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mingiatz · 2 days ago

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Y/n's quiet life as a florist unravels the moment Song Mingi walks through her shop. What starts as harmless weekly bouquet orders for a mysterious client spirals into a war she never asked to be part of. Between rival gangs, shattered glass, and secrets carved into blood, Mingi drags her into his world of steel and shadows.

But in a place where nothing grows, she learns that even mafia kings can crave color — and maybe she was meant to bloom right here, tangled in his storm.

Pairing: Song Mingi × Reader (Mafia AU)

Genre: Mafia AU · Romance · Angst · Action · Found Family · Hurt/Comfort · Slow Burn → Lovers

Tropes: Sunshine × Grumpy, Forced proximity / kidnapping → protection, Found family, Protective giant · Domestic softness under chaos

Featuring: All of Ateez as supporting characters

Warnings: Violence · blood · injury · guns, Mentions of abuse (Mingi’s father, backstory), Death of a parent, Emotional trauma · grief

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

Mingi wasn’t ready when she stepped out of the guest room.

Gone was the oversized hoodie, the dull sweats that had swallowed her whole. Instead, rose-colored flowy pants brushed the tops of her feet, a crisp white shirt framed her shoulders, and over it all a cardigan patterned with soft pink tulips hung open like a bloom in motion.

For the first time since he’d carried her into this place, she looked… like herself.

Bright. Warm. Alive.

The corner of her mouth tilted upward as she caught his stare. “What?”

He swallowed hard, ears already heating. “You look…” He stopped, fumbling. Beautiful. Like the sun I’ve been orbiting for a year. The words stuck in his throat. “More like yourself.”

Her smile widened, blooming fully. And something in his chest squeezed so tight he had to glance away, pretending to fuss with the plates on the counter.

When he finally found his voice again, it came out rougher than he meant. “Do you… want to come with me? To brunch.”

She blinked. “Brunch?”

He nodded, ears red. “Every Sunday. We eat together.”

Her brows shot up. “Wait. Are you telling me mafia bosses have brunch? Like… pancakes, orange juice, avocado toast brunch?”

Mingi shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s not… like that.”

Her smirk deepened. “No, go on. I need to hear this. Big scary gangsters all gathered around a table with waffles and mimosas. Please tell me you wear pastel polo shirts too.”

“Y/n.” His voice dropped, pout tugging at his mouth. “They’re my family. Hongjoong said… we should do things. Normal things. To remember we’re not only this.”

Something in his chest twisted as he said it. But it was true.

Her smirk faltered, softening into something more complicated. She looked down at the tulip patterns on her sleeves, then back up at him.

“You’re serious.”

He nodded once.

She sighed, shaking her head. “This is insane. Completely insane.”

But then she smiled again — hesitant, small, but real. “Fine. I’ll come. But if anyone serves me a mimosa, I’m leaving.”

Mingi’s lips curved despite himself. “Deal.”

And for the first time in days, he felt something almost like hope.

The elevator doors slid open, and Y/n immediately regretted agreeing to this.

The space they stepped into wasn’t some elegant dining hall like she half-expected in a mafia skyscraper. It was a large, open room with a long table stretched across the center, already loaded with food — eggs, rice, bread, fruit, steaming pots of soup.

And chaos.

Seven men already filled the room, voices overlapping in a cacophony that sounded more like a family kitchen than a den of criminals. San was arguing with Wooyoung over who had stolen the last dumpling, Jongho calmly piling food on his plate while ignoring them, Yunho moving dishes out of their reach before someone spilled something. Hongjoong sat at the far end, sipping tea like the eye of a storm, while Yeosang and Seonghwa spoke lowly at the side, clearly pretending not to hear the chaos.

Then the chaos stopped.

Seven pairs of eyes turned toward her and Mingi.

Y/n froze, suddenly aware of her rose-colored pants, her tulip cardigan, her very existence. They, on the other hand, were dressed in shades of gray, black, and white, like walking pieces of modern architecture.

No wonder Mingi gravitated toward her. She looked like a misplaced splash of color on a charcoal sketch.

Wooyoung’s grin spread slowly. “Well, well. Look who’s come to brunch.”

San whistled low, eyes flicking over her outfit. “Explains a lot.”

She shifted, tugging her cardigan tighter around herself. “Okay, listen.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “We started off badly. Really badly. And I may have, you know, yelled some… things.”

Mingi’s ears turned red beside her.

She lifted her chin. “So. Let’s try again. My name’s Y/n. I run a flower shop. I like bright clothes, I’m sarcastic when I’m scared, and apparently, I’m now… whatever this is.” She waved at the table, at all of them, at the food.

For a long moment, silence hung.

Then Hongjoong set his teacup down. His lips curved into a faint smile. “Kim Hongjoong,” he said evenly. “Leader of Ateez. I like music and order. And tea.”

“Jung Wooyoung,” Wooyoung said brightly, flashing a grin. “Mischief expert. Model-face, according to you. You weren’t wrong.”

“Choi San,” San added with a smirk. “Chaos incarnate. I laugh a lot. Sometimes at the wrong time.”

“Jeong Yunho,” Yunho said, his voice steady but warm. “The reasonable one. Usually.”

“Choi Jongho” Jongho corrected quietly, reaching for his chopsticks. “Youngest. Strongest. Also the one who doesn’t waste food fighting.”

“Kang Yeosang,” Yeosang said simply, his tone calm. “I see everything.”

“Park Seonghwa,” Seonghwa finished, voice soft but firm. “The oldest. The one who makes sure we don’t burn this place down.”

The introductions circled the table like a ritual, familiar to them, grounding to her.

Y/n swallowed, feeling the knot in her chest loosen just a little. “Well,” she said, forcing a small smile. “Nice to meet you all. Again.”

To her surprise, San grinned and pulled out a chair. “Come on, florist. Let’s see if you survive brunch.”

Y/n hadn’t known what to expect from mafia brunch.

Gun talk over coffee? Murder plans with side dishes?

But instead… it felt almost normal.

The table was crowded with food — steaming bowls of soup, eggs, rice, kimbap rolls, kimchi, bread stacked high. San and Wooyoung argued about who ate faster, Jongho quietly built a mountain of food on his plate, Yunho sighed and tried to keep the peace, and Seonghwa passed dishes around like a patient parent. Hongjoong sat at the head, sipping tea with the kind of calm authority that made him look less like a crime boss and more like a weary professor.

And beside her sat Mingi.

For once, he wasn’t brooding or terrifying. He was… smiling. Just faintly, but real. His eyes softened, his mouth curved, and it hit her like a sucker punch.

God help me, she thought. I can’t hate him. Even if I want to.

Her knee brushed against his under the table, almost without thinking.

Mingi jolted like he’d been electrocuted, nearly choking on his kimbap. He scrambled for his water, ears turning bright pink.

Y/n clapped a hand over her mouth, biting back laughter. He sent her a watery glare that only made her shoulders shake harder.

“Something funny?” Wooyoung asked, brows raised in suspicion.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Absolutely nothing.”

The attention shifted, thankfully, and then Yunho glanced her way. His voice was warm. “So, Y/n. Why flowers?”

She hesitated, fiddling with her chopsticks. “…It was my mom’s shop. I worked with her after school and after I graduated, and I just… never stopped. It felt right.”

San tilted his head. “She still runs it with you?”

Y/n’s throat tightened. She shook her head. “…She passed. A few years ago.”

The table went quiet, the noise of dishes fading.

Seonghwa’s voice was low, careful. “And your father?”

“I never knew him,” she admitted. Her eyes stayed on her rice bowl. “It’s just been me for a long time.”

No one spoke for a moment. The silence wasn’t heavy, exactly — just still. Like the air itself was listening.

Then Jongho asked, his voice quiet but blunt, “No friends?”

Her lips curved into a dry smile. “Not really. Just customers. Just the shop.”

For the first time since brunch began, no one laughed, no one teased.

And next to her, Mingi’s knee brushed hers again — this time deliberate.

She didn’t move away.

The taste of rice blurred on Y/n’s tongue. The conversation around her kept moving — laughter, the scrape of chopsticks, San teasing Wooyoung about his “model face” — but her mind drifted.

Flashback

The bell above the flower shop door jingled, the sound of rain dripping outside. Y/n sat hunched behind the counter, sleeves tugged over her hands, tears stinging her eyes.

Her mother knelt beside her, tucking a bright sunflower into her hair. “You’re crying again.”

“They laughed at me,” Y/n mumbled. “For my pants. Said I looked like a clown.”

Her mom smiled softly, smoothing her cheek. “That’s because they don’t understand. Flowers don’t ask permission to bloom, Y/n. They just do. And you… you’re a garden all on your own.”

Y/n sniffled, managing a weak laugh.

“Let them laugh,” her mother whispered, pressing her forehead to hers. “You’ll outshine them all someday.”

Years later

The shop still smelled of roses, but the air was heavy now, sterile, tainted by the faint scent of medicine. Y/n, older, stood behind the counter, her mother’s scarf hanging loose around her neck.

The girls at school whispered behind her back, louder now that boys had started to notice her. Confessions folded on scraps of paper, awkward gifts stuffed into her locker. She turned them all down. Not because she didn’t care — but because her world was shrinking, centering on the one person who mattered most.

Her mother’s smile grew weaker every day. Y/n’s focus never shifted.

The jealousy only made the bullying worse. But Y/n bore it silently, choosing to spend every spare moment arranging bouquets, tending to the shop, sitting by her mother’s side.

Flowers, not people, became her language.

“…So, Y/n,” San said, yanking her back to the table. “Anyone we should contact for you? A boyfriend? Someone who’ll worry if you’re gone?”

Her chopsticks clattered against the bowl before she could stop them. The words tumbled out, blunt and unguarded.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she blurted. “Never had one.”

Silence.

Seven pairs of eyes blinked at her.

Her face heated instantly. She wanted to crawl under the table.

Wooyoung let out a low whistle. “Seriously? Not even a high school sweetheart?”

She shook her head, cheeks burning. “No.”

“Not one?” San leaned in, grinning like this was the best news he’d heard all week.

“Never,” she repeated, her voice sharper than she meant.

Mingi stiffened beside her, nearly choking on his water.

The air buzzed with new energy — a mix of curiosity, teasing, and something heavier Y/n didn’t dare name.

And she wished, desperately, that the floor would swallow her whole.

The silence after her confession stretched too long. Too heavy.

Finally, Yunho broke it, his voice careful. “You’ve… never had a boyfriend? Why?”

Y/n shrugged, picking up her chopsticks again as if the question didn’t matter. “I got confessed to. A lot, actually. Especially after I got older.” She poked at her rice, her tone flat, factual. “But I turned them all down.”

“Why?” Wooyoung pressed, leaning over the table like this was the juiciest gossip he’d ever heard.

She didn’t even look at him. “Didn’t care. Didn’t have time. My mom was sick. And before that…” She paused, swallowing. “I was bullied. For my clothes, mostly. So I just tried to be invisible at school. Easier that way.”

The words fell quiet, simple, like stating the weather.

The table, however, stilled.

San’s grin faded into something more thoughtful. Jongho set his chopsticks down, his steady gaze softening. Even Yeosang, unreadable as ever, tilted his head just slightly, like he was seeing her differently.

Y/n shrugged again, finally looking up. “It wasn’t a big deal. People wanted things from me I didn’t want to give. So I said no. End of story.”

Her bluntness seemed to settle over the table like a heavy blanket.

But next to her, Mingi’s chopsticks had stopped halfway to his mouth. His jaw was tense, his ears pink. He didn’t say a word, but she felt the weight of his silence like a second heartbeat.

The air around the table had grown too heavy, and Y/n felt the weight of her own words pressing down like a stone. She stabbed at her rice, wishing she could rewind and bite her tongue.

Then San, of course, broke the silence.

“Well,” he drawled, smirk tugging at his lips, “looks like you and Mingi have more in common than you thought.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

San grinned wider. “You’ve never had a boyfriend… and he’s never had a girlfriend.”

Y/n blinked. “Seriously?”

The table erupted in laughter.

“Oh, seriously,” Wooyoung said, clapping Mingi on the shoulder. “Our big scary enforcer? Never even held hands with anyone properly.”

“Not true,” Mingi muttered, ears turning scarlet.

“Not true?” Yunho leaned in, eyebrows raised. “You want me to remind you of the time you wrote a love poem in middle school and left it in that girl’s locker?”

Mingi groaned, dropping his face into his hands.

Jongho’s lips twitched. “Didn’t she call you ‘sweet but hopeless’ and start dating someone else the next day?”

San slapped the table, wheezing. “He made himself such a clown in school. Big, tall, terrifying-looking Mingi, tripping over his shoelaces just to hold a door open for some girl.”

Wooyoung leaned back, grinning like a cat. “We started calling him Princess Mingi after that. Still do, sometimes.”

Y/n’s jaw dropped. She turned to stare at Mingi, who was hunched in his chair, ears and neck flaming red, glaring daggers at his so-called friends.

“You…” She pressed a hand over her mouth, laughter bubbling up. “You’re Princess Mingi?”

“Don’t,” he groaned into his palms.

But it was too late. She burst out laughing, doubling over in her chair. The image of terrifying, broad-shouldered Mingi being mocked as a princess by this pack of chaotic men was too much.

For the first time since she’d been dragged into this skyscraper, her laughter rang free and real.

And the look on his pouty, mortified face only made it worse.

When she finally caught her breath, she leaned forward, eyes bright. “Wait—do you guys really know each other since middle school?”

Yunho chuckled. “Longer.”

“Elementary,” Seonghwa added with a small smile. “Some of us even earlier.”

Y/n blinked, glancing around the table. “So you’ve basically grown up together? All of you?”

“Pretty much,” San said, popping a grape into his mouth. “Which is why we get to mock him endlessly. Family privilege.”

She smiled faintly, but her curiosity tugged harder now. “And… how did you all end up in this life?”

The laughter quieted. Forks stilled, chopsticks paused midair.

The shift in the room was subtle but sharp, like a shadow falling across the table.

Hongjoong set his teacup down, eyes glinting as they met hers.

“That,” he said softly, “is a longer story.”

Y/n’s question lingered in the air like smoke.

The table, once full of laughter and teasing, had gone quiet. Even San, who never seemed to stop talking, had stilled.

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his teacup. His gaze swept over the others, silent, as though asking without words if they should tell her.

No one stopped him.

Finally, he looked back at Y/n. “We didn’t wake up one morning and decide to be this,” he said calmly. “We were kids. Just kids trying to survive in a city that didn’t care if we starved or were treated right.”

Her chest tightened.

Seonghwa’s voice joined, quiet and steady. “Most of us came from nothing. Some without families. Some with families that were worse than nothing.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Mingi, then away.

Y/n swallowed, her throat dry.

Yeosang leaned forward slightly, his tone sharper, but not unkind. “We were small, weak, easy to step on. We got pushed around. Until one day we pushed back.”

San smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t take long for people to notice that we didn’t break so easily. Or that we had each other’s backs, always.”

“Family,” Yunho said softly, nodding once.

“Exactly,” Hongjoong agreed. “We built a family where we had none. And then… people started to fear us. And when you’re feared, you have power. Power we decided to use.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it was heavy in a different way. Not awkward — but weighted with the truth of who they were.

Y/n looked down at her hands in her lap, fingers curling against the tulip pattern of her cardigan. These weren’t just gangsters. They were boys who had grown up bruised and cornered, who had chosen survival together.

It didn’t erase what they were now. But it made it harder to hate them.

Her eyes flicked sideways. Mingi sat stiff beside her, shoulders tense, gaze locked on his untouched plate. He hadn’t said a word since her question.

And somehow… that silence told her more than any story could.

Mingi kept his eyes on his plate.

Y/n’s question had been simple. Direct. And the others had answered — Hongjoong with calm authority, Seonghwa with quiet steadiness, Yeosang with sharp honesty. They told her enough to paint the picture without dragging her into the details.

But for him, every word cracked open an old wound.

He could see it again — the cramped apartment, the empty fridge, the sound of shouting echoing through thin walls. The way his stomach ached at night when there wasn’t enough to eat. The kids at school who laughed at his size, who thought it was funny to trip the giant until he fell.

And the nights when he cried into his pillow, wishing he could be small, invisible, anything but himself.

He hadn’t been born strong. He’d been made strong. Forced into it.

The others had been his anchor. Hongjoong’s fire. Seonghwa’s steadiness. San’s laughter, even when it hurt. Yeosang’s sharp eyes that missed nothing. Yunho’s calm hand on his shoulder. Wooyoung’s chaos that made him forget, just for a little while, how heavy the world was. Jongho, steady even as the youngest.

Family.

The only reason he was still breathing.

And now Y/n — sitting beside him in her bright rose pants and tulip cardigan, a splash of color against their world of cement. She’d asked, eyes wide, wanting to understand.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to let her in.

But the words stuck in his throat. What good would it do, making her see the dirt, the blood, the weakness that built him into this?

His hands tightened into fists under the table.

She doesn’t need to know.

But when he risked a glance at her, he found her already looking at him. Not with fear this time. Not with hatred.

With something softer.

And it terrified him more than any rival ever could.

A week had passed.

It surprised Y/n, honestly. She hadn’t expected to last a day in the skyscraper, let alone settle into some kind of routine. But here she was — still wary, still stubborn, but breathing.

To her own surprise, she’d grown close to Yeosang. At first, she thought he hated her; he hardly spoke and always seemed to watch from the edges. But once she realized that was just… Yeosang, it had shifted. He was quiet, but sharp, and he had a dry wit that matched her sarcasm beat for beat when he chose to show it.

Now he was the one she found herself sitting with when the others got too loud. The one who pointed out where the cameras didn’t reach so she could have five minutes of privacy. The one who made her feel less like a prisoner and more like… someone who belonged.

And then there was Mingi.

She hadn’t forgotten what he’d done. Dragging her here. Throwing her life upside down. She still carried that anger, heavy in her chest.

But he’d also carried her when she was broken. He’d gone back to her apartment to bring pieces of her life into this cement-colored world. He’d cooked her breakfast. He’d listened when she yelled.

And little by little, she found herself trusting him again.

It started small. His hand brushing her elbow when they passed through a crowd in the tower’s lobby. Sitting beside him on the couch while the others argued over what movie to put on, their shoulders pressed together without either of them moving away.

Yesterday, she’d fallen asleep in the lounge, book in her lap, only to wake up under a blanket that smelled faintly like his soap.

And today —

Today, she laughed at something Wooyoung said, leaned too far to the side, and nearly dropped her chopsticks. Mingi’s hand shot out instantly, steadying her by the wrist.

The contact should’ve been nothing. Just skin against skin, his grip warm and steady. But Y/n froze, the world narrowing to that one point of touch.

When she looked up, he was already staring. His usual seriousness cracked, something raw flickering in his eyes before he dropped his hand like he’d been burned.

She pretended not to notice, biting back a smile.

But her chest was lighter than it had been in days.

Maybe, just maybe, she could survive this world after all.

The apartment smelled different tonight.

Not sterile, not heavy like it usually did. Instead, warmth spilled from the kitchen — garlic, ginger, something frying in a pan. Y/n’s laughter floated through the space, light and alive.

Mingi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching.

She was barefoot, her tulip cardigan draped over the back of a chair. In ist place, she wore loose, colorful pants and a shirt tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up. Music hummed low from her phone on the counter, and she moved with it — stirring the pan, swaying her hips, spinning lightly on her toes like the kitchen was her stage.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful.

Her hair caught the light when she turned, her smile soft and unguarded, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. He’d seen her cry, seen her furious, seen her broken on a flower shop floor. But this — this radiant, dancing version of her — was something else entirely.

She glanced over her shoulder and caught him staring.

“You’re not gonna help?” she teased, flipping something in the pan. “Or are you just planning on standing there looking intimidating while I do all the work?”

He tried to smirk but it came out softer than he meant. “You look… busy.”

Her eyes narrowed, though her lips curved. “Busy being amazing, you mean?”

“Something like that,” he admitted.

For a moment, she just watched him, her expression unreadable. Then, almost hesitantly, she held out her hand.

“Dance with me.”

His chest tightened. “What?”

“You heard me.” She stepped closer, hand still extended, her grin teasing but her eyes uncertain. “Dance with me, Mingi.”

He hesitated. He didn’t dance. Not really. Not since he was a kid tripping over his own feet. But her hand was there, open, waiting.

And he couldn’t say no.

He took it, his palm swallowing hers, and she tugged him gently into the center of the kitchen. The music swelled, soft and steady. She guided him, laughing when he stumbled, her fingers curling tighter around his.

“Relax,” she whispered, swaying closer.

He tried. God, he tried. Her body brushed against his, her head tilting up, her smile fading into something softer, more fragile.

The world narrowed to the space between them. Her breath on his lips. Her hand pressed against his chest. His heart pounding like it was trying to escape.

Closer. Just a little closer.

And then —

His phone rang.

The sharp vibration and tinny melody shattered the moment. Y/n jerked back slightly, blinking up at him with wide eyes, while he fumbled for the device on the counter.

The screen lit up with a name he didn’t want to see.

The world came rushing back in.

The name flashing on the screen made his stomach knot.

“Appa.”

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the decline button. But the ringing kept slicing through the room, and Y/n was still standing there — eyes wide, lips parted from their almost-kiss.

He swore under his breath and answered.

“Mingi-ah,” the voice slurred through the line. Drunk. Again. “My son… my big strong boy. You answer at last.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

A bitter laugh crackled back. “What do I ever want? Money. Just a little. I’ll pay you back, I swear—”

“You never do,” Mingi bit out.

“I’m your father,” the voice snapped, words tumbling over each other. “You owe me. After everything I—” The rest dissolved into curses, demands, incoherent rambling.

Mingi closed his eyes, knuckles white around the phone. His chest burned with shame, old and deep, a wound that never healed.

Finally, he muttered, “I’ll send something.” And hung up.

Silence dropped heavy in the kitchen. The music from Y/n’s phone had stopped. Only her breathing filled the space.

Mingi set his phone down slowly, staring at it like it was poison. The shame crawled up his throat, bitter and suffocating.

What was he doing? Dancing with her, almost kissing her, pretending even for a second that he could have this.

She was sunlight, laughter, tulip patterns and rose-colored pants. And he… he was cement. Heavy, gray, cracked. Dragging the weight of a father who never gave him anything but debts.

He pushed back slightly, creating space between them. “Y/n… maybe we shouldn’t—”

But before he could take another step, her hand shot out.

She grabbed his wrist, firm, steady. “Don’t.”

He froze.

Her eyes locked on his, fierce and unwavering. “Don’t you dare pull away now. Not after everything.”

Mingi’s breath caught. The shame roared in his chest, but her grip was warm, grounding, real.

And for the first time in years, he felt like maybe — just maybe — he didn’t have to face the weight alone.

The silence after his phone call was thick, almost choking. Mingi’s whole frame felt… heavier. Shoulders slumped, eyes shadowed, as though whatever voice had been on the other end had carved something out of him.

Y/n’s chest ached just watching him.

She moved closer, careful, and sat beside him at the counter. “Who was that?” she asked softly.

He didn’t look at her at first. His jaw worked, his big hands flexing against his thighs. Finally, he muttered, “My father.”

The word was sharp, bitter. She didn’t need to press for details — the look in his eyes told her everything.

“I shouldn’t have walked into your life,” he said suddenly, voice low and rough. “I should’ve left you alone. You’re too perfect for this… for me.”

Her head snapped up, anger sparking hot in her chest. “Perfect?” she repeated, incredulous. “You think I’m perfect?”

He blinked, startled.

“Let me tell you something.” She leaned forward, voice trembling, but not from fear. From fury. “I’m messy. I’m sarcastic when I shouldn’t be. I wear clothes that make people laugh at me. I get scared and run my mouth instead of shutting up. I don’t have a single friend outside of you guys, because I’ve spent my whole life hiding in a flower shop trying not to take up space. And my biggest flaw?”

Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned. But she forced the words out anyway.

“My biggest flaw is being fascinated by a tall idiot who ordered the weirdest flower bouquets I’ve ever had to arrange. And after everything — after the bruises, the kidnapping, the chaos — I still can’t stop thinking about him.”

The air went dead still.

Mingi stared at her, eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

Y/n’s face went up in flames. Heat crawled down her neck, her chest, until she thought she might combust right there.

“Forget I said that,” she blurted, scrambling to her feet. “Forget all of it!”

Before he could move, before he could speak, she bolted for the door.

The hall outside was cold, sterile, unforgiving — but at least it didn’t have his eyes burning holes into her.

Her chest heaved as she pressed her back to the wall, heart racing. She’d said too much. Shown too much.

And now she wanted to disappear more than ever.

Her feet carried her before her brain could catch up. Away from Mingi’s apartment, away from the echo of her own humiliating words, until she stopped in front of a door she barely recognized.

Yeosang’s.

She hesitated, chewing her lip, then knocked lightly. No answer.

So she tried the handle. It clicked open.

The sight that greeted her was… not what she expected.

Every flat surface of the apartment was buried in chip bags, empty soda cans, stray candy wrappers. A half-finished pack of Pocky leaned dangerously against a pile of ramen cups. The glow of a massive monitor bathed the room in blue light, the rapid clicking of keys filling the air.

Yeosang sat hunched in a gaming chair, headset on, eyes locked on the screen. His expression was laser-focused, hands flying across the keyboard as his character dove into some frantic battle.

“Yeosang?” Y/n whispered.

He jumped so hard he nearly knocked his headset off. “Shit—!” He whipped around, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?”

The question should have been obvious. But her brain was still spinning, still raw from what she’d blurted to Mingi.

Words tumbled out before she could stop them.

“I—uh—I just, I needed—I said something really, really stupid, and now I can’t go back to my room because he’s there and I literally told him that I think about him all the time and now I’m going to die of embarrassment and—” She stopped only to inhale, chest heaving. “Also, wow, you eat like a college freshman. Is that three bags of chips at once? And is that… beer with gummy bears next to it? What even is this place?!”

Yeosang blinked at her, still halfway out of his chair, headset dangling around his neck.

For a long moment, he just stared, like she was speaking another language.

Then, finally, his lips twitched. “You want the chair, or the floor?”

Her jaw dropped. “…What?”

“Chair or floor,” he repeated calmly, gesturing at the chaos around them. “Because if you’re planning to ramble like that for the next hour, I should at least get you comfortable first.”

Her laugh burst out sharp, surprised. And for the first time since bolting out of Mingi’s apartment, the tightness in her chest loosened.

Yeosang shoved a handful of gummy bears into his mouth and washed them down with beer like it was the most normal thing in the world. Y/n sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by chip bags, hugging a pillow she’d stolen from his couch.

And she rambled.

“…so then I cooked dinner, and it was nice, and I was actually kind of enjoying myself, and he was smiling and then we danced.” She groaned, burying her face in the pillow. “I can’t believe I danced with him. I don’t dance. Ever. And we almost—”

“Almost?” Yeosang asked through a mouthful of chips.

Her face went hot. “Almost kissed.”

He raised one eyebrow but didn’t comment, just reached for another can of soda.

“And then his phone rang,” she barreled on. “It was his dad. And suddenly it was like someone flipped a switch and he shut down. He told me I was too perfect for him, that he never should’ve walked into my life, and—” She threw her hands up. “I lost it. I yelled at him, told him all my flaws, and then—god, I said it—I told him I can’t stop thinking about him. And then I ran out like a complete idiot and ended up here in your… snack graveyard.”

Yeosang paused mid-chew, looking at her flatly. “Snack graveyard?”

She gestured around them at the half-eaten ramen packs and candy wrappers. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He shrugged, popping another chip into his mouth. “Not wrong.”

Y/n dropped her face back into the pillow with a groan. “Ugh. Kill me.”

“Tempting,” he deadpanned, reaching for more gummy bears.

She snorted despite herself.

But when she peeked up again, the humor drained from her voice. “The thing is… it wasn’t just what I said. It was what he said after his dad called. He really believes he’s bad for me. Like he’s broken or something. And that I’m too… perfect.” She rolled her eyes, but her voice trembled. “Which I’m not, by the way.”

The crunch of chips stopped.

Yeosang set the bag down slowly, his expression tightening in a way she hadn’t seen before. Sharp. Serious.

“What did you say?” he asked carefully.

“That his dad called,” she said, confused. “Why?”

For the first time since she walked in, Yeosang wasn’t casual or detached. His eyes sharpened, worry flickering through them like a storm breaking.

“Because if it was his father,” Yeosang said quietly, “then it makes sense.”

Her pulse skipped. “Makes sense?”

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, gaze still locked on her. “Mingi’s father is the one wound he’s never been able to close. And every time that man calls, he tears it open again.”

The room felt colder suddenly, the walls of Yeosang’s messy apartment pressing in.

And Y/n realized she’d stepped into something deeper than she’d ever expected.

Yeosang’s eyes stayed locked on her, sharper now, heavier.

“You really don’t know, he didn't told you.” he said softly.

Y/n swallowed. “Know what?”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. “About Mingi. About his father.”

Her pulse quickened. “He just said… something about not deserving me. That I’m too perfect for him.” She scoffed, though it came out weak. “Which is ridiculous.”

Yeosang didn’t smile. He stared past her, as if the memory was alive on the wall behind her.

Flashback

It was winter. Middle school. The hallways smelled of damp coats and chalk dust.

Yeosang remembered it clearly: Mingi slouched at his desk, hoodie pulled high, knuckles split. Bruises blooming ugly purple across his cheek, the edge of his jaw.

San had whispered furiously, “Who did this?”

Mingi had shrugged, muttered something about tripping, about fighting, about nothing important.

But they all knew.

They’d seen the way his father stumbled into school once, drunk and shouting. The way Mingi flinched when voices rose too loud.

And when they tried to help — when Hongjoong offered to talk to a teacher, when Seonghwa reached out a steady hand — Mingi pushed them away.

“I don’t need saving,” he’d snapped once, his voice cracking under the weight of it.

But Yeosang remembered the truth. Mingi’s anger spilling over, fists flying at boys who shoved him in the halls, shouting louder than anyone else just to drown out the echo of home.

He carried the bruises like armor.

Yeosang’s voice was low when he spoke again. “We tried. We all did. But he shut us out. Back then… his father was the monster he couldn’t fight. So he fought everything else instead.”

Y/n’s throat tightened, her chest aching. She thought of Mingi’s fists, his towering frame, his terrifying presence. The way he’d torn through those men in her flower shop like it was nothing.

And now she saw the boy under it. The one who came to school with bruises he wouldn’t explain.

The one who never believed he was worth saving.

Her voice came out small. “He thinks that’s all he is.”

Yeosang nodded, gaze unreadable. “Exactly.”

Y/n hugged the pillow tighter to her chest, her mind spinning, her heart pounding. For the first time, she understood why Mingi’s shame ran so deep.

And it made her confession feel even more dangerous.

Yeosang broke the silence first.

“You’re confused about him,” he said simply.

Y/n tightened her grip on the pillow in her lap. “…Yeah.”

“You know he’s not dangerous,” Yeosang continued, his gaze steady. “Not to you.”

She nodded slowly. “I do. I knew that the night he bandaged my wrist. He could’ve hurt me a hundred times over, but he never has. That’s not what scares me.”

Yeosang tilted his head. “Then what does?”

Her voice was quiet, raw. “How much I think about him. How much space he takes up in my head.”

For a long moment, Yeosang just studied her. Then he leaned back, reaching casually for another chip. “That’s because he’s not what you think he is.”

Y/n frowned. “Then what is he?”

“The softest of all of us,” Yeosang said, matter-of-fact. “The one with the biggest heart. The one who never wanted this life. He followed us into it because we’re his family, not because he wanted the power or the fear that comes with it.”

Her throat tightened.

“I’ve never seen Mingi fuss over anyone the way he fusses over you,” Yeosang added. “He went back to your apartment just to pack your favorite socks. He checks if you’ve eaten. He even…” His mouth twitched faintly. “He even googled recipes last week because he was worried you didn’t like his cooking.”

Y/n blinked, heat flooding her cheeks.

Yeosang’s eyes softened, though his voice stayed flat. “If you think he doesn’t care, you’re blind. He’s terrified, Y/n. Not of you, but of losing you. That’s why he keeps pushing you away.”

Her chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

She’d suspected it — every soft glance, every blanket he tucked around her, every time his hand steadied her without asking. But hearing Yeosang say it out loud, sharp and certain, made it impossible to deny.

Mingi wasn’t dangerous. He was scared.

And maybe, just maybe… she wasn’t the only one tangled in this pull between them.

The apartment felt hollow without her.

Mingi sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the spot where she’d stood not an hour ago. The pan on the stove had gone cold, the faint smell of garlic and ginger clinging like a ghost.

Her words kept replaying, echoing sharp and soft all at once.

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

His chest twisted every time.

He’d wanted to pull her close, tell her he thought about her too — all the time, every day, since the first bouquet. But then she ran, and the shame rushed back in. The voice of his father, the weight of his past, the certainty that he didn’t deserve her.

The knock on his door was soft, followed by the sound of it opening anyway. Yunho stepped inside, his calm presence filling the room without asking permission.

“You look like hell,” Yunho said quietly, glancing at the untouched plates. He moved closer, hands in his pockets, eyes steady. “Where’s your soon-to-be girlfriend?”

Mingi’s head snapped up, heat rushing to his face. “Don’t—”

Yunho raised an eyebrow. “What? Too soon?”

Mingi groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “She’s not— She said things and then she ran. I…” He shook his head, jaw tight. “She deserves someone better. Someone clean. Not me.”

Yunho leaned against the counter, watching him with the kind of patience only Yunho had. “Mingi.”

He didn’t answer.

“You’re not dangerous to her,” Yunho said firmly. “You’ve never been. And she knows it. If you can’t believe in yourself yet, at least believe her.”

Mingi’s throat burned, words sticking there like thorns.

Yunho sighed, softer now. “You love her. Everyone sees it. And trust me, she’s not running because she regrets saying what she did. She’s running because it scared her to admit it.”

Mingi looked up slowly, the words cracking something in him.

Yunho’s lips tugged faintly, the ghost of a smile. “So quit staring at cold food and do something about it, Princess.”

Mingi let out a weak, embarrassed laugh despite himself — the first sound of relief in hours.

Yunho didn’t give him a choice.

One minute, Mingi was still slumped on the couch, drowning in his own thoughts; the next, Yunho hauled him up by the wrist and shoved him toward the door.

“Hyung—” Mingi tried weakly.

“Nope,” Yunho said firmly, marching him down the hall. “You’re not rotting in your apartment tonight.”

The hum of voices and laughter reached them before they pushed into the common room. San and Wooyoung were already sprawled on the couch, a half-empty bottle of soju between them, arguing about who could drink more shots without passing out. Jongho sat at the edge with his usual unimpressed look, though the faint flush in his cheeks betrayed the alcohol. Hongjoong nursed a glass of whiskey at the far end, Seonghwa beside him with his sleeves rolled neatly, sipping quietly.

Yeosang’s seat was empty.

“Look who I found sulking,” Yunho announced, dragging Mingi in like he was presenting a stray cat.

San whooped. “Princess Mingi returns!”

Wooyoung patted the couch beside him with a grin. “Come on, lover boy. Drink with us.”

Mingi groaned, but Yunho shoved him down into the seat anyway. A shot glass was pressed into his hand before he could argue.

One became three. Three became five. The room blurred with laughter, voices loud and overlapping, warmth buzzing under his skin.

And then… he started talking.

About the cooking. About the way she danced in his kitchen. About how beautiful she looked when she smiled, how his heart nearly stopped when she asked him to dance with her.

He told them about the almost-kiss. About his father’s call and how it ripped everything apart inside him. About how Y/n grabbed his wrist, wouldn’t let him walk away — and then confessed she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

“And then,” Mingi slurred, slamming his empty glass down, “she ran. Just ran. Like I’m the monster I always knew I was.”

The room went quiet for a beat.

San’s grin faltered, replaced by something softer. Wooyoung blinked, his teasing pause mid-sentence. Even Hongjoong set his glass down, his sharp eyes steady on Mingi.

Seonghwa was the first to speak. “She’s not running from you, Mingi. She’s running from herself. From how big this feels already.”

Wooyoung leaned back, lips quirking faintly. “Still, hearing you say it out loud…” He let out a low whistle. “You’re gone, man.”

Mingi dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “I know.”

The others chuckled, the teasing back again but gentler now, cushioned by something like solidarity.

But Yeosang’s chair remained empty. And a small part of Mingi wondered if Y/n was there with him, telling her own side of the story.

The words still echoed in her head.

“I can’t stop thinking about him.”

She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, tucked into Yeosang’s couch with a blanket she’d stolen from the backrest. His apartment still looked like a snack graveyard — cans, chip bags, candy wrappers everywhere — but it was safe. Quiet. Away from Mingi.

When Yeosang returned from the kitchen with another soda, she blurted before she could stop herself.

“Can I sleep here tonight?”

He froze mid-step. Then blinked at her. “…No.”

Her heart dropped. “No?”

“No,” he repeated, settling back into his chair, headset dangling around his neck. “You should talk to him.”

She buried her face in the blanket. “I can’t. Not after what I said.”

Yeosang gave her one of his long, unreadable looks. “Y/n, you look like a wreck.”

“I feel like a wreck,” she admitted, muffled into the fabric.

He sighed, setting the can down with a dull thunk. “The guys are drinking in the common room. I should probably go down there for an hour, make sure they don’t burn the place down.” His gaze softened slightly. “You can stay here until then. But after that, you know what you need to do.”

She peeked at him over the blanket. “You’re really not going to let me hide, are you?”

“Not a chance,” Yeosang said, deadpan. Then he popped open his soda and added, almost too casually, “Besides… he’s probably thinking about you right now.”

Her chest tightened, heat rising to her cheeks. She groaned and buried herself deeper in the blanket, wishing the floor would swallow her whole.

Yeosang just sipped his soda, eyes back on his screen, like he hadn’t just shattered her defenses with a single sentence.

Yeosang closed the door to his apartment behind him, sliding his hands into his pockets as he walked down the hall.

Two idiots. That’s what they were.

Y/n, wrapped up in a blanket on his couch like the world was ending. Mingi, probably pacing his apartment or staring holes into the wall. Both of them circling each other for a year — the flower shop, the bouquets, the stolen glances — and neither willing to admit it until now. And even then, they still managed to run in opposite directions.

Yeosang shook his head. “Idiots.”

The noise of the common room grew louder as he approached — laughter, voices slurring, the clink of bottles against the table.

He stepped inside and immediately found Mingi.

Or rather, Mingi found him.

The man was slouched in his chair, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy from too much soju. But the moment Yeosang entered, his gaze locked on him like a predator.

“Yeosang.” Mingi’s voice was rough, low. “Is she—” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “At your place?”

Yeosang blinked. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. Oh. He was jealous.

Delicious.

“Relax,” Yeosang said smoothly, taking a seat across the room. “She’s fine. Wrapped up like a burrito, sulking into a blanket. That’s all.”

Mingi’s shoulders slumped, relief flashing across his face before it crumpled back into drunken misery.

“I need her,” he muttered, voice cracking.

Yeosang arched a brow. “We heard you the first time.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Mingi insisted, lurching forward. His words tumbled out, thick with alcohol and desperation. “I need her. I need her smile, her colors, her voice. I need her to look at me like I’m not broken. Like I’m not… him.”

The table went quiet, the laughter dimming as his confession filled the air.

Mingi dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking. “I need her,” he whispered again. “Over and over and over.”

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. But inside, he couldn’t help the small flicker of satisfaction.

At least the idiot finally said it out loud.

Mingi was a mess.

His long frame slouched in the chair, cheeks flushed pink, eyes glassy, lips pushed into a pout that made him look more like a sulky teenager than one of the most feared names in the city.

“I need her,” he muttered again, voice thick. “Right now. Y/n. She has to take me back.”

San groaned, flopping onto the couch beside him. "Just stand up. We’ll walk you to your room.”

Mingi didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Wooyoung tried next, tugging on his arm. “Come on, big guy. Bedtime.”

Mingi’s weight stayed planted, immovable as stone. He shook his head stubbornly, lips pushed out. “Not unless she’s there.”

The room went quiet for a beat. Then Jongho snorted into his drink. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Seonghwa pinched the bridge of his nose like he was gathering infinite patience. “Mingi, you don’t need Y/n to walk down one hallway.”

“Yes, I do,” Mingi mumbled, slumping lower. “Only her. She’s… mine.”

Yeosang’s lips twitched, fighting the smirk that threatened. So this is what it takes to get him to admit it in front of everyone.

Hongjoong set his glass down with a sigh. “He’s not going to move, is he?”

Yunho shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“Fine,” Hongjoong muttered, rubbing his temple. “Then go get her. Before he decides to sleep here and drool all over the couch.”

Yeosang leaned back, arms crossed, eyes glinting with amusement. Perfect. I warned her she couldn’t hide forever.

And for once, he almost looked forward to watching the chaos that was about to follow.

Y/n had tried hiding in one of the empty lounges, curled into a corner chair with her knees tucked up and her cardigan wrapped tight around her. The quiet helped — at least until the knock rattled the door.

She froze.

The door creaked open, and San’s grinning face appeared in the gap. “There you are! Our missing princess handler.”

Before she could react, Wooyoung slipped in behind him, eyes sparkling. “Come on, Y/n. You’re needed.”

Her stomach sank. “I’m what?”

San beamed. “Mingi won’t move without you.”

Her mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Not even a little,” Wooyoung said, grabbing her wrist with infuriating cheer.

“I’m not—” she tried, but San had already hooked his arm through hers on the other side.

“Let’s go,” he sang, practically hauling her out of the room. “Your knight in sulky armor awaits.”

Her heart hammered as they dragged her down the hall toward the common room. The noise grew louder with every step — laughter, drunken voices, the clink of bottles.

And then she saw him.

Mingi was sprawled in a chair, long legs stretched out, head tipped back, cheeks flushed pink. His pout was monumental, his hair mussed, and his eyes — heavy-lidded but sharp — found her the second she stepped inside.

“There,” he slurred, voice thick with relief. “My Y/n.”

Her whole body went hot.

San and Wooyoung grinned at each other like proud matchmakers, giving her a gentle shove forward.

And suddenly she was standing in front of a six-foot-tall mafia enforcer who looked like the world’s sulkiest giant baby.

“What,” she managed, breathless, “did you drink?”

“Not enough,” Mingi muttered, reaching a hand toward her like she was the only anchor in the room. “Take me home.”

Her heart squeezed so hard she almost forgot how to breathe.

Mingi leaned heavily against her as they shuffled down the hall, his arm draped clumsily over her shoulders.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled, his breath hot against her ear.

“You’re heavy,” she shot back, huffing under his weight.

He pouted, lips brushing dangerously close to her temple. “Don’t be mean. I like you.”

Her cheeks burned. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m honest,” he corrected, his voice low and sulky. “Honest and drunk.”

She wrestled the door panel open and half-dragged, half-guided him inside his apartment. The moment they reached the couch, he flopped down with a dramatic sigh — only to tug her arm, pulling her down beside him.

“Mingi—” she protested, but he buried his face into her shoulder, mumbling something incoherent about tulips and pancakes.

Her heart stuttered.

“Just stay here,” he whispered, his big hand curling gently around her wrist. “Please.”

Y/n swallowed hard, frozen between the weight of his warmth and the realization that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t only drunk when he said it.

Back in the common room, the silence after they’d left hung for a beat before Wooyoung let out a bark of laughter.

“Did you see him? He was like a giant toddler clinging to his mom at daycare drop-off.”

San wheezed, practically doubled over. “My Y/n! Oh my god, I thought I was gonna die.”

Jongho rolled his eyes, though the corners of his mouth twitched. “He’s pathetic.”

“Pathetic, but kind of sweet,” Yunho countered, pouring himself another drink. “I’ve never seen him look that relieved.”

Seonghwa shook his head, though his smile was fond. “He’s going to hate himself in the morning when he remembers half of this.”

Then he paused, setting his glass down. His voice was softer when he spoke again. “But… I don’t mind.”

The others looked at him.

“That our family is getting bigger,” Seonghwa said simply. “I actually like her.”

For once, Wooyoung and San didn’t have a quick comeback. Even Hongjoong’s sharp gaze softened as he nodded faintly.

Yeosang leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, expression calm but eyes glinting. “About time, though.”

Hongjoong arched a brow. “About time for what?”

“For him to stop pretending,” Yeosang replied.

The others exchanged knowing looks, smirks tugging at their lips.

And for the first time that night, it felt less like watching a disaster unfold — and more like watching something inevitable finally fall into place.

Mingi’s weight was heavy against her, his head tucked into the crook of her neck as if he’d decided that was his permanent home. His arm draped across her waist, holding her in place no matter how much she squirmed.

“Mingi,” she whispered, trying to pry herself free.

He only grumbled, nuzzling closer. “Don’t go.”

Her heart stuttered. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do,” he mumbled, his voice low and unsteady. “I know I need you.”

Her breath caught.

“You’re… bright,” he went on, words tumbling out in uneven bursts. “Colors and flowers and laughter. And me? I’m just… cement. Heavy. Gray. But when you look at me—” His grip tightened on her wrist. “When you look at me, I don’t feel broken. I feel… alive.”

Y/n’s throat burned. She should have pulled away, should have told him to sleep it off. But she couldn’t. Not when his words wrapped around her like vines, tender and raw.

“Mingi…”

“I like you,” he confessed softly, almost childlike. “More than like. I think about you all the time. Every week, every bouquet. Every smile. I just wanted… an excuse to see you.”

Her chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

He sighed, his breath warm against her collarbone. “I don’t deserve you. But I can’t stop wanting you.”

The room fell quiet after that, his words lingering heavy in the air. His arm slackened, his breathing evened out, and soon the steady rhythm told her he’d slipped into sleep.

Y/n stayed frozen, wide-eyed, her heart racing.

Then, slowly, she let her own body relax against his.

Wrapped in his warmth, his scent, and the weight of truths she hadn’t expected to hear tonight, her eyes drifted closed.

And for the first time since being dragged into this world, she slept without fear.

Mingi woke slowly, his skull pounding, mouth dry. Definitely too much soju.

But then he realized he wasn’t alone.

Y/n was curled against his side on the couch, her cheek on his chest, her hand curled into his shirt like she’d been holding onto him all night. Her warmth, her scent, the steady rise and fall of her breathing — it wrapped around him like something he’d never thought he’d have.

He stirred, shifting slightly. She blinked awake, eyes heavy with sleep, and tilted her head up. Their faces were suddenly inches apart, her lips close enough to steal his breath.

Mingi froze. Memories from last night crashed over him — the dancing, his father’s call, her confession, his drunken rambling into her shoulder.

Shame burned hot in his chest.

“I—” His voice cracked. He looked away, ears flaming. “I’m sorry about last night. I was drunk, I said too much, and I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable and—”

“Stop.”

Her fingers brushed his jaw, gently turning his face back toward her. His breath hitched.

And then she kissed him.

Soft. Sure. Real.

The world tilted. For a heartbeat he forgot how to breathe. He kissed her back, clumsy but desperate, until she pulled away just enough to rest her forehead against his.

“Drunk or not,” she whispered, lips curving faintly, “you meant it. So did I.”

Mingi’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might break through his ribs. The words tangled in his throat, tumbling out in a rush.

“I—uh—I didn’t mean to say so much, or maybe I did, I don’t know, because I’ve been thinking it for a long time, and you’re just—everything, you’re colors and flowers and warmth, and I know I’m not good with words but I—”

He swallowed hard, breath shaking. “I like you. A lot.”

Y/n’s smile softened, her eyes shining in the dim light.

And in that moment, with her forehead pressed to his and her hand still warm against his jaw, Mingi didn’t feel broken.

He just felt like hers.

Her smile. That small, knowing smile after he’d finally said it — I like you. A lot.

It was enough to knock the breath clean out of him.

Mingi scrambled to say more, words tripping over each other like stones rolling down a hill.

“I mean, I don’t just like you, I— it’s more, but I don’t want to scare you by saying too much because I already made a fool of myself last night, and I know I’m clumsy and loud and not exactly—” He broke off, ears burning. “I just… every time you smile, I forget how to breathe. And when you’re not around, it’s like the whole place goes gray again. And I don’t want to drag you down, but I— I can’t stop wanting you here.”

Y/n blinked at him, her cheeks flushed, lips parted as if she didn’t know what to say.

He panicked. “Not that I expect you to like me back, or— or even kiss me again, though I wouldn’t mind, obviously, but—”

“Mingi,” she said, laughter bubbling in her voice.

He froze. “What?”

Her thumb brushed across his jaw, soft and steady. “You don’t have to explain everything. I got it the first time.”

His heart stuttered, the relief hitting so hard it almost made him dizzy.

And then—

The door banged open.

“Princess Mingi!” San’s voice rang out, followed by Wooyoung’s cackle. “Are you alive in here, or should we—”

Both of them froze in the doorway, grins stretching wider than the sun.

Mingi nearly fell off the couch, his entire face igniting red. “GET OUT!”

“Aw, look at him blushing,” Wooyoung sang, leaning on San’s shoulder. “Our big scary enforcer turned into a teddy bear.”

San smirked. “More like a koala. Clinging to his Y/n.”

Mingi groaned, burying his face in his hands, wishing for the ground to swallow him whole. But Y/n’s quiet laugh beside him, light and real, made it a little easier to survive the humiliation.

Because for once, she wasn’t running.

She was right there, tangled up with him.

And maybe — just maybe — that was all that mattered.

Mingi’s face burned so hot he thought he might combust on the spot.

San and Wooyoung were doubled over in the doorway, laughing so hard they nearly fell into each other.

“Koala Mingi!” San wheezed, clutching his stomach.

“My Y/n!” Wooyoung mocked, clutching at his chest like a lovesick fool. “You should’ve seen yourself—”

“GET OUT!” Mingi shouted again, voice cracking, but that only made them laugh harder.

And worst of all? Y/n was laughing too.

Not the nervous, sarcastic laugh he’d heard before. But real laughter — bright, free, bubbling up until she leaned into him, shaking with it.

His embarrassment should’ve swallowed him whole. Instead, something softer took root in his chest.

Because he’d never seen her so unguarded. And if being their punchline meant he could hear that sound again, maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Finally, Seonghwa’s sharp voice rang down the hall, dragging the others away with promises of “one more round.” The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Mingi and Y/n in the quiet aftermath.

She was still smiling when she looked up at him. “Princess Mingi, huh?”

He groaned, dragging his palms over his face. “I’m never living this down.”

Her smile softened, her hand reaching out to tug his fingers away. “I like it.”

His heart stumbled.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then the words tumbled out before he could stop them.

“Y/n, I… I can’t promise I’ll do everything right.” His voice was low, rough. “I’ll mess up. I’ll say the wrong things. I’ll probably drive you crazy. But—” His throat tightened. “I’ve only had eyes for you. For over a year. Every week… it was never about the flowers. It was about seeing you.”

Her lips parted, eyes wide.

Heat rushed to his cheeks, but he pressed on, desperate to make her understand. “There’s never been anyone else. Just you.”

The silence between them thrummed, heavy and alive. Then her hand cupped his jaw, her thumb brushing his cheekbone.

“Mingi,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I know.”

And she kissed him.

This time, it wasn’t hesitant or fleeting. It was deep, slow, certain — her fingers cradling his face, his hands sliding to her waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

Every ounce of shame, of fear, of doubt burned away under the weight of her mouth on his.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, her breath mingled with his.

“I like you too,” she murmured. “A lot.”

Mingi’s chest ached with so much relief, so much joy, he thought he might explode.

And as he held her there, her laughter still echoing in his ears, he knew there was no turning back.

Only her. Always her.

The tower was quiet in the lull after brunch, the common room filled with the easy sprawl of family. Yunho leaned at the counter with a half-finished coffee, Jongho ate pears with military precision, and San and Wooyoung laughed over a phone screen until Seonghwa confiscated it with one sharp glance. Yeosang stood at the window, gaze unfocused but sharp, while Hongjoong sat at the table tapping a pen, each click deliberate.

Mingi sat among them, still carrying the glow of last night. I like you too. A lot. The words replayed like a rhythm under his skin, steadying him in ways he didn’t dare speak aloud.

The security line rang.

Yeosang answered on speaker.

“Front reception,” a guard said. “We have a walk-in demanding to see Mr. Song.”

All eyes turned to Mingi.

He set down his cup. “Name?”

Static, then the guard again: “Says he’s your father.”

The room froze. Even Wooyoung’s grin died.

Mingi forced himself to breathe. “I’ll come down.”

The others rose with him, unspoken. Yunho close at his side, Seonghwa steady, Hongjoong already moving. San and Wooyoung fell in behind, Yeosang and Jongho forming the rear. Family, closing ranks.

The elevator ride was silent, the city humming beyond the glass.

The lobby gleamed cold. Two guards stood near, eyes wary.

And there he was.

Mingi’s father.

Disheveled, sour with drink, shirt half-done, eyes bloodshot. He sneered the moment he saw his son. “Mingi-ah. There he is. My big, strong boy.”

Reflex locked Mingi’s shoulders. His chest went tight.

His father spread his arms wide in mock welcome. “Look at you. Playing king in a glass box. Thought you’d be too important to see your own father.”

“Appa,” Mingi said flatly. He signaled the guards back.

The others shifted closer, silent but alert.

His father’s laugh was sharp, ugly. “What do you even do up there? Arrange flowers? You always liked flowers. Things that die fast.”

Mingi clenched his jaw.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Money. What else?”

The venomous smirk widened. “You owe me.”

“I don’t owe you,” Mingi snapped before he could stop himself.

That was when his father shoved him.

Hard.

Mingi rocked back a step, catching himself before he stumbled.

“Ungrateful brat,” the man spat. His hand came up again, jabbing at Mingi’s chest, shoving once, twice. “You think you’re a man because you wear a suit and hide behind these—” He spat then, saliva hitting Mingi’s jacket, sliding down the lapel.

San lunged, fury bright in his eyes, but Mingi’s hand shot out to stop him. “Don’t.” His voice was quiet, hoarse.

Wooyoung swore under his breath, fists trembling at his sides. Yunho’s jaw tightened. Even Hongjoong shifted forward, eyes cold and sharp.

But Mingi held them all back with a single shake of his head.

His father saw it. Smelled it. The power in restraint. He smiled, teeth yellowed, and pressed closer.

“You’re nothing,” he hissed, breath wet with whiskey. “Nothing but the soft boy I should’ve beaten harder. Too big, too small, too weak.” He shoved again, fingers digging into Mingi’s chest. “No one saves you. No one.”

Mingi’s throat locked. The old terror surged, dragging him back into nights when shouting cracked the walls. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

And then—

The elevator chimed behind them. The doors slid open.

Warmth spilled into the lobby like sunlight breaking stormclouds. A presence he knew better than his own heartbeat.

Y/n.

“I told you,” his father spat, turning his head, “no one saves you.”

“Wrong,” Hongjoong said, his voice like steel drawn.

And then Y/n’s voice cut through the lobby, sharp and certain.

“Enough.”

The word hit harder than any shove.

Mingi’s eyes closed for a heartbeat. Then he turned toward her.

The elevator doors slid open, and Y/n stepped into the lobby, her pulse hammering.

She hadn’t known what to expect when Yeosang found her upstairs, his voice calm but urgent: “It’s his father. You should be there.” She hadn’t had time to think, only to follow the pull in her chest that said Mingi needed her.

Now she saw him.

Mingi stood rigid, shoulders tense, his father’s spit sliding down his jacket like an insult carved into fabric. The older man was still in his face, shoving, barking words that dripped venom. The others ringed the scene, ready to strike, but held back by a single look from Mingi.

It broke something inside her.

Her feet carried her forward before she knew she’d decided.

“Enough,” she said, her voice cutting through the space like glass breaking.

Every head turned.

Mingi’s father blinked at her, eyes narrowing, confusion curdling into disdain. “And who the hell are you?”

Y/n didn’t flinch. She stepped closer, sliding herself between the man and his son, planting her feet firmly on the cold floor.

“I’m the one who’s going to say what nobody else has,” she said evenly.

She could feel Mingi behind her, the weight of him, tall and silent, like a shadow caught in place.

“You have no right,” Y/n continued, her voice growing stronger, steadier. “No right to push him, spit on him, call him weak. Do you even see him? Do you even understand who he is?”

His father laughed, harsh and ugly. “I made him. He’s mine.”

“No,” Y/n snapped, the word sharp as a blade. “You don’t get to claim him. You don’t get to tear him down and call it fatherhood. You didn’t make him who he is. He did that himself. And he is stronger, braver, and more of a man than you will ever be.”

The words rang out, filling the lobby, echoing back from steel and glass. Even the guards froze.

Her chest heaved, but she didn’t move. Didn’t back down.

Behind her, she felt Mingi stir — a shift in the air, a breath caught like he couldn’t believe she’d said it.

His father’s face twisted, ugly with rage, but Y/n held his gaze. Unflinching.

“You lost the right to call him your son the first time you raised a hand against him,” she said, her voice steady now, cold as ice. “And you sure as hell won’t hurt him again. Not while I’m here.”

Silence rippled through the room. Even Ateez, who had seen blood spilled and enemies fall, looked shaken.

For the first time in years, Mingi’s father faltered.

And for the first time, Mingi saw someone stand between him and the man who had haunted every corner of his youth.

For a heartbeat, the lobby was silent.

Y/n stood tall, her words still hanging in the air, every nerve alight. Mingi’s father glared at her, lips curling like he was about to spit another insult.

And then—

The crack of a gunshot split the room.

Y/n flinched, breath catching. Warm wetness splattered across her cheek. For a half-second she didn’t understand — and then she saw it.

Mingi’s father staggered, eyes wide, a crimson bloom spreading across his chest. His knees buckled, his body crumpling to the floor at her feet.

Blood dotted her skin, hot against the cold shock that froze her in place.

The scream lodged in her throat never made it out, drowned by the chaos that followed.

The lobby doors slammed open. Armed men poured in, shouting, guns raised, faces masked.

Rival gang.

Time snapped back into motion.

“Down!” Yunho’s voice rang, already pulling her backward, shielding her with his body. Seonghwa stepped forward in the same breath, gun drawn, his calm precision a stark contrast to the storm exploding around them.

San and Wooyoung moved like unleashed chaos, low and fast, knocking weapons from hands with brutal efficiency. Jongho’s fist cracked bone, one man collapsing with a groan. Yeosang’s eyes tracked every angle, every movement, sharp and lethal.

Mingi didn’t move at first. He stood staring at the body on the floor, blood pooling out like a tide. His fists trembled at his sides, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

“Mingi!” Hongjoong’s voice snapped him back.

Something shifted in him, hard and violent. His head snapped up, eyes blazing. In two strides he was across the floor, slamming an attacker against the wall so hard the plaster cracked, ripping the weapon from his hands. The sound of bone breaking followed, wet and final.

Y/n stumbled back with Yunho, her pulse wild, her cheek sticky where blood clung. She wanted to wipe it off, wanted to scream, but her body refused to move, every sense overwhelmed by the storm in front of her.

The boys fought like a machine, each one sliding into their role as if they’d done this dance a thousand times — because they had. Precision and brutality wrapped in chaos, terrifying and mesmerizing all at once.

But all Y/n could see was Mingi.

The fury in him. The grief. The boy who had just lost the man who’d broken him — and who hadn’t even had time to feel it before being forced to fight.

Her stomach twisted. Her chest ached. She couldn’t look away.

The fight was over in minutes.

The last rival hit the floor with a groan, Wooyoung’s boot planted on his chest, Jongho’s fist cocked to end it if he twitched. The lobby smelled of gunpowder and blood.

Mingi didn’t see any of it.

His eyes were locked on the body at his feet.

His father.

Blood spread across polished tile, inching toward his knees. The man’s hand, the same hand that had shoved him minutes ago, lay palm-up and empty, as though even death had taken something from him.

Mingi sank down slowly, as if his legs had stopped belonging to him. His chest heaved. His hands trembled, reaching but never daring to touch.

He hated him. God, he’d hated him for years. But not like this. Not sprawled on the ground, cut down by a bullet from someone else’s war.

“I thought I wanted him gone,” Mingi whispered hoarsely. His voice broke on the words. “I thought I… I dreamed of it sometimes. But not like this. Not like this.”

No one moved. Not Hongjoong, not Seonghwa, not even San and Wooyoung who always had something to say. They all stood still, watching, as if understanding this was not theirs to touch.

A warmth brushed his shoulder.

Y/n.

She knelt beside him without hesitation, not caring that blood stained the floor, not caring that everyone else was watching. Her hands slid to his face, steadying him when everything inside him threatened to crack.

“Mingi,” she said softly. Her eyes shone, fierce and steady at once. “You’re not him. You never were.”

He stared at her, breath shuddering, unable to speak past the ache in his throat.

“You have family,” she whispered, her voice breaking now too. “You have me. He doesn’t get the last word. Not anymore.”

Something inside him gave way. Not in the old way, where he’d shatter alone in the dark. This time, the pieces fell into her hands.

He leaned into her, forehead against hers, eyes closing as her arms wrapped around his shoulders. The blood was still on the floor, still on her cheek where it had splattered, but she didn’t flinch. She held him like she’d been born to.

And for the first time in years, Mingi believed it.

He wasn’t alone.

The sirens in his head didn’t fade when the fighting stopped.

The bodies were being dragged out, rivals groaning or silent, guards securing the lobby again. The marble floor was smeared with streaks of red, bullet holes pocking the walls. But Mingi didn’t see the damage, not really. His gaze kept drifting back to where his father’s body lay, already covered with a black sheet.

It didn’t seem real. The man who had towered over him as a boy, the voice that had filled every silence of his childhood, reduced to stillness under a square of fabric.

The hand that had shoved him minutes ago. Gone.

A deep ache pressed against his ribs, one he couldn’t name. Grief. Rage. Relief. Guilt. Maybe all of it tangled together until he couldn’t breathe.

Y/n’s hand was still on his arm. Warm. Steady. If she hadn’t been there, he wasn’t sure he’d still be kneeling — he might’ve gone down harder than his father had.

“Up,” Seonghwa said gently. Not an order, not a command — just a lifeline.

Mingi stood on legs that didn’t want to hold him. The others shifted closer, a wall forming without thought. Wooyoung’s grin was gone, San’s eyes sharper than he’d ever seen them. Jongho stood at his shoulder like an anchor. Yunho hovered just behind Y/n, protective even now.

And Hongjoong — Hongjoong’s eyes held him steady. Not pity. Not judgment. Just that quiet, iron weight that said: You’re still one of us.

Mingi swallowed, the lump in his throat jagged.

“I hated him,” he said finally, voice raw. “I hated him for everything. For what he did. For what he didn’t do. And I still—” His voice cracked, and he clenched his jaw until it hurt. “And I still didn’t want this.”

No one spoke.

Y/n turned to him then, her cheeks streaked with drying blood that wasn’t hers. She didn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes burned into him, fierce and soft all at once.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” she whispered.

His chest squeezed so hard it hurt.

For so long, he had believed that was all there was — carrying it alone. Bearing weight until it broke him. But now… the way she looked at him, the way the others stood around him, silent but solid — maybe he didn’t have to.

Mingi exhaled, the sound shaking, ragged. He nodded once.

Not a promise. Not forgiveness. Just survival. For now, it was enough.

Hours later, the skyscraper was quiet again. Too quiet.

The lobby had been scrubbed clean, though she could still see it when she closed her eyes — the spray of blood, the way it had landed warm on her cheek, the way Mingi’s father’s body had folded to the ground. Her hands had shaken when Seonghwa gently wiped her face with a damp cloth, murmuring something she hadn’t really heard.

Now she sat in Mingi’s apartment, wrapped in one of his hoodies that hung loose and heavy on her frame. The fabric smelled faintly like him, like clean laundry and something darker underneath. It should have been comforting. It was, a little. But the weight of the night still pressed against her chest.

She wasn’t sure when Mingi had come in. One moment she was alone on the couch, staring at the city lights through the glass; the next, the couch dipped beside her, and his presence filled the space like a storm cloud rolling in.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

For a long moment, they just sat. The silence wasn’t empty, but thick, vibrating with everything unspoken.

Then his arm moved, hesitant but sure, sliding around her shoulders. A gentle tug.

She went willingly.

Her head fell against his chest, and his chin came down to rest on her hair. His heartbeat was uneven beneath her cheek, his breaths too shallow, but the steadiness of his body grounded her. She curled into him, her hand finding the fabric of his shirt and clutching it like it was the only solid thing in the world.

He tightened his hold, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

“I can still feel it,” she whispered into the silence. “The blood. Even though it’s gone.”

His chest rose under her, a slow, shuddering breath. “Me too.”

That broke something in her. She shifted, sliding her arms around his waist, burying her face against him. He let out a low sound — half-pain, half-relief — and folded around her like he’d been waiting years to do it.

When she finally lifted her head, her eyes met his. His face was pale, drawn, grief still etched into every line — but his gaze on her was soft. Fragile, almost, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he looked too long.

Y/n reached up, brushing her thumb lightly over his cheek. “You’re still here,” she whispered.

“So are you,” he murmured.

The distance between them disappeared before she could think. Her lips brushed his — light, tentative, a question more than a claim. He stilled, breath catching, then answered with the gentlest pressure, returning the kiss like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

It wasn’t deep, or heated. It was soft, lingering. A promise whispered between trembling mouths.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling.

And in the silence that followed, Y/n knew: even with blood still fresh in her memory, even with danger pressing in at the walls, this — they — were what she would hold on to.

Two months later, the skyscraper hummed with a different kind of life.

The lobby was spotless again, the damage long repaired. Security had doubled. Rival gangs had gone quiet, their attempt to breach Ateez’s fortress ending in failure they hadn’t dared repeat.

And tucked into one corner of the building’s third floor, glass walls now framed rows of fresh blooms. Tulips. Daisies. Roses. A garden blooming above the city.

Her flower shop.

Not the little storefront where her mother’s laughter still echoed, but something new. Something safer. Something theirs.

She still cried the first time she stepped inside — at the sight of San trying not to crush a tray of delicate seedlings, at Jongho carefully aligning pots with military precision, at Hongjoong crouching to screw in the last shelf himself. Even Seonghwa had dirt under his nails by the time it was done.

Now, mornings felt different. Safer. Full of possibility.

Y/n smiled as she set plates on the table, the faint scent of fresh bread wafting through the apartment. Behind her, the kitchen sizzled with the sound of eggs hitting the pan.

She turned — and nearly dropped the stack of spoons.

Mingi stood at the stove in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, hair a messy halo around his head, humming low under his breath. The muscles across his back shifted with every move, scars catching in the early light.

She bit her lip, warmth rising up her neck. He still made her heart trip after all this time.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head, lips quirking into a crooked grin. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, setting the spoons down with exaggerated care. “Just enjoying the view.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as he slid eggs onto two plates. “You’re shameless.”

She waited until he set the plates down, until his tall frame leaned slightly too close as he reached for salt. Then she caught his hand, pulling him down before he could retreat.

“I love you,” she said.

The words hung there, clear, steady. Not whispered in fear. Not tangled in grief. Just true.

Mingi froze, eyes wide, breath caught.

Then he laughed, soft and incredulous, as if he’d been waiting forever to hear it. His free hand cupped her jaw, and before she could say anything else, his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was nothing like the soft brushes they’d shared before. It was heated, hungry, all the tension and tenderness of months poured into one desperate press of lips. He pulled her close, one hand sliding to the small of her back, anchoring her against him.

She melted into him, arms curling around his neck, tasting salt and warmth and everything she’d been afraid to lose.

When they finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, both of them breathless, she whispered again, just to feel the truth of it on her tongue.

“I love you.”

Mingi’s grin was boyish and raw, his voice low and wrecked. “I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.”

Breakfast went cold on the table, forgotten.

But for the first time since everything began — since flowers and gunfire and ghosts of the past — Y/n felt truly at home.

Breakfast went cold on the table.

Mingi’s mouth was still on hers, hungry and unguarded, his hands gripping her waist like he feared she might vanish if he let go. Y/n pressed closer, drinking in every sound he made, every shuddering breath.

When she broke the kiss, her lips lingered by his ear. “Let me,” she whispered.

He froze, stunned, pupils blown wide. His voice cracked, almost pleading. “Y/n…”

She kissed the curve of his throat, tracing a slow path downward, and he trembled under her mouth. His hands clutched at the edge of the table, knuckles white. “You don’t—” The protest broke apart in a low groan as her lips and hands wandered lower still, a trail of fire that left him helpless.

“I want to,” she murmured, breath warm against his skin.

And then she was kneeling before him, devotion in her eyes, the morning light crowning her hair like something holy. Her mouth brushed against his cock, soft at first, reverent, before taking more, deeper, until his head tipped back and a raw sound tore from his throat.

His breath came ragged, words falling apart between gasps. “Oh god, Y/n…”

The heat of her, the rhythm she set, unraveled him. He had faced blades and bullets without flinching, but this—this stripped him bare, left him trembling, undone by her hands, her lips, her care.

He looked down once, and the sight nearly undid him completely: her lashes fluttering, her hands steady, her mouth wrapped around every part of him he’d thought unworthy of love.

He gripped the table harder, fighting for control, but there was none to be found. She had all of him, body and soul.

When he broke, it was with her name spilling from his lips like a prayer, his whole body shuddering under the force of it, every wall he’d built collapsing into her hands.

Breathless, undone, he pulled her up to him, cradling her against his chest, covering her face with frantic kisses — cheeks, temple, lips, anywhere he could reach.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice raw, again and again like the words themselves could keep her tethered to him.

Her smile curved against his mouth, her whispered reply steady and sure.

“I love you too.”

And Mingi knew, with a certainty that steadied him more than any fortress ever could: he was finally home.

The flower shop smelled like spring.

Even in the middle of the steel-and-glass tower, it carried that soft fragrance of earth and petals, sunlight trapped in stems. It didn’t belong in their world — and maybe that was why it worked.

Yeosang leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching as Y/n fussed over a row of tulips. She wore a cardigan patterned with tiny daisies, her hair tucked behind her ear, her smile so natural it looked like it had always belonged here.

And in the corner, Mingi carried a crate of soil like it weighed nothing, pretending not to glance at her every other second.

Yeosang’s lips quirked. Two months ago, Mingi had been a storm contained in too large a body, all fists and fury and silence. Now… now he was still a storm, but one with sunlight bleeding through.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” Wooyoung said at his shoulder, breaking the quiet. “Princess Mingi hauling dirt with a grin on his face.”

San laughed. “You mean My Y/n’s Mingi.”

Mingi scowled over his shoulder. “I can hear you.”

“Good,” Wooyoung called back, grinning. “We weren’t exactly whispering.”

Seonghwa walked past them, setting a new vase on the counter. “Don’t tease too much. It suits him.” His tone was calm, but there was warmth there too.

Hongjoong lingered by the window, surveying the space with his sharp eyes. He didn’t speak, but Yeosang caught the faint smile tugging at his lips before he looked away.

Yunho and Jongho carried in another shelf, the younger muttering about balance and stability while Yunho just grinned, unbothered.

It was chaos, but softer than their usual brand. Different.

Family, Yeosang thought. Bigger now. Stronger for it.

Y/n straightened, brushing dirt from her hands, and looked toward Mingi. He froze under the weight of her smile, then ducked his head, ears pink.

Yeosang shook his head, amused. After all this time, after everything they’d survived, the giant was still undone by a girl with flowers in her hair.

Maybe that was exactly what they needed.

The skyscraper would always be steel and glass and shadows. But now, tucked inside it, was something else. Something that bloomed.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

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inthecoffeecorner · 1 day ago

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Night Corner: Fic Recommendations 🌙

Welcome to my Night Corner 🌙✨ Here you’ll find a list of my fic recommendations from different groups. If you’re not sure what to read and you’ve got a free, quiet night, grab your favorite warm drink ☕🍵 and enjoy these stories.

Most importantly, don’t forget to support the amazing authors behind them 💌✨. And if you end up liking any of these fics, let me know! I’d love to hear it.

────୨ৎ────

୨ৎMore fic recommendations coming soon! 💖 I’ll be adding recs for other members really soon, so stay tuned!

Fluff: 💌

Angst: 🌸

Smut: 🍓

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My SEVENTEEN Recommendations ✨💎📖

Jeonghan

→ I Would🌸💌

During a live TV interview, Jeonghan is faced with a comment from a particularly problematic host. With the need to defend himself and you, you watched for the first time as Jeonghan sternly, and slightly angered, puts someone in their place during a live show. by: @writer-k-pop

→ Hothouse Flower🌸💌

Your five year relationship with him ended two years ago. You need to move on, have to, since you are the only one stuck in the past. Jeonghan moved on, happy, gallivanting away. When you finally agree to meet up a fellow heartbroken stranger set up by 'Get Love Quick', you didn't expect to see him there. by: @coupsalchemy

→ are you bald yet? 💌

you come home to find through the internet that your boyfriend is apparently bald. by: @hanniescookie

→ Self-Control💌

by: @notesofthemountain

Joshua

→ Hiding in Plain Sight 🌸💌

Seventeen’s chaotic camaraderie, Y/N, the group’s 14th member, navigates a hidden romance with Joshua amidst their hectic schedules. Balancing playful group dynamics, subtle affection, and the pressure of secrecy, their close bond faces challenges from teasing members and unspoken tensions. by: @amyzworldds

→ 417 Years 🌸

After 417 years of waiting, Joshua finally sees you again only it's vastly different from how he imagined it. On one hand, he has the joys of having you with him again but on the other, his protective nature wants to do everything and anything to keep you from what you have been running from for your entire life. Warnings: Mentions of injuries, stitching, death but nothing detailed, swearing by: @writer-k-pop

Jun

→ heaven couldn’t wait for you 🌸

i just couldn’t stand to see you leaving but heaven couldn’t wait for you. by: @berriesandjunnie

→ Unexpected Reveal 🌸💌

by: @scoupsakakitty

Wonwoo

→ Almost caught ft nana tour 🍓

WHAT IF you were wonwoo’s gf and almost got caught during NANA TOUR surprises… by: @cherriicou

The8

→ now or never 🌸💌🍓

when you make a chance encounter with your ex, you end up saying that you're engaged to your estranged neighbor xu minghao. when you find out your ex is coming to your friend's wedding, you've only got a month to become a convincing couple. by: @heartkyeom

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My ATEEZ Recommendations 🎶🖤✨

Kim Hongjoong

→ look after you🌸💌🍓

after a long night at work with little to no sleep, you nearly doze off on your way home, hitting a tattooed, spikey-haired guy in the middle of the road. Panicking, you run out to help him and go with him to the hospital, only to lie and say he was your husband so you could go back with him. Well, when he woke up, he didn't exactly take it the way you thought he would... by: @mingigoo

Park Seonghwa

→ Borrowed Time🌸💌🍓

Your husband of 8 years suggests an open marriage, and while he's out finding a new girlfriend, you feel like it's wrong to even glance in another man's direction. But it all changes when you download Tinder and match with Seonghwa. The man who's about to turn your world upside down. And he even happens to be your husband's boss. by: @wooyoungiewritings

Kang Yeosang

→ The way you see me🌸💌

Y/N thinks Kang Yeosang is cold and arrogant. He’s actually just shy—and secretly been crushing on her for years. A group project, late-night study sessions, and a little chaos from his friends slowly pull them closer. by: @mingiatz

→ Private schedule💌

You’ve worked behind the scenes managing Yeosang’s solo content and keeping his schedule spotless. He’s polite, quiet, and perfectly professional. But when it’s just the two of you, he starts dropping that wall — and you’re the only one who sees what’s underneath. by: @soft4changbin

→ Silent vows🌸💌

by: @arilevenatz

→ CTRL + HEART🌸💌

You never expected the faceless gamer “Sangie” you spent late nights laughing with to be Kang Yeosang—idol, perfectionist, and infuriatingly blunt. You definitely didn’t expect to fall in love. by: @mingiatz

→ Obsessive🌸💌🍓

You tried to pay no mind to your brother’s friends and their flirty antics, but it always confused you when only one of them seemed disinterested in you. Even though you’d never admit it, he intrigued you—to the point where when you kissed drunkenly at party, you wanted more. And you were going to get it. by: @mingigoo

Jung Wooyoung

→ Quiet girl, loud heart🌸💌🍓

No one saw it coming — not the quiet girl in the back of the lecture hall, not the loud boy with the bad reputation, and especially not the people watching from the sidelines. But when Wooyoung sits at her library desk one evening, curiosity blooms into something much deeper. What starts with flustered glances and slow conversations soon grows into a soft, genuine love neither of them expected. by: @mingiatz

→ IMMUNITY TO MY CHARMS🍓

your friendship with wooyoung blossomed at the start of university, and being friends with him came along with his charming and flirtatious personality. even if you flirted back, you always believed you were immune to his true charms… god were you so wrong by: @planet-hwa

→ Casual🌸💌🍓

when wooyoung, mr. "scared of commitment," finds himself catching feelings for you, his supposed friend with benefits, he struggles between keeping things casual or possibly ruining your friendship. by: @peacheeeliz

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kisssan · 24 days ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 '𝐍 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐄 ⊹ 𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗲𝘇

pairing﹢ateez x fem!reader (hyung line separate) genre﹢smut. consensual, established relationship, fingering (hongjoong), cockwarming (seonghwa), masturbation interrupted (yunho), piv sex (seonghwa, yunho), cunnilingus (yeosang), mentions of overstimulation and multiple orgasms, praises + usage of pet names (doll, angel, princess, etc), i'm sorry i went a little biased on yunho. synopsis﹢he knows exactly how to make you feel good, whether you are sad, upset, or happy. he’ll do anything because you’re his everything. filthy sweetness where each hyung shows his love in the dirtiest ways with soft touches, filthy praise, and irresistible pleasure.

HONGJOONG knew you’d had a rough week, and he noticed every little detail. from the way you stripped down quickly, tugging on your pjs without a thought, to the exhausted flop onto the bed. you cuddle into him, murmuring about work, life, and everything in between. he listens like he always does, thumb tracing idle shapes on your hip as you talk.

you don’t notice at first when his touch drifts lower, so subtle you think it’s accidental...until the pads of his fingers press against your clothed clit, right over your panties under those skimpy shorts.

"joongie…?" you breathe, baffled but not pulling away, the butterflies in your belly already messing with your insides, your brain already malfunctioning just by looking at him, no, feeling him.

"shh, angel, relax..." he murmurs, voice whisper-like, reassuring but commanding at the same time. his hand slips under your shorts, brushing over the damp fabric, his knuckles nudging your clit. "there’s my pretty girl… so worked up and i’ve barely touched you," he says softly, kissing the side of your head.

he hooks his fingers into your panties, sliding them aside, and his middle finger parts your folds. the first slow stroke has you tensing, soft whimpers and moans, finally breaking free. "just let me take care of you," he whispers, and then his fingers are inside, hitting that spot he knows too well.

your hips squirm by his touch, your hands clutching his shirt. "good girl… that’s it. just relax for me, okay?" he groans, his thumb rubbing lazy circles over your clit until your thighs waver.

it’s all so slow, careful, but devastating. his mouth finds your neck, then your jaw, peppering kisses between every filthy murmur of praise. "come on, angel… let me feel you," his fingers are moving faster and harder now as you feel yourself coming close. he pulls you close immediately, kissing your temple like you didn’t just soak his fingers and did a cleansing on his soul.

you’re cockwarming SEONGHWA, nothing new, just the usual as he works on his latest lego set. you do try to help, but the steady ache of having him buried deep inside is driving you insane. eventually, you can’t help yourself. shifting in his lap, squeezing him, feeling him twitch inside you. you couldn't take it anymore, and he, of course, feels the change of heart, or should he say heat.

his hands still on the pieces, and you hear the low chuckle in your ear. "you okay, doll? uncomfortable?" no, and yes. you shake your head, but your hips press down again, needing to feel something; at this point, anything will do.

"oh…" he remarks, but you don't say anything in return, too shy to even demand your wishes, knowing he will fulfill them anyway. "i get it now."

he sets the lego aside, his hands gripping your hips. "my needy little princess can’t sit still, hmm?" before you can reply, he’s pulling you forward, bending you over the desk. the sudden move makes you gasp, the tip of his cock dragging over every sensitive spot as he thrusts in slow, deliberate rhythm.

the legos rattle with each snap of his hips. "fuck, princess… you feel so tight. squeezing me like you’re made for me," he groans, one hand slipping under your shirt to cup your breast. his hands that build things so steadily with so much care, destroy you in seconds.

you can barely keep yourself upright, hands braced on the desk as he picks up the pace, low grunts spilling from him with every wet slap of skin. "that’s it, baby… take all of me. you’re so perfect like this," he praises, bending to press kisses along your shoulder before driving into you harder.

by the time you come around him, the lego set is ruined and scattered in forgotten pieces as he pulls you back into his lap, murmuring against your neck, "told you i’d give you what you wanted, pretty girl."

headset on, eyes glued to the screen, fingers moving so fast over the keyboard you can hear every press. YUNHO's gaming again. meanwhile, you’re sprawled out on his bed, needy and desperate, wondering why he’d rather play valorant when he’s got you, his pretty girlfriend, waiting for him like a reward.

this always happens. you come over, hoping for his hands, his mouth, his cock, only to get ignored until you end up touching yourself. it’s never enough, not when you’ve had him before, knowing how good he can make you feel.

his laugh echoes across the room, probably something happened in the game. that warm golden retriever energy you usually melt for is now making you huff. your hand slips into your shorts anyway, fingertips brushing your clit. a soft moan leaves you, and for a while, it’s just that, the faint wet sounds of you playing with yourself and the click-clack of his mouse.

you’re thinking about him. about how big his hands feel around your waist or your neck, the way he’d press kisses to your temple while sinking into you, the stretch of him filling you up to the brim. the way he’d kiss you until you forgot why you were upset. your hips sway against your own hand, desperate for more, and when you glance over, he’s already looking at you.

you freeze, but that won't stop you from being annoyed, “so you finally remembered you had a girlfriend?” your voice is sharper than intended, so irritated. “care to help, or should i just go home and use a toy?”

a very bad move. because the same man who was all laughs and sunshine now has a darkness in his eyes, as he slowly removed his headset, doesn’t even say a word before crossing the room, dragging you to the center of the bed.

his mouth crashes to yours, one big hand pinning your wrists above your head as the other yanks your shorts down. “careful what you say, angel,” he growls, pants down already lining himself up. “you’ll get exactly what you’re asking for.”

the first thrust is deep, so deep your back arches, a strangled moan ripping from your throat. “fuck—yunho—”

��yeah, baby? this what you wanted?” he is all bite and bark, as he pounds into you hard enough to make the mattress creak. “so pretty... my pretty girl, taking me so well. god, you feel perfect.”

your nails drag down his back as his pace gets rougher, every thrust pushing you higher until your legs tremble around his waist. “so sorry for making you wait,” he groans, dropping his head to kiss your tears away, “should’ve been fucking you instead of playing games, should’ve been making you scream my name like this.”

one deep thrust and you see stars, cunt fluttering around him as you cry out, nails digging in. he doesn’t slow, keeps fucking you through it, holding you down as you shake and whimper. “that’s it, princess. cum for me again. i’m not stopping until i apologize for every time i have ignored you.” and he does, over and over until you can’t do anything but cling to him, trembling in the wreckage of his apology.

YEOSANG’s an angel. not just in looks, though he’s so beautiful it’s almost unreal how he can even exist, but it is in how he treats you. your boyfriend is a divine gift because surely you must’ve done something holy to deserve him. gentle, attentive, and extremely patient. you’d never expect that same mouth to be capable of something so filthy.

the first time he mentioned he could turn his tongue 180 degrees, you laughed, let it slide. now, you think about it every time you see him. every time you feel him kiss you, every time you’re on your back, legs over his shoulders, with that devastating mouth between your thighs.

because tonight, it’s exactly like that. your fingers gripping the sheets, legs hooked tight around him as his tongue drags up your slit, teasing you before dipping lower again. it’s slow, almost worshipful, because to him, you were the angel.

you’re already dripping, slick coating his lips and chin, and he hums against you like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. so wet, sticky and slick, a love potion maybe. “so sweet, baby,” he murmurs between licks, his voice so low and deep. “my pretty girl… so perfect for me.” you gasp when his tongue suddenly changes, twisting in a way that shouldn’t even be possible. the new angle hits everywhere at once, fluttering against your clit while dipping into your entrance.

“y-yeosang—oh my—” your voice breaks, because the pleasure is so overwhelming. he just smirks against you, one hand stroking your thigh while the other presses firmly to your lower belly, holding you still. “stay still for me, angel. let me make you feel good.”

his tongue works on you, and you are desperate to let it out. every time you think you’ve reached your climax, he changes pressure or pace, dragging it out until you’re sobbing, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“that’s it,” he whispers, pulling back just long enough to kiss your inner thigh before diving back in. “give it to me, pretty girl. cum on my tongue.”

the sudden suction around your clit combined with that tongue movement, sends you to another galaxy, your whole body tensing before the release crashes over you. he doesn’t stop, not until you’re trembling, moaning his name over and over, completely ruined.

when he finally pulls back, his smile so soft. “so good for me, angel,” he says, kissing the inside of your knee. “let’s see how many more times i can make you do that.”

2K notes · View notes

wooyoungiewritings · 3 months ago

Text

P☆RNSTAR - Park Seonghwa x Reader

Inspired by the song "P☆RNSTAR" by Nessa Barrett

"Show me who you are, pornstar"

Summary: You're a sharp, ambitious journalist who's assigned on a column about Park Seonghwa, the biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. He's a pornstar. But from the moment he turns his sharp eyes on you, everything shifts. He reads you too easily, teases you too precisely, unraveling every line you swore you wouldn’t cross. What begins as a probing interview turns into a game of control, tension, and exposed desires neither of you saw coming.

Word count: 17K

Genre: Pornstar!Seonghwa, reporter!reader, oneshot, smut

warnings: Seonghwa with reader (fem pronouns), oneshot, smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), masturbation, oral sex (f/m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, spitting, unprotected sex, cum play, Hwa is very dominant (he's a pornstar, he knows what he's doing lmao), lmk if I missed anything!

The office smells like cheap coffee and stale ambition. You sit on the edge of a squeaky swivel chair, scrolling through the latest assignment email with a sinking feeling.

New project: “The Lives Behind the Screens” — a column digging into the unseen realities of internet celebrities and adult entertainers.

Great.

You thought journalism would be different. Real stories, real people. Not this digital voyeurism dressed up as “content.” But here you are, fresh out of college, with a degree gathering dust and a boss breathing down your neck.

Your editor’s voice plays in your head: “Next up? Park Seonghwa. The biggest star in the adult entertainment industry. Viral, iconic, untouchable. And you? You’re going to tell his story. Follow him. Watch him. Don’t fall for the fantasy.”

You click the link your editor attached and his face fills the screen, high-definition, impossibly symmetrical, built for the camera. Dark hair, parted just enough to frame his cheekbones like they were carved. A mouth that looks both sinful and soft, depending on the angle. Eyes like velvet, sharp, unreadable, expensive. He doesn’t smile in most of his photos. Doesn’t need to.

The headline reads: "The Pornstar Prince of the Internet."

You roll your eyes. But you keep scrolling.

Clips. Gifs. Edits. Reposts. Commentary threads that worship him like religion. "God-tier performance." "Unreal stamina." "He makes you feel like he’s looking right at you." You keep reading. Watching. Studying.

You find a clip, thirty seconds, muted, of him on a dimly lit set, shirt hanging off one shoulder, smirking at someone off-camera. He doesn’t blink much. He doesn’t need to. His body language is all ease, all control. Not arrogance. Not exactly. It’s more like... confidence that’s been sharpened into a weapon.

You don't look away.

Not because you’re turned on, not really. You’re... intrigued.

***

You show up ten minutes early, because you're not about to let a pornstar, no matter how famous, be the one waiting for you. The building is tucked between a yoga studio and a wellness café, the kind of place with floor-to-ceiling glass windows and minimalist signage that makes you feel underdressed just for breathing near it.

You expected neon lights. Maybe a couch no one should sit on. Definitely something sleazy.

But inside, it’s... clean.

Modern. Quiet. A tall woman with a tablet and black pumps greets you like you’re here for a boardroom pitch, not a profile piece on one of the internet’s most prolific sex symbols.

“You’re here for Mr. Park?”

Mr. Park.

You have to bite your tongue to stop from smirking.

“Yes. I’m with-”

“I know who you’re with,” she says politely, tapping something on her screen. “He’s finishing up a call. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Water? Coffee? Champagne? You half expect the offer to end in something absurd like cocaine or compliments. But instead, you shake your head politely and she gestures toward a plush couch in a waiting area that looks more like a magazine launch office than a porn empire.

You sit, legs crossed, notebook in your lap, and glance around.

There are no posters. No half-naked shots. No trophies shaped like body parts. Just soft lighting, neutral palettes, and a low hum of quiet professionalism that makes your spine tighten.

You don’t like this.

You were ready for something raw. Tacky. Exposed. You were ready to roll your eyes and keep your emotional distance.

Instead, this place feels... corporate. Intentional. Curated.

You wonder if it’s a reflection or a deflection. You wonder what the perfectly polished floor is hiding.

“He’s ready for you now,” the assistant says, voice crisp but warm. “Down the hall. Last door on the right.”

You smooth your jacket, grip your notebook, and stand.

You walk down the hall, heels dull against the polished concrete, every surface too clean, too careful. The door is slightly ajar, the only one without a nameplate. That feels intentional.

You push it open.

And there he is.

Not behind a desk, not seated with polite formality, not postured for you, just leaning against the wide windowsill, half-turned to the city below, a cigarette balanced loosely between two fingers.

Dark hair, slightly tousled like he hasn’t bothered to tame it. His shirt, black, sheer, loose at the collar. A thin chain around his throat catches the light. And his nails, black polish, chipped at the edges. Purposefully imperfect. Like he’s above caring, or maybe it’s the only thing he cares about.

He glances over his shoulder when you step in. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you.

The eyes are worse than the photos. Darker. Sharper. Too direct. Like he’s already bored, already curious. Like he sees everything, and he’s trying to decide if you’re worth keeping his attention on.

He flicks ash into a small black tray on the ledge. There’s nothing else on it. No papers, no phone. Just him.

He finally speaks, voice low and warm with the edges of smoke, like it could wrap around your neck if you let it.

“So you’re the one who wants to figure me out.” It’s not a question. But his eyes don’t move from yours. They don’t flinch. “You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You offer the smallest shrug. “I could say the same.”

That earns the hint of a laugh. Just a breath, barely there.

He stubs out the cigarette, gestures toward the lone armchair behind you. “You can sit. I won’t bite.”

You don’t say anything. Just take the seat, notebook still closed in your lap. He stays standing. Of course he does. You can tell he likes the distance, the height, likes watching from above. Not out of arrogance, but out of habit. He’s used to reading people, measuring how they move when they’re inside a space that belongs to him.

“I’m working on a column,” you say finally. “Series called The Lives Behind the Screens.”

“I’ve heard.” He nods once. “They sent me your articles. You ask better questions than most.”

You glance up. “You actually read them?”

His mouth quirks into a crooked kind of smile. Dry, a little arrogant, but not in a way that pushes you away. If anything, it pulls you in.

“I like knowing who’s about to ask if I’ve always been this good with my hands.”

That draws a smile from you, small, tight. Not because it’s funny. But because you expected that line. He’s testing the waters.

“I’m not here just to talk about your sex life,” you say.

There’s a flicker at the corner of his lips. Something amused. Not quite a grin, just a suggestion of one, like he’s trying to decide if he’s impressed or annoyed.

“Shame,” he murmurs. “That’s usually the fun part.” there’s a languid rhythm to the way he speaks, each word stretched just enough to make you feel it.

The silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable. Just... charged. Like you’re both waiting to see who steps forward first.

Across the room, Seonghwa moves toward the bookshelf along the far wall. Not performative, not for your benefit. He’s just giving you time to look at him.

So you do.

He’s taller than you realized. Lean, but strong in the way dancers are. He walks like he knows people are watching, not cocky, just aware. The kind of presence that doesn’t demand attention, it assumes it. And the longer you observe, the more it’s clear: nothing about him is accidental.

The sheer shirt might as well be part of his skin. It moves when he moves. His black jeans are worn soft at the seams, sitting low on his hips. No belt. Just a silver chain around one wrist, around his neck and that single piercing. A bar through his eyebrow.

When he turns to face you again, he doesn't sit.

“I’m guessing you’ve already read everything about me,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

“I tried to,” you admit, finally jotting something down, the way he speaks without looking for approval, the confidence that isn’t loud. “But I don’t think it matters.”

That earns you a longer look. His head tilts. “Why not?”

You don’t glance up from your page. “Because none of it’s yours. It's press releases. Magazine quotes. Fan rumors. It’s the version of you people think they want to believe in.”

He’s silent for a beat too long. When you do meet his eyes again, there’s something softer around the edges. Not exposed. But interested.

“And what version are you looking for?” he asks.

“I’m here to figure out if there’s a man behind the star,” you say, tone even. “Or if you’ve just become the thing people want from you.”

That lands. You can feel it. His jaw shifts slightly, but he doesn’t look away.

“I could lie,” he offers, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Make up some tragic story. Childhood trauma. First heartbreak. Tell you something that’ll look good in a pull quote.”

“You could,” you nod, pen tapping once against the paper. “But I’d know.”

The corner of his mouth lifts again, but this time there’s no amusement in it. Just curiosity. A quiet spark behind his eyes that says you’ve surprised him.

He moves closer.

Only a few steps, measured, unrushed, and then leans against the back of the leather armchair opposite yours. His arms fold loosely across his chest, and he studies you like a mirror. Like you’re suddenly the one under scrutiny.

“You don’t flirt,” he observes.

You blink. “Is that a problem?”

“Most people do,” he says simply. “Even the ones who say they won’t.”

You meet his gaze, hold it. “I’m not most people.”

“No,” he murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly, like he’s trying to work out how you got under his skin without touching him. “You’re not.”

For a moment, something spreads between you. You’re not even sure what it is yet. But it’s there, between you. Not attraction. But interest. A tension that hums like a wire strung too tight.

You look away first, not out of defeat, but control. Your voice is smooth as you ask, “What’s the worst assumption people make about you?”

Seonghwa exhales through his nose. A faint smile, but more thoughtful this time. He leans his head back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling like he’s weighing the cost of honesty.

“That's easy,” he says eventually. “All of it. That I just show up and look good and take my clothes off, and somehow, that’s enough.”

You nod once, pen moving again.

“And is it?” you ask, without looking up.

“No,” he says, without hesitation. “But sometimes I wish it were.”

The vulnerability slips through so subtly, you almost miss it. But it’s there. And he lets it hang in the space between you, bare, unpolished.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just underline the sentence on your page, twice.

When you glance at him again, he’s already watching you.

Not in the way men look at women. Not like he’s trying to undress you.

He looks at you like he wants to know what you look like with your guard down.

“What made you start doing this?” you ask again, pushing a little harder this time.

Seonghwa exhales through his nose, grabs another cigarette from his pocket and lights it with an unreadable expression. He taps ash into the glass tray on the table between you.

“I like sex,” he says simply, lips curving just slightly. “Turns out, I’m good at it. People like to watch. Seemed like a win-win.”

You don’t blink. Don’t smile back.

“I’m sure that’s true,” you say evenly. “But that’s not really an answer.”

His brows lift. Just a fraction. You think you catch the flicker of something else in his eyes, not surprise, exactly, but interest. Curiosity. Most people probably take the bait and laugh. Move on.

You don’t.

“So what kind of answer are you looking for?” he asks, his tone lighter now. It’s playful. Not mocking, but there’s a dare underneath it.

“The real kind,” you say. “Unless that’s too much to ask.”

He looks at you for a beat too long. Then, just when the silence starts to turn into something heavier, he grins. It’s not the polished smile from his photoshoots or the cocky smirk from his scenes. It’s crooked. Defensive.

“You’re intense,” he says.

“You’re guarded,” you shoot back.

That actually gets a laugh out of him, low and warm. He places the cigarette between his lips again, holding your gaze as he breathes in. He smells like smoke and sandalwood, expensive and addictive.

“Is it hard to get hard when you don’t actually want the person touching you?”

That makes him go still.

No smirk. No clever deflection. Just a small shift in his eyes, like a curtain tugged half an inch to the side.

“That’s a hell of a question,” he says eventually, exhaling smoke slowly through his nose.

You wait.

The jewelry on his fingers glints in the soft light. He taps the cigarette out with one hand, stubs it, and doesn’t light another.

“Sometimes it’s hard,” he says eventually. “Not physically. Mechanically, there are tricks. Prep. It’s part of the job. But mentally…” He shrugs. “Some days you show up and your body does the work, but your head isn’t anywhere near it.”

“Where does it go?” you ask.

That question lands harder than you expected. He doesn’t answer it right away.

“You like making people uncomfortable, don’t you?” he says instead, with a sharp little smile.

“I like watching people flinch when they’re used to being worshipped,” you shoot back.

That does it, a soft laugh, almost disbelieving. He runs a hand through his dark hair, the first sign of agitation. Or maybe… intrigue.

“You think I’m used to being worshipped?”

“I think you’ve made a career off of it,” you say. “And I think you’re smart enough to know none of it’s real.”

He straightens up slowly, standing to full height. Not a threat, but a shift in dynamic. He towers, but doesn’t loom. He just exists fully, commandingly, in the space. Smoke, sex, control, all wrapped in the body of a man who knows what power feels like in his palm.

“Tomorrow,” he says, tone clipped now. “Be on set at ten. Don’t be late.”

You nod, but don’t move yet. “And you’ll show me?”

He lifts a brow. “Show you what?”

“What it looks like when you stop pretending.”

The look he gives you is unreadable. Half danger, half fascination.

Then he says, “Careful what you wish for.”

***

You don’t expect to be alone when he finds you.

You’re standing just beyond the edge of the set, not quite hidden but far enough away that you don’t feel like you’re intruding. The lights are half-up, the crew moving with quiet efficiency, adjusting equipment, taping marks to the floor. It’s all so… normal. Not chaotic. Not hypersexualized. Not what you thought a porn set would look like.

There’s nothing cheap about it. No sleaze. No haze of something you can’t name.

Just calm. Controlled. Professional.

Then you feel him before you hear him.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to show up early to this,” Seonghwa says.

You turn.

He’s closer than you expected, but not too close, just inside your space enough to remind you this is his world. His set. His rules.

He’s dressed down. Black pants. Loose black tank. Hair still damp, like he just showered. Barefoot. There’s a quiet confidence to him, the kind that doesn’t need announcing. And that damn eyebrow piercing catches the light when he looks at you.

“I figured you’d bail,” he says, "Didn’t think this kind of work was your thing.”

You glance over your notepad without looking up. “It’s not.”

He tilts his head. “Dedicated. Or just curious?”

“I’m here to work.”

“You keep saying that,” he muses. “Like you’re trying to convince someone.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “Would it make you more comfortable if I pretended to be flustered around you?”

He laughs, soft, warm. “No,” he says. “That’s the problem. You don’t pretend.”

You say nothing, but your fingers tighten slightly around your notebook. He catches it.

His smile sharpens, but his voice stays casual. “So,” he says, “first time seeing something like this in person?”

You nod.

“No nerves?”

“A few,” you admit. “But I’ve done harder interviews.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Harder than watching me fuck someone ten feet in front of you?”

Your throat tightens, just slightly. Not enough to show. But something shifts in your expression. His eyes track it.

He grins.

You look back at him, carefully composed. “I’m still here.”

“That you are,” he says, quieter now. “And you’ll watch? Even if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think it will.”

A beat passes. His gaze lingers on your face. Then he nods, almost approvingly.

“Good,” he says. “Then let’s see how much you’re really ready for.”

He turns, just like that, walking toward the set. The curtain parts behind him.

And just before it closes, he glances over his shoulder.

“Try not to fall for me,” he says with a crooked smile. “It gets messy.”

You don’t answer. You just grip your notebook a little tighter.

You’re here. Watching, really watching.

The red light blinks above like a warning and a promise, casting a harsh glow over the small, claustrophobic set. Seonghwa stands center stage, muscles taut beneath his soaked black tank top, sweat glistening on his skin like he’s been moving for hours.

He doesn’t look up as he starts, he’s not just touching her, his set-partner. He’s worshipping every inch.

She’s moaning, low, ragged sounds that fill the room, vibrating against your skin. His fingers find her, moving inside her with a steady, expert pressure that makes her cry out in pleasure. His mouth covers hers, rough and demanding, teeth grazing her bottom lip, swallowing every protest she might have.

His hips thrust hard, the tank top clinging to every muscle twitch, sweat dripping down the curve of his spine. He grunts low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest as he drives her higher, faster.

And then, just when you think you can’t bear it, he looks up.

His eyes catch yours across the room, sharp and knowing. It’s like he can see right through your carefully constructed wall, the cool, detached journalist trying to stay professional, and he’s amused by it. Maybe even hungry for it. There’s a flicker of cocky challenge there, a silent dare: Keep watching.

The way his mouth curves into a slow, teasing smile sends a jolt through you, and you realize this isn’t just a show for the cameras. This is his playground, and you’re the unexpected audience he wants to mesmerize.

You feel heat rise between your legs, your breath catching in your throat despite yourself. This is supposed to be work. But your body betrays you, tightening, aching, wanting. Your skin prickles as the two of them writhe, tangled in lust and need, so raw, so real, it’s impossible to pretend it’s not affecting you.

Every moan, every bite, every slick slide of his fingers on her wetness is a punch straight to your gut. You shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be feeling this. But you are.

And it terrifies you.

You wait alone in the dim waiting room, the muffled sounds of the set still echoing faintly beyond the door. Your fingers drum nervously against the notebook in your arms, mind spinning with what you just witnessed. The intoxicating mix of raw power, control, and vulnerability, everything about him pulls at you in ways you didn’t expect.

The door swings open without warning.

He steps inside, still dripping with sweat, the black robe hanging loose and wet against his skin. His dark hair is tangled, strands plastered to his forehead and neck, but he looks effortless, like he just conquered the world or at least that room.

His gaze lands on you, smirking as if he knows exactly what’s racing through your mind. “So,” he says, voice low and husky, “did the show live up to your expectations?”

You swallow hard, trying to steady your voice. “It was... intense. Different than anything I imagined.”

He chuckles, stepping closer, the heat radiating off him making your skin flush. “I told you, this isn’t some act. It’s real.”

You don’t look away, but take a small step back so you feel the wall behind you. “I saw that. You’re not faking it.”

His smirk deepens. “I don’t do fake. My body knows what to do.” He lets the robe slip slightly off one shoulder, revealing the sweat-slick skin beneath. “But now, I want to see you. What happens when you drop the act?”

Your breath catches. “I’m not the one putting on a show.”

He steps closer, just enough that you can feel his warmth, eyes locked on yours with a playful challenge. “Maybe you’re hiding better than I thought. But I don’t scare easy. You push me, I’ll push back.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of your chair. “Then push.”

Seonghwa leans in just a fraction closer, his dark eyes locked onto yours with that smoldering mix of cocky challenge and genuine curiosity. The faint scent of sweat and something uniquely his, clean, but with a wild edge, fills the small space between you. He lets the robe slip a little more off his shoulder, just enough to tease, but not enough to give everything away.

“So, what’s your move, reporter?”

His gaze narrows, sharp and piercing as he lets his fingers trail just a breath away from your skin, deliberately not touching, drawing out the moment. Neither of you is blinking.

“You want answers,” he says, voice low and teasing. “But answers come at a price. You think you can handle what you don’t expect?”

You hold his stare, heart pounding, refusing to flinch. “I’m not here to be intimidated.”

He lets out a slow, dark laugh, amused and a little impressed. “Good. Because I’m not here to entertain you… at least, not yet.”

He steps back, letting the space between you swell with the weight of what just passed, then pulls his robe tighter around his frame with a smooth motion. “But here’s a deal: I’ll give you the story you want. The real me, the part behind the flashing lights and staged scenes. On one condition.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Which is?”

He leans in close enough that his breath brushes your ear, voice a rough whisper. “You come back. You don’t flinch. You keep pushing. No matter how messy it gets. You keep digging, even when it hurts. No backing down. And maybe… just maybe, you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

He pulls away, smirking like he’s already won the game. “Think it over. I’ll be waiting.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his challenge ringing louder than any spotlight.

***

When the elevator dings on his floor, you step out into a narrow, dimly lit hallway. The walls are a cool gray, the faint smell of leather and something smoky wafting up from behind one door.

You take a breath and knock lightly.

The door swings open before you finish the knock, revealing Seonghwa. “Come in,” he says, voice low, almost teasing. He steps aside, letting you slip inside.

The air smells faintly of cologne and smoke, the leftover echo of whatever he did on set lingering like something physical. The windows are wide, letting in the soft amber of the city outside. It should feel casual. It doesn’t.

You take it all in quietly, feeling the weight of his space, the echo of the man who lives here.

You settle into the dark gray couch, eyes never leaving him as he moves with casual ease.

Seonghwa walks toward the open-plan kitchen, barefoot, hair damp from a quick shower. He’s once again a robe, black, slung loose around him, revealing toned legs and glimpses of his chest when the fabric parts with each lazy step. You pretend not to notice. You do. It’s impossible not to.

He grabs a lighter from the counter, flicks it without looking, and lights the cigarette already tucked between his lips. The inhale is long. Slow. A sigh through his nose. Then he turns toward you.

“You look like you’re in a dentist’s waiting room,” he murmurs. Voice warm. Slightly mocking.

He exhales smoke and walks closer, staying on his side of the room but dropping into the armchair across from you, in the middle of the two couches, slouching low like he owns the place. Which, of course, he does.

The room shrinks around you, charged with something unspoken and raw. You don’t like it. You don’t want it. But you can’t look away.

“Okay, then,” you say, voice sharp. “You like being watched?”

A lazy smirk curls his mouth. “Doesn’t everyone?” He leans forward, arms resting on his thighs, cigarette perched between his fingers. The smoke curls up toward the ceiling.

Then he speaks again. “I like control,” he says. “I like knowing what people want and giving it to them. It’s… intimate. But safe. And when you’re good at it? They forget it’s a performance.”

Your throat tightens slightly, but you nod. “So it’s about power?”

“It’s about reading people,” he corrects. Then, smoothly, “My turn.” He tilts his head, studying you like you’re the subject now.

“Who broke you?”

Your stomach tightens. “What?”

He grins, slow and wicked. “You walk around like you’re armored, like you’ve got barbed wire under your skin. So who put it there?”

“I’m not here to talk about me.”

His voice drops, velvet smooth. “Show me who you are.”

Your lips tighten. “No one broke me.”

“Everyone’s broken somewhere,” he says, quietly. “You just hide it well.”

He eyes you again. “My turn, again. Because you didn't answer properly before-”

You shake your head. “I’m the interviewer.” you interrupt.

“And I’m interested in you.” His smile grows.

You feel your breath hitch, but hide it behind a slow blink.

The tension between you burns like the end of his cigarette. He stubs it out, stands slowly, robe slipping slightly off his shoulder as he crosses the space between you.

Then he pauses in front of you, not quite touching, looking down.

“You want more access?” he asks, voice velvet smooth. “Then let me have the same.”

You look up, chin raised. “What are you proposing?”

“A deal.” His eyes darken. “I’ll answer anything. All of your questions. But I get to ask whatever I want too. I get to dig just as deep.”

You hesitate. He sees it. Feeds off it.

“And if you can’t handle that,” he adds, soft and cutting, “you should probably go.”

You grit your teeth. Your pulse pounds in your throat. Your body leans forward before your mind catches up.

“Fine,” you breathe. “Deal.”

He grins.

“Good,” he says. “Now, let’s really begin.”

You’re still on the couch when he lowers himself beside you, not in the armchair across the room, not at a polite distance, but next to you. His thigh brushes yours. The robe shifts again, riding high on his legs, revealing toned skin and hints of muscle that make it hard to focus.

He’s warm. Too warm. And the silence between you goes thick and heavy, soaked in everything you aren’t saying.

“Alright,” you say, keeping your voice flat, composed, even though your heart is hammering in your chest. “You made a deal. Ask.”

He smirks, eyes raking over your face like he’s deciding where to begin.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

Your breath catches, like he’s slapped you with the question instead of asking it. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“You said I could ask a question,” he murmurs, voice low and honey-smooth. “I’m just playing by the rules.”

You recover quickly, jaw tightening. “Next question.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“You want honesty? Fine,” You meet his eyes, sharp, challenging. “I think about what it feels like to stop controlling everything. To not be the one driving. To let someone else take over, just for a while.”

His expression shifts, only slightly, but you see it. Something almost thoughtful in the cocky glint of his gaze. He leans back, just a little, arm along the top of the couch behind you.

“Interesting,” he says. “So you like to let go.”

Your turn. “How often do you sleep with someone off-camera?”

He shrugs. “Less than people think. When sex becomes work, it’s harder to want it just for fun. But when I do… I make sure it’s worth it.”

Your pulse skips. You force yourself not to look away.

He leans in. His voice drops, brushing your skin like it knows what it’s doing.

“Would you ever let go with someone like me?”

You stare at him. Hard. “Would you ever stop performing with someone like me?”

A beat. A flicker of surprise behind his eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve performed once since you walked through my door.”

“Liar.”

He laughs, low, rough, the sound curling down your spine. “You’d know, wouldn’t you?”

You should move. You don’t. He’s closer now, his thigh pressing against yours, the robe parting slightly as he turns toward you.

“And what about you?” he asks. “What’s under your perfect little armor?”

You stare back at him, fingers curling around the edges of your notebook.

He continues, tone deceptively light. “You come in here, all calm and collected. Like you’re not flustered. Like watching me get someone off in front of a room full of people didn’t do something to you.”

Your spine straightens.

“It didn’t,” you lie.

He grins slowly. “Sure. Let me guess, you’re just doing your job. You don’t feel anything.”

You don’t answer.

“I think you feel more than you let on,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’re too busy trying to prove you’re better than all of this. That you’re above it.”

You meet his gaze, and something inside you cracks. Just a little. “You think you know me?” you whisper.

“I think you wear control like I wear seduction. Like armor.” He leans back again, watching you with something that’s dangerously close to fascination. “But no one ever asks what happens when you take it off.”

You suck in a breath. “You don’t know what it’s like to have to earn respect in a world that doesn’t take women seriously unless they’re agreeable.”

He tilts his head. “And you don’t know what it’s like to be only wanted for what your body can do, not who you are.”

There it is.

The stillness between you is different now, warmer, denser. It hums beneath your skin.

He says it softer, like he means it. “No one gives a fuck about what I think. Just what I can make them feel.”

The words sit heavy in your chest. There’s a moment of silence. This is biggest crack you’ve managed to get out of his guarded shell.

Then his voice softens again, teasing this time. “Alright, journalist. My turn. Last question.”

Your stomach coils, tight with anticipation.

“Have you ever imagined someone fucking you so good it ruins you for everyone else?”

Your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t blink. “Not just the act. The aftermath. The kind of sex that stays in your bones, makes everything after feel like a cheap imitation. You ever wondered what it’d take to break you like that?”

There’s no teasing in his voice now. Just quiet curiosity. Like it’s a scientific inquiry. You look at him, really look at him, and it’s suddenly so obvious he’s not just asking for the sake of it.

He wants to know if he could do it.

Your breath hitches.

And he sees it.

The smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, that smug spark in his eye, you’ve just confirmed something for him.

He ashes the cigarette again, slow and easy. “Thought so,” he murmurs.

And the worst part?

You can’t even bring yourself to deny it.

***

You lie on your back in the dark, your sheets cool against your skin but your body too warm.

It’s late. Later than you meant to be awake. Your bedside lamp casts a muted glow across the ceiling, and you’ve already scrolled through every app on your phone twice. But your mind won’t stop replaying the evening.

You shift under the covers. They’re soft but do nothing to ease the heat crawling under your skin.

He got to you.

You hate that. You hate knowing that.

All of it replays in your mind on a loop, the cocky slant of his mouth, the lazy sprawl of his body across the couch, the way he tossed you that question like a match and watched it catch fire between your thighs.

“What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

The nerve. And still, your stomach twisted.

But it wasn’t just the question. It was the way he said it. The way he looked at you like he already knew the answer. Like he could read it on your skin.

You shouldn’t care. He’s your subject. Your project. Your assignment. You’re here to peel back the layers, uncover the man behind the persona.

And yet, here you are. Lying in your bed. Thinking about him.

You open your browser on your phone. Start to type.

Park Seonghwa.

A breath hitches in your throat as the name autofills. You press enter.

Links bloom across the screen in a chaotic sprawl. Clips. Interviews. Promo photos. Glossy thumbnails of sex.

But it’s the one at the very top that stops you.

No clickbait. No dramatic title. Just:

Park Seonghwa – Solo | Intimate POV.

You stare at the thumbnail. It’s dark, soft-red-lit, just a close-up of his face. Damp hair pushed back. His lips slightly parted. His eyes. direct, dark, focused. On the camera. On you.

You hesitate.

Then your finger taps the screen.

The video loads slowly, black for a beat, and then…

There he is.

The camera is positioned low on the nightstand, the frame unsteady but intimate, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to see. The soft red lighting of Seonghwa’s bedroom casts red shadows over his skin, the familiar surroundings of his private apartment making the moment feel even more forbidden. This isn’t a set. It’s his space. His bed. His sheets.

And he’s standing at the edge of it, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, the waistband barely clinging to his skin. His black-painted fingers trace a path along his abdomen.

His voice cuts through the quiet, low and rough, like he’s talking to himself as much as to whoever’s watching.

“I’m all alone tonight,” he says, lips curling into a wicked smile. “Just me, my hands, and this hard fucking cock. You watching this in your bed, baby?” he murmurs, voice low, laced with that cocky softness that makes your stomach twist. “Lying there all sweet and needy, just for me?”

The waistband slips lower. Your breath catches.

The camera captures it all, his cock, thick and hard, gradually revealed, the flushed head slick with precome, shining under the dim red light. Veins curl along the shaft like cords pulled tight with anticipation, each one pulsing with restrained tension.

“Mm, look at that. Fucking myself… but every thought? You. Every touch? You.” he drawls, spitting into his palm and wrapping his hand around himself with a practiced grip. He groans, low and deep, as he spreads the slickness over his cock. “I wish you were here, on this bed, touching yourself just like I am. Knowing I’m watching. Knowing you belong to me tonight.”

He starts to stroke himself, slow and teasing, watching the camera like he can see right through it. “Don’t touch yet,” he warns, voice sharp. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

He talks like he sees you, sees directly through the screen and into your eyes. Like he knows what you’re doing in your own room, alone, totally under his control.

He leans back against the edge of the bed, one hand behind him to steady him, the other still wrapped around his cock.

Then, his gaze sharpens again. “Alright, baby. Now you can touch. Let me see it. Fingers deep. Rub that clit slow and soft, don’t rush it. I want to hear how messy it gets.”

Your fingers tremble as you slide your hand beneath your clothes, cheeks flushing hot with a mix of shame and desperate need. Your breath hitches as your fingers meet your slick folds. Heat coils in your gut, sharp and needy.

“Good girl,” he groans. “That’s it. Just like that. Take your time. I want you fucking ruined by the end of this.”

He’s so fucking good at this. He’s a goddamn star.

His voice drops, ragged with arousal now. “Faster. Rub that little clit hard, don’t you dare stop. Fuck yourself for me, just like I told you.”

You whimper, body writhing under your sheets. Your shirt is already pushed up, one hand squeezing your phone tightly, the other between your thighs, fingers slick with arousal. Your hips roll into your own touch, matching the rhythm of his strokes.

He groans again, low and filthy, his voice rough with lust. “You better be touching yourself exactly like I told you. I want to hear you come for me, baby. Say my name loud.”

Your breath stutters as your fingers circle your clit faster, the wet sounds of your need echoing in your room. “Seonghwa… I-, please…”

“Fingers deeper,” he growls. “Rub that clit while you fuck yourself, baby, don’t make me say it again. I want you moaning my name, legs shaking, begging for more even when you can’t take it.”

You obey without hesitation, sprawled on your bed, one hand buried between your thighs, soaked with your own slick.

But it’s not enough.

Your eyes flutter shut, body already moving in rhythm with his voice, his words, his breath. And then you let go. You pretend it’s not your fingers. You imagine it’s him.

That it’s Seonghwa between your legs, kneeling over you on your bed. His hands are the ones parting your thighs, his fingers circling your clit in teasing, torturously slow circles. You imagine the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin, the press of his chest above yours, his cock hard against your stomach as he whispers filth right into your ear.

Your eyes snap open. They find the screen in your hand, find him.

“Look at you,” he pants, stroking faster now, spit and precome shining along the thick length of his cock. “Fucking yourself like a good little slut. You’d let me wreck you, wouldn’t you? You’d take every inch and still ask for more. I want you crying because it feels so fucking good.”

Your breath hitches, hips lifting into your own touch, and you pretend it’s him holding you down, not your trembling hand. That it’s his lips grazing your neck as he groans how tight and wet you are for him.

You moan, high and broken, hips jerking up against your fingers. “Yes-, yes, Seonghwa, please, I-”

Tears sting your lashes from how good it feels, how overwhelming it is to be seen and controlled, even from across a screen.

Then, suddenly, his voice softens just enough to ruin you. “Come for me now, pretty girl. Say my fucking name. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

You cry out, body seizing as pleasure crashes over you in waves. “Seonghwa-, fuck, Seonghwa!”

And all the while, his eyes never leave the camera. Never leave you.

“Fucking perfect,” he groans, his strokes turning desperate now, almost harsh, as he chases his own release. “Look what you do to me.”

His body tenses, abs flexing, brows drawn tight with pleasure, lips parted as a strangled sound leaves him. And then he comes, cock jerking in his fist, thick ropes spilling over his stomach. His whole body shakes with it, moans leaving his beautiful mouth.

The video ends with him slumping back against the pillows, chest heaving, sweat shining on his skin, his hair a mess across his forehead. The smirk that curls on his lips is smug, victorious, as if he’s just claimed something from you without lifting a finger.

“Fucking perfect,” he says softly. “Next time, maybe you’ll be here.”

And the video ends.

You’re left panting, flushed, utterly undone.

You set the phone down, heart still racing, skin still tingling. Embarrassment floods you, but beneath it is a darker craving, a need that won’t be satisfied anytime soon.

***

On Friday, you knock on the door, hesitate for a second, then push it open.

Same office. Same dark walls, same black armchair in the corner, same lingering scent of something expensive and musky. But today, none of it feels the same.

Your chest tightens with a rush of heat and embarrassment of seeing him. You remind yourself to focus, to stay professional. But the memory of the other night, the video you couldn’t stop watching, presses against your thoughts, making your cheeks flush.

He doesn’t notice.

Because the man sitting there doesn’t look like the one you met earlier this week.

Seonghwa is sunk deep into the armchair near the window, hood up, legs stretched out. A lit cigarette dangles between his fingers, ash clinging stubbornly to the end. His usual polished precision is nowhere in sight.

And neither is that smirk.

You pause in the doorway. “Morning.”

He lifts his head just barely, eyes narrowing like the light annoys him. “Oh. Right.. Today.”

No charm. No grin. Not even the cool confidence he always wears like armor.

“I texted you last night. Said I’d be here at ten.”

“Doesn’t mean I remembered,” he mutters, dragging from the cigarette. The smoke curls between you, soft and lazy, but his tone cuts through it like glass.

You step into the room, letting the door click softly behind you. “Are you okay?”

He gives you a look that makes it very clear that was the wrong question. “Peachy.”

You pause, scanning him. The hoodie. The mess of papers on his desk. A barely touched coffee going cold beside his laptop. The light in here is dim, drawn shades casting thin slats across the floor. You can feel the heat of his mood before he says another word.

“You don’t have to fake concern,” he mutters, taking another drag. “It’s not gonna make the column sound any less curated.”

Your brows knit. “Excuse me?”

He waves a hand toward you, toward the room. “This. All of this. Let’s not pretend this is anything other than you getting your material.”

You shift on your feet, a slow flare of irritation lighting your chest. “What do you think I want from this?”

“I think you care about getting the most interesting version of me. The wounded, brooding performer with something to hide.” His mouth twists into something sharp. “It’s exactly what you wanted to see, right?” His gaze cuts to you, sharp and flat. “Congratulations. You’re getting it.”

Your chest tightens, but you stay still. “You think I want you like this?”

“I think you want truth,” he snaps, tapping the ash into the tray. “And this is it. The version I try to keep under wraps because it doesn’t sell. Because it doesn’t make anyone hard or fall in love.”

You glance at the clock. “Do we still do this today? Or should I come back another time?”

He exhales a long breath, rubs a hand over his jaw. “Let’s get it over with.”

And for the first time since this whole thing began, you see him not as the man who holds all the cards, but as someone who hates being looked at too closely.

The day unfolds in fragments.

Meetings. Scripts. Phone calls. Camera tests.

You follow him like you’re supposed to, your notebook tucked under your arm, phone in your pocket, voice recorder untouched. Seonghwa walks ahead of you like he forgot you were even there, hood still up, sleeves shoved halfway to his elbows, the fraying hem of his sweatshirt twitching with each agitated movement.

The production assistant tries to make a joke as he hands Seonghwa a stack of papers. Seonghwa doesn’t smile.

It’s the little things. The way his knee bounces restlessly beneath the conference table. The way he pinches the bridge of his nose when he thinks no one’s looking. The way he zooms out when no one is talking.

You’re silent, mostly. Observing. But it’s impossible not to feel how much he doesn’t want you here.

Not just today, maybe at all.

When the others clear out of the room for a break, you’re left standing near the window. He lights another cigarette and leans back in his chair, exhaling with all the exhaustion of a man three times his age.

You glance at him. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t look at you. “Do I look okay?”

“No. That’s why I asked.”

He drags in another breath of smoke, eyes fixed somewhere past the window.

You take a step closer. “I’m not here to-”

“To fix anything,” he says, voice quieter now, less bite in it. He finally meets your eyes, and something in his expression softens just enough to hurt. “You’re here to tell a story. I get it.”

“That’s not all I’m doing. That’s not fair.”

He shrugs, more resigned than cold. “It’s not meant to be. It’s just… easier to believe you’re doing your job than actually giving a fuck.”

And it hits you then, he’s not trying to shut you out to be cruel. He’s doing it to keep himself from hoping for something more. You hate that he means it. That he believes it. That somewhere between the tension and the peeling back of layers, he still doesn’t trust you enough to believe you care.

Today’s studio space is colder than the hallway, industrial lights buzzing overhead, metal rigs stacked along the walls, and a makeshift bed propped under the camera setup.

You step in behind Seonghwa, careful not to bump into the maze of cords and crew. It’s eerily quiet for a shoot day. But maybe that’s because everyone’s waiting for him.

He’s in his hoodie, the hood still pulled over his head like armor. Hands in his pockets, spine tense. His steps are heavy, slow. Like walking into this room costs him something. And the moment people notice him, something shifts. Not respect. Not admiration. Something more primal.

“God, look at that,” someone murmurs near the lighting board. “Even with a hoodie on, he looks like sex.”

A grip elbows his buddy. “Bet they have him jack off again. He’s too good at it not to.”

Laughter buzzes through the set like a current. You pretend not to hear.

Seonghwa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t respond. You watch his expression from the side, blank. Guarded. Not new to this.

The director finally enters, a man in a designer tee and sunglasses indoors, and claps his hands together with a wide, lazy grin. His eyes go straight to Seonghwa.

“There he is! My masterpiece,” he says with a grin. “Fuck, you’re still so fuckable it’s actually unfair. Even with that tired little pout, perfect. Stay like that.” He steps in close, fingers curling under the hem of Seonghwa’s hoodie and lifting it uninvited. “Yeah, we’ll use this for the thumbnail. Boys wanna be you, girls wanna ride you. And the ones in between? They’re paying double. Let’s not waste time on foreplay, you're losing the pants before we hit four minutes anyways.”

You blink. He doesn’t even ask.

“Today’s just a solo,” the director continues, already talking to the crew. “I want long shots of the buildup. Give me that lazy jerk-off style he does. Like he just woke up and couldn’t help himself. And get tight on his abs when he clenches, viewers love that shit. Make the fuckers at home feel like they’re right there, breathing down his neck.“

He turns back to Seonghwa. “Don’t talk. Don’t think. Just stroke it, look hot, moan a little, and come when I tell you.”

The words land with the weight of indifference. Like Seonghwa’s just a prop. A function. A dick and a face with a pulse.

You glance up at him. His jaw is tight. His mouth a flat line. Not angry, no. This isn’t new to him. It’s routine. Expected. A part of the job he doesn’t get to question.

You speak without thinking. “He’s not just a prop.”

That earns you a look. Not just from the director, but Seonghwa too. Something flickers in his eyes, shock, maybe surprise.

The director barks a laugh. “Relax. Don’t get righteous. It’s the industry, sweetheart. If you don’t like it, you’re in the wrong room.” He walks off before you can respond, barking something about angles and cumshots.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

Seonghwa doesn’t move at first. When he finally does, it’s slow, measured. His jaw works, but his voice is low, almost too quiet to hear. “It’s not about what I want,” he says, eyes fixed on the floor. “It never is.” He doesn’t say more. Just shrugs off the hoodie and walks toward the set.

You don’t say a word.

But the director’s yelling grabs attention, half-distracted by his phone.

“Come on, Seonghwa. Slower. Let’s really feel that stroke. Sell it like you mean it.”

He doesn’t flinch, not outwardly.

You watch him slip into the rhythm. One hand curls lightly at the base of his stomach, the other resting behind him. He’s not touching himself, not yet.

He looks like a sculpture: smooth, stunning, perfect, and completely lifeless inside. The charm is gone. The Seonghwa you’ve gotten glimpses of, the one with the bitter laugh and the razor wit, the one who says too much when he’s tired and smokes like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded, isn’t here. He’s been replaced by a fantasy. A tool.

And no one seems to care.

“Yeah,” the director says absently, standing near the monitor. “God, your face does most of the work for you, doesn’t it? You could just stand there and they’d still fucking come.”

There’s laughter around the room. Like Seonghwa isn’t even present, like he’s just a prop they’re manipulating.

And it makes your chest ache.

You take a slow breath and step back from the edge of the set. There’s nothing for you to do here. Nothing to say that wouldn’t sound hollow, or patronizing, or worse, just like everyone else who pretends to care while still benefiting from his body.

So you turn and quietly leave the room. The hallway outside feels colder, quieter. You don’t know what you’re allowed to feel in this moment. Anger? Sympathy? Guilt?

You just know you couldn't watch anymore.

Not when he clearly didn’t want you to. Not when the man you came here to understand was being stripped away, piece by piece, until only the image was left.

And that image? That glossy, controlled performance?

That’s what they want. Not him. Not the real him.

And somehow, that realization hurts more than you expected.

The dressing room smells faintly of cologne, latex, and sweat. You sit on the edge of the black bench against the wall when the door opens. The sound is sharp in the stillness, followed by footsteps that slow as they see you.

Seonghwa walks in, his hoodie bunched in one hand, hair damp, jaw clenched. He’s wearing only his sweatpants, his skin still glistening with leftover oil. His expression flickers, not anger, but something edged. Tired. Wary.

He walks past you, heading to the corner where a small fridge hums beside the dressing table. Rows of expensive liquor line the shelves. Vodka, whiskey, soju, even a few overly expensive wine bottles. Every possible way to forget himself sits chilled and ready. But he ignores them all, reaching instead for a plain bottle of water. He drinks slowly, throat moving, his other hand flexing once at his side like he’s holding something in.

"You left." His voice is rough. Not accusing. Just...surprised.

You meet his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Didn’t think that would bother you,” He drops the hoodie onto a chair, drags a towel off a hook and wipes at his face. “You’ve seen me do worse.”

“I didn’t leave because I couldn’t handle the scene,” you say. “I left because you looked like you couldn’t.”

His movements slow. The towel lowers slightly.

“I’ve seen you do this before. At the studio, with the woman. You were in it. Comfortable. Maybe even enjoying it.”

He scoffs under his breath and turns away, tossing the towel onto the counter. “That was a different day. Different shoot. Different director.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Back then, it looked like a choice. Like you were in control. Today it didn’t.”

He leans both hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders tense. “You know what the difference is?” He looks at you in the mirror, not turning. “That shoot? I liked the director. I liked the setting. I was in the fucking mood. It worked because it came from me. This-” He laughs hollowly, a crack of frustration. “This was someone powerful enough to say do it or get out. Someone I can’t afford to say no to. So, I did it.”

You don’t speak. You let him.

“I wasn’t in the mood. I didn’t want anyone touching me. Didn’t want to fuck, didn’t want to look sexy, didn’t want to perform, but I had to.” He shakes his head. “There are days that feels like a goddamn prison sentence.”

He finally turns, leaning back against the counter now. Arms crossed. His chest rises slowly, like he’s trying not to show how much he said just cost him.

You watch him carefully, the hard edges softening just enough to see the man behind the mask.

“You said you don’t fake it,” you say quietly. “So… what was that?”

He sighs, eyes flicking away before meeting yours again. “Survival,” he admits, voice low but steady. “I love what I do. I’m proud of who I’ve become, what I’ve built from nothing. I own this life. The good, the bad, all of it. But like any job, there are parts you hate. Parts that drain you.” He taps the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “That scene? That was me bending to someone else’s will. I swallowed it because I had to. Because I don’t get to pick every day. And sometimes surviving means doing things you hate, even when you don’t want to.”

The silence stretches between you. Something hangs in the air, too heavy for neither of you to grab.

“No one’s ever walked away before,” he says finally. His voice is lower now. “They usually just...watch. Or enjoy the show.”

Slowly, you rise to your feet, the movement drawing his attention. He lowers his gaze, fingers dragging over his jaw. There's exhaustion etched into his features, but beneath it, something quieter, heavier. Resignation.

“I didn’t come here to feed on the worst version of you,” you say. “I came here to see the real one. That’s not the same thing.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look at you right away. His jaw flexes once. He’s quiet for a beat too long, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry, or maybe, just maybe, it’s because he doesn’t know how to respond.

Then, finally, a dry sound leaves his throat. Almost a laugh.

“Well,” he says softer, glancing over at you again, voice softer, “congrats. You got him.” His gaze sharpens, a little of that old arrogance flickering behind it. “Grumpy. Tired. Mentally undressing people out of sheer boredom. You sure that’s the ‘real’ me you wanted?”

You lift a brow. “If this is you flirting again, it’s deeply depressing.”

He snorts, pushing off the dressing table to pace the small room with slow steps.

“You make it hard not to,” he says.

There’s something in his walk, looser than before, more relaxed, like some of the tension’s drained from his muscles.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, more thoughtful. “You know, I usually expect people to want things from me. Attention. A show. Something they can get off to, or write about, or pretend to care about just long enough to take.”

You meet his eyes.

“And what do I want?” you ask.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says, a little smile curling at his lips now. “But it’s starting to piss me off.”

You let out a short laugh. “Good.”

He steps closer.

Not too close. Just enough to tilt the atmosphere again. To remind you of how he carries himself when he’s not being forced to play a role, but when he chooses to.

“Maybe you’re the first one who didn’t want the performance,” he murmurs. “But that means you might actually want me. And that’s… far more dangerous.”

He steps closer. Enough to make you feel like he could cage you.

Your mouth twists. “I can handle dangerous.”

“I know you can,” he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before rising again. “Which is probably why I keep wondering what it’d take to ruin you.”

Your breath catches, just barely. But you recover fast, narrowing your eyes.

“I think you’re forgetting who’s in control here.”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I remember. You’ve been trying to control me from day one.”

You smirk. “Trying?”

The air between you charges again, a slow rise of energy you’ve both become addicted to, banter as foreplay, tension as currency.

He leans in just slightly, voice a whisper now. “You keep poking at the beast, sweetheart, and one day it’s gonna bite.”

You don’t back down. You never do. Instead, you tilt your head, eyes bright, tone playful but edged.

“Show me who you are, pornstar.”

And this time, it’s him left watching your back as you leave the room, a slow grin curving at the edge of his mouth.

The day drags on, marked by long meetings, quick walks between sets, and endless discussions about scripts, schedules, and contracts. From the outside, Seonghwa is in professional, his face a carefully guarded mask as he navigates a world that rarely sees past his looks.

But you notice the small things that slip through the cracks.

When a new intern drops a clipboard near him, he crouches without hesitation, helping her gather the pages. “It happens,” he murmurs, flashing a small, crooked smile. She blushes. He doesn’t notice, he’s too focused on making sure the papers aren’t bent.

You see how he checks in with his scene partner when going through an upcoming scene. Not just the “are you okay?” they’re supposed to say, but the quiet, real kind. “Do you want to run through it first?” “Is there a word you don’t like hearing?” “Tell me what makes you feel safe.” His voice never dips into showmanship. He means it.

He holds the boom operator’s ladder while they’re adjusting the rig, just instinct. Offers his hoodie to a grip when the studio AC kicks in too hard. Tells the runner she can take his spot in line for catering because she’s been on her feet all day.

The day’s light was fading as you wrapped up, the set slowly emptying out around you. You felt the weight of the last few days settle in, a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. On Monday, this all would be just words on a page, a story told from your view. But tonight, there was still unfinished business. A handful of questions you needed to ask him before publishing on Monday.

He didn’t say much as you left the set together. When you arrived at his apartment, the familiar scent of his space settled around you like a cloak, dark wood, leather, a faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air.

The city outside buzzed faintly, but inside, it was different. More intimate. Raw.

In the kitchen, he opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle. You expect something like whiskey or beer, something to match the rough edges you’ve seen in him, but instead, he grabs a sparkling water and pops the cap with a practiced flick. He drinks without hesitation, eyes locked on the glass.

You watch for a moment. He drinks other things, coffee, energy drinks, soda, but not alcohol. Curious, you finally address it, “You never touch alcohol.”

He exhales slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m sober. Used to drink, back when I started all this,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the industry chaos outside. “Made things easier, especially scenes I didn’t want to do. Just numb the brain, let the body do the work. But it didn’t stay easy. Became a problem.”

He shrugs, a little bitter. “Quit cold turkey. Stuck to cigarettes. They don’t fuck with me the way alcohol did.”

You take that in, the weight behind his words settling between you.

He glances up, a spark of that familiar cocky edge in his eyes. “Same deal as last time,” he says quietly. “You get to ask whatever you want, I get to ask you back.”

You hesitate for a beat, then nod, meeting his gaze steadily. “Fair enough.”

The room shifts subtly, the air thickening as you settle on the couch, the glow of the city filtering in through the blinds. He drops onto the couch opposite you, propping an elbow on the armrest and flicking a glance your way that’s half teasing, half challenging. The familiar smirk curling at the corner of his lips, the kind that warns you he’s gearing up to push boundaries.

“So,” he starts, voice low and teasing, “what’s the first thing you want to know? Don’t hold back. You’re not here for small talk.”

You meet his gaze, feeling the heat of it, the sharpness wrapped in that easy confidence. “Alright then,” you say, “what’s the one thing about you that no one’s ever bothered to ask?”

His smirk deepens. “Curious. I like that.” He taps his finger against his chin. “I guess… people never ask what scares me. Everyone’s so obsessed with the surface, nobody wants to know what actually keeps me up at night.”

He leans back in the couch, arm resting casually on the armrest, his gaze locked on you with that familiar cocky glint. “Alright,” he says, voice low and slow like he’s savoring every word. “Your turn to answer. But I’m not asking about your favorite color or some safe, boring shit.” He tilts his head, like he’s about to deliver a verdict. “What’s the dirtiest thing you’ve ever imagined me doing to you? Don’t hide it, I know you’ve thought about it.”

Your breath hitches. You want to look away, but his gaze pins you, sharp and relentless. “You don’t know a thing about me,” you say, voice tight but quiet.

“Just admit that I get under your skin.” he pushes.

The air thickens between you, every word a spark, every look a flame. You don’t answer, but the tension says everything.

He tips his head toward you, a slow grin pulling at his lips. “Alright,” he says, voice low and playful. “Speed round. No thinking, just answer.”

You bite back a smirk. “Fine. But same rules for you.”

He raises his hand, palm open in mock surrender. “Deal.” A pause. He leans forward, eyes glinting. “Lights on or off?”

You roll your eyes. “Off.” You don’t hesitate. “What was your first scene like?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Awful. Cheap hotel room, bad lighting, guy behind the camera eating chips the whole time. I hated every second of it, until the money hit.”

You nod, filing it away.

His eyes flicker over you. “Ever had someone make you come so hard you forgot your own name?”

You blink, caught off guard, but you recover quickly. “No.”

He raises a brow. “No?”

You shake your head. “Next question.”

He’s grinning now. “Cold. I like it.”

You tilt your head. “What makes a scene enjoyable for you?”

“Chemistry,” he answers easily. “Real tension. Not just moaning on command.” He doesn’t wait. “Where do you like to be touched first?”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

“I’m not here for your journalism,” he says smoothly. “I want the truth.”

You shift in your seat. “Fine. Shoulders, my neck,” You exhale, shifting in your seat. “Rough or slow?”

His gaze darkens just a shade. “Both. Start slow, end ruined.” His eyes glitter as he tilts his head. “When you touched yourself the other night… what did you picture me doing?”

The question hits like a slap, fast, sharp, completely out of nowhere.

You freeze.

It’s just for a second. A breath, a blink. But it’s all he needs.

His smirk blooms, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring the flavor of your silence.

“Oh,” he says, voice low and rich. “That’s all the answer I need.”

Your eyes narrow, heart beating faster. “That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was better than one,” he murmurs. “You should see your face right now.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, every line of him tuned in. “So what was it? Me between your thighs? My fingers? My mouth?” He grins. “Or did you watch a video of mine?”

You hate that he’s right. You hate even more how much of this is true. How a few nights ago, in your bed, you had slipped your hand between your thighs with the very image of him in your head, voice, mouth, body, all of it.

And now he’s sitting across from you, as if he knows.

You shift in your seat, your heart beating in your neck, tightening your jaw. “Do you always get off on making people flustered?”

He smiles, utterly unbothered. “Only when they’re pretending they’re not dying to be fucked.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just watches you from across the room, legs spread comfortably on the couch opposite yours, his elbow draped lazily over the armrest like he’s got all the time in the world.

Then, without a word, he rises.

You don’t track him with your eyes, but you feel it, his slow, easy steps as he walks around the coffee table and then behind your couch. Your breath hitches when you sense him close, the faint scent of his cologne and smoke drifting down as he pauses behind you. You stiffen slightly, unsure of his next move.

And then his fingers touch your shoulders.

His voice comes low beside your ear, thick with promise and filth. “So what was I doing in that pretty little head of yours?”

You inhale sharply, but say nothing.

“Was it my mouth?” he continues, fingertips trailing with maddening gentleness over the curve of your shoulder. “My tongue?”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

His hand pauses, then brushes a little more firmly down your upper arm. “Or were you fucking yourself to a video? The kitchen one, maybe? The way I bend her over the counter and make her beg? That one tends to be a favorite,”

Your legs press together without thinking, and you feel his pause, feel the smirk in it.

“Oh,” he says softly. “So it was a video.”

Behind you, his voice lowers.

“Maybe it wasn’t one of the rough ones,” he murmurs. “Maybe it wasn’t even with a partner. Maybe…” His fingers pause, then brush inwards, tracing just beneath the neckline of your shirt, not quite slipping in, but enough to make your skin tighten. “Maybe it was one of the solo ones from my own bed.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. But the heat climbing up your chest gives you away.

“Those are always my favorites,” he adds, almost conversationally, but there's a layer beneath it, quieter, more real. “No director. No lights. Just me. In my space. Needing something.”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep control, but it’s already slipping. Your thighs press tighter together, and he must know.

He keeps going.

He leans in closer, breath warm against your skin. “Did you watch me stroke myself slow? Did you imagine kneeling between my legs, watching the way my hand moves? Did you-”

A sound escapes you, too soft to be a word, too loud to be ignored.

“Was I good?” he whispers.

Your breathe halters. You scoff, weakly. “You think too highly of yourself.”

He pushes, knowing what this is doing to you. “Did I make you come fast? Or did you take your time, pretending it was my fingers inside you?”

His hands settle gently at your shoulders again, and this time, his thumbs drag over the base of your neck.

“And now I’m right here,” he murmurs. “Right behind you. Talking you through it. Wanting to see when you give in.”

His thumbs sweep in lazy circles over the tops of your shoulders, light enough to keep you aching for more.

“I could make you feel so fucking good right now,” he says, voice silken and low. “You don’t even know.”

You grip the edge of the couch cushion, nails digging in. You still don’t answer. You can’t. Not when your breath is shallow, not when you’re afraid he’ll see just how badly you want it.

He chuckles, not mocking, but knowing.

“I see it in the way you breathe,” he says, “the way your thighs press together when I talk like this. You’re imagining it, aren’t you? Me between your legs. My mouth. My hands. My cock.”

Your entire body tenses, heat pulsing through your core like a current.

“But I’m not touching you yet,” he says, dragging his fingers higher, along the side of your neck this time, slow, reverent. “You want it. But I need you to give it to me. Say the word. Look at me. Move. Something.”

His fingers still, barely resting against your skin.

“I won’t take unless you give,” he murmurs. “But sweetheart, if you do give…” His voice dips, dark and sweet like molasses, “... I’ll ruin you in the best fucking way.”

You stay frozen for half a beat longer, heart thundering, torn between pride and hunger, between control and the deep, unbearable need rising in your chest.

Then, you shift.

Your voice is quiet. Barely above a whisper.

“Then take me.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t lunge for you. He doesn't devour or drag or tear, no, Seonghwa moves like he’s been waiting years for this, like he knows exactly how to handle something delicate, how to cherish what’s willingly offered. His hands leave your shoulders and slide down your arms, slow and grounding, as he steps around the couch and kneels before you.

His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, breath shaky. “I want you.”

And then he kisses you.

Not with aggression, but with intensity, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way you taste, the way your breath catches when he deepens it. His hands press to your thighs, parting them slightly so he can move closer, fitting between them like he belongs there.

You wrap your arms around him, needing him more than you’d ever dare to admit.

His fingers skim beneath the hem of your shirt but don’t push, just touch, warm and open-palmed against your waist, your ribs, your spine.

You let out a moan just from his touch.

He grins against your neck, the cocky bastard, but it’s laced with something deeper, that maddening adoration, the one you’re not ready to look too closely at.

“I’m going to make it better than you imagined,” he says. “I promise you that.”

His tank top clings to his toned muscles, black nail polish catching the light, and that eyebrow piercing, sharp and bold, reminds you exactly who he is. A fucking pornstar. And he owns every part of that.

He doesn’t even look away as he drags down your jeans and they hit the floor. His hands stay on your thighs, spreading them apart like it’s instinct. Confident. Unshakable. His thumbs brush over your inner skin, slow and unhurried, like he’s already memorizing what makes you squirm.

And you do, just a little. Just enough.

“God, you’re so damn easy to read,” he breathes, his fingers trace up, catching at the edge of your panties, not pulling, just letting the pressure build.

One hand stays on your thigh, holding you steady. The other slips beneath the fabric, knuckles dragging slow and hot across your skin. His fingers slide through the slick mess between your legs, and he groans, low, appreciative, like he’s savoring it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough against your skin. “You’re soaked for me. This wet just from my voice, my mouth…” His words brush against your thigh like heat. But it’s his fingers that undo you, two of them buried deep, dragging slow, perfect pressure inside you, curling just right.

You try to hold back the sounds, but you can’t. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with him touching you like this.

“I want to know,” he murmurs, voice dark and steady, eyes locked on yours as his fingers work inside you, steady and relentless. “Which one did you watch?”

You hesitate, jaw tight, breath shaky. His thumb finds your clit again and circles, soft, slow, teasing.

“Was it one of the rough ones?” he continues, cocking his head.

You shake your head. Your voice barely escapes you, breathless and shame-warm. “It was… one of the solo ones.”

He stills for just a second. “Yeah?,” he breathes, pushing deeper, harder. “You watched me touch myself? Stroke my cock for the camera like I was thinking of someone like you?” He groans, fucking you slow with his fingers. “Was that it?”

His fingers slip out of you only long enough to hook into your panties, tugging them down in one smooth motion. He doesn’t rush it. He watches every inch of your skin as he reveals it, his eyes hot, hungry, reverent.

When they’re off, he drops them to the floor without a second thought, gaze trailing up the inside of your thighs like a promise.

“Tell me what you liked about it,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “That video. Tell me what made you soak your sheets. Was I dirty enough? Rough? Did you picture me fucking you slow, or fast and ruthless?”

You hesitate, but his mouth moves higher, a wet kiss just beside your center, and your hips twitch.

He smiles against your skin. “Come on. You watched me stroke my cock in that bed, didn’t you? The way I moaned, the way I whispered filthy shit to the camera like I knew someone like you was watching.” His tongue traces a line slowly up your thigh. “You fucking loved it.”

Your voice cracks. “You… looked so good. The way you touched yourself. Slow. Like you weren’t in a rush. Like you really felt it.”

He groans, soft and deep. “I did feel it, baby. I was thinking of a mouth like yours. Of a pussy just like this…” He leans in and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. You gasp, thighs jumping. “And now I get to taste you for real.”

He doesn’t wait.

His mouth is there, tongue dragging firm and slow over your clit like he’s claiming it, sucking it between his lips with a low growl that vibrates right through you.

You arch up, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the couch, already unraveling.

“Tell me more,” he murmurs against you. “What made you come?”

You can barely breathe. “When you-” Your hips jerk as he flicks his tongue again. “When you moaned. The way your eyes looked when you came. Like… like you needed it.”

He moans in response, mouth working deeper now, and slides two fingers into you again, curling them just right.

“Yeah? You like seeing me lose it?” he groans. “Wanna see it again, real and messy? Feel it instead of watching it?”

You nod, desperate, hips grinding against his mouth, chasing his tongue. He laughs softly, dark and full of heat. “You’re so fucking responsive. That’s my favorite kind of girl, one who can’t fake it, can’t hide it.”

His fingers work with unrelenting precision, pornstar skill, yes, but this is personal. Focused. For you.

He eats you like it’s his favorite meal. His mouth and fingers work in perfect rhythm, slow at first, then faster when your moans rise. He pulls you to the edge and keeps you there, not letting up, not letting go, until-

You shatter.

It rips through you like lightning, your moan breaking out loud and needy, hips bucking, thighs clenching around his head. He holds you through it, groaning into your pussy like your orgasm is everything he’s ever wanted.

You’re still trying to catch your breath, thighs trembling, body slack against the couch when he rises up from between your legs.

He looks wrecked, in the most beautiful way. Lips wet, hair mussed from your hands, chest rising and falling beneath that goddamn tank top that clings to him like a second skin. His eyes never leave yours, dark and full of something primal.

“You taste fucking amazing,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you, deep, tongue slipping into your mouth, making sure you feel how filthy he is. How much he wants more.

You kiss him back, instinctive now, desperate and starved, the lingering taste of yourself on his tongue only turning you on more.

He pulls back just enough to tug his tank top over his head and toss it aside. His body is ridiculous. Toned, cut, a living ad for sin.

He unbuttons his pants, unzips, and pulls them down, revealing hard thighs and that heavy bulge beneath his briefs. You can’t help the way your eyes lock there, at the thick outline of him, the part of him you’ve seen in clips, in curated fantasies, shadows of it from across a room, but never this close, never this real.

He smirks, catches your gaze. “Want to see what you touched yourself to?”

Your throat dries. You nod slowly.

He pushes his briefs down, cock springing free, thick, veined, flushed, already hard and leaking at the tip. Bigger than you remembered. Even more intimidating in person. Even more fucking perfect.

He wraps a hand around himself, stroking once, slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“This what you watched?” he murmurs. “Me in my bed, stroking it slow, saying your name without even knowing it?”

You nod again, breathless.

You stay right where you are, seated on the edge of the couch, looking up at him, and he looks fucking godlike. His cock is thick and hard, and he’s looking at you like he’s about to ruin you all over again.

You reach for him, wrap your fingers around the base of his cock, thick and warm and pulsing in your hand, and the sound he makes is low, choked, like he wasn’t expecting how good it would feel already. His head falls back for just a second as you stroke him, your thumb brushing over the bead of pre-cum at the tip.

You lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of him, from base to tip, your tongue flat and teasing. His thighs flex, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I watched you do this,” you whisper, licking your lips. “In that solo video. In your bed. Your hand wrapped around your cock just like this.”

His thumb wipes the mess from your bottom lip, but there’s nothing gentle about it now. There’s a fire behind his eyes, hunger sharpened into something rough, possessive.

“Open,” he says, and it’s not a request.

You do.

He slides his cock back between your lips, his hand finds the back of your head, threading through your hair, not rough, but firm. Grounding.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, breath hitching. “Relax your throat. Breathe through your nose. Just let me in.”

You focus on your breath. Inhale, exhale. You relax your jaw, tongue flat, letting him take up space, letting him show you how.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Fuck, yeah. Just like that.”

This time, when he pushes deeper, it’s smoother. Less panic, more control. Your body adjusts. Your mouth opens wider for him, your throat yielding, and it feels good. Powerful, even.

He groans, deep in his chest. “You feel that? That little click when it goes in deeper? That’s your throat giving up. That’s perfect, sweetheart.”

You hum around him, and he shudders.

“God, look at you. Taking me so fucking well. You learn fast.”

His praise makes your stomach twist, heat pooling low. Your eyes flutter up to meet his, wet and wide, and the look on his face, awe, hunger, something almost reverent, makes you want to show off.

You press forward on your own this time, let him slip fully into your throat.

He hisses, hips jerking.

“Fuck. Good girl. That’s it-, fuck, that’s it.”

His free hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking along your jaw, watching every twitch of your expression like it’s art. Like you’re art.

He’s fucking your face now.

Your nails dig into his thighs, eyes locked on his, and he can see it. The want. The ache. You need this. You need him. He pulls out slowly, finally, letting you gasp for air, spit trailing from your lip to his cock. Your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, mouth red and swollen, and you’ve never felt more ruined, or more alive.

His hand stays on your jaw, tilting your face up to him.

“You still with me, sweetheart?”

You nod, breathing hard, voice wrecked. “More.”

That word? It’s all he needs.

He grips your jaw, your throat sore, spit clinging to your lips and chin. Your eyes are glassy, lashes wet, cheeks flushed from being fucked so deep, so hard, and he can’t take it.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, staring at you like he’s ready to devour you. “You don’t even know what you look like right now.”

Your lips part like you might try to answer, but he doesn’t let you. He hauls you to your feet with one firm pull, fingers still tangled in your hair, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not sweet.

It’s desperate.

He kisses you like he owns your breath, like he needs to taste himself on your tongue, like the filthy mess you’ve become under his hands only makes him hungrier.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb wipes at the trail of spit along your cheek, slow and deliberate.

Without a word, he turns and drops into the black armchair behind him, legs spread, cock flushed and heavy, glistening with your spit. His fingers curl in a come here motion as he leans back, one brow lifted.

“Come sit, sweetheart,” he says, voice like smoke and sin. “I want to see everything.”

You hesitate, just a second. Enough for his grin to deepen.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” he murmurs. “You’ve already had me fuck your mouth. Be a good girl and let me fill you up.”

Your pulse stutters, but your body moves on instinct. You slide into his lap, thighs spread wide, and his hands are instantly on you, firm on your hips, anchoring you in place. He’s so fucking hard beneath you, the thick weight of him resting right where you need it.

“Look at you,” he says, gaze locked on yours. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. And you’re all mine right now.”

You shift slightly, the friction making you gasp, and his hands tighten.

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice low, like a promise. “Right here. Just like this. I want to feel all of you.”

He’s a pornstar, yes. But right now, with you, he’s so much more, an expert, a predator, a lover who knows every move to make you unravel.

Your hands grip his shoulders, grounding yourself. His hands slide up your thighs, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin near your hips before he reaches between you both and takes his cock in hand. He doesn’t rush, just rubs the head slowly through your folds, coating himself in your wetness.

“God, you’re soaked,” he groans. “You want me to fuck you, baby? Want me to fill that tight little pussy?”

You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”

He lines himself up and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch making your eyes flutter shut, your breath catch. He’s thick, hot, perfect, and when he’s fully seated inside you, the moan you let out is unfiltered, broken.

His head falls back against the chair, jaw clenched. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s how you take cock, baby. Just like that.”

You’re start bounce your hips, both of you breathless, sweat clinging to skin, when Seonghwa leans forward and fists the hem of your top.

“Off,” he growls against your neck, voice low and ragged. “I want to see all of you.”

He peels the fabric up and over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him without breaking eye contact. His gaze drops to your bare chest, and for a moment, just a moment, he laughs, low and rich, like you're too unreal to fathom. His tongue flicks over your nipple and you arch into him, hands tangled in his hair.

His hand slides up to your throat, not tight, just there, possessive, grounding, as his other arm wraps around your back, pulling you in tighter. He kisses you again, tongue claiming yours, messy and hot and hungry.

Then he shifts, just slightly, one hand sliding between your bodies, his fingers curling around your hips.

“Here,” he says, voice low and firm. “Tilt forward a little. Right there, now roll your hips when I fuck into you. Not just up and down, roll. You’ll feel it hit deeper.”

You do as he says, and the second your hips adjust, your breath catches. Fuck. It’s like the angle unlocks something, you feel him right against that spot inside you, that sharp, aching pressure that steals the words from your mouth.

“Oh-, oh my god-”

“There you go,” he groans, watching your face twist. “That’s it. You feel that now?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, slow, rolling circles, grinding down as he thrusts up, every inch of him dragging right over that spot he told you to find.

His mouth finds your jaw, your ear. “Fucking knew you’d be good at this,” he breathes. “Smart girl. Feel how deep I am now? That’s all you. That’s you fucking yourself on my cock, just like I told you.”

You moan, loud and raw, body starting to tremble.

Suddenly, he shifts under you, standing in one fluid motion with your legs still wrapped around him, his arms securing you like you weigh nothing. You cling to him instinctively, arms around his neck, heart thudding like a war drum against your ribs.

He carries you through the dim hallway, but his eyes, his eyes are locked on you the whole way, like he doesn’t dare blink.

When he steps into the bedroom, it hits you.

The layout. The red lighting. The exact angle of the bed. The nightstand where the camera had been.

This is where he filmed it.

Your breath stutters, and he feels it. He knows.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile. More like something darker. “You recognize it.”

Before you can even say anything, he throws you down on the mattress, already dragging your legs apart, standing by the edge, looking down at you like he owns the whole fucking room. Like he owns you.

“You watched me stroke my cock on this bed? Come right here?” he asks, glancing down at the sheets beneath you.

You nod slowly, breath shallow.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice dark with promise, “Let’s make it fair.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers spreading you open with no hesitation. His gaze flicks down, then back to your face, hungry.

And before you can ask what he means, he spits.

A slow, deliberate string lands between your legs, hitting right where you’re already dripping for him. He watches it drip, then reaches down to smear it in with two fingers, slow, messy circles that make your hips jerk.

He strokes himself lazily with his other hand, the head flushed and slick as he guides it up against your entrance again, but doesn’t push in.

“Now you’re getting the exclusive.” His smirk is wicked. “First-hand experience.”

And with no more warning, he pushes in, slow, deep, endless, his hips staying flush to yours as he lets you feel all of it. No rush. No mercy.

The stretch makes your spine arch, legs trembling where they dangle off the edge of the bed.

His hands grip your thighs, keeping you wide open, keeping you in place. His hips draw back just enough to make you whimper, then slam back in, harder this time.

You cry out, unfiltered, aching, and his mouth curves up. Another thrust, deeper. Your hands claw at the sheets.

“God-”

“No, baby.” His voice drops, taunting. “Say it right.”

You meet his eyes, panting. “Seonghwa.”

“Mmm,” he groans like it feeds him. “That’s better.”

You yelp, a high, broken sound, and he only grins, dragging your legs up to rest over his shoulders without warning.

“Fuck, look at you,” he pants, the shift angling him deeper, harder, like he’s trying to reach the part of you no one else has ever touched. His hips pound into you in a relentless rhythm, practiced, ruthless, like every stroke is calculated to make your body obey him.

“Fuck-, Seonghwa-”

“Bet no one’s ever fucked you like this. Bet no one’s ever earned it like I have.”

You shake your head, breathless. “N-No-, never-”

Seonghwa keeps his grip locked around your thighs, holding your legs over his shoulders, your body folded perfectly for him. His thrusts stay deep and steady, measured, intentional, devastating.

“Please-, please don’t stop-” you gasp, nails digging into the sheets. “You feel so good-, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he hisses, thrusting harder now. “You’re gonna take all of it, sweetheart. You’re gonna come again with me standing right here, fucking you like no one ever has.”

The bed creaks beneath you. His grip is bruising now, one hand sliding to your waist to hold you still as he picks up speed, hips slapping against you with ruthless precision.

Your body’s not just close, it’s on the edge, tipping over.

“Good girl,” he murmurs darkly. “Now cum on this cock. Let me feel it. Let me fucking have it.”

Your back arches, your body convulsing as you fall apart again, crying out his name like it’s the only word you know. Your walls clamp down around him, wet and tight and perfect, and he groans deep from his chest, like your pleasure physically wrecks him.

He doesn't slow. Doesn't stop.

"Where do you want it, baby?" he pants, voice low, urgent, dangerous. "Tell me where I can come."

You barely manage to speak, voice wrecked and raw with need. “Inside,” you breathe. “Please-, want it in me.”

His eyes flare. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck,” he snarls, grip tightening on your thighs as he buries himself to the hilt, hard and deep. His pace turns brutal, hips snapping forward with mindless hunger. “You want me to fill you up? Want me to stuff you full like a good girl?”

“Yes-, yes, Seonghwa-, please, give it to me-”

He lets out a desperate, broken sound, then his whole body seizes, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills everything, hot and thick and endless, painting your walls with every last drop. His head hangs forward, jaw clenched, muscles flexed with the effort of holding himself up.

He stays inside for a beat. Just breathing.

Then he pulls out slowly, carefully, still watching you, and watches as his cum spills out of you, slow and messy, dribbling down your skin and pooling on the sheets beneath.

His fingers drift to your inner thigh, spreading you wider, watching more of it leak from your swollen entrance.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

Then, without hesitation, his fingers press inside you again, pushing gently but firmly to shove back every last drop he can.

“Can’t let any of this go to waste,” he growls, possessive and rough.

You shiver at how desperate and controlling he sounds, but beneath that rough edge, there’s a strange reverence in his touch, like he’s worshipping the mark he’s left on you.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, coated with his warmth, and lifts them to your lips, eyes never leaving your flushed, gasping face. You open for him, trembling, sucking his fingers wet and slow, tasting both of you on his fingers. He watches with that smug, greedy smile, like he’s already claiming you completely.

He leans down, lips pressing against yours in a slow, soft kiss that melts away the sharp edges of the moment. His hands cup your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing gentle circles as if grounding you back to the here and now.

He stands up, flexing his shoulders, and walks over to the mini fridge near the dressing table. You hear the familiar click-hiss of a water bottle cap twisting.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from everything, “take your time. No rush.”

He walks back to you, places the bottle into your hand, and taps your fingers lightly until you hold it.

“Drink,” he says. “You’ll thank me in twenty minutes.”

You take it, but your fingers are still trembling. Whether from the rush or the way he’s looking at you now, you can’t quite tell.

“Dizzy?” he asks, settling onto the bed next to you. Not touching, just close enough that his warmth bleeds into your skin.

“A little,” you admit.

“That happens,” he says, voice lower now, gentler. “You came hard, probably held your breath. Let your body level out. You’ll be okay. I’m right here.” He reaches up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his eyes warm and steady.

There’s a pause. You take a sip of water.

“I didn’t expect you to be so...” You search for the word, then settle on it. “Attentive.”

He raises a brow, something amused flickering in his eyes. “You thought I just fuck and leave?”

“No. I just...” You shrug. “Didn’t think the guy who made that video would also bring me water. Be so soft after.”

“It’s not softness. It’s responsibility.” He smiles, a small, tender curve of his mouth that reaches his eyes. “I’m not just the guy in the video, you know. I don’t just show up, take what I want, and disappear.” His voice is steady, warm.

“They don't show this part in the videos. I thought it was different,” you whisper.

He shakes his head gently, as if it’s the simplest truth. “It’s not about being different. It’s about respect. About care. You deserve that."

He leans forward, brushing your hair off your forehead with a gentle touch, like he can’t stop touching you.

“And besides,” he adds, his voice dipping again, “you didn’t just watch the video. You liked it.” His thumb lingers at your temple. “You deserve to be taken care of after finally getting what you wanted.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks.

As you sip you water again, he grabs a towel from the dresser, and gently parts your legs again. His touch is slower now, deliberate, but no less confident. He wipes you down with care, checking your reaction with every motion, watching for discomfort.

He catches your gaze once, smirking at whatever expression you’re making. “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, teasing. “You’re the one who wanted it inside.”

You let out a weak sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

His fingers press a little more firmly at your thigh, not sexual, just grounding. “Still with me?”

You nod.

“Good,” he murmurs, and leans in to place a kiss just above your knee. Then another on your hip. Then your stomach. Not tender, possessive. A little filthy, like a promise that he could do it all over again if you weren’t trembling already.

He pulls the blanket up, not too high, just enough to cover the heat cooling on your skin. He settles beside you, moving slowly like he’s careful not to jostle you. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you in gently, not possessive, not demanding. Just there. Anchoring. And the moment you let your head rest against his chest, he exhales like he’s been waiting for you to do that.

His fingers wander lightly over your skin, warm and steady, drawing lazy circles against your hipbone, then trailing up the line of your side. Over and over, same rhythm. Like he’s reminding your body that it’s safe now. That he’s still here.

You’re still flushed, still a little dazed, but he watches you like he’s tracking every breath. Not because he’s worried, but because he knows exactly what this moment means. This part. The calm after the wreckage.

“You okay?” he asks, tone softer now. Not teasing.

You nod, your cheek pressed to his chest. “Mhm. More than okay.”

He hums, pleased. “Didn’t expect you to let go like that,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your shoulder without thinking. “You surprise me.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

“Oh, it is.” His mouth quirks at the edge, and he kisses the same spot again, just because he can. “You were good. So fucking good.”

You glance up at him, the daze still clinging to your lashes. Then, after a long beat, he smirks, voice dipping again into that familiar cocky charm.

“Responsive. Loud. The camera would love you.”

“Don’t get ideas,” you murmur, but you’re smiling, eyes closed now.

“Too late.”

And before you can roll your eyes or protest, he leans in again, presses a final kiss to your bare shoulder, and settles back, satisfied, smug, and still entirely himself.

***

Monday morning light filters softly through your window as you sit at your desk, fingers poised above the keyboard. The weekend had slipped away in a blur, days spent pouring over notes, replaying moments, shaping words into something honest.

Your column isn’t about the headlines, the shock factor, or the rumors swirling around Park Seonghwa. It’s about the man beneath the surface, the one who’s more than just a pornstar or a carefully crafted persona.

You write about his quiet moments, the way he listens, how he’s sharp and cocky but never cruel. You describe how his confidence is real, born from years of experience and knowing exactly who he is, not just the image he projects.

There’s a paragraph about his past struggles, how he battled his own demons, found sobriety, and reclaimed control over his life, a story of resilience rarely told in the industry he dominates.

You reflect on the subtle ways he cares, the small, almost invisible acts of kindness and attention he offers to those around him. How his cocky charm is layered with vulnerability, even if he’s the first to hide it.

With a slow breath, you hit send. The column goes live.

You feel a strange mix of relief and anticipation, this is more than just a story. It’s a reckoning, a quiet unveiling of someone you’ve come to know in ways no one else has.

The day passes at the office, and before you know it, it’s afternoon.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and push through the office doors, stepping into the late afternoon light. You start walking away from the building, the click of your heels echoing on the sidewalk. The buzz of the street pulls at you, but then, unexpectedly, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey.”

You stop and glance over your shoulder. There he is, Seonghwa, leaning casually against the brick wall a few steps away. Black tank top, black pants, eyebrow piercing catching the light, and that wicked, confident smirk you know so well.

You try to hide the quickening of your heart.

“Hey” You raise an eyebrow, trying not to react. “You following me now?”

He pushes off the wall with a lazy kind of grace, hands in his pockets as he strolls toward you. “Would you be mad if I said yes?”

“I’d be impressed you admitted it.”

He chuckles, stopping in front of you, close, but not too close. “I read your column.”

Your heart skips, but you keep your tone cool. “Oh? Didn’t peg you as the literary type.”

His voice drops, amused. “Let’s see…” He pulls out his phone and taps the screen. “‘Park Seonghwa is more than what meets the eye,’” he begins, voice low and teasing. “‘Behind the piercing gaze and confident smirk is a man who understands what it means to be seen, truly seen, beyond the surface.’” He looks up, smirk widening. “That almost sounded sincere.”

“I have my moments.”

His smirk deepens. “And here I thought you just tolerated me.” He scrolls a little more, then reads with a wicked grin, “‘And maybe, that’s what makes him not just the best in his field, but someone impossible to forget.’”. He looks up at you. “Now I know that wasn’t for the readers.”

You flush slightly but play it off. “Believe it or not, I write for an audience. Not for your ego.”

He leans in just a little closer, eyes glinting with amusement. “Guess I’m not as bad as you thought, huh?”

You shrug, fighting a smile. “Maybe.”

That’s when he moves.

Slow, like he knows exactly how to set you off. He steps in, close enough that you have to tilt your chin slightly to keep eye contact. One hand comes up, fingertips skimming along your jaw, then drifting down the side of your neck. Light. Barely there. But very, very intentional.

His voice drops, velvet-soft. “So tell me this…” His thumb brushes under your jaw, coaxing your chin up just a touch. “Who’d you really write it for?”

You meet his gaze, lips twitching. “My editor.”

That smirk of his sharpens. “Mm. Liar.”

He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, lips hovering over yours. His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek as if daring you to close the gap between you.

“Don’t think this is the end of the story, though. I like where this is headed,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with promise.

You don’t hesitate. Your confidence hums beneath your skin as you step forward, closing the last fraction of space. Your hand presses firmly against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

Leaning in, your lips brush just along the curve of his ear, a breathy, teasing whisper that drips with cocky challenge.

“Then keep up, pornstar.”

His breath catches, just for a second.

You pull back with a wicked smile, tapping his chest once before turning on your heel and strolling off like he didn’t just get flipped on his own script.

You don’t look back.

But you feel his stare, burning, amused, and turned on as hell.

And behind you, Seonghwa watches with a smirk tugging at his lips, eyes glued to your retreating figure.

Yeah. The story’s just getting good.

TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx @lveegsoi @vixensss @yizhou-time @imgenieforyou-boy @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @ateezswonderland @cozypaint @blutiny @aerangi @arigakittyo @femaholicc @queenofdumbfuckery @mingiatz @hwaskookies @vent-stink @desanslogique @taestrwbrry @hannahstacos @tinyteezer @gold--gucciempress @zhangyi-johee @sunnysidesins @spenceatiny18 @yunhoswrldddd @beljakovina @soso59love-blog @trivia-134340 @skzfangirl143 @spicxbnny @h0rnyp0t @mingimangomu @no-nottoday @roguesthetic @hwas-star @tsuukamori @londonbridges01 @nayutalvr @purplelady85 @lover-ofallthingspretty @awkward-fucking-thing @luvbgy @thuyting @p1ecetinyzen @eumpappasmom @marsofeight @maidens-world @girlblogger-04 @renapersa @lol-imtrash2000 @melitadala @yoonglesbae @bby-boo4u @babymbbatinygirl @dalsuwaha @diekleinesuesse @beccaskz @les4heeseung @oddin4ry @manu2004 @mingimangomu @intowxnderland @chaotic-floral @toxicstrawberries @musicconversedance @insanityz @therealcuppicake @darkdayelixer @soobieboobiebaby @thevintagefangirl @fireseo @smileyishere92 @faerouzia @zerefdragn33l @lover-ofallthingspretty @yup-thats-me @trivia-134340 @mochi13 @mishtique-blog1 @desiatiny @hwaromi

#ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez x reader #ateez au #kpop fanfic #ateez smut #ateez #atz fanfic #ateez scenarios #kpop smut #ateez seonghwa #park seonghwa #kpop imagines #kpop scenarios #kpop fic #atz smut #atz x reader #seonghwa

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dullstyle · 7 months ago

Text

☆Calling Ateez Your Husband While you two are just Friends☆

୨୧ Warnings: Sexual themes/ ideals in some member's messages୨୧

୨୧ Authors Note at the Bottom! Very Important! ୨୧

𝘒𝘪𝘮 𝘏𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘫𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘨 + 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘚𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘸𝘢

𝘑𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘠𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘰 + 𝘒𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘠𝘦𝘰𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘨

𝘊𝘩𝘰𝘪 𝘚𝘢𝘯

𝘚𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪

𝘑𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘞𝘰𝘰𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 + 𝘊𝘩𝘰𝘪 𝘑𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘩𝘰

୨୧ Hello Lovelies! I just wanted to say thank you so much for being so patient with me, I have been out of town, sick, and I just had something big happen yesterday which I have been preparing for, for weeks. During the next few weeks, I should be able to post more regularly again because I am healing from yesterday's big thing! I already have San and Mingi's snapchats ready to post so those will be going up the next two days! If you have any ideas for text smau's or any other kind of fic ideas, please let me know! Once again thank you for being so so patient. ୨୧

୨୧ Taglist - @baby-stay92 ୨୧

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stxrrywoo · 1 month ago

Text

SAME DAMN TIME ── k.ys & c.sn

synopsis ; you were just hoping for a relaxing rainy day, but yeosang and san had other plans when they decided to not go to the gym. one plan was to distract you from the questionable book in your hands. and the other? getting their workout in of course, but in a more.... invigorating way.

pairing(s) ; bsf!yeosang x f!reader x bsf!san

☆ ── wc. ; 6.2k ☆ ── genre ; pure smut (w/ a sprinkle of plot), friends to smth ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, kissing, threesome, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, they're both huge teases, big dick!sansang, messing makeout, spanking, hair pulling, clit play, breast play, petnames (darling, angel, princess, love, babygirl...), teasing, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, biting/marking, strength kink, slight size kink, manhandling, rough sex, dom!yeosang x sub!reader x dom!san, san is a bit of a meanie, choking, slight breath play, dumbification, some degration (reader gets called slut once) and praise, oral (m. receiving), cum eating, slight face fucking, both are sweethearts at the end, lmk if I miss anything!

There were always pros and cons of growing up with two guy best friends. The pros are that no other guys really bothered you because they always thought you were dating one of them; hell, some even thought you were dating both. You can recall so many times when both Yeosang and San got flustered when asked if they were dating you, denying it till they ran out of breath. Not that it really convinced people, anyway.

But then there were the cons…

You had to watch them hit puberty, which at first didn’t really affect their physique at all. They were, as you like to call them, string beans. However, once they got serious about going to the gym during your college days, you started to wish they hadn’t. As the months passed, it became insanely harder to turn a blind eye to their growing muscles, especially since they thought it’d be better to be roommates. Ya know, save money and all, but now you were in fear of your mental health.

Today just seemed to be one of those days when your eyes would betray you at any given moment. It was raining out, and the guys didn’t feel like going out to the gym, so what was their solution? Working out in the living room, where you just so happen to be trying to enjoy the new book you bought. However, as soon as San walked in wearing a black tank top and gym shorts, that book was placed on the back burner.

You tried to focus on the pages in front of you, but the words kept blending together, and not a single thing stuck in your brain. It pleaded with you to look up, and at some point, you listened to the urges, eyes racking over the man’s back and arms as he continued with his pushups, a thin layer of sweat covering his honey skin.

The sound of footsteps broke your burning gaze, and you swallowed thickly before looking over, finding Yeosang standing in the doorway. Heat flushed up your neck, thinking that you had just been caught staring at San. Yeosang, however, didn’t say a word as he walked over to the weight rack, the very one you had told them multiple times to put in one of their rooms because it looked tacky, but of course they didn’t listen.

Inhaling deeply, you will yourself to look back at your book and try to read, because the story was indeed interesting. But just like before, the words made no sense to you, and the words started to blur as you reread the same sentence multiple times.

“New book?” Yeosang’s voice caused you to jump, the book falling into your lap, and you looked up at him with an expression as if you had just been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to, which, in retrospect, you were.

Swallowing thickly, you bend over to grab the book that had fallen to the ground, “Yeah, I got it the other day.” You told him, your eyes everywhere but on him.

“Oh? What’s it about?” This time, it was San asking the questions, his hand snatching the book from your hand after you grabbed it, causing you to let out a small squeak of surprise.

“Hey!” You jumped up, ready to snatch the book back, having completely forgotten what the book was about until just now. Heat rushed up your neck, painting your cheeks a bright red as you tried to grab the book, but San held it out of your reach, his other hand pressed against your stomach, keeping you back.

“Oh, dark fairies, huh?” San asked in a teasing tone, flipping it over to read the description on the back.

“Yes, now.” You pushed against his arm to try and grab the book once more, hoping he wouldn’t be able to open it one-handed, “Give. It. Back.”

Just as you finally break free from San’s grasp and are about to grab the book, Yeosang reaches down and grabs it from San. A yelp fell from your lips as you collapsed in San’s lap, head snapping up to look at Yeosang as he started to open the book. Dread filled your body as his eyes began to scan the first few pages that held content warnings.

Accepting defeat, you slumped down on San’s legs, head hanging over his knee, not ready to face the embarrassment that was about to happen.

“Jeez, I didn’t know you were into this type of stuff y/n.” Yeosang chuckles, and you groan, covering your face. He looked down at you, a smirk tugging on his lips as he saw the tips of your ears turn a brilliant shade of red.

“Wait, wait, lemme see.” San held a hand back out to Yeosang, wanting to see just what you had been reading about.

“Stop, please.” You pleaded with them, tears of embarrassment brimming in your eyes as you tried to sit up.

However, San pressed a hand flat against your back, pushing you right back in his lap. Heat started to bloom in your lower gut as he held you in place. You wanted to hate yourself for getting turned on by this situation, but you had been fawning over them for the last few months, and being practically bent over San’s lap was not helping your case.

Yeosang handed San the open book, and the dark-haired male took it, eyes skimming over the same words that Yeosang had read just moments ago. A sinister smirk pulled on the male's lips the more he read, and you continued struggling to get out of his hold, but to no avail.

“Hair pulling, size kink, bondage, choking, strength kink…” The more San read aloud, the more embarrassed you felt, hands coming up to cover your face as a few tears dripped from your eyelashes. You whined for him to stop, but he didn’t listen; instead, he continued to list the warnings until he finished. ”Damn y/n, I didn’t think you were that kinky.” He chuckled, hand still firm against your back, and you shook your head in protest.

You couldn't bring yourself to look at either of them, wanting nothing more than for the ground to swallow you whole. Your whole body felt like it was set on fire, and you couldn't tell if it was from the embarrassment or the way that San's hand trailed further down your back until his fingers brushed against the skin that was peeking out from where your shirt rode up.

“Why are you acting all shy now? You were just reading it with a straight face.” Yeosang teased as he moved closer to you, crouching down in front of you. A gasp fell from your lips when his fingers caught your chin, pulling your head up to look at him. “Or were you hoping we'd notice, hmm? Want us to do those things to you?” He continued to tease you, and you swore that your face was the shade of a cherry.

“N-No.” You choked on your words as you looked up at him with glossy eyes.

“Really?” San asked, tossing the book onto the coffee table before his hand moved to wrap around your waist, “So you weren't just eye fucking us earlier?”

Your heart stopped as your head snapped over to look at him, eyes as wide as saucers. You were sure that they hadn't noticed, but how could you be so stupid? You had been staring at them like a dog eyeing a piece of meat.

“Caught ya’,” San smirked at you, and you squirmed around, finally breaking free of his hold and rolling over to sit on your knees in front of them.

“I wasn’t!” You exclaimed, a dull ringing forming in your ears from the sudden movement, “plus it’s your fault for turning the living room into your gym.”

“Oh, so you were staring?” San asked, leaning forward, which caused you to scoot back, but you didn’t get too far when you ran into something. Well, more like someone.

“Don’t run away yet.” Yeosang’s voice rang in your ears as you tilted your head back, finding him standing right behind you. He then crouched down once more, grabbing your arm and pulling you back into him as you tried to escape again.

“Let me go! I need to feed my fish.” You came up with an excuse and mentally facepalmed as the words left your lips, but both males looked at you in amusement.

“You don’t have a fish, darlin’.” Yeosang’s voice was right next to your ear, causing your body to freeze, his breath fanning over your cheek.

San rose up to his knees before moving closer to you, leaning down until he was eye level with you. Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes met his, heart hammering against your ribcage. The sound was almost loud enough that you were sure that they could hear it over the rain that was hitting the windows.

“Look at you, so flustered it’s cute.” San teased, grabbing your chin between his fingers, stopping you from looking away. “What if I told you we were doing it on purpose?”

Your eyes grew wide at his words. There was no way that they were actually doing this just to mess with you. Yet based on the looks that they were both giving you, you knew that he wasn’t lying. You opened your mouth to speak, but San was quick to press a finger against your lips, shushing you.

“Don’t think we haven’t noticed how you stare at us when you think we’re not looking.” Yeosang spoke, his chest pressed against your back, “How you always bite your lip,”

“Or how you squeeze your thighs together,” San added on, fingers trailing down your neck, a smirk tugging on his lips when he felt you swallow under his fingertips.

“Not to mention when you run off to take a shower.” Yeosang’s lips brushed against your ear, and your head started to spin.

“I wasn’t–” You tried to think of an excuse, any excuse really, but the words fell from your tongue the moment you felt Yeosang’s lips against your neck.

A small whine escaped your lips when he found that tender spot right under your ear, surprising both men. You wanted to jump from the window due to your embarrassment, but your body betrayed you.

“Do that again.” San groaned as his hands found your bare thighs, squeezing the soft flesh and your brain short-circuits.

Yeosang left hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and exposed shoulder that was peeking out from your oversized shirt. Another whine fell from your lips when he bit down, your head falling back against his shoulder.

“Fuck, you sound so hot.” San’s hands slid up your thighs until they met the hem of your shorts, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

It felt like your body was on fire from the sudden overwhelming pleasure, your brain starting to shut down already. Then you were suddenly pulled from your daze when Yeosang spun you around and placed you in his lap. You looked at him with wide eyes, hands finding his shoulders, having not expected him to do that. However, the shock wore off as he leaned in, just a hair away from your lips.

“Can I kiss you?” His voice was deep and raspy, causing you to shudder slightly, but you were quick to answer his question by leaning forward, connecting your lips to his.

He groaned against you, hands grabbing your hips to pull you closer. A soft moan escaped your lips when you felt his bulge underneath you. Yeosang’s lips muffled all of the noises you made as he rolled your hips down onto his.

“Havin’ all the fun without me?” San asks, his voice an octave lower than it was earlier. He moved closer to the two of you, and as soon as you felt his hands on your waist heat flushed your whole body.

Yeosang broke the kiss before grabbing the bottom of your shirt and pulling it over your head, leaving you in just your shorts, seeing as you weren’t wearing a bra. San and Yeosang both inhaled sharply at the sight of your bare skin.

“Damn princess, no bra?” San leaned into you, whispering in your ear, causing a chill to run down your spine as his warm breath fanned over your skin. His hands found your hips while Yeosang reached up, cupping your breast in his hand.

“Yeo…” You breathed out as his lips left wet kisses all over your chest before latching his lips around your perked nipple. One of your hands combed through his hair as your head fell back against San’s shoulder.

“Feels good, doesn't it?” San asked, lips brushing the skin right under your ear as you hummed.

A breathy moan fell from your lips when San started peppering kisses along the expanse of your neck and shoulder. The feeling of both of their lips on your body had you melting right in Yeosang’s lap, heat overtaking your entire nervous system.

Yeosang moaned into your chest as your hips grinded down against his, the vibrations causing you to let out a moan of your own. San chuckled against your neck as he placed a firm grasp on your hips before making you grind down harder.

“Fuck!” You whined. The feeling of Yeosang’s cock rubbing against your clothed clit was driving you insane. The need to have him inside you grew tenfold, and you tugged on his hair softly, causing him to glance up at you but not quite take his mouth off of you.

Seeing the look in your eye, Yeosang smirked, pulling away from your chest with a wet pop, “What’s wrong, darling?”

“Need you,” Your words came out airy as San continued to attack your neck, your hands trailing down Yeosang’s chest before stopping at the waistband of his sweats.

“I haven’t even prepped you yet. Are you sure you can take it?” He asked, his tone cocky but held undertones of worry.

You, however, were so lost in your need and desire, plus you were sure that you were wet enough that you’d be able to take him without any problem. He couldn’t be that big anyway, right?

“Please, Yeo. I need you in me so bad.” You whined, tugging at the strings of his sweats, causing him to chuckle before grabbing your wrist.

“So impatient, aren’t you?” He cooed, hands finding the band of your shorts and moving forward to place a chiste kiss on your lips before maneuvering you in order to pull your bottoms off as well as your panties, leaving you completely bare before him.

“God, you’re beautiful.” San breathed out, eyes racking over your bare form, and you felt small under his intense gaze. However, Yeosang grabbed your jaw, making you face him before leaning down, lips ghosting over yours.

You leaned into him, eyes fluttering as you waited for him to kiss you, but he never did. Yeosang watched in amusement as your eyes looked at him in shock, a small pout on your lips. He glanced over at San, a silent conversation happening, leaving you confused.

A high-pitched squeak fell from your lips when San grabbed your hips, pulling you into his lap. You started to protest, but were quickly silenced when his hand hooked around the underneath of your knees, pulling your legs up and apart. Heat flushed your face once more, body squirming in San’s hold, but it was pointless seeing as he was way too strong.

Your breath hitched and body stilled when you felt a hand on your inner thigh, just shy of your weeping core. Blinking back the tears of embarrassment, you looked at Yeosang as he shifted closer to you, his shirt no longer on his body.

“Yeo–” Your voice cracked when you felt him prodding at your entrance, your mouth suddenly going dry as you realized just how big he was.

Seeing your wide eyes, Yeosang chuckled before leaning over you, pressing his lips against your jaw. He kissed up to your ear, a shiver running down your spine as his warm breath fanned over your ear.

“Relax for me, angel.” His voice was smooth, and a small whine fell from your lips as you felt him push into your tight heat. His hands found your hips, squeezing your soft flesh.

“Fuck you’re so big!” You cried out, head falling back onto San’s chest, fingers digging into his bicep. The tears that were once sitting idly on your waterline broke free, gliding down your flustered cheeks.

Yeosang chuckled softly but was cut off by a groan when you clenched around him, his grip tightening. The stretch that his cock was giving you had stars dancing across your vision, your jaw falling slack the further he pushed in. Until he was fully buried to the hilt, hips pressed flush against yours.

“You’re doing so well, princess,” San cooed in your ear, his lips ghosting over your skin, and you let out a whimper. Your mind started to drift as Yeosang began to slowly roll his hips, testing the waters.

“Y-Yeo… move, please.” You whined, trying to roll your hips against his, the need almost overbearing, and if he didn’t move soon, it felt like you would explode. He smirked down at you, loving the teary eyes that you were looking up at him with. The way you spread out for him was like a wet dream he never thought would come true.

A choked moan tore from your throat when he pulled out only to push back in quickly, hitting every sensitive spot imaginable. Yeosang started off slow, watching the way your eyes rolled back every time he thrusts in, your nails digging into San’s bicep. Then, when his pace picked up, a symphony of noises left your swollen lips.

“Look at you, angel, already so fucked out.” Yeosang teased, hips snapping into yours with a punishing thrust, eliciting a loud moan from your lips.

“She was so eager to be used, weren’t you, princess?” San chuckled, the vibrations sending your mind whirling.

“‘S so good.” You gasped out, head falling back onto San’s chest, and Yeosang’s lips twitched watching you completely lose yourself in the lust. Your eyes flew open as soon as you felt Yeosang’s fingers on your clit, your legs trying to snap shut, but San’s grip was too tight. “Yeo!” You cried out, reaching down to shove his hand away as you felt the pressure in your gut build quickly, way too quickly.

“C’mon, love, I know you can handle it.” His voice was smooth, a smirk tailored to his face, and his pace never slowing. He thrusts into you relentlessly as his finger toyed with your twitching clit, a series of moans and cries fell from your lips.

Then you felt it. Your high crept up on you way too quickly, and you didn’t even get a chance to warn Yeosang before it burst. A silent scream tore through your lungs as your release gushed out in waves all over Yeosang’s cock.

“Fuck.” San groaned, watching as your body trembled in his hold, legs fighting to close, but his grip was far too strong.

“God, you just squirted,” Yeosang growled, bending over you to capture your lip in a messy, spit-filled kiss. The change in positions had white spots clouding your vision as you moaned into Yeosang’s mouth.

“Y-Yeo–” You choked out as he bullied his cock further into your walls, brushing over your sweet spot in the process. Your hands are now on his shoulders, digging into his skin, surely leaving behind crescent shapes from your nails.

Your vision started to blur as his lips latched onto your collarbone, nipping at the skin. Your body twitched in San’s hold, and it felt like your mind was being sent into orbit due to how hard he was going.

“Just a little bit longer, angel.” He cooed in your ear, nipping at your earlobe, and your back arched against him. He had a vice-like grip on your hips, using them as leverage to fuck into your weeping pussy. The way your walls were squeezing around him was about to drive him mad.

“C’mon, princess, open those pretty eyes. Watch as Yeo creams your sweet little cunt.” San coaxed your eyes open, the sight of your teary eyes nearly tipping Yeosang over the edge. San peppered kissed all over your jaw, soaking in the high-pitched moans that left your lips.

“Fuck, cumming.” Yeosang groaned, burying himself to the hilt in your soaping cunt, painting your gummy walls white with his seed. The warm feeling of his cum spilling inside of you tipped you over the edge once more, a weak whine breaking past your lips as your fingers dug into his forearm.

“Did you fill her nice and full, Yeo?” San asked, a smirk adorning his features as he looked at the man in front of him, who met his gaze with a smirk of his own.

“Oh yeah,” He nodded, slowly slipping out of your walls, making you feel every curve and vein of his dick, and you croaked out a whimper. San’s eyes fell to your pussy, watching in amusement as Yeosang’s cum started to spill out. “She’s still got room for another load, don’t you pretty girl?”

Your head was utterly consumed by pleasure at this point, your pupils dilated to the point that they could barely make out your irises. A never-ending heat consumed your body, need growing once more at the thought of them fucking another load of their cum into your sensitive pussy.

“Please.” You pleaded, eyes flickering up to San with a small pout, and the dark-haired male felt his dick twitch in his sweats.

“Fuck.” He cursed, lowering your legs and your body melted against his, and he brought his face down to yours. His fingers brushed over your heated cheeks, lips ghosting over your skin, causing your eyes to flutter. “You want another load babygirl, is that it?”

“Yes, Sannie, please.” You whined, moving forward to connect his lips with yours, but his grip on your jaw tightened, keeping you in place.

A dark chuckle flowed from his lips, the sound went straight to your pussy, causing you to clench around nothing. Then, before you could even process it, you were pulled out of San’s lap, right into Yeosang’s arms. San’s hands found your hips, pulling them up until they hung in the air.

“Such a pretty pussy.” San cooed, his hands smoothing over your ass before landing a harsh smack against your skin. Your body lurched forward with a choked whine, the skin tingling under his palm. He repeated the action a few more times, watching as your body started to shake, hands gripping Yeosang’s thighs.

“I didn’t know you were such a pain slut angel.” Yeosang teases, fingers gripping your chin to tilt your head up until you are looking at him. Tears stuck to your lashes while others spilled down your cheeks, a sight that Yeosang wanted to burn into his brain.

Your body shivered as San’s hand trailed up your spine, before tangling in your hair and yanking your body up. A whimper of his name fell from your lips as your back met his chest, hands going to his thighs to keep your balance.

San’s warm breath fanned over your ear, causing your body to shudder, your arousal building further, “Look, princess, Yeo’s all hard again. Why don’t you be a good girl and help him out while I fuck this pretty little cunt of yours, hmm?”

His free hands snaked down your waist, cupping your heat, causing your hips to buck against him. His name fell from your lips in a breathy moan, eyes fluttering at the contact. You bit your lip to try and keep your moans at bay, suddenly aware that you were still in your apartment and your neighbors could probably hear you. However, all of those sounds broke free once San’s fingers split your folds and pressed against your aching clit.

“F-Fuck!”

“Answer me, princess.” His voice was rough against your ear as he leaned further into your body, finger working lazy circles on your clit. Panting, you tried to nod your head to the best of your ability, seeing as he still had a hold of your hair. A sharp cry fell from your lips when he tugged your head back, the burn causing more tears to brim in your eyes. “Use your words.”

“Y-Yes.” You whimpered, and San released his hold, allowing your body to crumble right back into Yeosang’s lap. Your hands gripped onto his thighs as you tilted your head, coming face-to-face with Yeosang’s erection, pre-cum glistening on the tip.

Raising up on shaky arms, you took his cock in one of your hands, pumping slowly. A small whine fell from Yeosang’s lips, his hand falling back at the feeling of your soft hand on his skin. You could feel yourself clench around nothing at the sound, a sound that you wanted to hear fall from his lips over and over again.

You lean forward, bringing your face closer to his length and giving his tip a few kitten licks. Yeosang bit his lip as he looked down at you, moving some of your hair out of your face before gathering your strands into a makeshift ponytail so he could see you.

You were reminded of San’s presence when he started teasing your folds with the tip of his dick, his other hand gripping your hip. A whine reverberated from your throat when he brushed against your still sensitive clit.

“Sannie…” You breathed out, head falling forward when his tip dipped into your walls. However, you cried out pathetically when he smacked your ass, his hand rubbing over the now red skin.

“Focus, princess, or we can leave you here high and dry.” He cooed, but there was an edge to his tone that sent a shiver down your spine because you knew he wasn’t joking.

Lifting your head once more, you moved closer to Yeosang’s cock, wrapping your lips around his tip. Yeosang inhaled sharply through his nose as his hips bucked up, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, causing you to gag slightly.

“Fuck, you’re mouth feels so good, angel.” He groaned, fingers tightening in your hair as you took him further in your mouth. The sheer size of his cock made it hard to take him all, but you relaxed your throat, trying your best as tears spilled from the corner of your eyes.

Slowly, you started to bob your head, tongue swirling around his tip, pulling a mixture of groans and whines from his lips that went straight to your cunt. San’s fingers tightened around your hips after he aligned his dick with your leaking entrance. Then he thrusts deep into your cunt, burying himself entirely in your heat, causing a choked moan to rip from your lungs only to be muffled by Yeosang’s dick.

Your nails dug into Yeosang’s thighs as San rutted his hips against yours. A loud moan vibrated around Yeosang’s dick, causing him to tug on your hair, his hips bucking up. The feeling of your mouth on his, with a mixture of your moans, had Yeosang’s cock twitching in your mouth. Your body slumped forward into Yeosang’s lap as San’s pace quickly turned hard and fast, his tip hitting your sweet spot instantly, and stars danced across your vision. Tears stung in your eyes as you tried your best to keep your focus on Yeosang, but with every drag of San’s dick against your walls, it had the tip of Yeosang’s dick hitting the back of your throat.

“Oh fuck, you’re doing so good for me, angel.” Yeosang’s voice came out in a moan, causing your pussy to clench around San’s cock, whose fingers dug into the fat of your hips, nails leaving behind indents.

“Shit, I can’t believe you’re letting us fuck your sweet little cunt princess,” San growled, hips pistoning into yours, tearing another loud cry from your lips.

Yeosang chuckled as he tugged on your hair, earning a whine from your muffled lips. The vibrations turned his chuckle into a choked groan, his hips bucking up into your mouth. “Fuck, angel, I’m close.”

You could feel his heavy cock twitch on your tongue, telling you just how close he really was. You tried your best to keep your concentration on his cock, but with how hard and frantic San’s hips were slamming against yours, his dick hitting all the right spots made it challenging. However, you took him as far into your mouth that you could without gagging, your tongue pressing against the vein that ran along the underside of his dick. That was his breaking point. A sharp moan fell from his lips as his hand pressed down on the back of your head, making you take him even further as he came. The vibrations of your moans around his sensitive cock pulled a breathy whine from his parted lips.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Yeosang chanted as you continued to suck on his still twitching cock, milking every last drop of his cum before he finally pulled you off of him with a lewd ‘pop’. He then let go of your hair before grabbing your face and squeezing your cheeks, saying, “Swallow it.”

His hoarse voice sent tingles all throughout your body, your walls tightening around San’s cock, earning a deep groan from the dark-haired male. You swallowed Yeosang’s seed as you held his eyes before opening your mouth and letting your tongue fall free, showing him. A smirk tugged on the corner of his lips as he leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours before pulling away, causing you to whine.

He released his hold, allowing your body to fall right back into his lap, your arms too weak to hold yourself up anymore. No longer worried about having Yeosang’s dick in your throat, San's grip tightened before his hips sped up.

“S-San!” You screamed his name, back arching as he somehow hit even deeper in your cunt, making your body shake. Planting one of his feet up, he used your hips as leverage to fuck into you, his tip brushing over your sweet spot continuously. All sound caught in your throat as you tried to cry out, but all that came out was a pitiful squeak, tears cascading down your cheeks.

“Such a dirty girl aren’t you, princess, so fucked out but yet so eager for more.” San chastised you as he watched you push your hips back against his. He then smacked your ass again, a wicked smile spreading across his lips as he watched your skin turn a deeper shade of red.

Your hands balled into fists as your head hung low, your high steadily getting closer. Then you felt a hand wrap around your throat, pulling a weak moan from your lips. Yeosang lifted your upper body up until you were level with his face, the change in angle sending your body over the edge.

“F-Fuck!” You cried out, eyes rolling back as your hands wrapped around Yeosang’s wrist while San continued to pummel into you.

“God, you’re squeezing me so damn tight.” San groaned, head falling right between your shoulder blades. One of his hands moved around your hips, easily finding your aching clit. A strangled moan left your swollen lips as he circled the nub harshly, white spots starting to cloud your vision.

“You look so good like this angel.” Yeosang’s breath fanned over your soaked face, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. You tried to speak, but his grip on your throat tightened, and all that came out was a meek cry.

His lips crashed into yours with an almost bruising force, nearly taking all of the air from your lungs. The kiss was a mess of spit as you tried to keep up with his pace, but your brain was starting to float away from you. With another harsh snap of San’s hips, white spots littered your vision, and a mixture of incoherent words fell from your lips only to be swallowed by Yeosang’s.

A familiar pressure built in your gut once more, and your legs trembled, threatening to give out on you if it wasn’t for San and Yeosang’s hold on you. You opened your mouth to warn them, but you were cut off by a loud whine when San’s lips latched onto the back of your shoulder, leaving bite marks in his wake.

“F-Fuck! ‘M close–fuck, Sannie, I feel weird.” You cried out, hands moving to grab Yeosang’s shoulders to ground yourself as he pulled back to look at your face.

The sound of San’s dark chuckle made your brain swirl, your walls clenching around him like crazy. However, your words only spurred him on. His pace grew to an almost feral pace, causing your eyes to roll, nails digging into Yeosang’s shoulders.

With one last harsh thrust of his hips, your body shattered, your release gushing out of you and drenching the floor. The sight had both men groaning, and San’s fingers sped up on your clit to coax more out of your body. A silent scream falling from your lips, mind gone entirely, and body convulsing between them.

“S-Sannie!” You cried out, hand grabbing his wrist to try to pry his hand away from your clit. He sank his teeth into your shoulder, and your body jerked with a broken moan. “‘S too much.”

“Aww, is it really too much for you, princess?” San mocked you, and you tried to respond, but the only sounds that left your lips were broken moans and cries of their names.

After a few more harsh, quick snaps of his hips, a string of long, low groans fell from his lips. His cum gushing out deep in your womb. The sensation pulls another, weaker orgasm from your spent body, and you whine loudly. San continued to rock his hips against yours, riding out his high before leaning against your back, his face buried in your shoulder.

Yeosang released your throat, letting your body fall against his chest, and all three of you stayed like that for a few long moments. Once he caught his breath, San pulled away slowly, pressing soft kisses along the back of your shoulder as he pulled out of your cunt. Another whine falling from your lips as you could feel every groove and vein of his cock.

“S-Sannie.” You whimpered, causing him to chuckle, his hands massaging your sore hips. Your muscles finally started to relax, and you melted right into Yeosang’s arms.

“Keep her awake, I’ll go run the bath,” San told Yeosang as he stood, grabbing his boxers off the ground in the process.

Yeosang didn’t say a word, just nodded as his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you closer. San disappeared out of the room, and you could feel yourself start to drift off.

“Keep your eyes open, angel.” He whispered in your ear softly, causing you to whine, eyes fluttering open to look up at him. He leaned down, lips ghosting over yours, letting you decide what to do next. You wrapped a shaky hand around his neck, pulling him down to connect your lips in a soft, gentle kiss.

Yeosang shifted both of your bodies until you were perched in his lap once more, his hands gently caressing your thighs. Your lips melded together, and you felt as if you could never get tired of the taste of his lips.

Reluctantly, Yeosang pulled away, “You keep doing that, and this might lead to another round.” He teased, and your face flushed, causing him to laugh softly. He then reached forward, brushing your hair out of your face before cupping your cheek.

“Bath’s ready.” San came back into the room, dressed in a pair of pajama pants now, and his eyes fell onto where you were sitting. “Not thinking about going another round without me, are you?”

“Maybe.” Yeosang teased, his hand falling back to your hips to help you stand, but you almost toppled over the moment you stood. Both men chuckled, and you glared at them, telling them that it was their fault.

Once he was on his feet and pulled his boxer back on, Yeosang bent down and picked you up, causing a shocked gasp to leave your lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck as you looked at him, and he just smiled sweetly at you.

“Let’s get you in the bath, then we can order something to eat before going to bed.” He told you, eyes flickering over to San, who nodded in agreement.

As you were carried to the bathroom, the realization of what just happened hit you like a tidal wave. The two guys that you grew up with, thinking that you would never do anything like this with, had just fucked you into the next universe.

You buried your face in Yeosang’s neck as more thoughts of what this meant filled your head, but as soon as you hit the warm water, you decided to let those go for another time. For now, you’d enjoy San and Yeosang’s company as they bickered over what to order.

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

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kathaelipwse · 4 months ago

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You Didn’t Have to Handle It Alone ✦ C.San

Pairing: Choi San x Reader

Requested: Yes

Genre: Fluff, Comfort, Established Relationship

Tropes: sick/injured comfort, protective boyfriend, established relationship, love confession during vulnerability, “you didn’t have to do this alone”, soft domestic moment, period comfort, caretaker!San

Warnings: mentions of menstruation, mild period pain/cramps, emotional vulnerability, comfort-heavy fluff

Word Count: 1,200-ish words

The cramps hit mid-morning, like a slow tightening coil in your lower abdomen that refused to let go.

You gritted your teeth and kept moving.

San was supposed to come over for a cozy day in—lazy cuddles, maybe a movie marathon. You didn’t want to ruin that. So you smiled through the dull ache, even though all you wanted was to curl up with a heating pad and not speak for three hours.

By the time he arrived, your smile was a little tighter.

“Hey, sunshine,” San beamed as he stepped inside, arms already outstretched. “I brought those chips you like and that ridiculous strawberry milk you pretend to hate.”

You chuckled weakly, walking into his hug. He smelled like clean laundry and warmth.

“Thanks,” you murmured, squeezing him briefly before letting go. “Let’s just chill today, yeah?”

San blinked. “Isn’t that what we always do?”

“Yeah, but I mean like… really chill. No games, no outside world. Just movies and snacks.”

He tilted his head a little, already suspicious. “Sure. You okay though? You look kinda pale.”

You brushed him off with a wave. “Just tired.”

But the truth was, every shift in position sent a shot of pain through your back and stomach. You pressed your lips together and focused on the TV screen while San started unbagging snacks in the kitchen. You thought you were doing a decent job of pretending—until he caught you mid-flinch.

You reached for a throw pillow and subtly pressed it against your stomach, wincing when the cramp flared up again.

That’s when he paused.

“…Are you in pain?” he asked, voice suddenly low and serious.

You hesitated. Then gave a sheepish nod.

“I’m fine, it’s just… you know. Monthly visitor.”

Understanding dawned in his features instantly.

“Oh,” he said. Then, more gently, “Oh.”

You braced yourself for teasing, or awkwardness, or some well-meaning-but-clueless comment.

But it never came.

Instead, San crossed the room in two strides and crouched down in front of you, his hands resting lightly on your knees.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t wanna ruin the mood,” you admitted, eyes avoiding his. “Figured I could handle it.”

San exhaled softly, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You don’t have to handle it alone,” he murmured. “Especially not when I’m here.”

Something in your chest cracked open.

Before you could respond, he stood up and announced, “Okay. Operation Period Survival is now in effect. Stay right there.”

You blinked as he vanished into your kitchen.

A few minutes later, San returned triumphantly, arms full of everything comforting you could possibly imagine. A heating pad. Your favorite hoodie (his, technically). A bottle of water. The exact brand of dark chocolate bar you were craving but didn’t have the energy to get. A fluffy blanket you didn’t remember even owning.

You laughed, touched and overwhelmed. “San…”

“Don’t ‘San’ me,” he said, draping the hoodie over your shoulders. “Put this on. It’s scientifically proven to increase comfort levels by 70%.”

You slipped into it gratefully. It smelled like him. Like safety.

Then he gently nudged you to lie down and tucked the heating pad against your stomach.

“This helps, right?”

You nodded, your voice catching slightly. “Yeah. A lot.”

He climbed onto the couch beside you and opened his arms.

“Come here.”

You hesitated, then curled up against him, your head on his chest, legs tangled with his. His hand found your lower back and began rubbing slow, soothing circles. No words. Just warmth. Just presence.

His fingers brushed against your hair, featherlight. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

You snorted into his hoodie. “For bleeding?”

“For handling pain like this and still being sweet to me. For pretending nothing’s wrong because you didn’t want me to worry. You don’t need to do that.”

You were quiet for a beat, then whispered, “I just didn’t wanna be a burden.”

San pulled back slightly so he could look at you. His brows furrowed. “You could never be a burden to me. Never. If anything, I’m mad at myself for not noticing sooner.”

“You did, though.”

He smiled softly. “Because I love you. And I pay attention.”

Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected those words—not right now, not in this vulnerable state. But he said them so easily, like it wasn’t even a question.

You pressed your face into his chest to hide the tears prickling at your eyes.

“I love you too,” you mumbled into the fabric of his hoodie.

His arms tightened around you.

“For the record,” he said, voice teasing now, “I would fight the entire menstrual cycle if I could.”

You let out a laugh, your body relaxing for the first time that day.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“Oh, I would lose, terribly. But I’d do it for you."

-- --

That day, the cramps didn’t magically go away.

But the pain felt a little more bearable. The world felt a little softer. Because you weren’t handling it alone anymore.

And San, wrapped around you like a warm blanket, made sure you knew it—every second.

The End

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mingyulvr8 · 5 months ago

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san bf texts

warning: horny

#ateez #ateez smau #ateez texts #choi san #choi san x reader #san x reader #san texts #atz x reader #atz texts #choi san texts

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fadedtoneverland · 3 months ago

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[1:32am] hush, hush | c.jh

cw: smut mdni, dom!jongho, sub!reader, gn!reader, doggy style, fucking with the members next door, reader is loud asf, jongho lowk pent up

first jongho fic !!! inspired from an anon ask

it’s been a rather busy day.

interviews back to back, some random magazine photoshoot he did not agree to, plus recording some lines for comeback season, jongho wonders how he even managed to keep his career this straight for years now.

so when jongho invited you to come over, he didn’t even bother to wait ‘till the dorm got empty.

he was too impatient, too pent up. he could care less if he heard wooyoung’s loud ass bitching to san or mingi about a misplaced charger. all he cared about was sticking his dick inside you, which is what he currently had done.

bending you over his bed with the grace of an enraged bull, jongho pulled down your pants so hard you swore you could hear the stitching tear. even then, with how hard he was pounding into your tight hole, you couldn’t focus on anything except…

thrust. thrust. thrust.

“f-fuh— ah-! hah! jongho-!!” you wailed, mouth immediately muffled by your boyfriend’s calloused palm.

“shhhh, fuck, y/n. do you want us to get caught??” jongho hissed into the shell of your ear, warm breath tickling the already sensitive skin that had your spine trilling with delight.

from the room right next to jongho’s, wooyoung brought over hongjoong and san so they could watch a movie together, a scary one. while the ambiance of michael myers did little to hide the muffled screams of san’s terror and wooyoung’s sobs of agony, jongho was very sure that your pleasured screams could overpower theirs if y’all weren’t careful.

“a-ahh baby… you gotta be quiet, yeah?” jongho groaned over you, his bare chest pressing into your sweat-slicked back. “don’t wanna disturb hyung and the others… can you do that for me?”

despite your wrecked state, you managed to utter a single whimper of agreement through jongho’s hand. he let go of your mouth, and you quickly muffled your pretty face into the pillow to bite into, effectively covering up your screams.

“there you go. that’s more like it..” jongho sighed with pleasure, readjusting his position to grip your hips harder and drive into you deeper, cock hitting all the right spots in you, making the filthiest, squelching sounds.

and you could only scream into his pillow.

later on, you came limping out of jongho’s room in the middle of the night, pathetically dragging yourself to the fridge to grab some strawberry milk like some weirdo.

wooyoung, who came out of his room for the exact same reason, saw your hunched over form rummaging through the fridge. he took note of the oversized shirt on you, the suspicious bite marks and purple bruises blooming across your neck and collarbone, and the very viscous looking substance dripping down your inner thigh.

“uh… y/n?” wooyoung piped up quietly, “are you— uhm- .. good?”

you only turned around with a deadpanned, blissed out look in your eyes, clutching the pink carton like it was your last lifeline.

“never been better.”

#ateez #ateez smut #ateez fanfic #choi jongho #jongho x reader #jongho smut #ateez jongho #ateez jongho smut #atz x reader #atz smut #bambi’s timestamps #ateez x you #ateez x reader

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strrykais · 7 months ago

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(☘︎) ─── different sides of the internet

gamer!yunho x camgirl!reader

with an accidental package swap with your neighbor, jeong yunho, the one who keeps you up at night with his constant yelling. when an opportunity to make a big check comes your way yunho somehow is the only person who can help, luckily for him he finds you hot, and who is he to pass up the chance to sleep with you.

𐀔𓂃 kais note: i need yunho so bad.. like its painful to think he isnt balls deep in me.

back to library | req: yes / no

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | extra

🏷️ : asked to tagged !

reblogs, likes and replies are appreciated! feel free to send constructive feedback/thoughts in my asks!

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mingiatz · 2 days ago

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But in a place where nothing grows, she learns that even mafia kings can crave color — and maybe she was meant to bloom right here, tangled in his storm.

Pairing: Song Mingi × Reader (Mafia AU)

Genre: Mafia AU · Romance · Angst · Action · Found Family · Hurt/Comfort · Slow Burn → Lovers

Tropes: Sunshine × Grumpy, Forced proximity / kidnapping → protection, Found family, Protective giant · Domestic softness under chaos

Featuring: All of Ateez as supporting characters

Warnings: Violence · blood · injury · guns, Mentions of abuse (Mingi’s father, backstory), Death of a parent, Emotional trauma · grief

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

The little bell above the door jingled, and Y/n looked up from the counter where she was trimming stems. The warm air of early summer drifted in with the tall man who ducked slightly through the doorway.

She smiled instinctively — it was hard not to when someone filled the frame of her shop like that. “You again.”

Song Mingi. That was the name on the neat little receipts she had been writing for over a year now. He wasn’t exactly a regular in the way her elderly ladies buying roses for church were regulars, or the young couples picking out sunflowers on their anniversary. No, Mingi always came alone, always in the late afternoon, and always asked for custom bouquets.

And not the kind of custom requests she usually got. There was no “something that looks like spring” or “bright, cheerful birthday flowers” from him. Instead: twenty-four white lilies, perfectly fresh. Or twelve black dahlias, wrapped with a single red ribbon. Or once, memorably, three dozen red roses with thorns intact.

She’d laughed about it at first. “You planning on starring in a K-drama or something?” she had teased him. He hadn’t even blinked, just nodded and handed her a business card with his number scribbled on the back in sharp handwriting.

Now, twelve months later, she was used to it. She didn’t know what he did for work — maybe something in “event planning” or “funeral services,” she guessed — but he was polite, always paid in cash, and, to her quiet amusement, always looked a little awkward standing among the pastel ribbons and floral wallpaper.

“Hello,” he said now, voice deep but soft. His dark suit was perfectly tailored, a stark contrast to her yellow sundress with daisy earrings swinging against her jaw.

“What’ll it be today?” she asked, resting her chin on her palm. “Something romantic? Something tragic? Something terrifying?”

The corner of his mouth tugged up — she lived for that tiny smile. “Custom order. Can I pick it up tomorrow?”

“Of course,” she said, reaching for her little notebook where she jotted down his requests. “Hit me with it.”

“Sixteen chrysanthemums. White. And one marigold.”

Her pen paused in the air. “That’s… specific.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” She scribbled it down, then raised her brows. “I just want to know the vibe. You know, for wrapping paper. You always look so serious about it.”

He tilted his head. “Vibe?”

She giggled, pushing the pen against her lips. “Yeah. Like, if it’s for a wedding, I’d go with gold wrapping. If it’s for, I don’t know, a dramatic Shakespearean tragedy, I’d use black lace. The vibe matters, mister.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and she thought maybe she’d overstepped. But then he murmured, “Black ribbon.”

“Black ribbon it is.” She grinned, jotting it down. “See? Vibe established.”

By the time she wrapped up the lilies on the counter for another customer, Mingi was still standing there, browsing the little shelf of succulents she kept by the window. It always struck her as odd — he was built like someone who should be carrying briefcases of money or… well, guns, not tiny potted cacti.

“You know,” she called as she tied the bow, “you’ve been coming here for over a year and I still don’t know what you do.”

His broad shoulders stiffened just slightly. “Business.”

“Business,” she echoed, unimpressed. “That’s vague. Import-export? Insurance? A secret model?”

That earned her another one of his tiny smiles. “Something like that.”

She leaned over the counter. “Well, mysterious businessman, your total is forty-eight.”

He pulled crisp bills from his wallet and set them down. Always cash. Always exact. She had stopped offering receipts months ago — he never took them anyway.

“Tomorrow,” he said simply, sliding the money toward her.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed, watching the way he turned on his heel, precise and deliberate. The bell jingled again as he left, and for a moment, she caught sight of the sleek black car idling outside, tinted windows and all.

Weird. But then again, most of her customers were weird in their own little ways. He was just… taller. And maybe a little scarier.

Still, she found herself humming as she started prepping the order, snipping stems and imagining what kind of story could possibly need sixteen chrysanthemums and a marigold.

Maybe she’d ask him someday. Or maybe not. Sometimes it was more fun not knowing.

Outside, Mingi slid into the backseat of the waiting car. Hongjoong was already there, tapping something into his phone.

“Get it?” the leader asked without looking up.

“Tomorrow,” Mingi replied, voice low.

San, sprawled across the opposite seat, smirked. “From your little florist again? You sure this isn’t just an excuse to see her every week?”

Mingi’s jaw ticked. “It’s convenient.”

“Convenient,” Wooyoung repeated, leaning forward with a grin. “Yeah, sure. The most feared mafia crew in the city, and our big scary enforcer spends half his week buying daisies and sunflowers.”

“They weren’t for me,” Mingi muttered.

“Doesn’t matter,” San said, laughter bubbling. “She’s cute, isn’t she? All bright colors and sparkly earrings. No wonder you—”

“Enough,” Hongjoong cut in sharply. “Focus. We’ve got bigger problems than Mingi’s crush.”

But when Mingi glanced at the reflection in the car window, he caught the faintest ghost of a smile on his own lips.

He hadn’t meant for it to become a habit, these visits. He hadn’t meant for her laugh to stick in his head when the nights turned bloody. But here they were.

And for now… it was enough.

One year earlier

Hongjoong had handed him the order like it was nothing. Twenty-four lilies. Tomorrow. Quiet place. Handle it.

Mingi hadn’t thought twice. Errands like this were normal — messages dressed in flowers, tokens for allies or warnings for enemies. He’d expected the florist to be some stiff old man who wouldn’t ask questions.

Instead, the bell had chimed and he’d stepped into sunlight.

The air inside was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of roses and freshly watered soil. Color burst from every corner — bright ribbons spilling out of baskets, pots of daisies smiling up at him, sunflowers stretching toward the window as if the world were kind.

And then she appeared.

Hands smudged green, a pencil tucked behind her ear, her smile wide and unguarded. She looked up at him — at the black suit, the heavy shoulders, the cold he carried with him — and she didn’t flinch.

“Hi there!” she had said brightly. “Looking for anything in particular?”

Mingi had paused, unsettled. Most people avoided his eyes. Most people stepped back when they saw him. But she just stood there, tapping her pencil against a notepad, waiting.

“Lilies,” he’d said at last. “Two dozen. For tomorrow.”

Her brows lifted. “Wow. That’s a lot of lilies. Not really a birthday flower. Unless you’re going for dramatic flair.”

He hadn’t known what to say. Was she… joking with him?

She’d grinned at his silence, scribbling in her notebook. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it look nice. Black ribbon, maybe? It suits the mood.”

The way she said it — so casual, so unaware — had left him strangely off balance. She didn’t know, couldn’t know, what those flowers meant, whose blood they’d accompany.

And yet she smiled at him like he was just a man buying flowers, not a blade in someone else’s hand.

That was the first time he had felt it — the pull of her brightness against his darkness. And that was the first time he had told himself he would never come back.

But he had. Again and again.

A year later, sitting in the car, he let out a slow breath and shifted his gaze to the window, hiding the faintest curve of a smile.

He should have left her in that sunlight, far from the shadows he lived in.

But he hadn’t.

And now, he wasn’t sure he could.

The bell had gone quiet hours ago. Y/n hummed under her breath as she tidied the last of the ribbons, tucking stray scissors and tape back into their drawer. That’s when she spotted it — a black rectangle tucked halfway beneath the counter, the faint glow of a screen lighting up for a moment before dimming again.

She bent down and picked it up. A phone. Heavy, sleek, no case, no stickers. Definitely not hers.

“Oh, no way,” she whispered, turning it over in her hands. It could only belong to one person. Mr. Tall-and-Mysterious. Mingi.

Her lips curved in amusement. “Guess the businessman’s not perfect after all.”

She tucked the phone behind the counter for safekeeping. Tomorrow, when he inevitably came in again, she’d tease him about it. Maybe even threaten to put a sunflower sticker on the back. The thought made her giggle as she began shutting off the lights.

But the laugh caught in her throat when the bell above the door jingled again.

The shop was supposed to be closed.

Three men stepped inside, all sharp edges and shadows. They weren’t dressed like Mingi — no clean suits, no subtle menace. These men reeked of chaos, their jackets rumpled, tattoos crawling up their necks. The first one grinned at her with too many teeth.

“Evening, sweetheart.”

Y/n froze behind the counter, heart stumbling. “I’m sorry, we’re closed—”

“Yeah, we know.” The man leaned against the glass case, his knuckles tapping the wood. “We’re not here for flowers. We’re here for you.”

Her stomach dropped. “Me?”

The second man sneered, sweeping an arm across the counter and sending pots of daisies crashing to the floor. Soil and shards of ceramic scattered everywhere. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been making bouquets for them. Messages, warnings, funerals. You’re part of their little game.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice shook, but she held her ground. “I just sell flowers.”

“Sure you do.” The first man rounded the counter, and before she could step back, his hand clamped around her wrist. The grip was iron, pain shooting up her arm. She yelped, twisting, but his fingers only dug harder until her skin throbbed.

“Tell us what they’re planning,” he hissed. “Or maybe we make a bigger mess.” He nodded at the shelves, and the third man swept an armful of roses to the floor, glass vases shattering in a spray of water.

Tears burned her eyes. “Stop! Please, I don’t know anything!”

The man’s grip tightened. “Wrong answer.”raising his other hand as if to strike.

His keys hit the table with a clatter. Jacket discarded, shoes half-kicked off. Mingi sat down heavily on the edge of his couch and reached for his phone—

Empty.

His brows furrowed. He patted down his pockets, checked the table, the kitchen counter. Nothing.

Then he saw it clearly in his mind: the way he’d pulled cash from his wallet, the way the phone had slid onto the counter at the flower shop. He hadn’t picked it back up.

“Damn it.”

For a moment, he considered leaving it until tomorrow. It was just a phone. But his chest tightened, a gnawing unease sinking into his gut.

She usually stayed late — watering plants, fussing with ribbons. He’d noticed that much in the past year. Which meant the shop would still be open. Which meant he could go back now, quietly, before anyone else touched it.

He grabbed his jacket again, slipped his shoes back on, and headed out the door.

The walk was steady at first, his long strides eating up the blocks of the city. No hurry. No reason to worry.

Until he heard it.

A sharp crash — the shattering of glass — spilling from her shop just half a block away.

His stomach dropped, a cold fury flooding through him.

He broke into a run.

The bell jingled innocently when he shoved the door open, but the scene inside was anything but innocent. Soil smeared the floor, ribbons tangled in broken glass. And at the center of it — Y/n, her wrist crushed in a stranger’s grip, fear stark in her eyes.

Mingi didn’t think. He moved.

Something inside him snapped clean in two.

The bell jingled overhead as the door swung open.

For a second, nobody moved.

Y/n’s breath hitched, her wrist throbbing under the crushing grip of the man who held her. Broken glass glittered across the floor, soil and petals scattered like a battlefield.

Then the men turned toward the doorway.

And froze.

Mingi filled the frame, tall and broad, shadows clinging to the edges of his black suit. His expression was unreadable, his gaze sharp as it swept over the wreckage, then settled on the hand gripping Y/n’s arm.

The first man paled. “…Song Mingi.”

The name dropped into the silence like a gunshot.

Even Y/n felt the shift in the air — the sudden stiffness in their shoulders, the way their bravado cracked. She blinked, confused. They knew him?

“Shit,” the second one muttered, eyes wide. “One of Hongjoong’s.”

The man holding her swallowed, but his grip didn’t loosen. “So the rumors are true. The florist really is tied to Ateez.”

Y/n’s heart lurched. Ateez?

Mingi stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his presence filling the room until it was hard to breathe. His voice was calm, too calm.

“Let her go.”

The man tightened his hold on her wrist, making her wince. “So she is yours. Figures. The prettiest little cover I’ve ever seen.”

“Wrong words,” Mingi said softly, almost conversationally. But his eyes darkened, and the quiet that followed was worse than any shouted threat.

The second man shifted nervously. “Mingi, look, this is just business—”

“You came into my territory,” Mingi cut in, his tone still eerily level. “You put your hands on someone who doesn’t belong in this war.” His gaze sharpened like a blade. “That was your last mistake.”

The hand crushing Y/n’s wrist was gone in an instant, twisted backward until the man screamed. She stumbled free, clutching her arm as Mingi moved with terrifying precision.

The nearest attacker lunged — only to be met with a brutal fist to the jaw, the crack echoing through the shop. Another swung wildly, but Mingi sidestepped and drove him into the counter so hard the wood splintered.

They knew who he was, and it didn’t save them.

To Y/n, it was like watching a shadow come alive — calm face, steady breathing, but every movement was violence honed to perfection. Within moments, two men were groaning on the floor, the third pinned against the wall with Mingi’s forearm crushing his throat.

“You tell your boss,” Mingi said, voice low and cold, “if he ever sends you near this place again, I’ll put you in the ground myself.”

He let go, and the man collapsed, choking. The three of them scrambled out of the shop, dragging each other through the broken glass, too afraid to look back.

Silence settled. Just Y/n’s ragged breathing, the faint drip of water from a shattered vase.

Mingi turned then, his gaze dropping to her wrist where angry red marks were already blooming purple. His expression shifted — the cold edge gone, replaced by something softer, something almost pained.

“You’re hurt,” he said quietly. His hands twitched as though he wanted to reach for her but held himself back. “I’m sorry.”

Y/n stared at him, her heart racing. Song Mingi. Leader of one of the most feared gangs in the city. And the quiet, awkward man who bought flowers from her every week.

It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.

But the bruises on her wrist told her this wasn’t a nightmare.

It was real.

The shop was too quiet. The kind of quiet that hummed in Y/n’s ears after the chaos, the kind that made every drip of water from the broken vases sound deafening.

Her wrist throbbed where bruises were already blooming, but her eyes stayed locked on Mingi. He stood a few feet away, calm, broad-shouldered, like the violence that had just erupted was nothing more than routine.

She wanted to scream at him, demand answers, but the sound that broke the silence first was a groan.

One of the men stirred on the floor. His lip was split, blood slick on his chin, but he was awake.

Mingi moved instantly. He crouched low, grabbed the man by the collar, and hauled him upright like he weighed nothing.

The rival gagged, scrabbling at Mingi’s grip.

“Who sent you?” Mingi asked. His tone was steady. Too steady.

The man wheezed, “You know—”

“Say it.” Mingi’s voice dropped lower, calm as ice.

“Black Serpents!” the man spat at last. “They said the florist was working with Ateez, that she was passing messages for you—”

Y/n’s chest constricted. “That’s not true! I don’t even—”

Mingi didn’t look at her. His attention was locked on the rival trembling in his grasp.

“Who gave the order?”

The man hesitated, and Mingi shifted his grip, pressing him forward until the edge of the counter dug into his cheek.

“Last chance.”

“Kang Jisoo!” the rival gasped. “It was Kang Jisoo—he said to smoke her out, make her talk!”

Mingi’s jaw flexed. Slowly, he released his hold. The man sagged against the counter, coughing, eyes wide with fear.

“Go back to your boss,” Mingi said evenly. “Tell him if he touches this street again, I’ll put his men in the ground. Every last one of them.”

The man paled. He scrambled to his feet, tripping over broken stems as he fled. The bell jangled weakly as the door slammed shut behind him.

Silence again.

Y/n stood frozen, her pulse racing so hard it hurt. She looked down at the two motionless figures sprawled across her ruined floor.

Her throat felt tight. “Mingi… are they… are they dead?”

He didn’t answer.

Her breath caught. “What the hell is happening? Who are you? What was that?”

Still, no answer. His silence was heavier than words, and it made her stomach twist with a new kind of fear.

Finally, he turned, his eyes flicking to her bruised wrist. For the briefest moment, something raw crossed his face — something almost like regret.

Then his expression hardened again.

The bell above the door had long since stopped moving.

The shop was a wreck. Soil was scattered like dark smears across the floorboards, stems lay broken and bent, and the water from shattered vases seeped into everything, soaking her socks. The smell of flowers — usually warm and bright — had turned sharp, metallic, almost bitter.

Y/n stood in the middle of it all, trembling. Two unconscious men lay in the corner, motionless but breathing faintly. She couldn’t stop glancing at them, couldn’t stop wondering if they’d get up again… or if they wouldn’t.

Mingi stood a few feet away, towering in the dim light, silent as stone. His chest rose and fell steadily, no sign that he had just torn through three grown men with his bare hands. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at the mess. He just stood, hands at his sides, as if the storm inside him had passed and now there was nothing left.

The silence pressed down on her until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“What the hell was that?” she whispered, her voice raw.

No answer.

She swallowed, her throat dry. “Who are you, really? Those men… they knew you. They were afraid of you. You’re—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “Are they dead?” She asked him all over again.

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Still, he said nothing. His eyes stayed fixed somewhere far away, as if he could shut her out entirely if he just didn’t acknowledge her.

The anger came then, riding the fear. “You can’t just walk in here, destroy my shop, terrify me, and then stand there like—like nothing happened!”

Her words hung sharp in the air. But they didn’t move him.

The silence stretched until it felt unbearable.

Finally, with a heavy exhale, Y/n turned away. Her hands shook as she bent down, righting an overturned vase, gathering ruined flowers into her arms. If he wasn’t going to speak, then fine. She’d clean her shop. She’d pretend she could take back some control.

She crouched, picking up shards of glass one by one, her fingers stinging where tiny cuts already burned. The mess blurred in her vision, her eyes hot, but she refused to let the tears fall.

After a long moment, footsteps shifted behind her. She tensed.

“Leave it,” Mingi’s voice finally broke the silence. It was deep, low, carrying no anger but no warmth either.

She didn’t stop. “If I leave it, the water will ruin the floorboards.” She set the shards into a broken vase with shaking hands. “You’ve already done enough damage.”

A pause. Then she heard him move — the scrape of his shoes over soil and glass. Without another word, he crouched beside her and began picking up the mess too.

For a few minutes, there was only the sound of stems snapping, ceramic scraping, ribbons being pulled free of puddles. His large hands moved with surprising precision, careful not to scatter more debris.

Y/n risked a glance at him. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, his suit jacket ruined with water stains and soil. His expression was calm, neutral, but his jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable.

She wanted to ask again, wanted to demand answers — but something about the quiet determination in his movements stopped her. So they worked side by side, slowly restoring order to the chaos.

When the last of the debris was gathered, Y/n sagged against the counter, exhausted. Her wrist ached, throbbing with every pulse. She hadn’t realized how badly until she finally sat still.

Mingi noticed. His gaze dropped to her hand, the red marks around her skin glaring against the softness of her dress.

He moved closer.

Y/n flinched before she could stop herself. Her body jerked back instinctively, her wrist cradled against her chest, eyes wide as he approached.

For the first time since he walked in, something shifted in his face. His brow furrowed, his lips parting as if the sight of her fear stung more than any blow he’d taken tonight.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said quietly. His voice was softer now, still deep, but steady in a way that made her chest clench.

Y/n’s throat worked. She didn’t move.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded square of cloth — not pristine, but clean enough. He tore it into strips with his hands, the fabric yielding easily under his strength, and then he crouched in front of her.

“Let me see,” he murmured.

She hesitated, staring down at him. A man who had just crushed three armed rivals without breaking a sweat was now kneeling on her ruined floor, asking softly to see her hand.

Her heart thudded. She extended her wrist, trembling.

His hands, so large they dwarfed hers completely, moved with the lightness of a whisper. He brushed the cloth over her skin carefully, wrapping it around the angry bruises with a gentleness that felt impossible.

Every time the fabric tightened, she winced. And every time, his eyes flicked up to hers, checking, his expression unreadable but intent.

He tied the bandage off with a steady knot, then rested her hand gently back in her lap.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Y/n stared at him, fascinated and terrified all at once. How could the same hands that had knocked men unconscious in seconds now be so soft against her skin? How could the same man who threatened to put people “in the ground” murmur that he wouldn’t hurt her?

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who are you, Mingi?”

He didn’t answer. Not yet.

But the way his gaze lingered on her wrist — and the faint, fleeting gentleness in his eyes — told her more than words ever could.

Y/n sat on the stool behind the counter, her freshly bandaged wrist resting in her lap, while Mingi stood across from her in silence. His presence filled the room like smoke — heavy, unavoidable.

She couldn’t stop staring at him. His broad shoulders, the way his hands had been soft moments ago but were stained with someone else’s blood.

Finally, the words tore out of her. “You need to tell me what’s going on.”

Mingi’s eyes flicked to hers, then away. “You don’t need to know.”

Her chest tightened. “I do need to know. Men came in here threatening me, destroying everything, saying I was working for you. Do you realize how insane that sounds? I’m a florist, Mingi. A florist.”

Silence.

She shoved herself to her feet, ignoring the ache in her wrist. “You owe me an explanation. Are they going to come back? Is this going to happen again? Am I—” Her voice cracked. “Am I going to die because of you?”

Something flickered in his eyes at that, but he didn’t speak.

Her throat burned. “Why won’t you say anything?!”

When he finally did, his voice was low, rough. “Because if I explain, you’ll only be in deeper than you already are.”

Her breath caught.

He took a step closer, his shadow stretching long over the floor. “They’ve seen you. They think you’re ... mine. That’s enough to make you a target.”

Y/n’s stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat. “But I’m not yours.”

For a fraction of a second, his face tightened. His lips parted, then pressed into a hard line again. “Doesn’t matter. They believe it. Which means you’re not safe here.”

He turned, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage of the shop. Broken vases, overturned displays, petals ground into the floor. “This place isn’t safe anymore.”

“I’m not leaving.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Mingi stilled. Slowly, he looked back at her. “You can’t stay.”

“I have to stay!” Her voice cracked, rising higher. “This is my life, Mingi. My shop, my work, everything I’ve built—it’s all here. You don’t just get to walk in and tell me to abandon it because you’ve got some… some mafia feud!”

Her last words came out sharp and shaking.

Mingi’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened. “Y/n. Pack what you need. You’re coming with me.”

Her pulse spiked. “No.”

“Yes.”

She took a step back, shaking her head. “I don’t even know who you are. I don’t know what this ‘Ateez’ thing is, or why those men knew your name, or why you—” Her words tumbled out too fast, too panicked. “You expect me to just go with you? To trust you? You’re dangerous, Mingi. You’re—”

“I’m the only one who can keep you alive.”

The finality in his tone made her falter, but only for a second. Her heart raced, her hands curled into fists.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

For the first time, his jaw tightened in frustration. His gaze darkened, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, firmer.

“You don’t understand. If they come back tonight—and they will—you won’t walk away from it.”

She lifted her chin, fighting the tremor in her voice. “Then I’ll call the police.”

Mingi’s laugh was short, humorless. “The police won’t stop them. Half of them are on payroll. You’d be dead before they answered the call.”

Her stomach flipped. She wanted to argue, wanted to cling to any shred of normal logic, but the look in his eyes told her he wasn’t bluffing.

Still, anger flared hot in her chest. “So your solution is to kidnap me?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

His calmness scared her more than if he’d shouted.

She shook her head violently. “No. I won’t. I won’t go.”

Mingi exhaled slowly through his nose. For a long moment, he just looked at her — his tall frame towering over her trembling defiance. Then he stepped forward.

Her back hit the counter.

“Mingi—don’t you dare—”

He moved before she could finish. In one smooth motion, his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the ground. She gasped, thrashing, but it was useless — he was solid steel, unyielding.

“Put me down!” she yelped, pounding a fist weakly against his back. “You can’t just—Mingi! This is insane!”

But he only adjusted his hold, slinging her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“Stop fighting,” he said, his voice low but steady.

“I will not stop fighting! You can’t just drag me out of my own shop like some—some caveman!”

Her words were hot, frantic, but they bounced off him like raindrops on stone. He strode through the ruined shop with long, sure steps, pausing only to push the door open with his free hand. The bell jingled cheerfully as if mocking the scene.

The night air rushed against her face, cool and sharp. She twisted, kicking against him, but his grip only tightened slightly around her legs. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her she couldn’t get free.

“Let me go!”

“You’ll thank me later,” he murmured, his voice rumbling against her side.

“Like hell I will!”

Her fists pounded against his back, but his stride never faltered. To him, she was nothing more than a struggling kitten — frustrating, but harmless.

Y/n’s chest burned with fury, fear, confusion all tangled together. She wanted to scream until her throat tore. Wanted to claw at him until he let her go. But deep down, beneath the rage, a small, terrified part of her knew he was right.

Those men had looked at her like prey. And the way they’d whispered his name — Song Mingi — told her she had just stepped into a world where flowers and sunlight wouldn’t protect her anymore.

She buried her face against his back, her breath shuddering.

Mingi said nothing more, carrying her through the dark streets like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Behind them, the little flower shop stood broken and silent, petals scattered like a battlefield, waiting for a dawn that would come without her.

Mingi’s grip on her didn’t falter, no matter how hard she pounded against his back. She was furious — he could feel it in the way her fists thudded into his shoulders, in the way her voice rasped with every shouted demand to let her go.

But fury didn’t matter. Fury wouldn’t keep her alive.

The black car sat waiting at the curb. He yanked the back door open, leaned down, and set her into the seat. She immediately lunged forward, but his hand pressed gently but firmly against her shoulder, keeping her in place as he clicked the seatbelt across her chest.

“Really?” she snapped, eyes blazing. “You’re buckling me in like a child after kidnapping me?”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He shut the door, walked around the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.

The engine roared to life.

Y/n twisted in the seat, tugging at the belt, but the click held firm. “Unbuckle me. Right now. I mean it, Mingi—this is insane!”

Mingi gripped the wheel, eyes fixed on the road as the city lights flickered across his face.

“You’re safer with me,” he said simply.

“Safer?!” Her laugh was sharp, almost broken. “You’re literally a mafia guy or—whatever you are. Men came in to kill me because of you. How on earth is being stuck in your car ‘safer’ than being in my shop?”

“Because I can’t protect you there,” he said. His voice was low, calm, the kind of calm that only made her angrier.

She cursed under her breath, slumping against the seat, still yanking at the belt uselessly. “You’re insane. Actually insane.”

He didn’t respond. He let her words fill the car, let her fury burn itself out against the silence.

The drive stretched on, the neon glow of the city giving way to towering glass and steel. The skyscraper loomed ahead, sleek and modern, its mirrored surface reflecting the night.

He turned into the underground parking garage, the sound of tires echoing in the cavernous space.

Y/n saw the building rising above them and stiffened. “Oh no. No, no, no. You’re not dragging me into your evil lair.”

Mingi sighed. “It’s not—” He cut himself off. Explaining was pointless. She wouldn’t believe him.

The car slid into a space near the private elevator. He shut the engine off, unclipped his own belt, and reached across to release hers.

The second the buckle clicked, she shoved at him, scrambling toward the door.

“Y/n,” he warned.

“Nope. Not happening. I’m not walking into your scary skyscraper hideout like some—some damsel in distress you can just store away!”

She yanked the handle, but his hand was already on her arm. Her glare shot up to his, fire sparking in her eyes.

“Don’t you dare.”

For the first time, his lips twitched — not in amusement, but in weary resignation.

“I warned you.”

In one smooth motion, he pulled her toward him, ignoring her shouted protests, and swung her up onto his shoulder again.

“Unbelievable!” she shrieked, her fists pounding against his back. “What are you, some medieval barbarian?!”

He adjusted his grip, one arm steady around her thighs, the other carrying her bag. “You fight too much,” he muttered.

“I’m allowed to fight! You’re abducting me!”

The echo of her voice bounced through the parking garage as he strode toward the elevator.

That’s when a familiar voice cut in.

“Mingi?”

He stopped, turning his head. One of the lower-rank men — a sharp-eyed kid named Hanseok — was standing near the elevator, a folder tucked under his arm. His eyes widened at the sight.

“…What are you doing?” Hanseok asked carefully.

Before Mingi could answer, Y/n twisted on his shoulder, hair falling into her face, and snapped: “Apparently, I’m tonight’s special delivery!”

Hanseok blinked. His gaze darted between the furious woman kicking her heels in protest and Mingi’s calm, unreadable expression.

“…Do I even want to know?”

“No,” Mingi said flatly.

“Yes,” Y/n snapped at the exact same time. “Because this lunatic is kidnapping me! He beat up three men in my shop and now thinks carrying me around like a sack of rice is a perfectly reasonable solution!”

Mingi sighed, his grip tightening slightly as she wriggled. “Ignore her.”

“I will not be ignored!” she shouted, her voice bouncing off the concrete walls.

Hanseok’s brows shot up. Slowly, very slowly, he stepped out of the way, pressing the elevator button without another word.

The doors slid open with a soft chime.

Mingi walked inside, Y/n still slung over his shoulder, still fuming.

As the doors closed, Hanseok’s muttered words echoed faintly through the gap: “Hongjoong’s gonna kill you, hyung.”

Mingi set his jaw, staring straight ahead as the elevator began to climb.

On his shoulder, Y/n huffed, “Good. Maybe he’ll kill me too and then at least I won’t have to deal with this nightmare anymore.”

His lips twitched again — this time, dangerously close to a real smile.

But he didn’t let it show.

Because he couldn’t afford to.

The elevator rose like a held breath.

Y/n was still over his shoulder—hot, furious breath ghosting against his back, the soft pound of her fist fading to an occasional, indignant thump. The car’s mirrored steel walls threw back a distorted version of them both: his broad shoulders, her bright dress a slash of color in a box made for men in suits and secrets.

He set her down as the floor indicator ticked past thirty. She stumbled, eyes flashing, hand flying to the wall for balance. He stayed close enough to catch her if she tried to bolt, not close enough to spook her into it.

“Try it,” she said, chin high, breathless from rage. “Try to carry me again and I will scream your scary building down.”

He almost—almost—smiled. “You won’t make it past the next door.”

“Watch me.”

The elevator chimed. Doors parted onto matte black stone and a frosted panel lit by a thin white strip of light. He stepped out first, palmed the security plate, and watched the glass un-fog with a soft hiss. Beyond, the private floor spread out in clean lines: charcoal carpet, concrete washed smooth, a long, floating corridor flanked by panes of glass and the city’s night like an ocean on the other side.

Y/n hesitated on the threshold, eyes catching on the view, the empty expanse, the sleek quiet. It didn’t look like a “headquarters.” It looked like money—old and certain—disguised as minimalism.

“Move,” he said gently.

She moved. Barely. Two steps in, then she pivoted, testing the distance back to the elevator. He didn’t grab her. Just turned his body so that his presence made retreat feel smaller than the path forward.

They walked.

The building hummed around them: hidden vents, distant servers, the barely audible cadence of an air system engineered for silence. On the left, through a run of glass, a low-lit lounge yawned empty—built-in sofas in smoke-gray, a single wall of books broken by a living panel of trailing vines and glossy leaves. The faint scent of chlorophyll and filtered air flattened the memory of damp soil still clinging to his jacket.

Y/n clocked it all with quick, hawk-bright eyes. She took in the details like a woman trying to memorize exits: the exact placement of cameras in ceiling corners, the discreet keypads at waist height, the way his hand brushed a recessed sensor and a door sighed open with no visible handle. The fear in her made everything precise.

They passed an alcove where a receptionist would have sat in a different kind of company; here there was only a slab desk and a white lamp shaped like a pebble. He kept her off the main artery that cut toward the war room. No detours past the briefing table. No chance of running into Wooyoung’s curiosity or San’s grinning trouble, or—worse—Hongjoong’s questions.

His phone—retrieved from her counter, slid into his pocket without comment—buzzed once. He ignored it.

“Where are we going?” she asked, low and tight.

“Somewhere safe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

“You know what? For someone who just busted into my life like a wrecking ball, you are not very communicative.”

Another door, another palm plate. The corridor turned, the city swung alongside them: a black river of streets veined in light, streams of cars like fireflies trapped in channels. She slowed to stare. Even through her anger, wonder pressed against the glass with the heat of breath.

“It looks fake,” she muttered. “Like a postcard.”

He thought of her shop—all tangible and warm and earnest—and understood the word fake in her voice wasn’t about the view; it was about this world.

“Don’t stop,” he said.

She didn’t. But she kept to the glass, shoulder nearly brushing it, like an animal skirting the edge of a new enclosure. At the next intersection of hallways, she darted left—fast, decisive. He didn’t grab her bruised wrist. He cut her off with two long strides, his palm planting on the wall beside her head, caging her only with the idea of his body.

She glared up at him. “Do you practice being infuriating or does it just… flow out of you?”

“Both,” he said, because anything else would invite the kind of line he wasn’t willing to cross.

Her eyes flicked to his hand by her ear, then back to his face. He could see her calculation—how close, how fast, how hard she’d have to shove to get past him. He stepped back first. Not because she’d win. Because every flinch toward him still put shame in his mouth like iron.

“This way.” He angled her toward a door with no mark, no number. Inside: a calm room built for temporary ghosts—low bed, soft charcoal duvet, a console with an inset sink, a rack with folded linens, a basin. Safe room, in the most literal sense.

She stepped in and recoiled at the same time. “This is—What is this? A holding cell with throw pillows?”

“It locks,” he said. “From the inside.”

“And the outside, I’m guessing.”

“Yes.”

She barked out a laugh that was not a laugh. “Of course.”

He walked to the console, opened a drawer, and pulled a sealed cold pack, a tube of arnica, and a roll of elastic wrap. She watched his hands, not him. When he looked up, she was already backing toward the far corner, chin pointed like a challenge.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again, and hated that he had to keep saying it.

“Funny,” she said, “coming from a man who just—” She stopped herself before the word killed could leap out of her mouth and become a fact she could not un-know.

“Sit,” he said.

“No.”

He didn’t sigh. He put the kit on the bed, leaned his shoulder against the wall, and asked as if they had invented patience, “Then stand there and let me fix your wrist.”

She held his stare for three beats. Then she came forward in small, unhappy steps and held out her arm like she was presenting it to a stranger with a knife.

Careful. He was careful like penance. Cold pack first, wrapped in a thin towel, set gently across the inflamed skin. She hissed, breath catching. He froze until she nodded. The elastic went on next, a snug spiral that never bit, his thumbs light. When he tied it off, he kept his fingers on her pulse for one unprofessional second because he could—she’s alive, she’s warm, she’s here—and then he took his hands away.

Her voice, small despite the steel in it: “How can someone who just did—what you did—be this… gentle?”

Because with you, I always have been. He didn’t say it. “Practice.”

She snorted, and it wobbled. “In what, tying up hostages?”

He let that one land without a reaction. Picked up a bottle of water instead, cracked the cap, set it beside her on the bed. She eyed it like it might be drugged. He took it back, drank from it first, put it down again.

Her mouth flattened. “That doesn’t make you less kidnapper-y.”

“What would?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “I don’t know. A written apology?”

“I’ll draft one,” he said, and it was so dry she blinked, uncertain if he was mocking her. He wasn’t.

He crossed to the door and pressed a finger to the embedded intercom. “One medical,” he said. “Ice, disinfectant, small suture kit, butterfly closures. Thirty seconds.”

The speaker clicked in acknowledgment. He added, “And clothes.”

“Clothes?” Y/n echoed.

“Yours are wet,” he said. “Water from the vases. You’ll catch cold.”

“Wow,” she said, leaning on sarcasm like a railing. “The mafia: known for unparalleled hospitality.”

He stared at the door and didn’t answer. Hospitality was the mask they wore for deals and fragile truces. What he was trying to build here wasn’t hospitality, it was a wall high enough to keep her breathing.

Footsteps in the hall. He stepped out, closing the door until only a sliver of light cut across the floor. A quiet exchange; a soft cart’s wheels. When he came back, he set a folded stack on the console: black sweats, a soft T-shirt, low socks still sealed, an oversized hoodie in a muted ash color. The simplest things touched the least by who they were.

She frowned at the hoodie. “Is everything in here gray or black on purpose?”

“It hides blood,” he said before he could stop himself.

Her face changed shape—anger folding, unease pricking through. He swallowed the line back down and added, “And coffee.”

“Right,” she said faintly. “Coffee.”

He looked anywhere but at her—at the seam where the wall met the ceiling, at the smooth inset of the light strip—then found her again because he always did.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” he said.

“Pass.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

She laughed softly, and it was wild. “That’s all I’ve heard since you walked back into my shop. You don’t have a choice. You’re coming with me. You can’t stay.” She spread her fingers. The bandage flashed white. “I think I’ll take my chances with choice.”

He didn’t move. “If you run, you’ll make it six steps into the corridor before someone who isn’t me stops you. If you make it past them, you’ll still be in a building designed like a maze for anyone who doesn’t carry our maps under their skin. If you make it to the street, a camera will catch your face and someone who saw you with me will sell your name for enough cash to keep them drunk and stupid for a week. And then the Serpents will find you first.”

She had been breathing shallowly. Now she forgot to, for a second.

“Does the speech usually work on your… guests?” she asked, and the word tasted wrong to both of them.

“I don’t bring anyone here,” he said. It came out harder, truer, than he intended.

Silence held them apart like a pane of glass. She looked at him in that way that made his ribs feel too narrow.

He broke it. “There’s a bathroom through there.” He nodded toward a barely-there door seam. “Use it. Change. I’ll be on the other side of this door.”

“Guarding me?”

“Guarding you.”

Her mouth did a strange thing as if it wanted to argue and couldn’t find the hill to die on. “What if I shout?”

“I’ll hear you,” he said, and the way he said I did more work than she liked.

She glanced once at the window—the view was a rival to God—and squared her shoulders. “Fine. But for the record,” she said, “this gets a one-star review. Kidnapper buckled me in, carried me like a potato sack, gave me gray pajamas.”

“You forgot the ice pack,” he said.

“Oh, right.” She lifted her bandaged wrist like a toast. “And five stars for medical.”

Her smile was the kind that didn’t reach her eyes; it still hit him like sudden sun.

He turned to go and she added, softer, “Mingi?”

He paused, felt the sound of his name run down his spine. “What.”

“Are they dead?”

He considered lying. He considered the way truth tied people together with barbed wire.

“They’re breathing,” he said.

“That wasn’t the question.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

She stared at him like she could pry him open with will alone. When she realized she couldn’t, she exhaled, long and uneven, and nodded toward the door. “Go guard, then.”

He stepped out. The door clicked, a lock sliding into place with the whisper of a blade returning to ist sheath. He stood there, back to steel, hand loose at his side, phone finally buzzing again like a conscience. He let it. He needed the thirty seconds where the hall simply existed, quiet, his breath and the building’s breath syncing to the same invisible metronome.

He texted three words to a secured thread: Safe room. Alone. He added a fourth before he could think himself out of it: Mine.

He deleted the last one.

Another buzz. Hongjoong: Report.

Mingi typed: Serpents sent a probing team. Misread the florist. Interrogation confirms Jisoo is baiting. We’ll discuss.

We? Came back.

He let the screen go dark, slid the phone into his pocket, and rested his head against the cool panel beside the door until the heat under his skin receded.

Behind him, the soft rush of running water. The hiss of the shower. The city beyond the glass moved in rivers of light, oblivious.

He closed his eyes, saw a sunflower in a window, a ribbon knotted in a small, perfect bow, her fingers inked green. Then he opened them again to the corridor where he had always belonged.

Thresholds, he thought. You cross them, or they cross you.

He stayed at the door. And waited.

The shower hissed to life the moment she turned the knob.

Y/n stood under the spray for a long time before she could even think about washing. The heat soaked into her shoulders, loosening the knots that had formed hours ago, when strange men had stormed into her shop and shattered her life in a spray of soil and glass.

She pressed her forehead against the cool tile. Her body still remembered the bruising grip on her wrist, the way fear had carved itself into her chest like an open wound. But it also remembered Mingi’s hands — steady, careful, wrapping the bandage with a gentleness that made no sense.

Mingi.

Her heart thumped unevenly just thinking his name. She’d always thought he was handsome — who wouldn’t? Tall, broad, his voice deep enough to vibrate the counters when he ordered bouquets. He had a presence that filled the shop every time he stepped through the door, a mystery that tugged at her curiosity even as she laughed about his strange requests.

She’d told herself it was harmless. That she was just a florist indulging in a silly crush on a handsome customer. He never said much, after all. Just nodded, paid, left. Sometimes, if she was lucky, he smiled, and that was enough to carry her through the day.

Now… she wasn’t sure what to think.

He wasn’t just “handsome and mysterious.” He was dangerous. Deadly. A man who could drop three rivals in her shop like it was second nature. A man whose name those men had spoken like it was a curse.

And yet… he hadn’t hurt her. Even when she’d fought him, shouted at him, called him insane. Even when he’d hauled her over his shoulder like a sack of rice. He’d been infuriating, yes, but not cruel.

Gentle, when he had no reason to be.

Y/n let out a shaky laugh, steam curling around her face. “God, what am I even thinking?”

She rinsed the soap from her skin, shut off the water, and stepped out into the small bathroom. A fluffy towel waited, folded on a rack. She wrapped it tightly around herself, trying to anchor her thoughts before they slipped too far in directions she wasn’t ready to face.

Her bruised wrist throbbed under the bandage. She touched it gently, imagining again the way his large hands had trembled, just slightly, when she winced.

Mingi. Who are you, really?

By the time she pulled on the clothes he’d left — black sweats, a soft oversized hoodie — the steam had cleared from the mirror. She studied herself for a moment. Damp hair sticking to her cheeks. Eyes too wide, too tired. The hoodie dwarfed her, swallowing her in gray, but it was warm. Comfortable.

Too comfortable for a prison cell with a skyline view.

She moved toward the door, intending to crack it just enough to test the hall. But before her fingers touched the handle, she froze.

Voices.

Mingi’s, low and steady, the same calm that had unnerved her in the shop. She couldn’t make out the words at first, just the tone — a rumble like distant thunder.

And another voice, sharper, brighter, enthusiastic in a way that clashed with the stone weight of Mingi’s.

“…you actually brought her here?!” the voice exclaimed, almost gleeful. “Hyung, this is insane. Hongjoong’s gonna lose his mind. No — scratch that, he’s gonna murder you.”

Y/n pressed her ear closer to the door, her pulse quickening.

Mingi said something in return, too quiet for her to catch.

The other voice snorted. “Don’t give me that ‘I had no choice’ look. You like her. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Y/n’s heart stumbled.

The floor creaked outside. Instinct propelled her forward before she could second-guess. She yanked the door open.

The hallway stretched sleek and silent under pale light. Mingi stood just a few feet away, his tall frame a wall of black against the glass. Beside him was another man — slightly shorter, leaner, with sharp lines softened by a mischievous smile. His hair caught the light, stylish in a way that made him look like he’d walked straight out of a magazine spread.

Both turned at the sound of the door.

Mingi’s expression tightened instantly, his brows furrowing. “You should be resting.”

The other man, however, grinned. “So this is her?” His gaze flicked over her oversized hoodie and damp hair. “Hyung, you didn’t say she was cute.”

Y/n blinked, caught between shock and disbelief. “And you didn’t say your evil skyscraper came with a fan club.”

The stranger barked a laugh, delighted, while Mingi’s sigh was so deep it seemed to echo down the hall.

Y/n leaned against the doorframe, heart thudding in her chest.

Mingi stood as still as a statue, but the man beside him was all restless energy. He grinned at her like she’d just made his night by stepping out. His sharp features and lithe frame could’ve been cut straight out of a glossy magazine spread, but the spark in his eyes carried something wilder, something that didn’t match the sleek suits and clean lines of this place.

She didn’t trust him.

“Cute,” he said again, tilting his head as if examining her from every angle. “Definitely not what I expected. Mingi, you’ve been hiding her from us?”

Mingi’s jaw clenched. “Wooyoung.”

“What?” The smaller man raised both hands innocently, though the grin never left his lips. “I’m just saying — she’s not exactly the kind of person people picture when they hear ‘Ateez.’” He glanced back at her, eyes glinting. “Colorful little florist in a hoodie. Feels like a fairytale.”

Y/n folded her arms across her chest, hugging the oversized hoodie closer. “If this is your version of a fairytale, I’d hate to see your nightmares.”

Wooyoung laughed out loud. “Oh, she’s got bite. I like her already.”

She narrowed her eyes, every nerve on edge. He was dangerous too, she could feel it under the easy charm — the kind of danger that smiled while holding a knife behind its back.

Before she could respond, the sound of footsteps drew her attention down the hall.

Another man approached, tall and composed, every step precise. His black hair caught the low light, neat and smooth, and his suit looked as if it had been cut just for him. His expression was calm, almost gentle — but his eyes, sharp and assessing, made Y/n’s skin prickle.

He stopped a few feet away, gaze flicking from her to Mingi and back again. His brow furrowed slightly.

“…It’s her,” he said.

Y/n blinked. “Excuse me?”

The man’s eyes lingered on her face, recognition dawning. “From the flower shop. I saw you once. When Mingi went inside for an order, I was in the car.” He turned to Mingi, his tone quiet but firm. “You brought her here?”

Mingi’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Seonghwa tilted his head, the faintest note of disbelief in his voice. “Are you actually serious right now?”

For the first time since this nightmare began, Mingi’s composure cracked. His shoulders hunched almost imperceptibly, his mouth tugged downward, and—Y/n blinked twice to make sure she wasn’t imagining it—he pouted.

Actually pouted.

The sight was so absurd, so at odds with the terrifying enforcer who had demolished three men in her shop, that Y/n almost laughed. Almost. Instead, she gawked at him, startled and confused.

Mingi fumbled, his deep voice suddenly unsure. “I—she was attacked. They thought she was one of us. I couldn’t just leave her there. It’s not—she’s not—”

“Enough,” Seonghwa cut him off, lifting a hand. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it carried a weight that silenced the air around them. “Don’t explain to me. You’ll explain to Hongjoong. And the rest.”

Mingi’s mouth opened, then shut again. He looked almost… sulky.

Wooyoung leaned in toward Y/n, his grin widening as if he’d just been handed the best gossip of the year. “You’re seeing this too, right? Our big, scary Mingi looking like a scolded puppy?”

Y/n’s lips parted, her voice coming out faint. “I… yeah. I’m seeing it.”

Mingi shot them both a look that could have frozen blood — but with that faint pout still tugging at his mouth, the effect was ruined.

Seonghwa exhaled softly, straightening his cuffs. “Come on. We’ll take her upstairs. She’s in this now, whether anyone likes it or not.”

Y/n’s heart twisted at that. She didn’t know if “in this” meant protection or a death sentence.

But she knew one thing for certain: whatever “Ateez” really was, she wasn’t going to be able to run from it anymore.

The skyscraper swallowed her whole.

Everywhere Y/n looked, glass and steel stretched higher and farther than she thought possible. The corridors gleamed, cameras blinked silently from their corners, and hidden vents whispered cool air against her damp hair. The air tasted… expensive. Sharp. Like secrets.

She hugged her arms tighter across her chest as she walked between them — Mingi on her left, silent as ever, Wooyoung on her right, humming as if this was a stroll through a mall, and Seonghwa just ahead, phone in hand.

He tapped something quickly, his steps never faltering. “Hongjoong’s been informed,” Seonghwa said. “He’s gathering the others.”

Mingi’s jaw flexed. “Already?”

“Of course already,” Seonghwa replied smoothly. “You brought her here, Mingi. You know what that means.”

Wooyoung snorted, leaning closer to peek at Y/n as though she were some kind of exhibit. “We all knew about the flower shop. Every week, like clockwork. Hongjoong’s orders, sure… but we knew you never minded those errands.” His grin widened. “Now look at this — florist girl in our hallway. If this isn’t fate, I don’t know what is.”

Mingi’s ears went red, but his voice stayed level. “That’s not—”

Seonghwa cut him off, sharp but calm. “Don’t. You’ll explain it to Hongjoong and the others.”

Y/n kept her eyes forward, her pulse racing. So they all knew? Every bouquet she’d wrapped, every ribbon she’d tied, every strange order she’d teased him about — they all knew it was for them. For Ateez.

She bit her tongue against the flood of questions bubbling up. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to get answers here, not with the three of them treating her like she wasn’t even walking beside them.

Instead, she let her gaze slide sideways as they moved. Through the glass walls, she caught glimpses: a lounge with low couches and dim lamps, a wide map spread across a wall with red marks like bleeding stars, a training floor where two men sparred, knives flashing under fluorescent lights.

Every step drove the reality deeper — this wasn’t a business tower. It was a fortress.

She wanted to demand what “meeting the others” meant. She wanted to shout that she didn’t belong here, that she should never have been dragged into this place. But the words dried on her tongue.

So she stayed silent.

Her only anchor was the weight of Mingi’s presence beside her — his tall frame cutting through the sterile air, his shoulder brushing hers every so often as if to remind her she wasn’t alone, even though he was the reason she was here at all.

The elevator doors whispered open onto yet another pristine corridor. This one stretched wider than the rest, lined with heavy glass panels and doors that hummed faintly with security.

Seonghwa stopped first. “Here.”

Mingi slowed beside her, his hand brushing lightly against her back as if to guide her forward, but Wooyoung’s grin was the one she caught first.

“You wait out here, sweetheart,” he said cheerfully, pointing to a long bench built into the wall. “Big scary meeting time. We’ll come get you when it’s your turn.”

Her stomach twisted. “My turn? What am I, some job applicant?”

“Kind of.” Wooyoung winked. “Except if you bomb this interview, you don’t just not get the job.”

“Wooyoung.” Mingi’s voice was sharp enough to slice.

“Right, right,” Wooyoung said quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender, though his grin didn’t fade.

Seonghwa met her gaze, his tone quieter, but firm. “Stay here until we come for you. Do not wander.”

With that, the three of them slipped through a tall set of black glass doors. The faint hiss of the lock sliding into place followed, leaving her alone in the corridor.

Y/n stood frozen for a moment, then exhaled hard, her shoulders slumping.

Stay here. Don’t wander. Right. As if she was going to sit like a good little hostage while they had their mob boss powwow behind glass walls.

She padded to the door, socks sliding silently over the sleek floor. She pressed her palm against the black panel, searching for a handle, a seam, anything. It didn’t budge.

She tried again. And again. Finally, she shoved both hands against it, frustration bubbling up in a sharp, hopeless laugh.

“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course it’s locked. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Her hoodie sleeves sagged over her hands as she tugged uselessly at the panel. She pictured herself — oversized gray hoodie, black sweatpants swallowing her legs, only socks on her feet — and winced. She looked less like a hostage in a mafia skyscraper and more like a college dropout waiting for a midnight bus.

“Great,” she whispered, her voice dry. “I’ve officially reached rock bottom fashion. Kidnapped chic.”

She slid down the wall, her back pressed against the cold glass until she hit the floor with a soft thud. Pulling her knees up, she wrapped her arms around them, chin resting on the fabric.

For the first time since Mingi had stormed into her shop, silence pressed in without his looming shadow beside her.

And it scared her more.

What would happen next? Would they keep her here? Threaten her? Kill her? Or — and maybe this was worse — would they decide she was useful, leverage, and pull her deeper into their world?

Her wrist throbbed under the bandage, a dull reminder of everything that had led her here.

She curled her toes in her socks and stared at the unyielding door.

What the hell did I get myself into?

Mingi hadn’t meant to glance back when she came out of the bathroom. But he had — and the image stuck.

Y/n in the oversized hoodie, sleeves dangling past her hands, damp hair sticking in loose strands around her face. She’d looked… small. Smaller than she had in her shop, where sunflowers and bright ribbons framed her like a crown. Here, in concrete and glass, she looked like she might fold in on herself if the air pressed too hard.

And still, she held her chin high. Still, she shot barbs at Wooyoung and narrowed her eyes at Seonghwa’s cool efficiency.

The last thing he wanted was for her to get hurt. But she already had. Bruises inked her wrist where someone else’s hand had crushed her skin. Bruises he hadn’t been fast enough to stop.

That was the thought heavy in his chest as he walked into the meeting room with Seonghwa and Wooyoung at his sides.

Seven chairs ringed the long black table. Five pairs of eyes turned toward him — eyes he knew as well as his own, eyes that had watched him grow, fight, bleed, laugh. His family.

Hongjoong sat at the head, fingers steepled under his chin, gaze sharp enough to cut steel. To his right, Yunho leaned back with casual poise, expression calm but unreadable. Beside him, San lounged in his chair, grin already tugging at his lips like he’d been waiting for entertainment. Jongho was opposite, arms crossed, his steady stare weighing more than any words. And Yeosang, composed and unreadable, tilted his head just slightly, as though observing an experiment about to unfold.

“Song Mingi,” Hongjoong said, voice smooth and clipped. “Are you out of your mind?”

The words cracked like a whip in the silent room.

Mingi straightened, shoulders squaring. He didn’t flinch. But the heat crept into his ears anyway.

“You brought an outsider here.” Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“She’s not—” Mingi started, but the words faltered. Not what? Not dangerous? Not involved? Not… his?

San leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm, smirking. “Well, well. The famous florist.”

Yunho’s brow arched. “The one you’ve been visiting every week for a year?”

Wooyoung barked a laugh. “See? I told you they’d all know right away.”

Mingi shot him a glare, but Wooyoung only grinned wider.

Yeosang’s voice was quiet, almost amused. “You know, we used to joke about you having a crush, Mingi. Didn’t think you’d actually drag her into the lion’s den to prove us right.”

Jongho let out a short breath, not quite a laugh, but enough to make the corners of his mouth twitch. “You carried her here, didn’t you?”

Mingi’s eyes flicked away. His silence was answer enough.

San slapped the table, laughing. “Oh, this is too good. Our terrifying Mingi, the guy everyone in the city fears, showing up with his florist like some overgrown bodyguard boyfriend.”

“San,” Seonghwa’s voice cut through, warning in ist calmness.

But even he couldn’t erase the curve of amusement tugging at the corners of his lips.

Hongjoong sighed, leaning back in his chair, studying Mingi like he was both infuriating and inevitable. “You’ve complicated things.”

Mingi tightened his fists at his sides. “She was attacked because of us. Because of me. I wasn’t going to leave her there.”

That silenced the laughter, if only for a moment. The weight of the truth hung between them, heavier than the teasing.

But it didn’t stop Wooyoung from leaning back with a mischievous grin. “So what now, Mingi? Gonna keep her as your personal bouquet maker?”

Heat surged up Mingi’s neck. He clenched his jaw, the beginnings of a pout tugging at his lips before he could stop it.

And of course, San caught it instantly. “Oh my god, look at his face. He’s pouting. He’s actually pouting.”

Yunho chuckled under his breath, even Yeosang’s mouth twitched.

Mingi grit his teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. But inside, all he could think about was Y/n sitting just outside the locked doors in that gray hoodie, waiting. Small. Fragile.

Whether he wanted it or not.

The meeting room hummed with tension — Hongjoong’s sharp glare, the others’ teasing grins, Seonghwa’s calm authority. Mingi stood tall, but his thoughts kept slipping back to the locked door outside, where Y/n was waiting.

Waiting. Angry. Alone.

The sound came suddenly: a pounding thud-thud-thud against the door, echoing down the corridor.

Every head in the room turned.

Another thud, harder this time. And a muffled voice, furious and sharp:

“Are you kidding me?! You’ve got me sitting out here in the cold like some stray dog while a bunch of mock-up gangsters decide my future?!”

San nearly choked on his laughter. Yunho covered his mouth, shoulders shaking. Even Jongho’s brows twitched upward in disbelief.

Mingi’s face burned.

Hongjoong pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath before snapping, “Mingi. Get her inside before she tears the door down.”

Mingi swallowed, nodded once, and turned on his heel.

The door hissed open, revealing Y/n mid-swing, fist raised to pound again. Her eyes were blazing, cheeks flushed, the oversized hoodie sliding off one shoulder.

“Calm down,” Mingi said quietly.

“Calm down?!” she snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest. “You lock me in a corridor like some prisoner, and you expect me to calm down?” She shoved at him, her fists landing against his suit in frantic bursts. “Do you have any idea how insane this is?! I don’t even know who the hell you people are—”

He let her hit him. Every blow landed dull against his chest, his arms, his side. He didn’t raise a hand, didn’t flinch. Just stood, steady, waiting for her fury to burn itself out.

But it didn’t. Her eyes shone, her breaths came fast and uneven, and her fists kept pounding.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

With a resigned sigh, he bent and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Mingi! Don’t you dare—!”

He hoisted her up effortlessly, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of rice. Her fists beat against his back immediately, her voice echoing down the corridor.

“Put me down! You absolute caveman! This is kidnapping 2.0!”

He turned and carried her back into the room.

Every conversation died instantly.

Seven pairs of eyes watched as Song Mingi — one of Ateez’s most feared enforcers — walked in with a furious florist kicking and shouting over his shoulder.

San let out a wheeze, doubled over in laughter. Wooyoung clapped like it was the best show he’d ever seen. Yunho’s lips parted in stunned disbelief, while Jongho muttered something that sounded dangerously close to “unbelievable.”

Even Seonghwa’s composure cracked, his mouth twitching before he forced it flat again.

And Hongjoong… Hongjoong looked like he was about to combust.

Y/n pounded her fists against Mingi’s back, voice ringing through the room. “You’re all insane! This is insane! I don’t belong here and I am not some mafia group’s pet project!”

Mingi stood there, silent under her fury, his face burning as his brothers stared — some laughing, some stunned, all watching him carry the one person he’d sworn he wouldn’t drag into this world.

And yet… here she was.

Mingi had faced rival bosses, crooked cops, and gun barrels more times than he could count. None of it compared to the heat burning his ears now.

Y/n’s fists still thumped weakly against his back, her voice sharp and sarcastic in a way that made every man in the room smirk or snort.

“Oh sure, just toss me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes again! This is definitely how civilized people handle disagreements. What’s next, chaining me in the basement?!”

Her voice carried bravado, but he could feel the tremor in her limbs. Every sarcastic jab was armor over the fear bleeding out between the cracks. And everyone in the room saw it.

He set her down gently, steadying her with one big hand when her socked feet slipped slightly on the polished floor. She jerked away, tugging the oversized hoodie tighter around herself like a shield.

Hongjoong leaned forward in his chair, sharp eyes sweeping over her — and to Mingi’s utter shock, the first words out of his mouth weren’t about her presence, or the danger, or the Black Serpents.

“Why the hell is she walking around in only socks?”

The room blinked in unison.

Hongjoong’s frown deepened. “This is a skyscraper, not a daycare. Someone get her slippers. Now.”

San burst out laughing. “Out of everything, that’s what bothers you?”

But Yeosang was already rising silently, slipping out the side door. Yunho shook his head, muttering, “Priorities, I guess.”

Y/n blinked, then lifted one foot slightly, wiggling her toes in the thin sock fabric. Her lips curved into a dry smile. “Wow. Kidnapped, dragged into a mafia skyscraper, and my biggest crime is committing a fashion faux pas. Good to know.”

San laughed harder. Jongho just shook his head. Wooyoung grinned like Christmas had come early.

Mingi’s jaw tightened. He could hear the edge in her voice — not humor, not really. Just defense. She was terrified, and she was using sarcasm like armor.

He hated that they all could see it.

Hongjoong shifted his gaze to him. “Mingi. Explain.”

Mingi straightened, his voice steady even as his insides churned. “The Serpents came for her. They thought she was working with us. They tore apart her shop. Put their hands on her.” His tone dropped, darker. “I couldn’t leave her there.”

Silence spread heavy across the table.

Y/n crossed her arms, lifting her chin high despite the fear Mingi could see written in her shoulders. “Don’t mind me,” she said dryly. “Just the unwilling guest-slash-kidnapee. Please, continue plotting my fate like I’m not even here.”

San chuckled again, but softer this time, his sharp eyes narrowing as if he was really looking at her. Yunho’s lips pressed into a thin line. Jongho’s steady gaze flicked between Mingi and Y/n, thoughtful.

Even Wooyoung’s grin faltered, just a little.

They all saw it — the way her sarcasm trembled at the edges. The fear beneath it.

And it made Mingi want to tear the world down, brick by brick, for dragging her here.

Eight pairs of eyes were on her.

Y/n had never been so aware of her socks in her life. Damp hair clung to her face, her hoodie hung like a gray cloud around her body, and every one of them — sharp suits, dangerous stares, mafia chic — looked like they belonged on the cover of a glossy magazine for “World’s Most Intimidating Men.”

Her heart hammered in her chest, but she wasn’t about to let them see that.

So she opened her mouth.

“Okay,” she said, her voice sharper than she felt. “Who the hell are you people?”

A ripple of surprise crossed the room, then San leaned back with a smirk, clearly delighted.

Y/n pointed at him. “Let me guess. You’re the loud one. Comic relief. Probably the type who laughs while punching someone in the face, right?”

San’s smirk widened. “She’s not wrong.”

Her finger swung to Jongho. “And you. You’ve got that whole quiet, brooding thing going on. Arms crossed, death stare. If anyone in this room’s a hitman, it’s you.”

Jongho raised a brow but didn’t deny it.

She shifted to Yunho, tall and calm. “And you — you’re too put together. You’re the guy who keeps this circus from falling apart. A mafia… hall monitor or something.”

Yunho huffed a laugh through his nose, eyes glinting.

Then Wooyoung, who was already grinning at her like a cat with cream. “And you, Mr. Model-face, clearly think you’re God’s gift to women. Spoiler alert: you’re not.”

Wooyoung clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. Right in the ego.”

Yeosang’s unreadable gaze met hers next. She squinted. “You look like you’re silently judging everyone here, including me. Let me guess, you’re the brains. The guy with a plan B, C, and D hidden under that poker face.”

His lips twitched. Just slightly.

Then Seonghwa. His composure was almost too perfect, his presence too steady. “And you’re the oldest. The ‘responsible one.’ The disappointed dad of this little mafia daycare.”

That one actually made San snort into his hand, and even Seonghwa’s eyes flickered in reluctant amusement.

Finally, she turned to the man at the head of the table. Shorter than the rest, but with a presence that filled the room. His gaze hadn’t left her once.

“And you,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re all sitting here like some board of directors at an evil corporation, but I still have no idea what your deal is. What are you, the treasurer? The HR manager?”

For a long beat, silence stretched.

Then the man laughed.

Not cruelly. Not mocking. Just warm, amused, like she’d genuinely surprised him.

“I like her,” he said, voice smooth and steady. “She’s brave.”

Y/n blinked. Brave? She didn’t feel brave. She felt like she was going to throw up.

He stood, smoothing his jacket, and crossed the room. She stiffened as he approached, but instead of looming over her, he knelt briefly to set a glass of water on the table in front of her.

“Here,” he said simply.

Suspicion prickled at her. “It’s not poisoned, is it?”

That earned another round of chuckles around the table.

“No,” he said, still smiling faintly. “Not poisoned.”

She wrapped her fingers around the glass anyway, if only to stop them from trembling.

The man straightened, his gaze settling on her with the kind of weight that made the air feel thinner. “My name is Kim Hongjoong. I’m the leader of Ateez. And whether you wanted it or not, you’ve just been pulled into our world.”

Y/n’s mouth went dry. Leader.

Hongjoong’s expression softened slightly. “And for what it’s worth… it’s our fault, not yours. We should’ve kept our shadows far from your sunlight.”

Her sarcasm faltered on her tongue. For the first time since this nightmare began, someone here admitted it.

Admitted she didn’t deserve any of this.

Her chest ached with relief and fresh fear all at once.

The water in her hand trembled. Y/n gripped the glass tighter, willing herself to be steady, even as her heart thudded against her ribs.

Hongjoong sat back down, steepling his fingers, his gaze steady on her. “You want to know who we are? Then listen carefully. We are Ateez. We run most of this city from the shadows. Protection, information, control. You name it.”

Her mouth went dry.

He continued, calm as though he were explaining weather patterns. “The flower shop orders? Messages. Funerals. Warnings to rivals. Sometimes condolences. Sometimes threats. Every bouquet you wrapped, every ribbon you tied — it all carried weight in our world.”

Y/n’s breath caught. The room tilted. All those orders she’d teased Mingi about, all those strange combinations she’d chalked up to eccentric taste…

They hadn’t been harmless.

They’d been weapons.

Her fingers went slack, water sloshing against the rim of the glass. “You used me,” she whispered.

Hongjoong didn’t flinch. “Indirectly, yes. We should have kept you out of it. That’s our mistake. My mistake.”

The air pressed heavy on her chest. She wanted to scream. She wanted to laugh. Instead, heat stung her eyes.

“No,” she muttered, voice rising. “No, no, no…”

Tears burned and spilled before she could stop them.

The room stilled. Ateez — eight men who looked like they’d walked out of nightmares, who had killed and bled and laughed together in the dark — stared at her like she’d just detonated a bomb in the middle of the table.

San’s grin faded. Wooyoung’s eyes darted sideways. Jongho shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Even Hongjoong leaned back slightly, as if her tears unsettled him more than any rival boss ever had.

And then Mingi moved.

He stepped closer, slow, his massive frame almost hesitant. His deep voice softened, almost pleading. “Y/n…”

Something in her snapped.

“Don’t,” she spat, whipping her head up, tears streaking her cheeks. “Don’t you dare say my name like that.”

He froze, hand half-lifted.

Her voice cracked, sharp as glass. “Do you know what I wish? I wish you had never stepped foot in my shop. I wish I had never seen your face. Hell, I wish you were dead, because then I wouldn’t be standing here in this nightmare!”

The words tore out of her throat before she could stop them. The silence after was louder than a gunshot.

Mingi’s expression didn’t change, not much — but the faint flicker in his eyes gutted her.

Her chest heaved. She pushed to her feet, the chair scraping against the floor. No one stopped her.

Not even Hongjoong.

She turned, storming toward the door, her socked feet sliding over the smooth floor. Her hand hit the panel, but before she could shove, it hissed open on its own.

Seonghwa stood there. His expression was unreadable, calm as ever. He didn’t move to block her.

He simply stepped aside.

She stumbled into the corridor, tears blurring the sleek walls around her. She didn’t know where she was going. She couldn’t go far — they all knew that. But Seonghwa let her go anyway.

And for that, she almost hated him most of all.

Y/n didn’t know how far she’d gone.

Her socks whispered over the endless halls, glass and steel stretching on in mirrored sameness. Left, right, another corridor — she hadn’t been paying attention. She just kept moving, away from the meeting room, away from their stares, away from him.

Finally, her legs gave out. She slid down the cold wall, the smooth surface catching against the fabric of her hoodie, until she sat crumpled on the floor. Her knees came up, her arms wrapped tight around them, her forehead pressed against her sleeves.

Her chest heaved. Her eyes stung. And the tears she thought had burned themselves out spilled again.

She hated it here.

She hated the sterile hum of the skyscraper, the security cameras blinking in the corners, the way every corridor felt like a cage without bars.

She hated the thought of the men still sitting around that table, deciding her fate like she was a pawn instead of a person.

But most of all… she hated him.

Song Mingi.

The man who had walked into her flower shop a year ago, tall and quiet, awkward in a way that had made her smile. The man who’d asked for lilies and chrysanthemums and marigolds, never once explaining why. The man who’d nodded politely at her jokes, whose silence had felt less like dismissal and more like mystery.

She’d let herself be drawn in. She’d told herself it was harmless, a crush on a handsome customer who carried shadows in his eyes. A silly little daydream to brighten long afternoons among the roses and sunflowers.

But it hadn’t been harmless.

It had been fuel. Every week, every bouquet, every glance had fed it until it burned bright enough that she didn’t notice the edges cutting her.

And now she was here.

Her shop destroyed. Her wrist bruised. Her whole life ripped apart because of him.

She dug her nails into her sleeves, choking on a sob.

She hated him. She wanted to hate him. She needed to hate him.

But even now — even after the truth, after the bruises, after being dragged into a nightmare — she couldn’t fully kill it. That pull. That stupid, impossible ache in her chest that whispered of the man who had bandaged her wrist with hands gentler than she thought he had in him.

Her tears smeared hot against her skin.

“I hate you,” she whispered into her sleeve, voice breaking. “I hate that I ever liked you.”

The words echoed flat against the sterile corridor, as if the building itself didn’t care.

And she sat there, alone, in an endless maze of glass and shadows, not sure which was worse — the danger surrounding her, or the feelings she couldn’t tear out no matter how hard she tried.

The door shut behind her with a hiss.

Her words still rang in his ears, sharper than any blade he’d taken in a fight.

I wish you were dead.

Mingi stood frozen where she’d left him, his chest tight, his lungs refusing to work. He’d been shot at, stabbed, dragged into wars with gangs twice their size — none of it had landed like this. None of it had hollowed him out so completely.

He barely heard the shuffle of chairs until Wooyoung’s voice broke the silence. “Well… that could’ve gone better.”

“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa warned quietly.

But the damage was done.

Mingi turned, his gaze sweeping over the seven faces watching him. He’d known them for years, fought beside them, bled beside them. Family, in every way that mattered. And now every single one of them had seen him crumble.

His body moved on autopilot. He crossed to the empty chair at the table and sat heavily, the weight dragging him down like stone. His elbows braced against his knees, his head falling into his hands.

The room stilled. Ateez had seen him angry. They’d seen him bloody. They’d seen him laugh until tears burned his eyes. But they had never seen him like this.

His voice came low, muffled against his palms, and pouty in a way that made his throat ache. “I didn’t want that to happen.”

The words trembled more than he liked. He forced them out anyway.

“I didn’t want her to hate me.”

The silence after was thick, but not cruel.

Yunho leaned forward, his tone softer than usual. “Mingi…”

Even San, usually first with a joke, just exhaled slowly and shook his head, eyes serious.

Jongho shifted in his chair, voice quiet. “She’s scared. Not really angry. You know that, right?”

Mingi pressed his hands harder against his face. He wasn’t sure he did know. All he knew was the way her voice had cracked on the word dead.

Across the table, Hongjoong’s expression eased. He rested his chin on his hand, watching Mingi with something closer to sympathy than scolding.

They all knew. They’d always known.

And for once, none of them teased him for it.

The meeting room was too quiet.

Mingi kept his hands pressed against his face, fighting to steady his breathing. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her — the way she’d glared at him through tears, the way her voice had cracked when she said she wished he were dead.

He’d faced bullets, blades, betrayals. Nothing had ever cut like that.

A chair scraped softly. “Yeosang,” Hongjoong said, his voice low, measured. “Find her.”

Yeosang nodded once, fingers flying across the sleek keyboard built into the table console. The wall at the far end flickered to life, rows of camera feeds spilling across the black screen. Corridors, lounges, stairwells — every corner of the tower under their watch.

“There,” Yeosang murmured, pointing.

Mingi’s head snapped up.

The feed showed a quiet corridor, sterile and empty — except for the small figure curled against the wall. Y/n. Her knees hugged tight to her chest, her forehead pressed against the sleeves of the hoodie he’d given her. Her shoulders trembled with every silent sob.

Mingi’s chest tightened, a raw sound caught in his throat. His fists clenched against his thighs. I did this. I put her here.

For a moment, the room was utterly silent.

Then Yunho’s voice broke it, softer than Mingi had ever heard. “God… it kind of rips my heart out to see her like that.”

The words hit like a knife and a balm at once. Mingi swallowed hard, heat crawling up his neck.

Hongjoong exhaled, rubbing his temple. “She doesn’t trust us. And why would she? We’ve turned her world upside down. But that has to change.” His gaze shifted pointedly to Mingi. “We’ll protect her. We’ll earn her trust. Because she’s the woman our dear friend has fallen in love with.”

Mingi’s head snapped up so fast it almost hurt. “I—I’m not— She’s not— I don’t—” His face burned hot, words fumbling over each other in a hopeless attempt to deny it.

San leaned back with a smirk. “Oh, you so are.”

Wooyoung grinned wide. “Big scary Mingi, all soft for his florist. Who would’ve guessed?”

Even Jongho’s lips twitched, though he said nothing. Seonghwa’s calm gaze softened just a fraction, like he’d known all along.

Mingi buried his burning face in his hands again. “Shut up.”

Their laughter was quieter than usual, tempered by the image still flickering on the screen.

Because Y/n was still there. Still small, still shaking.

And then, slowly, she shifted. Her head tilted back against the wall, her body slumping sideways until she lay curled on the floor. Her breathing steadied, lips parting slightly.

“Asleep,” Yeosang said quietly. “Adrenaline’s gone.”

Mingi stared at the screen, his chest aching. She looked fragile. Breakable. And still so far out of his reach.

“I won’t let her stay like that,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “Not again.”

The others exchanged glances but didn’t argue.

Because they all knew — for better or worse — this wasn’t just about survival anymore.

Mingi couldn’t stand the sight of her on that floor any longer.

He left the meeting room without a word, his footsteps heavy against the silent corridors. The others didn’t stop him — maybe they knew better, maybe they trusted him to do what needed doing. He didn’t care.

When he found her, curled small against the wall, his chest clenched. Her hoodie had slipped, hair damp against her cheek, her face blotchy from tears. She looked too young, too fragile, like a wilted flower crushed under someone’s careless boot.

“Y/n,” he murmured. No answer. Just the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing.

He crouched and slipped his arms under her. She stirred as he lifted her, her body warm and surprisingly light against his chest.

Her eyes fluttered half open. For a second, he braced for the fight, for fists pounding against him, for sharp words spitting fire.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, she shifted closer. Her fingers fisted in the front of his shirt, clutching tight. Her face pressed against his collarbone, breath warm against his skin.

Mingi’s heart squeezed so hard it hurt.

He carried her carefully, silently, back through the labyrinth of glass and steel to his own quarters — a private apartment tucked into the higher floors of the tower. The key panel blinked green at his touch, the door sliding open to reveal dim lights, dark wood, and the faint hum of the city beyond the windows.

He walked straight to the guest room — clean, simple, quiet. Setting her down felt like betrayal, but he did it anyway, lowering her gently onto the bed. She shifted once, sighing, her hand slipping free of his shirt.

He stood there longer than he should have, just watching her chest rise and fall. Then he forced himself to pull back.

If she woke here tomorrow with nothing familiar, she’d feel even more trapped. Even more lost.

So he turned, grabbed his keys, and left.

The night air outside bit cool against his skin as he slipped into one of their cars. The city stretched before him, neon veins glowing against the dark.

And for the first time since he’d brought her here, he headed back to her world.

Back to her shop. Her apartment. Back to gather whatever pieces he could, so that maybe — just maybe — she could still feel like herself, even in his shadowed world.

Y/n woke slowly, the kind of waking where you don’t quite know where you are yet. The sheets under her hands were softer than the ones at home, the room hushed and cool.

She blinked, pushing hair out of her face. White walls. A plain dresser. Heavy curtains keeping the city light at bay. The faint hum of air conditioning.

And then she smelled it — warm, faintly musky, like soap and something deeper that tugged at her memory.

Mingi.

Her chest tightened before she could stop it. She groaned, rolling onto her back. “Perfect. Kidnapped, and now my subconscious is turning into a bloodhound.”

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she padded barefoot toward the door.

The apartment opened into a wide living room, sleek and minimal. A wall of windows framed the city skyline, cold and glittering, while the rest of the space was drowned in shades of black, gray, and white. The sofa. The rug. The shelves. Even the counters in the kitchen.

It was like stepping into a black-and-white movie.

Except the man in the kitchen.

Mingi stood at the counter, his back to her, stirring something in a pan. No shirt, just loose black joggers slung dangerously low on his hips. His hair was mussed, his shoulders broad, the lines of his back shifting with every movement. When he turned slightly, she caught the full view — chest and torso sculpted, muscle rolling under skin, scars faint but there.

She froze.

He looked younger like this. Less terrifying mafia enforcer, more… twenty-something guy who forgot to put a shirt on before making breakfast.

Her cheeks burned before she snapped her sarcasm back into place. “Wow,” she said, leaning against the wall. “Didn’t realize your favorite color was depressing. Everything in here looks like it was designed by a sad robot. Gray, black, white… did the rainbow offend you or something?”

Mingi stiffened, turning toward her. His ears went pink almost immediately. “It’s not—” He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “My favorite color is cement.”

Y/n blinked.

“Cement?”

He nodded, completely serious.

She stared at him for a long beat. Then let out a startled laugh. “That’s not even a color, Mingi. That’s a building material.”

He looked down, muttering, “Still counts.”

For the first time since she’d met him, she almost — almost — forgot that he was dangerous. That he’d carried her here against her will. That he belonged to a world that had torn hers apart.

Because standing there, pink-eared and shirtless, mumbling about cement, he looked almost human.

Y/n smirked into her sleeve as Mingi turned back to the stove, ears still red. “Cement,” she whispered under her breath, shaking her head. “Unbelievable.”

The pan hissed softly as he flipped something — eggs maybe, or pancakes. It smelled warm, buttery, and more domestic than she ever imagined coming from a man who could snap bones with his bare hands.

She crossed the room slowly, socked feet sliding against the cold floor. “You actually cook?”

He didn’t turn, but his shoulders hunched slightly. “Sometimes.”

“Wow.” She leaned against the counter, deliberately close enough to make him twitch. “Kidnapper, flower-ordering errand boy, and now breakfast chef. Truly a man of many talents.”

His hand stuttered just slightly on the spatula.

Y/n grinned. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not,” he muttered, voice low.

“You are,” she said sing-song, tilting her head. “Right there. Your ears are basically stoplights.”

He set the spatula down a little too forcefully. “Do you want food or not?”

The pout in his tone made her snort. “God, you’re kind of cute when you’re mad.”

His head snapped toward her, eyes wide, lips parting as though she’d just fired a bullet at him point-blank. For a second, she swore his entire brain short-circuited.

Her grin softened, her chest tugging in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge. She had spent the past twenty-four hours calling him insane, terrifying, dangerous. And he was all of those things.

But watching his mask crack, seeing the flush creep across his cheeks, the way his lips tugged into a reluctant pout… it was almost disarming.

Almost human.

Almost… cute.

She shook her head quickly, pulling her sarcasm back like armor. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your gangster fan club you can actually fry eggs.”

Mingi grumbled something under his breath — something that sounded suspiciously like I’m not cute — and slid a plate onto the counter in front of her.

She looked down at it — scrambled eggs, toast, even a few pieces of fruit. Not fancy. Not flashy. Just… thoughtful.

Y/n swallowed, her sarcasm faltering for the briefest moment. “Thanks.”

Mingi didn’t answer, but the tips of his ears burned bright enough to give him away.

The eggs were warm, buttery, and way better than she expected from a man whose job description probably included intimidation, threats, and occasional murder.

She chewed slowly, watching Mingi fidget by the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. The sight was oddly endearing.

Finally, she set the fork down. “You know,” she said quietly, “I don’t actually… hate you.”

His head jerked slightly, eyes widening just enough to make her smile.

“I mean, I did wish you were dead last night,” she added, lips twitching, “but that was more of an adrenaline-fueled, heat-of-the-moment thing. You get it.”

His throat bobbed. He nodded, stiff, as though afraid to breathe wrong.

She leaned back in the chair, exhaling. “I can kind of understand why you brought me here. I just…” Her voice faltered. “I don’t love finding out I was basically the delivery service for your gang messages.”

The corner of his mouth tugged downward in a pout. He looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I didn’t want you in this,” he said, low. “I just… liked coming to your shop.”

Her heart gave a treacherous lurch. “You what?”

He shifted, ears turning pink. “It was quiet there. Bright. You smiled. It was… different.”

She blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment. Then her lips curved despite herself. “So you risked blowing your terrifying mafia cover… for flowers.”

His pout deepened. “For you,” he muttered.

Her breath caught, heat blooming in her cheeks before she quickly bent to her plate. She didn’t trust herself not to blush right back at him.

But then he cleared his throat. “I… went back to your apartment. Last night. To get some things.”

Her head shot up. “You what?!”

He gestured toward the corner, where a large duffel bag sat against the wall. “So you’d feel… more like yourself.”

Y/n bolted from the chair. She dropped to her knees in front of the bag, unzipping it in a rush.

Color spilled out — bright dresses, patterned tops, cozy socks in mismatched shades, her favorite cardigan dotted with daisies. All the little pieces of herself she hadn’t realized she missed until now.

Her chest squeezed. “Mingi…”

She tugged out a top patterned with tiny strawberries and hugged it to her chest. Then she turned back to him with a smile so wide it surprised even her. “Thank you.”

He froze, staring at her like she’d just set the sun down in front of him. His ears burned red, spreading down his neck. He ducked his head quickly, mumbling something she couldn’t quite catch.

Her grin softened. Cute, she thought, and this time she didn’t bother trying to deny it.

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

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marvolos · 6 months ago

Text

wooyoung as random texts from pinterest

notes: some of them are kind of suggestive?? barely

requests open: texts / reactions / oneshots / whatever tbh

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velvetdolor · 2 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐁'𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐙 | 𝐂.𝐒 | 𝐏.𝐒𝐇

⛧ genres: oneshot, hard smut, dark romance-fantasy, unreliable narrator, obsession, psychological, stockholm syndrome, love triangle, angst, pwp 18+ ⛧

⛧ pairings: yandere hunter! seonghwa x captive angel! reader x guard! san (have fun struggling)

⛧ summary: you come to terms with your distorted desire for your captor—damning yourself to never return to heaven in favor of living in his ominous and vulgar captivity. the entanglement only complicates further when he instructs his personal guard to watch over you while he's on a mission.

⛧please read the warnings below before proceeding! this is a content intense oneshot. i am NOT saying this lightly the warning list is actually insane

elements of dub-con, bondage, dumbification, stolkhom syndrome, manipulation, minor descriptions of wounds, minor violence/high anxiety, a gun being used threateningly, fingering, squirting, corruption, free use, solo play, seonghwa using ur underwear to… 🤭, caretaker seonghwa, hard dom seonghwa, virgin! san, service top!san, face sitting, threesome, mxm action…. ☺️, blindfolding, dacryphilia, overstimulation, toys, vaginal penetration, anal penetration, cum shots, creampies, death threats, objectification, oxygen deprivation, brainwashing, unhealthy obedience, betting on your life, oral, san eventually wears a collar, bitter and unhealthily possessive hwa, a razor (not in a sexual circumstance nor put into use) there will be no middle ground u will either love or hate my characters

⛧ wc: 23.5k

theme songs: perverts (intro) by ethel cain, frosti by björk, and for you i hold my breath by lalleshwari

AN: it’s finally finished!!

His voice slips into the room like incense—soft, saccharine, laced with something almost holy.

“My angel,” Seonghwa coos, circling the sigil etched with care into the cold stone floor. “Are you alright in here?”

The silk binding your arms has long since lost its elegance. It burns now, chafing raw skin, your limbs aching with the dull throb of time passed. Relief pools behind your eyes at the sight of him—his cherubic face glowing pale in the firelight, so lovely it’s almost cruel. Your legs draw together, a conditioned reaction.

“Hwa.” your voice breaks like old glass. “Hold me.”

He smiles—sweetly, softly—but his eyes search you. They always search you. For defiance, for rage, for the threat of rebellion. There’s nothing but a quiet plea in your gaze, and so he breathes out, satisfied.

“I’m sorry it took so long. San got injured during a long hunt and I had to stay back until we were in the clear.” He says lowly, stepping into the sigil to kneel delicately before you, and softly brushes your hair out of your face.

Nudging a cheek into the palm of his hand, you wait for his next words obediently. A dull ache pulses from your back– remnants of old gaping wounds try their best to remind you of something dire in their phantom pains—that there’s something dreadfully sinister in your presence, but you can’t recall exactly what.

The cold palm of Seonghwa’s hand distracted you. Seonghwa’s elated eyes glow at the sight of your truest form of resignation and remain unnoticed by you. Dark eerie eyes sink onto your form like little moons, testing the waters “What do you think about spending a few days here with San? I’ll be…on a mission and I don’t know how long it’ll take. It’s been a good while since the sun has touched you, dove—San could take you to the river?” he lightly disguises his suggestion, inquiring with a sense of casualness.

You shake your head immediately. “Why can’t you take me with you?”

Heavy distraught implodes within your body like a landmine. The anxiety sends a direct shock to your heart—already abhorred by and enduring the hours he spends away on missions during the evenings—and now he’s saying he’ll be gone for days? What if he didn’t come back?

You’d rather die.

You go cold, fighting the urge to well up and vomit at the sudden anxiety induced nausea. Seonghwa shakes his head calmly.

“That wouldn’t be safe–” He throws an attempt at reasoning with you before you disregard his words immediately, cutting in like a dull knife trying to get through a tough surface.

“You’d be there to protect me, wouldn’t you?” You plead adamantly, raising your voice with confidence. No harm would come your way if Seonghwa was around. He wouldn’t let that happen even if it killed him.

“My love, you know I can’t take you with me. If I did, they’d find out and take you away—because you’re special, remember? I can’t risk that. Be a good girl and stay with San.”

You scowl at the reminder.

“I don’t wanna go back,” you mutter, turning your head away in defiance. You don’t even remember Heaven anymore. A dull throb pulses behind your eyes, making you wince—but Seonghwa doesn’t notice.

“I don’t want you to go back either. Can we just… agree to disagree?” His tone is resigned, edged with mild exasperation.

He shakes his head, defeated, then leans in slowly—his breath brushing your lips as he changes the subject. “I’ve missed your mouth. Will you kiss me? Please?”

The yearning in his voice is unmistakable: soft and silken, like a flower petal. A delicate plea in that familiar cadence—moderately pitched, never louder than necessary. Always composed. Always him.

He cradles your cheek and reaches out to smooth down your hair, the gesture almost motherlike. Then he pulls you into his chest, and you tumble forward into his lap. The leather of his trench coat stretches beneath you, releasing a soft, rubbery sound. You lift your head, eyes dilated—wide, unfocused—and tilt your face up. With a delicate lick, you lift his bottom lip, asking for permission to enter—for the unspoken invitation to taste the day he lived outside, the one you lost to your muddled memory.

But it was warm in his arms. He liked to remind you that you were his little bird—placed on Earth for him alone, so he could care for you. No one else loved you enough to lock you away from a world that only wanted to marvel at your mystic rarity, to exploit and desecrate what made you different.

Even when he punished you, it was always—at least in his eyes—for your own good. And on most days, he did everything he could to spoil you.

Your Seonghwa is sweet. He always reminded you that he could do no wrong to you.

He’d asked you to keep your binds on and wait here, in the old mausoleum nestled deep within the woods—secluded enough to quiet his worries. ‘It’s the safest place for you, Dove. Please understand that.’ He’d say and you couldn’t argue with him–Seonghwa always knew best.

This was his hidden sanctuary, and it was the only place fit for his most prized possession.

Seonghwa’s half lidded eyes gaze down at you quietly, a soft simmering that was reminiscent of a God you’d forgotten–watching your tongue flick before slowly parting his mouth.

When you press an open-mouthed kiss onto him, you immediately taste a faint combination of tobacco and ginger candies—a usual indicator of his oversight to his own care and almost pull away to reprimand him for most likely not eating actual food again. An arm wraps itself around your waist with a firm grip rubbing against your rib cage. The initial softness parting away and opening into true realm of Seonghwa’s nature.

“Can you be a good girl and do something for me?” His light voice rings like a bell, requesting softly and waving its frequency sweetly at you. You’d never say no—not to him. Sliding off his leather coat and unbuckling the silver clasp of his black slacks, knowing exactly what your reply will be.

“Anything.” Your eyes shimmer with an unnatural reverence—dull, yet awestruck, as if you’ve never seen anything like him before.

Seonghwa slinks a hand down the flat of his abdomen before slowly unbuttoning his slacks, cat-like and sultry. A trimmed array of hair is revealed as he peels his bottoms to his thighs, not wearing any briefs and exposing the pink velvet that hung neatly between his legs.

A mouthwatering and painful girth saddled itself there, its natural vulgarity a direct contrast to his cherubic and idyllic appearance. His cock twitched for a moment, hardening and lifting towards his stomach the more you stared.

He loved seeing how obedient you were and that despite your well-trained appetite, you knew to wait for his words before doing absolutely anything at all—because you’d do anything for him and Hwa would burn the entirety of Heaven and Earth if it meant to keep you by his side, whatever the means necessary.

“You know what to do from here right?” Flattening his palm to the back of your head before jolting you harshly towards him, cock hitting your cheek and momentarily resting on your jawline.

Your arms were still tied as your cheek landed on his upper thighs and shuffled towards him to place him into your mouth somehow. The shape of his cock protrudes from the side of your cheek

Small drops of saliva fall from the corners of your mouth, stifling a gag when he stuffs himself into the back of your throat and settles there unmoving.

Another hand reaches down to pinch your nose, blocking all access to oxygen. He keeps you stationed there, and you forget to count the seconds.

“Don’t think. Don’t fight it either—just focus on feeling my cock in your mouth, got it?” His voice shifts, a little more deadpan and firmer–melancholic, empty, and foreboding in its direction. He presses down on the back of your neck; blank gaze shadowed under a thick blanket of dark lashes.

Your head’s throbbing, alarm signals raising and firing, but you rub your thighs together, unable to resist his temptations, moaning at the friction. The meat on them begin to bead with a mixture of sweat and sweet slick.

At some point, your brain goes numb. The main point of existence, the meaning of the universe led you here to this moment. Nothing else exists here, everything before was a mere figment—a daydream filled with light. There’s a brief flicker and you tug yourself off suddenly, coughing through the spit and paling in realization.

It was a blip but the memory woke you from the disturbing reverie.

Just days ago, he’d nearly snapped your ankles when you offhandedly told him he couldn’t keep you here forever—that he’s a mortal man, and mortal men die in the blink of an eye to beings like you. He wouldn’t be able to bind you to his deathbed, nor hold you in the afterlife either.

Your gaze falls onto the black and blue finger shaped bruises wrapped around the skin of your ankle. It happened again.

It’s becoming harder to separate desire from rationale, especially as your episodes stretch on longer each time. And it isn’t just Seonghwa’s manipulation—it’s the exhaustion of constantly suppressing a twisted longing for the only person around you. You craved his warmth, his affection, and at times, find yourself defending your own captivity.

To forget and damn it all was to experience unconstrained bliss in this funeral of a body, subjecting yourself to pleasures amongst the dead by playing dead. He’ll make your home a Mausoleum if it meant you’d die with him and when you’re in the mist of that reverie, you’d do it willingly. Seonghwa abhorred his mortality and the fact that even with his best efforts he would only be an ephemeral being to you.

There was no heaven that would welcome him.

You avoid his eyes and stare at the moss overgrowth spindling its way above the pillar and towards a stone tomb. This was a grave of Seonghwa’s unreachable hopes– of a dark past you knew nothing of.

Seonghwa’s eyes flutter knowingly over your expression.

He thought this would happen.

Seonghwa knows he has to break you further, but this was the longest he’d ever held you in that space—suspended, stripped of every thought and desire but him. It was working. And soon, it would consume you entirely.

He’ll make sure of that.

The look in his eyes unsettled you, shaking you to the core—gazing at you like the end was already decided, like he knew everything.

Moonlight bled from the skylight above you, dousing your conflicted and horrified features in a shade of blue you began to drown in. An ominous stillness permeated the space as you finally take note of the dark gleam in his eyes.

“There you are, Angel.” A grin slid onto his face as he sat back and leaned his weight onto his palms.

Your heart trembled as it fought the fear and desire to stay here without any effort to push back against that fate, needing to remember yourself and why you couldn’t remain here.

“Why are you still doing this?” A resigned whisper falls from your mouth, your downcast gaze igniting something painful in Seonghwa. You’ve asked this question again and again for however long you’ve been here, and not once has he answered you.

A pensive expressions sways onto his face before he honestly utters. “I have no other motive than my love for you.” Leaning a hand forward to brush a stray eyelash from your cheekbone before continuing

“The world outside is too dirty for a thing like you. Why don’t you understand that?” He whispers out, venom hiding on the sweetness of his tongue.

“—You’d run back to a place where my hands can’t reach you? Do you truly believe you could pass among the innocent, wearing their softness like a mask, after what I’ve done to your body?”

Your lungs tremble, a sharp gasp slipping free as he crawls toward you on all fours—unashamed, his half-bared form moving with the grace of something deceivingly lighthearted. His lips hover a breath above your skin, tracing a reverent path along your abdomen, up your chest, and finally, to the hollow of your throat.

Seonghwa’s tongue flattens vulgarly on your jugular, licking up the length of your jawline. “Your God won’t fuck you. He’ll only watch me desecrate you.” He whispers with a palpable seduction choking the air.

“I wasn’t made to do things like this—it was never my purpose.” You grit out halfheartedly. Angels didn’t have any appetite. Food, water, sex, affection–all of that was unnatural to the celestial thrumming in your bodies. In reality, you were too bitter about his constant restraint and only ever found reprieve in denying him when you could. Perhaps it was also a matter of being able to deny yourself too.

“I’d beg to differ. How else would I’ve been able to fit inside of you? You take my cock so well, little dove.” A hand trembles trails it fingertips above your womb before pressing down on it.

“A shame that Angels can’t get pregnant.” A dark mumble of disappointment leaves his lips.

You hate the fact that you’re falling into it and that you were distorted enough now to still want his praise—to be capable of fulfilling his wants and needs.

He sighs before standing up to brush his legs. “Well, since my angel’s a stubborn one—I suppose I’ll have to try again some other time.” He leans down to swipe your legs from under you, huffing with reprimand, and dragging you up to grip a strong hand at the lining of your underwear to tear it off to examine between your legs. He flings the sad tatters like crocodile tears, absentminded and ignoring the world as all else goes quiet at the sight of you. Seonghwa stiffens when he catches a glimpse of your wetness, gazing at you questioningly passive.

“You’re all bark but little to no bite.” He spits out for a moment, sarcastic in the wake of his joy before continuing

“Say please and I’ll take care of it.”

Your eyebrows furrow, legs trembling as they hung in the air–his grip tightening around your ankles to hold your lower body up. Your arms and back are tensing at the uncomfortable burning that squeezes from your intricately bound arms, tied together at the base of your spine.

Seonghwa’s white hair glimmers hauntingly under the moonlight, fluttering slightly as a small gust of wind enters through the cracks of the Mausoleum, and your breath leaves you–he looked lovely.

You open your mouth to reject but the words feel too strained to leave you once an uncomfortable clenching in your chest distracts you. His eyes are black seas, waiting for your reply but maintaining his hold.

“No. I’m perfectly fine. Let go of me.” You swallow hard, body stinging at the mere idea of his hands releasing you. He was too prideful, confident even, to force himself onto you. Seonghwa never needed to– he was tactical and patient, easing you into his seduction bit by bit before you caved to him time and time again on your own volition whenever he broke you enough to desire him without thought.

He says nothing for a moment, gaze stoic.

“Suit yourself then.” He mutters, a dance of a smile playing at his lips before he picks your body up and into his arms, reaching down to cut your bindings for the night. “I’m off to bed—” He stops to pick up your discarded underwear “I’ll bring you a new pair. Don’t forget it’s bath time tomorrow.”

He stretches his lithe body, yawning into his hand before exiting the lonesome section of the Mausoleum, leaving you to your own haunts. His Silhouette turns to the immediate makeshift room to the right of the corridor. Your gaze remained where his phantom shadow, illuminated by the haunting torches aligning the walls, swayed off into another direction, squeezing your eyes shut with bitter reprimand.

You’re unsure if you’re bitter about not falling into his hands

Or by the fact that you sickeningly wanted to, the fever spreading throughout your body and drenching it in an uncomfortable humid heat.

Perhaps you’re already damned.

The thought drifts through you as you flinch, your fingertips grazing the tender flesh of your arms. A sigh escapes your lips, weary and hollow, as you sink onto the cold stone floor—long past the point of trying to decipher a way out of the ornate sigil that binds you here.

There’s comfort in the darkness that greets you once you shut your eyes, fading away into the only kindness you knew these days, sleep offering reprieve and blurring the lines of your desire to offer yourself to him on a platter—ominously willing to pay the price, if only for a moment of joy and basking in his praise. You dream of distant sunlight at the edge of a horizon that night—by the end of it, you turn away to walk back into the shadow you crawled out of with your bleeding body.

Seonghwa stifles a frustrated groan, the sound muffled by the fabric of his black sweater as he bites down on it to keep from crying out. His teeth sink into the material, holding it taut against his abdomen, as he clutches your underwear around his cock. He throws his head back, eyes clenched shut, as anguished bliss courses through him. The throbbing in his hand drives him mad, recalling the image of your body, suspended by the ankles, vulnerably exposed and pulsing with unfulfilled desire.

He can't comprehend your restraint. The God you serve is a warlord, thirsty for blood and conquest—nothing remains pure in this world. Murder, lust, gluttony—these desires plague every living thing, from animals to angels. You were no exception, merely isolated in your divine garden.

Seonghwa's palms grow slick as he rubs himself against the fabric, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Images of you assault his mind, driving him to the brink of insanity. He sees your flushed breasts, bouncing gently, slick with sweat. He hears your loud, innocent moans, your eyes wide with astonishment as new sensations corrupt your body.

"Fuck," he whimpers, increasing the pace of his strokes. His stomach rolls and tightens with each wave of pleasure, but it's not enough. He needs you broken open before him, exposed and mindless, drooling and desperate.

Born with a darkness he's worked hard to repress, Seonghwa has always been determined not to tarnish his family's name. Descendants of a prestigious lineage devoted to hunting and eradicating the "otherworldly," they have always been a beacon of purity and righteousness. Until he found you.

Injured and alone near the old mausoleum, you were a curiosity he couldn't resist. Tending to your wounds, he found himself unable to let you go. Since then, his disciplined moral compass has crumbled, burning away in his descent into madness.

He grits his teeth, huffing against his sweater as he adjusts the pink cloth to envelop the tip of his cock. Jerking his hand wildly, he throws all reservation to the wind, his heart pounding as erotic images assault his mind.

Your silken cloth, the one he imagined rested against your pussy for hours, is a torment to him. He wants to be that cloth, to wrap himself around you, to be your skin, your breath, your sweat, your spit. The thought sends shivers down his spine, and he moans loudly, his eyes fixed on the steadily drenched underwear, glistening with his pre-cum.

"Be patient, Seonghwa," he mutters, reminding himself that it's only a matter of time. The thought of rushing back to you, of breaking you completely, invades his mind, but he pushes it aside, focusing on the sensation of your cloth against his sensitive flesh.

He imagines the bulge in your stomach, the maddening clench of your cunt as he ruts against you, his groans hot in your ear. Wanting to fuck you without restraint, to corrupt your body entirely, to take your ass with wild abandon.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, his hips lifting and falling in a desperate rhythm as he fucks his hand. His weight presses against the back of his neck, his feet planted firmly on the ground as he tries to keep his hips raised. Gibberish and phrases fall from his lips, a mix of endearments and insults—'my pretty angel' and 'stupid little thing' can be faintly heard from the corridor.

With a final, hard thrust into his hands, Seonghwa orgasms, gripping tightly onto his base as he arches his back off the floor. Cum shoots up, landing on his abdomen, chest, and near his eye, a sticky, white mess.

He collapses, his chest heaving as he stares at the cold marble ceiling, his mind spinning with thoughts of you. You were still learning, still dancing on the precipice of desire, your celestial understanding of the world at odds with the mortal realities of sex and emotion.

Seonghwa knows that it's only a matter of time before you fully succumb to your desires, before you understand the true depth of your feelings for him. Until then, he will wait, biding his time, his patience wearing thin as his need for you grows more desperate by the day.

With a final shake of his head, Seonghwa doesn't bother dressing himself, descending into a cold, dark, dreamless sleep, his body hardly sated— mind still hungry for you.

San’s sharp face said all of the words refusing to leave his mouth. The cool, damp air of the mausoleum sickened him— even more so in the presence of the captive angel Seonghwa liked keeping for himself. Spindly vines seemed to grieve their bodies over graves, almost symbolically curling their fingers to reach out to you but not quite making it to where you lay, he notes. Perhaps—they too—pity only being capable enough to witness your bindings, yet unable to do anything on their own. Too seemingly powerless and brittle.

San perches his back against a cold wall facing you but closes his eyes. Donning his formal attire for the task, he didn’t want to risk appearing either casual or familiar in front of Seonghwa—specifically concerning his assignment to watch you. The wrinkled white button up paired with an ankle length trench coat saddled against his form stiffly, and he longingly questions himself when he'd get the chance to sleep. San was here for work. Nothing more—nothing less.

Though, he didn't know how to see you without choking on an unknown feeling. San was admittedly softer than his cohorts, despite not caring for your kind in particular—somewhere along the lines of trained ambivalence rather than violent superiority. You're bound again, arms knotted with silk and everything that made your ethereal beauty glow like a comet, and he fleetingly wonders if all Angels looked like that—like you.

San’s loyalty for Seonghwa was written in blood. For each generation, the eldest son of his family was destined to guard the most elite of their faction; the eldest son of the oldest family of Hunters. Madness be damned, Seonghwa was inarguably the brightest of them all—an elegant sword of a man who danced through the throes of darkness without so much as a blink. Yet San had noticed something inherently absent in their heir—too precise, too mechanical, a masterful yet hollow imitation of human connection and humility. A vast shadow accompanied the brilliance of his skill, and that is precisely why an angel lies hidden on this… barren excuse of— what the fuck is this place even called again? A mausoleum?

Even someone like Seonghwa wouldn’t be able to evade the consequences of hiding a being like you. The entirety of their lineage’s codex believed in human superiority—motivated by a primal desire to eradicate all else with the exception of what they can feed off of. The fragility of his beauty did nothing to negate the carnality of his true nature. No starlike quality can dim that murderous hand of his

Before Seonghwa departed and left you in San's care, he'd only said one thing: "You know what and what not to do."— in other words, 'protect her but you may not care for her.' Thus began San's mildly uncomfortable task of sleeping in Seonghwa's wretched morgue and dread fills his body when he sees the rain falling through cracks on the skylight, directly onto your body.

The dresses Seonghwa adorned you with were often too extravagant for comfort and the chiffon layers that ballooned from your waist weighed your posture down. San assumed Angels couldn't get sick, but the sight of your trembling body told him that angels could, in fact, get cold—that they could register the absence of warmth, feel hurt, and know right from wrong. He hated that he couldn't shake off the sudden understanding.

"Angel... what does Seonghwa allow you to do when you're cold? Don't lie to me—you'll only get us both punished without reason, and I don't feel like being taxidermized by the man I'm chained to for the rest of my life." San steps towards your kneeling figure hesitantly, coming close enough to be seen and acknowledged, but no further.

Your head hangs low, a slow tilt raising your strange eyes to gaze at him. It's with a trepid sense of innocence and lack of awareness that you let a small utter leave your lips—almost as if afraid to speak.

"He bathes me until I'm warm if I don't want to be warmed in... other ways." A rosy blush paints your cheeks, and you look lovely as a spring's day even under the dread of rain. He quirks his eyebrow in awkward surprise, blinking, and rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

"Right. That makes sense." For Seonghwa at least. San didn't receive any detailed instructions other than to protect you from exterior harms and to be his eyes while he cleans up after a massacre of witches in another city. Some new recruits were too hell bent during their first hunt, and it resulted in a bloodbath.

There's a small twitch to his leg when he inches a slow hand towards you, silently warning you of his incoming touch—San didn't know how to care for something and worried for a moment that you'd dislike the roughness of his hand. Droplets of rain pelted his head as he shielded your body from the crack above you. Arms curl under your knees and wrap around your back, cradling you to his chest—stiff as he makes his way to the bathing room.

He falters at the entrance, carefully setting you down before scrambling to steady you. Your knees were still too weak to bear your weight. With a quiet sigh, he pushes open the old wooden door and lifts you onto the bathroom counter, striking a few matches to chase away the darkness and ignite the array of candles scattered across the room.

"I'll, uh—leave you to it. I'll be outside right outside of the door so please don't do anything unsavory." His tone is unintentionally gruff, only accustomed to speaking to men with higher levels of testosterone than others, stepping back to nod and swiftly turn away.

A small clunk alerts him as you stare at him owlishly, arms still tied behind your back. You didn't seem to like talking much but were expressive enough to communicate without words—tapping a small finger against a cup carrying two wooden toothbrushes that clink charmingly while you attempt to alert him of your distress.

"Oh." A small flush decorates his neck, embarrassed at being caught so obviously wanting to leave. His hands dexterously unwind the silk and eyed the swelling imprints on your body. Again, a sinking feeling weighed his stomach and those open eyes—wide and expansive as the universe—adorned his heart and anchored it with guilt.

A hand shakily reaches to grab at his shirt sleeve, sliding down the counter to the best of your abilities, leaning and standing against him. "Why are you leaving?" The voice that finally leaves you renders him breathless—almost a bell-like whisper tumbling to form a genuine question.

"To give you privacy." San's direct reply still confused you— his expressionless face gazed down at your form, but not unkindly.

You give a slow blink, thoughts thumbing through your database of a mind—but don't recall learning this particular form of etiquette since arriving to the mortal realm. "I don't know... how to do it myself."

It was an honest reply, not performatively sweet or innocent yet all the more enticing.

"You don't know how to do it yourself?" San's eyebrows shoot up, an incoming tide of dread contorting his face into slow horror. Fuck, Hwa's gonna kill him.

"I didn't know Human's didn't wash or accompany one another to this—chamber?" You hesitated on the word, unsure if it was right. Your cheeks warmed as the silence stretched, a quiet worry creeping in—maybe you were saying it all wrong. Seonghwa didn’t like it when you got things wrong or asked too many questions—it always ended badly. His quiet anger rendered you from sleep—a slow seduction crawling onto your bed to erase any desire to doubt him, and in the anxiety, you'd cave into your disturbing yearning for him. Scrambling quietly, you attempt to correct your mistake

Seonghwa didn't even allow you to be alone in the restroom—just how far gone was he? San's eyes furrow and you grow increasingly afraid. He tugs you lightly towards the bathtub, holding you upright with an arm wrapped around your waist before pointing around.

"Here, I'll get it set up for you. Just watch and learn." Shrugging off his coat finally, San takes a moment to explain what each knob was meant to do, measuring hot temperatures from cold, and instructing that you don't use only one knob, else you'd burn your skin or freeze. Hands are flying around, pointing at strange knobs. You stand and try your absolute best to take it all in diligently, but you feel your eyes spin. San stiffens for a moment, realizing he’s rambling before turning to look at your expression of devoted seriousness. Fidgeting, your small hands clutch at your dress, accidentally squeezing out some of the rainwater weighing it. To be honest, you didn't want to do it yourself. While you were anxious around San, you craved and welcomed any other interactions from outsiders—but you didn't know how to approach without the words getting stuck in your throat and berating yourself for sounding stupid.

San takes notice of your anxiety, sighing out into the air and gazing up at the ceiling, backing down from his previous resolve. "What does he do for bath time?" He grumbles out, eyebrows furrowing—positively disturbed by the task.

Muscle memory clicks as soon as you hear his frustrated tone, and you wait for permission to speak. Your eyes strain and San tilts his head in confusion. Truly—he's starting to feel like Angel's spoke a different language entirely. "Well? Got any answers for me?" He prods, a little exasperated. Of all the tasks Seonghwa could've given him— bathing the object of his absolutely heinous obsession wasn't exactly on the top of his list. He couldn't say no to the heir, else he'd likely summon the murder of his family. The life of a hunter and the society's hierarchical structure wasn't one for the weak—and once sworn onto the path, no descendant can escape without wiping out their entire line.

"He puts little 'bombs' into my bath and scrubs my skin to keep it soft. I'm unsure about my hair though." Almost mechanically, you let out a reiteration of what you faintly recall Seonghwa explaining to you—he lathered a multitude of fragrant oils in your hair and removed all labels to ensure you never tried to do it yourself. San seemed to have caught onto the label situation with an anguished groan. Christ—what is wrong with that man—and why was he destined to monitor his strange tyrannies? Another faint grumble leaves his lips.

"Fine." You don't reply, immediately taking his words as both permission and a command, before reaching behind your back to drag the zipper down your spine. San feels his heart jump to his throat, frozen at the wake of your shamelessness.

Shimmying out of your undergarments, a part of you anticipates small praise at your immediate response. As much as you abhorred Seonghwa, you indulged in his sweetness from time to time, and your all-time favorite treat is whenever he flippantly calls you his good girl. A soft grin would gracefully pull at his lips, unreadable marbled face in the state of calm Nirvana as he'd watch you memorize his wants without needing to explicitly tell you. This is why he couldn't let you go— you were a juxtaposition of many things, contradictory in your existence and pale desire, perfectly malleable—maintaining the delicate amount of innocence necessary to constantly indulge in corrupting you. You were naive and doll-like; ethereal and dishonest. You're glowing, legs practically thumping— waiting to hear that you were best girl ever. San's eyes twitch, appalled

The slowly gliding of your panties drift down to the slim of your ankle and you lift a leg up, waiting for San to pull it off as Seonghwa always did for you. His face reddens at the sight of you exposing your opening, cunt clenching due to your movements and exposing the fleshy insides. A thick finger raises to curl into the loop of the fabric, pulling it off and successfully avoiding coming in contact with your skin. San's never seen a naked woman in this circumstance—only ever during moments that called for an objective view; torn clothes in order to dress wounds, ritualistic practice, paintings even. Not this. He’s never taken time to really notice his lack of motivation to indulge in desire—too busy playing guard dog to love or want anything properly. A woman has never laid in San's bed, and she’s certainly never stood this close to him completely nude either.

The sound of his heart thrumming silences everything else, your figure suddenly deifying before him, as if watching Venus rise from her beloved waters—born into immediate beauty. He swallows thickly, Adam's apple bobbing once an unfamiliar heat throbs and thickens in his jeans. San's eyes glance down fleetingly before freezing at the hardness that greets him. You catch sight of the obvious bulge and immediately fall onto your knees, wanting to help.

You didn't hate San and Seonghwa might reward you with an outing if you were good and took care of his San while he was away—instantly brightening at the idea. Seonghwa called them dates and always gave you things he noticed interested you on the way back—shiny rocks, flora, perfectly smooth sticks, and even let you play in the stream for a while.

Heat slicks in between your legs in response and San almost shrieks when you rub your cheek against his hard on. "WOAH—CHRIST. Please get away from there."

You immediately comply, confused and saddened. He almost groans at your downturned eyes—the constraint of his jeans bordering on painful. "You don't need help?" There it is. That voice of yours.

Perhaps he'd prefer if you didn't speak after all. Though he's unsure if he could handle being in the presence of your body language any longer either.

San's eyes squeeze together, exasperated. It was clear that Seonghwa taught you mannerisms with the intention of never integrating you into society. He wholeheartedly meant to house you here for as long as he could and San feared that Seonghwa would put his life on the line to ensure you weren't taken away from him.

Which also meant that if Hwa's life was endangered, San had no choice but to get dragged into this—and he couldn't resolve this with your murder. That’d only invite more chaos and Seonghwa's already clearly unwell enough as is.

A tired, anguished, and clearly fabricated smile wiggled its way onto his lips. "I'm...perfectly fine. Let's just get you cleaned up." San swears his soul left his body but steeled himself to see the situation objectively.

There's a cold Angel in the tub who didn't know how to bathe herself.

He convinces himself it's like having to take care of a pet and continues to avoid looking at you any more than he needs to, guiding you into the tub.

You sigh quietly in relief, goosebumps raising on your skin before gazing at him expectantly.

"What is it this time?" He deadpans.

Blinking owlishly, you reply simply

"Bomb."

Your hands are folded together as you try to contain your excitement. Watching the little bomb fizzle and buoy around the water filled you with joy. San yawns into his hand, eying you strangely.

What a peculiar specimen.

Bored, he lays his chin on his palm, losing track of the time passing. After playing in the water a bit, you bravely hand him a small loofah.

"Scrub?"

Ah, that's right. He's playing Seonghwa's role.

Rolling his sleeves up, San grabs the loofah, fumbling with the various bottles littering the bathroom—his hair sticking out due to the humidity and matting with sweat. After taking his best guess, he lathers your body, hoping he wasn't being too rough. Hwa would kill him.

You remain still, not wanting to disturb his process, shifting your head only whenever he needed to get into a particular crevice. A small heat pricks you again when you felt the roughness of his hands glide around your body, instinctively spreading your knees wide enough to knock them against the ceramic edges of the tub. San's laser focused on his task, suddenly dedicated to the nearly tantric calmness the distraction provided him. It's when he grabs your left hand to scrub lightly at your nail beds that his breath hitches when he fleetingly meets the expression on your face.

Red splotches decorate your body, heat dampening you around the edges as you stared at him with glazed eyes. Whenever Seonghwa was here and you were less stubborn, you'd begrudgingly ask him to help you with the fever—saying it was his responsibility because it was his doing to begin with.

“What is it?” San utters hesitantly, moving to continue with his light scrubbing, hair falling into his eyes that pointed downward to avoid yours again

You've never had to explain this heat to someone else—partially still not having the same understanding of the body as Human's do. Seonghwa explained that it was a natural phenomenon, one as natural as water is to the sea: desire was to the body. Though, Angels never took part in these customs, and you felt like the more you indulged your curiosity, the further you got from home—too human to live within Eden. It was natural but it felt like a dark cesspool of filth. Filth you strangely enjoyed rolling around in despite your behest—a painfully delightful and pricey unraveling. Was it wrong? It felt like it was.

"I'm warm." Owlish eyes greet his own feline curve, and he reaches over to turn the knob to let a little bit of cool water enter before he registers the lukewarm temperature, the heat having long left the bath. "Have you been in the water for too long—" San begins innocently, shaking off the water on the tips of his fingers to turn and look at you before taking note of that heated look in your eyes—anguished even.

Oh god, what else does he have to do now?

You inch a hand forward, grabbing his palm and placing it flat against your cunt, unblinking— "I'm warm." You hope he understands what you mean, having no other words to explain. A small urgency sparks within you, but you didn't want to ask anything that might anger him or say anything stupid.

San's never felt this texture— the silk of a woman, and suddenly all of the conversations his men had made sense. Is this what a woman's body feels like? Her warmth?

How can he touch you with the intention to cool you and not look any further? He feels where the soft skin separates and beckons him inwards, pulsing—yearning for the absence to be filled. The lukewarm water licks at the edges of his dress shirts rolled sleeves, and the heat is moderately dizzying, unable to think straight in the strange conditions.

He reminds himself of his position, knowing that there'd be no way Seonghwa wouldn't find out—senses too sharp and observation of you much too detailed— to allow room for another man to touch you without his noticing.

It's Seonghwa's fault that you didn't know any better, but he also couldn't risk going out of his way to teach you, and he could see a small pain in your eyes that still didn't understand the concept of hunger.

If Seonghwa caught wind of you offering yourself to someone, San doesn't want to think about what punishments he'd deal to you and the person on the other end of it. Your wide, expectant eyes gaze at him—unknowingly pleading and he internally curses at you for your naivety. Shutting his eyes in acceptance, he searches his brain for middle ground.

"No matter what, you can't tell Seonghwa. Okay? You'll have to guide me." His tone is resigned, coating itself in hopes of preserving his desire to deal with by himself later on his alone time.

You nod obediently, not completely understanding why you couldn't tell Seonghwa but agreeing nonetheless as San moves the bath stool closer to the edge of tub—trying his best to get into a position comfortable enough to wrap his arms around you to reach your intimacy. Tugging at his shirt lightly, San immediately shakes his head.

"I'm not taking off my clothes." You don't say anything in reply, admitting defeat silently. Once he realizes all attempts are futile—every position promising an awkward hunched back—San almost caves and moves to take off his clothes before you pull him, falling to the impulse of your impatience and forcing him to fall into the tub, still clothed.

He's completely stumped, stabbing at you with his wide-eyed gaze and pointed glare. San pulls you towards him, back flattened against his hard chest completely as he boldly slithers a hand between your legs in frustration.

"Be good. Stop being impatient." He chastises gruffly. You mutter a small yes, wanting so badly to be good— you were always told you existed for that very reason. It felt familiar, almost light— a reprieve from the guilt and gift of your desire.

You squeeze yourself closer, getting comfortable from your place between his legs. Happy to feel the warmth radiating from him and the act of being cradled. San's middle finger experimentally runs itself along your slit and you flinch— he stops immediately, worrying that he's already done something wrong with self-deprecating shame and furrowed brows.

The sound of a small moan leaving your mouth raises the hair on his arms, a strange fascination slowly burning into his body. Again, he runs his finger up and down slowly. Sighing, your lay your head back to rest against the junction between his collarbone and neck.

San's cheek rests against your temple as he stares down between your legs, focusing on the task when he finds a small, firm bud. A loud squeak of surprise leaves you, deliciously over-sensitive at the unintentionally hard press. Easing up his touch, he flicks over it curiously before asking

"Show me what makes you feel good." You tilt your head back holding eye contact curiously before you reach a hand down experimentally, pushing his to the side to touch yourself when he shakes his head.

"No, show me." He instructs and your eyes lighten in understanding, grabbing his hands and guiding them to your cunt. Leading one to softly rub small circles around your clit before pressing another one against your entrance.

"This goes inside of me." You've never pressed your lips against anyone other than Seonghwa, but you instinctively find yourself reaching up to curl an arm around his neck—silently asking for him to part his lips.

San doesn't remember the last time he's had the time to kiss a girl. He wasn't so inexperienced that he's never tasted another person, at the very most.

Yet there was something enticing, welcoming even—about the warmth surrounding your aura like an all-encompassing halo and he finds himself leaning in to capture your kiss. Simultaneously, he dips the tip of his finger inside of you and furrows his eyebrows at the sudden rise in restraint necessary to stop himself from doing anything other than his duty to relieve you. Your cunt clenches, sucking him in until the second notch of his finger eases inside of you, knees knocking together and San smacks your inner thigh lightly, signaling you to keep them spread.

He eases his tongue into the hollow of your mouth, twisting it around yours slowly, wet sounds clashing at the infrequent separating of your lips, Smacks echo and are accompanied by the slow drip of the faucet. A low groan eases out of him when you delicately wrap your doll-like lips around his tongue, lightly sucking and kissing the flat of its pink flesh. Prominent veins stretch along the expanse of his neck, tensing when he presses his lips against you harder, caving into your form deeply. Resuming slow pumps, his other hand reaches to rub small circles around your clit, occasionally offering a small flick to its surface. An open mouthed mewl leaves you, small pants decorating the curve of his jaw when he unlatches his lips from yours—unconsciously kissing the side of your temple.

"More please." You beg politely and he can only oblige at the sweetness of your tender tone. San curves another finger into you, moving his other hand away to fasten the pace of the one remaining inside of you. The flat of his palm slaps against your clit and you arch your back in response, a small scream leaving you as the bath water splashes against the swelling plump of your chest.

Unable to resist, he slides his free hand to cusp your left tit—rolling his thumb against your perked nipple and grasping onto it with a sudden strength that had you gyrating your hips against his hand. The friction of your bare ass rubs against the submerged fabric of his pants and doesn't stop himself from grinding up into the squishy flesh. A pitched moan leaves his mouth, a small "ah!" at the sudden foreign sensitivity and pleasure invading his body. San loses all attempts at being soft with you, staring at your cunt taking his thick fingers repeatedly. Slick coats his fingers when he momentarily takes them out to slide them to caress your pussy lips.

Your hips chase his hand, whining a bit at the sudden emptiness.

"Be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?" San peppers small kisses onto your cheeks, begging lightly. He seriously needed you to. Else he'd lose his virginity in a fucking mausoleum to the one girl he really couldn't afford to and risk a death sentence. Seonghwa was too methodical for murdering in a fit of rage—he'd actively search for the unconventional, hitting precisely where it'd kill the soul slowly.

You never took note of how distinct San's voice was until it was muttering uncharacteristically sweet into your ear with a soft encouragement.

Your stomach clenched and coiled, and you reached down to hold his wrist and propel his hand into yourself before you found your release with a shout, chest heaving at the strength of your relief.

"You're such a good girl. Feeling better now?" San's hand rubs at your tummy softly in circles, calming your body as it melted back into him. His hold on you was different—warm in a way that didn't burn but eased you into a puddle. You find yourself rising to turn in the tub to face him, raising your arms to cradle his cheek.

Seonghwa taught you this— a specific kiss that held the weight of gratitude he said.

San's floored at the softness of it—it's sweet and heavenly— all of things he should've known already and Seonghwa intuitively warned him it'd be. Lips wrap around his bottom lip to cradle it intentionally.

The palms of your hands hold him deceptively adoringly—everything Seonghwa trained you to do and more.

"Thank you, San." A small whisper leaves you and you curl into his soaked body, clutching at the wet fabric of his shirt and hiding your face in his neck. Comfortable and satisfied with his physical affection.

He realizes that it's the first time he's heard you utter his name, and it hits his heart like a metal pan—a harsh pang plummeting onto its surface like a cold, dead comet. Soft breaths hit his neck, and San feels your body slump slightly.

You fell asleep.

He shuts his eyes in horror, still unbelievably hard as he sighs into the palm he slams onto the center of his face with. If you're living proof of a God existing, he'll gladly send a prayer out in secret—hoping he'd survive a little longer to at least buy another pack of cigarettes since he's on his last leg.

San picks up your body, waking you up silently to dress you with clothes he found in the extra guest room. Guiding your languid body back to your area of the mausoleum and covering you with a blanket.

"I won't tie you tonight but please, for the love of God—don't try to escape." The sigil should be enough to hold you there, and frankly—he's not feeling up to the task of tying you intricately enough to satisfy Seonghwa if he were to return. Your eyes widen in alarm at the sound of him mentioning your father and you nod in panic. He snorts, tiredly amused.

He's received no word as of yet, which should buy him enough time to think about his actions moving forward. The rubbery sounds of his clothes echo throughout the corridor and San ends his night completely naked in the laundry room, waiting for his only outfit to dry.

It's comical really—the sight of a grown man naked pondering on a stool, waiting for his laundry to dry casually after touching a woman for the first time.

San was too tired to feel shame.

He's fucked out and horny in a way that he's never experienced before, and wonders if it's his belated puberty alas hitting him.

San stands and leans down to momentarily pause the laundry cycle. Reaching for a cardboard box he'd thrown in to dry alongside his clothes—satisfied with the extent of its drying before plucking the lone cigarette that sat in it. Lighting it with a sigh, San waits in nude contemplating silence, reflecting on the madness of his decisions for the next hour.

Seonghwa still hasn't returned.

Over the past two weeks, San has struggled to resist your advances in every conceivable way.

Like clockwork, he has either been left blue-balled or succumbed to your curious gaze whenever he tried to read his lone book while you watched him. Days turned into an unspoken routine—your innocent way of asking to be held without saying a word, and him pretending not to notice while already giving in to your unconscious desires.

He realized you were the cuddly type—naturally inclined to hold a hand or lean into a chest. For the past two weeks, he has been reading his book aloud, cradling you close, your back pressed against his chest, much like your first night alone together.

This is the exact position he finds himself in when he reads the final words of "Paradise Lost" by John Milton: “They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, through Eden took their solitary way.” San mumbles, glancing at you to gauge your reaction to the ending.

Your eyebrows furrow briefly as you digest the words in momentary silence. "I don't understand," you say, gazing at San and awaiting his reply patiently, inquisitive as always.

He nods slowly and adjusts his slim glasses. "Adam and Eve fall from grace and are forced to leave the Garden of Eden," he summarizes simply.

"Why did they have to leave?" Your voice is soft, naturally otherworldly.

"Because they knew too much to stay and remain happy. Salvation to them was following the path from which there was no return," he explains. The silence from you feels heavier than usual.

Lately, you have been more talkative. Still not particularly chatty, but San has noticed things about you he shouldn't have—like your inherent pensiveness, curiosity, and how, in all your innocence, you are undeniably a woman. A beautiful one. There is a dichotomy to you, in all the ways you are wise and pensive, yet unavoidably naive to human social and bodily cues and customs.

Like this moment—you didn’t know how to bathe yourself just two weeks ago, yet you can sit here and question Milton with only your previous understandings of the celestial world and its functions.

You turn, tucking your face into the warmth of his neck as you quietly ask him to hold you. San draws you into his lap without hesitation, settling you with ease—your legs parting naturally, knees resting at either side of his hips. When your fingers begin to toy with a button on his vest, and your dress shifts so you can press closer against the firm center of him, he feels it again—that slow, stirring shift.

For the life of him, he doesn’t know how he’ll make it through this unscathed. It has become your daily ritual—to ask San to soothe your fevers—and like the guard dog he is, he obeys without question, devoted to obliging his lady (he sarcastically began calling you this after he realized he couldn’t help but cater to your every whim.) To be fair, there isn’t much else you need. You aren’t human; you require no water, no food, no sleep. And so, San fills the quiet hours by offering you stories from his books, the cyclical reprieve of his body, or letting you watch him eat—your gaze full of wonder, the simple act always putting you in a state of strange awe.

San makes sure to eat everything nice in the pantry, given that any meal could be his last. His hands slide to rest on your hips, leather gloves squeaking lightly at his tense grip.

"I taught you how to ask properly, Angel," he mutters softly, a disguised gentle reprimand. You blink, trying to calculate the proper words as instructed.

“I want you to touch me, San,” you say, your gaze lifting to meet his as you remain nestled in his lap, arms lazily looped around his neck.

He doesn’t answer right away—just stares, caught between exasperation and something that looks a lot like pride. You’re obedient, after all. Almost too obedient.

San sighs before leaning back flat on the ground. "Lift up your dress and come here," he instructs, dragging you to situate yourself above his face. You obey and lift the silk fabric just above your hips, and San immediately places his mouth over your lace panties.

The thin, airy fabric is immediately doused in spit. San licks up the creased lining, pressing into your skin, and your tummy clenches with a red-hot want. Gloved hands stroke soothingly over your thighs, massaging lightly at the skin and pushing you closer to his face. “Don’t hover—sit,” a gruff admonishment slides out of him, his neck aching from how he had to crane to meet your core.

San tugs your underwear to slide directly between your lips, pulling it a few times so it presses and massages the bud, and enjoys the sight of your puffed skin sandwiching the cloth.

You shiver when he eases a hand between your legs, pulling your underwear to the side to press an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, and separating your lips with his tongue.

“San—it feels good,” you gasp, the confession ripped from you. Something in him breaks—splinters, like he's been holding back too long. He snarls, the sound low and feral, then yanks off his glove with his teeth, careless and shaking. His hand is on you in the next breath, fingers slick as he drives his middle and ring fingers into you—deep, unrelenting

You yelp, startled, clenching tightly around his fingers. Your body moves without permission—grinding softly against the press of San’s touch, his mouth. His cheeks are flushed, glasses fogging, and you find yourself staring, unsure why the sight pulls at something deep within you. Carefully—almost reverently—you reach to remove them, fingertips brushing warm skin. A sensation follows—gentle, strange. It spreads through your chest, unfamiliar and unnamed. You don’t understand it, but it doesn’t frighten you.

San feels it—the strange shift in the air that curdles his intestines, blooming like a wildflower in concrete, somewhere it shouldn’t be, but nonetheless continues to root itself in. The partly cloudy day reflects on your hair like a halo, dousing your body, and he’s suddenly even more aware of what sort of holiness he holds in his arms—that he even tastes it on his tongue like false salvation. A profound emotion of wanting to carve inside of you, to ease every burn in your body, and cater to your strangeness bleeds inside of him. San knows what this means—that although it is too soon to call it love, it is nonetheless devotion. Momentary fear throbs in him—

Did Seonghwa feel it too, in the beginning? Was he lost from the start—or did he slowly unravel, seduced by the gravity of your existence, slipping over time into the skin of a madman, his fall from grace etched in stone?

He pushes the thought away—now’s not the time to contemplate dread. The sooner he gets you off, the sooner you both can go on with your day.

A slow lap flicks at your clit, the stringy liquid attaching itself to the tip of San’s tongue—following his movements as he slides and sandwiches it between your folds, drinking in the sounds of your melodic moans. His fingers piston themselves inside of you, curling up to graze a spongy spot, and you spark up—eyes seeing stars.

A desperation inside of you wells before it reaches a boiling point—you want more. This isn’t enough for you.

It clicks in your mind before you can fully process what it means. You’ve done this with Seonghwa countless times, but back then, you were too raw—too angry and unmoored to truly sit with the feeling of wanting someone inside you. Desire was still a foreign language, one you hadn't yet learned to speak fluently.

You hold your stomach and reach a hand down to hold San’s cheek, pausing him. He eyes you curiously—bottom half of his face glistening with slick. “Everything okay up there?” A dry remark leaves San, accompanied by a raised brow despite his best efforts at being softer with you—losing his mind at the thought of having to beat off in the bathroom after this for the third time today.

“I want more.” You confess, hesitant—gazing down at him like he was a puzzling thing. You push his head down, shaking your head when he moves to drag his tongue down and into you with more fervor. San’s eyes flick around your face, looking around for an expression he’s registered and committed to memory. He finds himself at a standstill, despite typically being able to read you like a dog-eared book. And so he waits for the words to fall out of you on their own, as they often did once he was patient enough to truly learn you.

“I think… I want more of you.” Wonder coats your honeyed tone, and you reach out to cup his warm cheek.

San stills at your words, a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts invading his mind, but he fumbles to regain his composure.

“I don’t think you fully understand what that means, Angel,” he says, offering a shaky smile as he gently tries to urge you away, not wanting to rush you into something you might not fully comprehend.

“San,” you say softly, requesting a pause to calm his anxious thoughts. He takes a deep breath and looks at you expectantly.

“I’m still adjusting to these urges,” you explain. “Parts of me want to resist, to hold onto the world I knew, but I’ve given in to Seonghwa’s touch again and again. I’m still learning, San, what it means to have a body, and I feel it. I don’t fully understand it, but I want you, as I’ve wanted Seonghwa. But I want you differently. It’s easier to want you…it doesn’t feel like a sin.” You exhale, as if confessing a secret.

To Seonghwa, these words would be sacrilegious in his doctrine. San knows this. Something’s burning off in his stomach, fragments of the desire he’s forced himself to chew off were coming together to form a dark mass.

The silence is thick, broken only by the faint rustling of nature outside the marble walls of your private sanctuary. A drop of your wetness trails down to San’s cheek, snapping him out of his internal struggle. A ravenous hunger consumes him, and he hoists you up, sliding out from between your legs and pulling you close with a searing kiss.

Groans escape his lips as he kisses you deeply, his mouth moving sloppily across your jaw and neck, nipping and breathing heavily into the hollow of your throat. His arm snakes up your leg, tugging your underwear down as a small whimper of anticipation escapes you.

This desperation is new to San, a feeling he’s never experienced so intensely. It makes sense now—the verses and prose written throughout the ages about the carnality of desire. He scoffs at his past self for thinking he was superior for never having experienced it. There’s no muscle memory here, only sheer instinct—a fragility hanging in the air as San loses the last of his innocence.

San shivers as your nail gently drags across his hard-on, slipping a finger between the teeth of his zipper to slowly pull it down. Your curiosity guides your hands as you explore his body, something you’ve never done in the two weeks he’s been caring for you. The flush on his face spreads from his nose to his cheekbones, and his chest heaves with anticipation.

Should he tell you he’s never done this before?

His other still gloved hand reaches out to grab your wrist, and he gazes into your eyes.

“It’s my first time,” he admits, trying to sound casual, but his voice betrays his anxiety.

You blink slowly, processing his words.

“Your first time being touched?” you ask, and San stifles a laugh, feeling suddenly inexperienced by comparison.

“I suppose it’s my first time being inside, Angel,” he says, a mix of embarrassment and defeat in his voice.

“Oh, I get it. That’s okay,” you reply simply, and San exhales, ready for you to pull away before you move to slide down the top of his boxers. You lay a soft kiss on the underside of his cock and take his tip into your mouth. San’s body tenses, and his hands shoot out to clench his thighs, eyes squeezing shut to keep them from rolling back.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, overwhelmed by the sensation of your mouth wrapped around him, soft and silky, working him with your throat. What has Seonghwa been teaching you? He shakes his head briefly. Probably doesn’t want know.

San is particularly well-endowed, and he’s aware of it. He watches you, worried, as you take him deeper, feeling your saliva dribble down his shaft. His skin turns pink and engorged, and a small gag escapes you as he hits the back of your throat.

San’s hips rise, folding into your face as he shakes with pleasure. You guide his hand to your head, looking up at him curiously.

“What is it?” San asks, sweat beading his brow as he grits his teeth, trying to understand what you want from him.

Your words are muffled, so you push his hand against your head again, telling him it’s okay to control your movements. The vulgarity of it all sends a rush of heat to his face. Unable to resist, he thrusts deeper into you, pleasure drowning out the sounds of your struggle. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, groaning at the feeling of his cock moving in your mouth.

“Wait—I’m gonna cum,” he warns, using the last of his willpower to slide your mouth off him. A string of saliva remains attached to your bottom lip, and he’s captivated by the sight of your teary, red face.

Saliva smears across your jaw, and San knows there’s no going back. You take a moment to catch your breath, blinking away residual tears, and wait patiently for San’s next move.

Your gaze pulls him in like a magnet, and he crushes his lips against yours in a fiery kiss. His hands grip your hair, tilting your neck back as he slides his tongue into your mouth, sucking on yours eagerly. He’s panting as he unravels your dress with practiced hands, having tied and untied your corsets daily. He peels off the last of the fabric concealing you from his eyes.

By the gods, you're beautiful. You were worthy of the crime he was about commit, on the edge of betraying the strange man he was born to protect.

Though his hands are often on you, San has made a quiet effort not to look too long trying, in his own way, to soften the weight of his wanting and make it easier to swallow. But today, he can hardly blink. He dips down, taking your left breast into his mouth, nipping gently as if to memorize the way your body trembles, the soft mewl spilling from you like a wave pulled towards the moon.

He marks your swelling chest with slow, deliberate bites, his tongue flicking over your nipple before sealing the moment with a wet, reverent kiss. Your fingers find the buttons of his vest, working them open before slipping his dress shirt from his shoulders—pausing only to admire how the sunlight sets fire to his golden skin. When you lean in to nip at his collarbone, San moans, low and shaken, his hands gliding over your bare form like he’s trying to memorize every inch before he loses control.

There’s a silence in the air, a stillness broken only by the dancing dust particles in the light. When San lays you onto the cold marble, shrugging off the last of his clothes and tossing them aside, he stills himself between your legs. The moment is reminiscent of a prayer as he kneels before you, your legs parted like a pathway to heaven—your slick dripping onto the floor, cunt clenching around nothing, begging for him to fill you.

San lets out a shaky breath, sheathing himself slowly into you. He immediately presses his temple against yours to gather himself. You litter small kisses onto his cheekbone, stuttering out a moan as he slides out and then back in fully.

San feels drunk on the sensation of you wrapped around him, willing himself to savor the moment and not finish too quickly.

"W-wait please." He stutters out softly when your hips roll against him, hitting his pelvis—already damp with the slick you rubbed against him in the process. San tenses once the sensitivity hits him at full force, trying to hone in on your small palms grasping his jawline.

With his eyes open, it finally hits him—undeniable and heavy that nothing will wash away the image of your silhouette draped on the dreaded mausoleum floor, as the dust particles billowed around your energetic halo like soft winter. His palm drags itself down the softness of your stomach, cradling the flesh around your form—so willingly full of him and he thinks he wants to sit inside of your forever, and pales at the thought.

He couldn't afford you.

Not in the ways he needed to be able to.

However—he did nothing to stop himself from rolling into you with a sudden desperation, wanting to fill the hollowness of his thoughts.

He hated that even now, Seonghwa's presence seemed to fill the air—branding and consuming your habitual desires that were a mere extension of his deliberate teachings

In a flicker of fragile honesty, he admits he could never refuse you. His body never stood a chance—but now, unsettlingly, his heart might be tangled in it too.

A gasp, an opening, a tongue in mouth: the minutes pass as sweat drips down from San's body, and he memorizes every gap formed between your bodies, praying that somehow his heart will be torn away in the process.

Yet desire persists and consumes him with an open jaw, breaking him open until he's crashing against your whimpering and delirious body—leaning to teethe at your neck and grope at the swell of your breasts. Hands drag to the dips of your waist, squeezing the skin until it bloomed red, craving to bring you as close as possible to the act of bleeding.

San wanted you and feared that his desire would sentence him to his own damnation—

And so, he carved into you with a sort of violence his usual attempt at softness never permitted, and you welcomed him as a means to fill the gaps to ease a desire you may never understand or compute for who it may actually be for.

His hips smacked against your skin, filling you to the brim until cream wrapped around the smoothness of his cock, repetitive motions unknowingly sealing your shared fate.

A throbbing vein,

the betrayal of his own visible pulse,

and most of all— his lips that couldn't seem to stop their spewing of sweet nothings even at the firmness of his actions.

"Is this okay, Angel?" He breathes, panting against your mouth, stomach churning at how beautiful you look—at how grace seemed to be imbued even in the simple action of a subtle nod to your head.

San was betraying himself—every law he'd lived by, every truth etched into his bones—but your mouth was the most real thing he'd ever touched. Centuries of inherited hatred unraveled themselves beneath the lips of a girl too innocent to understand what men like him and Seonghwa truly were, or how they hunted—like wolves, by nature, not choice.

San was raised to be subservient to Hwa but that didn't unwrite his own genetically imbued violence—the irrefutable instinct to conquer and own.

And for the first time in his life, San prayed for and pitied his hunt—cumming into you so as to not deny himself his long-awaited reprieve, before gazing down at the tragically beautiful mess he's made in more ways than one. Your chest rises in shallow breaths, hands gliding up his body, wrapping tenderly around his neck.

There's a particular warmth you feel when you press your skin against San's—one you'd never found or experienced, even in Eden's pastures. It flickered in the air like a sunspot, and you curled into him slowly, syncing your breaths to his heartbeat.

Did Seonghwa ever feel like this?

You think you miss him, but the thought of his name falls hollow like an empty shell into your heart: all remnants of war and nothing at all like a day in the sun.

San found himself in a sticky, sticky predicament.

He failed to gauge his own desperation and found himself spoiling your appetites to excess, which have only seemed to worsen after your first sin.

What used to be early mornings spent gazing at his chewing mouth morphed into an ugly, saturated desperation that manifested in hiking you up and fucking you hard into the kitchen counter and having to profusely apologize for the small and swelling bump on the back of your head after it repeatedly banged against the cupboard door.

He's even lost count of how many times you've woken him up, mouth stuffed full of his cock, and blinking up at him like you could do no wrong. It seems you've developed a bit of an attachment for San, trailing after him in silence wherever he went.

Showers? You were there clinging to his leg, not minding the water flooding your eyes as you blankly sat in the tub—unbothered and patiently waiting for his "bath time" to end. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner? He had to maneuver around your body to avoid accidentally knocking you with a knife or a pan because you held onto him like a second skin.

San tried his best to appease you and yet you ate at his body, energy, and hours with a level of gluttony more similar in form to a demon rather than an angel.

He held onto the headboard of Seonghwa's bedframe for dear life as you rode him like your life depended on it, after you followed him into the room when he left to grab you a change of clothes. You easily made your way in, interrupting his internal debate on whether a pair of lace or floral socks would accompany your baby doll dress better.

San made it a nasty habit to finish inside of you—too entranced by the look and feel of it to reprimand himself the amount he should've.

This is exactly how he falls into the horridness of the day he dreaded for the last few weeks.

Moments after your escapade, you slip back into your designated corner of the morose establishment—just as the faint clank of the mausoleum’s hidden entrance echoes through the dust-laden air. The sound of jagged stone dragging against the rigid entrance of the doorway stirs something in you, a slow flood of anticipation laced with unease.

When Seonghwa walks in, he immediately takes note of the stillness in the room—sharp eyes drinking in your form for the first time in weeks, squinting minutely at the womanly softness gracing your face. He came immediately after the final mission debrief in a hurry, still donning a pristine suit and slicked back white hair. Only a few strands now poking his forehead expose the rush he was in.

He makes a small movement, almost unnoticeable, to gaze at San, and clenches his jaw at the sight of the flush decorating his nose bridge. Seonghwa marches forward; quiet, elegant, and dreadfully beautiful as he approaches you— fear, admiration, and denial painting your tummy in a confusing amalgamation of emotions. He leans to press a small kiss to your jawline, patting your hair down, and stares at you for a couple of moments.

“Dearest, have you been good?” his voice is a soft, melodic mutter and a sudden queasiness overwhelms you. You have been, right? Then why can’t the words fall out of you truthfully?

His eyes sharpen at your lack of reply, a simple command fluttering out of his mouth

“Spread your legs and lift your dress.”

You immediately comply, lifting the soft white lace to your stomach and Seonghwa immediately pushes your underwear to the side before shoving two fingers inside of you—noting the slickness between them and how easily they slid inside of you.

His breathing stills as he removes his hand to reveal cum coated fingers. Eyes burning, Seonghwa’s head flicks over to San, holding his fingers up in quiet anger on the verge of boiling over.

“Care to tell me what my dog’s been doing while I’ve been away?” He seethes, voice teetering from its usually performative gentleness.

San squeezes his eyes shut, already knowing this would happen. Your own eyes widen, recalling one of San’s first warnings to you— “If I do this for you, don’t tell Seonghwa.”

Did you put him at risk? Horror fills your body.

San doesn’t respond and merely moves his gaze to the floor.

“Well? Does anybody have a lovely explanation? And you—“He flips back to you with a shaking finger and a tsk.

“—and you, my angel, seem to need to be educated on manners. Specifically, on how to host a guest and not fuck them. Bad girl.” Seonghwa pinches his nose bridge in annoyance, tapping his foot as he stared at the two people he rightfully owned: his own personal guard dog since birth and the angel he earned through…trial and error—but that’s beside the point.

Pointing at San, Seonghwa instructs firmly

“Kneel.”

Wide eyes flick up to gaze at him in surprise, but San obliges, nonetheless. Seonghwa pulls his tie off before slowly walking towards him, and the boy stiffens as his footsteps drift closer, echoing throughout the hallowed hall.

San’s vision is immediately obscured by the thick navy cloth of Seonghwa’s tie, and flinches at the sudden darkness.

“Hwa, what are you— “He attempts to question, a dry tone leaving him in exasperation.

“Don’t even speak. Don’t move either or God so help me, your entire lineage will fall to my sword.” The words are tense, promising.

Seonghwa’s step fade away, moving towards you once again. Leaning down to capture your lips and your body is a fire—burning and yearning for him beyond all logic. It knows him best and it’s craved him despite your admonishments.

"I didn't explain this because I thought it was obvious, but you aren't supposed to offer yourself to anyone else, stupid girl." He chides casually.

"You're mine. In life and in death. If you want to play with my puppy so badly, fine. Both of you will pay the price." There's a promise in his words, and you worried for San. Seonghwa takes note of this—gaze sharpening again and distorting his typically cherubic features with a wolfish grin.

"Now, will you be a good girl today? I don't have the patience to deal with your dishonesty to your body."

You didn't think you had it in you to deny Seonghwa today either. Your body called for him, growing wet at the sight of his familiar beauty that invoked a strange comfort now. You nod, staying silent and await his next orders.

"Strip and bend over." A sharp inhale comes from San, as he comes to the slow understanding of Seonghwa's intention.

He's going to take you while he's in the room.

The sound of your rustling clothes spur both his imagination and memory, and his pants grow stiff as he grits his teeth in restraint.

Your nipples harden at their exposure to the cold air, goosebumps raising as you stare meekly into Seonghwa's eyes. More than likely, due to San's spoiling affection, you dare yourself to step forward and wrap your arms around the slim of his neck.

Seonghwa's dead eyes maintain their dull pallor, face unmoving but he can’t deny that his heart stuttered at the wake of your foreign approach. When you reach up to kiss him with an apology laid out on your tongue, he melts into you slightly and brushes away his white hair—pulling stray strands entangling themselves on your tongues.

He reaches a hand to pull hard at your hair, smacking your hip

"You're going to take it today, yes?"

"Yes—"

"Yes, what?" He deadpans questioningly.

"Yes sir." Your big eyes are clear like spring.

He turns his head slightly to San "Did she bathe recently?" It was a double-sided question he already knew the answer to. San slowly nods, blindfold still intact and rustling against the collar of his shirt.

Seonghwa side eyes you for a moment.

"I wanted to take my time in training you to take me in other ways, but today seems suitable, given that we have such an esteemed guest with us." He turns you around, pressing you against an old statue. "Hold on tightly." is all he says, before sliding two fingers in your cunt, immediately smacking into it repeatedly. A small scream leaves you at the suddenness, spine straightening at the brutality of his ministrations.

"Don't forget who taught you how to use this fucking cunt. You're a stupid little thing—an object. A little cock sleeve who gets mindlessly fucked when she's good." He spreads his fingers to widen you, and you whimper at the stretch. Your slick splashes itself onto his palms before you jolt at the feeling of his finger rimming around your ass.

"Hwa?" You question, apprehensive. He'd been putting strange objects into your other end for weeks, and it felt strange—different from how it usually felt whenever Hwa was inside of you.

"Stay still." He pulls his fingers out of you and walks to his room. You overhear the sounds of him rummaging through his dresser before returning, stationing himself behind you when you feel a thick, cold substance being poured onto your ass. "I was going to wait, but I really don't feel like it anymore." He lathers his tongue around his middle and ring finger, before popping them in your ass, pulling out to push the lube inside.

You yelp at the burning stretch, eyes widening in realization. "Wait—why there?"

"Why not there, is the question—What do you think I've been doing with that ass of yours?" He says simply, unbuttoning his slacks and vest haphazardly, lathering the heavy pink flesh with lube.

"Now, are you going to take it like a good girl or are you going to be the biggest pain in my ass?" His tone is light, and he stills behind you—waiting for your confirmation.

There was a part of you both fearful yet curious of the incoming pain. Whenever Seonghwa experimented on the other relatively unused... end of yours, new sensations would drift through you—dancing between pain and small blips of ecstasy as time progressed.

However, you had no idea if you could fit Seonghwa inside. "Hwa, it won't fit." Seonghwa reaches a hand to stroke your cheek in momentary softness.

"There you go doubting yourself again. Have I ever been wrong, my love?" His voice is sweet, soothing even; serpentine and lovely in all of the worst ways. "Need I remind you how I fit so well in you already?"

Seonghwa pushes inside of your cunt with one thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A shaky, exhilarated sigh leaves him, eyes rolling before he grits his teeth in frustration when he feels San's remnants and proceeds to pound into you intentionally. Silent screams leave you, open mouth dragging down the statue as you struggled to hold yourself up.

San is left entirely forgotten, chest heaving at your sounds. This feels like torture. He's queasy at the thoughts overwhelming him. Of course, Seonghwa knew your body better. A chuckle breaks his reverie, as Seonghwa peers at San with dark eyes without his knowledge. "You can take the blindfold off, San." He says dryly, pounding away at you and reaching to wrap an arm around your waist to hold your body up when your knees weaken.

San hesitates

"Come on, Sannie. You don't wanna see my angel?" The words are a deceptively gentle encouragement but were in reality—a thinly veiled mockery.

San sighs, unraveling the blindfold, and his jaw goes slack at the sight of you getting absolutely wrecked. You don't register San, body going numb and mind blank at the incessant banging against your cervix. Seonghwa beckons San over with a silent finger.

He moves you to kneel on the floor, and you do so obediently— before nudging you into San's arms.

"Hold her upright" is all he says before he pours another round of lube onto you, sliding in his middle and ring finger. You hiss at the burn, clutching onto San's sleeves with teary eyes but say nothing. San observes your expression, soothing your body with his hands and pulls your head to rest against his chest. He can't help the morose look decorating his eyes and Seonghwa scoffs.

"Oh, how sweet." He deadpans before sliding out his cock to ease his tip into your ass.

"—ah!" You gasp, eyes flying open.

"Hang in there for me." He grins before shoving himself further into you with shallow thrusts. You crane your head to San, silently begging for his kiss before Seonghwa's hand intercepts, fingers crawling into your mouth to use it as a pulling force to enter you entirely. He only waits for a singular moment before jumpstarting his pace.

San can't seem to force himself to look away at Seonghwa's brutal force, eyes glossed over at the sight of your ass rippling at the force he slapped into you with—the grotesque squelches of him pummeling into your ass and balls patting your cunt with an awe-inspiring vulgarity distracts him from his insecurities.

He sees the sudden dark vacancy in your eyes, almost doll-like as you still to let Seonghwa take you in whatever way he wanted. There wasn't a singular thought behind them— you were gone. Seonghwa seemed to sense this with a sharp smile, cooing down at you

"Is my dumb little angel enjoying getting fucked in the ass? You're fucking disgusting." You moan out in reply, falling into San's lap as Seonghwa only seems to dig deeper into you, and nod in reply. Your brain couldn't compute anything outside of Seonghwa's body and words.

Seonghwa's eyes brighten maniacally before leaning down to speak directly into your ear. Stilling completely and chuckling as you drive your ass back onto his cock in desperation.

Slick drips down your thighs, pussy clenching around nothing—crying at the emptiness inside of it.

"You'd do anything for me, won't you?" He asks lightly, a kind suggestion.

"Anything." You reply instantly.

Bingo.

"Renounce your God for me." The smile on his face practically splits passed his cheekbones. San's head raises in alarm, eyes wide in shock.

There's a miniscule sliver of light fighting through the overcast haze in your mind. Alarms blare in your mind, screaming for you to wake up—something is horribly, irreversibly wrong. But Seonghwa has always been your safe haven.

He’s shielded you from the cruelties of the world, even brought San into your life. Your Seonghwa would never hurt you. He couldn't.

"I renounce my God for you." An ecstatic giggle bubbles from his throat and San's face contorts into an expression of absolute horror. You weren't in your right mind—the usual brightness of your curious eyes is nowhere to be found and his heart clenches. Seonghwa broke you.

The moon seemed to hide itself from your words, disappearing behind a cover of clouds, and taking away all light from the room in its absence. San holds your face with equal amounts concern and aching desire.

Seonghwa’s gloomy eyes roll over San’s form like a disappointed God—peering through the eerie starlight lacing his gaze.

“Angel, why don’t you make room for our San?” He says suddenly and you pull away from San’s arms before he chided at you

“No darling—here.” Seonghwa practically purred, trailing a hand down to cup your soaked cunt. His head digs into your neck to bite lightly; eyes still trained onto San’s.

San’s pulse throbs erratically, veins strangling against the surface of his neck. Your eyes join Seonghwa’s in staring at him, waiting expectantly.

Slowly, he peels off his slacks, and sighs in relief at finally releasing himself from the uncomfortable constraints.

Seonghwa’s hand pulls at San’s wrist, guiding it to replace his hand, and to his surprise—wraps around the base of his cock.

San flinches at the sensitivity, a small moan of surprise leaving him at having Seonghwa’s soft and cold skin against him. A soft jerk at his shaft causes him to fall against your shoulder and unconsciously fucking his hips into Seonghwa’s hand.

Seonghwa uses the other to cup your jaw to crane towards him, licking into your mouth and parting it to spit directly into your tongue. “Go and accommodate our guest. Show me what you’ve learned while I was away, my love.” There’s a playful glint to his voice, now in a much better mood after hearing you renouncing your father for him.

You crawl over to San slowly and whine at the sudden emptiness as Seonghwa slides out of you. San gazes up at you with reverence when you seat your self onto his lap, spreading your cunt and taking him entirely. His head snaps back, jaw slack, choking a groan at the sudden grip.

Seonghwa still peers at San with dark eyes and reaches forward to brush a strand of hair matted with sweat from his temple.

His fingers pull at San’s jaw towards his lips and kisses him like he was trying to take something back.

In all of San’s years, he’s never imagined kissing Seonghwa. They grew up together and it was his job to take care of Hwa’s messes— every day was spent next to one another as childhood friends, deceivingly as equals even if that weren’t the truth.

He’s never denied being Seonghwa’s dog and despite never thinking of Seonghwa in a sexual or intimate way—kissing him felt like an act of loyalty. It touched at a sensitive part of San’s boyhood like an apology, squeezing his tongue into Hwa’s mouth as if to say

‘I didn’t mean to like her, but I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.’

San mewled into Seonghwa’s mouth and opened his eyes slightly to take a look at you—almost choking on a laugh but swallowing it down. Your mouth is slack, wide eyed and curious at the interaction— never having witnessed two boys kissing but found yourself admiring their conjoined beauty. San was a night sky laid beneath Seonghwa’s moonlit form.

His hands find their way back on your hips and lays back down, rocking you against him slowly. Seonghwa follows him shortly, peppering kisses onto your shoulder blade before thrusting back into you.

Your mind goes blank at being stuffed to the brim and Seonghwa only adds to it when he shoves his fingers down your throat—laughing when you cry out and gag in surprise. Drool dribbles out of your mouth as they both fuck into you, and San quickly loses all reservations, jackhammering into you whenever Seonghwa would pull out.

“She looks stupid, doesn’t she?” Seonghwa chuckles dryly, face contorted into a horrendously disturbed—almost murderous expression as he nails into you.

San, body trembling with exertion, begins to move in sync with Seonghwa, their cocks moving in and out of you in a brutal, relentless rhythm. You're sandwiched between them, their bodies pressing against yours, their cocks filling you completely. For a moment, Seonghwa feels a sense of satisfaction at San's fucked out expression—grabbing at his face with a rough hand. "—and look at this stupid fucking dog. You've kept it in your pants for years and I come home to your cum inside of her?" Seonghwa taps at San's cheeks before sliding two fingers into his mouth, immediately hitting the back of his throat and forcing him to take it. "Since you're all grown now and clearly your balls have dropped—you can take this much, can't you?" He's still pile driving into you, and you were residue of the person you were an hour ago.

"Pretty angel—" He hits your ass, the surface flushing red and clammy with sweat. "Cum for me so I can show our dearest San how pretty you look when I do it." Your trained body immediately adheres to his words, digesting his voice the way a computer is coded.

San stills, spit trailing onto your neck before he forcibly pulls his throat away from Seonghwa's hand—crying out at your cunts vice grip before cumming an unholy amount inside of you. Hwa's face is cold when he drills into you before pulling out—ejaculating on both your and San's bodies.

Seonghwa's skin is drenched in sweat as he tilts his head up to gaze through the broken skylight—heart thrumming, chest heaving—too cherubic for his own good, despite the brutality of his possessive nature.

You were his. That was final.

And San—San was his too. Always had been.

Maybe he didn’t crave San the same way he craved you—didn’t ache for him in that raw, possessive way—but Seonghwa didn’t let go of what was his. Not ever.

He tossed his suit jacket over your tangled bodies and turned without a word, vanishing into the dark recesses of his room. He needed space. Time to think. To breathe.

San stayed on the floor beside you, too drained to move. The weight of what had happened pressed down like a storm.

Something had shifted. And none of you could take it back.

You wake up groggy, peeling your eyes open against the onslaught of sunlight. Flinching at the soft breath on your neck, you peer down in surprise at San’s figure—completely nude and barely covered by the corner of Seonghwa’s suit jacket.

Where was he?

Anxiety churns in your stomach. You attempt to rise, but your knees give out—waking San in the process. He squeezes one eye to shut out the brightness before wrapping a toned, tanned arm around your waist to steady you.

“You doin’ alright there, Angel?”

He groans as he feels a crusted substance on his cheek, quickly realizing it’s Seonghwa’s cum. What the fuck’s wrong with that guy?

San knows he went along with it in the desperate heat of the moment, but his brow creases at the strangeness of it all as he recalls the feeling of Seonghwa’s fingers in his throat—silken tongue in his mouth.

You open your mouth to speak, but an overwhelming dryness hits your throat quickly followed by a foreign clenching in your stomach. San stills at the clear rumble, eyes widening in apprehension: you were hungry.

Mumbling a quick “wait here,” San stumbles into Seonghwa’s room—ignoring his groggy protests to shut the door because he’s letting in too much light. In his desperation, San doesn’t even register the cold air clinging to his naked body before jumping onto Seonghwa’s bed and tugging at a white tuft of hair.

“Hwa, it’s bad—I think she’s hungry.”

Seonghwa lies quietly for a single beat, still trying to ignore San in extreme annoyance—until his eyes shoot open, finally registering the words.

He falls out of bed, bolts upright, and rushes into the open space with a wide, maniacal smile. San picks up the blanket Seonghwa had flung away, wrapping it around his waist before hobbling after him.

Seonghwa kneels in front of you, softly grabbing your shoulder and San couldn't quite hear his mummering—but takes note of the dangerous spark in Hwa's eyes, a soft simmering settling in his stomach.

San plops down next to you, leaning his head on your shoulder as you both watch Seonghwa flutter to and from the kitchen. The distant cacophony of pots and pans clanging finally seize before the man returns with a glass of water and half-burnt pancakes. At least the effort was there. San grimaces.

You raise your brows in surprise when he hands the plate to you, shaking your head sweetly.

"Hwa—thank you for making...that for me, but I don't need it." You didn't know what pancakes were, but San commended your instinct for knowing that whatever it was—wasn't supposed to look like that. Giggling lightly at your recoiling before clearing his throat and manually stiffening his expression.

"Sweet girl, yes you do—now you do. Just try it, yeah?" Seonghwa hums sweetly before slicing into the pancake, prodding your lips with the fork. Maple syrup and honey butter coat your lips before you hesitantly part them, stilling at the foreign feeling.

"Chew slowly, taste, and then swallow." He holds your chin with two fingers, guiding your jaw gently. "There you are—is it good?"

You think it is—but can't know for sure, you've never tasted anything bad before either; not really comprehending the concept yet.

Body stilling, a small voice in your brain prods at you—why are you eating? Your eyes go white before the horror falls on your body like a bucket of water, legs pushing themselves with a tremor. Please God—no. Anything but this.

Chest heaving, you swallow hard before hesitantly poking a leg out of the sigil and bracing yourself for a sharp, painful sting—but are greeted by nothing. Seonghwa only places the fork down onto the plate before watching you with his dark eyes, holding his chin up with the palm of his hand. San feared this would happen—your inevitable fall from grace. Seonghwa got exactly what he wanted—your mortality.

and now, there was nowhere else for you to return to.

With watery eyes, you jump onto Seonghwa—crying into his arms, and he smiles maternally, adjusting to cradle you to his chest.

"Now—what's the matter, my love?" He hushes you, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, and wiping your nose lovingly. "Are you not happy?"

San watches you both, stomach churning. "I suppose now that you're back, I should return to headquarters." His eyes avoid you both, rubbing the back of his neck, heart aching when your arms reach out towards him.

"Please don't leave." He pauses, finally shifting his gaze back to you. There was something in your voice—something familiar, even if you weren't aware of it. Having watched you day and night, San recognized it as easily as he recognized every pattern that adorned your skin.

It was fear. Fear you weren't present enough to understand.

That same uncomfortable squeeze makes him unconsciously reach up to grab the skin above his chest absentmindedly, as if it'd soothe the unerasable ache.

A part of you had to still be there and San racked his head to find a way to return to you. Seonghwa observes, smiling lightly—fully aware of what was transpiring before him. "There's no need."

San turns his head, looking at Seonghwa questioningly. "No work to do or somethin'?"

"Your work is here. I told your family you'll be gone for a long while." Seonghwa's tone is airy and melodic—sweet, soft spoken, and angelic.

San's eyebrows furrow "What are you talking about?"

Seonghwa merely scooches you off his lap, dusting his knees once he stands before striding into his room—returning with an item San couldn't quite see yet, but hears a faint chime emit from it.

The calm in Seonghwa's eyes break for a singular moment—stormy, brooding, resentful—betrayed. He wraps his arms slowly, seductively around San's neck as he clamps a collar around his throat. Seonghwa's lips graze San's ear, whispering low.

"Since you wanted to act like a dog, you get to live like one now. You know better than to disobey—right, San?"

San isn't surprised. He knew Seonghwa like the back of his hand—He pinches his nose bridge, shrugging him off with a sigh. "Are you gonna give me a shirt at least?"

Seonghwa walks back to you, throwing back a laugh.

"Nope."

After that, Seonghwa had you and San start sleeping in his room, ordering a bigger bed. He was restless after the incident—San could tell. And now, he finally understood: Seonghwa didn’t just own you. He owned him, too.

The dynamic was strange, to say the least. When Seonghwa was away at work, he left San to look after you—calling him a good dog, telling him to indulge your every whim. Over time, intimacy between the three of you became routine and almost mundane. San didn’t even flinch anymore when Seonghwa kissed him. A part of him had learned to enjoy it, though he couldn’t quite explain how he’d grown so numb to it all. Exhausted? Absolutely. Disturbed? Not really.

Seonghwa breezes into the room, unintentionally elegant and languid in his barely dressed form, silk robe untying and sliding down to expose his pelvic bone, and landing just above the well-maintained patch of hair saddling his soft phallus. A pitcher sloshes around in his hand, as he rests it on the nightstand. He found joy in feeding and reminding you to drink water— a consistent reminder of your mortality and how your body functions the way his does.

Bed creaking, he slinks towards your exhausted form—the night before left you spent. Being human meant you were easily exhausted now, energy needing to be replenished by consumption. The memory was a haze, doused by the wetness between your thighs when he and San made you squirt for the very first time. Safe to say, Seonghwa was ecstatic you drank water now for this very reason, and committed himself to the task of draining you of every fluid that your body could produce at moments notice. The dynamic worked well—Seonghwa delved into your body until you cried at the overwhelming sensations consuming it, and San would wipe them away diligently.

San slept to the very far right, arms still reaching for you in his sleep to try and drag you closer with the tips of his fingers. His obsidian, cropped hair was slightly damp from overheating under Seonghwa’s thick sheets.

Dark eyes land on him, observing, calculating. Seonghwa didn’t necessarily…desire San in a carnal way. Not to say that he didn't enjoy some of the convenience involved in the change of events. It was the one concrete way to keep the two you tucked in tight by his side—he didn’t like sharing but if he had to share with anyone, it’d be San. Intimacy between them two was more of a means of tactic—of softening you.

San was his since birth. His previously faultless champion.

However, not long after his return, Seonghwa caught onto your strange attachment to his guard dog and despite his qualms, found it hard to say no to you in the ways he had available to spoil you.

San's departure would only push back the progress he's made.

Thus. he integrated the boy in—sharing his other possessions with you because that acted as a relic of Seonghwa’s love for you.

Seonghwa slips off the last of his hanging silken and lavender colored robe, laying on his side to trace a finger down your nose bridge.

"My angel, wake up." Your doll-like lashes flutter at the groggy opening of your eyes, stifling a yawn and you scoot closer to curl into his arms. You weren't coherent enough to pull away.

“—Come take a bath with me.” Seonghwa’s hand cusps your cheek, thumbing at the skin tenderly before he scoops you into his arms. He smiles down at your limp form, digesting your languid body with quiet adoration.

Steam rose from the hot water, as Seonghwa lathered a fragrant concoction onto your hair. The Edison lightbulb flickered in asynchronous flutters and only the sounds of Seonghwa’s soft breathing, sloshing bath water, and the hypnotic electric buzzing filled the room.

“Hwa?” You question lightly and receive a small, absentminded hum in reply. Seonghwa’s laser focus on the task at hand hadn’t broken.

“Sometimes you scare me.” He stills, palm freezing halfway down a strand of your hair.

“…and why is that?” His soft voice flutters into the air, strangely uncomfortable as he shifted—going back to fidget with your hair.

"I don’t really know how to explain it. The only fear I’d ever known was the fear of God. But then I met you. It wasn’t always like this—don’t you remember?" you say softly, your voice gentle, almost forgiving, free of judgment. Even though you were no longer an Angel, there were still moments when your tone carried that same layered, otherworldly resonance.

Ah, You were awake.

Seonghwa noted, continuing on with his task but his face goes slack from the original gentleness he displayed—the one he often plastered to try and keep soft with you. However, only another masks takes its place: feigned indifference

“Remember which part?” He doesn’t blink, trying his best to busy himself as an act of burying the uncomfortable experience of feeling the queasiness churning in his stomach. Of course he remembered. If he could forget, you wouldn’t be here—in his ancestors remote Mausoleum no one bothered to visit.

The dead remained dead, unsurprisingly. It seemed that in death, after a lifetime of being worshipped by Hunters— they were left on their own with dusty stone and marbled coffins, only the overgrowth providing cold and obligatory company, as nature often does. All of that infamy, the shallowness of his position, it all bored Seonghwa.

“The beginning, Seonghwa. The very beginning.” That tone again. Ringing through sound waves, unnerving; unsettling. No personal feeling detectable, only something alike to the deifying of words. He imagined that the oracle of Delphi may have sounded something like this.

Your words were seemingly omnipresent—prophetic.

“—why did you keep me here?” You continued

“I had no other motive than my love for you.” He utters softly, pausing the business of his hands to stare at your spine. The water sloshes as he leans forward to wrap his arms around you, pulling you closer and leaning a cheek onto your shoulder.

“You know that’s not what I’m asking Hwa.” You turn slightly, facing him as best as you could but Seonghwa holds you still. He doesn’t want you to look at him. Not right now.

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. The thick silence choked the two of you—full of ugly and profound emotions you both were scared to face.

“…I remember how it felt when I first saw you.” He starts, voice husky and filled with an emotion you didn’t know how to name yet.

“—my first instinct was to kill you. You didn’t need the wings on your back to tell me what you were—I just knew. You were so palpably innocent. Didn’t even realize the barrel of a gun had been pointed at your head only a couple of feet away for a long while.” Seonghwa’s gaze melts into the bath water, watching your expression from its reflection, eyes still needing—yearning to be on you. He chuckles, aghast at the recollection.

You sit for a couple of beats in silence. The confession, on its own, didn’t scare you.

“But then, you spoke. A small word—insignificant, really, in retrospect. You said hello and I froze for the first time in my life. My instincts—even the most primal of them told me that it was fate. It had to be. I don’t know what it was that made you different; that allowed you to live until now unlike the other Angels that had the unlucky experience of crossing my path. And so I sat next to you on that old stump and asked for your name. For the very first time in my life, someone had regarded me with fascination and not for my position of power. I dare say you were my very first friend. Not even San filled that empty space within me. Y/N, I never had a moment to myself, but I’ve always been lonely.”

Seonghwa strokes your arm, cupping the water in his hands to warm the now cooling skin. Your heart clenched at the sound of his voice, finally uttering your true name after so long, and were immediately thrown back into a time when you’d felt safe with Seonghwa.

Seonghwa, the kind human that made you question the teachings of Eden.

Seonghwa, who was initially proof that humans were good, kind, and capable of emotions and complexities Angels weren’t taught to have.

Seonghwa, who would sit next to you—teaching you the names and descriptions of emotions you’d never felt. The man who would read you books and wrapped your wounds.

Your first and only friend on Earth.

“Why did it all have to change?” You grieved your old friend, not believing that the lot of it was entirely a lie. It was easy to forget in more ways than one: during episodes when you lost yourself entirely or at the wake of your resentments.

“You would’ve left. For good. I couldn’t stomach that.” And for the first time Seonghwa’s voice broke. You couldn’t help the pity dousing your stomach like kerosene, waiting for the fire to start again. Before all of this, you were an angel after all. Maybe that’s why you still had the maddening struggle of wanting to forgive Seonghwa despite his captivity.

“I would’ve came back to visit you—“ you start, but he only clutches you closer, eyes wide and afraid, like a small child for a fracture of a moment.

“I had no way of knowing that. My people are sharp—they would’ve found you if I didn’t hide you myself. And your God? He wouldn’t have let you leave a second time.” Seonghwa’s typically soft, overcast voice squeezed out from his throat—desperation coating its edges.

“Please. Just…please don’t truly hate me. Not you. Anyone else but. Not. You.” He slowly lowers his temple onto your shoulder, breathing out shakily.

And then muscle memory kicks in. You couldn’t help the softness this particular version of Seonghwa summoned from you.

Your arm delicately reached behind you to cradle him closer to your neck. In the thick of his emotions, Seonghwa snaps open—gutted at the wake of what he knows is an irrational amount of love for you. Digging his face into your neck to press deep, desperate, and reverent kisses down its slope before dragging a wet hand from the water to cup your right breast into his large hand.

Your body shakes, neither out of fear or desire—but a strange third option you didn’t know by name. And that? That was the scary thing.

It was frigid, undeniable; all gunmetal stuffing itself into your mouth and you knew you’d accept the blow if it’d come. You feared the fact that it was entirely possible that you truly desired Seonghwa, with and without the delirium of captivity clouding your senses. His fingers break your reverie, as they curled around your jaw to greet you with a kiss. Bath water spills off the sides of the claw foot tub when Seonghwa turns you and pulls you into his arms to sandwich your breasts against his chest. He groans at the feeling of your cold skin, trailing his hands to feel the litter of goosebumps decorating its expanse.

His own muscle memory kicks in, reaching down to curl his fingers into you. You yelp at the intrusion of his thin, soft fingers—clenching your cunt automatically and panting against his open mouth. A pink tongue gives a kittenish lick to the corner of your lip, chuckling softly.

“You’re being so well behaved today.” He notes curiously, driving his fingers deeper and not minding the loud pounding of water. Your hands shoot up to clutch at his shoulders, hiding and crying sweetly into his neck. His other arm curls around you, trying to soothe you with soft hushes.

Seonghwa stops to peer at you meaningfully before reaching into the nearby by bath tray, and leaning back into the water.

He hands you a facial razor— heavy with antiquity, and its iron handle curved slightly. Its blade had to be unsheathed and pulled directly up to station itself upright with a small click. He guides both your hand and the blade so that it hovers a hair above his jugular.

“You can do anything to me. Understand that no one else can do this, my love. And if you want me dead, then so be it.” His unwavering gaze meets your unreadable one, noting the tremble in your hand. The air stills, electric buzzing droning out into a mere hum in the background.

You contemplate it. You truly did. Tried to. But imagining a cold, dead Seonghwa beneath you brought you no peace. The ominous part of it all is that if Seonghwa died, a part of you would want to follow him.

And he knew this. You knew he did: the ever-so cunning Seonghwa, brilliant and primal—elegantly perching against the morose shadows his light casted. He doesn’t blink when you fling the razor behind him, white strands of hair lightly caught in the crossfire fall and stick onto his wet collarbone.

But then you kiss him with the closest thing to emotion he’s ever felt from you and he crumbles under the weight of his desperation to be loved by you; to mean something. A part of him abhorred San for being able to do that so effortlessly. He almost laughs—if San knew that he was jealous of his qualities, he wouldn’t be able to process the fact that someone like Seonghwa felt frighteningly small and inferior to him.

He felt it in your hands, in your tears that fell into his mouth as you kissed him. Seonghwa knew there was no turning back from this, from his crimes: every beautiful and organic emotion you may have felt at one point in time was marred by rage and betrayal. Something like love: simple, grandiose, and seemingly pure couldn’t define your sick entanglement. It didn’t surprise him when you denied him so fervently.

Love was powerful and entirely capable of being hideous—but not like this. Which is exactly why he never taught you the word nor its definition, too distorted and dark in his natural form of pursuit to have any right to speak it out into the air.

But he taught you desire and the ugliness of hanging from the edges of sharp teeth. He kissed you like he was begging you to stay—to stay even if he shackled you right there to him. To want to stay even without his restraints.

You didn’t mind the clumsiness of this Seonghwa—a far visage from the commonly elegant, skillful and unflinching hands he carried. When you rise from the water, he gazes up at you with helpless, reverent eyes: palms squeezing at your hips in case you tried to leave him. There was a boyish quality to him, eyes wide with a palpably emotional gleam.

You only cradle him to your chest, soothing him for a moment with the sound of your heartbeat. He digs his face into your breasts, inhaling deeply before pulling your hips down to hover above his cock, sliding you down and moaning at the feeling of you stretching to accommodate him.

“Please. Do whatever you want to me—just don’t leave.” He begs, head thrown back as you slowly pushed him deeper into the water, rocking your hips as he tore you open.

Your hand mimics the common ministrations of his own, and he gasps when you clutch softly at his throat, leaning down to bite hard on his jugular. There’s a word for the feeling pounding in your chest, throbbing like life in your stomach.

“What word would describe what you’re allowing me to do to you?” You pant out, arching into his hand the petted your breasts lightly with adoration.

“Power. The word is power, my love” and he smiles from his heart for the first time in a long while in reverent defeat, having not been able to since he’d taken you for his own.

When he finishes inside you, Seonghwa doesn’t let you go for several hours, even when the water ran cold. For a moment you thought he cried but he didn’t answer when you asked and only dug his hands tighter into your skin in response.

“Up you go,” San murmurs, lifting you with practiced ease to grab the box of linguini from the top shelf. He lets out a playful groan, more for show than effort. The small bell on his choker swings as he moves, a delicate sound that barely registers over the quiet thrum in your chest.

You laugh—without meaning to, without knowing why. It’s light, fleeting, the kind of laugh that almost aches on its way out. Maybe it’s not the moment itself, but the way it clings to something that already feels like a memory.

San laughs too, louder than you, and for a second, it almost feels real. But as he sets you down, your smile falters at the edges. The warmth between you is still there—but so is the knowing. The awareness that this softness can’t last. That you're stealing moments from something inevitable.

Still, your laughter lingers, echoing in a space that already feels too quiet.

San's been teaching you how to cook, should the day come when you’d have to do it on your own. Out of the three of you, he seemed to be the only one gifted at making a fully digestible meal. Hwa tried his best to impress you, or better yet, get back into your good graces. However, each attempt seemed to end in worse form than the last.

With Hwa's busy schedule, the two of you were often left to your own devices. Boredom consumed the days you were only permitted to stay inside of the mausoleum. San—who was instructed to stay by your side at all times because the sigil no longer had the power to keep you stationary—was sentenced to another form of imprisonment. He never complained about the duties Hwa left him, especially those involving you.

The only time he could afford to truly thaw was when Hwa was summoned away to play the part of the dutiful eldest son. In those borrowed hours, he’d sink into the warmth of your body, unguarded, or eat your imperfect meals—meals that somehow became his favorite flavor despite its obvious flaws, second only to the taste of you. It felt different when San touched you: it was easier to relax—the equivalent of breathing, a sacred sinking into his flesh. You didn't experience this sort of reverence for someone—even for your father, who is a true god.

You found the words to describe what you felt for San one evening, after panting out a confession without your knowing. His skin clung to yours, pulling away and sticking back with each movement, but he froze after hearing the words that fell out of your mouth.

“San, I feel... warm when I’m with you. What does that mean?”

His breath stills. Your head rests quietly on his bicep as silence settles between you. Then, with a slow shift, San turns and draws you into his chest. A few quiet heartbeats pass before he finally speaks—each word chosen with careful deliberation.

"Well—it could mean lots of things" He starts with, a whisper traversing the air, afraid he'd somehow disturb the fragility of this moment if he spoke even a decibel higher.

You tilt your head to gaze up at him with clear, curious eyes.

"Like what?"

"Maybe I'm familiar. Or my skin warms you because you get cold easily." San hesitates, dancing around the final consideration.

"That's true." You hum lightly, instinct telling you that something about those options isn't quite as right—but you can't expect San to know everything.

In a moment of bravery, San pushes passed his fear, stuttering and gazing at the doorway of the bedroom—afraid that Seonghwa would suddenly appear without warning.

"Or something like love."

San has seen many horrors throughout his life: massacres, seemingly bottomless gore, unsightly creatures that run on the sheer instinct to kill—but he's never known this sort of fear before. Something in his chest feels torn open, and like the words falling from his mouth were a plea for you to check inside the purposeful wound.

"Love?" You pause. The word's familiar; love thy neighbor— love as written in the scriptures of your kind. It feels correct on your tongue, even if it took on a different meaning with San.

You've come to find that days with San didn't feel like captivity or isolation: they felt like dancing into the arms of another world.

There was another word, one that Seonghwa taught you many moons before—desire. It was undeniable, all consuming—jagged teeth pointing towards skin as the body trembled in anticipation. You couldn’t help its existence inside of you.

A small recollection pushes to the forefront of your mind of Seonghwa sitting on that familiar old stump, legs spread as he gazed outward into the decay of the autumn forest, the morning fog marred and thickened the cold air around you to describe the word desire with a cold, casual objectivity.

“It’s a primal instinct. Ugly, running on old fuel that seems to keep burning through despite it hitting points of exhaustion. Its consumption, Y/N. Desire is for beasts. And men are the true beasts of this world.”

You didn’t understand it then, the obsessive struggle he may have been dealing with already without your knowing.

But love?

Was the only difference that it was almost unconditional? That it fell into you without much fight?

You didn’t want to fight it. Not San. And so you say it, breathing to life words you’d only just begun understanding.

“— it seems that I love you, San.” You peer up at him smiling peacefully, accepting the kind churning and warmth in your stomach as you gaze at his features you committed to memory: the sharpness of his jaw, the razor edges of the upturn of his eyes—his dark hair.

He pauses, heart throbbing—yearning for the bravery to fall into it. He squeezes his eyes in defeat, knowing it was too late. He already did.

“As do I, my lady.”

Seonghwa’s dark silhouette perched silently against a nearby wall, torches yet to be lit as he slinks from the shadow he rested in.

He won’t lose you both.

He’ll make sure of it.

When Seonghwa returned one night, something was terribly amiss. Unsettling, on the brink of breaking and sharpening into something with the intention to tear open—to cut; to make you bleed.

The only light came from the broken skylight, the half-moon doing its best to illuminate the room but casting more shadows than clarity over Seonghwa’s features. None of the torches were lit, and you stepped forward slowly, instinctively hesitant in the face of the ominous energy radiating from him.

As you approach, you catch sight of Seonghwa's porcelain face—forebodingly still and unreadable as you register the blood painting its pale surface. Pausing mid-step—your heart thrums and rises to your throat, body pushing passed the fear to move forward. Was he bleeding?

Seonghwa melted into the shadows, the sharp edge of the hunt still clinging to him as he eased back into the illusion of normalcy. The high was fading, but not gone—belligerent on an unnamed violence from earlier on in the night. Dressed in black from throat to heel, he wore a heavy leather trench coat, its high collar snapped shut over a sleek turtleneck. No skin showed—his hands gloved, his silhouette precise.

The light illuminated his hair like a halo when his voice fell like an empty husk in the cold and damp air. He waits a couple of ominous beats before speaking.

“My love, what do you say about playing a game with me?” His eyes were still unreadable, glimmering like the tip of a steel blade.

You tilt your head, confused.

“A game?” Melodic, sweet, inquiring.

Seonghwa hums, still not blinking but the corner of his lip quirks up.

“Mhm, a game.” Sweet, convincing—falling from his blood red mouth like a simple suggestion.

You shuffle a bit, rubbing a hand over your other wrist, and only nod slowly in reply. He tilts his head, you weren’t awake. Not yet—your true self resting beneath the layers of delusion.

The click of Seonghwa’s slow approach lifts your head before his hand cradles your chin, as he leans down to brush his lips against yours—delicately licking at the familiarly soft skin.

“I had an interesting thought” he starts with, rubbing his nose against you, whispering softly before continuing. Your stomach churns instinctively.

“—I thought that if my Angel were to stay, I’d want her to choose to stay. Did I ever tell you the coming of age custom of my people?” His finger on your chin tightens, lips ghosting over your pulse and momentarily pressing at skin when you shake your head innocently in silent reply. He skulks around you, walking a circle around your form; suddenly a predator eying his prey.

Another soft hum—an intimate voice that refuses to raise and disturb the air and foreboding of the moment

“In order for a hunter to even embark on his very first mission, he first has to be able to hold his own and escape our land. Several proctors will follow him on his way out and if he can’t fight them off—he’s unable to complete his rite of passage. So, I wanted to offer you an option of freedom.” He starts with, trailing a hand down his torso to slowly grasp at the cold gunmetal hidden in a holster beneath the thick leather of his coat.

“—thus, my sweet, sweet girl— I’m offering you a chance to run as fast as you can. If you escape, your life is your own. But if I catch you? Your life is in my hands to do whatever I want with it.

What do you say?” His tone is a light whisper, dancing around with the initial simplicity coating his original thought.

He turns to look behind him and towards the shadows with dark eyes “And you. Don’t intervene—you know the customs.” San steps out, jaw clenching.

“You know she’s not one of us. Don’t subject her to this.” His tone is firm, a thinly veiled plead, already knowing Seonghwa wouldn’t relent.

“Aha! That’s exactly what I thought. Because of that—isn’t that all the more reason to initiate her?” He brightens slightly, voice rising in mock excitement.

“She’s no Hunter, Hwa. She’s a fucking captive.” San seethes, nails digging into the bed of his palms.

Seonghwa scoffs, a saccharine smile decorating his features.

“Do you think you’re any better?” He walks towards San, dragging a finger down his throat and chest before rubbing imaginary dust from its surface. “What right do you have? Night and day you indulge in my angel with the dishonest excuse that you’re doing it for her. You’re just as guilty of the crime. Not once have you thought about helping her escape. Of all my men, San—you are the only one who’d have the chance to actually succeed. You were trained alongside me—to protect me in the case that I wouldn’t be able to do so myself, after all?”

San stills, squeezing his eyes shut at the uncomfortable reminder of his cowardice. In many ways—he too was Seonghwa’s captive but the mentioned man would never change his approaches to adoration. He steps back with a prayer and tries to will himself to not vomit. Hwa wouldn’t kill you.

He couldn’t, right?

Your eyes danced between the two, confused.

“Hwa— I don’t want to leave you. I don’t think I want to play the game.” Your voice rises, apprehensive at his ploy. Did he grow tired of you? Did he not want you anymore?

He sees your face fall in distress, noting your quivering lip with a clenched heart.

This is the final stretch.

Seonghwa will have you, one way or another.

“If you don’t want to, why are you already stepping away?” Again, his casual tone unnerves you—too much perceived sweetness clouding your frazzled mind before his expression distorts back into a sobering reality.

You flinch, waking up from your long reverie. He wasn’t sweet—Seonghwa’s tone was calculated. His touch wasn’t firm; it’s bruising you.

Your body moved before your mind could agree and process, the voice of your consciousness finally breaking through the fog in your head.

Seonghwa pushes you by the small of your back, nudging you towards the entrance obscured by shadows of the mausoleum far across the area you stood in. “Run little rabbit.” a conflicted whisper tumbles

and your legs move. Slowly; unsure.

But there’s a throbbing in your heart as Seonghwa’s words echo through your body

If I catch you, your life is in my hands to do whatever I want with it.

And the sudden adrenaline shakes you—the gateway seemingly only grows further as you push your way towards it.

Please.

“Please God. This is my last shot”

Seonghwa’s slow steps are lax; calculated. A finger rests near the trigger, two hands hold the gun down as he slinks towards you.

He raises the gun—bang. The shot tears through the air. You don’t know what it hits, only that it’s too close. It’s still sharp and beautiful, like Seonghwa under the moonlight—a thinly veiled prowess of a hunter disguising himself as your benevolent savior.

His eyes—all gunmetal and bronzed blood fixate on your form, spotting and following you easily in the dark of the room.

He slowly counts, knowing from the start you wouldn’t make it out.

One.

Another bang. Does it hit something else?

Two,

“Can you run faster darling?” He released a small chide, almost hopeful and genuine in its inquiry. It’s quickly followed by a spark, another sonic ricochet of an unseen bullet.

Three.

Your ears ring—tears fill your eyes. The more the fear settles, the sicker you feel.

You miss him as the distance grows, even as something inside you begins to splinter—slow, tragic, and wrong.

You want to go back.

You want to turn around.

You want him to hold you and not point the gun at your head—you want Seonghwa to love you better, but he will never know how to love you kindly.

Seonghwa was primal—cold-cut precision born of blood and legacy. A creature blessed with the God-given gift of the Hunt.

He could only love you as prey.

Maybe you’d be able to love him without needing to fracture and erase yourself in order to do so.

Where’s San?

Your heart throbs and you close your eyes—remembering for a final moment the glow of his tanned skin under sunlight, kissing him between the empty spaces of uncharted time and illuminated dust particles. San was warm.

You remember love—distant, fading like a dream at dawn. His face, his warmth, almost gone. Now there’s only this: another man’s arms around you, steady, unyielding. His eyes find yours, and you let go.

Your last cohesive thought was of the sensory memory of his arms wrapped around your form, squeezing you tightly but his eyes—

Oh, his eyes

The held you with a soft hand.

When Seonghwa’s gloved hand squeaks like the hinges of a coffins door once they catch onto your wrist

You fall into it—into him, completely. For good into the belly of his sharp mouth—never to remember the truth of your captivity under the wake of your desperation to survive all of this somehow—to outlive the sick reminder of your desire and captivity. You've always been afraid of loving Seonghwa, but you never had a choice in the matter. You're right back at entry point one.

This is how you’ll survive.

The chamber is dim, the air heavy with fear and something darker. You're forced down—arm wrenched behind you, cheek crushed against the filthy floor. Seonghwa rises and presses the cold metal tip of his steel toed boot down onto your face lightly.

“Got’ya.” His voice is mellow; soft, tired. Mud from his shoe collects on your cheeks.

“—You know what this means now, don’t you?” He releases the pressure on your face before tugging you up to kneel.

Seonghwa stands before you, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous intensity. You kneel on the cold stone floor, a shiver running down your spine as you gaze up at him with a mix of terror and devotion. Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, but one thing remains clear: your fate is sealed in his hands, and you have come to accept it—alas embracing your inner conflict in full.

Devotion scores your body, tallying the days you were able to withstand him before the inevitable fall.

Seonghwa's hand rests on the gun now tucked into his waistband, his fingers drumming a slow, ominous rhythm against the cool metal. He leans down, his breath hot on your ear as he whispers, "I want to see how much you trust me, my angel. I want to know if you're truly mine."

You swallow hard, your heart pounding in your chest like a trapped bird. You know what he asks of you, and you're willing to give it, to prove your devotion. You nod slowly, your eyes never leaving his, a silent promise passing between you. An exchange.

He steps back, his hand wrapping around the gun as he pulls it free from his waistband. The click of the safety being disengaged echoes through the chamber, a chilling symphony that sends a shiver down your spine. He presses the barrel against your forehead, his eyes searching yours for any sign of fear or hesitation. You find none, only a deep, abiding trust, a disorienting submission that has taken root in your soul.

"Good girl," he murmurs, a calculated and searching smile playing on his lips as he trails the gun down your body, pressing it against your chest, stomach, and thigh, before finally resting it between your legs. You shudder, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you feel the cold metal against your cunt

"Seonghwa," you whisper, your voice barely audible—surrendering and praying for his touch. You spread your legs wider, inviting him in, offering yourself to him without reserve.

His eyes are dark as he holsters the gun and begins to undress, his movements slow and deliberate, a teasing striptease designed to torment and arouse. You watch him with anticipation, body aching with need.

Pink velvet, intimidatingly vulgar in its engorged appearance—a testament to his arousal during the hunt. He takes your hand, placing it on his length, as a silent command. You wrap your fingers around him, touch tentative at first, then more confident as you stroke him, your eyes locked on his, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Seonghwa groans, his head falling back— eyes clenching shut as he savors the sensation of your soft palms. But he wants more. He wants your softness that he, himself, could never have nor embody. He’s always wanted more. More of you—more of something to fill the gap where he knows humanity should’ve been within him. He pulls you to your feet, hands gripping your hips as he turns you around, pressing your back against his chest. The gun’s still tucked into his waistband, ominous and patient.

"You trust me, don't you, my angel?" he murmurs, his lips against your ear, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You know I would never hurt you, not truly. You're mine, and I protect what's mine."

You nod, your body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal as you feel his cock press against your ass, a hard, insistent demand. You reach back, your hand wrapping around his length, guiding him to your entrance, a silent invitation

He enters you slowly, inch by inch, his breath hot on your neck— hands gripping your hips tightly as he fills you completely, utterly, and without reserve. Your jaw goes slack, head falling back against his shoulder, eyes clenching shut as you savor the burning sensation of him stretching you

He begins to move, his hips thrusting against yours, cock sliding in and out of you with a slow, deliberate rhythm. You rise to meet him, spine arched, fingers clutching at his thighs. Breathless and breaking

The gun presses against your stomach. You welcome it, letting the fear simmer into something delectable. you lose yourself in him—relinquishing the last of your faith, existing for the sole purpose of being consumed whole. His breath is on your neck, hands on your hips, and voice in your ear—a love song or a threat. Maybe both. You welcomed it either way. Seonghwa was in every direction: he was inside of you and the cherubic voice echoing from every wall—heralding the arrival of a new world of his very own making.

“Do you still love me, dove?" The cold tip of the gun drags into your hair, against the back of your head before settling there; erotic in the way only Seonghwa was capable of configuring such a disturbing, gut wrenching action—but you feel nothing. You feel whole, unafraid—willing. Pushing your head towards the gun as a reverent "Always" falls from your lips. Seonghwa merely smiles before raising the gun towards the ceiling—his arm pin straight and aiming towards heaven before pulling the trigger three times in a row. You flinch at the loud sound, turning to gaze at him owlishly—cradling your ears in surprise.

He smirks charmingly, muttering "They were blanks." before shrugging and flinging the gun passively to the side.

"You're mine, my angel," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to fuck, mine to own. You trust me, don't you? You know I would never let anything happen to you. You're safe with me. You are everything."

You nod, your body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal as you feel your orgasm building, a tidal wave of sensation and emotion, a release, a redemption, a madness. You cry out, your voice a high, keening wail as you come undone, body convulsing. Your mind shatters, fragments flinging to a place out of reach—sanity recoiling to save you from the fear and anguish of your own desires, and in this—you find salvation. Reprieve.

He follows soon after, his cock pulsing inside you, his seed spilling into your womb, a mark of his ownership, his possession, his love. He holds you tightly, his body shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he finds his release, his redemption, his madness.

As the waves of your orgasm subside, you slump against him, your body boneless, your mind a blank slate, your soul at peace. He turns you around, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head as he rocks you gently, a lullaby, a promise, a love song. A hand drifts to rub at your womb with curious eyes.

"You did well, my angel," he murmurs, his voice soft, gentle, a stark contrast to the dangerous lover who had just taken you with such genuinely murderous ferocity. "It's you, our little puppy San, and I—nothing else is important. Always remember that my love."

You nod, eyes clenching shut as you savor the sensation of his arms around you. No thought of heaven or hell—only him and San.

San’s name stirs a strange, hollow ache in your chest—a voice whispering not to lose him, not to forget that he’s the one you truly love, despite the darkness of Seonghwa’s pull.

But you don’t hear it. Not anymore.

Not in Seonghwa’s arms. Not with the thrill of his gunmetal aimed at you.

San watches, hiding in the shadow of the hall, as he leans against a stone pillar, solemn eyes fixed ahead. For more reasons than one, he can't leave you both. But most of all—he can't leave you here, even if you forget him. You wouldn't have wanted him to leave you. He tugs at the collar on his neck, uncomfortable at how it strangles against his skin but stops himself from removing it. He's scared that Seonghwa will find a way to make him forget too and so he recounts the memory of the first time he'd made love to you, again and again, just in case Seonghwa takes it away from him someday. He’ll be here. He’ll always be here with you.

As you stand there in Seonghwa’s arms—your body used, your mind quieted, your soul no longer your own—you feel… peace.

You would do it all again. Every touch that tore your mind open until you were a remnant of Heaven and a living gash, personified. Every bullet—Every time he broke you open just to remake you in his image.

Because whatever you were before doesn’t matter now.

You are his.

And he is yours.

Not because you chose it—

But because there is nothing left of you that could refuse.

Forever, you whisper. In this life or whatever comes after. In madness. In silence. In the dark where your name used to be.

You are his.

And the only one left who remembers who you truly were stands silently beside you—bound by the same chains, held in quiet captivity for the rest of his life. Loyal to the end.

And Seonghwa—oh, Seonghwa.

He buys a grave big enough for three.

Author's note: Please don't shoot me *Smiles nervously, dabbing at a bead of sweat*

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