picked up the pieces, her hands trembling, she saw a note hidden inside.

"Better luck next time, genius."

Her blood ran cold.

This time, it wasn’t just annoying. It was personal.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her fists clenching. She could take a lot of things—insults, small pranks—but this was pushing it. This was harassment.

YN’s mind raced with determination as she walked through the campus, every step firm and resolute. The pencil case incident had been the last straw. Jongho and his friends had pushed her to her limits, and she wasn’t going to let them get away with it any longer.

She had been debating it for days, but now she was certain—she had to confront him, face to face. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. Hanni had tried to stop her, pleading with her to let things go. But YN couldn’t back down. She couldn’t let herself be intimidated. Not anymore.

She entered the cafeteria with a clear purpose, scanning the room until her eyes landed on him. Jongho sat at the head of a table, surrounded by his friends, laughing and joking as if everything were normal. The sight of him made her blood boil, but she didn’t hesitate. She walked straight up to the table, her steps loud and deliberate.

When she reached the center, she slammed her hands down on the table, the sound of it echoing through the cafeteria, drawing the attention of everyone around. The chatter died down, all eyes on her. Jongho’s friends froze, surprised by the sudden boldness. YN stood there, staring at Jongho with unwavering defiance.

"Stop these pathetic games and face me like a man!" she declared, her voice strong and clear.

The room fell silent, everyone waiting for Jongho’s reaction. His friends exchanged nervous glances, unsure of what to expect, while Jongho himself leaned back in his seat, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, everything felt frozen. Then, slowly, Jongho stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. His height towered over hers, and for a second, the sheer difference in their sizes was almost comical. He was a giant compared to her, and yet, there she was, standing tall and not backing down.

He studied her for a moment, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. His lips curled into that familiar, confident smirk. "So, you want me to face you, huh?" he said, his voice low but full of challenge. "Well, I guess I can give you what you want."

His friends were stunned, clearly not expecting YN to show such boldness. Some of them exchanged worried looks, while others couldn’t help but chuckle nervously.

Jongho didn’t look worried, though. He stepped closer to her, his towering presence making her feel even smaller. Yet, YN stood her ground, refusing to let her fear show.

“You’re brave,” Jongho said, his voice rough, but there was something almost impressed in it. "I’ll give you that." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “But be careful what you wish for. You really want me to face you, YN? You sure about that?”

YN didn’t flinch. She locked eyes with him, her heart pounding in her chest. "I’m sure.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, locked in a silent battle of wills. The tension between them was thick, palpable. It wasn’t about the score anymore, not about the pranks or the harassment—it was about proving who had the upper hand.

Finally, Jongho broke the silence. He stepped back, crossing his arms. "Alright, YN. You’ve got my attention," he said, his voice cold but not dismissive. "You wanted me to face you. So I will."

The weight of his words hung in the air, and YN’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t over. It was only just beginning. She could feel the shift in their dynamic now, the lines of the feud being drawn more clearly than ever.

His friends remained silent, watching the exchange with bated breath. Jongho didn’t seem like he was going to back down either, and YN knew this wouldn’t end easily. But for the first time in a long while, she felt empowered. She had stood up to him, and he hadn’t crushed her. That meant something.

With a final glance at Jongho, YN turned away but not before she threw one last remark over her shoulder.

"I’m not afraid of you.”

The moment YN turned to leave, feeling the adrenaline of her bold confrontation, she felt a sudden, strong grip on her wrist. Before she could react, Jongho yanked her back with ease, his hand tightening around her wrist as he dragged her out of the cafeteria.

"Hey!" YN protested, trying to pull away, but his grip was unyielding, his strength overwhelming. She tugged harder, her steps stumbling as she struggled to break free, but it was no use—Jongho was far stronger than she could have imagined.

The cafeteria had fallen silent, all eyes still on them, but Jongho’s friends were the only ones who seemed unfazed. They continued their conversation as though nothing unusual was happening. It was clear to YN now—their group operated on a different set of rules, and no one dared challenge them.

Jongho didn’t look back, his focus entirely on pulling her out of the building. "Stop resisting," he muttered, his voice low and commanding. "If you wanted to talk, you should've done it differently."

YN’s heart raced in her chest. She had expected a confrontation, but not like this. Being dragged out of the cafeteria, humiliated in front of everyone—it was more than just a challenge now. It felt like an outright power play, a move to remind her of who really held the control.

“Let go of me!” she shouted again, trying to wrench her arm from his grip, but he didn’t even flinch. Instead, he pulled her toward the exit, his jaw set in a hard line.

Once they were outside, the cool air hit her face, but the storm in her chest only grew stronger. She was angry, more than she had been in weeks. She had finally stood up to him, and now he was treating it like some twisted game.

Jongho stopped in the middle of the empty courtyard, releasing her wrist abruptly. YN stumbled slightly, but caught herself before she could fall. Her hand instinctively rubbed where his grip had been, the sting of it still fresh.

"That’s the problem with you," Jongho said, his voice cold, but there was an edge to it now. "You think you can just challenge me like that, without consequences? You think you can walk in here and take everything, without anyone pushing back?"

YN glared at him, her pulse still racing. "I didn’t want to take anything. I just wanted you to stop being a coward. To face me without all your games."

Jongho’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, it grew more intense. "You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t just about you and me. This is about who owns this place. Who holds the power."

He took a step closer to her, towering over her as usual. The same sense of intimidation that had always been there was present now, but something in his eyes—a flicker of something deeper—made her pause for a second.

"What happens next, YN? You think you can win this? Because right now, you’re just poking the bear, and trust me, you don’t want to go any further." His voice was dangerously calm, like he was warning her—threatening her.

For a moment, YN’s breath caught. She had been so focused on proving herself, on standing up to him, that she hadn’t considered what would come next. She had no idea what kind of person Jongho really was, and now, facing him in this quiet courtyard, she realized just how deep the game went.

But despite the fear clawing at her chest, she wasn’t ready to back down. Not now. Not after everything she had endured.

"I’m not scared of you, Jongho," she said, her voice unwavering. "You want to play? Then let’s play. But I’m not going to let you intimidate me anymore."

Jongho stood there for a long moment, studying her as if trying to figure her out. Then, without another word, he turned and began to walk away, his back to her.

But as he reached the entrance to the building, he paused and looked over his shoulder.

"You’ll regret this," he said quietly, his voice carrying an almost unrecognizable note of warning. "You have no idea who you're dealing with.”

YN stood there, watching him go, the weight of his words sinking in. But even with that warning hanging in the air, she wasn’t going to back down. Not now.

She had made her choice. And from here on out, she would face the consequences.

The days following their confrontation marked the beginning of something far more sinister than YN had ever anticipated. What started as small pranks—missing books, random notes, pens vanishing from her desk—soon escalated into something far more calculated. Jongho wasn’t just trying to annoy her anymore. Now, it was as if he were playing a psychological game with her, testing her limits, breaking her down bit by bit.

At first, it was subtle. During class, Jongho would sit behind her and drop her textbooks just enough to cause a distraction, so she’d lose her focus. When she turned around, he’d act like it was an accident, offering a lazy apology that barely sounded sincere. The worst part was, he didn’t stop when she asked him to. Instead, the “accidents” seemed to happen more frequently, each one wearing her down, bit by bit.

Then came the whispers. At lunch, when YN walked into the cafeteria, she’d overhear Jongho’s friends whispering just loud enough for her to catch snippets of conversation. They’d talk about her in the most degrading way, not even bothering to hide it, knowing she could hear. She’d try to ignore them, but every word they said lingered in her mind. They called her a nerd, mocked her for thinking she could take on Jongho. But what stung the most was when they started to question her sanity, insinuating that she was unstable, that maybe she was imagining things.

The insults didn’t end there. As days passed, YN would arrive at her locker to find it had been vandalized again—her carefully written notes defaced with sarcastic messages, her books covered in nonsensical drawings, and sometimes, there would be personal remarks, comments that hit too close to home.

She was starting to feel it—the isolation. The feeling that she was being targeted by something darker than just school pranks. Every time she walked into class, she could feel eyes on her. Jongho’s eyes. He had made it clear that he enjoyed the game, that he enjoyed seeing her squirm.

But what was worse was how it started to affect her. She’d find herself unable to concentrate in class, the constant weight of his presence in the background. She started second-guessing her every move, wondering if her classmates could see the cracks forming in her façade. Her hands trembled when she reached for her books, and she found herself waking up in the middle of the night, heart racing, thinking she’d heard footsteps outside her door, as if he was watching her even when she wasn’t at school.

One afternoon, after a particularly brutal round of pranks in class, YN was heading to the library to get some quiet time. But as she turned the corner, she froze. Jongho was leaning against the wall, blocking her way. His usual smirk was replaced with something darker, a glint in his eyes that sent a chill down her spine.

"Thought you could escape?" he said softly, the words hanging in the air like a threat. "You’re mine now, YN. You’re not going to get away from me that easily." His tone was low, but there was a certainty to it, a finality that made her stomach twist.

She took a step back, trying to ignore the panic rising in her chest. "What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice shaky despite her best efforts to remain calm.

Jongho pushed off the wall and walked toward her slowly, his steps measured. "I want you to understand who’s in control," he said, his voice quiet but full of malice. "You don’t get to come in here, challenge me, and expect it to end like a fairy tale. You want to keep playing? Fine. But you better be prepared to lose. And when you do, I’ll be here to remind you."

Her heart raced as he took another step forward, his presence looming over her. There was no escape, no way to fight back. He had already won in ways she couldn’t even begin to comprehend. She stood frozen, a mix of fear and anger coursing through her veins.

She didn’t say anything more as Jongho turned and walked away, leaving her standing there with her heart pounding in her chest. The quiet moments after he left felt more oppressive than any of the pranks or insults he’d thrown her way. She could feel the weight of his words settling on her, knowing that he had marked her as his target, and there would be no way to avoid his wrath.

Jongho was playing a game, but this time, it wasn’t just about winning or losing. It was about control—and he was determined to make YN realize just how powerless she truly was.

The day had come. YN could feel herself on the edge, the constant psychological torment, the pranks, the whispers, the humiliation—it had all built up to this moment. Her hands shook slightly as she sat in class, trying to focus on the lecture, but her mind was clouded with frustration. She had been walking around with a constant knot in her stomach for weeks, dreading every moment she stepped into class, every glance that was thrown her way.

Jongho had been especially persistent that day. The moment she sat down, he was there, taking his usual seat behind her. His presence felt like a weight pressing down on her, and she could almost feel his eyes on her back, waiting for the perfect moment to start.

Then, it happened. Just like every other time, he shook her desk, hard enough to make her papers tremble and her drink teeter dangerously on the edge. But this time, something inside her snapped.

Her hand gripped the cup tighter than she realized, the warmth of the coffee almost burning her palm, but it didn’t matter. In one swift motion, she turned around and dumped the entire contents of her coffee on Jongho’s desk. The liquid splashed across his notes, seeping into the wood and staining everything in its path. The room went completely silent.

Jongho froze, his expression blank for a moment, as the coffee soaked into his things. The other students in the class watched in shock, unsure of how to react. YN's breath was coming fast and ragged, her heart racing in her chest. She had done it. She had finally snapped.

Jongho’s face twisted in anger, but there was something else in his eyes—surprise, maybe even a flicker of respect. He looked up at her, his jaw clenched.

“You think this is funny?” he growled, his voice low, dark with frustration.

But YN didn’t flinch. She didn’t back down. The tension in the room was palpable, but for the first time in weeks, she felt a sense of control. Her voice came out calm, but her eyes were fiery.

“Do you think this is funny, Jongho?” she shot back, her words sharp like daggers. “Do you think it’s funny what you’ve been doing to me all this time? The pranks, the insults, the mind games? You think I’m just going to sit here and take it? Well, I’m done.”

The class was dead silent, no one daring to speak. Jongho didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he slowly stood up, towering over her. His friends, who had been silent spectators until now, shifted uneasily in their seats, glancing at each other.

"You’re really testing me now, YN," Jongho said, his voice controlled but filled with an edge that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "You think this is the end of it? You think dumping coffee on my desk will make me back off?"

YN stood her ground, her posture strong, though inside she could feel a storm brewing. “Maybe it won’t make you back off, but it’ll make you think twice. You’re not invincible, Jongho. And I’m not afraid of you anymore.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the anger and frustration in his gaze palpable, before he finally spoke again, his voice low but cold.

"Don’t think this is over," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "You just made it worse for yourself."

But YN didn’t care anymore. She had finally spoken up, finally taken a stand. For the first time, she wasn’t the quiet, submissive girl she had been before. She had fought back, and even though she knew things were far from over, a small part of her felt empowered.

As Jongho turned and walked away, his footsteps heavy and deliberate, YN stayed seated for a moment, her heart still racing. She didn’t know what was coming next, but she knew one thing for sure: she wouldn’t let him control her anymore. She had drawn a line in the sand, and this time, she wasn’t going to let him cross it.

As YN and Jongho stood there, the tension between them thickening with every word exchanged, neither of them willing to back down, the professor’s voice cut through the silence like a sharp knife.

"Enough," the professor said, standing up from behind the desk. "Both of you, stay after class. You're clearly not focused on the lesson, so you're going to stay behind and finish your homework together. You’ll leave once you both complete it. Understood?"

The class seemed to hold its collective breath, eyes darting between the two of them. The professor’s order caught both YN and Jongho off guard, but neither could afford to challenge it. Both were still seething from their confrontation, their tempers flaring, but the professor had made it clear that there would be consequences if they didn’t comply.

Jongho shot YN one last, heated look, his jaw clenched tightly, before muttering under his breath, "This isn’t over."

YN didn't bother to respond. She was too exhausted, emotionally and mentally, to keep fighting. Instead, she gathered her things quickly and retook her seat, ignoring the whispers that started circulating through the room. Jongho, reluctantly, sat down beside her, though the air between them was still thick with animosity.

The professor, seemingly unfazed by the tension between the two students, resumed the lesson, but the entire class was distracted by the palpable conflict unfolding before them. Time dragged on as YN tried to focus on her work, her hands shaking slightly from the adrenaline that still buzzed in her veins. Her eyes kept darting toward Jongho, who was scribbling furiously in his notebook, as though the homework could somehow take his mind off the encounter.

Finally, the bell rang, signaling the end of the class, but the professor gestured for them both to stay. The students filed out of the room, leaving just the two of them alone, and the silence between YN and Jongho grew even more awkward. Neither of them spoke as they began working on the homework, the atmosphere charged with tension.

For the first few minutes, it was clear that neither was ready to engage in any form of conversation. YN focused on her paper, trying to ignore the weight of Jongho's presence beside her. But every now and then, she felt the heat of his gaze, the intensity of it making her skin prickle. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was still watching her, trying to figure out what she would do next.

Eventually, the silence became unbearable. Jongho broke it, his voice low but dripping with frustration.

"This is your fault, you know," he muttered, his pen tapping against the desk in agitation. "If you hadn’t made a scene, none of this would’ve happened."

YN didn’t look up from her paper, her focus unwavering. She had long stopped caring about his blame. "I didn’t make a scene. You pushed me to it. I didn’t ask for this," she shot back, her voice steady but edged with annoyance.

Jongho let out a low, frustrated growl. "You think I care about your excuses?" he snapped. "You think I won’t make you regret this?"

YN met his gaze, her own expression hardening. "I’m done with you trying to make me regret everything I do. You don’t scare me, Jongho."

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the tension crackling between them like electricity. It was clear that neither of them had the intention of backing down, but there was something else, too—something unspoken, a shift that neither could quite understand.

Jongho let out a deep breath, finally turning back to his homework. The air between them wasn’t any less tense, but at least it was quiet now, with both of them trying to get through the task at hand.

Time dragged on, and the silence remained. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, YN finished her homework. She stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor, and started to gather her things.

"Done," she said curtly, not bothering to look at him as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

Jongho followed suit, packing up his things, but his movements were stiff, like he was still holding something back. He didn’t say anything as YN turned to leave, but she could feel his gaze burning into her back.

"See you around, YN," he said, his tone low, a challenge lingering in his words.

YN paused at the door, her hand on the handle. She turned to face him, her expression cold but firm. "You’ll never get me to back down, Jongho," she said, her voice steady. "And one day, you’ll realize that."

Without another word, she stepped out into the hallway, leaving Jongho standing there, his fists clenched at his sides, trying to understand the weight of her words. The conflict between them was far from over, but somehow, YN felt like she had taken a small step toward taking back control. She didn’t know what would happen next, but for the first time, she felt like she could face whatever came her way.

After that tense punishment session, YN made a firm decision—she was done engaging with Jongho. She’d had enough of his games, his constant attempts to rattle her, and the exhausting back-and-forth that seemed to follow them everywhere. From that day forward, she resolved to ignore him completely.

She wouldn’t look at him during class. If she felt his gaze on her, she’d keep her head down and focus on her notes. If his friends tried to whisper snide remarks as she passed by, she’d pretend not to hear. She even started taking different routes to her classes to avoid crossing paths with him altogether.

At first, it seemed to work. Jongho didn’t immediately escalate things, and YN began to feel a small sense of relief. Hanni noticed the change too and encouraged her to keep at it.

“It’s the best way to deal with guys like him,” Hanni said one afternoon as they studied together in the library. “They thrive on attention. If you don’t give him any, he’ll eventually get bored and move on.”

YN nodded, determined to stick to her plan. She was finally starting to feel like she could breathe again, even if the occasional encounter with Jongho still made her stomach twist.

But, of course, Jongho noticed.

At first, he thought her silence was just a phase, a temporary retreat before she would come back swinging. But as days turned into weeks, he realized she was serious. She wasn’t reacting to him at all. No glares, no comebacks, no confrontations. It was like he didn’t exist to her anymore.

And it infuriated him.

In class, he’d purposely drop his pen near her desk, just to see if she’d flinch. She didn’t. He’d make loud remarks to his friends, knowing she could hear, but she never looked his way. Even during group projects, when they were forced to interact, she kept her responses curt and professional, refusing to engage in any unnecessary conversation.

The more she ignored him, the more it ate at him. Jongho wasn’t used to being dismissed like this. People either feared him, admired him, or tried to stay on his good side. But YN? She acted like he didn’t even matter.

One day, during a particularly dull lecture, Jongho found himself staring at her from across the room. She was diligently taking notes, her brow furrowed in concentration. Something about her calm, focused demeanor made his irritation bubble to the surface. How could she be so unaffected?

After class, as YN packed up her things, Jongho lingered by the door, waiting for her to leave. When she finally stepped into the hallway, he fell into step beside her, his presence impossible to ignore.

“You think ignoring me is going to make me stop?” he asked, his tone low and almost teasing.

YN didn’t even glance at him. “I don’t care what you do, Jongho. Do whatever you want. It doesn’t concern me anymore.”

As YN took a step to walk away, Jongho’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist—not harshly, but firm enough to stop her in her tracks. She froze, her eyes darting to where his fingers wrapped around her wrist before snapping up to meet his gaze.

“What is it now?” she asked sharply, her voice tinged with exasperation. “I talk to you, you make my life miserable. I ignore you, and now you’re bothering me again. What do you want from me, Jongho?”

Her words hung in the air, cutting through the bustling noise of students in the hallway. Jongho didn’t respond immediately, his jaw tightening as he stared at her. For a moment, it seemed like he was struggling to find the right words, his usual confidence faltering.

“I…” he started, but then stopped, his frustration evident. He released her wrist, running a hand through his hair as if trying to compose himself.

“You’re so irritating,” he finally said, his tone low but not as sharp as usual.

YN blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected response. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, his voice growing more frustrated. “You’re irritating. You come in here, acting like you’re better than everyone—"

“I never acted like that!” YN cut him off, her voice rising. “All I’ve done is mind my own business and try to survive in this place. You’re the one who decided to make me your target. And for what? Because I’m smarter than you? Because I beat you on a few exams? Get over it, Jongho!”

Her words hit him like a slap, and for a moment, Jongho just stared at her, his lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t back down, her chest rising and falling with anger, her gaze steady and unwavering.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

“Then explain it to me,” YN snapped, crossing her arms. “Because I’ve had enough of your nonsense. If you’ve got something to say, just say it already.”

Jongho looked at her, his expression unreadable. His usual arrogance seemed to waver, replaced by something more vulnerable, though he masked it quickly.

“You’re the first person who’s ever beaten me,” he said finally, his voice quieter than she expected. “I’ve always been at the top, always been the one everyone looked up to. And then you show up, and suddenly… I’m not.”

YN blinked, her anger softening just slightly. She hadn’t expected him to admit that, least of all to her.

“That’s what this is about?” she asked, her tone incredulous. “Your ego?”

Jongho’s jaw clenched, and he looked away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I do understand,” YN said, her voice firm but calmer now. “You’re used to being the best, and when you’re not, you don’t know how to handle it. But that doesn’t give you the right to make my life hell. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, just like you. If you have a problem with me, deal with it in a healthy way. Compete with me in class, not by… whatever this is.”

Her words seemed to strike a chord, and for the first time, Jongho didn’t have a retort. He just stood there, staring at her, his expression unreadable.

“Are we done here?” YN asked after a moment, her voice steady but tinged with exhaustion.

Jongho hesitated, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Fine,” she said, turning on her heel and walking away.

Jongho watched her go, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. For the first time, he felt… uncertain. He couldn’t explain it, but something about her words lingered, gnawing at him in a way that nothing ever had before.

Jongho sat with his friends at their usual spot in the cafeteria, poking at his food absentmindedly. The others were chatting and laughing, but his brooding silence didn’t go unnoticed.

Wooyoung was the first to comment, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Alright, spill it. What’s got you looking like someone stole your protein powder, Jongho?”

“Yeah,” Mingi chimed in, stuffing a handful of chips into his mouth. “You’ve been weird lately. Is it because of that girl again?”

At the mention of YN, Jongho’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look up, but his grip on his fork visibly tensed.

San raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s definitely about her. The way you keep glaring at her during class could set fire to her notebook.”

“Shut up,” Jongho muttered, shoving a piece of food into his mouth to avoid saying anything more.

But his friends weren’t about to let it go.

“It’s not healthy, man,” Yunho said, leaning forward with a concerned look. “You’re obsessed. Every time she walks into a room, you lose your mind. What’s the deal?”

Jongho finally looked up, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “Everything about her bothers me,” he said sharply. “The way she talks, the way she’s always so perfect in class, the way she acts like she doesn’t care about anything—”

“Or the way she beat you?” Seonghwa interjected calmly, raising an eyebrow.

Jongho shot him a glare but didn’t respond.

“Sounds personal,” Wooyoung teased, grinning mischievously. “Are you sure this isn’t just… you know, a crush?”

The table fell silent for a moment, and Jongho froze, his expression caught somewhere between shock and denial. “What?” he said, his tone sharp.

“You heard him,” Hongjoong said, smirking slightly. “All this energy you’re putting into her… are you sure it’s not something else?”

“No,” Jongho said immediately, his voice firm. “It’s not like that.”

“Are you sure?” San asked, leaning his chin on his hand. “I mean, it’s classic, isn’t it? The whole ‘I can’t stand her, but I can’t stop thinking about her’ thing. Sounds like a crush to me.”

“I don’t like her,” Jongho snapped, his ears tinging red. “She’s annoying, and she thinks she’s better than everyone else. That’s all.”

His friends exchanged knowing looks, clearly unconvinced.

“Whatever you say,” Wooyoung said with a shrug, his grin widening. “But I’ve seen this before. Denial is step one.”

“Step two is overcompensating,” Mingi added with a laugh.

“And step three,” Yeosang said smoothly, “is realizing you’ve been an idiot the whole time.”

Jongho scowled, shoving his chair back and standing up. “You’re all delusional. There’s nothing going on.”

He grabbed his tray and stormed off, leaving his friends laughing behind him.

But as he walked away, his thoughts betrayed him. Their words replayed in his mind, and for the first time, he wondered if there was a kernel of truth in what they said. No, he told himself firmly. It’s not that. It can’t be.

Still, the idea lingered, unsettling him in a way he couldn’t quite shake.

The next day, Jongho walked into college with a heavy sense of unease. His friends’ words from the day before replayed in his mind like an annoying song he couldn’t shake. A crush? On her? The idea was absurd—laughable even. There was no way that was true.

Yet, as he walked into the classroom and his eyes instinctively searched for her, he felt a strange tightness in his chest when he saw her sitting at her desk, completely focused on her notes. She was chewing on the end of her pen, her brows slightly furrowed, clearly deep in thought.

Jongho shook his head and looked away. No. Absolutely not.

But throughout the lecture, he found his gaze drifting back to her, no matter how hard he tried to stop himself. He told himself he was just observing her—nothing more. But every time she raised her hand to answer a question or leaned over to highlight something in her book, he found himself questioning his own thoughts.

Why am I looking at her? Why does it bother me that she doesn’t even glance in my direction anymore?

He denied it over and over. It’s not that. I’m just annoyed with her. That’s all. She’s competition, and I don’t like losing. That’s it.

But then, during a group discussion, she laughed at something one of her friends said, and Jongho froze. It wasn’t loud or attention-grabbing, but something about the way her face lit up made him stop and stare for just a second too long. His chest felt… weird.

He immediately snapped his head down to his notebook, gripping his pen tightly. No. No way.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, but the thought refused to leave his mind. Every time he saw her—whether in class, in the hallway, or even at lunch—his brain kept returning to the same annoying question: Why do I care so much?

By the time the final bell rang, Jongho was more frustrated with himself than he’d ever been. He stormed out of the building, ignoring his friends’ calls, and headed straight to the gym. He needed to work off this confusion, to get his head back in the game.

But even as he threw punches at the bag, the image of her wouldn’t leave his mind. Her voice, her laugh, her determination—it all haunted him.

And as much as he tried to deny it, a small, nagging voice in the back of his head whispered the truth he didn’t want to hear.

Maybe his friends were right.

The evening was calm as YN sat across from Hanni in their favorite cafe, sipping on iced coffee and chatting about everything and nothing. The warm ambiance of the cafe felt like a comforting bubble where YN could momentarily forget about the chaos that had become her college life.

As they wrapped up their time together, Hanni gave her a playful warning. "Don’t overthink things, okay? And if that Jongho guy gives you trouble again, call me. I’ll—well, I can’t fight, but I’ll be there for moral support."

YN laughed. “Thanks, Hanni. I think I’ll be fine.”

She hailed a cab outside the cafe and slid into the backseat, giving the driver her address. The night was cool, the faint hum of the city filling the silence as the cab moved through traffic. YN rested her head against the window, her thoughts wandering as the streetlights blurred into streaks of gold.

At a red light, the cab came to a halt. Absentmindedly, she glanced out the window, her eyes tracing the silhouettes of vehicles and pedestrians passing by. Then, her gaze locked on a sleek black motorcycle that pulled up beside her.

The bike was spotless, its polished surface gleaming under the streetlights. The rider wore an all-black outfit—leather jacket, gloves, and boots—and a black helmet that seemed to swallow the light. His presence was almost magnetic, drawing her attention without effort.

And then, as if he could feel her gaze, the rider tilted his head slightly in her direction. He reached up and flipped open the visor of his helmet.

Her breath hitched.

All she could see were his eyes, but that alone was enough to captivate her. They were sharp, intense, and utterly mesmerizing, framed by long lashes that made them look almost unreal. The dim glow of the streetlights reflected in his dark irises, giving them an almost smoldering effect. It was a gaze that carried an effortless power, like he didn’t need to say a word to command attention.

It took her a moment to realize she recognized those eyes.

Jongho.

Her heart skipped a beat. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but the weight of his stare was enough to send a shiver down her spine. It wasn’t hostile or challenging like she was used to; it was unreadable, calm, yet undeniably strong.

She couldn’t look away.

The light turned green, and the cab started moving again, breaking the spell. YN turned her head back toward the window, her mind racing. She could still feel his gaze lingering even as the cab sped away.

What was he doing out here? Why was he on that bike? And why, of all things, did the memory of his eyes make her cheeks burn?

She shook her head, trying to dismiss the thoughts. It’s just Jongho. Stop overthinking it, YN.

But deep down, she knew she wouldn’t be able to shake the image of him so easily.

The lecture hall buzzed with excitement as the professor announced the group assignment. "Alright, everyone! Pair up into groups of two for this project. You’ll be working together for the next two weeks, so choose wisely."

YN sat up straighter in her seat, mentally scanning the room for Hanni or anyone else she could team up with. She had barely turned her head to search when someone pulled the chair next to hers with an air of finality.

She glanced over, and her stomach flipped. Jongho.

Without so much as a greeting, he dropped his bag on the desk and leaned back in his chair. "I’m your partner," he said, his tone making it clear it wasn’t up for debate.

YN blinked at him, startled. "You didn’t even ask me. What if I already had a partner?"

He raised an eyebrow, his expression indifferent. "You don’t."

Her jaw dropped slightly. "And how do you know that?"

Jongho shrugged, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "Because I got here first. Problem?"

YN’s fingers tightened around her pen. His confidence was maddening, the way he acted as if he had every right to make decisions for her. "Actually, yes, I do have a problem," she shot back.

He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Too bad. We’re already partners. Let’s just get this over with."

YN stared at him, torn between frustration and disbelief. Of all people, why did he have to be the one to claim her as his partner?

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Fine. But don’t think you can just boss me around, Jongho."

He chuckled softly, the sound low and almost teasing. "Wouldn’t dream of it," he said, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

As the professor continued explaining the assignment, YN couldn’t help but glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He sat there, completely relaxed, as if he hadn’t just bulldozed his way into her plans.

Two weeks with him, she thought, resisting the urge to groan. This was going to be a long project.

As the lecture ended and the other pairs started discussing their plans, Jongho turned to YN, his expression as composed and commanding as ever.

"We’ll get started this weekend," he said, packing up his things. "Meet me outside campus. I’ll take you to my place."

YN blinked at him, confused. "Your place?"

"Yeah," he said matter-of-factly. "You live in the dorms, right? Too cramped to work there. My place is better."

She hesitated, her instincts screaming that this was a bad idea. "Wait… how am I supposed to get there?"

Jongho slung his bag over his shoulder, looking at her like the answer was obvious. "I’ll take you on my bike."

Her eyes widened. "Your bike? No way."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by her protest. "What’s the problem?"

"The problem," she said, crossing her arms, "is that you’re probably going to crash it on purpose just to mess with me."

At that, Jongho actually laughed—a low, deep sound that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. "Seriously? You think I’d risk my bike just to scare you?"

"Yes," she said flatly.

He smirked, leaning slightly closer. "I’m not crashing my bike, YN. Trust me, I take care of it better than I take care of myself."

She gave him a skeptical look. "Still, I don’t think it’s a good idea. I can just take a cab or something."

Jongho shook his head, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Cabs take too long. Besides, this way, I know you’ll actually show up."

YN frowned, feeling cornered. She hated how he always had a way of making her feel like she didn’t have a choice. "I don’t even like bikes," she mumbled.

"Then it’s about time you got used to them," he said with a smirk. "I’ll pick you up Saturday at noon. Don’t be late."

And with that, he walked away, leaving her standing there, staring after him in disbelief.

As much as she wanted to refuse, she knew Jongho wouldn’t take no for an answer. She sighed, already dreading the weekend. This is going to be a nightmare.

Saturday rolled around, and YN begrudgingly got ready for the day. She decided to keep it casual but cute, pairing a skirt with a cozy sweater and boots. She knew Jongho would probably make some snarky comment no matter what she wore, but she didn’t care.

When she walked out to the dorm entrance, there he was—leaning against his sleek black bike, arms crossed, looking effortlessly intimidating. His leather jacket fit perfectly, and the helmet tucked under his arm completed the look.

Jongho’s eyes scanned her from head to toe, and before she could say anything, he raised an eyebrow. "Are you really wearing that skirt?"

YN frowned, her hands going to her hips. "What’s that supposed to mean? Are you shitting on my fashion choices now?"

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "No, it’s not that. But if you want your skirt to ride up every time we hit a bump and your legs to freeze in the wind, then go ahead. Your choice."

She blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness. "Oh, how cute," she said sarcastically. "You’re looking out for me now?"

Jongho smirked, leaning slightly closer. "Don’t get the wrong idea. I just don’t want to deal with you whining the whole ride."

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "Fine, fine. I’ll change. You’re so thoughtful," she added with a dramatic flair of sarcasm before turning to head back inside.

As she walked back to her room, she muttered to herself. He really has a way of ruining a perfectly good morning.

As YN walked back out in her new outfit, Jongho was already waiting, his fingers tapping idly against his helmet. When he saw her, he wordlessly handed her a second helmet.

"Put it on," he said curtly.

She took it with a slight glare and slid it over her head, fumbling with the straps under her chin. It wasn’t exactly her area of expertise, and she struggled to fasten it securely.

Jongho tsked, stepping closer. "You’re hopeless," he muttered, reaching out to fix it himself. His fingers worked deftly, fastening the hook with ease. YN stood frozen as he worked, her cheeks warming at the proximity.

"There," he said, stepping back and grabbing his own helmet. "Try not to mess it up."

She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Jongho climbed onto the bike, motioning for her to get on. Reluctantly, she swung her leg over and settled onto the seat behind him. The bike rumbled beneath them, the vibrations already making her nervous.

"Hold on," he said, glancing over his shoulder.

"No, thanks," she replied stiffly, gripping the edges of her seat instead.

Jongho chuckled darkly. "Suit yourself."

Before she could react, he revved the engine, and the bike lurched forward. YN yelped, her hands instinctively flying to his waist as the sudden acceleration caught her off guard.

"Thought so," Jongho said smugly, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

"Shut up!" she yelled back, her grip tightening as they sped down the street.

The wind whipped past them, and YN had no choice but to hold onto him as they weaved through the city. Despite her earlier reluctance, she couldn’t deny that the ride was thrilling—though she’d never admit that to Jongho.

As they rode on, she felt a mix of frustration and something she couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, she chalked it up to the adrenaline. For now, she just wanted the ride to end without incident.

The bike came to a smooth stop in front of an upscale apartment complex. YN’s eyes widened as she took in the towering building, its modern design complete with sleek glass panels and a luxurious entrance. It was easily one of the nicest places she’d ever seen.

"You live here?" she blurted out as she climbed off the bike, staring up at the building in disbelief.

Jongho removed his helmet, shaking out his hair as he turned to her. "Yeah. Why?"

"Why?" she repeated, still gawking. "How can you afford a place like this at your age? Are you secretly some kind of heir or something?"

He smirked, clearly enjoying her reaction. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

YN rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but feel even more intrigued. She followed him as he led the way to the entrance, her curiosity growing with every step.

The lobby was just as impressive as the exterior—polished floors, tasteful decor, and a front desk manned by a professional-looking concierge. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing around, taking it all in.

"This is… insane," she muttered under her breath.

Jongho glanced over his shoulder, his smirk still firmly in place. "You coming, or are you just going to stand there gawking?"

She shot him a glare and hurried to catch up, determined not to let him get under her skin any more than he already had. But as they stepped into the elevator and ascended to his floor, she couldn’t help but wonder just how much she didn’t know about him.

As the door to Jongho’s apartment swung open, YN stepped inside and took a moment to take everything in. The interior was sleek and minimalistic, with a predominantly black and gray color scheme. There was gym equipment neatly set up in one corner, a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, and a couch that looked both comfortable and expensive. The only thing that stood out amidst the masculine decor was a small potted plant on the windowsill and a couple of oddly cute figurines on the shelf.

"This is so… you," YN said, her voice filled with curiosity as she walked further in, her fingers lightly brushing against the edge of the sleek black counter in the kitchen. "Gym equipment in the living room, all black interiors, and—wait, are those little figurines?"

Jongho leaned against the doorframe, watching her as she explored his space. "Don’t touch those," he said, his voice calm but firm.

"Relax," she said, giving him a playful glance. "I’m just looking."

Her curiosity and the way she looked at everything with awe made Jongho pause. His arms were crossed, but his gaze softened as he observed her. There was something about the way she moved—so full of energy, yet grounded—that made it hard for him to look away.

He caught himself staring and frowned slightly. What is wrong with me? he thought.

His mind wandered to his friends' teasing words from before. Did he actually like her, or was she just annoyingly cute today? The way she had stood up to him earlier, the way she looked at him with fire in her eyes, and now the way her curiosity lit up his apartment like she belonged there—everything about her was throwing him off.

YN turned around, catching him looking at her. "What?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Nothing," Jongho muttered, shaking himself out of his thoughts. "Are you done looking around, or are we actually going to work on this project?"

She raised an eyebrow, smirking a little. "I don��t know… maybe I should take a closer look at those figurines."

"Don’t even think about it," he warned, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

As she laughed and turned back to the desk he had cleared for their work, Jongho found himself wondering just how long he could keep denying whatever it was he was feeling.

As they sat down at the desk to start their project, Jongho found himself unexpectedly captivated by YN. At first, he had been irritated by her sharp tongue and unrelenting determination to beat him at everything. But now, as she leaned over the papers, her brows furrowed in concentration, he noticed the small things—how her hair framed her face, the way her lips pursed as she thought, and how her intelligence shone through every word she spoke.

She was explaining something about their topic, her voice steady and confident. He nodded along, but his focus wasn’t on the words—it was on her.

She’s not just smart, he thought to himself. She’s… beautiful.

He didn’t even realize he was staring until YN looked up, catching his gaze.

"Jongho?" she asked, waving a hand in front of his face. "Are you even listening?"

He blinked, quickly snapping out of his thoughts. "Yeah, of course. You were saying… something about this part of the project?"

She raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but let it slide. "Right… anyway, we’ll need to gather some more sources for this section."

As the hours went on, Jongho found himself getting more comfortable around her. The way she approached problems with a mix of logic and creativity impressed him, and he started to appreciate her little quirks—the way she tapped her pen against the table when she was thinking or the way she smiled triumphantly whenever she solved something tricky.

Unbeknownst to him, his initial irritation toward her was transforming into something else entirely. He liked having her around. Her presence, her energy, the way she challenged him—it all felt… right.

But he didn’t recognize it for what it was. Not yet.

He told himself it was just admiration, just a growing respect for her intelligence. But deep down, something was changing. Jongho was falling, and he didn’t even realize it.

Jongho leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms as he scrolled through food delivery apps on his phone. "I’m starving," he muttered. "I’m thinking of ordering something. What do you want? Pizza? Burgers?"

When he didn’t hear a response, he glanced up, only to find YN wasn’t in her seat anymore. Confused, he turned his head and saw her standing in his kitchen, opening cabinets and peeking into the fridge.

"What are you doing?" he asked, getting up and walking toward her.

YN glanced over her shoulder, tilting her head slightly as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Let me cook. Don’t waste your money."

He blinked, caught off guard. "You can cook?"

"Of course," she said, pulling out a few ingredients she had found—a carton of eggs, some vegetables, and a pack of noodles. "It’s not going to be anything fancy, but it’ll be better than spending money on overpriced takeout."

Jongho leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he watched her move around his kitchen like she owned the place. "You don’t have to do that," he said, though there was no real protest in his tone.

"I want to," YN replied simply, giving him a quick glance. "Besides, it’s the least I can do since I’m using your space for this project."

Jongho didn’t argue further. Instead, he stood there, watching her as she chopped vegetables with practiced ease. There was something oddly comforting about the sight of her cooking in his kitchen, her focus entirely on the task at hand.

He couldn’t help but smile to himself, a rare, genuine smile. This girl really knows how to surprise me, he thought.

As the aroma of the food filled the apartment, Jongho realized that for the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind sharing his space with someone else. And as much as he tried to deny it, he was starting to like the feeling.

As YN stirred the pot, she glanced over her shoulder to see Jongho still standing there, arms crossed, watching her like she was a show on TV. She raised an eyebrow.

"Why don’t you stop standing there like a statue and help me out, Jongho?" she said, a teasing lilt in her voice.

Jongho straightened up, clearly caught off guard. "Help? Me? You’re the one who insisted on cooking."

"And you’re the one with two perfectly working hands," she shot back, turning to point the spoon at him. "Come on, big guy. Chop some vegetables or something. Or do you only know how to lift weights?"

His jaw clenched slightly, more out of mock annoyance than anything else. "Fine," he muttered, stepping closer. He grabbed a knife and the vegetables she handed him.

"Careful," she said, watching him for a moment. "I don’t need you ruining my masterpiece."

Jongho gave her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "You really like bossing me around, don’t you?"

"Someone has to," she quipped, going back to her cooking.

He smirked but didn’t say anything, focusing instead on cutting the vegetables as precisely as possible. For a guy who spent most of his free time in the gym or with his friends, he was surprisingly good with a knife.

As they worked side by side in the kitchen, a strange sense of ease settled between them. The usual tension was still there, but it felt lighter somehow, almost playful.

"See?" YN said as she tossed the chopped vegetables into the pan. "Teamwork makes the dream work."

Jongho rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head."

But deep down, he couldn’t ignore how natural it felt to be here with her, working together like this. And no matter how much he tried to deny it, he liked it. Maybe a little too much.

As they sat down at the coffee table to eat, Jongho casually turned on the TV and scrolled through the streaming options. “Might as well put on something while we eat,” he said, settling on an action movie.

YN nodded, already digging into the meal she had prepared. She took a bite, and at first, everything was fine—until the spice hit her. Her face betrayed her struggle as her lips parted slightly, and her eyes darted toward her glass of water.

Jongho noticed immediately. He paused mid-bite, watching her subtle struggle. Without a word, he stood up and walked to the kitchen. YN blinked, confused for a moment, but didn’t say anything as she reached for her water.

When he returned, he was holding a small tub of ice cream and a spoon. He set it in front of her without meeting her eyes, sitting back down like it was no big deal.

She looked at the ice cream, then at him. “You… got this for me?”

“Don’t read too much into it,” he muttered, focusing on his food. “You looked like you were about to set your mouth on fire.”

Despite his dismissive tone, YN couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks,” she said softly, taking a spoonful of the ice cream. The cool sweetness instantly soothed her, and she let out a small sigh of relief.

Jongho glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, pretending to stay engrossed in the movie. But he noticed everything—the way her shoulders relaxed, the small smile playing on her lips, the way her eyes brightened as she ate.

It wasn’t the first time he had paid attention to her without realizing it, but it was the first time he felt… something. A warmth in his chest he couldn’t explain.

Why am I doing this? he thought, shoving another bite of food into his mouth as if that would quiet his mind.

Every little thing about her was starting to stick with him. The way she challenged him, the way she surprised him, the way she smiled. And now, the way she sat across from him, enjoying the ice cream he’d fetched without a second thought.

He shook his head slightly, trying to brush it off. It’s nothing, he told himself. It’s just… habit. Or pity. Or… something.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t. Even if he wasn’t ready to admit it yet.

Divider from @/cafekitsune

[railedby8tz]

I lost my account - and it got terminated out of the blue, so I decided to start with this new blog. Hopefully I can write more, and I'm excited to see what comes next~!

[railedby8tz]

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welcome to my blog~

𝜗𝜚 luvi ♱ she/they ♱ nsfw ♱ mdni (19+) ࣪𖤐 ➺ was @railedbyuyu ➺ my masterlist (tba) ➺ my twitter

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𝜗𝜚 about me ➺ UTC+9 ➺ atz, lads (2ho + caleb biased) ➺ open to writing requests (slow) ➺ 100% lurker, freelance photographer & sometimes a writer

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𝜗𝜚 what i will write/won't write ꨄ nsfw/sfw (angst, fluff, smut) ꨄ cnc/somnophilia ꨄ threesomes+ ꨄ bdsm ꨄ drugs/drinking × bodily fluids (except for cum, occasional blood) × incest/underage × rape × vore