themoonlightfae

[themoonlightfae]

yep

[themoonlightfae]

crying forever actually

Love, In the Smallest Things

Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | folded blankets, playlists, the kind of love that doesn’t leave

🧸 Synopsis: you were told you were hard to love. he said fuck that. he changed your sheets, made you playlists, held your grief like it was gold. no fixing, no saving, just his presence, just his hands that didn’t flinch when you broke. and when you finally whisper "you don’t have to do this," he just says "i want to."

💌a/n: this was requested by @cybergracie my beloved. i was excited to write this actually and then i came face to face with it and i was like how tf do i structure it, do i make it a fic, do i make headcanons... and i just spewed whatever i just spewed below. it's technically a fic? but it’s not really structured like one? but it’s also not headcanons because there’s no bullet points and it reads like a slow-burning trauma hug??? idk. also a lil different than my usual things also shorter (apologies for that). i really hope this hits where it’s supposed to hit, YOU KNOW WHERE p.s. reblog if it made you cry, sigh, or want hyunjin to fold your laundry while humming movie soundtracks p.p.s. playlists are love languages p.p.p.s. you are not hard to love 🥺🩷

📍credits: @cafekitsune & @roseraris for the dividers

You told yourself this wasn’t about hope. Not really and you weren’t expecting an apology either, you weren’t even expecting much of anything, to be honest. Not when he’d barely said a word to you in two days. Not after that last fight, where you’d tried to explain how alone you’d been feeling and he’d shrugged it off like you were asking too much again. Like always.

Still, when he finally texted—“Meet me at 8”—some small, bruised part of you perked up. Because even if you weren’t expecting anything, you were still hoping. Hoping that maybe this time, he’d take responsibility. That maybe it wasn’t all in your head.

You hadn’t meant to bring Hyunjin. He just… offered. Said he could wait outside, no pressure. You said yes. Maybe because you were scared. Or maybe because some part of you already knew what was coming.

You already were expecting a few comments because you knew he didn't like Hyunjin, he'd said it before too. "Why's he always around?". And yet, your boyfriend seemed unbothered, slouched against the stone wall outside a restaurant, scrolling through his phone casually.

Hyunjin on the other hand was standing a few feet away.

"I told you to come alone," your boyfriend mutters, barely looking up. Ah, there was the comment you expected. "What, you need him to hold your hand now?" Another comment. Of course.

And you can't help it, but your heart's already halfway up your throat and you gesture for Hyunjin to wait by the corner to which he nods as you step forward. "Can we not do this here?" you ask quietly. "Can we just... talk?"

He scoffs. "Talk? That's rich. Now you care about communication?"

You feel it, that shift in you, the creeping heat behind your eyes the way your breath gets heavier and more knotted, that stupid knot in your throat, you know the one. The one that makes it hard for you to speak, to formulate words. But, you swallow it down. You force the words to spill from your lips.

"I didn't come here to fight."

He looks up finally, and there's something flat in his expression that tells you this was always going to be a fight because he'd already made up his mind. "No, you came here to cry like you always do. Because you can't handle when someone doesn't coddle you."

"I came here to ask if there's even anything left to fix," you say, trying your hardest to not let your voice shake, to not show the vulnerability, you won't allow it.

But your boyfriend? He laughs and rubs a hand down his face. "Jesus. You really don't get it do you?"

This part, this fucking part was always the same. Every single time. Same pattern: He says something cruel -> You flinch -> He blames your reaction -> You backpedal -> He gets to leave clean.

Except this time, you won't let it.

You inhale and exhale slowly. "No," you finally say. "I think I finally do."

Your boyfriend freezes for a second, probably surprised you're not crying yet like you usually do but you don't give him the satisfaction. You take a step back, "I'm done. This is done."

"Oh, so now you're the victim?"

Those words, god those words, it makes something in your chest twist, almost like your heart just flinched, just broke, not physically, no no, but something beneath your ribs was recoiling at the same time. Because that one line, that one line alone was enough to slice through you so easily. Your throat tight, your stomach in knots like a damn clenched fist and you keep trying to remind yourself: Don't cry, don't blink, don't even breathe too loudly.

Your boyfriend is watching, waiting. But you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and try to steady your breathing, counting internally: One, two, three. Before you finally speak again.

"Is that all you have?" you finally ask, voice slightly breaking on the last word and despite it, you force your chin higher, swallowing that stubborn lump in your throat.

His lip curls. "What, you want me to apologise? Tell you it's my fault? You're not exactly easy to love."

Your vision blurs, not with tears, though that would come later but with fury, anger, frustration.

"You're right, I'm not easy." you mutter and he attempts to open his mouth, attempts to speak again but you cut him off. "I'm not easy." you repeat, louder now, more sure. "I'm complicated, and I care too much, and I want things to have meaning. And I know that scares the shit out of you because you don't know how to show up for anything you didn't earn through charm and cowardice."

His face darkens at your words. "Don't push me."

You smile, you actually fucking smile, like the damn psycho that you are. "No. I'm pulling myself out."

And without another word you finally walk away from him, because you know if you stay, you'll shatter and you deserve better than to bleed on a floor he'll never clean up.

Your legs shake, your hands tremble and the world sways a little as you walk, but then, your eyes catch glimpse of Hyunjin.

He hadn't moved since you started talking, but his expression had changed to something with fury, and yet soft and protective at the same time. When you get close, he doesn't even ask, he doesn't even speak he simply opens his arms and you fall into him.

Almost like you belong there.

Hyunjin doesn't ask how you're doing anymore. He did the first night and you'd stared at the ceiling and said nothing for so long he legit thought you hadn't heard him, but you whispered, "I don't know", and that answer was enough to him.

Now, he doesn't ask, he knows. He knows in the way you don't move much, the way you leave your favourite mug untouched, the way you laugh at his dumbest jokes and not because they're funny but because it's easier than crying.

So, Hyunjin just doesn't ask. He is simply... present.

He cleans your apartment while you're asleep on the couch. He folds the blankets, refills the tissue box, waters the dying plants on your windowsill, takes your laundry home without telling you, washes it with his own and returns it neatly folded in a tote bag with a sticky note that says, "I didn't shrink anything. Miracle."

He refills your fridge with groceries and leaves post-its on the packaging so you'll eat something.

Things like:

"Yes, this yogurt is bougie. You deserve bougie." "This juice fights sadness. Scientifically proven." "If you don't eat the blueberries I will scream."

Amongst others.

He doesn't push, not really, he doesn't tell you to "move on" or "cheer up" or "try again." He just gives you space to exist exactly as you are even if right now you are broken, shaky and healing. Because to him, you are still loveable.

One night, while he is staying over, sleeping on the couch you go up to him having awoken with tears streaking down your face. "Was I really that hard to love?" Your voice is so soft, so fragile it nearly breaks him, but instead of answering, Hyunjin cups the back of your head and leans in until your forehead presses against his chest, over his heart, letting it answer for him.

Hyunjin even draws you warm baths and lights candles for you. Never leaves your side unless you want him to. Sometimes he sits with his back at you, because privacy, and reads from either his poetry book or this new fantasy novel he just bought, or even a travel magazine. Other times, he simply sits there sketching in silence.

On days when your energy is gone, when even brushing your hair feels like a battle, he sits behind you on the couch and carefully does it for you.

"This okay? I can stop if it's too much."

"No, it's okay, thank you Hyunjin."

And then one day you simply murmur to him, "You don't have to do all this you know." but he just presses a kiss to the top of your head and goes, "I want to."

Hell, he even changes your sheets on the days you can't and sprays them with that linen mist you keep by your bedside, the one your ex always hated.

One afternoon, he takes you to a quiet park, no crowd, no crazy noise, just the baby blue sky with fluffy clouds and the sound of your footsteps on gravel. You both sit on a bench and eat ice cream because you always said that sad days deserve sweetness and Hyunjin remembers everything.

Especially when it comes to you.

He makes playlists for you, with songs you forgot you loved: indie; jazz; movie scores; a few soft K-R&B ballads. You catch on eventually that he's been making them, curating them in fact, one playlist a week.

And through it all, the softest thing out of everything is that he doesn't distract you from the pain, instead, he has learnt how to sit in it with you. Because Hyunjin loves, and he loves hard. And all these little things, stupid little things that you think he has no reason to do, he does them because he wants to. Because there's a place in his heart that wants to show you you deserve to be cherished, deserve to be loved, deserve to be taken care of.

And most importantly: that you are not hard to love.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog , @girlsymptoms , @bookswillfindyouaway , @jasperlvskz , @geekymommakerry , @dazzlingjade , @alisonyus , @pluto-rose , @crazy4books1 , @b3autyist3rror , @felixleftchickennugget , @loonybunny1 , @itzkaitlynm , @boldy-49 , @zayn-210 , @hanjiswvrld , @ilovedallywinston , @ironyatitsfinest , @shadowhunterathene , @stayalittlelonger143 , @bblgeum

[themoonlightfae]

BRB CRYING FOREVER

Page 233

Jihoon did his best to wait until the movie was over before he spilled the beans. “Hey,” he waited until he had your attention to continue, “so you remember how I was up for review?”

“Yeah, you wanted that supervisor position.” You sat up a littler straighter and turned toward him. “Wait, did you get it?”

He nodded with a smile. “I did. Effective tomorrow, I get my own office.”

“Way to go, Ji!” You launched yourself at him, giving him mere seconds to open his arms to catch you. “I knew you’d do well. That place would fall apart without you.”

“That’s pretty much what Joshua said.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “At least now I’ll get the pay to match the work.”

“Omigawd, we should celebrate!” You pulled back and looked at him.

“Okay, where?”

“Where would you like to go?”

He took a moment to think over his options. It was just a promotion, nothing too special. No need to break the bank…but he was with you and no one else from the friend group for once. Would it be selfish to spoil you a little in an attempt to impress you?

“I haven’t been to the Cheesecake Factory in a while.”

“Ooh, yes!” You squealed, clapping your hands as you bounced on the couch cushion. “I’ve been wanting some good cake. Should we change clothes?”

He eyed your pretty sundress and shrugged. “I mean, we don’t have to. What you have on now is pretty cute.”

“Aw, thanks Ji.” You jumped to your feet and took his hand, pulling him up. “We’ll need to check if they have a table for us on the way there. If not, I believe there’s another in the area not too far out.”

You kept on rambling about parking and main courses but he couldn’t say he was listening. He was too focused on the warmth and weight of your soft hand in his.

[themoonlightfae]

Mommy Issues

Pairing: fem!reader x Wumuti

Summary:

It's the hottest summer on record, and it's about to get hotter...

...And all because you jokingly called your roommate mommy...

Genre: Roommates to Lovers, PWP

WC: 3,623

Rating: Explicit

Originally Published: 250711 on ao3

Tags: Under the cut

Banner: by the wonderful @lovetaroandtaemin

A/N: I saw Wumuti and bluescreened and had a thought and then this happened. And I am not sorry. :)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Roommates to lovers, Banter Mommy Kink, fuck gender roles, Pet Names, Cuddling, Teasing, confession of feelings, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Multiple Orgasms, Defining the Relationship

When I say kinky, I don't mean curls When I say give me, I mean the world When I say baby, you bite your lip I know exactly where you get your kicks

Because Baby I'm giving you the mommy issues Know I make you wish I put my body on you Say you'd give me anything When I call the shots, you call me

~ Mommy Issues -- Cloudy June

You sighed as you readjusted the ice pack on the back of your neck. This year had brought the hottest summer on record in almost 50 years, and you were feeling it. Now it was mid July, and you felt like the heat wave would never end. 

“Is it fall yet?” You asked yet again, narrowly dodging the pillow your roommate threw at you. "Surely it must be fall soon."

“No,” Wumuti scowled at you as he pulled his ash blonde, wavy hair into a ponytail. “I fucking wish though."

“What if we moved to Antarctica? What do you think the cost of living would be?"

“What if you stopped whining before I strangle you with your own cooling blanket?” He giggled.

“Wow, mean,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. 

“What if I say I’d do it lovingly?” Wumuti fluttered his eyelashes at you. You stuck your tongue out at him in response.

You got up, crossing the room to the thermostat. It was already set well above what you and Wumuti normally kept it at, and the poor system was still struggling against the obscene temperatures outside. You sighed and reached for the controls.

“Don’t you dare,” Wumuti warned. “I know where you sleep.”

“Killjoy,” you pouted. “I am dying.”

“Do you want another absurd power bill?” Wumuti smirked. 

“Okay well, no…” You sighed. “Fine. Point taken.”

You watched as Wumuti stood and stretched languidly, letting out a deep breath as he worked out the tension from sitting on the couch all morning. You looked away quickly as he caught you staring. 

You hoped he wouldn’t blame you— after all, from the second you’d met him, you had been entranced about Wumuti’s otherworldly beauty. Hell, he had been in your phone as “Fae Boi” since day one, and when he found out he had proudly added a fairy emoji next to it.

There was also the matter of the unreasonably large crush that you had on him, that you refused to do anything about. 

Thankfully, he said nothing about you staring, again, excusing himself to the kitchen instead. You watched him go, sighing internally. Not that you had room to talk as far as this summer’s wardrobe went, but your roommate’s tendency to wear nothing but a crop tank and short shorts was driving you up the proverbial wall. Today’s shorts were so short that you could just see the edges of the rainbow tie-dye panties he had on. 

Despite all of this, you were determined to keep things how they were— just roommates. You had been through a slew of terrible ones to find Wumuti, and you knew you never wanted to let him go, regardless of how you might feel otherwise. 

Was it torture? Sure. 

But you’d be damned if you ever had to go searching for another roommate. 

You were sulking on the couch again, scrolling on socials, when Wumuti sidled up to you, setting down a tall glass on your tray table.

“Hydrate,” he told you. “Maybe you’ll be less whiny if you drink some ice water. It'll be good for you."

“Okay mommy,” you said with another eyeroll. “Jeez.”

Wumuti froze, and you glanced up to see him staring at you, deep brown eyes fixed on your face. You weren’t sure how to read his expression— a mixture of confusion and surprise— but something else as well, bordering on dangerous. 

Fuck, did I overstep?

It wasn’t the first time you’d ever referred to him with a female gendered term. On the contrary, you used such terms on the day-to-day. Wumuti had told you early on that he gave exactly zero fucks about traditional gender roles. 

But you had never called him mommy. 

And he’d never reacted like this. 

Regardless, Wumuti returned to his end of the couch a few moments later, grabbing his sketchbook and pencil as he contorted himself back into a pretzel. The rest of the day passed in relative silence, save for the music playing in the background.

But it wasn’t lost on you how many times you caught Wumuti staring at you for a change.

About a week later, you were still trying to forget what had happened. Neither of you had said anything about it, and you had assumed that it had been dropped. You’d made a mental note not to call him mommy again, and that was that. Wumuti’s demeanor hadn’t changed again since the incident, and for that you were thankful. He had been the same sweet, cheery person he always was with you.

You were especially glad considering the two of you happened to share a bed. You hadn’t originally, but when you had lost your job earlier in the year, you’d had to convert the second bedroom into a home office so you could work remotely for your new one. Since Wumuti had the bigger bed and the master suite anyway, the two of you had agreed it would be fine to share a bed. 

You didn’t mind it at all, for multiple reasons. There had been a fair share of platonic cuddling as the year had progressed, and you definitely weren’t upset about that— it had been quite a while since you’d dated, and you were way more touch starved than you ever wanted to admit. 

You were relieved when you woke the Saturday after the incident to find Wumuti clinging to you. You could just barely feel his soft breath against your neck, and you squirmed, trying to rearrange a bit. 

If there was one thing you absolutely did not need, it was Wumuti unintentionally teasing you. Sometimes you were embarrassed by how sensitive your neck was.

Now being one of those times, as you felt wetness already pooling between your legs.

“Nooo,” came Wumuti’s soft voice from behind you as he slotted himself back into place. “Cozy.”

“You’re tickling me,” you lied, stiffening up slightly when you felt the lightest of touches there as he curled around you again.

“You’re so tense, hon,” he murmured, detaching from you just a bit. You shivered as you felt him begin to scratch your back, the acrylic nails he wore tracing soothing patterns up and down through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. 

“Wumuti…” You whispered. “Maybe now isn’t the time for this…”

“Oh, what’s wrong?” He stopped at once, moving to spoon you once more. “Are you still hurting from your sunburn last week?”

“No,” you said, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the strain in your voice. “Just…”

“Just what?” He whispered, his lips now brushing the shell of your ear. 

“Wumuti…”

“When are you going to stop pretending, angel?” He asked, and your heart skipped a beat. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck oh my god fuck.

“P— pretending?” You stammered. 

“Pretending,” he continued to whisper, the tip of his nose now brushing the back of your neck— “That we haven’t wanted each other for ages.”

“Huh?” You squeaked. His arm was slung over you again, and he fumbled in the sheets, grasping for your hand and quickly intertwining his fingers with yours. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you react to my touch,” he continued as he hugged you tightly. “I notice the way you cling to me when we cuddle. How you absolutely melt into every single hug. How you never want to let go when we’re holding hands.”

“Um… I… Wumuti…” You mumbled. “Um…”

You had no idea what to say. 

No thoughts. Head completely empty, save for the feel of his breath, still on your neck.

“Wumuti,” you whined. 

“Shhh,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you choked out as his thumb rubbed gently over your own, hands still firmly entwined. “Don’t… Please don’t stop.”

You felt his lips brush against your ear again, and you inhaled sharply. 

“Then why don’t you relax and let mommy help you feel good… hmm, angel?”

Oh, holy fucking shit. He is going to kill me.

You were turning to face him in an instant, expecting to see a smirk on his face. But instead, you were met with the same dark stare you had received when you’d called him mommy the previous week. 

“Wumuti…” You started. He silenced you with one slender finger over your lips. 

“Hush,” he told you firmly, in an authoritative tone that left you almost dizzy. His gaze kept flicking to your lips, even after he took his finger away, and you watched as he closed the gap between you once more, carefully snaking an arm around your waist to pull you flush with him. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he began to trace your features gently, tracing a single fingertip over your face. You found yourself suppressing a shiver every time his fingernail grazed your skin. 

A minute later, he took his hand away. You didn’t dare move a muscle. You couldn’t even open your eyes, so sure were you that this was all a dream. 

You felt Wumuti’s nose brush your own, the feather light touch of his lips on yours.

“Can I?” He whispered.

“Please,” you returned breathlessly.

“Please what?” You felt his grin against your lips.

“Please, mommy,” you whined. “Please kiss me…”

That was all the invitation he needed, and he crashed his lips onto yours, desperation pouring into the kiss as he licked into your mouth, nibbled at your lip, his own breaths coming in heady gasps. His arms were tightly wound around you now, one hand creeping lower to press into the small of your back. At the same time, he ground his hips against yours, and you moaned low. 

“Fuck… Wumuti…”

“That’s the idea, angel,” Wumuti cooed, pulling away to trail kisses across your jaw. He nipped lightly at your earlobe before bringing his lips up to whisper in your ear.

“By the time I’m done with you, you won’t want for anyone else but me, ever again,” Wumuti said with the tiniest giggle. “How does that sound?”

“Please,” you begged, unsure what had come over you. “Please, mommy. Need you…”

“Going to be good for me?” He murmured against your neck as he kissed a sloppy trail down your neck to your collarbone. He paused there, sucking what you knew would be a deep mark into the sensitive flesh, and you could feel him giggling against your skin. "Let me make you come undone. Let me see how that beautiful face looks while you cum all over my cock."

“Yes,” you gasped. “So good for you…”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He had one hand under your shirt now, creeping up your back. When he reached the base of your neck, he slowly dragged his nails back down, and you shuddered against him.

“Oh, this is fun,” he whispered. “Should have done this ages ago.”

“M… Muti…” Was all you could manage to get out. He giggled again, regarding you with a sly smile as he let you go, only so he could push you onto your back. He lost no time in straddling your hips, and you gasped as you felt his cock through his pajama bottoms. He shed his own tank top quickly, tossing it onto the floor, and your eyes widened.

“So pretty, mommy,” you mumbled. “Can I touch?”

“Of course you can, angel,” he nodded, reaching for your hands and guiding them to the firm plane of his belly. He leaned over you, his hard cock pressing into your belly, and you whined and bucked your hips up into his. You were delighted to feel him shiver under your touch, and he closed his eyes for a moment, clearly savoring the feel of your hands on him. 

Before you knew it, his own hands were under the hem of your shirt, and he pulled it up and over your head, dropping it over the side of the bed. Now it was his turn to gasp as he marveled at the sight of you. 

“Oh my,” he purred. “I just knew my angel would have gorgeous tits.” He reached for your already sensitive nipples, twisting sharply, a wicked grin on his face as you cried out. 

“Mommy!”

“Does that hurt, baby?”

“No,” you shook your head. “Feels good… So good…”

Time seemed to slow down as Wumuti knelt over you, covering your exposed chest with wet, open-mouthed kisses. Every so often he would pause, sucking yet more marks into your skin, licking over them to soothe the sting when he was done. 

You settled for gripping his thighs as he continued his ministrations, and as he moved lower, you let out a high pitched whine. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, lips less than an inch away from the hem of your sleep shorts. “Tell mommy what you need.”

“I…” You felt drunk from the attention, and he had barely touched you yet. Not where you needed him the most. “Need…”

Wumuti moved off of you, trailing his fingertips over your clothed center, featherlight touches that only served to drive you even crazier. You shrieked when a fingernail brushed at your clit, and he laughed. 

“So sensitive.” 

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, your head spinning.

In a flash, Wumuti had hooked his thumbs into your sleep shorts, pulling them down and off in one smooth motion and tossing them off the bed with the rest of the already discarded clothing. He traced the waistband of your panties, a soft grin on his face. 

“Baby Yoda. Cute.”

“Okay look,” you giggled. “If I had expected this I’d have worn something sexier.”

“Fair point, sweetheart,” he nodded. “Maybe we should just take them off.” He pressed two fingers to the apex of your thighs, rubbing at the absolutely soaked fabric. “They don’t seem to be doing you much good anyway.”

All you could do was whine and nod. Seconds later, you were lying fully naked before him, and you could barely breathe. 

Is this what going insane feels like? He is the prettiest person I have ever met. What is he doing with me?

“Nuh-uh,” Wumuti shook his head, and you realized your thoughts may as well have been written on your face. “I know what you’re thinking. Don't you dare think I don't want you. You are all I want.” 

He leaned in to kiss you tenderly, deeply. You let yourself get lost in it, but you broke the kiss with a strangled cry as you felt Wumuti pushing your legs apart, teasing closer and closer to where you wanted him. 

“Please, oh my god,” you gasped. “Oh please.”

Wumuti stood, slipping his own sleep shorts off, and you scarcely had a second to stare at his cock— probably the prettiest you’d ever seen at that, head angry red and leaking pre-cum. He was back on the bed quickly, laying down between your legs as he pushed them further apart. You grabbed a pillow, covering your face with it and letting out a shrill scream.

“No no,” Wumuti tutted. “Let mommy hear those pretty sounds. You said you’d be good for me.”

“Yes mommy,” you whimpered as he leaned in, closing his lips around your swollen and extremely sensitive clit. 

“Mmm, so good,” he growled, sucking at your clit with an intensity that took your breath away. He flicked it with his tongue, and you heard him giggle as you arched your back and reached for his hair. He let you twine your fingers in it, and you tugged lightly.

“Is this what you wanted, pretty baby?” He asked. “Want mommy to eat you like it’s my last meal?”

“Oh god please yes,” you rambled. “I— WUMUTI!” You wailed as he licked a long stripe up your folds before pushing his face into your sopping cunt, devouring you like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. You pulled harder on his hair, but that only served to spur him on more.

“Good girl,” he sighed as he slipped a single finger inside you. “Fuck, you taste heavenly. I knew you were an angel.”

“Mommy!” You shrieked, arching your back and pushing your cunt more firmly against his face as he sank a second, and then a third finger into you in rapid succession. He curled them expertly, and you could feel the vibrations from his gentle laughter against your cunt. 

He began to thrust, pressing firmly against that sensitive spot inside you, and you were at the edge much faster than you anticipated, legs already shaking and breaths coming in strangled gasps as Wumuti continued to feast on your cunt. 

“Come,” he said simply. And that was all you needed— your body shuddering with wave after wave of pleasure. It had been so long since you’d come like this, and you had needed it more than you knew. Wumuti seemed to know, and he kept going, pushing you into a second release before you had come down from the first. You felt a rush of fluid gushing from you, and heard Wumuti’s surprised squeak. 

Did he just make me… oh my god?!

“So, so good for me,” he murmured quietly, still lapping at your folds, drinking up every drop of your cum. “I could eat you all day, I think. This could be my last meal for all I care, and I’d be happy.”

“Mommy,” you said shakily. “Please… I need you…”

He was on you in seconds, cock hard and heavy and nudging between your legs. You inhaled sharply at the warmth of his body covering yours, and he kissed you, bringing one hand to cradle your head gently. 

“You want me inside you, sweetheart?”

“Yes mommy,” you nodded obediently. “Please. I’ll be so good. So good for you,” you mumbled against his lips as you kissed him again, fingers twisting in his hair again. 

You felt him aligning the head of his cock with your entrance, and he pushed in devastatingly slowly, giving you time to adjust to his length. He cursed under his breath as he bottomed out, his hips flush with your own, and you could feel him twitching inside you. You clenched around him, and he rewarded you by pulling out a bit and slamming back inside. 

“MOMMY!” 

Wumuti set a slow pace at first, though you could tell he was having a hard time keeping it.

“My pretty angel,” he whispered, kissing you deeply. “This pussy was made for my cock.”

“Feels so good, mommy,” you sighed, letting your eyes close, relishing the feel of him opening you up.

Making you his.

Which was all you’d ever really wanted in the first place.

You clenched around him again, and he picked up the pace, thrusting hard and fast now, angling just right as he pushed into you over and over as if both your lives depended on it.

“Mommy,” you groaned. “I’m… oh help, fuck, oh god, oh help…” 

You were hurtling towards another release, this one coiling in your belly so tightly that you felt like it might destroy you. 

Then again, if this was the way you went, you couldn’t be mad.

Wumuti leaned in, kissing you softly, whispering against your lips. 

“I can feel you getting tighter and tighter, angel. Why don’t you be a good girl and come on mommy’s cock? Let go for me.”

He didn’t have to ask again— a few more messy thrusts and you were gone, screaming his name as you squirted again, soaking him further. He continued, his strokes becoming erratic, and he whined loudly.

“Where should mommy cum, hmm, angel? I'm so close."

“Inside me!” You cried out. “Please. Please please.”

“Want me to fill you up, baby? You going to be good for me one more time and take every drop?”

“Yes!”

You watched, almost in awe, as he came— eyes closed, fair features twisted up in ecstasy. He arched his back as he pushed inside you to the hilt, and you felt his cock pulsing as he emptined himself into your soaking cunt. As he came down from his own high, he lay down on top of you, cock still deep inside. 

He began to trace your features again, peppering your face with soft kisses.

“So, so good for me,” he murmured. “Precious, perfect angel. I think you really were made for me.”

“Mmm,” was all you could get out, and you brought your hands up to rub circles on his back as he kissed your lips gently. He pressed his forehead to yours, an enormous smile on his face. 

“Good morning,” he giggled. 

“Yes,” you nodded. "Very, very good."

“Are you okay?” His expression morphed to concern, but softened again when you nodded vigorously. 

“Yeah, you just bluescreened my brain cell is all,” you laughed. 

“And I’d do it again if you let me,” he said matter-of-factly. “But later. For now, let’s get cleaned up.”

You sighed as he pulled out, already missing the feel of his cock. He excused himself for a moment, returning with a damp cloth, and he carefully cleaned you up before crawling into bed again, tugging you close and kissing your forehead. 

“I don’t know about you,” he said softly. “But I think this summer is looking up now… for both of us.”

“Mmhmm,” you agreed. 

“Will you be mine, angel?” He asked, voice barely a whisper, as if he were afraid you would say no.

“I think I’ve always been yours,” you told him, heart threatening to beat out of your chest as he beamed at your answer.  

“Good,” he nodded, cradling you to his chest. “So it’s settled.”

“Sounds like it,” you said, grinning as you heard his heart racing. “Promise you’ll take good care of me, mommy?”

“Oh, my pretty baby,” he said softly. “Always. Forever.”

[themoonlightfae]

Mommy Issues

Pairing: fem!reader x Wumuti

Summary:

It's the hottest summer on record, and it's about to get hotter...

...And all because you jokingly called your roommate mommy...

Genre: Roommates to Lovers, PWP

WC: 3,623

Rating: Explicit

Originally Published: 250711 on ao3

Tags: Under the cut

Banner: by the wonderful @lovetaroandtaemin

A/N: I saw Wumuti and bluescreened and had a thought and then this happened. And I am not sorry. :)

Tags: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Roommates to lovers, Banter Mommy Kink, fuck gender roles, Pet Names, Cuddling, Teasing, confession of feelings, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Multiple Orgasms, Defining the Relationship

When I say kinky, I don't mean curls When I say give me, I mean the world When I say baby, you bite your lip I know exactly where you get your kicks

Because Baby I'm giving you the mommy issues Know I make you wish I put my body on you Say you'd give me anything When I call the shots, you call me

~ Mommy Issues -- Cloudy June

You sighed as you readjusted the ice pack on the back of your neck. This year had brought the hottest summer on record in almost 50 years, and you were feeling it. Now it was mid July, and you felt like the heat wave would never end. 

“Is it fall yet?” You asked yet again, narrowly dodging the pillow your roommate threw at you. "Surely it must be fall soon."

“No,” Wumuti scowled at you as he pulled his ash blonde, wavy hair into a ponytail. “I fucking wish though."

“What if we moved to Antarctica? What do you think the cost of living would be?"

“What if you stopped whining before I strangle you with your own cooling blanket?” He giggled.

“Wow, mean,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. 

“What if I say I’d do it lovingly?” Wumuti fluttered his eyelashes at you. You stuck your tongue out at him in response.

You got up, crossing the room to the thermostat. It was already set well above what you and Wumuti normally kept it at, and the poor system was still struggling against the obscene temperatures outside. You sighed and reached for the controls.

“Don’t you dare,” Wumuti warned. “I know where you sleep.”

“Killjoy,” you pouted. “I am dying.”

“Do you want another absurd power bill?” Wumuti smirked. 

“Okay well, no…” You sighed. “Fine. Point taken.”

You watched as Wumuti stood and stretched languidly, letting out a deep breath as he worked out the tension from sitting on the couch all morning. You looked away quickly as he caught you staring. 

You hoped he wouldn’t blame you— after all, from the second you’d met him, you had been entranced about Wumuti’s otherworldly beauty. Hell, he had been in your phone as “Fae Boi” since day one, and when he found out he had proudly added a fairy emoji next to it.

There was also the matter of the unreasonably large crush that you had on him, that you refused to do anything about. 

Thankfully, he said nothing about you staring, again, excusing himself to the kitchen instead. You watched him go, sighing internally. Not that you had room to talk as far as this summer’s wardrobe went, but your roommate’s tendency to wear nothing but a crop tank and short shorts was driving you up the proverbial wall. Today’s shorts were so short that you could just see the edges of the rainbow tie-dye panties he had on. 

Despite all of this, you were determined to keep things how they were— just roommates. You had been through a slew of terrible ones to find Wumuti, and you knew you never wanted to let him go, regardless of how you might feel otherwise. 

Was it torture? Sure. 

But you’d be damned if you ever had to go searching for another roommate. 

You were sulking on the couch again, scrolling on socials, when Wumuti sidled up to you, setting down a tall glass on your tray table.

“Hydrate,” he told you. “Maybe you’ll be less whiny if you drink some ice water. It'll be good for you."

“Okay mommy,” you said with another eyeroll. “Jeez.”

Wumuti froze, and you glanced up to see him staring at you, deep brown eyes fixed on your face. You weren’t sure how to read his expression— a mixture of confusion and surprise— but something else as well, bordering on dangerous. 

Fuck, did I overstep?

It wasn’t the first time you’d ever referred to him with a female gendered term. On the contrary, you used such terms on the day-to-day. Wumuti had told you early on that he gave exactly zero fucks about traditional gender roles. 

But you had never called him mommy. 

And he’d never reacted like this. 

Regardless, Wumuti returned to his end of the couch a few moments later, grabbing his sketchbook and pencil as he contorted himself back into a pretzel. The rest of the day passed in relative silence, save for the music playing in the background.

But it wasn’t lost on you how many times you caught Wumuti staring at you for a change.

About a week later, you were still trying to forget what had happened. Neither of you had said anything about it, and you had assumed that it had been dropped. You’d made a mental note not to call him mommy again, and that was that. Wumuti’s demeanor hadn’t changed again since the incident, and for that you were thankful. He had been the same sweet, cheery person he always was with you.

You were especially glad considering the two of you happened to share a bed. You hadn’t originally, but when you had lost your job earlier in the year, you’d had to convert the second bedroom into a home office so you could work remotely for your new one. Since Wumuti had the bigger bed and the master suite anyway, the two of you had agreed it would be fine to share a bed. 

You didn’t mind it at all, for multiple reasons. There had been a fair share of platonic cuddling as the year had progressed, and you definitely weren’t upset about that— it had been quite a while since you’d dated, and you were way more touch starved than you ever wanted to admit. 

You were relieved when you woke the Saturday after the incident to find Wumuti clinging to you. You could just barely feel his soft breath against your neck, and you squirmed, trying to rearrange a bit. 

If there was one thing you absolutely did not need, it was Wumuti unintentionally teasing you. Sometimes you were embarrassed by how sensitive your neck was.

Now being one of those times, as you felt wetness already pooling between your legs.

“Nooo,” came Wumuti’s soft voice from behind you as he slotted himself back into place. “Cozy.”

“You’re tickling me,” you lied, stiffening up slightly when you felt the lightest of touches there as he curled around you again.

“You’re so tense, hon,” he murmured, detaching from you just a bit. You shivered as you felt him begin to scratch your back, the acrylic nails he wore tracing soothing patterns up and down through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. 

“Wumuti…” You whispered. “Maybe now isn’t the time for this…”

“Oh, what’s wrong?” He stopped at once, moving to spoon you once more. “Are you still hurting from your sunburn last week?”

“No,” you said, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on the strain in your voice. “Just…”

“Just what?” He whispered, his lips now brushing the shell of your ear. 

“Wumuti…”

“When are you going to stop pretending, angel?” He asked, and your heart skipped a beat. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck oh my god fuck.

“P— pretending?” You stammered. 

“Pretending,” he continued to whisper, the tip of his nose now brushing the back of your neck— “That we haven’t wanted each other for ages.”

“Huh?” You squeaked. His arm was slung over you again, and he fumbled in the sheets, grasping for your hand and quickly intertwining his fingers with yours. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you react to my touch,” he continued as he hugged you tightly. “I notice the way you cling to me when we cuddle. How you absolutely melt into every single hug. How you never want to let go when we’re holding hands.”

“Um… I… Wumuti…” You mumbled. “Um…”

You had no idea what to say. 

No thoughts. Head completely empty, save for the feel of his breath, still on your neck.

“Wumuti,” you whined. 

“Shhh,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you choked out as his thumb rubbed gently over your own, hands still firmly entwined. “Don’t… Please don’t stop.”

You felt his lips brush against your ear again, and you inhaled sharply. 

“Then why don’t you relax and let mommy help you feel good… hmm, angel?”

Oh, holy fucking shit. He is going to kill me.

You were turning to face him in an instant, expecting to see a smirk on his face. But instead, you were met with the same dark stare you had received when you’d called him mommy the previous week. 

“Wumuti…” You started. He silenced you with one slender finger over your lips. 

“Hush,” he told you firmly, in an authoritative tone that left you almost dizzy. His gaze kept flicking to your lips, even after he took his finger away, and you watched as he closed the gap between you once more, carefully snaking an arm around your waist to pull you flush with him. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he began to trace your features gently, tracing a single fingertip over your face. You found yourself suppressing a shiver every time his fingernail grazed your skin. 

A minute later, he took his hand away. You didn’t dare move a muscle. You couldn’t even open your eyes, so sure were you that this was all a dream. 

You felt Wumuti’s nose brush your own, the feather light touch of his lips on yours.

“Can I?” He whispered.

“Please,” you returned breathlessly.

“Please what?” You felt his grin against your lips.

“Please, mommy,” you whined. “Please kiss me…”

That was all the invitation he needed, and he crashed his lips onto yours, desperation pouring into the kiss as he licked into your mouth, nibbled at your lip, his own breaths coming in heady gasps. His arms were tightly wound around you now, one hand creeping lower to press into the small of your back. At the same time, he ground his hips against yours, and you moaned low. 

“Fuck… Wumuti…”

“That’s the idea, angel,” Wumuti cooed, pulling away to trail kisses across your jaw. He nipped lightly at your earlobe before bringing his lips up to whisper in your ear.

“By the time I’m done with you, you won’t want for anyone else but me, ever again,” Wumuti said with the tiniest giggle. “How does that sound?”

“Please,” you begged, unsure what had come over you. “Please, mommy. Need you…”

“Going to be good for me?” He murmured against your neck as he kissed a sloppy trail down your neck to your collarbone. He paused there, sucking what you knew would be a deep mark into the sensitive flesh, and you could feel him giggling against your skin. "Let me make you come undone. Let me see how that beautiful face looks while you cum all over my cock."

“Yes,” you gasped. “So good for you…”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He had one hand under your shirt now, creeping up your back. When he reached the base of your neck, he slowly dragged his nails back down, and you shuddered against him.

“Oh, this is fun,” he whispered. “Should have done this ages ago.”

“M… Muti…” Was all you could manage to get out. He giggled again, regarding you with a sly smile as he let you go, only so he could push you onto your back. He lost no time in straddling your hips, and you gasped as you felt his cock through his pajama bottoms. He shed his own tank top quickly, tossing it onto the floor, and your eyes widened.

“So pretty, mommy,” you mumbled. “Can I touch?”

“Of course you can, angel,” he nodded, reaching for your hands and guiding them to the firm plane of his belly. He leaned over you, his hard cock pressing into your belly, and you whined and bucked your hips up into his. You were delighted to feel him shiver under your touch, and he closed his eyes for a moment, clearly savoring the feel of your hands on him. 

Before you knew it, his own hands were under the hem of your shirt, and he pulled it up and over your head, dropping it over the side of the bed. Now it was his turn to gasp as he marveled at the sight of you. 

“Oh my,” he purred. “I just knew my angel would have gorgeous tits.” He reached for your already sensitive nipples, twisting sharply, a wicked grin on his face as you cried out. 

“Mommy!”

“Does that hurt, baby?”

“No,” you shook your head. “Feels good… So good…”

Time seemed to slow down as Wumuti knelt over you, covering your exposed chest with wet, open-mouthed kisses. Every so often he would pause, sucking yet more marks into your skin, licking over them to soothe the sting when he was done. 

You settled for gripping his thighs as he continued his ministrations, and as he moved lower, you let out a high pitched whine. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, lips less than an inch away from the hem of your sleep shorts. “Tell mommy what you need.”

“I…” You felt drunk from the attention, and he had barely touched you yet. Not where you needed him the most. “Need…”

Wumuti moved off of you, trailing his fingertips over your clothed center, featherlight touches that only served to drive you even crazier. You shrieked when a fingernail brushed at your clit, and he laughed. 

“So sensitive.” 

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, your head spinning.

In a flash, Wumuti had hooked his thumbs into your sleep shorts, pulling them down and off in one smooth motion and tossing them off the bed with the rest of the already discarded clothing. He traced the waistband of your panties, a soft grin on his face. 

“Baby Yoda. Cute.”

“Okay look,” you giggled. “If I had expected this I’d have worn something sexier.”

“Fair point, sweetheart,” he nodded. “Maybe we should just take them off.” He pressed two fingers to the apex of your thighs, rubbing at the absolutely soaked fabric. “They don’t seem to be doing you much good anyway.”

All you could do was whine and nod. Seconds later, you were lying fully naked before him, and you could barely breathe. 

Is this what going insane feels like? He is the prettiest person I have ever met. What is he doing with me?

“Nuh-uh,” Wumuti shook his head, and you realized your thoughts may as well have been written on your face. “I know what you’re thinking. Don't you dare think I don't want you. You are all I want.” 

He leaned in to kiss you tenderly, deeply. You let yourself get lost in it, but you broke the kiss with a strangled cry as you felt Wumuti pushing your legs apart, teasing closer and closer to where you wanted him. 

“Please, oh my god,” you gasped. “Oh please.”

Wumuti stood, slipping his own sleep shorts off, and you scarcely had a second to stare at his cock— probably the prettiest you’d ever seen at that, head angry red and leaking pre-cum. He was back on the bed quickly, laying down between your legs as he pushed them further apart. You grabbed a pillow, covering your face with it and letting out a shrill scream.

“No no,” Wumuti tutted. “Let mommy hear those pretty sounds. You said you’d be good for me.”

“Yes mommy,” you whimpered as he leaned in, closing his lips around your swollen and extremely sensitive clit. 

“Mmm, so good,” he growled, sucking at your clit with an intensity that took your breath away. He flicked it with his tongue, and you heard him giggle as you arched your back and reached for his hair. He let you twine your fingers in it, and you tugged lightly.

“Is this what you wanted, pretty baby?” He asked. “Want mommy to eat you like it’s my last meal?”

“Oh god please yes,” you rambled. “I— WUMUTI!” You wailed as he licked a long stripe up your folds before pushing his face into your sopping cunt, devouring you like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. You pulled harder on his hair, but that only served to spur him on more.

“Good girl,” he sighed as he slipped a single finger inside you. “Fuck, you taste heavenly. I knew you were an angel.”

“Mommy!” You shrieked, arching your back and pushing your cunt more firmly against his face as he sank a second, and then a third finger into you in rapid succession. He curled them expertly, and you could feel the vibrations from his gentle laughter against your cunt. 

He began to thrust, pressing firmly against that sensitive spot inside you, and you were at the edge much faster than you anticipated, legs already shaking and breaths coming in strangled gasps as Wumuti continued to feast on your cunt. 

“Come,” he said simply. And that was all you needed— your body shuddering with wave after wave of pleasure. It had been so long since you’d come like this, and you had needed it more than you knew. Wumuti seemed to know, and he kept going, pushing you into a second release before you had come down from the first. You felt a rush of fluid gushing from you, and heard Wumuti’s surprised squeak. 

Did he just make me… oh my god?!

“So, so good for me,” he murmured quietly, still lapping at your folds, drinking up every drop of your cum. “I could eat you all day, I think. This could be my last meal for all I care, and I’d be happy.”

“Mommy,” you said shakily. “Please… I need you…”

He was on you in seconds, cock hard and heavy and nudging between your legs. You inhaled sharply at the warmth of his body covering yours, and he kissed you, bringing one hand to cradle your head gently. 

“You want me inside you, sweetheart?”

“Yes mommy,” you nodded obediently. “Please. I’ll be so good. So good for you,” you mumbled against his lips as you kissed him again, fingers twisting in his hair again. 

You felt him aligning the head of his cock with your entrance, and he pushed in devastatingly slowly, giving you time to adjust to his length. He cursed under his breath as he bottomed out, his hips flush with your own, and you could feel him twitching inside you. You clenched around him, and he rewarded you by pulling out a bit and slamming back inside. 

“MOMMY!” 

Wumuti set a slow pace at first, though you could tell he was having a hard time keeping it.

“My pretty angel,” he whispered, kissing you deeply. “This pussy was made for my cock.”

“Feels so good, mommy,” you sighed, letting your eyes close, relishing the feel of him opening you up.

Making you his.

Which was all you’d ever really wanted in the first place.

You clenched around him again, and he picked up the pace, thrusting hard and fast now, angling just right as he pushed into you over and over as if both your lives depended on it.

“Mommy,” you groaned. “I’m… oh help, fuck, oh god, oh help…” 

You were hurtling towards another release, this one coiling in your belly so tightly that you felt like it might destroy you. 

Then again, if this was the way you went, you couldn’t be mad.

Wumuti leaned in, kissing you softly, whispering against your lips. 

“I can feel you getting tighter and tighter, angel. Why don’t you be a good girl and come on mommy’s cock? Let go for me.”

He didn’t have to ask again— a few more messy thrusts and you were gone, screaming his name as you squirted again, soaking him further. He continued, his strokes becoming erratic, and he whined loudly.

“Where should mommy cum, hmm, angel? I'm so close."

“Inside me!” You cried out. “Please. Please please.”

“Want me to fill you up, baby? You going to be good for me one more time and take every drop?”

“Yes!”

You watched, almost in awe, as he came— eyes closed, fair features twisted up in ecstasy. He arched his back as he pushed inside you to the hilt, and you felt his cock pulsing as he emptined himself into your soaking cunt. As he came down from his own high, he lay down on top of you, cock still deep inside. 

He began to trace your features again, peppering your face with soft kisses.

“So, so good for me,” he murmured. “Precious, perfect angel. I think you really were made for me.”

“Mmm,” was all you could get out, and you brought your hands up to rub circles on his back as he kissed your lips gently. He pressed his forehead to yours, an enormous smile on his face. 

“Good morning,” he giggled. 

“Yes,” you nodded. "Very, very good."

“Are you okay?” His expression morphed to concern, but softened again when you nodded vigorously. 

“Yeah, you just bluescreened my brain cell is all,” you laughed. 

“And I’d do it again if you let me,” he said matter-of-factly. “But later. For now, let’s get cleaned up.”

You sighed as he pulled out, already missing the feel of his cock. He excused himself for a moment, returning with a damp cloth, and he carefully cleaned you up before crawling into bed again, tugging you close and kissing your forehead. 

“I don’t know about you,” he said softly. “But I think this summer is looking up now… for both of us.”

“Mmhmm,” you agreed. 

“Will you be mine, angel?” He asked, voice barely a whisper, as if he were afraid you would say no.

“I think I’ve always been yours,” you told him, heart threatening to beat out of your chest as he beamed at your answer.  

“Good,” he nodded, cradling you to his chest. “So it’s settled.”

“Sounds like it,” you said, grinning as you heard his heart racing. “Promise you’ll take good care of me, mommy?”

“Oh, my pretty baby,” he said softly. “Always. Forever.”

[themoonlightfae]

SWOOOOOOONINGGGGGGGG

routine romance ☕ seungcheol x reader.

you have a routine. a foolproof, tried and tested daily schedule. when the hell did choi seungcheol become part of it?

☕ pairing. talent recruiter!seungcheol x freelancer!reader. ☕ word count. 11.8k. ☕ genres. alternate universe: non-idol. romance, friendship, humor. ☕ includes. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity; implied smut. reader is a freelancer, seungcheol is a corporate slave, strangers to friends to lovers, slowburn, coffee shop romance, meet ugly, feelings realization/denial. reader has a nut allergy (this is relevant, i swear), lee felix as a plot device. ☕ notes. this is part of the that’s showbiz, baby! collaboration. this is one of the two fics i have for the collaboration, and, admittedly, i expected it to be much shorter. alas, i cannot physically shut up about choi seungcheol in a suit. all my love to the amazing writers of tsb, but especially my co-host tara, who saw me come up with the concept for this in one deranged sitting.

That guy who’s always in a suit is in your seat.

Technically, it’s not your seat. The Greeting Committee doesn’t have assigned tables. There’s no velvet rope or brass plaque with your name on it. But it’s understood. Window seat, second table from the left. Just enough sunlight to toast your forearms but not blind you. Outlet within reach. Smells like cinnamon in the mornings and espresso in the afternoons. 

Your seat. Spiritually.

And now he’s in it. Again.

You pause by the pastry case, pretending to consider a scone. It buys you time to glare at him with a level of passive aggression only caffeine deprivation can power. He doesn’t notice. He’s on the phone, murmuring something about image rights and venue capacity, wrist flicking as he gestures to someone who isn’t there. 

The barista, Felix, catches your eye. Offers a sympathetic shrug. This is the third time this week.

You settle at the small table near the bathroom. It wobbles. It always wobbles. You shove a napkin under the leg and mutter a curse that sounds polite. .

Seungcheol. That’s the name of the notorious seat-stealer. 

You learned his name from one of his calls, spoken with the clipped efficiency of someone used to being listened to. “Yes, this is Choi Seungcheol from Carat Company. Let me loop you in.” He says it like he’s not just looping someone in, but reeling them from the goddamn abyss. Like he’s personally saving the entertainment industry one Bluetooth earpiece at a time.

He always wears a suit. Not the stiff kind. Tailored, navy or charcoal, with subtle check patterns. The kind that whispers rather than shouts. The kind that makes you sit up straighter just being near it.

He orders an Americano. Never anything sweet. You know this because you’re close enough to hear him order, not because you’re listening. You’re not listening. You just… absorb things. By proximity.

He types like he means it. Fingers flying, brow furrowed. You once watched him for a full minute before realizing your tea had gone cold.

You don’t like him.

You don’t like that he’s taken your seat, your sunlight, your outlet. You don’t like that he seems to be having Important Conversations while you’re over here editing product descriptions for cat backpacks. You’re just about to settle for your second-best seat when disaster strikes.

Correction: Seungcheol strikes.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Physically. With coffee.

It happens fast. One second, you’re adjusting your chair, the next, you feel a splat of lukewarm liquid soaking through the shoulder of your sweater. Your body jerks. Your mouth opens. Nothing elegant comes out.

“What the ever-loving fuck—” 

Seungcheol freezes. His cup is a crumpled paper carcass in his hand. The coffee is mostly on you, some on the floor, a tragic few drops clinging to his knuckles like guilt.

“I—oh no. No, no, no, I am so sorry,” he says, setting the mangled cup down like it might still be saved. “Are you okay? Did I burn you?”

There’s coffee dripping from your hair. “It’s fine,” you say, in the voice of someone who is not fine.

He winces. “That sounded like a lie.”

You glance down at your sweater. It was oatmeal-colored. Now it looks like oat milk with trauma. “I mean, no third-degree burns,” you say, standing. You shake your arm out. It flings a splatter onto a nearby bookshelf. “Just first-degree humiliation.”

He grabs a stack of napkins from the counter and starts dabbing at your sleeve with the gentleness of someone defusing a bomb.

“You really don’t have to—” you’re saying, but Seungcheol is relentless. 

“No, I do. I definitely do,” he blabbers, all that usual composure gone like the coffee he’s unceremoniously splashed you with. “I’ve basically assaulted you with caffeine. This is… wow. This is not how I usually network.”

You blink at him. “Network?”

He goes still. “That was a joke. I’m joking. This is a joke. I mean, the situation, not your… sweater.” 

You raise an eyebrow.

He flushes. A subtle pink, but obvious. He has the decency to look horrified at himself. “Oh my God. I mean, your sweater was nice. It is nice. I’m just going to stop talking.”

“That would be nice,” you say curtly, and then immediately feel bad about it.

Because he looks sheepish now. His shoulders have gone all slopey. He holds out the last dry napkin like a peace offering. You take it.

Felix, equal parts amused and exasperated, leans over the counter. “Do we need the mop again?”

“I deserve the mop,” Seungcheol mutters underneath his breath.

It’s set in stone. You really, really don’t like him. 

To your surprise, he keeps coming back.

Seungcheol, that is. The man who ruined your sweater and your dignity in one well-aimed Americano.

He returns to The Greeting Committee like nothing happened. Only now, he avoids the window seat. In fact, he avoids your whole half of the café. Sits near the potted ficus, headphones in, coffee clutched like a holy artifact.

You’d almost feel bad if it weren’t kind of funny.

There’s a silent detente. You don’t glare at him anymore. He doesn’t knock beverages into your lap. You coexist. Cautiously. Like squirrels.

Until, one Tuesday, it happens.

You’re halfway through an editing gig that involves correcting SEO tags for eco-friendly deodorant when Felix  appears with a pastry on a plate and a too-big smile. “From your secret admirer,” he says, setting it down with a flourish.

You eye the pastry warily. It’s round. Golden. Gleaming with honey. A little too perfect. “Is this a trick?” you ask.

“It’s from the Suit,” Felix stage-whispers, as if Seungcheol is in witness protection and not six feet away, pretending not to watch. You glance over. Seungcheol immediately looks down at his phone.

Felix nudges the plate closer. “He said you looked like you needed something sweet.”

Your eyebrows do something complicated. You pick up the pastry. It smells good. Really good.

You take a bite. It takes three seconds.

One to register the taste. Two to realize there are slivers of almond inside. Three to remember, with crystal clarity, what it was like to be poked and prodded as a child so your allergies could be found out. “Oh no,” you say around a mouthful of the croissant. 

“Oh no, it’s the best croissant ever—right?” Felix beams. 

You cough. “Not exactly.” 

And then all hell breaks loose.

Seungcheol’s chair scrapes violently against the floor. He’s by your side in less time than it takes your throat to tighten. You don’t realize you’ve dropped the pastry, that your face is turning that brilliant shade of anaphylactic pink. Felix is already halfway to the back counter, yelling something about the EpiPen he keeps near the register just in case.

“Breathe slowly,” Seungcheol says frantically, crouching beside you. “Wait, no, don’t breathe slowly. Or do? Should you breathe faster?”

You wheeze out something that sounds suspiciously like I am going to fucking kill you. 

Your attempted murderer looks stricken. His tie is slightly askew again, like stress physically unravels him. “I didn’t know,” he says. “I swear. Almonds. Why is it always almonds?”

Felix returns with the EpiPen like a knight with a sword. You brace for it. Seungcheol turns paler than the foam on his usual coffee. After the injection, after the flurry, after the adrenaline kicks in and your lungs start acting like lungs again, you sit back against the chair, heart thudding against your ribs.

Seungcheol hovers beside you, holding a water bottle. You would jokingly ask if that, too, had some slow-moving poison, if Seungcheol didn’t look sufficiently spooked.  “You good?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You nod, sipping the proffered water. “Yeah. Could’ve used a warning. Or a label. Or maybe a pastry without biological warfare.”

His laugh is helpless. “I was trying to be nice.”

“You nearly killed me.”

“But nicely.”

Felix, wiping the counter, calls over, “On the bright side, at least he didn’t spill the water on you!”

You and Seungcheol both groan.

You return two days later with a tight throat and a new sweater. Dark green. Nut-proof in spirit, if not in textile.

The Greeting Committee is half full. Quiet, save for milk steaming and a playlist that leans too hard on acoustic covers. You pick your seat—the window, as always. Felix waves with both hands, sheepish. You wave back with one, cautious.

Seungcheol is already there.

This time, he’s at the counter, pacing lightly, muttering to himself while staring at the pastry display. He points at something. Felix nods with visible hesitation. There’s a to-go box involved. A whisper. A squint. This feels... coordinated. Conspiratorial.

You brace.

When he approaches, he holds out the box like it might explode.

“Hi,” he says, tentative. “I come in peace.”

You stare at the box.

“It’s carrot cake,” he adds quickly. “I checked. Three times. No nuts. No hidden almonds. No sabotage. I even made Felix read me the ingredients out loud.”

“Did he cry?”

“A little.”

You gesture for the box. Open it. The slice is thick, aggressively frosted, and improbably orange. It smells safe. “Carrot cake,” you repeat.

“I Googled ‘pastries least likely to kill someone with allergies.’ That was top three.”

“That explains the pacing.”

He sighs, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Look, I swear I’m not usually this... destructive.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mmm.” 

“I mean it. I’m a functioning adult. I have a job. A dry cleaner. A filing system.”

“A coffee-related injury and a near-death croissant would suggest otherwise."

“Okay. Fair,” he huffs. “Look, maybe this is just… the universe telling me to leave you alone.”

You stare at him blankly, as if trying to agree with the universe’s supposed assessment. He shrugs and keeps talking—does this man ever shut up?—trying for breezy. Failing. “I mean, clearly, we can’t exist in the same proximity without one of us needing medical attention or therapy.” 

That gets you. A laugh slips out, involuntary. Quick and warm. You try to catch it, but it’s too late.

He freezes. It happens so fast you almost miss it. His whole face softening. Like the sound surprised him. Like he hadn't planned for the possibility of your amusement.

He looks at you, dazed. Eyes a little wide. Mouth a little open. Like you’ve told him a secret without speaking. “That was a laugh,” he says with the sort of reverence that belongs in cathedrals instead of this overpriced coffee shop.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. You pick up your fork. Take a cautious bite of the cake.

Safe.

He watches like he’s waiting for a verdict from a judge on Culinary Class Words. You chew. Swallow. Say, “This might be your least disastrous attempt yet.”

His grin breaks, full and boyish. The sun cracking through storm clouds. “So you’re saying there’s hope for attempt four,” he breathes. 

“I’m saying,” you huff, “don’t push it.” 

You look out the window to hide the smile threatening to fill your face.

Seungcheol stays looking at you.

You have a routine. Five days a week. Headphones in. Laptop open. Coffee always lukewarm by the time you remember it.

Seungcheol, meanwhile, has a rhythm. Three days if the stars align. Never the same ones. He’s a Monday-Wednesday guy. Then a Thursday-Saturday surprise. He shows up like a plot twist, wearing button-downs and the kind of watch that says my meetings run looong.

You’ve learned to expect him, even if you don't expect anything from him.

The greetings are polite now. Nods. Small smiles. He no longer treats your existence like a delicate diplomatic situation. You no longer imagine stapling his tie to the table.

Progress.

Some days he takes calls near the door, pacing like he’s afraid someone will steal the air. Other times, he just stares at his screen, typing fast, deleting faster. Once, you caught him playing Wordle with the focus of a man solving a hostage crisis.

You don’t talk. Not really. But you know when he’s had a rough day—he stirs his coffee too hard and forgets to say thank you to Felix. And you know when he’s having a good one, because he hums under his breath, terribly off-key.

One rainy afternoon, everything else is full. You’re already settled in. Window seat. Usual latte. Document open. Rain tapping the glass in a rhythm that matches your brain.

Seungcheol stands in the middle of The Greeting Committee like a man who’s lost his passport. Scans the tables. Sees you.

You raise an eyebrow. He approaches, cautious. Like he thinks you might hiss.

“Hey. Uh.” He gestures vaguely at the table. “Can I—?”

You glance around. Nothing else is open. Sighing, you give a jerky nod of acquiescence. He exhales and slides into the chair across from you.

There’s a moment. Awkward. Familiar. Like two commuters who ride the same bus but never speak. He sets down his drink. The usual plain Americano—probably scalding, probably vindictive. You go back to your screen. He goes back to pretending not to watch you type.

Five minutes in, you sigh. He looks up from his company-issued MacBook. “Something wrong?”

“Just this client,” you mumble, mostly to yourself. “Wants a brand voice that’s ‘youthful but ancient, fresh but nostalgic.’ Like a time-traveling Gen Z monk.”

He chokes on his drink. You glance at him, and he stumbles to explain, “Yeah. Just picturing a TikTok monk explaining skincare with Gregorian chants.”

You snort. It feels dangerous, this sharing. Even in passing. You type. He sips.

Time passes. The rain doesn’t. At some point, Felix drops off another slice of carrot cake. No note this time. Just a wink. Seungcheol catches your eye. “I figured it was safer than flowers,” he says with the shrug of a man trying to act calm, cool, and collected.

You poke your fork into the cake. “This your way of asking to sit here again?”

“I would never assume.”

“But you are assuming.”

He smiles, soft around the edges. “Only a little.”

You shake your head. Take a bite. Let the silence settle again. 

Not quite friendship. Not quite strangers. Something else. Something quietly growing between sips of coffee and shared space.

By late afternoon, the light slants golden through the windows, soft and syrupy. Your laptop screen reflects it back at you in glaring defiance. The carrot cake is half-eaten. The air smells like espresso and mild ambition.

You stretch. He cracks his knuckles. The silence has been comfortable, companionable—until he speaks. “So. Freelancing,” he says, testing the waters. “That’s just... vibing with deadlines?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “That’s rich coming from a guy who wears a wristwatch like it owes him rent.”

He lifts his coffee cup in a lazy toast. “Touché,” he hums. “But at least corporate structure keeps things predictable. Stable.”

“Stable? You get sixty Slack notifications an hour and call that stability?”

He winces. “Okay, yes. But there’s a paycheck. A health plan. A desk that isn’t being commandeered by an iced matcha spill.”

You level a look at him. “Are you judging my system?”

He glances at your spread: laptop, two notebooks, highlighters of questionable age, and a sticker-covered planner that might be more decorative than functional. “I would never,” he says. 

You raise an eyebrow.

He grins. “Okay. Mildly.”

“You color-code your calendar and get passive-aggressive about Outlook invites,” you taunt. 

“You wound me.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“Please don’t be mean to me,” he says, deadpan. “I get turned on when pretty girls are mean to me.”

The words hang in the air.

Your typing stutters. Seungcheol goes pale. Then pink. Then a shade of red that belongs in a fruit bowl. “That was—I didn’t—I meant it as a joke,” he stammers. 

You let out a low whistle. “Bold choice.”

“I panicked.”

You laugh. Loud, sudden, and unfiltered. It startles the couple next to you. Seungcheol looks like he might curl into his coffee mug and disappear. “Okay, okay,” you say, still smiling. “Let’s set some ground rules before this table implodes.”

He nods solemnly. “No horniness before five?”

“Four-thirty. I’m flexible.”

He exhales a laugh, hands up in surrender. “Understood.”

The sun slips lower. Your coffee is cold again. The world outside looks dipped in gold foil. Across from you, Seungcheol relaxes a little. You don’t look directly at him, but you know he’s smiling.

The next few weeks pass in soft edits.

No dramatic reveals. No sudden declarations. Just a slow, accidental choreography.

Seungcheol starts arriving earlier. Not every day, but often enough to make it a pattern. He never asks to sit with you. Not at first. He just hovers close, table-hopping like a caffeinated bee until one day he drops his laptop across from yours like it’s always been that way.

“Morning,” he says casually, as if this is not a minor emotional event.

“You’re in my eye-line,” you reply flatly.

“I’m in your heart-line,” he says, complete with finger guns and an exaggerated wink.

You blink.

He sips his coffee, very focused. “Sorry,” he grumbles, now appropriately shamed. “Still workshopping that one.”

It becomes a new bullet point in the routine. Shared table. Shared silence. Occasionally, shared WiFi when yours decides to enter a fugue state. Sometimes you squabble over seating. Sometimes you share pastries. Once, you both accidentally ordered the same scone and acted like it was a legal dispute.

“Just split it,” Felix suggested.

“Absolutely not,” you both said. (In the end, he let you have it.) 

Another time, Seungcheol caught you stress-doodling in the margins of your planner and started rating your sketches like a judge on a chaotic art show.

“This frog has emotional range.”

“That’s a pigeon.”

“Even better.”

The Greeting Committee becomes less a café and more a stage for the most low-stakes, high-tension sitcom known to man. One Thursday, though, Seungcheol brings someone with him.

You look up at the new arrival. Mid-twenties. Good bone structure. Nervous smile. The kind of person who says thank you twice just to be safe.

Seungcheol ushers her to a corner seat, sliding into professional mode like a second skin. Back straight. Voice low, reassuring. Hands used sparingly, deliberately. A talent he’s trying to recruit, you realize. 

He’s good at this. It shows.

You don’t eavesdrop. Not really. But your laptop screen is less interesting when he leans forward, nodding with the kind of attention that makes you feel seen by proxy.

You watch him talk about contracts and career growth like he believes in people. Like he sees possibility in them and is simply here to translate it to paper.

It makes you feel something.

Maybe admiration.

Maybe curiosity.

Maybe the sudden realization that beneath the tie knots and tragic Americano habit, Seungcheol might actually be kind of brilliant.

He glances up mid-meeting and catches you watching. You look away, pretending to be fascinated by a blank spreadsheet. In the corner of your eye, you see him bite back a smile. 

Later, when the talent leaves, he slides into the seat across from you again, a little smug.

“You were staring.”

“I was judging.”

“You judge with very starry eyes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snipe, but the heat in it is doused by whatever residual admiration you’ve been trying to fight down. 

“Too late,” Seungcheol sing-songs as he unpacks his things, readying to be your seatmate once more until five in the afternoon. “Already added it to my morning affirmations.”

It’s a Wednesday. The kind where the air smells like over-steamed milk and deadlines. The windows of The Greeting Committee are fogged at the edges, and the playlist is stuck somewhere between folk optimism and indie despair.

You’re halfway through your second coffee and the fourth paragraph of an email you’ve rewritten five times when Seungcheol walks in. He looks like someone who lost an argument with his alarm clock, his inbox, and possibly God.

His tie is loose. His hair is defying gravity in three directions. He drops his briefcase three tables away and immediately starts pacing with his phone pressed to his ear.

“No, I said the 17th, not the 7th,” he says, voice a low, stressed hiss. “Yes, because they’re filming in Thailand, not, I don’t know, the moon.”

He hangs up. Sits for all of five minutes. Stands. Sits again. Calls someone else. Wash, rinse, repeat.

You try to focus. You really do. But there’s something magnetic about watching a usually unflappable man unravel like a department store sweater. “Not worried,” you mutter to yourself, clicking back to your work. He’s fine. Just corporate molting. 

But then you hear him exhale. Hard. He rubs his eyes like the day is a contact sport, and you feel a twang of sympathy because you’re not a goddamn monster.

You walk up to Felix, who’s wiping down the espresso machine with the casual grace of someone who moonlights as a Disney prince. You slip him a five.

“What’s this for?”

“A carrot cake emergency.”

He glances at Seungcheol, eyebrows lifting.

“Make it look natural,” you add. “No obvious charity. Just… coincidence.”

Felix winks and executes the drop with spy-level precision. Mid-call, Seungcheol barely notices the plate until the scent catches up to him.

He pauses. Looks down. Then up, but not at Felix.

Right at you.

He smiles. Not the usual cocky smirk or the teasing grin. No. This one is quieter. Warmer. A tight-lipped gratitude that has your traitorous heart skipping a beat. Maybe two. 

He mouths, Thank you.

You raise your mug in reply.

He takes a bite. For the first time that day, his shoulders drop. The tension doesn’t disappear, but it softens. Like cake under a fork. The café hums around you—a gentle orchestra of foam, glass, and familiarity.

You go back to your laptop, a little smile playing on your lips. Still not worried, of course. Merely bservationally invested.

You pack up as the sun angles lower in the window, slanting gold across your keyboard. The drone of the café shifts with the hour. A quieter crowd now, more book than laptop, more wine than espresso. You sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to melt into the early evening.

You’re halfway to the door when Seungcheol calls your name. He’s still at his table, carrot cake reduced to crumbs, a little less frazzled than before. He jogs to catch up, a hand running through his hair, trying and failing to tame it.

“Thanks,” he says, a little out of breath. “For the cake drop. Very subtle. Almost untraceable.”

You feign innocence. “No idea what you’re talking about. Maybe Felix just really likes you.”

“Yeah, he also gave me a drawing of a frog once. But I have a feeling this was you.”

You shrug. “I prefer plausible deniability.”

He smiles. That damned smile again. Not practiced, not perfect. Real. “It helped,” he confesses. “More than I thought it would.”

There’s a beat. Not awkward, more aware. Then he gestures toward the street. “You headed home? Want a ride?” he offers. 

For a flicker of a moment, you feel panic. Real, dumb, heart-skipping panic. It’s stupid, but there’s only so much changes to the routine that you can manage. 

You shake your head too quickly. “Oh—no, I’m good. I like the walk. Clears the head. You know. Air. Legs. Exercise. The usual.”

Seungcheol tilts his head to one side, amused. “Right. Wouldn’t want to deprive your legs.”

You wince. “That came out weird.”

“A little.”

You make a vague getaway motion with your thumb. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow. Or whenever your Google Calendar allows.”

He steps back with a hand over his heart. “Rejected. Brutally,” he says, probably half-serious in his petulance. “I’ll add it to the long list of things humbling me today.” 

You laugh, finally breathing again.

He grins. “Get home safe, leg defender.”

You toss him a wave as the door jingles shut behind you, the night warm and a little kinder than before.

The next time, though, it’s your turn to fray. 

Not frayed like the fashionable kind, like the artfully undone cuffs of your oldest hoodie. No. Frayed like a wire that’s been chewed on, left buzzing and dangerous, held together by the last threads of caffeine and hope.

You take your usual seat by the window, laptop open but untouched. There’s a tab open for invoices and another for a brand guideline doc you swear was written by an alien. The client has emailed five times since sunrise. Each message contradicts the last. You can’t even be mad anymore. Only tired.

The Greeting Committee smells like cinnamon and second chances. Felix slides your drink over with a gentle smile. It doesn’t help much.

Seungcheol arrives half an hour later, still slightly windblown, suit jacket over one arm. He spots you, hesitates, then sits at the table beside yours.

“Hey,” he says, carefully. “You look industrious.” 

You grunt.

He peeks at your screen. “Stressed from freelancing?” he says, aiming for a friendly jab. “Didn’t know that possible. I thought you’d have it easier, you know. Not having to deal with soul-crushing clients.”

It hits wrong. Off-key. The joke doesn’t land; it crash lands.

You glance up. Maybe he sees the sharpness in your jaw, the sheen in your eyes. Maybe not. You stand abruptly, chair scraping a little too loud against the floor. “Excuse me,” you say, voice too even.

You retreat to the bathroom. Lock the door. Breathe once. Twice. And then it happens.

Your chest caves, just a little. The tears come fast and hot. Not the kind you can blink away. These are stubborn, panicked, silent sobs. Messy ones. The kind you don’t want anyone to see.

You wash your face after. Pat your cheeks until they stop looking flushed, though they don’t. Your eyes are still red, like you lost a fight with a mascara wand and your own emotional stability. 

When you emerge, the café looks the same, but something has shifted. Seungcheol looks up immediately. He doesn’t say anything.

Just watches you, eyes soft, mouth slightly open like he started a sentence but forgot how to finish it. There’s none of his usual machismo. He just looks like someone kicked his favorite puppy.

You sit back down, mute. Felix gives you a glance, like he’s debating giving you a cookie. You shake your head. Not today.

Seungcheol clears his throat, shifts, but says nothing.

The silence is a kindness. So you let it be.

You go back to your screen and pretend to work. Seungcheol stays in his seat beside you. Quiet, still, and present.

He doesn't come by the next day. Or the one after.

It shouldn’t matter. And yet, your eyes flick to the door more than they should. There’s a particular flow you’ve both unconsciously followed, a choreography built of glances and coffee steam, shared space and sidelong banter. You miss it. Or him. Or whatever weird, ambiguous thing he is.

On the third day, though, he returns.

You feel him before you see him. His presence has a particular gravity, like someone dragged in a suitcase full of decisions and contradictions. He walks up, eyes careful, a coffee in each hand.

“Peace offering?” he says, nudging one cup toward you.

“Is it poisoned?” you ask, trying not to sound too pleased at his reappearance. 

“Only with charm and sincerity.”

You take it. He sits. Not at the next table. Not across the room. But right across from you. “Okay,” he says, settling in. “I want to understand what you do. Freelancing. The whole… lifestyle."

“You mean the glorious, cobbled-together hustle powered by imposter syndrome and caffeine?” you throw back, 

“Exactly,” he grins. “That.”

You peer at him. “Don’t you have a mountain of corporate souls to harvest today?”

He leans back, eyes closed dramatically. “Took an emergency leave.”

You stare. “An emergency leave. For freelance empathy research.”

“And because my boss told me I was breathing too loudly on calls. Also that I needed to stop quoting BTS lyrics in pitch decks. But yes. Research.”

You snort despite yourself. “Fine,” you say, gesturing to your screen. “Give me an hour. I have to finish this edit before my client finds another designer who doesn’t cry in public bathrooms."

He lifts both hands in surrender. “No rush. I’m just here to sponge up wisdom and avoid responsibility.”

You nod once, then dive into your screen, fingers tapping in a slow, precise rhythm. Every so often, you feel his gaze. Like he’s watching someone solve a puzzle he never knew existed. You finish the edit in record time, hit send, close your laptop with a satisfying click.

He perks up. “That it? Are we about to enter the magical world of self-employment lore?”

You stretch, then take a long sip of your not-poisoned coffee. “Welcome to hell, Seungcheol. There are no benefits, but sometimes people send you cheese in the mail."

He grins, eyes lighting up. “Sounds oddly romantic.”

“It’s a lifestyle of extremes.”

For the first time in days, the air between you feels loose again. You tell him all the details. The ability to work from wherever, at the price of the constant availability. The power to pick and choose your battles. The legal threats issued when you’re not paid on time. Seungcheol is expressive; he shuttles from amusement and horror every so often. 

As you close up your tirade, you rest your chin on your palm and squint at him over the rim of your cup. “So what are you like outside the nine-to-five costume party?” 

He hums. “Define ‘outside.’”

“The part of the day where you're not actively recruiting K-pop idols or quoting RM at your boss.”

He taps his fingers on the table, mock-pensive. “Well. I play padel.”

You actually flinch. “Of course you do.” 

“And indoor golf,” he adds, almost sheepish.

“You absolute LinkedIn man.”

He gasps, fake-offended. “Take that back.”

“Next you’re gonna tell me you use Notion to organize your fridge.”

“That was one time. And the color-coding was inspired.”

You point at him, triumphant. “I knew it.”

He chuckles, leans in a little like he can't help it. “And what do you do outside of crying over client feedback and judging my recreational habits?”

“I doodle in margins. Watch bad reality TV and pretend it’s for character study. Occasionally rearrange my bookshelf like it’s therapy,” you answer as you roll your shoulders. 

He nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

You tilt your head. “You know, you’re very defensive about your Very Normal Corporate Hobbies.”

“You asked. I answered.”

“You answered like a man who has a separate gym bag just for tennis whites.”

“Only on weekends.”

You laugh, louder than intended. A few heads turn. Seungcheol watches you, smile stretching slowly, like he’s soaking it in.

“So,” he says, after a beat. “You want to know me, huh?”

You bite back a grin. “You’re the one who took emergency leave to decode the mysteries of my working habits.”

“But you’re asking the personal questions.”

You go to sip your coffee again but pause mid-air. Okay. Fair. You set your mug down. “Maybe I do. Want to know you.”

He blinks, surprised. You swear there’s a slight flush to his ears. “Wow,” he says, voice lighter. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

“Don’t get cocky. It’s purely investigative.”

“Of course. For science.”

“For society.”

“For the greater good.”

You both grin into your drinks. For a moment, it feels easy again—like maybe you’re two people in a café, not an ironic universe crashing softly into each other. Just you, him, and the slow unfurling of something not yet named.

You start bringing extra pens, just in case he forgets his again. He never asks, but he always takes them, twirling the cap between his fingers as if it’s part of his pitch strategy. You pretend not to notice the way he always slides it back across the table when he leaves, perfectly aligned with your notebook.

He starts remembering how you like your coffee. Not the way you order it, but the way you drink it. When it should be sweet, when it needs to be strong. He doesn’t ask. Just shows up with a cup that tastes like exactly the kind of day you’re having.

Once, you swap playlists. He laughs at your affinity for melancholic ballads and sends you one too many motivational bops in return. You retaliate with obscure indie rock. He retaliates harder with vintage K-pop. It spirals quickly.

Your seating becomes a ritual. You gravitate toward each other like satellites, or maybe like rival planets that keep brushing orbits. Not always talking, but near. Comfortable in the shared silence of productivity, in the occasional sarcastic quip lobbed across laptops.

Then, one Thursday, you can’t make it. A meeting across town. A cousin’s birthday. Something outside the orbit. You don’t text. It’s not that kind of arrangement.

The next day, you return to The Greeting Committee, windblown and half-apologetic for reasons you can’t name. Felix greets you at the counter with a too-wide grin.

“Someone was a little antsy yesterday,” he says, sliding your usual across the bar.

Your brow furrows. “Antsy?”

Felix leans in, tone conspiratorial. “Your boy was pacing,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Kept checking the door like a golden retriever who lost his owner at the park. Ordered three espressos and didn’t drink any of them.”

You don’t even have the energy to clock Felix for calling Seungcheol your boy. You glance over to your usual table. Seungcheol is there. Head down. Pretending he can’t hear Felix. He’s gone stock-still.

You approach slowly. “Three espressos?”

Seungcheol already has his face buried in his hands. “I hate him,” he groans. 

You set your things down. “Were you worried about me?”

“I was... mildly alarmed that my study subject had vanished,” he mumbles. “For science.”

You grin at the now-inside joke. “For society.”

He squints at you from between his fingers. “I should’ve taken another emergency leave.”

“Better clear it with HR.”

He sighs dramatically, then glances at you. “Glad you’re back.”

Your heart stumbles. “Yeah,” you murmur, trying not to smile too much. “Me too.”

The day stays with you.

Like a bit of sugar stuck on your lip, or a phrase you can’t remember the origin of. It trails behind you into the evening, clings to your sweater the next morning, settles in the folds of routine. His face, half-horrified under Felix’s grin. The way he said glad you’re back. Too casual. Too real.

It sits beside you when he doesn’t show up the next day. Or the next. Or the three after that. By day six, you’ve graduated from confused to mildly insulted. Not that it matters. Not that you care. Not that you check the door every time it opens.

You try to reason with yourself. He has a job. A corporate one. With meetings. Flights. Possibly a high-stakes padel tournament. But still, the café feels off-kilter without him. Like one chair always pulled out too far.

Day eight, you’re settled into your seat—headphones in, deadlines glaring—when a shadow flits across your screen. You look up.

He’s back. Tan coat, navy slacks, guilty smile. Holding a coffee cup like a peace treaty.

You don’t look up again. Not really. Just enough to let him pass. You type a little more pointedly than usual. Sip your drink a touch too loud. “Okay,” he says eventually, dropping into the seat across from you with a sigh. “Are we doing this?”

You don’t stop typing. “Doing what?”

“This thing. Where you pretend not to notice me because I disappeared for a week.”

You arch a brow. “You disappeared?” you ask, even though the tick of your jaw gives away your feigned nonchalance. 

“I had a work trip,” he says, halfway exasperated. “I didn’t fake my own death.”

“Would’ve been less dramatic.”

He exhales a laugh, then leans forward, arms on the table. “You know, we could exchange numbers. Save you the emotional labor next time.”

You glance at him. He’s smirking. Just a little. But there’s a hopefulness under it, peeking out like socks that don’t match.

“You think I want your number?” 

“No. I think you want me to want your number.” 

You snort. You hate it when he’s right. Wordlessly, you hold out your hand; he stares at it like it’s some sort of bomb. 

“Phone,” you say dryly. “Before I change my mind.”

He fumbles it out, unlocking it with shaking fingers. You type in your number, add your name, and for no good reason, a croissant emoji. You hand it back. “There,” you huff. “Now next time you vanish, I can file a formal complaint.”

He grins, and it’s a little too wide for his face. A little too happy to be friendly. “I’ll have my people forward it to legal.”

You finally meet his eyes.

It feels like stepping into warm light.

Your phone buzzes, mid-sip, mid-scroll, mid-holding-back-a-yawn. A text. From Seungcheol. Who is, rather notably, sitting four feet in front of you.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:03 PM]: did you sleep last night or are you just naturally corpse-chic today?

You look up. He’s got the gall to raise his brows at you over his laptop, like he didn’t just insult you through cellular waves. Like this is normal behavior for a grown man in business casual.

You respond with a slow, deliberate middle finger under the table. He grins. Felix swats you both and murmurs something about children being around. 

The next day, Seungcheol does it again.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:25 PM]: is that your third cup? do i need to stage an intervention or just sponsor it as a startup?

This time, you reward him with a middle finger emoji. Something a little more permanent, and a lot less damning to Felix. Seungcheol’s responding cough is suspiciously laughter-adjacent.

It becomes a rhythm, a beat stitched between sips and keystrokes. You never text outside of The Greeting Committee. Not once. But inside its sun-drenched walls, with the clatter of cups and the low hum of indie folk, you have your own thread. A quiet thing. A private game.

Sometimes, it’s teasing.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:43 PM]: felix gave you the bigger muffin. favoritism.

Sometimes, it’s curious

Seungcheol ☕ [3:10 PM]: what are you working on today? looks serious. also your nose scrunches when you’re focused.

Sometimes, it’s borderline sentimental:

Seungcheol ☕ [5:04 PM]: i like mondays better now.

You don’t always respond.

Sometimes you just smile, or shake your head, or raise an eyebrow that says you’re on to him. Sometimes he takes that as victory. Sometimes he gets mock-wounded.

You pretend not to notice the way he watches your face light up, but you do. You always do.

You don’t know what to make of it—this strange little performance. This theater of text bubbles and muffled laughs. But your fingers start lingering over your phone when he walks in. Your heart bumps when it buzzes. You catch yourself rereading his old messages when he’s in the restroom.

You know it isn’t just caffeine making you giddy, no matter how badly you want to make the claim.

Seungcheol doesn’t come in one morning. You notice before the door finishes not opening.

Felix does, though, gliding past your table with a steaming latte and a smirk like he knows a secret. He wipes down the counter with theatrical flair before leaning over it to say, “So. Are you two ever going to get together, or should I just start a betting pool?”

You laugh. Too quickly. Too high. “We’re not—” You wave your hand in a vague gesture that means something like, Don’t be ridiculous, but also, maybe, Please don’t ask me that when I haven’t had my coffee.

Felix raises both eyebrows and hums. “Sure. Okay. Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart.”

You spend the next thirty minutes trying to focus on your screen and not on the vacant corner of the cafe where Seungcheol’s laptop usually glows and his stupid phone buzzes with texts he won’t say out loud. It’s like trying to work with half your keyboard missing. Or your second favorite limb.

Around lunchtime, when the loneliness gets just a touch too loud, you do something unhinged.

You open LinkedIn.

It starts off innocent. Curious, even. You want to see what he looks like in a professional headshot. You want to know if his job title is as unnecessarily long as you suspect. (It is. “Senior Talent Acquisition Specialist & Strategist, Creative Industries Division.” Ugh.)

You scroll through his accolades, which are infuriatingly impressive. Fluent in three languages. Led multiple region-wide talent campaigns. There’s a photo of him at some conference, smiling and mid-sentence, looking… God, competent. That’s, unfortunately for you, really hot. 

You hate how charming his bullet points are. You hate that he probably made a slide deck about them. You close the app. You reopen it. You check his endorsements.

And then, as you're packing up, phone zipped away, pretending like you haven’t spiraled into corporate espionage, your screen lights up.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: you know i have linkedin premium, right? i can see who views my profile.

Your soul leaves your body. You stop dead, laptop halfway into your tote. Another buzz.

Seungcheol ☕ [2:22 PM]: did you miss me that bad?

A third, before you can reply:

Seungcheol ☕ [2:23 PM]: you could’ve just texted, you little coward.

You type back with trembling thumbs.

You [2:25 PM]: You should be banned from the internet.

He sends a smirking emoji, and the emoji with hearts on the face. 

You hate him. You hate that you’re smiling. You hate that your heart is fluttering like it just got a calendar invite to something thrilling.

You slide your phone into your bag. It buzzes again. You leave it there. 

You don’t need to check it to know exactly who it is.

The next time you see Seungcheol, he’s already sitting at your table.

He has the audacity to look smug, half-grin tilting upward as you approach, coffee in hand and dignity in tatters. “Hope you found what you were looking for on my profile,” he says without preamble.

You set your cup down with deliberate care. “Actually,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him, “I did. Very informative. I especially liked the bit where you led a cross-functional recruitment initiative. That was hot.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he chokes on his Americano.

You raise an eyebrow, sipping your latte with practiced coolness. “What?”

He coughs into his sleeve. “Nothing,” he wheezes. “Just didn’t realize I had a fan.”

You tilt your head. “LinkedIn says you’re results-driven. I just wanted to see if you lived up to the branding.”

He goes very still. There’s a beat, then another, and then his ears go pink. It’s kind of glorious. He clears his throat, fiddling with the lid of his cup like it’s suddenly become complicated engineering.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accuses. 

This, as in corporate flirting? “Immensely,” you chirp. 

He lifts his gaze just long enough to give you a look that says two can play this game, but not very well, apparently. “You know, I was going to bring you a croissant to make fun of you gently, but now I’m reconsidering.”

“Fear is the beginning of wisdom,” you say, quoting something you may or may not have pulled from a fortune cookie.

He groans softly, but there’s laughter behind it. There always is, lately. He looks at you a little too long, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment. You feel it, the shift—somewhere between banter and something gentler, something a little more reckless. But then he breaks the moment, leaning back with a crooked grin.

“Remind me to revoke your internet access,” he says.

“Try it,” you say. “I dare you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

The evening’s already blushing gold by the time Seungcheol says, “Let me walk you home tonight.”

It’s casual, tossed in like garnish. But there’s a new kind of weight to it. Not the kind that sinks, but the kind that anchors.

You sip the last of your lukewarm latte and reply, “Okay. But we’re walking. No car. It’s only twenty minutes, and you need the humility.”

He squints like you’ve personally offended his shin splints. “Twenty minutes? That’s practically cardio.”

You stand, grab your tote, and shoot him a look. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

He groans but follows, waving a lazy goodbye to Felix, who grins way too knowingly.

The air outside is warm with the memory of the sun. The streets are still holding onto their buzz, slow and syrupy. You walk side by side, his arm brushing yours just often enough to register. He doesn’t make a show of it. That would be too easy.

At the end of the block, you turn left instead of right.

Seungcheol pauses. “Hey. That’s not the way to your place. Unless you’re secretly living behind the dumpster.”

You shrug. “Need to make a stop.”

His eyes narrow. “Is this how it happens? You lure me out, make me walk, then finish me off behind a coffee shop? Classic femme fatale behavior.”

“Stop being dramatic,” you sigh. “I’m feeding someone.”

You lead him to the back of The Greeting Committee, where the air smells like cooling bricks and old pastries. There, curled beneath a battered crate and a weather-worn sign, is a stray tabby blinking lazily up at you.

“This is Pumpkin,” you say, crouching to pull a packet of wet food from your bag as if it’s completely normal to carry gourmet feline meals in a tote next to your charger and existential despair.

Seungcheol just stares. “You—what—is that tuna mousse?”

“Chicken and pumpkin puree,” you correct. “He has a sensitive stomach.”

The tabby slinks forward, mewling. You set the food down, and Pumpkin immediately goes to town. Seungcheol is still watching, expression somewhere between disbelief and awe. “You do this every day?” he asks.

You shrug. “Most days. Felix lets me stash a few cans under the sink. He pretends not to know.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, crouching beside you. His knees crack with such dramatic flourish you can't help but look at him. “I’m too young to make those sounds,” he mutters.

“Corporate life ages you.”

He glances at you. “So does pining after someone who makes fun of your LinkedIn.”

You pretend to study Pumpkin more closely. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh, it is,” he says, and his smile feels like the first sip of something warm on a cold morning.

The two of you watch Pumpkin finish off his meal. You could probably get going, but you quite like seeing Seungcheol—immaculately pressed suit, Aventus Creed Seungcheol—crouched in a random alleyway, watching a cat with immense concentration. Makes him look more human, less robot. 

Pumpkin mewls appreciatively at you as he finishes off his meal. The stray gives Seungcheol a hiss that suspiciously sounds like a warning. It doesn’t really make sense until you get to your feet, Seungcheol in tow, and you realize he’s giving you a Look. The preemptive kind that warns of something ahead. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m about to do something stupid.”

“Like pet the cat even though he’ll hiss at you again?” you say, because it’s easier to joke about things than take anything seriously. 

He takes a breath. His gaze flicks to your lips. “Worse.”

And then, before you can ask, Seungcheol says, “Sorry,” like it’s the preamble to a crime scene, and leans in.

The kiss is not polite. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test or a maybe.

It’s the undoing of a thousand little silences.

Your back hits the wall. You let out a surprised sound, half laugh, half breathless awe. The alley smells like coffee grounds and rain-slicked pavement. His tie is the first casualty; you tug it loose and toss it over a bike rack without ceremony. Seungcheol groans into your mouth. His hands are warm and everywhere, grounding you while one of your legs hitch over his waist. 

You taste his Americano on his tongue, bergamot from his cologne, and something sharper that must be everything he hasn’t said. The way he kisses you like an overdue confession. You don’t stop to think about the logistics. Or the implications. Or whether Pumpkin the cat is scandalized.

You just think about how this man—who wears suits to cafés, who once made you cry with a poorly timed joke, who texts you across the room just to see you smile—is kissing you, like the world might end if he doesn’t.

Your breath is still caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat when he pulls back. Not fully, not even really. Just enough for air to cool your lips, for the night to slip between your mouths, for you to hear him say, between peppered kisses along your jaw and neck, “I’ve dreamt of doing that since the moment I saw you in that damn cafe.”

You let your head tip back against the brick wall. “You can’t call it love at first sight,” you murmur, voice wobbly but amused. “This isn’t some drama your company produced, Choi.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He says it with no real bite, his mouth still brushing against your throat. “But I’ve known I wanted to kiss you since I laid my fucking eyes on you, so what does that make me?”

You choke on a laugh. It bubbles between your ribs, tangled with the aftershock of his lips and the humiliating truth that you’d let him keep kissing you all night if he wanted.

Your fingers are still laced in the lapels of his coat. His hands—well, one is braced against the wall behind your head and the other has begun to roam with alarming curiosity, curling possessively at your waist, tugging you flush against him like he could make up for the months lost in one touch.

It’s reckless. A little indecent. Unwise in about seventeen different ways.

You kiss him again anyway, because you’re not a coward. But when his thumb slips under the hem of your shirt and your knees actually threaten mutiny, you pull back, panting, forehead resting against his.

“We can’t be like teenagers groping each other in an alleyway,” you whine. 

He grins widely, a little wild around the edges. “Why not?”

You push gently at his chest, which is about as effective as shoving a tree. “Because I live around the corner, and I have dignity.”

“Debatable,” he murmurs, but he steps back all the same. The loss is enough to almost make you sob. 

You grab his hand, and tug him along. “Come on, Romeo. Let’s go make more questionable decisions in the comfort of my very adult, very allergy-safe apartment,” you manage. 

He hastily grabs his tie with his free hand. “If there’s carrot cake, I might propose.”

“There’s vodka in the freezer.”

“Close enough.”

The two of you make it to your apartment in record time, breathless and disheveled, a tangle of limbs that barely manages to key open the door. You’re laughing, the kind of laugh that shakes with adrenaline.

Your back hits the inside of the door before it even closes properly, and Seungcheol is already kissing you again. Less alleyway, more frantic prayer. His hands at your hips, your fingers at the buttons of his shirt, all coordination gone to hell.

“Wait… we should talk,” you try, mouth brushing against his as you speak. Your hands are on his collar, but your words are trying to wrangle the last of your common sense.

He nips at your jaw. “We will.”

Your jacket slips off your shoulders. His tie joins it on the floor. “Seungcheol,” you say with more force, stepping back as much as he lets you. “We can't make out for three episodes and then just forget to have a conversation."

His shirt is halfway undone, and his hair’s in beautiful, stupid disarray. He pauses then, forehead against yours. His breath is still shallow. So is yours. “You’re right,” he says. “This shouldn’t be like the dramas.”

Your heartbeat is in your throat. “So?” you choke out. 

He exhales. It rumbles against your sternum, where your bodies are still close enough to feel the echo. “So we do both. We kiss first, talk after. We do it all. As long as neither of us runs.”

Your hand stills against his chest. It would be the easiest thing to make a joke—say something coy, derail the tension with a smirk and a shrug. But Seungcheo’s eyes are honest in a way that leaves no room for denial. No games, no marketing language, no curated storylines. Just him, a man still half-dressed and fully sincere.

“Deal,” you decide, and then you kiss him again.

It carries you all the way to the couch, to the warmth of pressed skin and the ridiculousness of two adults trying not to knock over a lamp while tangled in each other. You tell yourself you’ll talk after. You will.

But right now, there’s nothing but the soft thud of clothes hitting your floor and the sound of Seungcheol whispering your name.

You wake up to sunlight smeared across your floor like a crime scene. The throw blanket is wrapped halfway around your thigh, a heel of it digging into the couch cushion. You blink. The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that knows something is missing.

Seungcheol is gone.

Not vanished. His shoes are gone, his jacket too, but he’s left a note. Folded in half and propped up against your half-empty water glass like a tiny paper tent.

Didn’t want to wake you. You looked criminally peaceful. Not running, just got dragged into an early meeting. I owe you coffee. And at least three kisses. Minimum. — Choi (Not A Flight Risk) Seungcheol

You stare at it for a beat too long. It’s charming. Earnest, even. The ink slightly smudged where he might’ve hovered too long over the word criminally. But your chest feels taut. Like a rubber band wound too tight around something soft.

Your phone buzzes.

Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: i meant what i said. i’m not disappearing. Seungcheol ☕ [7:21 AM]: also, how do you feel about bagels? asking for a future breakfast. Seungcheol ☕ [7:22 AM]: also pt2: you drool in your sleep. it’s very cute.

You chuckle. Which turns into a sigh. Which turns into you setting the phone face down and pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes.

It’s not the leaving, exactly. You understand work. You understand early meetings and obligations and shoes that need to be polished. It’s the ache of the aftermath. The warmth of him still clinging to your sheets and skin, and the chill of the apartment now that he’s no longer in it.

How easily he’d done it. How easily he could still do it, if he wanted to. In the imminent future. 

You move through the morning like someone wearing someone else’s shoes. Make coffee, forget to drink it. Brush your teeth, stare too long in the mirror. You’re not angry. But there’s something like bitter lodged in the back of your throat, and it won’t quite go down.

Later, at your at-home desk, he sends a selfie from a conference room. Half his tie is undone, and someone’s arm is motioning animatedly beside him, blurred in mid-gesture.

Seungcheol ☕ [1:30 PM]: currently dying. cpr not required unless administered by you.

You do laugh. A little. Quietly. Still, the unsettled thing inside you rolls over, sighs. Unimpressed.

You wonder, absurdly, if he’s kissed anyone else like that in an alleyway. If he’s made out with a woman behind a coffee shop, all suit and stubble and soft declarations. If he’s left notes for other people, claiming they looked criminally peaceful.

You know it’s silly. But that doesn’t stop the wondering, or the weight of wanting more.

You text him back something flippant. Light. Exactly the tone he always teases you for having.

You [2:02 PM]: If you die in that meeting, I’m keeping your coffee points.

It earns you a photo of his exaggerated gasp, hand to chest like a silent movie star. You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach where it has to. 

You don’t go to The Greeting Committee the next day. Or the next. Or the one after that.

At first, you tell yourself it’s because you need a change of scenery. The café chairs were always a little too firm, anyway. And there are so many other places to try! Like that plant-filled co-working space that smells faintly of eucalyptus and overly ambitious startups. Or your kitchen table, which wobbles like it’s been cursed by a very specific and petty god.

But the truth is less glamorous. The truth is, you miss him. And missing him makes you squirm. You don’t know what to do with that kind of intimacy—the kind that follows you home, seeps into your dreams, and then sends you sweet messages about bagels as if it didn’t completely undo you.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:09 PM]: missing my coffee buddy. when am i seeing you again?

You reply an hour later.

You [5:10 PM]: Got a deadline this week. Might be a while.

The next day:

Seungcheol ☕ [6:19 PM]: i’m starting to think i hallucinated the whole thing. very elaborate dream. excellent production value. You [9:32 PM]: Definitely real. Probably. 87% sure.

You try a different café. The espresso tastes like regret. The barista spells your name with a Q. You spill oat milk on your notes.

Seungcheol ☕ [4:20 PM]: Thinking about filing a missing person report. You [10:13 PM]: I’m just very elusive. Like a fox. Or Carmen Sandiego.

You’re doing it. The dance. Light-footed and clever. Skipping across the surface before anything can pull you under.

But it gnaws at you. Not the silence, because there is none. Seungcheol still texts. Every day. A silly update. A selfie with an Americano. A picture of a squirrel he insists is giving him side-eye. It’s the consistency of it. The unrelenting sweetness. The way he keeps showing up, even if you don’t.

On the fifth day, your phone buzzes with something different.

Seungcheol ☕ [8:04 AM]: door.

You open the door in your worst t-shirt—a sleep-soft relic from a failed music festival, collar stretched, logo faded into oblivion. Seungcheol stands there like the dramatic ending to a mid-season K-drama. Tousled hair. Scowl on his face. Cardboard pastry box in one hand, a bouquet in the other that looks like it could finance a small wedding.

“Really?” he says, before you can even fake a good morning.

You blink. “Hi?”

He holds up the pastries, slightly tilted. A peace offering gone stale. “You’ve been dodging me like I’m a subscription service you forgot to cancel,” he deadpans. 

“You could've just texted again,” you mutter.

“I did. Several times. Look where that got me.”

You sigh and step aside. He brushes past, trailing the scent of espresso and patience thinned to a thread.

He places the pastry box on your counter and sets the bouquet down with exaggerated care. It doesn’t match your kitchen. Too pristine. Too blush-colored and wrapped in sheer paper that shimmers slightly. You resent it for being beautiful. For being from him.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” you say, arms crossing over your chest.

“Yeah, well.” He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t sure if I was showing up for a conversation or a war.”

You lean against the counter, the cold tile pressing into your hip. The kitchen feels too quiet, too bright. You think about the last few days and how you’ve been avoiding your usual coffee like it might burn more than just your tongue.

“I wasn’t trying to ghost you,” you say finally.

“No,” he agrees, watching you. “Just haunt me a little.”

There’s something too knowing in his tone, but not unkind. He isn’t angry. Just... here. Uninvited and stubborn and still charming in a very irritating way. 

“I needed time,” you offer. It sounds thinner out loud than it did in your head.

“Time I can do,” he shoots back, “but disappearing without telling me why? Not really my favorite genre of heartbreak.”

You glance at the pastries. At the bouquet. At him. He looks ridiculous. And sweet. And maybe a little scared under all that posturing. “Fine,” you say. “We can talk.”

You set the kettle on the stove. He takes a spot on your counter stool.

You make the tea to buy yourself time. Seungcheol doesn’t press, just watches, elbows on the counter and jaw tucked into his hand like he’s willing to wait forever or until the kettle screams.

It does, eventually. You pour the water. Set down mugs. Curl your fingers around yours like it might anchor you.

“I just… I don't know what we're doing,” you say, eyes fixed on the rippling surface of your tea. “It feels like two people on opposite tracks pretending they aren’t going to crash into something.”

Seungcheol exhales a soft laugh, more breath than amusement. “You think we’re crashing already? We haven’t even started anything.” 

“That’s the problem,” you say, glancing at him. “You wear suits. You chase clients. You probably have a skincare fridge and a Google Calendar color-coded within an inch of its life.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just sips his tea and lifts an eyebrow like, And?

You press on. “I work out of cafes. I write brand copy for sock companies and only recently stopped paying my rent late. I have... retroactive jealousy issues.”

“Retroactive?”

“Like, I’ll be jealous of things that happened before I even knew you.”

He stares at you for a minute. Then: “That is both deeply irrational and weirdly flattering.”

You groan into your tea.

“Okay,” he says, putting the mug down. “Full honesty? I don’t even really like The Greeting Committee.”

Of all the things Choi Seungcheol could have said in that moment, that was not the one you were expecting.

Your head snaps up so fast, you’re surprised your neck didn’t damage somehow. “What?” you stammer. 

“Yeah,” he grimaces. “Their lattes are overpriced and their playlist is one bad Sufjan Stevens song away from sending me into a spiral.”

You’re scandalized. “You—you’ve been coming there for months!”

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Because the first day I walked in, I saw you by the window. Eyes on your screen, hair in that ridiculous little claw clip, frowning like the fate of the world depended on a semicolon. And I thought, holy shit. There goes my weekday.” 

You want to scoff. You want to melt. Instead, you accuse, “So you treated me like a talent to chase.” 

His head snaps back. “Oh my God,” he says, nearly knocking over his tea. “Do you hear yourself? You make it sound like I had a casting binder labeled ‘Girl In Cute Sweater By Window.’”

“I mean—”

“I liked you. I like you. And every time I tried to talk to you, you dodged me like I was pitching a pyramid scheme. What else was I supposed to do?”

You falter. Your mug has gone cold. Your pulse has not. “Maybe,” he continues, quieter now, “if you weren’t so busy building exits in your head, you’d see I’m not going anywhere.”

You look at him. Earnest. Exasperated. Still holding on. He stares back at you, and he must find something there underneath all the frazzled panic and the indignation. He must see it. Whatever you can’t say, hiding just right on the surface. 

You don’t know who leans in first, but your nose bumps his, and neither of you laugh. Not at first.

Your lips find his, soft and familiar, and then softer still when he sighs against your mouth. It’s unfair, how easily kissing him feels like home. Like you’ve done it a thousand times before and you’ll do it again, again, again.

Your hand fists the back of his collar, tugging him closer like you’re afraid he’ll vanish for another meeting, or for some other girl by the window who catches his eye.

“I know I’m being ridiculous,” you murmur between kisses, lips brushing his jaw, his cheekbone. “But you wear nice shoes and own stock options and know how to pronounce ‘acquisition’ without choking on your own tongue.”

He chuckles into the shell of your ear. “You’re literally straddling me right now,” he grunts, hands already roaming over your curves. “Do you really want me to start listing your resume?”

You ignore that. Instead, your voice comes out in one of those flurried half-whispers, tangled in the haze of heat and nerves. “Sometimes I make up fake ex-girlfriends of yours in my head so I can stop wanting you so much,” you confess. You’re already on a roll. Might as well keep going. 

He pulls back briefly to look at you. “You…. what?”

You groan, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “They’re really pretty in my imagination. The type that remember to water their plants and own matching socks.”

He laughs, full and honest, and rests his forehead against yours. “Do the fake ones also haunt The Greeting Committee?” he teases. “Or just the real ones you make up to ruin your own day?”

You swat at his shoulder, but he catches your wrist and presses a kiss there, which only melts you more. “I’m a freelancer,” you babble. “I can’t even guarantee what my income will look like next month. I eat leftovers three times a week. My savings account cries itself to sleep.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it for your benefit. I’m saying it because it’s true.” He threads his fingers through your hair, his voice low. “You think I didn’t bribe Felix for your schedule, so I could time my work-from-home’s around you?” 

“That makes you sound like a stalker.” 

“A handsome one. Who brought pastries and a ninety dollar bouquet.” 

“Was it really necessary to mention the price of the flowers?” 

“Why the fuck are we even still talking right now?” 

You kiss him again before you can say something overly earnest. He kisses back with the kind of conviction that feels like a vow. Hands wandering. Shirts lifting. Breathless little nothings in between.

“Wait,” he murmurs, as you fumble backward, hand on his belt buckle. “Where’s your bedroom?”

You gesture vaguely to the left. “Through the hallway. First door. Don’t judge my laundry basket.” 

“I won’t judge,” he says, hauling you up bridal style without warning. You yelp. He grins and nips at your earlobe. “But if you keep making up fake girlfriends, I might have to fight one in a dream.” 

You press your face into his shoulder, laughing and mortified and a little bit in love.

That guy who used to always be in a suit is in your seat.

Technically, it’s still not your seat. The Greeting Committee hasn’t suddenly been overtaken by bureaucracy and gold nameplates. But it doesn’t matter. You’re at the same table now.

Window seat, second from the left, with sunlight that softens instead of sears. An outlet for both your laptop and your lingering cynicism, and enough ambient chatter to feel alive without being overwhelmed.

Seungcheol is there. Across from you. Laptop open, tie conspicuously absent, sleeves rolled up like he’s auditioning for the part of everyone’s favorite approachable CEO. He’s editing something, you think. Or maybe pretending to. Every few minutes, he looks up like he’s going to say something, then doesn’t. 

When you finally glance at him over the rim of your coffee cup, he gives you that smile—the one that says, I can’t believe you picked me.

Felix brings a blueberry scone cut neatly in half. “For my favorite couple,” he announces, loud enough for the older woman at the neighboring table to coo in amusement. You groan. Seungcheol winks.

“We’re not your couple, Felix,” you mutter.

“You literally are,” Felix says, already walking away. “I made the bouquet for your first fight makeup. I’m emotionally invested now.”

You shoot Seungcheol a look. He raises both hands in surrender. “I didn’t tell him anything! He just knows things. Like a romance bloodhound.”

You roll your eyes and nudge half the scone toward Seungcheol. His fingers brush yours, deliberate and warm. You’re still getting used to that. The small intimacies. The way he lingers now.

How your things have started to mix at each other’s places: his tie in your laundry bin, your socks peeking out from under his couch. How he texts you silly memes during meetings and starts grocery lists in your Notes app like it’s always been shared.

There are days you still trip over the difference between solitude and comfort. Days when you want to crawl back into your shell of low-stakes independence and low-commitment caffeine. Days you remember all the reasons you told yourself not to do this.

That he’s too polished, too stable, too everything-you-aren’t. That he comes from a world of network pitches and tailored blazers and you, on some days, can barely remember if you own an iron.

But then he smiles across the table like you’re not a gamble, just a good choice. And it becomes easier.

Seungcheol leans in a little, conspiratorial. “What do you think Felix would do if I kissed you right now?”

You glance toward the counter. Felix is absolutely watching. “Probably write about it in his next customer newsletter.”

“Worth it.”

You kick Seungcheol lightly under the table. He nudges back, grinning. There’s a softness to his grin now. He’s not just amused; he’s grateful. You catch the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his thumb taps idly on the side of his mug like it wants to be touching you instead.

You pretend to read something on your screen. Seungcheol pretends to work on his edit. It’s mostly an excuse to sit in your shared silence, warm and companionable.

It’s not official. No brass plaque. No velvet rope. But it’s understood. It’s set in stone.

You might really, really like Choi Seungcheol after all.

[themoonlightfae]

I'm going insane does anyone want anything

First Claim II

Vampire!Seo Changbin x Reader | neck-biting, desk-fucking, plushie-bribing menace who accidentally imprints and panics

🔞synopsis: You’re a human research intern at Luxe Health—smart, stubborn, and the daughter of one of Chan’s closest human allies. You wanted field access. Real data. Real vampires. You didn’t expect to be assigned to Seo Changbin. Cold. Ruthless. Director of Hostile Containment. And now—completely obsessed with you. One blood-slick riot drill, a desk-breaking tension spiral, and a bar incident later, you’re covered in bite marks, plushies, and an illegal contract that says you’re his. You didn’t mean to fall in love. But then again, neither did he.

💌a/n: HELLO AGAIN. IT’S ME. FIRST CLAIM II IS HERE. This is the part where I was supposed to cool down. Instead, I gave you: morning sex; blood-sharing; soft Changbin™ panic; a contract. If you’re here from Part I… congratulations. You are now fully claimed. No refunds. Am I updating the warnings? No. This bitch is lazy 🙃. p.s. Quackbin is canon. Plushie population now exceeds apartment legal limit. p.p.s. reblog for hydration, bonding rituals, and desk trauma recovery

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | oral, penetrative (wrap it up people), multiple rounds | breeding kink if you squint | blood-sharing / vampire biting (consensual) | choking (consensual) | marking / possessiveness / claiming | rough sex → soft aftercare | desk sex, couch sex, morning sex | slight somnophilia vibes (you wake him up riding) | jealousy & territorial behavior | Jeongin trauma (comedic)

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Ride responsibly. Don’t sign anything without checking for plushie clauses.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Guilty — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:10 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

One Week Later

Dating Changbin is…

…unexpected.

Not the biting, not the sex (though Jesus Christ, that alone deserves a docuseries), not even the blood-sharing or the fact that you’ve woken up more than once to him growling in his sleep because he’s dreaming about someone looking at you wrong.

No. It’s everything else.

Like the plushies.

You have sixteen now.

All claw-machine-won. All delivered with some variation of “Tch, I was just bored while waiting for the blood shipment to arrive, shut up.”

Meanwhile he’s standing there with pink dusting his ears, clutching a pastel cat with hearts on its cheeks, refusing to meet your eyes.

Or the fact that every time you yawn, he immediately hands you water, a hoodie, and his lap, grumbling something about “low blood pressure” while pretending he’s not actively nesting.

He still growls at anyone who gets too close. Still does his little eye-glint-glare thing when another vampire so much as breathes in your direction. But then the moment you look tired? Cold? Annoyed?

He’s putting his jacket over your shoulders. Pulling you into his side. Hand on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he kisses your knuckles and whispers things like:

“Too good for me…” “Mine…” “Won’t let anything touch you. Ever.”

Yeah. Totally normal boyfriend things.

What you don’t know?

Is that he’s been staying up every night after you fall asleep on his chest. Writing. Rewriting. Staring at the draft of a blood doll contract that looks nothing like the court’s usual ones.

No cold clauses. No forced feeding times. No territorial power imbalance.

Just this:

“By mutual bond and willing oath, we acknowledge what already exists: she is mine. And I am hers.”

He hasn’t shown it to anyone. Not even Chan. He’s just… waiting. Waiting for the moment to give it to you. Waiting for you to say yes to forever, without him having to beg. Waiting because even though he fucked you into that couch and bit you like you were already his, the truth is—

You ruined him that day.

And now? Now he’d burn the world just to keep hearing you giggle over another ridiculous plushie.

divider

Somewhere between soft light and sinful moans. Somewhere between domestic bliss and absolute ruin.

You're on top of him—again.

Straddling his hips, thighs snug around him, skin flushed and sticky. His hands grip your waist like you might disappear, like this isn’t the sixth morning this week he’s woken up to you already sinking down on him with a sleepy whimper.

“Baby,” he groans, voice raw, still thick with sleep. “You tryna kill me?”

You just roll your hips, slow and deep, making him curse under his breath.

“Couldn’t help it,” you mumble, dragging your nails down his chest. “You were already hard. Thought I’d help.”

He throws his head back, jaw clenched. “Fuck—you’re not helping.”

You lean forward, pressing kisses along his throat. He shivers when you whisper against his skin: “You love it.”

And he does. He fucking does. He loves waking up to you already warm and wet and wanting him. Loves the way your hair falls in your face as you ride him. Loves the little gasps you try to hold back when he angles his hips up just right.

“Look at you,” he growls, eyes locked on yours, fangs barely peeking out. “So cockdrunk first thing in the morning.”

You moan, fingers gripping his biceps. “You love that too.”

“Damn right I do.”

He thrusts up—once, hard—and you cry out, clutching at him, pulse fluttering under your skin like a prayer.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like he owns you. Rubbing tight, slow circles that make your thighs tremble.

“Gonna cum on me already, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Just like that? First thing in the morning, and you’re already this needy?”

You nod, eyes glassy, mouth parted. “Binnie—please—”

“Go on then, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Show me how good it feels to be mine.”

You moan—high, broken—hands clutching at his shoulders as your body spirals into that dizzy, unbearable edge. The pressure builds fast and ruthless, his cock hitting deep with every roll of your hips, his touch sending sparks through your nerves.

“Binnie—” you gasp, “I—”

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—full-bodied, trembling, helpless. You cry out his name, voice dissolving into whimpers as your walls pulse tight around him. He groans beneath you, hands gripping your hips, holding you steady through every quake.

“Fuck—look at you—” he pants, watching you unravel like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen. “You’re perfect. You were made to ride me, weren’t you?”

You’re still shaking when he flips you—fast, smooth, hands braced under your thighs as he buries himself deep again, still hard, still desperate.

“One more,” he whispers against your throat, breath ragged. “Let me feel you one more time.”

His hips snap up into you, hard, relentless—his name falling from your lips again, again, like it’s the only word you know.

“God, baby,” he groans, watching the way your back arches, the way your lips fall open in that perfect little gasp. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hand slides up your body—slow, reverent—until his fingers curl gently around your throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Claiming. You whimper, pupils blown wide, skin flushed and glistening. Your hands fly to his wrist, not to stop him—but to anchor yourself. His eyes search yours, wild and burning.

He tightens his grip. Just enough to make your breath catch. Just enough to tilt your head back so he can lean in and growl against your throat—

“Fuck, you look so good like this. Getting ruined while you’re choked. My good fucking girl.”

And then he’s fucking up into you again—deep, brutal, perfect. Your body tightens instantly, sparks flaring behind your eyes as the pressure builds once more.

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” he rasps, thumb stroking lightly over your jaw as his other hand bruises your hip. “You’re gonna cum while I’m inside you like this. While I’ve got my hand on your pretty little throat.”

You can’t even speak. Just a breathy, broken whine as you start to shake again, cunt fluttering helplessly around him.

His grip softens the moment he feels you tip.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. Give it to me.”

One Week Later

Dating Changbin is…

…unexpected.

Not the biting, not the sex (though Jesus Christ, that alone deserves a docuseries), not even the blood-sharing or the fact that you’ve woken up more than once to him growling in his sleep because he’s dreaming about someone looking at you wrong.

No. It’s everything else.

Like the plushies.

You have sixteen now.

All claw-machine-won. All delivered with some variation of “Tch, I was just bored while waiting for the blood shipment to arrive, shut up.”

Meanwhile he’s standing there with pink dusting his ears, clutching a pastel cat with hearts on its cheeks, refusing to meet your eyes.

Or the fact that every time you yawn, he immediately hands you water, a hoodie, and his lap, grumbling something about “low blood pressure” while pretending he’s not actively nesting.

He still growls at anyone who gets too close. Still does his little eye-glint-glare thing when another vampire so much as breathes in your direction. But then the moment you look tired? Cold? Annoyed?

He’s putting his jacket over your shoulders. Pulling you into his side. Hand on your thigh, thumb brushing lazy circles. Sometimes, when he thinks you’re asleep, he kisses your knuckles and whispers things like:

“Too good for me…” “Mine…” “Won’t let anything touch you. Ever.”

Yeah. Totally normal boyfriend things.

What you don’t know?

Is that he’s been staying up every night after you fall asleep on his chest. Writing. Rewriting. Staring at the draft of a blood doll contract that looks nothing like the court’s usual ones.

No cold clauses. No forced feeding times. No territorial power imbalance.

Just this:

“By mutual bond and willing oath, we acknowledge what already exists: she is mine. And I am hers.”

He hasn’t shown it to anyone. Not even Chan. He’s just… waiting. Waiting for the moment to give it to you. Waiting for you to say yes to forever, without him having to beg. Waiting because even though he fucked you into that couch and bit you like you were already his, the truth is—

You ruined him that day.

And now? Now he’d burn the world just to keep hearing you giggle over another ridiculous plushie.

divider

Somewhere between soft light and sinful moans. Somewhere between domestic bliss and absolute ruin.

You're on top of him—again.

Straddling his hips, thighs snug around him, skin flushed and sticky. His hands grip your waist like you might disappear, like this isn’t the sixth morning this week he’s woken up to you already sinking down on him with a sleepy whimper.

“Baby,” he groans, voice raw, still thick with sleep. “You tryna kill me?”

You just roll your hips, slow and deep, making him curse under his breath.

“Couldn’t help it,” you mumble, dragging your nails down his chest. “You were already hard. Thought I’d help.”

He throws his head back, jaw clenched. “Fuck—you’re not helping.”

You lean forward, pressing kisses along his throat. He shivers when you whisper against his skin: “You love it.”

And he does. He fucking does. He loves waking up to you already warm and wet and wanting him. Loves the way your hair falls in your face as you ride him. Loves the little gasps you try to hold back when he angles his hips up just right.

“Look at you,” he growls, eyes locked on yours, fangs barely peeking out. “So cockdrunk first thing in the morning.”

You moan, fingers gripping his biceps. “You love that too.”

“Damn right I do.”

He thrusts up—once, hard—and you cry out, clutching at him, pulse fluttering under your skin like a prayer.

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like he owns you. Rubbing tight, slow circles that make your thighs tremble.

“Gonna cum on me already, huh?” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Just like that? First thing in the morning, and you’re already this needy?”

You nod, eyes glassy, mouth parted. “Binnie—please—”

“Go on then, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Show me how good it feels to be mine.”

You moan—high, broken—hands clutching at his shoulders as your body spirals into that dizzy, unbearable edge. The pressure builds fast and ruthless, his cock hitting deep with every roll of your hips, his touch sending sparks through your nerves.

“Binnie—” you gasp, “I—”

“I know.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—full-bodied, trembling, helpless. You cry out his name, voice dissolving into whimpers as your walls pulse tight around him. He groans beneath you, hands gripping your hips, holding you steady through every quake.

“Fuck—look at you—” he pants, watching you unravel like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen. “You’re perfect. You were made to ride me, weren’t you?”

You’re still shaking when he flips you—fast, smooth, hands braced under your thighs as he buries himself deep again, still hard, still desperate.

“One more,” he whispers against your throat, breath ragged. “Let me feel you one more time.”

His hips snap up into you, hard, relentless—his name falling from your lips again, again, like it’s the only word you know.

“God, baby,” he groans, watching the way your back arches, the way your lips fall open in that perfect little gasp. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hand slides up your body—slow, reverent—until his fingers curl gently around your throat.

Not squeezing. Not yet. Just holding. Claiming. You whimper, pupils blown wide, skin flushed and glistening. Your hands fly to his wrist, not to stop him—but to anchor yourself. His eyes search yours, wild and burning.

He tightens his grip. Just enough to make your breath catch. Just enough to tilt your head back so he can lean in and growl against your throat—

“Fuck, you look so good like this. Getting ruined while you’re choked. My good fucking girl.”

And then he’s fucking up into you again—deep, brutal, perfect. Your body tightens instantly, sparks flaring behind your eyes as the pressure builds once more.

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” he rasps, thumb stroking lightly over your jaw as his other hand bruises your hip. “You’re gonna cum while I’m inside you like this. While I’ve got my hand on your pretty little throat.”

You can’t even speak. Just a breathy, broken whine as you start to shake again, cunt fluttering helplessly around him.

His grip softens the moment he feels you tip.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. Give it to me.”

Your body locks up — thighs trembling, head thrown back — and you come with a breathless cry, clutching at him like you’ll fall apart without him to hold you together.

Changbin groans, low and wrecked. His hands grip your waist, grounding you as he fucks up into you, chasing that final push—

“Fuck, baby—just like that—”

You feel him tense beneath you, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that exists. And then he’s spilling inside you with a broken moan, pulsing deep as you flutter around him, still riding the aftershocks of your own release.

Your foreheads touch. Breath mingles. Hearts racing.

Neither of you moves at first. It’s like the world stopped, quiet and golden in the haze of morning light.

Then, softly, almost shy:

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing damp strands from your face.

You nod, eyes still heavy-lidded. “More than okay.”

He smiles — small, crooked, and so full of love it makes your chest ache.

“I should probably let you pee,” he mutters, already reaching for your thighs to help you up.

“Probably,” you whisper. “But also… don’t move yet.”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling you down into his chest again. “Okay. We’ve got time.”

He stays inside you for a while. Just holding you. His thumbs trace slow circles into your hips, grounding, soothing. You’re still draped over him, chest to chest, the rise and fall of your breathing syncing back into something steady. Calm.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and sweetness. “You with me?”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Might be dead though. Died a little.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and kisses your temple like it’s instinct. “Guess I’ll have to bring you back to life. Pancakes or toast?”

You laugh, breathless. “Your dick game’s ridiculous and your post-sex breakfast plan is pancakes?”

“You say that like it’s not a dream come true.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His hair’s a mess, cheeks still flushed, eyes full of stars—and he’s smiling at you like you just handed him the sun.

Changbin finally shifts carefully to pull out—so slow, so gentle. You wince, just a little, but he’s already reaching down, checking the mess between your legs with the softest fingertips. “Messy girl,” he teases, but it’s tender. He disappears for a moment and returns with a warm cloth, cleaning you up so softly, so gently, so featherlight, not rushing a single touch.

“You always take care of me,” you murmur, voice a little hoarse.

His gaze softens impossibly more. “Of course I do. You’re mine.”

You think you catch it—just for a second—the flicker of nerves behind his words. Because he means it more than you know.

“You’re mine too,” you whisper back.

And just like that, his shoulders relax. His smile breaks wide. He kisses you again—soft, slow, like a thank you in a different language.

But when he pulls back, his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. And his hand, still resting on your hip, twitches—like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how.

You tilt your head. “Binnie?”

“Mm?”

“…You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.” He kisses your forehead. “More than fine.”

But now you know. That slight delay before he answered. The way he’s not looking directly at you anymore.

You squint at him. “Liar.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Changbin.”

“Baby—”

“No, no, don’t baby me,” you say, sitting up slightly, ignoring the ache in your thighs. “What is it? What are you not telling me?”

His jaw tenses.

“Tell me.”

He hesitates. His fingers tighten slightly on your waist. His eyes flick to the nightstand—just for a second—but you see it. That quick dart toward the drawer he always keeps locked.

“Binnie…”

He sighs. Deeply.

Then, like it hurts, he mutters: “Don’t freak out.”

“…Why would I freak out?”

“You just might.”

“Try me.”

Another pause. You watch his throat bob as he swallows.

“I want you,” he says quietly. “To be my blood doll.”

Silence.

You blink. “…What?”

He finally meets your eyes. No more smirking. No more distractions. Just raw, vulnerable honesty.

“I want you to be mine. Like—really mine. Not just sex and feeding when you let me. Not just crashing at each other’s places. A bond. A contract. A vow.”

You stare at him. And he keeps going, voice low and rushed like it’s been caged for too long.

“But not like the court ones. Not with the feeding schedule bullshit or dominance clauses. I—I wrote a different one. A new one. It’s just… you and me. No control. Just commitment. Mutual. Real.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He misreads the silence. “Shit, I knew it. Too much, right? I shouldn’t have said anything, fuck, just forget—”

“I want to see it.”

He freezes.

You repeat, softer: “Show me the contract, Binnie.”

He stares at you like you just told him the sky turned violet. And then he practically trips over himself lunging for the drawer.

He pulls out the drawer like it holds the meaning of life.

Because to him, it kind of does.

The folder’s thick. Pages worn at the edges. He’s clearly read and rewritten it more times than he’ll admit.

He comes back to bed without saying anything—just sits beside you, still naked, hair a mess, cheeks flushed with something that isn’t post-sex glow anymore. It’s something closer to fear.

You gently take it from his hands.

The cover page is handwritten.

Blood Doll Contract — Special Version (not like those court bastards. mine is better.)

You snort already. “Binnie—”

“Just read,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

You flip the page.

Clause 1: Bond Acknowledgment This contract serves only to recognize the already existing bond between subject A (Seo Changbin) and subject B (you, aka the hottest human alive).

“We already belong to each other,” he mumbles beside you. “This just makes it official.”

Clause 2: Feeding Rights Subject A is allowed to feed from subject B only: With enthusiastic consent. When subject B is looking especially biteable. Or when it’s Tuesday, because Tuesday is hard. Sub-clause: Subject A promises to be very gentle unless told otherwise, and will always kiss the mark after, no exceptions.

You laugh. “Tuesdays are hard?”

He shrugs. “I’m a Tuesday vampire. Sue me.”

Clause 3: Bed Rights Subject A and B are to sleep in the same bed at least 5 nights a week. Sub-sub clause: Cuddling is non-negotiable. Feet must touch at some point during sleep. Subject A may not hog the blanket (again).

You raise a brow. “So this is revenge for last week?”

“You tried to burrito yourself,” he mutters. “I nearly froze to death.”

Clause 4: Plushie Clause Subject A may continue gifting plushies after successful missions, tantrums, or moments of extreme cuteness from subject B. Sub-clause: If subject B tries to donate or throw away said plushies, subject A reserves the right to “pout until emotionally compensated.”

You giggle so hard you nearly drop the folder. “Is that what that face was?!”

“No comment.”

Clause 5: Eternal Vow (The Real Shit) By signing, subject A and B acknowledge that this bond is not casual, or temporary, or transactional. It is a choice. Made every day. By signing, subject B agrees to let subject A love her in every language he knows—blood, body, soul, and all. And subject A promises to protect, cherish, and honor subject B for as long as the stars remember them.

You blink down at the final page. Your name is printed beside a blank line. You don’t say anything right away. Just look up at him.

He’s silent—nervous, chewing his lip like he expects you to run.

Instead, you whisper, “Do you have a pen?”

His head jerks up.

You hold the folder closer. “I want to sign.”

His eyes widen.

You gently touch the page. “Binnie. Of course I want to be yours. I already am.”

Changbin looks around for a pen, from the same drawer, and hands it to you. You take hold of it, hand moving carefully as you sign your name, right beneath his—the ink still fresh from however many nights ago he first wrote it. You even add a little heart after you write your name.

“You did not just doodle a heart on a legal vampiric contract.”

“Binnie, please, this thing mentions plushies and Tuesdays. You started unserious.”

He groans. “It’s symbolic! It’s a declaration of eternal—”

“Snuggling rights?”

He grabs a pillow and throws it at your face.

You burst out laughing, half-snarled under the cotton fluff, “Assault?! On your legal blood doll?! I will be calling the Court.”

“Go ahead. I’ll just seduce the judge.”

“You are the judge—!”

“Exactly. And I find you in contempt.”

You shriek with laughter as he tackles you back into the mattress, both of you rolling, limbs tangled, laughter punching out of your chests like you’re drunk on something stronger than wine.

Eventually you settle—limbs heavy, hearts loud.

He kisses your temple.

Then your cheek.

Then the corner of your mouth, whispering, “You really signed it.”

You nod, nuzzling into him. “I meant every word. Even the plushie clause.”

“…I knew you’d cave.”

“Cave?” You snort. “I’m riding the plushie train straight into hell. Make me a throne. Out of frogs.”

He kisses you again, full on the mouth this time, smile against your lips. “You’re insane.”

“You’re in love with me.”

“And you just signed a blood contract for me.”

“…Touche.”

You fall into each other’s warmth after that. No pressure, no fangs just yet. Just limbs and laughter and the feel of being wanted so thoroughly that even the paperwork is romantic.

Until you feel his hand drift lower.

And he hums, like he’s thinking something through.

“…You know,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “Now that it’s official…”

You shiver. “Yeah?”

He nips gently—not biting, just teasing. “Wouldn’t mind doing the whole claiming thing properly.”

“Like…”

He grins against your skin. “You. Me. My fangs. This mattress. No interruptions. Eternal consequences.”

You blink. Then grin.

“Well, Judge,” you whisper. “I plead so guilty.”

Suddenly, you're on your back beneath him, already pulsing. Changbin hovers over you, hips rolling against yours. His fangs are out.

But he hasn’t bitten you yet. He’s waiting. Shaking. Worshipping you with every inch of his body.

“You sure?” he rasps.

You reach up, curling your fingers around the back of his neck. “Binnie. I signed the contract. I said yes a hundred ways. Make it a thousand.”

His jaw clenches. His cock slides against your entrance—hot, heavy, deliberate.

Then—his voice, hoarse: “I love you.”

And then he pushes in. You gasp—legs wrapping tight around his waist, hands clawing down his back. He fucks you slow at first, breathless, careful, like you’re breakable.

But you’re not. Not now. Not with him.

“Binnie—faster—please—”

He obeys. Hips snapping. Sweat dripping. His name tumbling out of your mouth like a mantra.

And when he leans in—lips brushing your neck—your whole body tenses.

You want this.

“Do it,” you whisper.

“You’re sure?”

“Do it, Binnie—mark me—make me yours—”

He growls. And then he bites. You cry out, the pain white-hot and fleeting—then replaced by pleasure so sharp, so overwhelming it makes your vision blur. He drinks slow, hips grinding into you deeper, harder, more possessive with every pulse of your blood into his mouth.

He moans into your neck as he drinks, his thrusts becoming ragged, desperate. “So fucking sweet,” he groans. “So fucking mine—”

You clench around him, overstimulated, whimpering, “Binnie—fuck—I’m—”

“Cum for me, baby,” he pants. “Wanna feel you when I fill you—”

And fuck, you do.

You shatter around him, crying out his name as he growls and fucks you through it—his own orgasm hitting seconds later, fangs still sunk into your skin as he spills inside you, claiming you in every possible way.

You both collapse together, sweaty and ruined, his cock still inside, your blood still on his tongue.

He lifts his head, eyes wide with awe, blood on his lips.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

You brush his hair back, kiss him soft and open-mouthed.

“And you’re mine.”

[themoonlightfae]

I AM D E C E A S E D

@dakusan YOU ABSOLUTELY WRECKED ME FOR CHANGBIN HELp

First Claim I

Vampire!Seo Changbin x Reader | neck-biting, desk-fucking, plushie-bribing menace who accidentally imprints and panics

🔞synopsis: You’re a human research intern at Luxe Health—smart, stubborn, and the daughter of one of Chan’s closest human allies. You wanted field access. Real data. Real vampires. You didn’t expect to be assigned to Seo Changbin. Cold. Ruthless. Director of Hostile Containment. And now—completely obsessed with you. One blood-slick riot drill, a desk-breaking tension spiral, and a bar incident later, you’re covered in bite marks, plushies, and an illegal contract that says you’re his. You didn’t mean to fall in love. But then again, neither did he.

💌a/n: OH MY GOD I DID IT. I FINISHED IT. FIRST CLAIM I IS HERE. THE “I” IS NOT FOR AESTHETICS. IT’S BECAUSE I HAVE SINNED. 😇 You’re probably wondering why the title sounds like a vampire legal document and also why there’s a Roman numeral in it. WELL. FUN FACT. This fic was supposed to be a single thing. But then I blacked out halfway through writing the office scene and woke up with so many words, 17 plushies, a blood contract, and Jeongin threatening to flee the country. So now it’s in two parts 😇. Second part, click me, to continue reading 💋. Sorry it got this long that I had split p.s. reblog for clear skin, forehead kisses, and a vampire bf who growls when someone else touches you p.p.s. not to be dramatic but Changbin is the reason vampire HR exists now (hi seungmin, he's not getting paid enough for this) p.p.p.s. if you've ever had a thing for dangerous men who call you “baby” while saving your life and then ruin your life… same

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | oral, penetrative (wrap it up people), multiple rounds | breeding kink if you squint | blood-sharing / vampire biting (consensual) | choking (consensual) | marking / possessiveness / claiming | rough sex → soft aftercare | desk sex, couch sex, morning sex | slight somnophilia vibes (you wake him up riding) | jealousy & territorial behavior | Jeongin trauma (comedic)

📌 Please read responsibly. Lock the door. Don’t bleed in front of rogue vampires. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Guilty — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:10 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Your father was one of the few humans who could walk into Luxe Health and be bowed to.

He never wanted the spotlight—didn’t need it. Power, he’d always told you, was quiet. It was in the rooms no one saw. It was in the contracts they couldn’t understand. His pharmaceutical empire made him a billionaire. His shadow investments in vampire medicine made him untouchable.

You’d grown up watching boardrooms turn silent when he entered. World leaders called him by his first name. Vampires—old ones, cruel ones—inclined their heads in recognition. His reach extended beyond patents and patents—he helped build Luxe, quietly backing Chan during the facility’s earliest expansions.

A legacy man, through and through.

And you? You were expected to be his reflection.

But instead of joining the executive suite, you carved a different path. PhD in biogenetics. Trauma recovery specialization. Graduated top of your year. Published early. Interned in high-risk human clinics. Refused nepotism—until now.

Because Luxe was different.

Luxe was where vampire biology met experimental care, where research meant risk. And you wanted in.

You’d stared Chan down during your interview, both of you seated in a private wing lit by enchanted glass and scent-sealed vents. You wore a black turtleneck and a steel charm under your wrist to keep your pulse from triggering a blood response. He wore concern under his professionalism.

“You could work anywhere. Hell, I’ll give you a lab myself.” “I don’t want a desk. I want data. Let me near the real ones.” “You understand this isn’t a simulation?” “I understand blood. I want to see what it does to them. I want to help.” “You get hurt in containment, your father will kill me.” “Then don’t let me get hurt.”

That got a small, reluctant grin out of him.

He still tried to assign you to Bio-Monitoring. You refused. He offered Private Recovery. You declined again. It was only after hours of back-and-forth, after you signed the enchanted consent papers and passed an emergency restraint drill that he finally gave in.

“Fine. I’ll assign you a handler.”

“Who?”

“Someone who’ll hate having you. Which means you’ll be safest.”

Enter Seo Changbin.

Director of Hostile Containment and Physical Defense Operations. Known inside Luxe as The Wall. The Lock. The Enforcer.

He was Normal-born—bloodlines rooted in protection, not politics. His family didn’t scheme. They didn’t climb. They stood in front of danger and took the blow first. The Seo name was legend in containment sectors, and Changbin had turned it into scripture.

He wasn’t like the other executives. He didn’t wear tailored suits or silk-lined coats. You first saw him from across the upper observation deck of Containment Wing B. Tactical gear. Armored sleeves. Twin silver hoop earrings—enchanted for sun protection. He barked orders with the gravel in his voice, hands wrapped in reinforced gloves still smudged with someone else’s blood.

You watched him haul a rage-state vampire back into a suppression cage with nothing but brute strength and clenched fangs.

You said nothing. But you felt your breath catch.

He turned—just once—to look up at the deck, meeting your gaze through reinforced glass.

It was the most silent threat you’d ever seen.

Your official orientation packet didn’t include a welcome. Just your schedule. And a warning scribbled in red at the bottom.

Changbin will meet you in Training Bay Four. Do not be late. Do not lie. Do not bleed.

Training Bay Four

You arrive two minutes early.

The corridor to Bay Four is silent, save for the hum of reinforced lighting and the soft tap of your shoes on vampire-grade flooring. Your badge grants you clearance with a flicker of enchanted silver. You note the biometric seals, the backup vents, the locked cabinet labeled "Anti-Feral Protocol: Class B+".

Cute.

The door slides open.

Inside: dim lights. Floor mats. Medical staging equipment along the walls. A tranquilizer gun laid casually on a side table. And him—Seo Changbin, arms crossed, shirt tight across muscle, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s about to kill something and doesn’t want blood on his wrists.

He doesn’t acknowledge you right away. Just glances once. Then keeps inspecting a steel baton in his hand.

You step forward, crisp and polite. “Director Seo.”

He doesn’t look up. “No.”

You blink. “No…?”

“Not Director. Not Sir. Not Handler.” His voice is low, flat. Dangerous. “I didn’t ask for this. So don’t pretend we’re in some stupid chain-of-command arrangement.”

Okay.

That’s the energy.

You clasp your hands behind your back. “Noted.”

He looks up then—eyes dragging over you slowly, not with lust, not yet, but suspicion. Like he’s cataloging every inch of you to determine how much of a liability you’ll be.

Hair tied back. Neutral expression. Enchanted cuffs, like Chan insisted. And a slim tablet tucked under one arm, filled with blank logs you’re meant to fill with field notes.

Changbin stares at it. Then at you.

“You bring that thing near a rage-state vamp and they’ll shatter it into your throat.”

You don’t blink. “Then I’ll take notes after they’re restrained.”

His jaw ticks.

It’s subtle, but you catch it. That flicker of annoyance, or maybe grudging respect, coiled tight in his posture. You know his type—military-minded, logic over emotion. He’s been trained to view anything human and rich as soft, as disposable, as protected by systems he doesn't trust.

You, unfortunately, were designed to make men like him twitch.

“You’re human,” he says bluntly. “I don’t care what degrees you’ve got. If they turn on you, you’re dead before I can move.”

You nod. “That’s why I’ll stand behind you.”

It slips out—a little bold, a little flirty, maybe. You can’t help it.

He scowls.

“Cute,” he mutters. “Let’s hope you’re still standing after your first bleed scare.”

You don’t respond to that. Instead, you cross to the nearest work station and begin pulling on a lab coat—charms embedded in the seams, scent-masking threads at the collar.

He watches you. In complete silence.

“What did you think I’d be like?” you ask, just to needle him.

“Worse,” he replies.

That makes you laugh, short and sharp. “Disappointed?”

He tosses the baton into a bin behind him without looking. The sound clangs off the wall. Then he steps toward you, stopping close enough that you feel the thick static of vampire presence—more force than temperature. Like a shift in gravity.

His voice lowers.

“I don’t care whose name is on your badge. You don’t belong here. That’s not a threat. That’s biology. That’s reality. You’re not built for this floor.”

You tip your chin up. “And yet. Here I am.”

Something flickers in his eyes—rage, maybe. Or something darker. “You bleed, and they’ll tear each other apart to get to you.”

“Then I won’t bleed.”

“And if you cry, I’ll have to restrain them. Not because of the sound. Because they’ll smell it. Because it’ll make you taste better.”

You swallow.

His gaze drops to your wrist. The vein there, soft beneath the cuff.

Then—

“You’re not mine,” he says finally. “That’s why this is a problem.”

And he walks past you. Straight into the containment wing.

The rest of the week is… interesting.

Changbin doesn’t speak unless he has to. You suspect it’s a self-preservation tactic—less words, less risk of snarling them. He prefers barked instructions, curt assessments, and the occasional dry, "Don’t do that," when you dare to observe too closely.

You’re not offended. You’ve been ignored by worse. And at least this vampire doesn’t smile at you with fake charm—he just stares at your pulse like it’s his job.

Because it is.

Still, the chemistry starts to hum beneath everything. Silently. Inappropriately.

Like the time you dropped your pen near an observation cage and leaned down to grab it—and he was suddenly behind you, one hand ghosting your elbow like he’d yanked himself back at the last second.

“Don’t kneel in containment zones,” he snapped.

“Why?”

“You don’t want to look like prey.”

You stood slowly. His eyes stayed on your throat the entire time.

Or when you laughed during an intercom briefing—just a soft exhale, something about the absurdity of rage-state protocol involving the phrase “de-escalate with tone modulation”—and he turned so sharply you thought he’d dislocated his neck.

“Something funny?”

“Tone modulation, Changbin.”

“My tone is modulated.”

“It is,” you grinned. “Modulatedly pissed.”

He looked away before you could see his mouth twitch.

divider

And then there was Hyunjin.

Director of Sensory Magic and Bond-Stabilisation Therapy. Ethereal. Tall. Wears flowy black trousers that are definitely cursed for dramatic effect. Smells like sandalwood and metaphysical trauma.

He appears at 8:04 AM, waltzing into the containment briefing room with a portfolio under one arm and a crystal cup of black tea in the other.

“You’re the intern, right?” he says to you, voice like a lullaby dipped in sarcasm. “Hi. I’m Hyunjin. I specialize in trauma, blood, and unbearable beauty.”

Changbin: sighs like he’s aged six years.

You blink. “Pleasure?”

“Likewise. Your scent is... odd. I like it. Feels like lavender anxiety with a hint of ‘my dad’s the reason this building exists.’”

“That is disturbingly accurate.”

“Thank you. I smell emotions for a living.”

Changbin, already done: “Why are you here.”

“Art therapy,” Hyunjin replies cheerfully. “One of your patients bit a guard and then painted a ceiling mural in dried blood. So now it’s my turn.”

You nod solemnly. “That's either deeply poetic or a workplace hazard.”

Hyunjin gives you a conspiratorial smile, then leans toward Changbin.

“You’re vibrating.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve been vibrating since she got here.”

“Get out.”

“Oh, I will. But not before I tell you this—”

“The bond lines are reacting.”

A silence falls.

You frown. “What?”

Changbin goes very still. Hyunjin just sips his tea.

“I don’t think there’s a full imprint,” Hyunjin muses, eyes half-lidded. “But there’s a shimmer. Minor resonance. Micro-claim reaction, maybe from proximity or blood compatibility. Nothing formal. Yet.”

“Explain,” Changbin says darkly.

“It means,” Hyunjin purrs, “that your subconscious thinks she’s yours.”

You try not to choke on your breath. Changbin’s jaw clenches so hard you hear it crack.

“Get. Out.”

“Love you too~” Hyunjin sings, walking pleased with himself.

You don’t speak. Neither does Changbin.

He storms past you. You catch the heat in his eyes as he brushes your shoulder—intentional this time—and the word he mutters beneath his breath.

“Fucking bond magic.”

You find him ten minutes later in the weapons sanitization bay, rinsing blood off his gloves like the scent offends him personally. You’ve learned not to speak until the first rinse cycle finishes—he doesn’t like being startled when he’s armed, which is fair, given that his fists are already registered as weapons.

Still, you’re kind of proud of yourself for finding him at all.

“Director Seo,” you say, purposefully polite, like nothing awkward or claim-related was dropped into the air twenty minutes ago. “Reporting for observation duty.”

He doesn’t look up. “You’re not scheduled for containment until this afternoon.”

“I reviewed the schedule. You approved my presence for the morning tier-three briefings.”

Now he looks up.

Slow. Irritated. Maybe impressed.

You smile. Not too much. Just enough to say: you may be terrifying, but I am very smart and very annoying, and I know what I’m doing.

He exhales through his nose and turns to unstrap his arm guards. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’ve barely spoken to me today.”

“Exactly.”

You follow him down the hall.

“So. What’s the plan for the briefing?”

“We sit. We talk about the vampires that tried to kill us yesterday. Then we eat sad protein bars and pray the afternoon isn’t worse.”

“Do I get a protein bar?”

“No.”

“Rude.”

He opens a door with his palm print. You keep walking two steps behind, like some kind of blood-resistant intern duckling.

“Stop following me like that,” he mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like you trust me.”

You pause. Just a beat. “Shouldn’t I?”

He doesn’t answer. Not with words. Just stops at the door to the observation deck, turns on his heel, and pins you in place with one look. Not violent. Not even angry. Just—charged.

His eyes drop briefly to your wrist.

You know why. The cuffs. The enchanted ones. Your pulse hides behind them, but not perfectly. Not anymore.

“That bond shimmer thing,” you say casually. “Is it real?”

His jaw clenches. “No.”

“Hyunjin said—”

“Hyunjin says a lot of shit when he’s bored.”

“But he’s Director of Bond-Stabilisation—”

“And half-little shit. So maybe don’t let him seduce you with theories about what might be humming in your bloodstream.”

You try not to laugh. “You’re jealous.”

He levels you with a stare. “I’m protective.”

A beat.

“Let’s go. You’re already late to pretend you’re qualified.”

The observation deck smells like silver disinfectant and anticipation.

A long arc of reinforced glass separates the interns, researchers, and field techs from the three vampire patients below. Tier Three—partially stable, partially sedated. They pace like sharks in segmented enclosures, each one built to suppress a different aspect of their bloodlust.

One wears a pulse collar. Another has her hands in anti-magic cuffs. The third—

The third just stares at the ceiling, whispering to someone who isn’t there.

You’ve read their files. Watched their intake footage. Memorized their reactions to auditory triggers, temperature shifts, scent stimuli.

None of that prepares you for seeing them in person. For feeling the way the air tightens when their eyes flash toward the deck.

You exhale slowly.

Changbin stands behind you now. Arms crossed, expression unreadable. His presence is less a body and more a barrier—a pressure field humming behind your spine, like even your heartbeat has to ask permission to move.

You speak low. “I thought Tier Three wouldn’t react to observers.”

“They don’t,” he says. “Unless they smell something… interesting.”

You glance back at him. “Am I interesting?”

His gaze flicks down your neck. Just once. “You’re a problem.”

Your lips twitch. “Is that why you’re standing like a vault?”

He doesn’t answer. Just nods toward one of the staffers entering the lower level—tranq cart in hand, ready for standard evaluation.

You go still.

Because the vampire closest to the glass has stopped moving.

He’s looking at the intern. Then, slowly—too slowly—his head turns toward the deck.

His nostrils flare.

And his eyes lock on you.

A sound escapes his throat. Low. Animal.

The lights shift in warning—soft amber glow pulsing into a harsh, sterile white. That means pre-breach aggression. No movement yet. But something is rising in him, and it’s not from visual cues.

“Changbin,” you say quietly. “He’s scenting me.”

Before you finish the sentence, Changbin steps between you and the glass. His hand comes up—not touching you, but close, too close—and his body covers yours like instinct.

“Do not move.”

You freeze. Not out of fear. Out of recognition. This is what he was made for. Not planning. Not speaking. Not strategy. Just this. Standing between danger and what it wants.

The vampire lets out a snarl. Not at Changbin—at you. At your blood. Your presence. At whatever trace has started seeping through your enchanted cuffs.

“He shouldn’t be able to scent me through protocol,” you whisper.

Changbin’s voice is low. Controlled. Not for you—for himself. “He shouldn’t. Which means something changed.”

You swallow. “Is it the bond shimmer?”

He doesn’t answer. Just turns to the observation technician and snaps, “Trigger level-one sedative protocol. Now.”

You don’t speak as the team below confirms sedation, locking the cell with reinforced restraints. Changbin watches the whole process with his arms folded tight over his chest, jaw clenched hard, like he’s holding back teeth and truth in the same breath.

You feel the tremor in your own fingers. Faint. Ridiculous. You’re not supposed to shake. Not after everything you’ve trained for.

So instead—you do what you’re meant to.

You sit. You pull out your tablet. You start writing.

Tier Three Observation Log: Day 7 Time: 14:31 KST Subject: Patient 3 Status: Rage-state response triggered. Sedation successful. Unscheduled aggression. Cause: Unknown.

You pause. Your fingers hesitate over the stylus. Then, slowly, you write:

“Possible external stimulus: researcher blood compatibility breach. Protocol seals potentially bypassed via resonance shimmer.” “Unknown if catalyst is environmental or biological.” “Proximity to Director Seo… may be relevant.”

Behind you, you feel it—the shift in air pressure. Changbin moves.

You keep writing.

“Subject’s behavioral pattern deviated within 5–6 seconds of visual contact. Breathing irregularity noted in researcher. Physical response from Director Seo immediate. Shield positioning, non-contact but full frontal coverage.” “Verbal command issued: ‘Do not move.’” “Researcher obeyed.”

You shouldn’t write that part. But you do. Because it’s the truth.

You stop.

Because there’s a shadow over your shoulder now. His breath, soft. Controlled. Right beside your neck.

“Are you writing about me?”

You don’t look up. “This is observation. You're part of the response system. Therefore, you're in the log.”

He’s quiet.

Then—

“You wrote down that you obeyed me.”

Your throat tightens.

Still, you force your voice to stay clinical. “It was a direct command. I assessed the situation. You were correct.”

He huffs. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not one either. “You always do what you’re told, then?”

You tilt your head. “Are you asking professionally or personally?”

Silence.

Then he steps back, just enough for you to exhale fully again. “Pack up. You’re done for the day.”

You blink. “What? No. That was one anomaly—”

“It was one second from breach. One second from your blood on the glass. You’re done.”

You rise, slowly. “You don’t get to bench me, Changbin. I’m here to learn. I’m not afraid.”

He moves so fast you don’t see it—only feel it. Your back hits the wall. Gently. Caged. Not rough. Not dangerous. Just… immediate. His hand braces near your head.

You could push him away. You don’t.

“Do I make you nervous?” he asks, voice low.

You lift your chin. “No.”

“Then why are you standing like you’ll bolt the second I move?”

Your breath hitches. His eyes drop to your mouth.

“You need to understand something,” he says, voice darker now. “This isn’t a lab anymore. You’re not some ghost in the background. Not to them.”

Not to me, either. He doesn’t say it. But you hear it anyway.

“You bleed down here,” he murmurs, “and they’ll turn on each other just to see who gets to taste it first.”

You swallow. “And you?”

A pause.

“I’m not them.”

His eyes are still on your mouth.

Your breath stutters. The room feels smaller. Like the space between your spine and the wall is folding in on itself. Like if he leaned forward just one inch—

The door hisses. And everything stops.

You both freeze like teenagers caught under the bleachers.

Then: “...Wow,” comes a familiar voice. Flat. Dry. Absolutely done. “Am I interrupting?”

Changbin doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pretend to look guilty.

You, on the other hand, do the awkward shuffle-of-shame, stepping sideways out of his arm cage like oh nothing to see here despite the fact that you’re flushed, your pulse is audible, and your cuff is glowing faintly.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s Chan.

CEO of Luxe. Founder. Friend of your father. And currently standing there with his arms crossed like he walked in on two pit bulls mid-mating ritual.

“You know,” Chan says, squinting at Changbin, “when I said ‘protect her,’ I didn’t mean press her into the infrastructure.”

You cough.

Changbin doesn’t react. Just exhales slowly, gaze still on you, dangerously unreadable.

“Nothing happened,” he says.

Chan raises a brow. “Sure. And I’m a priest.”

You attempt to salvage your dignity by fixing your shirt and clearing your throat. “Director Seo was explaining scent-driven aggression. We were discussing field protocol.”

“Yeah,” Chan says. “Your field protocol involves pinning interns to reinforced walls and breathing like a dying wolfhound?”

You frown. “That's oddly specific—”

“—because that’s exactly what I just saw,” Chan cuts in. “Look, I get it. Trauma bonding. Biological resonance. Forbidden attraction. Super hot. Not here.”

Changbin finally turns. “We weren’t doing anything.”

“Your arm was over her head. There was breathing. You were doing something.”

A long pause. You bite your lip.

Chan runs a hand through his hair. Then looks at you. “Are you alright?”

You nod, heat crawling up your neck. “Fine. No contact.”

“No contact yet,” Chan mutters under his breath. “Hyunjin’s going to have a field day.”

Changbin glares.

Chan throws up his hands. “Alright, alright. Just—dial it down, yeah? Last thing I need is her father calling me to ask why his daughter is suddenly branded like Luxe property.”

Your heart skips. Changbin stiffens.

“That’s not happening,” he says, too fast.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You sure? Because your scent is all over her cuffs. And she’s glowing.”

You glance down.

Shit. Your cuff is glowing. Just faintly. Silver shimmer, almost imperceptible—except you know what that means.

Resonance.

“Fantastic,” Chan sighs. “If you bite her, I’m firing both of you. And also throwing a party, because finally. But then firing you. Definitely that part.”

He turns to leave. Pauses in the doorway. “Oh—and we have a board meeting in twenty minutes. Thought you should know, Bin. Maybe wipe the murder off your face.”

And he’s gone.

The door hisses shut.

Silence.

You stare at the wall for a full beat before turning back to Changbin, who’s now leaning against a metal cabinet, arms crossed, smoldering with quiet fury and something else.

“So,” you say lightly. “That was... educational.”

He exhales.

“I need to kill Hyunjin.”

You grin. “You want to kiss me.”

A pause.

Then: “That’s the fucking problem.”

Your cheeks are burning.

Not in the cute, girlish way. Not in the “oops he caught me off guard” way either.

More like: Changbin just said he wants to kiss you, in that low, ruined voice of his like it physically hurts him to admit it, and now you’re standing here flushed, breathless, trying to decide if you need a cold shower, a therapy appointment, or a restraining order.

And yet, you're frozen in place, mouth open in mild, stunned betrayal of your own hormones.

“I—excuse me?” you manage, voice pitching slightly.

He doesn’t repeat it.

He just turns away, rubbing the back of his neck, muscles shifting under his shirt like anger barely contained by sinew.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then, with as much dignity as you can salvage: “Okay. Great talk. Loved that. Definitely didn’t almost faint. Gonna go now.”

You turn, fast. Start toward the door like it hasn’t been absolutely defiled by tension in the past three minutes. You nearly trip on your own tablet case.

Changbin doesn’t say anything—of course he doesn’t—but you can feel his eyes on your back. Watching you leave like you’re some kind of… temptation with legs and clearance level three.

You smack the door control.

“See you later,” you call without looking.

“Not if I see you first,” he mutters.

You pause. Glance back. “Was that a threat?”

“No,” he says. “That was restraint.”

Luxe Health: Secure Conference Chamber 04.

The lights are low. The table is long. The vibe is supposed to be “strategic think tank,” but it’s rapidly deteriorating into “eight vampire men trying not to talk about the girl their enforcer wants to throw against a wall.”

Chan sits at the head. Arms folded. Pretending to be in CEO mode.

To his right: Minho—sharp suit, sharper cheekbones, reading a file with the kind of expression that says I will kill you if this isn’t worth my time.

Next: Changbin, still silent, jaw tight, the ghost of that wall scene clinging to his shoulders like scent.

Across from him: Hyunjin, dressed like a cursed gallery curator, twirling a charmed ring around his finger like he knows exactly what happened and will Not Be Normal About It.

Felix, beside Hyunjin, radiating golden-boy calm but quietly watching Changbin like he’s a patient with rising vitals.

Jisung is already bored. Playing with a vial of enchanted hemalixir, mumbling something about “scent stabilization is a myth, unless the girl’s really hot, in which case—yeah.”

Seungmin, pristine as always, flipping pages in the Medical-Legal Binder™ with the calm of someone who has absolutely drafted “What To Do If Your Co-Worker Bites a Human Intern” policy before.

Jeongin sits at the end, very clearly not supposed to be here, scribbling notes like do not flirt with rage-state interns even if they are pretty???

Chan clears his throat. “Alright. Meeting agenda. Let’s start with the containment breach.”

Minho: “Handled.” Chan: “Great. Sedation delays?” Seungmin: “Filed. Disciplinary warnings pending.” Felix: “Patient is stable. No residual psychic fallout.” Hyunjin: “No feedback loops. But there was—” he pauses, smiling slowly “—a resonance flare.”

Seven heads turn.

Changbin doesn’t move.

Jisung: “Like a shimmer?” Felix: “How strong?” Hyunjin: “Enough to make her cuff glow.” Seungmin: “Her cuff glowed?” Jeongin: “Her?”

Minho sets down his file. “Who’s her.”

Chan exhales loudly, temples already throbbing. “The intern.”

Minho stares. “The intern?” Seungmin: “The investor’s daughter?” Hyunjin: “Oh, she has a name now. Fascinating.” Felix: “This was during observation rounds?” Jisung: “I thought she was in Bio-Monitoring.” Chan: “She asked for Containment. I approved it.” Minho: “Why?” Chan: “Because she’s qualified.” Hyunjin: “Because you’re afraid of her dad.” Chan: “Also that.”

Pause.

Then Hyunjin, with all the grace of a panther mid-gossip: “Changbin pinned her to a wall.”

Silence. Absolute silence.

Minho looks at Changbin. Changbin doesn’t blink.

Jisung drops his vial. “WHAT.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Changbin mutters.

Hyunjin: “Oh, you’re right. It was much worse. You said—and I quote—‘That’s the fucking problem.’”

Felix is gasping, Seungmin is writing furiously and Jeongin? Well, his mouth is full open and he's horrified, possibly traumatised but also amazed.

Minho: “Bin.”

Changbin: “Minho.”

Minho: “You touched her?”

Changbin: “I didn’t bite her.”

Chan: “Which was somehow the most shocking part of the encounter.”

Hyunjin, dreamy: “He wanted to. The air was thick. You could feel the denial.”

Jisung: “DID YOU SMELL HER?!”

Changbin: “No.”

Seungmin: “But you’re emotionally compromised.”

Felix: “And scent-bonded.”

Jeongin, whispering: “Does this mean she’s gonna be his?”

Everyone turns.

Jeongin blinks. “I—I mean, that’s how bonds work, right?”

Long pause.

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “He’s right. It’s giving First Claim.”

Chan groans. “Do not name it like a romance novel.”

Jisung: “Too late. That’s what I’m calling it now. First Claim. Sounds hot. Who’s writing the fic?”

Seungmin: “I’m writing the liability clause.”

Minho rubs his temples. “Focus. What’s our next step if this escalates?”

Chan: “We don’t panic.”

Hyunjin: “We monitor.”

Felix: “We support.”

Jisung: “We watch the slowburn unfold.”

Jeongin: “We take notes.”

They all look at Changbin.

Changbin exhales, voice flat: “I hate all of you.”

Hyunjin smiles. “That’s the bond talking.”

Meanwhile...

You sit alone in one of the upper-level staff lounges. Not the fancy one near Chan’s office. The dusty one tucked behind a corridor labeled “Emergency Sanitization Supplies — Floor Two.” Which is exactly your vibe right now: emotionally spilled bleach in human form.

There’s a half-melted iced Americano in your hand. Cold and bitter as sin, and entirely useless at stopping the blush that has not left your face in the past thirty-seven minutes.

You take a sip. Pause.

“Okay,” you mutter to no one. “So maybe you’re a little attracted to him.”

You shake your head.

“No. No. That’s not attraction. That’s a biological stress response. He’s massive. His arms are the size of your thigh. Of course your brain is confused.”

Another sip. Stronger this time.

“Besides. He’s grumpy. Doesn’t talk. Glares like you keyed his car every morning.”

Beat.

“…Which is hot. Ugh. God. Okay. Shut up.”

You lean back in the chair, bumping your head lightly against the wall. Your enchanted cuffs hum faintly on your wrists—still active, still shimmery, still threatening to give away your entirely inappropriate emotional situation at any moment.

“You are not falling for Seo Changbin,” you say out loud, stabbing your straw like it personally offended you. “You are here to research biological trauma responses. Not become one.”

A janitorial bot wheels by. You stare it down.

“Don’t judge me.”

It beeps and rolls off.

You groan.

“Okay, but he did say he wanted to kiss me.”

A beat.

“No. He said that was the problem. Totally different. Very unromantic. Entirely scientific.”

Another pause.

“...Except he looked at your mouth like it was his last meal.”

You let your forehead drop to the table. “I need a new lab. Or a tranquilizer. Or both.”

From down the hall, you hear footsteps. Familiar ones. Heavy. Measured. Your whole body goes still.

“Oh my god,” you whisper. “If that’s him, I swear to every vampire council on Earth, I will throw myself out this window and enroll in accounting.”

You peek over your arm. It’s not him. Just a courier bot.

You sigh in relief. Then disappointment. Then immediate confusion. “I need therapy.”

You’ve just convinced yourself that you’re not in love with him—truly, deeply, definitively not in love with Seo Changbin—when the facility-wide comms system crackles to life.

“Attention all Containment and Observation units: Tier Three Drill commencing in fifteen minutes. Standard breach simulation, sedative protocol live. Assigned teams, report to Deck B.”

You blink.

A beat later, your tablet vibrates with a direct dispatch message.

CONTAINMENT DRILL TEAM C Supervisor: Director Seo Changbin Team Members: Y/N (Intern Observer, Clearance 3), Dr. Lee Yejin, Tech Operative Ryu, MedOps Rep Kwon.

You reread it three times.

“Okay,” you whisper to your coffee. “That’s fine. It’s fine. Just a drill. Just a very physically intense, close-quarters drill... supervised by a man who literally wants to bite me.”

You get up. Straighten your jacket. Slap your cheeks. Mutter something about professionalism and “Don’t you dare look at his mouth.”

And then you go.

Deck B is chaos. Organized, high-security chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

People rushing to prep sedatives. Armored gloves being locked in place. Staff adjusting their neck seals and throat shields. It’s all routine—but there’s a charge in the air, the kind that only happens when danger is about to pretend to be real, but everyone secretly knows it could become real anyway.

You arrive at the meeting point and immediately spot him.

Changbin.

In full Containment gear now. Tactical black, reinforced sleeves, cuffs over his wrists. His enchanted silver hoops glint under the sterile lighting. His face is unreadable, like he’s already halfway in fight mode.

He sees you.

You swallow. “Reporting for drill duty,” you manage, voice mercifully steady.

He gives a curt nod. “You stay behind me at all times. Log what you see. Don’t engage.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t bleed.”

You offer a very dry smile. “I’m aware.”

The rest of the team gathers. You all get briefed, handed mock protocols, sedative vials, dummy tags. Then comes the worst part: the formation split.

They divide you into pairs.

You already know what’s coming.

“Intern Y/N,” the ops tech says. “You’ll be with Director Seo.”

A brief silence follows.

Someone coughs. Someone else definitely smirks. Changbin doesn't blink. Just mutters: “Let’s move.”

The drill progresses.

Zone One: Cleared. Zone Two: Dummy vampire restrained. Zone Three: Simulated aggression triggered by shouting and flashing lights.

Still under control.

Then you reach Zone Four. Where something feels... off. The lights are slower to respond here. There’s a faint hum of magic in the air—sharper than usual. Your cuffs prickle on your wrist like static’s trying to get in.

Changbin stiffens. His hand lifts, a silent signal to halt.

You obey instantly.

The dummy vamp in Zone Four is chained. Supposed to be dormant. Eyes closed, breath shallow—controlled simulation.

But it sniffs the air. Its head twitches. Its eyes snap open. Not red. Black.

“That’s not a dummy,” Changbin says quietly.

“What—”

“It’s real.”

You feel your blood go cold.

“That’s a live rage-state. Someone fucked up the deployment roster.”

The vampire lunges against its chains. The others around you freeze.

The sound that rips from its throat is not an actor’s growl. It’s low. Bone-deep. Hunger manifesting as sound.

“It’s scenting,” Changbin mutters. Then, sharply—“Get her out.”

Someone grabs your arm. Starts to pull you back.

You don’t get far.

Because the vampire speaks. “Yours,” it snarls. Voice distorted. “She smells like yours.”

And then the chains break. Not by accident. Not by wear. By force. It launches. Straight at you.

Everything happens at once.

Screams. Sedatives deployed. Magic barriers flaring—

And Changbin moves. No hesitation. No words. Just speed.

He tackles the vampire mid-air, slamming it against the reinforced wall with a crack that shakes the entire floor. His fangs are out. His whole body is glowing with rage—not hunger, not loss of control.

Claim.

The vampire snarls, twisting beneath him, repeating it over and over: “Yours. Yours. Yours—”

Until Changbin’s hand wraps around its throat and slams it into silence. The vampire chokes once—then goes still. Not unconscious. Held. Crushed into compliance.

Changbin's forearm pins the creature’s chest. His other hand is still around its throat.

Your breath is loud in your ears.

Changbin doesn't move. Not right away. Just stays there, caging the creature against the wall like some monstrous, divine sentinel—fangs bared, gaze locked not on the vampire…

But on you.

Finally, Changbin’s grip tightens.

Crack.

The vampire slumps, unconscious now. Not dead. But close enough. Silence falls, broken only by the whir of containment drones resetting and the hum of the barrier recharging.

A long pause.

Then: “Director Seo,” one of the ops officers says carefully. “We’ll take it from here.”

Changbin steps back. Breathes once. Just once. Then turns to you. His voice is steady, too steady. “You’re off this floor for the rest of the week.”

You frown. “I didn’t—”

“Not a request.”

He walks past. Doesn’t look back.

Three nights later.

You're in a booth with a glittering drink in hand, skin still glowing from the bathroom highlighter your friend insisted on using (“you need shimmer, bitch—post-trauma sparkle tax”).

The music is too loud, the air smells like spiced rum and citrus perfume, and your heels already hurt.

But the buzz is warm. The girls are laughing. And you… are babbling.

“—and then he just walked off, like full dramatic coat sweep, and I’m standing there with adrenaline in my mouth and a full trauma boner or something, I don’t know—”

“Wait, trauma boner?” Your friend Zara chokes on her drink. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” you say, stabbing your straw into the crushed ice like it personally wronged you, “I need therapy. Or a different internship. Or a restraining order. Or him. Honestly, I don’t know anymore.”

Your best friend Hyerin leans over the table. “Okay, wait. Let’s back up. Did he save your life?”

“Well, technically—yes,” you admit. “But also, I wouldn’t have been in danger if someone didn’t bond-glow like a possessive hellhound and piss off a rogue vampire in the first place—”

“You like him,” Hyerin grins, leaning in conspiratorially.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!” You throw your hands up, nearly sloshing your drink onto your dress. “I like peace. I like science. I like not being tackled by muscle demons with jawlines sharp enough to slice through reinforced cuffs—”

“Right,” Zara hums. “And when you say jawline, you mean—”

“This isn’t about his jawline!”

Pause. You stare into your cocktail like it might offer answers. It doesn’t.

“…It’s a little about the jawline,” you mutter.

The table bursts into laughter. Hyerin’s already pulling out her phone.

“I’m texting him,” she says.

“YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE HIS NUMBER.”

“Not yet.”

You scream into your hands.

But, the universe hates you and you're sure of it.

Because not five minutes after you scream into your hands—screaming about him—the music shifts, the crowd parts like some hedonistic Red Sea, and in walks the reason your blood pressure has had a permanent residency in the clouds: Seo Changbin. Black shirt, tactical boots like he stomped straight out of the field and into the VIP section. Sleeves rolled. Forearms coiled. Expression unreadable.

And beside him?

Hwang Hyunjin, shirt unbuttoned halfway like a walking sin. Felix, honey-blonde hair and already blowing kisses at the bartender.

You—mid-sip of a definitely-too-strong cocktail—choke. Loudly.

Zara slaps your back. “Oh my god—what is it?”

“Don’t—look—now—” you wheeze, clutching the table, “but the reason for my imminent emotional breakdown just walked in with his vampire boy band.”

“What—” Hyerin starts, glancing over—And immediately gasps. “HOLY FUCK, IS THAT—?!”

“Yes!” you hiss. “It is! And now we’re gonna leave quietly, like normal people who do not talk shit about their boss and then get haunted by it in real time.”

Too late.

Felix spots you first. Smiles like he’s already decided to ruin your life for fun. He taps Hyunjin. Hyunjin turns. Sees you. Smirks like he’s proud of himself for causing all this. Like he’s got a bingo card and just checked off “accidentally start a soulmate crisis.”

And then—

Changbin looks up. Finds you. Freezes.

You freeze, too.

It’s mutual nuclear deer-in-headlights energy.

Then—and this is the worst part—he visibly exhales. Rubs the back of his neck. Says something to the others.

And starts walking over.

You panic.

“Abort,” you whisper. “ABORT MISSION—HE’S COMING—WHY IS HE COMING—”

Hyerin hides her face behind her glass. Zara just leans in like this is the season finale of a drama.

Changbin reaches the table. “…Intern.”

That voice. Low. Calm. Slightly hoarse like he’s been shouting over noise—Or thinking about you.

You blink up at him, stunned. “D-Director.”

“Didn’t know you frequented this club.”

“I—don’t,” you stammer. “I mean, I do. But not, like—frequently. Just—on occasion. Very rare occasions. Like now. And maybe never again.”

He looks vaguely amused. “Shame.”

You short-circuit. “Sorry?”

He leans in a little. Just a fraction. Just enough for your drink to forget how to exist and nearly spill itself. “Shame,” he repeats. “I was starting to think this place had good taste.”

You black out a little.

Felix, ten feet away, definitely whoops.

Hyunjin raises a brow like he’s just been fed.

You pray for the earth to swallow you whole.

It doesn’t.

Instead, Changbin steps back—cool as ever—nods to your friends, and says, “Don’t stay too late. You’re still technically under blood-scent restriction.”

And then he’s walking away. Felix blows you a kiss. Hyunjin mouths, “You’re welcome.”

You collapse onto the table.

Zara: “I’m gonna need you to explain everything. Slowly. With details.”

Hyerin: “You’re so in love with him.”

You: gargling incoherently into your straw.

Somewhere, across the bar, Changbin slides into a booth beside Hyunjin, downs a drink like he’s trying to forget his own existence, and mutters: “…I’m so fucked.”

Hyunjin watches Changbin slam his drink like it personally insulted his ancestors.

Then, with all the grace and smugness of a man who has never once minded his business, he drawls: “Soooo… when were you planning on telling us you’ve imprinted on your intern?”

Changbin glares at him over the rim of his glass. “I didn’t imprint.”

Felix snorts. “You tackled a feral vampire like a rabid Cerberus because it looked at her. Your aura’s been glowing since Tuesday. You’re literally scent-marking her by accident.”

“I’m not—!” Changbin exhales, runs a hand down his face. “It’s not like that.”

Hyunjin raises a brow. “Oh? Then what is it like, Binnie? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve got yourself a little intern-shaped problem. Or, more accurately—” He leans in. “—a little intern-shaped crush.”

Changbin doesn’t respond. Which is, obviously, confirmation.

Felix grins. “Awww, hyung… You’ve got a type.”

“I do not have a type—”

“You do. And apparently it’s smart, clumsy, slightly sarcastic science girls who wear combat boots and forget how to breathe when you look at them.”

“I swear to god—”

“She was literally squeaking at the table. You know how hard it is to make a scientist squeak?”

Hyunjin nods solemnly. “It's usually the lab rats that squeak. Not the interns.”

Changbin slumps in his seat. “You two are insufferable.”

Felix beams. “We’re supportive.”

“We’re observant,” Hyunjin adds.

“We’re just saying,” Felix continues, “that if you don’t make a move soon, she’s gonna keep thinking she’s hallucinating the sexual tension. Which, by the way, is not subtle. It’s practically a hazard.”

“I can’t make a move,” Changbin mutters. “She’s under my department. It’s complicated.”

“You tackled a rogue vampire for her,” Hyunjin says, sipping his drink like he’s delivering a TED Talk. “Pretty sure the ethics line was already blurred when you went full murder-glow in front of ten ops staff and a clipboard.”

“And she blushed,” Felix adds. “Like, blushed. The kind of blush that requires ice water and therapy.”

“She screamed into her hands,” Hyunjin says thoughtfully. “Cute hands, by the way.”

Changbin growls. “Touch her and I’ll dislocate your soul.”

“There it is,” Felix sings. “There’s our favorite blood-stained simp.”

Changbin slams his glass down again. “…I hate both of you.”

Hyunjin shrugs. “You hate yourself more. For feeling things. Tragic.”

Felix leans in, bright-eyed. “But also… so hot. Honestly. We’re rooting for you. And if you ever need help figuring out how to ask her out without sounding like you’re proposing a hostage trade—we got you.”

Changbin just sighs. Drags a hand through his hair.

Across the bar, you're still hiding behind your drink. Still red in the face. Still not over it. He sees you peek out from behind your straw. You meet his eyes. Then duck back like you’ve been caught.

Changbin exhales through his nose. “…I’m so fucked,” he mutters again.

Hyunjin grins. “No, Binnie. You’re in love.”

Back at your booth...

You slip away from the booth with a muttered excuse—something about needing another drink, maybe some air. Really, you just need a minute. A minute to breathe without Hyerin’s knowing smirks or Zara’s whisper-yells of “he’s literally looking at you again—right now—look—”

So you push through the low-light crowd, heels clicking on scuffed tile, until you reach the bar.

The bartender’s busy with a round of orders. You lean against the counter, nursing the last of your drink, trying very hard not to glance back toward that particular booth.

(You fail. Twice.)

Behind you, the crowd shifts. You barely register the presence until someone leans in—too close. A voice at your ear, slurred and syrupy:

“Well, well. What’s a little thing like you doing all alone in a place like this?”

You freeze.

The man—no, not a man. You feel it instantly. The cold, too-calm stillness of him. The unnatural sharpness beneath his smile.

Vampire.

Not glamoured, not registered, not glowing with the controlled hum of city-trained restraint.

Your instincts scream.

“Back off,” you say, louder than intended.

But he laughs, low and slow. “Easy, sweetheart. Just being friendly.”

His hand brushes your wrist. Too fast. Too cold. You slap it away—but he grabs instead. Tight.

In a second, he’s behind you. Hand curled over your pulse point, voice rasping in your ear: “I can smell it on you. Something sweet. Someone’s touched you recently. Staked a claim…”

Your blood chills.

“Let go of me.”

“No.”

And that’s when the air changes. A blur cuts through the room. A gust of wind and rage and fire. And suddenly he’s there.

Changbin.

One hand wrenches the vampire back by the collar, the other slamming him into the bar so hard the counter cracks.

No warning. No mercy. Just fury. His eyes are glowing. His fangs are bared. His whole body radiates kill energy.

“She said let go.”

The vampire chokes. “Y-You’re—she’s marked—by you—?”

Wrong answer.

Changbin’s fist slams into his jaw. “Don’t ever touch her again,” he growls, voice pitched so low it could gut steel.

People are staring. No one interferes. Because every creature in this place knows exactly what just happened.

Possession. Protection.

He doesn’t let go until the vampire is limp. Until bouncers come, dragging the rogue away.

Then—and only then—does Changbin turn to you. He’s still shaking. “Are you okay?” he asks, low. Urgent. Too close.

You nod, numb. “Y-Yeah. Just… shaken.”

He exhales. Looks like he might kill someone else, just to be safe. And then—he touches you. Carefully. A light hand on your arm, grounding. His thumb strokes the spot where the vampire grabbed you.

“You’re not walking anywhere alone again,” he mutters.

You blink up at him stunned, lips slightly parted.

Behind you, from the booth, Hyunjin howls. Felix starts clapping. You scream internally. Changbin stiffens at the sound of Hyunjin’s howl. His jaw ticks and Felix’s enthusiastic applause is not helping.

You’re frozen, wide-eyed, still clutching your half-empty glass like it might shield you from this mortifying reality.

Then—Changbin sighs. Long. Suffering. Like a man just barely holding it together. His hand is still on your arm. He hasn’t moved it. Hasn’t looked away from you once.

“…Come on,” he mutters, voice low. “Let’s get you out of here.”

Your eyes flick up. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, and it’s so firm, so quiet, so final that you stop arguing.

He gently guides you toward the exit, threading you through the pulsing crowd like you’re something precious he needs to protect. His hand never leaves your lower back.

You pass the booth. Hyunjin wiggles his fingers like a cheeky villain. “Have fun~”

Felix leans across the table, stage-whispering: “Use protection. Emotional or otherwise.”

You hiss: “I hate both of you.”

Changbin: “Mood.”

The door swings shut behind you, muffling the music. The night air hits you—cool, quiet, a little sobering. You’re standing on the sidewalk now. Streetlights glowing. People still spilling into the night around you. But none of it touches the little bubble you’re in. Him. You. Too close. Not close enough.

“…Thanks,” you say, because you have to say something. “For—y’know. Back there.”

Changbin tilts his head, studying you. “You’re trembling.”

You glance down. Damn it, you are. “I’m fine,” you start, but it’s a lie, and he knows it.

“Come on,” he says again, voice gentler this time. “I’m taking you home.”

You blink. “You don’t know where I live.”

He lifts a brow. “Then give me the address. Or come to mine.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“…Option two.”

His jaw ticks—just once. “Yeah?”

“…Yeah.”

He nods. Doesn't look smug about it, not even a little. Just serious. Focused. Concerned in a way that makes your stomach flip. He leads you to the car and opens the passenger door and waits for you to climb in.

You do.

You buckle in. You try not to feel the weight of this. Of him. Of what this is starting to mean. He pulls into traffic, jaw tense, one hand on the wheel, the other flexing in his lap like he’s trying very hard not to reach for you again.

Finally, softly: “I meant it,” he says. “No more walking alone. Not with rogues sniffing around. Not with you glowing like…” He swallows. “…like someone’s already claimed you.”

Your breath catches.

You stare at the window. At your reflection. At the tiny shimmer in your wrist where that rogue touched you and your magic had flared in instinctive response.

“…Did you?” you whisper. “Claim me?”

The car is very, very quiet.

Then—

“I think,” Changbin murmurs, “I’ve been trying not to.”

Your heart stutters. He pulls into his building garage. Parks. Turns to you. “I don’t think I can help it anymore.”

Your mouth goes dry.

You feel it—the tension laced through the silence like a livewire. The air between you sparking with things unspoken. Untouched. You turn slowly to look at him. At the way his hand tightens slightly on the gearshift. At the muscle ticking in his jaw. At the way he’s not looking at you, like one glance might undo him entirely.

“…You’re not helping,” you say quietly. Half a joke. Half a truth.

His eyes flick to yours—fast, sharp, dark. “I’m not trying to.”

Your stomach flips.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he gets out, walks around the car, opens your door like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t. You step out, legs unsteady, and he’s right there—close but not touching. Always not touching.

The ride up is quiet. Elevator soft and silver. You watch the floor numbers climb and try not to think about how his shoulder nearly brushes yours. His apartment is sleek, clean, dimly lit—him, in every way. Cool-toned. Quiet. Safe.

He hands you a blanket. Points to the couch. “You can take the bed if you want.”

You blink. “You’re giving me your bed?”

He shrugs. “You were almost attacked tonight. I’m not gonna add back pain to the list.”

“…I’m not fragile.”

“I know,” he says. And that—that—comes out rough. Like it costs him to say it. “You’re not. But I care anyway.”

Silence.

You stare at him. He stares back.

Then he turns—like he has to physically pull himself away from you—and heads to the kitchen. “You want tea?” he asks, opening a cupboard. “Chamomile? Peppermint? Something to help you sleep?”

“Do you ever sleep?” you ask, still standing there.

“Not well,” he says, then glances over his shoulder. “Especially not when you’re walking into danger with a straw in your mouth and no backup.”

You scoff. “That’s oddly specific.”

He gives a faint, crooked smile. Then hands you a mug. “Drink. Couch or bed—your choice. I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

You take the mug. Your fingers brush. He freezes.

You both do.

Then you take a step back. He exhales. Like that one inch spared him from crumbling.

You sit on the couch, curling up under the blanket. He doesn’t go far—just settles at the far end, close enough to hear you breathe, far enough not to cross the line he’s clearly drawing for himself.

“You meant it?” you ask softly. “What you said earlier? About… not being able to help it?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares straight ahead. “Yeah.”

You nod once.

Then: “Good.”

His head snaps toward you. Eyes wide. Disbelieving. But you don’t explain. Don’t press. Just sip your tea and look ahead, heart pounding so hard it rattles your ribs.

The Next Morning. LUXE HQ — Sublevel 4, Operations Command

Changbin slams a file onto the desk. “Okay. No, seriously. What the fuck.”

Chan blinks over his coffee. “Good morning to you too?”

“I claimed her.”

“You what.”

“I didn’t bite her. I didn’t mark her. I didn’t even kiss her. I’ve had literal breakfast sandwiches more intimate than this—how did I claim her?!”

Hyunjin: “You cuddled a little aggressively. Maybe that counts now.”

Changbin whirls on him. “I didn’t cuddle.”

“Sure, sure. You just cornered her against a bar with glowing rage-fangs and vowed eternal protection. Totally platonic.”

Seungmin looks up from his tablet, deadpan. “You’re all idiots.”

Everyone turns.

Seungmin sighs. “She glowed.”

“…Okay?” Changbin scowls. “So?”

“She glowed for you. Back. You both flared at the same time. That's enough.”

Chan squints. “Wait—flared like a synced pulse?”

Seungmin nods. “Uh-huh. That’s proto-bond activation, dumbass. Happens sometimes when a vampire's instinct collides with a compatible magic signature. If she didn’t resist—and you didn’t stop it—boom. Partial imprint.”

Hyunjin gasps. “You magic-matched?! Like in those scandalous shifter novels?!”

“God,” Changbin groans. “Why is everyone insane.”

“You imprinted,” Seungmin repeats flatly. “Like a duckling. Congratulations.”

“I didn’t imprint—”

“Too late,” Seungmin shrugs. “Duck-mode engaged.”

Changbin blinks. “But… she’s human.”

Seungmin doesn't look up from his tablet. “And yet. Duck-mode engaged.”

“Stop saying that!” Changbin practically yells. “What does that even mean?! I didn’t do anything! I didn't bite her! I didn't mark her! We didn’t even touch—okay, maybe her arm—BUT THAT DOESN’T COUNT!”

Chan slowly sets his mug down. “Okay. First of all—calm down. You're glowing through your shirt again.”

“Second of all,” Seungmin adds helpfully, “it’s not about species, genius. It’s about resonance.”

“Resonance of what?! She’s human. She’s caffeine and sarcasm and zero threat response!”

“She’s also a latent,” Seungmin says casually.

Changbin freezes. “A what.”

“A latent. Human with dormant arcane receptors. Rare, but not impossible. Probably doesn’t even know it.”

Chan nods like this makes perfect sense. “Makes sense. Explains the glow. Explains the surge. Explains why your bitey instincts went nuclear.”

Hyunjin sips his drink. “Explains why you look like you wanna chew drywall.”

Changbin runs both hands down his face. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You’re telling me I accidentally started a soul-bond with a human scientist who drinks iced Americanos like a war crime and actively hates that I exist?”

Seungmin: “Correct.”

Hyunjin: “Romantically hates you.”

Felix (just arriving): “Wait—did you guys tell him about the duck thing yet—”

Changbin lets out a guttural scream.

Felix immediately turns around. “Nope. Nope. Not dealing with that energy. I just got here.”

Chan sighs and looks at Seungmin. “What now?”

“Nothing,” Seungmin says. “We wait.”

“For what?”

Seungmin shrugs. “For her to walk in, glow at him again, and trigger phase two.”

Hyunjin lights up. “Ooooh. What’s phase two?”

“Denial,” Seungmin deadpans. “And then sex.”

Chan promptly walks into the wall.

Later that day...

Changbin walks into his office with the weight of twelve hours of emotional torment and zero hours of sleep on his shoulders.

And there you are.

On his couch. Legs crossed, tablet in your lap, stylus tapping in that specific rhythm you do when you're thinking—but also trying to annoy someone.

"—and technically, if you inject nano-trace silver into vampire bloodstreams in microbursts, you could mimic a detox reaction without permanent damage. But the ethics board won’t approve it. Cowards."

Changbin pauses in the doorway.

You don't even look up. "Also, your potted plant is dying. Again. I watered it for you. You’re welcome. God, do you ever hydrate anything?"

He stares at you. "How did you get in here?"

“I have a passcode,” you say sweetly, still not looking up. “You gave it to me. Remember? Post-bar-murder cuddle tea?”

He grits his teeth. “That wasn’t a cuddle, it was proximity-based grounding.”

“Sure,” you say, scrolling. “Anyway, I reorganized your research drive while I waited. You had like four folders labeled ‘fuckshitlater’ and one just called ‘bite?’ with a question mark. Are you okay.”

He groans. “No. No, I am not okay.”

“Because of the rogue vampire attack?” you ask, finally glancing up at him with infuriating innocence. “Or because of the whole soul resonance proto-bond imprinting duck-mode glow-surge sex-prophecy thing?”

He slams the door behind him. “WHO TOLD YOU?!”

You blink. “…Hyunjin texted me a duck emoji and then just, like, thirty fire emojis.”

“Of course he did.”

You fold your hands in your lap, lips twitching. “Soooo. Duck-boy.”

He glares. “Do not call me—”

You smile, absolutely evil. “Quackbin.”

He collapses into his desk chair with a groan like his soul is leaving his body. “I liked it better when you were scared of me.”

“No, you didn’t,” you say, voice soft now. “You liked it when I trusted you.”

That shuts him up.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the hum of your tablet and the static weight of your words in the air.

Then—

“I’m still not biting you,” he mutters.

You look at him over the top of your tablet. “Who said anything about biting?”

Silence. Too long. You go back to scribbling like you didn’t just send him into a silent breakdown spiral.

And Changbin's staring at you.

You’re not looking at him. Or rather—you refuse to look at him. Because the heat of his gaze is melting through your skull, and if you meet it, you will combust. Internally. Physically. Spiritually. Biblically.

So instead, you tap your stylus. Innocent. Unbothered. Professional.

“You reorganized my drive?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“Mmhmm.”

“And you saw the ‘bite?’ folder.”

“Mmhmm.”

Silence. Tension coiling like a wire between you.

“…You know,” he says, leaning back in his chair, voice low, rough, dangerous, “it’s really fucking hard to be a good man when you’re sitting on my couch like that, talking like you didn’t almost get mauled last night, glowing like you want me to finish what we started.”

Your stylus stills.

“I wasn’t glowing,” you whisper.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice drops a full octave. “You were fucking radiant.”

Your thighs press together instinctively. He notices.

His fangs throb behind his lips. His hand twitches. His desk creaks.

You should stop this. You should get up. Leave. Think. Anything.

Instead—

You slide your tablet to the side. Stand. Walk to his desk.

He watches every step. Like prey. Like worship.

“Binnie,” you murmur, placing your palms on the desk and leaning forward—into his space, into the flame, into him. “If you’re going to keep protecting me, maybe you should figure out what you’re protecting me from.”

His breath stutters.

And then—he’s up.

Chair shoved back. Hands on the desk. Caging you in. Not touching—but so close.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he growls.

“I’m not asking.”

Silence. Heavy. Electric.

Then—

“Last chance,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop.”

You tilt your chin up, lips parted. Eyes burning. “I dare you.”

He’s on you in a second.

Not kissing—consuming. Mouth crushing yours, hands still gripping the desk like they’re the only things keeping him from tearing the room apart. His teeth barely miss your lips. His growl vibrates straight through your chest.

You gasp. He shudders. Like that sound is his favorite drug.

One hand finally lifts—cups your jaw, thumb dragging along your cheek like you’re porcelain he’s terrified to break. Like he knows he will anyway.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against your mouth. “I didn’t even bite you and you’re—fuck—you’re already mine.”

Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer. “So do it.”

“What?”

“Bite me.”

He stills. Completely. His pupils blow wide. The air between you crackles. “…You don’t know what that means,” he says. But his voice—his voice is wrecked. Strangled.

“Yes, I do.” You pull him down. “I’m not glowing because I’m scared, Binnie.”

And that’s all it takes. His lips crash back into yours.

He breaks from your mouth and growls, low and guttural against your throat.

“Tell me again,” he pants. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Louder.”

“I want it—” you gasp, and then—

He bites.

White-hot. Sacred. Feral. It’s not pain. It’s release. Your entire body arcs, grabbing at him, breathing him. He moans against your skin. Deep. Broken. “Oh, fuck—you're perfect—you were meant for me—”

You whimper and his hand’s already under your shirt. Already gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the earth. He pulls back from your neck slowly, licking the blood, sealing the wound. His fangs glint in the light.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, reverent. “Do you feel it?”

You do. Gods, you do. The pulse under your skin—matching his. “You feel it?” he whispers again. His breath ghosts across your lips. “Right here—” He presses his palm to your chest. “Right here where it started.”

You nod, dazed. Eyes wide. Glowing, just faintly, like your body can’t help but respond to his anymore.

And then—

He moves. Effortless. His arms sweep under your thighs and back in one motion, lifting you like you weigh nothing. Your tablet clatters to the floor, forgotten.

“Binnie—”

But you don’t get to finish. He's walking towards the couch where he sits—wide-legged, strong—on it like a throne. Settles you on his lap, thighs straddling his, your knees framing his hips.

You can feel him. Hard. Pulsing. Right there between your legs.

His hands grip your hips. Not pulling. Just holding. Like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“You sure?” he murmurs. “Because once we start—once I have you—I won’t stop at one night.”

You lean in. Press your forehead to his. Your breath fans his lips. “Then don’t.”

His resolve snaps.

The kiss is searing. Tongue, teeth, want. He’s everywhere, hands on your back, your thighs, under your shirt. Lifting it. Sliding it off. His mouth moves down your throat, tongue lapping over the healing bite mark like he needs it again.

“You smell like mine,” he groans. “You feel like mine.”

He lays you back across the couch. Kneels between your legs like he’s worshipping at an altar. Like his entire being has narrowed to you—the sound of your gasps, the curve of your waist, the way you already arch for him without shame.

He growls when his fingers fumble at the waistband of your pants. The fabric won’t budge fast enough, caught around your hips, and it tears a low, guttural curse out of him.

“Fucking—stupid—pants—” he snarls, tugging with enough force that the button snaps open, the zipper halfway down before his hands drag them down in one desperate, furious motion. “Why do you wear so many fucking layers, baby?”

You laugh—breathless, wrecked—until he leans down and bites the inside of your thigh. Not hard. Just enough to make your laugh stutter into a gasp.

“Not funny,” he mutters, voice dark, lips brushing your skin like a threat. “You don’t get to make jokes when I’m trying not to devour you.”

Your panties are next. Gone in one motion. He curses again when he sees the slick already glistening between your thighs.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you. You’re dripping."

You whimper. Arch. One hand threads into his hair, the other fisting the couch beneath you.

Changbin looks up—eyes glowing, fangs just barely showing. “Don’t worry, baby,” he purrs. “I’m about to ruin you.”

And then he lowers his mouth.

Tongue hot. Skilled. Starving.

He moans the second he tastes you—like it’s the first meal he’s had in a century—and you shatter against his mouth, hips bucking, body already twitching like he’s possessed you with just a single lick.

He groans again, deeper this time, as his tongue dips between your folds—slow, savoring, like he’s mapping every part of you. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you open, steady, as he works you apart with practiced precision.

“God, you taste—” his voice is muffled, reverent, hungry. “Like I’ve been starving for this.”

You whimper, hands curling tighter into his hair, hips instinctively lifting toward his mouth. He groans in approval, dragging his tongue up again—slow, thick, unhurried. He lingers at your clit, teasing flicks that make your whole body jolt, then seals his lips around it and sucks.

Hard.

You cry out. He doesn’t stop. One hand slides up, spreads across your belly like he’s grounding you—his weight, his heat, his claim—and the other presses your thigh wider, deeper, closer to ruin.

The noises—his mouth, your breathless gasps, the wet drag of tongue and lips—are obscene. Worshipful. He eats like he’s praying with every lick, every suck, every growled “mine” that vibrates straight into your core.

Your body trembles.

You’re close. You know it. He knows it. And he doesn’t let up—just flattens his tongue and drags it over you again and again until your legs are shaking and your voice is breaking and—

“Binnie—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He growls into you, low and possessive, and that’s what sends you over. You come hard, bucking under his mouth, moaning his name like a chant, like a plea, like a promise.

He holds you through it, mouth still working you gently, easing you down from the high like he never wants to stop tasting you.

And when he finally lifts his head—face glistening, eyes blown wide, lips parted like he’s drunk on you—you don’t even get the chance to catch your breath.

Because he crawls up your body, slow and dangerous, voice a dark rasp in your ear:

“Next round,” he says, “I want to feel you clench around my fingers. Gotta stretch you out baby.”

You nod—barely a breath, barely a sound—and that’s all he needs.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

His praise sparks something molten in your belly, your thighs already trembling as he kisses down your body again—slow now, like he’s savoring the aftershock. One hand strokes your inner thigh, the other cradles your hip, grounding you as his mouth ghosts over your navel.

“You’ve been holding back on me,” he says against your skin. “Didn’t know you could fall apart so sweet.”

You arch. Whimper. He grins, a little feral. A little in awe.

And then his fingers—warm, thick—slide between your folds.

You gasp.

“Still so wet,” he groans, like it physically affects him. “Fuck.”

The first finger eases in slowly, just enough to tease. He watches your face the whole time—like he’s cataloging every twitch, every flutter, every breathless moan. The second finger follows not long after, and you feel the stretch—tight, aching, divine.

“You’re already squeezing me,” he mutters. “God, you’re gonna feel so fucking good when I’m inside you.”

He moves them slow at first. Curling. Testing. Finding every spot that makes you jolt, your body clenching tighter with each drag of his fingers.

And then—he adds pressure. A twist. His thumb brushes just right and—

“Bin—!” you cry out, hips jerking.

“I know, baby,” he says, voice thick. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

His fingers keep working you open, steady, relentless, obscene in how perfectly they move inside you.

He grins—sharp, wicked, knowing exactly what he’s about to do. And you know it too. Because the moment his fingers thrust in again—deep, curling just right—he lowers his head back to your thigh.

Changbin sinks his fangs into your inner thigh.

The twin puncture stings for a moment—sharp, shocking—before it’s drowned out by the wave of heat that floods your body. Your hips buck against his hand, a broken moan tumbling from your lips as the blood rushes from the wound and straight to his mouth.

He groans. Loud. Filthy. Like the taste of you—your blood and your cunt and your ruin—is the single most divine thing he's ever known.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants into your skin, voice low, wrecked, drenched in hunger. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

And then—he starts drinking.

Slow pulls. Tongue lapping between sucks. All while his fingers keep fucking into you, faster now—deeper, harsher, relentless.

The pain and pleasure twist together—searing heat in your thigh, soaked heat between your legs—and it’s too much. Your body starts to shake, your hands scrambling for anything—his shoulder, the couch, his wrist, his hair—just to anchor yourself.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.

“You were made for this,” he growls, lifting his head from your thigh, blood-streaked lips glistening. His fangs flash in the low light, eyes burning. “Made to bleed for me, to cum on my fingers, to take every fucking drop of what I give you.”

Your walls pulse around him as if to answer. And fuck, he feels it. “Oh, you liked that, huh?” he laughs, dark and breathless.

Your name leaves his lips like a prayer and a promise all at once—then he leans back down, licking the bite to soothe it, even as his fingers slam harder inside you.

His thumb circles your clit—rough now, merciless—until you’re sobbing his name, thighs trembling, your body a livewire of heat and overstimulation.

“Give it to me again,” he whispers, mouth brushing your thigh, his voice soaked in greed. “Cum for me while I’m still inside you—fuck, baby, cum while I’ve still got your blood on my tongue.”

You break.

With a strangled cry and your back arching clean off the couch, you cum—again—clenching so tight around his fingers he has to curse, biting back a groan as he feels you pulse around him.

He keeps fucking his fingers into your cunt, slowly, riding out the waves of your orgasm before pulling his fingers out slow—wet, shining, ruined—and licking them clean.

Every drop. Every flick of tongue. Like it’s the only meal he’ll ever need.

“Still hungry, baby. Don’t think I’m done yet.”

Your thighs are still trembling, overstimmed and slick, body twitching from aftershocks when you feel the shift—Changbin rising above you, the heat of him crowding close.

He’s panting, flushed, eyes blown wide with hunger as he shoves his sweats down in one desperate motion.

And when his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark, glistening at the tip with pre-cum—your breath catches.

“Oh my god—” you whimper, voice cracking, eyes locked on the size of him. “Binnie, I… that’s not gonna—there’s no way you’re gonna fit—”

He grins.

That grin. The one that splits his face in half. Filthy. Cocky. Dangerous. The one that says: he knew you’d say that.

“Why do you think,” he growls, sliding one hand down your thigh again, fingertips brushing your soaked pussy with reverence, “I made you cum twice on my mouth and fingers first?”

He leans in—grinding his cock just barely against your slick folds, dragging the tip through the mess he made of you. You twitch, hips jumping, a sobbed gasp tearing from your throat.

“I had to get you ready, baby,” he whispers in your ear, voice molten. “Had to soften you up. Make you all loose and wet and perfect.”

You whine. Beg. Legs spread wide, fingers digging into his back, helpless and aching and needy.

“I—Binnie, please, please—”

He shudders at your tone. Cock twitches against your slit, smearing more of his precum along your folds.

“Oh, look at you,” he breathes, licking into your open mouth like he owns it. “Begging so sweet, baby. So fucking desperate.”

His cock nudges at your entrance—just barely—and your whole body arches like a live wire.

“You want me to ruin this little cunt, yeah?” he asks, dragging his tip against your slit again, teasing, leaking, cruel. “Wanna feel me stretch you open? Fill you up?”

You nod, babbling now. “Yes—yes, Binnie, please, I want it, I want you—”

“Then take a breath,” he grunts, lining himself up. “Gonna give it to you slow, baby. Gotta feel every inch.”

And fuck—

The stretch. The burn.

His cock presses in, just the tip, and already your mouth falls open, head tipping back against the cushions with a broken moan. He watches your face. Watches the way your lips part, your lashes flutter, your fingers claw into his arms like he’s too much—

But you’re still taking it. Bit by bit. Inch by aching inch.

“That’s it,” he whispers, awed, watching you swallow him whole. “That’s my good girl. So tight, baby, fuck—”

Your cunt grips him like a vice, soaked and fluttering around his cock, and he has to stop—just for a second—jaw clenched, breath punched from his lungs.

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

He’s only halfway in.

And already—already—your walls are clenching around him like they can’t let go, like your body’s trying to pull him in deeper even as it struggles to take him.

Changbin groans—low, guttural—like it’s tearing through his chest. His hips twitch forward another inch, and you choke on a moan, body arching, back scraping against the cushions.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, stilling there, halfway buried inside you. His eyes drag up your body, drinking in every inch like he’s starved for the sight. “You look so—fucking—good.”

His hand comes up slowly, fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your parted lips. And then—

He wraps it around your throat. “Look at you,” he mutters, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “Cock halfway in and already losing your mind.”

Your eyes flutter. A soft, wrecked sound leaves your throat. You try to move—hips tilting up, desperate to take more—but his hand around your neck tightens.

Still.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he whispers, voice dripping with sin. “You gonna take the rest? Let me ruin you properly?”

You nod, barely able to breathe now. Lips parting around a gasp, fingers gripping his forearms like please, please, please—

And then—

He snaps his hips forward. All at once. To the hilt.

You scream. Your body arches, eyes rolling, cunt spasming around him so tight he growls, low and vicious, fangs flashing.

“Fuck— that’s it.” he bites out, hand still firm around your throat, pinning you.

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. All you can feel is the burn, the stretch, the fullness—his cock buried so deep it feels like he’s rearranging you, like he’s claiming places no one’s ever touched.

He holds still, grinding just enough to make you cry out again, your whole body twitching under his.

“So tight,” he breathes, voice full of dark reverence. “So warm. You were made for me.”

His hand loosens, just a little—enough to let you suck in air, enough to let the tears gather in your lashes. And then his other hand finds your waist, gripping it hard.

“Now hold on, baby,” he rasps. “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t say anything but my name.” And the second your breath stutters under his hand—eyes dazed, lips red and kiss-swollen—Changbin snaps.

He pulls back just enough to feel the drag of your walls around him—tight, fluttering, soaked—and then he slams forward.

Hard.

You cry out, choked by his grip, back arching, legs trembling where they’re spread wide beneath him.

And then he does it again. And again. And again.

His pace is brutal—merciless—hips snapping into you with the force of someone barely holding on, cock pistoning deep with each thrust. You’re wrecked, voice gone to gasps and sobs, hands clawing at his back like you don’t know whether to pull him closer or push him away.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he groans, mouth right at your ear now, voice dark silk. “Whimpering like a little bitch every time I fuck into you.”

He grinds down between thrusts, making sure you feel him—every vein, every inch, every filthy promise his cock is making inside your cunt.

You sob his name, barely a sound—“B-Bin—”

His hand tightens around your throat. Your walls clench, pulsing, fluttering around him. “That’s it,” he whispers against your throat, and then—wet, open-mouthed kisses.

He devours the side of your neck—tongue dragging over skin, lips sucking marks into the curve of your throat, his fangs grazing every so often like he’s teasing the idea of biting again.

“God, you feel so fucking good.” he pants into your skin, hips hammering into you.

His free hand grabs under your knee, yanks your leg up over his hip, angle shifting—

And fuck—

He hits that spot. Again. And again. And again—

“Bin—please, I—!”

“Oh? Gonna cry for me?” he taunts, tongue licking over a fresh bruise blooming on your neck. “Go ahead. Cry while I fuck you dumb.”

Your whole body’s shaking, throat going raw from the sounds he’s dragging out of you. You’re gasping around his grip, every thrust shoving the air right back out again.

“Gonna fill this pussy up,” he groans. “Breed you like you were meant for it.”

Your moan—sharp, cracked, desperate—makes his thrusts get rougher.

The couch creaks. Your skin slaps against his. The room is full of nothing but obscene, messy, feral sounds. And when your body finally breaks, cunt spasming hard around his cock, stars bursting behind your eyes—he feels it.

He growls, deep in your throat. “Oh you’re cumming? Fuck, that’s it, squeeze my cock—take it—fucking take it, baby—”

Your orgasm crashes into you with devastating force. Your vision blurs, body going taut, your scream caught beneath his hand around your throat as your cunt clenches hard around him—tight, pulsing, desperate.

Changbin snaps.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck, that’s it, baby—”

His hips stutter, rhythm breaking as your walls milk him, suck him in deeper, tighter—your whole body shaking beneath him, back arched like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. His fangs flashing as he drives into you, cock twitching with every thrust.

And then—he cums. Hot. Deep. Endless. He growls, low and filthy, his whole body curling over you like a beast as his cock jerks inside you, painting your insides with thick, pulsing ropes of cum.

You moan—wrecked, breathless, barely conscious—feeling every pulse, every spurt. But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. Instead, he rocks into you again—slow now, but deep—like he’s riding out the high, dragging both of you through the aftershocks together.

“Still twitching, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His hand releases your neck—just enough to let you breathe, to suck in broken, wet gasps between sobs and moans.

“You feel that?” he whispers, cock still moving inside you, slow and obscene. “Feel how fucking full you are? God, you’re leaking already.”

You whimper, helpless, every inch of your body undone, trembling as he thrusts once—twice—just enough to push his cum deeper.

“Just a little more,” he breathes. “Let me have a few more, baby. You can take it. You’re being so fucking good.”

And fuck, you do.

You let him roll his hips, dragging his cock through your oversensitive cunt, both of you panting, covered in sweat and come and the kind of pleasure that breaks people.

Each stroke slow, reverent, dragging you both through the final waves of high until you’re trembling and gasping his name like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary.

And finally—finally—he stills.

His forehead drops to yours, eyes closed, chest heaving. His cock rests deep inside you, twitching once more before it settles, his cum slowly seeping out around him.

He kisses you—soft now, messy and lingering before pulling back. His breath evening out before yours does. You’re still trembling—body slick, wrecked, stuffed full and stretched wide, lips kiss-bruised and pulse still fluttering where he bit you. But it’s the way he holds you afterward that undoes you completely.

His nose nudges yours. “Hey,” he whispers. “You okay?”

You nod—barely. He shifts just enough to cradle your face in his hand, thumb brushing your cheek. “I need words, sweetheart.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “I’m okay. I’m… more than okay.”

His eyes search yours. Devour you, even now—but it’s not hunger anymore. Not like before. It’s reverence. Wonder. Like he still can’t believe he gets to touch you, much less have you.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your temple. Then down the bridge of your nose like he’s mapping your whole face in devotion. “You didn’t just let me feed,” he murmurs. “You gave. That’s…”

He swallows hard. “That means something.”

You blink up at him. “I know.”

And that’s when it hits him. The weight of what just happened. What he is to you now. What you are to him.

“Come here,” he whispers, voice gone hoarse. He pulls out slowly, careful like he’s afraid he might hurt you, and you whimper at the loss—already aching. He hushes you instantly, curling you into his chest, one hand gripping your thigh.

He kisses the bite mark on your neck like an apology.

You're still tucked in his lap, legs draped over his thighs, your body humming from every place he’s touched you. There’s a strange quiet between you now—intimate, heavy, not uncomfortable. Just full. Like something sacred has been spoken without words.

“Mine,” he murmurs again against your skin, soft this time, like a prayer.

And then the office door opens.

“Hyung, I need to talk to you about the security issue at the northern—”

Jeongin freezes. Absolutely freezes. His eyes go wide.

He sees your shirtless body curled into Changbin’s chest, the half-buttoned shirt hanging off Changbin’s shoulders, the damp marks on his throat, your thighs, everything.

He turns. Immediately.

“NOPE. NOPE. NOT AGAIN. WHAT THE ACTUAL—”

“Jeongin,” Changbin tries.

Jeongin throws a hand in the air, walking backwards out the door like he’s warding off a vampire exorcism. “DON’T EVEN. I SWEAR TO GOD.”

You choke on a laugh and bury your face in Changbin’s chest. He groans.

Jeongin’s voice echoes from the hallway. “YOU WERE THE SANE ONE, HYUNG. THE ONLY ONE. WHAT IS THIS—CHAN HYUNG 2.0??? I NEED A VACATION. I’M BOOKING A FLIGHT TO MALTA. FUCK YOU. FUCK THIS WHOLE COURT.”

Seungmin’s voice drifts in from further down the hall. “You’re not going anywhere, Jeongin.”

“I DESERVE PEACE!”

“No one told you to barge into Changbin’s office without knocking.”

“I KNOCKED! I ALWAYS KNOCK! THEY NEVER LISTEN!”

You’re trembling with laughter now. Changbin sighs and kisses your temple. “We might’ve... soundproofed the room.”

Jeongin’s distant shriek: “SEUNGMIN LET ME TAKE A SINGLE DAY OFF—”

“No.”

“WHY IS THIS A SEXUAL COURT NOW? IT USED TO BE BLOOD AND BUSINESS AND NOW IT’S BITE MARKS AND BONDING—”

You finally break, giggling uncontrollably against Changbin’s chest. He just groans and hugs you tighter.

“…He’s never gonna let this go,” you murmur.

“Nope.”

“…Should we lock the door?”

“We’re soundproofed, baby. We don’t need to lock shit.”

You glance up at him. He smirks.

[themoonlightfae]

250609 ATEEZ Yeosang, cr. dddddouble99

[themoonlightfae]

I'll take him.. with all the lightning thunder and the rain

[themoonlightfae]

I’m starting to think some of y’all haven’t actually felt the rain on your skin… which is crazy because no one else can feel it for you

[themoonlightfae]

Lying on the Hood Of Your Car

Pairings: Fem!Reader x non-idol!Wooyoung

Summary: Unable to sleep, you let your roommate Wooyoung talk you into reliving some of your late night college escapades-- but it doesn't quite go the way you had expected.

Genre: Friends/Roommates to Lovers

WC: 7,325

Rating: Explicit

Originally Published: 250217 on ao3

Tags: Under the cut

Tags: friends to Lovers, fluff and smut, banter, kissing, making out, first kiss, love confessions, desperate sex, first time together, vaginal fingering, oral sex, squirting and vaginal ejaculation, vaginal sex, sexual overstimulation, dirty talk, sex toy use, Wooyoung is a very polite lover, new relationship, inside jokes, laughter during sex, joking during sex, sharing a bed, sharing a shower

Lying on the hood of your car We thought we could fly To the planets and stars It was stunning Lying on the hood of your car A scaffold of lights A world that was ours The engine running Lying on the hood of your car

-- Lying on the Hood Of Your Car ~ Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness

You heaved a heavy sigh as you flipped from app to app on your phone. It had been hours since you'd gone to bed, but you could not seem to wind down. You frowned at the time— just past 2:30am. You’d even gotten in bed early, and your roommate Wooyoung had come to bed not long after. He was, and had been for that matter, snoozing soundly since he had settled down.

You were intensely jealous, as you were still wide awake and feeling restless as hell, which was unfortunately your norm nowadays. Work and life stress had been getting to you, and getting old quickly.

You let your head loll to the side, watching Woo as he slept. You could only see him from the nose up under the comforter, and he had one arm contorted over his head as he lay with his face half smashed into the pillow. His long hair cascaded down over his fair features, and you resisted the urge to play with it.

I don’t know how he sleeps like that and then wakes up like it’s no big deal. 

You sighed again and went back to your phone, but you clicked the screen off again after a few seconds.

Lots of people thought it was weird, that you had a male roommate— even weirder, when folks found out you shared a bed.

But it wasn’t like that. Wooyoung was your best friend, your partner in crime. You had met him in college when he’d been an exchange student freshman year, and he had opted to stay around, even after you graduated. Naturally, both of you being broke new grads, you decided to live together to save money. He was working in a local, well-known theatre, whereas you had gone the healthcare route and were now a home health nurse. You had started your adventure with Woo in a one bedroom house, and the two of you were now so comfortable together that you’d opted to keep the same sleeping arrangements even after you were able to upsize.

Wooyoung was the best friend you’d ever had, and some days you still couldn’t believe the universe had given him to you. Six years after graduation, you were joined at the hip more than ever before, and the weird, socially-unacceptable idiosyncrasies of your friendship— or whatever it was— didn’t much bother you. 

At least, not as much as it bothered your parents, or literally anyone else. If you'd had a dollar for every time anyone asked when you'd be marrying him, you'd easily have a good chunk of change.

You couldn’t help yourself, and grabbed your phone again, but hadn’t even gotten it unlocked when a sly little voice next to you piped up.

“It's really hard to sleep with your phone in your face, I’ve heard,” Wooyoung said with a giggle. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“Oh, you hush,” you said, grabbing an unused pillow to throw at him, laughing yourself at the high pitched squawk he made when it hit him square in the face. “And no, I don’t work again until Tuesday. Like it says on the calendar on the fridge that you never read.” You stuck your tongue out at him.

“Well, I hardly think that throwing a pillow at me for stating the obvious is fair, either way,” he pouted, tossing it away and scooting closer to you, resting his head on your shoulder and throwing a leg over your legs so you were effectively trapped. He tangled an arm with the one you had lying by your side and nuzzled into your shoulder.

“So mean. To me. Your bestest and cutest and funniest and sweetest friend in the whole wide world.”

“You forgot most humble.”

“Of course, duh.”

“Well… all’s fair in love and pillow fights. Or whatever,” you huffed, regretting using the L word.

“Well in that case…” Wooyoung snickered, changing positions before you could blink twice, grabbing a pillow and whopping you in the belly with it. You shrieked, a little too loudly, and were thankful for a second you lived in a house with no shared walls. You were up at once, ready to meet his next strike with a one-two pillow punch, knocking him over onto his back. You decided to play dirty and ditched the pillows, instead going for Wooyoung’s sides. You continued to tickle him till he was wheezing, rolled over in a ball, and trying desperately to escape you. 

“Okay, okay, mercy, MERCY!” He cried out, nearly topping off the bed as you let go of him. 

You were quick to grab and haul him back in, but it didn’t seem like he was expecting as much, and your rescue resulted in you on your back, with Wooyoung lying half over you, his face inches from yours.

“Great, first you attack me while I’m trying to sleep, then you try to squish me?” You rolled your eyes. "Typical."

“Yeah. You and your Instagram feed were looking real cozy there doing all that sleeping,” Wooyoung cackled. He rolled away and let you go, and you tried not to think about how it had felt to have his warm weight pressing you into the mattress.

Truth be told, you thought about Wooyoung being with you physically a lot more than you should.

It was so cliché you could barely stand it— being in love with your roommate. But it had happened ages ago, and you had let it, at first thinking it was just a harmless crush. You knew you certainly weren’t the first person to have a crush on Wooyoung, who had had practically everyone swooning over him in college. He was funny, energetic, and charming, just to name a few.

But Wooyoung had never dated anyone in college. Not for lack of wanting to, either, he just claimed that he hadn’t found the right person yet.

Meanwhile, you still found yourself hoping on a regular basis that the “right person” would wind up being you, because in all honesty, the unrequited love was beginning to wear on you the tiniest bit.

“I’m hungry now,” Wooyoung grumbled, sitting cross legged next to you on the bed and raking a hand through his hair. He had been putting off cutting it for a while, and you hoped he would keep it long— it suited him so well. You reached over to flip on the lamp on your bedside table, laughing as Woo hissed like a cat at the sudden light.

"Hey! Was that necessary?"

“Well, if you hadn’t judged me for my doom scrolling and then started a pillow fight, you could still be asleep,” you reminded him, and he scoffed in return.

“True I guess, but I’m still hungry,” he whined, sticking out his bottom lip at you dramatically. "I'm blaming you by the way."

“So go make yourself something to eat,” you laughed. "I just went shopping yesterday."

“Nah, I have a better idea,” he said, shaking his head. He tugged you to a sitting position, and you regarded him suspiciously. 

“What could be better than eating a midnight snack and then going back to sleep?”

“Adventures,” Wooyoung said simply, almost in a reverent whisper, eyes shining in the lamp light. 

“Okay Bilbo Baggins, slow down there, it’s pushing 3 am,” you laughed. 

“No, but see, that’s just it,” Wooyoung pressed. “We used to go out and do all kinds of fun shit in the middle of the night in college. We haven’t done that in forever.”

“Yes, because we are old now.”

“Too old to go get breakfast at The Depot in the middle of the night? Please.”

The Depot was a staple in your city, a 24-hour diner adjacent to the university that was often packed, even in the wee hours. 

“It’s 3 am.”

“Come on, humor me,” Wooyoung begged, clasping his hands in front of him and shifting to kneel on the bed. “Please please please please—”

“Oh my god, okay,” you giggled. “Freaking weirdo.”

“Uh huh, and what do we call people who are friends with freaking weirdos?” Wooyoung waggled his eyebrows at you. 

“The weirdo’s friends. Obviously.”

“Whatever. Weirdo lover.”

“Shut up.”

You playfully pushed him away and got up, rifling through your drawers for something to wear. You decided on fleece lined leggings and thermals under an oversized sweatshirt, taking them to the bathroom to change. When you returned, you completed the look with one of Woo’s beanies that was sitting on your dresser. 

“Wearing my beanie?” Wooyoung gasped, and then shrugged. “Fine. I’ll wear your hoodie.”

“Oh, the one you stole four years ago and won’t give back?” You asked. "That hoodie?"

“Distinctly do not recall that event,” Woo giggled. 

“Sure. Are you driving, or am I? It’s fucking cold out,” you sighed, glancing at the weather on your watch. 

“I’ll drive,” Wooyoung told you. “Just… hang on a second. Stay here.”

You shot him a dubious look, but stayed sitting on the edge of the bed until he came back to get you. You were more than curious, having heard tinkering in the kitchen as well as the front door opening and closing twice. 

“Okay, we can go now,” Wooyoung said brightly, bouncing into the room and offering you an arm. “Let’s get this party started.”

You were glad it was Wooyoung’s car, as he’d recently gotten one with seat warmers. He navigated to The Depot, which was not near as crowded as normal for a Thursday night at this time. The two of you got a table right away, and Wooyoung grabbed a menu immediately with an excited squeaky noise that had no business being as endearing as it was.

“So… split breakfast?”

“Are you saying you want to split the bill, or that you want breakfast, or that we should do our usual?” You asked him. 

“Usual. And I’m paying.” He lowered the menu long enough to make a face at you before going back to perusing.

Your usual manner of attack at this diner was to order two or three entrees to share. This had originated as a necessity once when the two of you had been drunk and indecisive after a party, and had grown to be a time-honored tradition.

“Chocolate chip pancakes sound like a must,” Woo murmured. “No whip of course,” he added, knowing you often found the addition too sweet. “Oh, and biscuits and gravy! They have such good gravy, I dream about it once in a while.” 

“You do not.”

“Don’t judge me for my gravy dreams,” came the curt reply, and you snorted. 

“I thought I heard you two,” a voice called out from behind you, and you spun to see Emma, who almost always waited on you and Wooyoung when you came in for late night meals. “Up to no good, I’m sure,” she continued. 

“Aww, Emma,” you giggled. “Wooyoung resembles that remark tonight.”

“Am I the reason we are out of bed and at—” He started indignantly, then stopped just as quickly. “Oh. Nevermind. You’re right. I’m a troublemaker. I am the reason we're here. This is the only time I will ever admit it so you better get it on film.”

“So, chocolate chip pancakes,” she counted off. “Biscuits and gravy with extra gravy on the side. What else? Home fries?”

“Um.” Wooyoung said. He nudged your foot with his own, and you caught yourself before you jumped at the contact.

“Yes, home fries," Wooyoung affirmed. "What do you want though?” He glanced up at you.

“How about… a ham and cheese omelette,” you pondered for a second. “And the breakfast meat sampler.”

“Perfect, going in now. Sticking with water tonight?”

“Yeah, I am,” you nodded. Wooyoung echoed you, and Emma grinned, stepping away for a moment to grab a pitcher and some glasses.

“So, still not even dating or anything, hmm?” She asked, catching Wooyoung in mid-drink. You almost felt bad for laughing as he sputtered and shook his head.

“Emma, you know the answer to that,” you told her firmly.

“Uh huh, okay,” she said coyly, handing Wooyoung some extra napkins and sidling away. You helped him clean up a bit, trying to hold back more laughter. 

“God, she’s been asking us when we're getting married since she got ordained like. Summer of fucking… what, senior year?” He mumbled. “Bet she thinks she’s so funny.”

“Right? Heaven forbid two people of the opposite sex be living together and not married or dating or anything. Scandalous.”

“Did you see her shirt?” Wooyoung changed the subject quickly. 'Community wine aunt.'

“I love Emma’s shirts,” you giggled. “Remember when she made the one that said 'ask me about our specials,' and wore it almost every day for a month?” 

“Oh my god,” Wooyoung cackled. “Ed hated that one.”

“I cannot fathom how much he regrets buying her that Cricut,” you laughed. 

Ed was the owner of the diner, the head cook, and Emma’s husband. And he had never, in the 25 years that The Depot had been open, offered specials. He claimed it was because it was too much to keep up with. Either way, you still remembered the good-natured argument he and Emma had had in the middle of the restaurant, at 3am one Wednesday night, about that particular shirt. She had taken it off, thrown it at his head, and walked away in her tank top to cheers from everyone in the place. 

As far as you knew, Emma and Ed were still very happily married, and over the years, they had taken a liking to you and Wooyoung— especially considering you had remained regular patrons despite having graduated years ago. You all saw each other a lot, considering they kept weird hours too.

You wanted what they had, someday. You sighed as Emma came back, bearing a tray full of plates. She seemed to notice you pondering.

“Aww, what’s on your mind, pumpkin?”

“Nothing, just tired,” you shrugged. You pointed a finger at Wooyoung, who had his mouth open and was about to speak, and he promptly shut his trap. “Do not even, sir.”

“Okay, well, you both know where me and Ed stand on you two and whatever… yeah,” Emma muttered as she put the food down in the center of the table and handed each of you an empty plate. She topped off your waters, and walked away, mumbling something under her breath which sounded like “made for each other.”

Wooyoung, oblivious now that there was food present, was already filling his plate, and the two of you dug in, falling quiet for a bit while you stuffed your faces. 

You nearly choked as you heard someone yell behind you. 

“I ordered FRIED eggs! FRIED, GODDAMMIT!”

“Ooh, egg drama,” Wooyoung whispered. “Talk about scandalous.” 

You turned to see what appeared to be a very drunk college student, standing up next to her chair, trying to have a face-off with Emma. 

“This is not gonna go well for that girl,” you laughed. 

“Miss, you did not, and you can eat what you ordered, or you can leave,” Emma told the girl sternly. 

“But these aren’t FRIED!”

“You didn’t order them fried!”

You overheard one of her friends mutter “you ordered scrambled, dumbass,” and snorted. 

Two seconds later, Ed came tearing out of the kitchen, brandishing a large spatula. 

“Out,” he barked. “Didn’t you read the sign? Quit causing a scene and scat. Dumb drunk kids. Come back when you’re sober.”

The girl and her friends left in a hurry, and Ed chased them all the way out the door. He came back in, glancing around at everyone seated as if inviting them to question their own orders. He went back to the kitchen without another word, and you turned back to Wooyoung, who was giggling silently, tiny wheezes escaping the corners of his lips every few breaths. 

“Wow,” he finally said.

“Oh, Ed,” you laughed. “I think he needs to think about retirement.”

“You know that’s never gonna happen.”

“Oh yeah, I know.”

“What sign was he talking about?” Wooyoung asked.

“Uh, the one outside that says ‘no whiny brats,’” you told him. “Have you never noticed it before?” 

“In my defense, their porch is covered in signs,” Wooyoung shrugged. “They also have one that says ‘no farting on the porch.’”

“Right, because that’s the one you would notice.”

“Whatever, you love me,” Wooyoung shot back. “Do you want the rest of the pancakes?”

“Nah, you can have them. I’m gonna finish the omelette though.”

“Be my guest. Flip a coin for the potatoes?”

“You can have those too.”

“Aww,” Wooyoung said cutely. “You really do love me.”

You thought you might scream if he didn’t stop saying it, because it was truer than anything else you’d ever known.

Between the two of you, you polished off the rest of the food, and Wooyoung left enough money for the meal and a generous tip before waving to Emma as you headed out. 

His words echoed in your head, tumbling around with the entire weirdness that was this late night excursion. 

Whatever, you love me. Hah. I sure do, you goob. Wish I could tell you though.

Woo opened the car door for you before getting into the driver’s seat himself. But instead of turning back towards your neighborhood, Wooyoung navigated to the highway.

“Uh. What do you think you’re doing?” You asked cautiously. 

“Adventuring. Go with it.”

You were half asleep when Wooyoung stopped the car. He nudged you gently.

“Hey, dork. We’re here.”

“Huh?”

You glanced out the window, gaping at the sight. You recognized where you were— the overlook a few miles outside town. It was crazy what such a short distance did to cut down on the light pollution— the overlook was magical in itself, giving its visitors a wide view of the valley and the town. And of course, the stargazing opportunities were many. You came up here by yourself frequently, just to think. 

The stars were brilliant tonight, not a cloud in the sky, and just a sliver of moon hanging low over the sleepy town below. You glanced at your watch and saw it was pushing 5 am.

Wooyoung was already out of the car and rifling in the backseat. You got out and stretched, shivering as a cold breeze blew by. You watched as Woo constructed a pallet on the hood of his car, and clambered up, beckoning you to join him. Carefully, he bundled you up, and settled in next to you, curling up on his side and pulling you in close, his head next to yours on the pillow as the two of you gazed up at the stars together. 

“This is a good adventure,” you mumbled. “Bit chilly though.”

Wooyoung produced another blanket seemingly out of nowhere and spread it over you, then gathered you closer, pulling your head against his chest. 

“Better?”

It was better, but you supposed that was dependent on one’s definition of better— because now you could scarcely breathe— all you could hear was his heartbeat, and all you could smell was his cologne, and in that second you thought you might just go completely insane. 

“Hey,” Wooyoung shook you gently. “Are you okay? Is it too cold out? I just… I just thought this would be nice,” he trailed off. You nodded and snuggled in even closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. 

“I’m good,” you mumbled, your voice muffled against his clothing. “This has been a fun night.”

“I agree. Are you comfy?”

“Yeah.”

You and Woo lapsed into silence for a while, breathing in the cold, early-morning air as you lay there in each other’s arms. 

You wondered what he was thinking, as he idly stroked your arm, before running his hand down, slipping his thumb under the wristband of your sweatshirt to rub it over your hand. 

Regardless, you simply lay there, drinking in the moment. You had told yourself a long time ago that you weren’t going to let the impossibility of you and Wooyoung stop you from enjoying these times with him.

As the first traces of daylight crept up the horizon, Wooyoung shifted slightly, and you felt his hand move, slipping over yours as he intertwined your fingers.

Before you could speak up about the fact that Wooyoung was holding your hand , and you both had talked about this , he hugged you tightly as he breathed out a contented sigh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my life,” he whispered. You wriggled out of his grip just enough to look up at him, and were startled to see that his face was very close to yours.

Much closer than it had been earlier. 

“Um. Wooyoung?” You squeaked. “You okay?”

He leaned in slowly and with obvious caution, brushing his nose against yours, and you took a deep breath that you couldn’t seem to let out. You didn't move a muscle, afraid if you did you'd scare him off.

“Please tell me I can kiss you,” he said, even quieter now, and you could feel the barest wisp of contact as he spoke so closely to your own lips. “Please…”

You decided to answer his question with action, pressing your lips to his in a deep and tender kiss, eliciting a gasp from him that you tried desperately to put out of your mind before it wandered elsewhere. 

Wooyoung whined low, his breathing already heavy as you continued to give him almost painfully slow, soft kisses. His arms snaked around you, holding you tightly to his body, and he bit at your lip experimentally, licking after to soothe. He stopped for just a second to look you in the eye, and you let out a ragged sigh. You shifted slightly, noticing just how wet you had gotten already.

Well, that’s only slightly embarrassing. Two minutes of kissing him and it's like motherfucking Niagara Falls.

It had been a while since you’d been with anyone. Like Woo, you hadn’t really dated much during or since college, for the same reasons as him.

Then again, you had been holding on to the small hope that someday, you and Wooyoung would wind up together.

Looks like I may get my wish. But… Why is he looking at me like that?!

“Wooyoung…” You started, but he put a fingertip over your lips. He had not moved his gaze from yours, and his warm brown eyes were serious but soft, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered at that very moment. 

He kissed you again, and this time it was desperate, with a need pouring out of Wooyoung that you could feel at the very center of your being. He moved again, slotting his body on top of yours, and you let him, too wrapped up in the kiss to even process the rest. You reached up to fist your hands in Woo’s hair, tugging lightly, and felt your heart drop into your stomach when he growled in return. He stopped suddenly, pushing himself up on his elbows to look down at you.

“Let’s go home,” he said quietly. 

“What do you have up your sleeve now?” You gulped, and he giggled and gave you a single soft kiss. 

“An idea that requires no sleeves,” he whispered against your lips. “Or any other clothes, for that matter… if you want.”

“Mmm. Let’s go.”

You had to say, you were honestly impressed with the amount of self-control Wooyoung exhibited while driving home. He still drove carefully, albeit a bit over the speed limit. The second you had agreed to his proposition, he had flung himself off the hood of the car, and had quickly put away all of the pillows and blankets, urging you to get in, hurry up, let’s get home.

It was a struggle to get in the door, the two of you with lips locked as he fumbled for the keys, everything in the car already long forgotten. You managed to tap the button to close the garage as Wooyoung all but dragged you into the house. He yelped as the hoodie pocket got caught on the door handle, and you heard the fabric ripping. Wooyoung stopped short, slamming the door as he stared down at the damage. Then he looked up at you, a fiendish grin on his face.

“You owe me a new hoodie.”

“Bitch, that was MY hoodie!” You shrieked, wild laughter threatening to overtake you as Wooyoung stepped back to you. In no time, he had one hand on the back of your neck and an arm around your waist, kissing you again and clearly trying to guide you towards the bedroom.

The two of you managed to make it without much more damage, though Wooyoung did knock over a lamp in the living room, and you nearly fell trying to get your shoes off. The second he got you close enough to the bed, he pushed you over onto your back on the mattress, his expression now smug and satisfied.

“What’s that look for?” You asked. 

“Because I finally get to do this,” he whispered. “Fucking finally. Emphasis on fucking,” he added with a wink, and you groaned loudly, reaching for one of his arms and pulling him down with you.

"Fucking, huh?"

"If you want to," he told you. "No pressure. But if you want to..."

"Gonna show me what you can do, hmm?" You asked him, watching his face redden, but his expression remained determined.

"I promise, you won't regret it," he said with another wink and a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

He rolled onto his side to face you, pure joy radiating from him. He leaned back in to kiss you, but you put a hand up. Dutifully, he stopped what he was doing, returning to rest beside you.

“We should talk,” you said slowly. “I mean… yeah. Before anything else happens. We…”

He sighed.

“Okay.”

You couldn’t help yourself then, sputtering the first words that popped into your head.

“First of all, what do you mean, finally?”

“I mean…” He shrugged. “I mean finally . Jagiya, I’ve been in love with you since you read our freshman biology TA to filth for grading your test with the wrong key. You are feisty and headstrong and beautiful and so smart and caring and I… I just…” Wooyoung was babbling, and you could see tears forming in his eyes as he looked at you adoringly. “Why do you think I stayed? I could have gone back to Korea. I had a job waiting for me, even. But I stayed because I couldn’t bear to think of ever being without you, and I wasn’t about to ask you to uproot everything for me. And I know it’s kinda not fair, that I’m telling you all that now. But I know you, jagi. And I know that there’s no way I could ever ask you to leave your family behind like that. You need them, and they need you,” he said breathlessly. “But… I need you too,” he finished quietly. “But… All that was just a lot that I dumped on you. So... Considering that new knowledge, if you want, I’ll… I’ll…”

“Don’t you fucking dare even think that, Jung Wooyoung,” you warned, reaching out to pull him closer to you. “You’re not going anywhere, because I love you too.”

“You do?” He asked incredulously. 

“I swear to god,” you exclaimed, rolling onto your back with a sigh. “You are really so clueless for someone with such good attention to detail, did you know that?”

“I… have been told that, actually,” Wooyoung started, tapping a finger on his chin. “But—”

“No. No buts. Stop talking. Actually, come here and kiss me, that’ll make you stop talking.”

“Say no more,” he replied quickly, scooting over to you and snuggling up. He pulled the beanie off your head and tossed it off the side of the bed, running a hand through your hair to smooth it. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” He murmured.

“I said, less talking,” you scolded him, grabbing his hoodie and pulling him to you for a kiss. He melted into it instantly, and before long, you had turned to face him, and time had become a myth. All that mattered was this moment, and you were going to savor it for as long as possible. 

His free hand was moving now, at first with gentle caresses to your face and hair. This didn’t last long, and he moved lower, running his fingertips over your neck, giggling when you gasped and squirmed. 

Slowly, methodically, he moved his hand lower, giving teasing touches over your clothes, and you could tell he was watching you closely, clearly waiting for some sign that you might want to stop. 

“Wooyoung,” you said flatly. “Just touch me. Did we not come home for a specific reason?”

“I want it to be special,” he pouted.

“Every day with you is special, you dweeb,” you told him. “But if you don’t make good on that promise of fucking me, I might lose what’s left of my sanity.”

“So you really have nothing to lose, is what you’re saying,” Wooyoung giggled. "Got it. Knew it."

“Shush.”

He gave you a sly smile and opened his mouth to speak again, but you clamped a hand over it firmly. A split second later, you were pulling it away, Wooyoung's spit dripping from your palm. You rolled your eyes and wiped it on his now ruined hoodie, and he gasped with fake indignation. 

“Have you no respect for the dead, miss?”

“You’re weird,” you told him. 

“Where’s your vibrator?” Wooyoung shot back in return, catching you off guard as he changed the subject. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to use it on you,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“Maybe we should get naked first,” you suggested. 

“Better hang up the sign,” he laughed.

“Oh my god, do not bring that up right now!” You squealed. "Not the sign!"

Not long after you and Wooyoung had moved in together, you had accidentally caught each other masturbating— more than once, for that matter. A sock on the door handle worked for a while, mostly, but eventually Wooyoung thought it would be hysterical to make a sign to hang on the door instead— hand painted, with ‘GO AWAY, I’M MASTURBATING’ in big block letters. You hadn’t seen it in years, having shoved it in the back of a closet somewhere when your mother was visiting and it had inadvertently been left on the door. 

“You’re right,” Woo nodded, interrupting your reminiscing. “I guess we need a new one. It can say: 'Go away, we’re fucking.'”

“We don’t have any other roommates,” you reminded him. "Why do we need to advertise?"

“Oh. Right. Okay, well are you gonna tell me where the vibe is, or do I have to hunt for it?”

“It’s in the bottom left drawer—” You began, and Wooyoung was off the bed in a heartbeat, returning with the wand vibe and perching it on the bedside table. He held out a hand to you, beckoning you to stand up, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close. 

You froze for just a second as your hips pressed into his and you realized how hard he was, but he was quick to distract you as he cupped your face and kissed you gently. 

“Jagiya, can I undress you?” He asked, barely a whisper. You nodded. 

Part of you wished that you could bottle these memories for later, as Wooyoung removed your clothes in such a sensuous and breathtaking way that you thought you might scream. He was slow, methodical, as he left kisses on each new exposed bit of skin, warm hands stripping away the layers of sweats and thermals until you stood naked in front of him, and he was marveling at you, mouth falling open as he took you the sight of you in fully for the first time.

Not one to want to feel out of place, your hands were on the zipper of his hoodie in less than a second. Your movements were hurried, almost frenzied in contrast, and Woo giggled at your desperation. 

“Rest in peace, hoodie,” he mumbled as you tossed it into the pile with your own clothes, and you glared at him. You couldn’t hold it though, and you let a smile break through as you paused to kiss him. 

“Consider it karma for your thievery.”

At long last, you had every last stitch of clothing off him, and now it was your turn to ogle. Wooyoung had always been fit— years of dance classes and theatre work, in addition to his religious workout schedule. You almost couldn’t bring yourself to glance at his cock— it was thick, and clearly longing to be touched, leaking pre-cum down his thigh as he watched you quietly. 

“Come here,” he whispered. 

He gathered you into a soft embrace, and you felt pure adrenaline shoot down your spine at the feeling of his warm, soft skin against yours, your bodies pressed together firmly, his cock pressing into your leg as he lifted your chin to kiss you. 

“Mmm,” he sighed happily into the kiss, hugging you tighter as he guided you back towards the bed. You climbed in first, and he followed, settling into the middle of the mattress and curling up with you while his hands continued to explore every inch of your skin. You whined loudly as his hand crept towards your center, and you closed your eyes as you felt his hand push your legs apart. 

You were still not prepared by the time he touched you, softly trailing his fingers through your soaked folds and muttering curse words under his breath. You kept your eyes shut as his hand probed slightly higher, and as he brushed your swollen clit, you hissed in surprise, arching your back and grabbing his arm.

“Too much?” He asked. 

“Just sensitive,” you tried to get out. “Like, extremely sensitive. Been a while.”

“Good, I think I can work with that,” he snickered. 

“You’re evil, Jung Wooyoung.”

“Ah-hah, but you love me though,” he said in singsong, with a quick peck on your cheek. 

As his lips left your skin, he suddenly plunged a finger into your aching cunt, and you cried out in surprise. He added a second quickly, shushing and soothing you, giving you gentle kisses as he began to finger-fuck you at such an excruciatingly slow pace that you considered strangling him with the ripped hoodie as penance. 

“Faster,” you whined. “Oh, please, Wooyoung, faster…” 

You were fully laid out on your back now, and Wooyoung was lying on his side next to you. One hand propped up his head, long hair falling in his eyes as he watched you writhing, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he continued his ministrations.

“But we already had been taking our time,” he cooed. “So what if I want to take my time with you now?”

“Can’t we do that later?” You begged, as he teased at adding a third finger. “Woo, come on, plea— OH FUCK!” 

His next thrust included that third finger, and you were already seeing stars, your release building low in your belly and growing much faster than it had any business doing. Wooyoung picked up the pace just a bit, whispering to you softly as he continued to watch your face.

“So good for me, jagiya… mmm… this lovely, tight little cunt… and I get to have it all to myself now,” he murmured. “I can’t wait to feel you squeezing around my cock… clenching tight while you take all of my cum. Will you do that for me, hmm? Let me fill you up?”

You had not been expecting the dirty talk, even knowing Wooyoung as you did, and it only served to spur you on further. You scrabbled for purchase on the sheets as the coil in your center wound tighter, threatening to break at any second— and when it finally did, colors flashing in your vision that you swore you’d never seen before, Wooyoung continued on through it, prolonging your pleasure until you were overstimulated and coming again. The second orgasm was somehow stronger than the first, and your entire body shuddered as you rode out the aftershocks. Only then did Woo relent, and you rolled to face him, slumping into his chest. 

“Ornery,” you whined. “So ornery… fuck… you…” You were gasping for breath, chest heaving as you tried to clear your head. 

Meanwhile, Wooyoung was sucking his fingers clean in such a lewd way that you thought your heart was going to stop from the sight. In a flash, he was between your legs, pushing you back onto your back and spreading them wide, opening you up to him fully. 

“Woo,” you whimpered. “Please.”

“Huh?” He sat up, appearing concerned now.” 

“Need you,” you whined.

“Ah. Well, what’s that thing you always tell me?” He settled back between your legs, kissing a trail up your thigh. “Oh yeah, I remember.” He licked a firm stripe up your center, curling his tongue around your clit and then giving it a small flick, and you shrieked in surprise.

“Patience is a virtue,” Wooyoung said with a smug tone, as he buried his face in your core, nimble tongue lapping at your folds, flicking at your clit. You cursed loudly, and he giggled, nose nudging your clit as he pushed further in, fucking you on his tongue as you grasped for his hair. 

Pulling it only seemed to encourage him, so you decided to go with it, one hand planted firmly on his head, pushing his face deeper into your soaked cunt. You felt a tickle as he brought one hand up to push two fingers inside you, curling them as he moved to circle your clit with his tongue.

“Thought… vibrator…” Was all you could get out in your fucked-out state, and he laughed.

“I like this better,” he told you, voice muffled against your cunt. “Now… isn’t it time you came for me again?” 

You weren’t sure if you were extra suggestible because of the morning’s events, or because it was finally Wooyoung between your legs, but you came again, astonishingly hard, soaking his face in the process.

“Hmm,” he sighed happily as he began to clean up the mess with his tongue. “Fuck. I’m not gonna lie, I was hoping I could make you squirt.”

“What about that is so hot?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “Just is. Trust me.”

Wooyoung stopped once you were nearing overstimulation for a second time, and crawled back up the bed to lie down next to you. He leaned in to kiss you, and you tasted yourself on his lips and tongue, drank him in like he was a fine wine and this was your last meal. He kissed you so tenderly, one arm protectively encircling you and holding you close, and for just a moment you wondered if all of this was an elaborate dream. 

“Woo?” You whispered.

“Yeah, baby?” He asked, kissing your forehead softly.

“Is this real?”

You yelped as he pinched your ass firmly, pushing him away as you cackled. He did not move, but you could see his shoulders trembling as he tried to resist laughing. 

“Does it feel real?” He giggled, and you scooted back over to him, swatting him in the arm.

“You’re a menace,” you told him. You saw the vibrator still on the bedside table, and looked back to Wooyoung, raising an eyebrow. “Were you still gonna use that?” 

“Oh, maybe,” he shrugged. “Not right now though,” he added. "I'm supposed to be fucking you, apparently. Made a promise or whatever."

"I swear to god, Wooyoung."

His lips were on yours again now, and he was back on top of you in no time at all, cock nudging at your entrance. You reached down, helping him find the right angle, then lay back, almost melting into the bed as he pushed inside you— inch by glorious inch, stretching you full and then some. As he bottomed out, he hunched over you, teeth grazing your shoulder, kissing your neck with a renewed fervor as he began to thrust. 

He moved slowly at first, allowing you plenty of time to grow used to him, before increasing the pace bit by bit, burying his face in your shoulder now and seemingly desperate to be as close to you as he could while he fucked you clear into insanity. 

He changed angles suddenly, and you whined as the head of his cock hit you just right. 

“Woo…”

“Hm.”

“Right… there…” You whispered. “Don’t…”

“Not gonna stop,” he raised his head up to look at you, a dopey, fucked-out smile on his face. “Not gonna… oh god…” 

His strokes were growing messier, and you were bucking your hips into his as he kept hitting you at the exact speed and spot you needed. His whines grew louder, and you could feel his cock twitching inside you. 

He kissed you suddenly, plunging his tongue into your mouth, hot and desperate and full of overwhelming passion, as you felt his cock pulsing, emptying deep inside you. He slumped against you, and you sighed internally, having been close again, but the feeling faded fast as he stopped. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling out quickly as he realized what had happened. Before you knew it, he had the vibrator on your clit, three fingers inside you and was thrusting fast and hard. You were over the edge in less than a minute, and to your immense relief, he did not tease you this time. He set the toy back down, crawling back once more to rest next to you and pulling you close. 

“You didn’t have to—” You began, but he cut you off.

“Yes I did. And I wanted to. So there,” he said sleepily, sticking out his tongue at you. "I knew you were close."

“Woo,” you mumbled after a few moments of silence, both of you still working to calm your breathing. 

“Hmm.”

“I… That… It was... Wow."

“Yeah,” he agreed, giggling at your inability to compose your thought through your post-orgasm haze.

��A few minutes later, you were feeling much more confident about the use of your legs, and sat up carefully, dragging Wooyoung with you. 

“No,” he whined. “Sleep time.”

“No,” you said. “Shower. And you have to go pee.”

“Don’t make fun of me for that again, that was freshman year,” he grumbled. "I learned my lesson."

“I’ll make fun of you later about something else then,” you promised. “How’s that?”

“Perfect,” he said, still clearly a little dopey. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

It took some real effort in the end, but you finally coaxed Wooyoung into a hot shower. The experience was somehow more intimate than the one you’d just shared in bed, as the two of you washed each other’s hair and scrubbed each other’s backs. Neither of you could stop smiling, and every time you made eye contact, you both burst into giggles. 

“God, we’re gonna be insufferable,” Woo laughed as you both settled in on the couch for a movie and a nap. “Who should we tell first?”

“Let’s just… exist first,” you told him, moving to lay with your head on his chest. He kissed your forehead in return, pulling the blankets up further around you. 

“Mmm. I like this existence. We should keep it up for a while.”

“Long while,” you agreed. 

“Maybe forever, if you wanted,” Woo whispered.

You heard him, though you were too far gone to respond, the long night and exhilarating morning catching up to you all at once, You drifted to sleep, safe in Wooyoung’s arms, dreams of your future playing in your head. 

He was right. 

Finally.

[themoonlightfae]

themoonlightfae - ateez masterlist

Series:

The So Unknown - vampire AU, fem!reader x (eventual) OT8

One Shots:

So Close - fem!reader x Topaz

Believe in Love - fem!reader x Seonghwa

Lying on the Hood Of Your Car - fem!reader x Wooyoung

[themoonlightfae]

Believe In Love

Pairings: Fem!Reader x non-idol!Seonghwa

Summary: Your best friend convinces you to join her for pole class, and once you meet the instructor, you wind up with a lot more than you bargained for.

Genre: Strangers to Lovers

WC: 9,802

Rating: Explicit

Originally Published: 250211 on ao3

Tags: Under the cut

A/N: tw/cw implied plus size reader, some mentions of poor body image/poor self esteem... but PSA: All bodies are beautiful, and pole is indeed for everyone!

Tags: strangers to lovers, first dates, pole dancing, your best friend is a meddler but you can thank her later, flirting, making out, laughter during sex, teasing, vaginal fingering, face-sitting, vaginal sex, cuddling & snuggling falling in love, body positivity, plus size reader implied, praise, body worship, alternate universe (non idol)

“Lainey…” You whined as your best friend pulled into a parking spot outside an upscale dance studio. “Are you sure about this? I’m not really… pole dancing material,” you sighed, gesturing at yourself. “And this… outfit? On me? In public?”

“Look girl, I love you, but kindly, shut up. You’re hot as hell no matter what you think, you’re gonna have fun, pole is for everyone, and the instructor is awesome. Period."

“Yeah, and you haven’t told me anything else about them,” you grumbled. 

You had good-naturedly agreed to accompany your friend to this class, knowing full well it wasn’t really your thing, but you needed out of the house, and the gods knew you probably could do with some physical activity that was not manual labor around your house. You were quite sick of that neverending cycle.

Lainey pulled the studio door open, ushering you inside, and your jaw dropped as you took in the sight. It was a large studio, with students of various heights and builds walking around, warming up. Everyone was dressed similarly to you— in some variation of short shorts and a tank or crop top. Some girls just had on a sports bra for a top. Lainey had explained the reasoning for the outfits, but you still felt out of place. You had always been one to cover your body, not show it off.

After all, that's what society always wanted from you.

“Lainey!” A cheerful voice rang out, and the man who had called out her name all but bounded over to say hi. He was tall, with shoulder length, shiny black hair pulled up in a half ponytail. You could tell that he’d already been at it from the sheen of sweat on his honey skin. He was perhaps the most beautiful man you’d ever seen, and suddenly you forgot how to speak, much less form a coherent thought.

“Oh, hey Seonghwa!” Lainey nudged you with her elbow. “This is the friend I told you about.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he turned to you, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles ever so softly. “I’m Seonghwa.” 

You managed to stammer your own name amid your brain attempting to short circuit over the ethereal man standing in front of you. He was still staring, and you gulped and looked away, at which point he seemed to realize what was happening, and you looked back in time to see a pink flush rising on his cheeks. 

“Come on,” Lainey grabbed your wrist and led you to a couple poles next to each other in the corner. “He’ll probably get started in a second.”

“Good morning everyone,” Seonghwa called out as he took a spot at the front, next to his own pole. You couldn’t tear your eyes off him— he was unearthly in his own right, but the short shorts and cropped tank didn’t do anything to make you turn your eyes away. He had a dancer’s body through and through— solid muscle, yet he looked so angelic that you half expected him to sprout wings and float away at a moment’s notice.

“Glad to see some new faces today,” he winked, and your heart dropped into your stomach when you realized he was looking directly at you . “Let’s start with our simple warmup, and then we’ll do some exercises as a class. I’ve got all the poles locked for now, but feel free to change that up if you feel you need to. Just let’s all be safe today and have fun.”

“Lainey…” You groaned. 

“Shut up,” she said cheerily. “Look. Just do what I’m doing.”

You watched your friend as she did a few easy-looking moves to stretch and warm up, and you tried to mirror her, but that didn’t change the fact that you felt so out of place it wasn’t funny. 

Your self-consciousness heightened once the class really got going. After a while though, you found yourself able to relax a little more, as long as you tried to pretend that Seonghwa did not exist. 

Your plans were thwarted when you tried to do a dip spin and promptly fell on your ass. 

“Uh oh…” Seonghwa said, hurrying over to you. He held out a hand, and helped you to your feet. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Here, can I help? This one can kinda throw you off the first time, trust me. I fell on my ass too and my friends never let me live it down.”

“That’s fine,” you said, unsure what you were agreeing to.

“Are you okay with… uh. Human contact?” Seonghwa asked. “Okay wow, that sounded stupid. I just. I want to help, but…”

“It’s fine, do whatever you need to,” you giggled. Something about seeing him flustered made you feel a little more confident.

Carefully, Seonghwa let you through the movements, his hands gentle and respectful as he guided you. By the end of the class, you were feeling much better about the whole thing, and you thanked him profusely.

“So you had fun then?” He asked, handing you a towel as he wiped sweat from his own brow.

“Way more than I expected,” you confessed. “I’m not really built for…”

“Pole is for everyone,” he interjected. “And you are beautiful no matter how you’re built. So you’re gonna have to learn to deal with that, I guess.” He shrugged and winked at you.

You blinked, not having expected such a pointed call out from a stranger.

“Yeah, see, I’ve been telling her that for ages,” Lainey said, looping an arm through yours. “Someday she might admit she’s hot.”

Seonghwa glanced at you again. 

“Yep. You need to admit it,” he said smoothly.

“Same time next week, Seonghwa?” Lainey asked.

“For sure, I’ll be here,” he said happily. “I hope you will too,” he told you in a quieter tone. 

There they were again, those fucking butterflies. You’d told yourself you were done trying to date. It was too complicated and people just… sucked. And not in a fun way. 

But you found yourself agreeing anyway.

“See you next week!” Seonghwa bade you farewell with a huge smile, and you couldn’t help but grin back.

“So…” Lainey said through a bite of eggs and bacon. “Seems like you had way more fun than you thought you would, miss missy.” 

“My turn to tell you to shut up,” you rolled your eyes as you flagged down the waitress for a refill on water. Lainey had insisted on post-class brunch at a local spot, which you had a feeling was partly because she was hungry but mostly because she wanted to tease you. 

“Seonghwa couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Yeah, maybe he needs them checked,” you shot back. 

“Whatever, he thinks you’re hot,” Lainey said matter-of-factly. “He said it himself. So are you going next week? Hwa said he’s gonna show us the performance he’s been working on first thing.”

“A… performance,” you stuttered. “Like a whole routine.”

“Yep,” she nodded. “He’s so talented. He competes regularly and he's good. You’ll love it. He’s been sharing bits as he develops it and the final thing is gonna be smoking. The performance is at the end of the month.”

“Mmmhmm. Okay Lainey.”

He’s talented all right. How the hell am I gonna survive this?

The following week, you drove yourself to the studio, as Lainey told you she was running late. Your jaw dropped when you walked in— Seonghwa was there, of course, looking even more ethereal than normal. His hair was different— somehow in a single week’s time he had gone from black to platinum, and your heartbeat quickened as he approached you. 

“Hey,” he said warmly. “Glad to see you back.” 

“Um, yeah, you too,” you muttered lamely, immediately mentally kicking yourself at how dumb you thought you must sound. 

“Is Lainey coming?” He asked. 

“I dunno,” you shrugged. “She said she was running late.”

Just then, your phone buzzed. 

Lainey [9:56am]: Girl I’m not gonna make it, my check engine light is on. I’m sorry!! Tell Hwa I’ll be there next week.

You [9:56am]: Okay, sorry you won’t be here! Uh. Seonghwa’s hair is… Um. It's platinum. He looks SO good. Like. It’s a PROBLEM. I need you here, can’t you Uber??

Lainey [9:57am]: Great, ask him out already, dummy. I know you have a crush. And no. I’m broke as shit. I’m gonna have to call my dad… ugh.

“Lainey had car trouble,” you said, slipping your phone into your bag. “She said she’ll be here next week though!”

“Dang. Well I’m glad you’re here,” Seonghwa told you, “I was hoping I’d see you again soon.”

You pretended he hadn’t put emphasis on “you’re” and busied yourself with finding a pole that wasn’t occupied and taking time to do your warmup exercises. 

You were sure the universe was laughing at you, because the pole you’d chosen was at the very front of the classroom, where Seonghwa had a perfect view of you.

After he had given everyone time to warm up, he turned the lights down a bit and took his place at the front of the classroom. He nodded to someone in the front row, who walked over to the stereo and tinkered for a few, before flipping on an upbeat tune you’d never heard before. 

“No one laugh if I fall,” Seonghwa giggled. “It’s still a work in progress here.” 

You watched, mesmerized, as Seonghwa worked the pole. He had worn his hair half up again today, and in addition to the short black shorts and crop tank, he was wearing iridescent, platform heeled boots. The entire look on its own was having more of an impact on you than you wanted to admit. Watching him was insane— it was as if he was one with the pole as he slipped fluidly through each motion, like they were moves he’d been born to do. It was clear he’d been polishing this routine for a while, and you kept having to remind yourself to keep your mouth shut every time your jaw dropped open in awe.

You told yourself it was your imagination that he kept making eye contact with you throughout. 

When he was finished, the studio erupted with thunderous applause. You joined in, painfully aware of just how very wet you had gotten while watching Seonghwa dance. 

Oh. Oh no. Oh fuck. This is bad.

You considered a few different excuses so you could leave: starting your period, family emergency, impending apocalypse. 

Too fucking bad I can’t use Lainey as an excuse. Bitch would see right through me.

Lainey had been teasing you nonstop about Seonghwa since the first class, even had offered to set the two of you up for a date.

Hey. Wait a second. What if… What if this IS a set up? No. She wouldn’t. But what if?!?!?! What if she did?!

You snuck off to the bathroom, whipping out your phone and texting Lainey.

You [10:20am]: AHEM!! DID YOU BAIL ON ME ON PURPOSE???

Lainey [10:21am]: Maaaybe. Tell Seonghwa I said hi. He’s single by the way, pretty sure I told you.

You [10:21am]: LIKE SEVENTEEN TIMES YES

Lainey [10:21am]: Please. The chemistry is there. Go with it. Isn’t his routine hot as fuck? LORD. And with that new hair color— he showed me yesterday! And he likes you!!

You [10:22am]: I’m going to punch you in the butt.

Lainey [10:22am]: Ok well go touch Seonghwa’s first. It's cute.

You [10:23am]: LAINEY!!

Lainey [10:23am]: No for real, I bet he’d like it. Did I mention he likes you?

You [10:24am]: Okay, you meddling meddler.

Against your better judgement, you decided to go home, making up some lame excuse about how you had a headache. Seonghwa seemed disappointed, which immediately made you feel terrible. You wound up giving him your phone number without a second thought, however, which quickly replaced the saddened look with one of joy. 

“Awesome. Maybe we can get coffee sometime outside class,” he said enthusiastically, as he entered your number and messaged you to make sure you had his. 

“Sure,” you nodded, trying to ignore the insane amount of butterflies in your stomach. Again.

“Hope you feel better soon,” he told you, giving you a quick, somewhat awkward hug. "Let me know if you need anything."

You left the studio after bidding Seonghwa goodbye, and made a beeline for Lainey’s apartment. She looked completely unsurprised to see you there, as she lay on the couch flipping through Netflix. 

“Car trouble, huh?”

“Yep. Bad. Horrible. It almost exploded. They said it was a wonder I got it into the shop in time.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your car. It’s parked outside.”

“Not so… I am way overdue for an oil change,” she said slyly. “So how’s Seonghwa?” 

You dropped onto the couch next to your friend with a sigh. 

“He’s too much. Hello, Lainey, have you seen him? He’s way out of my league.”

“The fuck he is not. And he thinks you’re really cool, for what it’s worth.”

“How do you know that?”

Lainey wiggled her phone in the air, and your eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

“Have… have you guys been talking about me?!” You sputtered. 

“Just a little,” she giggled. “Okay well maybe more than that. He likes you. He told me so. I wasn’t just talking shit. He thinks you’re funny, and pretty, and…”

“Has he seen me?”

“Yes, and as a matter of fact, he’s already had his hands all over you, last week.”

“SHUT UP!”

“Maybe he wants to have his hands on you more.”

“He did ask me if I wanted to go get coffee,” you mumbled. “And we exchanged phone numbers…” You hid your face, fully aware that you were flushing red.

“Oh really,” Lainey said, taking a sip of her coffee. “So when’s the date?”

“Shut up, no one said anything about a date. He mentioned coffee.”

“People go on dates to get coffee, bestie. In case you were unaware.”

“Mmhmm. Shut up.”

The next day, you woke up to a text from Seonghwa, which surprised you just a tiny bit, despite Lainey’s insistence that he liked you. 

Seonghwa [10:15am]: Morning! :) 

You [10:15am]: Hey! How are you doing?

Seonghwa [10:16am]: Oh, you know. Mondays. I have an advanced pole class at 11 and a beginner class at 3, otherwise nothing. You?

You [10:16am]: I hear you. Work, aka gentle parenting other adults. Sorry I had to leave yesterday. 

Seonghwa [10:17am]: So, could I ask you something?

You took a deep breath, feeling like you knew what was coming.

You [10:18am]: Sure.

Seonghwa [10:18am]: I didn’t… offend you in some way… I hope. Did I? 

You sighed heavily. Of course that’s what he would think after you left in a hurry.

You [10:18am]: Oh, god no! No, I just wasn’t feeling great. I’m really sorry. You haven’t done anything wrong, I promise. Pinky swear, even.

Seonghwa [10:19am]: Okay, thank god. I was a little worried that maybe I’d done something… because honestly, I think you’re really cool, and I was wondering…

You watched the bubble pop up again as he typed more, your stomach twisting in knots. 

Seonghwa [10:20am]: Maybe we could go to dinner this Friday? I know I said coffee, but… like I said. You’re a really cool person and I’d like to take you out, if that’s okay with you.

You [10:20am]: Pardon my like. Dumbass middle school brained self. But do you mean… like… a date?

Seonghwa [10:21am]: Yep. 100% a date. Is that okay?

You steeled yourself and tapped out one more word, and hit send. 

You [10:21am]: Absolutely.

Seonghwa [10:22am]: Awesome! Okay. What do you like to eat?

You [10:23am]: Hmm. Food.

Seonghwa [10:23am]: HELPFUL. :p There’s this new pan-Asian place downtown that’s pretty good, and they should have some veg options for you. 

Lainey! God. What else did she tell him?!

You [10:24am]: Only if we go dutch, I heard that place is expensive

Seonghwa [10:24am]: So. Not that?

You [10:25am]: You don��t have to pay!!

Seonghwa [10:25am]: I know. But I’d like to, if you’re okay with that.

Seonghwa [10:26am]: Lainey told me you were stubborn. :) 

You [10:27am]: She fucking would

You were giggling at this point at the absurdity of it all. Lainey was feisty, sure, but she had never gone this far to mess with something like your love life. 

But… it had been a while since you’d been on a date. And Lainey had known you for a very long time, and you knew she would never do something like this to be mean. If she had confidence in your chances, you knew you should go for it.

And Seonghwa was nice. Lainey had filled you in on a surprising amount of details about him, to the point where you wondered if she was doing the same for Seonghwa. Either way, it looked like you were now going to get dinner with him on Friday night. 

Seonghwa [10:29am]: Hey, are you still there? I could meet you in front of the pole studio, if you want. That restaurant is only a few blocks away. 6pm? Is that too early? 

You [10:30am]: That sounds awesome. 6 is fine. I’ll see you then!

Seonghwa [10:30am]: Yay!! :) 

You took a deep breath before tapping out a text to Lainey. 

You [10:32am]: Lainey, I take back the butt punch; I am going to murder you in the face.

Lainey [10:33am]: Uh huh. So when’s the date? 

By Friday, you were a bundle of nerves, having just barely made it through the week. Seonghwa had been texting you every day, and both of you had been flirting up a storm, which somehow made you more nervous, because what if it was all an act?

But then again, what if it’s not, and this super nice, nerdy, funny, incredibly pretty man actually really likes me?

Lainey let herself into your apartment on Friday afternoon, just as you were finishing up with work, and handed you a brown paper shopping bag, inside which was a deep green dress, and a black lacy bodysuit. They were the same pieces you’d been eyeing for weeks but hadn’t wanted to buy, since you were trying to save up for a down payment on a house.

“Lainey,” you started, staring daggers at her as you held the dress. “Like. Full offense... Are you insane?”

“Jury’s out,” she replied with a shrug. “Please, just go with it. You looked so good in that dress when you tried it on. You needed to own it.”

“But…”

“No.”

“The bodysuit? Really?”

“Please, like we haven’t bought matching underwear like half the time we’ve ever been shopping, since high school?”

“Right, I just think you’re going overboa—”

“You are not wearing your boring old skin tone colored Spanx. That is not happening tonight. You are my best friend, and Seonghwa is a good friend, and both of you deserve better than that ratty old piece of shapewear you've had since college.”

You chose to ignore where Lainey was going with that and tried to change pace.

“But the money—”

“No ma’am! I just got a huge bonus at work. You are not winning this argument, bitch. Now go get ready.”

“You’re worse than my mom, I hope you know,” you told her with an eye roll. 

“Fully aware.” Lainey laughed. “But you love me, so. There’s that.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“Plus, your mom wouldn’t be caught dead purchasing a sexy bodysuit.”

“Did not need any sort of imagery like that, thank you!” You bellowed as you shut the bathroom door. You could hear Lainey giggling wildly.

You showered quickly, and debated for a second whether to actually wear the bodysuit. It would probably be more comfortable than anything else, but you weren’t always the biggest fan of sex on the first date, as a general rule— you found it often led people to treat you poorly afterwards, because they’d already gotten all they wanted from you. And you didn’t want to seem presumptuous. Especially not with Seonghwa.

And for him, you felt like you might make an exception, if for no other reason than he was the most attractive person you’d ever gone out with, and if his skill on the pole was any indicator... 

“Can’t fucking believe I’m doing this,” you muttered as you pulled on the lingerie. You slipped the dress on, admiring the way it hugged your curves. It was simply cut, soft fabric with a geometric pattern. It fell to your knees, which you supposed would be fine. On the other hand, it showed a fair amount of cleavage, and you hoped it wouldn't be too much for a first date. You threw on some quick makeup and did your hair, and emerged from the bathroom to find that Lainey was still sitting on your couch.

“Oh, Seonghwa is gonna lose it when he sees you,” Lainey said enthusiastically. “See, I told you, you needed this dress.” 

“Okay, you win,” you giggled as you stepped into a pair of black flats. “I gotta go, I’m supposed to meet him at 6.”

“Have fun ,” Lainey said, handing you your purse and waggling her eyebrows suggestively. 

“You suck,” you told her, hurrying away before she could make a lewd comment.

Seonghwa was waiting for you outside the studio, wearing dark jeans and a crisp white button down, which contrasted incredibly with his skin tone. He had clearly been experimenting with his hair, and tonight he was wearing it down, in soft curls that framed his face. His beauty made your heart skip several beats, and you considered backing out, unsure again if you were in over your head.

While you were thinking, Seonghwa noticed you, turning and walking over to meet you.

“Hey,” he said warmly. “Great to see you… you look so pretty,” he breathed. “I mean… I… Just…”

“Thank you,” you told him, feeling the flush rising on your cheeks as you watched him stumble over his words, his own face bright pink.

He offered an arm to you.

“Shall we?”

“Sure,” you nodded, looping your arm through his. It was a little surreal to be this close to him again, and it somehow felt more intimate than it had a few weeks ago, when he’d had his hands on your waist in class.

The restaurant was far more upscale than you expected, and you gulped, telling yourself you wouldn’t look at the prices. Seonghwa didn’t seem worried as he gave the hostess his name for the reservation, and you felt him lean into you gently. 

“You okay?”

“Yes,” you nodded. 

“Fancy place,” he whispered.

“Yep,” you said.

“Too fancy,” he sighed. “I have an idea.”

When the hostess came back, Seonghwa apologized, telling her something had suddenly come up and the two of you needed to leave. He led you back outside, with one arm around your shoulders. Once you were far enough away from the door, he let you go and turned to face you.

“Okay. That was just too much. I’m sorry.”

“It did feel a little off for a first date,” you laughed. “It was a good idea though.”

“The pictures on the website didn’t really show it off that way,” he sighed. “Okay. Plan B. Do you eat pizza?”

“I absolutely eat pizza,” you nodded enthusiastically. “And the more cheese the better. In which case, we should go to that little hole in the wall place a few doors down from your studio.”

“Oh, you know what, I’ve never actually been there.”

“You’re missing out,” you told him. “Sal’s garlic knots are the best in town and that’s a hill I will die on,” you said indignantly, and Seonghwa wrinkled his nose as he giggled at you. “You could ask Lainey,” you added, and Seonghwa snorted.

“You’re not mad about us talking about you, I hope,” he said hurriedly.

“No, I think it’s cute,” you assured him. 

“I think you’re cute,” he said smoothly, slipping a hand into yours as the two of you began to walk back towards the pizza place. 

Oh, heaven help me.

Seonghwa gave you free rein on ordering for the two of you, so you ordered one of your favorite pizzas on the menu, as well as garlic knots, and a chocolate orange mousse to split for dessert. You had waffled for a second on the mousse, but decided to go for it. 

“Just one dessert, huh?” Seonghwa teased you as the two of you picked a booth and slid into your seats.

“I’m doing you a favor,” you told him. “Let’s just say I found out the hard way how it feels when you eat an entire one of these on your own. It was not as pleasant as I envisioned.”

“Ah, I see,” he said with a wink. “Protecting me. Cute.”

“You could say that,” you countered, trying not to let him know his flirting was having as much of an effect as it was. “You know. Chivalry and all that.”

“Ah, yes. Chivalry,” Seonghwa giggled. “Makes sense.”

The waiter saved you, bringing your drinks and garlic knots. Seonghwa dipped one gingerly into the marinara and took a bite, and you watched with satisfaction as he groaned at the combination of flavors.

“Okay, you were right, and I have to confess, I was secretly doubting you…” he mumbled through the tail end of the bite. “But…”

“I told you so,” you said smugly, grinning at him. “Uh. You have a little bit of sauce...” You pointed to the corner of your own lip. 

“Sorry again about the other place,” he sighed. “I kinda… Well, I wanted to impress you a bit. But also that place just seemed too stuffy for a first date, and I could tell you were feeling the same way.” 

“It kinda was,” you agreed. “I like this better.”

“Me too. It’s more… real? If that makes sense.”

“Yeah, I get it,” you agreed.  

You and Seonghwa joked and laughed through dinner, trading amusing stories, and it was comforting to you how talking to him felt like talking to an old friend you’d known for years. He just had that kind of warm personality that put people at ease— you’d seen it before in the studio when he had been helping you. But here it was a little different, again, more intimate. Seonghwa seemed softer, more vulnerable. 

Which was probably good, because you were feeling doubly so.

“Well,” he finally said, putting down a pizza crust and looking at the aftermath the two of you had wrought on dinner. “I think I might be too full for dessert.”

“Conveniently, all their desserts are packaged to go,” you told Seonghwa, holding up a bag with the mousse and two plastic spoons inside.

“Ah, smart, They know what they’re doing.”

“Mmhmm.”

“So,” Seonghwa said. “Do you… maybe wanna come back to the studio and hang out a bit?”

You wondered if you were imagining the sudden waver in his voice. 

“Oh, won’t we get in trouble?”

“No. I own the studio and the apartment space above it. It’s all mine.” He grinned at you, and you couldn’t help but smile back. “Only if you want. I don’t want to pressure you into anything you aren’t comfortable with.”

“No, that sounds fun,” you nodded. “Maybe we could just hang out and listen to some music or something for a bit while we digest.” 

“Sure! I actually have been working on installing a new light system, if you were interested in seeing that,” Seonghwa told you.

“Ooh, like flashy lights for performances?”

“Yeah!” 

“Okay, let’s go,” you said, grinning at him. 

He took your hand again as you walked to the studio, and again you tried to remain calm. You weren’t sure what the rest of the evening held, but you were buzzing with nervous excitement.

Seonghwa flipped on some music after he locked the studio doors and made sure that everything was secure. You watched as he went over to a closet in the corner and pulled out some thick yoga mats, spreading them on the floor at the front of the room. Next, he went over to a control panel, tinkering for a few minutes with knobs and dials, and suddenly, the two of you had your own personal light show. He let it run for just a few moments before turning it off and crossing the room back to you.

“It’s still a work in progress,” he sighed. “But once it’s done I’ll have a better performance space here. I could even host competitions once I get a stage up."

"Wow, a stage would be awesome," you nodded. "Was this place always a pole studio?"

"Nope. When I bought it three years ago, it was just an empty dusty space, but I have big dreams for it."

"Looks like you're well on your way," you told him with a wide smile.

You took a seat on one of the yoga mats, pulling out dessert, and two water bottles you'd bought on the way out of the restaurant.

“How can you eat again already?” Seonghwa wailed. “I’m so full.”

“So lay down and rest a bit, silly,” you laughed. “I just want a little taste.”

“Hmm.” He pursed his lips. “A taste, huh?”

Oh god. Why did I say it like that? Why did he…? Fuck.

Seonghwa took a spoon from you and daintily took a tiny bit of the chocolate mousse. The first bite didn’t last long, and you found yourself stuck, watching him devour his half of the dessert, his long tongue flicking out of his mouth to lick the spoon clean after. You tried your best to pretend that this did not affect you, as you ate your own share, but there was a burning in the pit of your belly now that you could not seem to squash.

“Too bad it’s not socially acceptable to lick the bowl,” Seonghwa laughed. 

“I mean… we aren’t in public,” you pointed out, and he snorted. He looked up at you, a soft smile on his face, and you thought you might melt. 

“Oh.” He said quietly, moving closer to you. “You have a bit…” He reached out slowly, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, where it seemed an errant bit of whipped cream had taken up residence. You handed Seonghwa a wet wipe from your purse as you struggled to catch your breath, but he hadn’t moved. If anything, he’d scooted closer, opening the wipe and dabbing it carefully where the whipped cream had been before cleaning his own hand.

“So, when do you have to have that performance ready?” You asked. “Isn’t the competition coming up?”

“Oh lord,” he sighed. “Yeah. I actually was thinking of changing some things up.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow. “How come?”

“I just… I put a lot of thought into everything I do,” he explained. “And I’m a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to my dancing. I filmed myself the other day and caught some things that I didn't think were very good, so..."

“Seonghwa…” You started.

“Hwa,” he said.

“Huh?”

“You can call me Hwa,” he said with a small smile. “If you want. What were you going to say? I interrupted you, I’m sorry.”

“No, I was just saying, you’re so good at what you do already.” 

“Thank you,” he told you warmly. “That means a lot to me.” He bit his lip for a second, then shook his head.

“What?” You asked, curious as to what was going on in his head.

“Did… no. Nevermind.”

“Did I want to see the changes?” You said, and knew you’d hit the nail on the head. You wondered why he was suddenly shy.

“Well… yeah. But you’re kind of a captive audience, and I don’t wanna bore you or be a show off or—”

“Hwa, it’s fine, stop overthinking. If you wanna show me, that’s cool. If not, I can wait till the next time you show the class.” 

“Okay,” he said. “Well, I can’t dance in this outfit. Uh… will you wait here? I’ll be right back.”  

“Sure,” you nodded. 

“Feel free to take your shoes off or whatever, get comfortable,” he told you. “There’s some blankets and pillow rolls in the closet, everything is freshly laundered. I have a friend who does yoga classes here every Thursday morning, and she doesn’t care if I use her stuff sometimes.”

You busied yourself with building a small nest on the floor while Hwa was upstairs changing. He came back down with his hair half up again, short black shorts, and a crop top that had clearly been a full t-shirt at some point, bearing faded Animal Crossing characters on it. 

“Pardon me for not being fully dressed up,” he giggled. “Definitely can’t dance pole in jeans, but those boots are a chore to get in and out of. The new ones I just got in are especially insane.”

You weren’t sure where your filter had gone in those two seconds, but you heard yourself say the words before the rational part of your brain could stop you:

“Oh, did you need help with them?” You blurted out. 

Seonghwa fixed you with an unintelligible stare, and you took a deep breath. 

“Sorry,” you said hurriedly. “That was overstepping.”

“Not at all,” Hwa shrugged. “I just was… trying to make sure you were serious… I guess.” He laughed, and you picked up on the nervousness. “It’s not every day you meet a girl who will help you put on your stripper boots,” he giggled.

But all the same, he traipsed back upstairs, and returned with an impressive pair of boots. These were red patent leather, similar to the ones he’d worn in class before— platform heeled boots that would not be out of place on a strip club stage. These were thigh high, and had some decorative straps and buckles that added to the bombshell vibe Seonghwa already gave off in waves.

“I just got these and I need to break them in a bit. You’re sure you’re cool with this?”

“It’s just boots,” you shrugged. “They do look complicated. How did you ever try them on to begin with?”

“Well,” Hwa said sheepishly. “I kinda… didn’t. I ordered them online. Even if I had bought them in a store… Well, you can see,” he laughed. “So I hope they fit.”

You began to rethink your decision the second your hands touched his skin. You tried to be careful, but even in the low lighting, you could see the fine gooseflesh that rose on his thighs as you did up one boot, then the other. You stood up slowly, giggling a little at how much taller he was with them on. He laughed, dispersing some of the weirdness, and grabbed the pole next to him to steady as he beckoned you closer. 

“Hmm?” You tilted your head curiously as you peered up at Hwa. “Something wrong?”

“Can I kiss you?” He whispered. 

“Yes,” you breathed. 

Seonghwa leaned over you, slowly, reaching to tilt your chin up, as he brushed his lips with yours in a soft, chaste kiss. You almost expected more, but you could see him trembling, and it was obvious he was holding himself back. 

“Hmm,” he hummed happily. 

“What?” You asked, biting your lip.

“Sweet,” he said, flashing you a toothy grin. He grabbed his phone and handed it to you, the music app open and his routine song ready to go. “Will you press play when I tell you?”

“Of course,” you said, the entirety of your brain caught up in the kiss he’d just given you. Part of you hoped there would be more later.

“Okay, hit it,” Hwa said, and you pressed play, not expecting the music to come from the studio speakers. 

He was already lost in the music, and you sat and watched in awe as he danced, every spin and dip imprinting itself on your brain like a photograph you knew you’d never forget. Even if he finished his routine and you walked out the door immediately after, you knew this was a show of artistry you knew would stick with you for the rest of your life. 

The song ended abruptly, and Seonghwa spun once more and slowed to a stop, chest heaving and sweat dripping, platinum curls deflated and hair sticking to his neck as he tried to catch his breath. You hurried to grab him a towel and some water, and he accepted it gratefully. 

“Thank you,” he told you. “What did you think?” 

“Hwa…” You started. “I… I really have no words. If you don’t win that competition or whatever it is, I will personally start a riot.”

“Hmm. Helps me put on my fancy boots, offers to be my own personal riot starter…” he giggled. “I like where this is going.”

“Oh yeah?” You moved closer to him. “Do you need help taking the boots back off?”

“I think I can manage that bit, it’s the putting on that stumps me. But… Hey, do you wanna come upstairs? I… I don’t really want this night to be over anytime soon,” he admitted. “I need to shower really quick, but then maybe we could watch a movie or something?” 

“Sure, that sounds great.”

You played on your phone while you waited for Seonghwa to get out of the shower. He had made sure you were comfortable, even lending you an extra, yet-unworn pair of socks to keep your feet warm, bundling you up on his cush sofa with a blanket, a bottle of water, and a glass of wine. 

“I’ll be quick,” he promised. 

“Take your time,” you reassured him. 

About twenty minutes later, he emerged from the hallway, now sporting an old, well-worn Star Wars t-shirt and grey sweatpants. 

“Oh, shoot,” he sighed, when he saw you. “Here I am all comfy, and you’re still dressed up.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you laughed. “It’s a comfortable dress.”

“I mean. I think I might have some stuff that a friend left that would fit you. He tends to buy a lot of stuff oversized.” 

“It’s okay,” you told him, shaking your head. “A friend, huh?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s a producer, he always stays here when he comes through down when one of his groups is doing a tour. His name is Mingi. You should meet him sometime, I think the two of you would get along well.”

“Oh,” you said.

Is he…

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” Seonghwa said, plopping down next to you and spreading a blanket over himself. He fumbled for a second, and then suddenly his hand was enveloping your own, and he laced his fingers through yours. “Nah. You can meet Mingi all you want. That’s it.”

“Oh, and why is that it?” You turned to him with a sly grin on your lips. 

“Because I know someone else who likes you,” Hwa said, matter-of-factly.

“And who is that?”

“ Me ,” Seonghwa said breathily, as he closed the gap between you, pressing his lips to yours. Before you knew it, your arms were snaking around his muscular torso, and he took that initiative to press closer still, flicking the tip of his tongue against your lips, and sighing as you parted them for him.

He kissed you with a fervor that you’d felt an inkling of downstairs in the studio, but now, here, where had you all to himself, Seonghwa was kissing you like he wanted to consume all that you were, and give you back pleasure in return. He nipped and bit gently at your lips, trailed the tip of his tongue along your jawline, pressing soft kisses in its wake, only to move down your neck in that same maddeningly slow speed. You could hear him giggling softly, and in that second became hyper aware that you were breathing hard and heavy, tiny noises escaping your lips unbidden, and you whined loudly as Hwa hit a particularly sensitive spot over your collarbone. 

“You okay?” Seonghwa stopped, backing away a bit to look at you, concerned. 

“I’m…” You were gasping for breath, not that Hwa was faring much better. “I’m good.”

“Yeah?” He asked softly. “So you don’t wanna stop?” 

“Not unless you want to.” 

“Absolutely not,” Seonghwa whispered, pressing his lips to yours again. 

He did pause for just a second, so he could detangle both of you from the blankets, and then all but dragged you to straddle his lap. 

“Hey,” he whispered between kisses. “What… do…”

“Whatever… you… want…” You managed to get out. 

“Clean?” He mumbled. You nodded as you leaned in to kiss his neck, enjoying the sharp gasp that killed his next word before it took flight. 

“B… birth… cont— FUCK!” He exclaimed as you sank your teeth every so slightly into his shoulder. 

“Mmhmm…” You murmured, running your tongue over his collarbone. 

As riled as he’s gotten me in the last week… he deserves every bit of this.  

“You want to?” You mumbled against his neck.

“Huh?” He cursed again as you found another sensitive spot. 

“You said, fuck,” you said, sitting up to look at him. 

You could barely contain your reaction to the beauty in front of you— Seonghwa sat under you, chest heaving, damp hair falling in his face and a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he stared back at you. His deep brown eyes already looked half fucked-out, and he shifted slightly, causing you to realize just how hard he was. 

“Yeah,” Seonghwa said, nodding, looking slightly drunk, grinning as he leaned in to capture your lips with his own. “We should definitely fuck.” 

“Glad we’re on the same page,” you whispered. He motioned for you to stand, and wordlessly led you to the bedroom. You stopped for a second, taking in the sight. It was neat, and almost minimalist— if you didn’t count the shelf with several Lego floral arrangements, and a few small fandom touches. On one wall was what you supposed must be a large piece of sheet metal, displaying magnets from all over the world. 

“Is something wrong?” He asked, and you became aware that he had moved to turn a light on, and was now staring at you.

“Nothing is wrong,” you said, your mouth dropping open of its own accord when you saw the replica Master Sword in the corner. “Just… if all this works out…” You looked back at him. “Could you redesign my room?”

Seonghwa giggled. 

“Right now, the only thing I want to redesign is the alignment of the sheets on my bed.”

You blinked, catching yourself before you made a joke about how neatly everything was arranged.

“You can say it,” Hwa laughed. “I’ve heard it all before. Now… come here,” he beckoned you over, and you obliged, coming to stand between his legs as he sat down on the bed. He kissed your neck again, wrapping his arms around your torso, and you had your first little nope flick through your head. You stepped back a bit, hands flying up to cover your tummy, and Hwa stopped immediately. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Um.” You frowned. “I…”

“Oh, no, wait, stop,” Hwa shook his head. “I know what you’re going to say. So let me make this abundantly clear.” 

He stood up, leaning down to kiss your forehead before catching your chin with his hand and bringing your lips to his. He kissed you just once, tenderly, before he let you go, keeping his gaze soft as he spoke his next words.

“I think you are incredible. And I want this just as much as you do. But we are not doing anything you aren’t comfortable with. Just so you know, I heard the comments you made about yourself earlier when you didn’t think anyone could hear you. And for what it’s worth, I didn’t agree.”

He kissed you again, but didn’t pull back as far this time. 

“I think you are such a cool human. I was a little dubious at first with all this, because I have been set up on some really awful blind dates. But Lainey insisted I should meet you, and I’m so glad I did. I’ve had a lot of fun tonight, and… I don’t really want to stop, no matter what.” 

“Same here,” you breathed.

“Yeah? Lainey thinks you should meet you too?”

“Okay smartass,” you laughed. 

“There’s my girl,” he said, swooping in for a kiss, but breaking down into a giggle before his lips met yours. 

“Wow, you’re mushy, huh,” you snickered. “This is—hey wait.”

“Huh?”

“ Your girl?”

“I mean…” Seonghwa stammered, caught off guard by your pointed question. “Do you want to be?” 

“Maybe I do,” you said coyly. “What would you say to that?”

“Well,” Hwa said, “in that case I’d say you had better get over here… I need to kiss you. Among other things.”

“Hmm, okay,” you murmured. “I was right then. This is going to be fun.”

“Yes it is,” Seonghwa said, moving back to sit on the bed, pulling you back in for another kiss. You felt his hands on your hips, and you took in a sharp breath. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said. “If you want.”

“No.”

The word had scarcely left your lips before his hands were under your dress, and he quickly pulled it up and over your head, tossing it over his desk chair. 

“Oh,” was all you could manage, before his hands were on your waist and heading upwards, You shivered as his fingertips grazed the border of the fabric hugging your breasts, and he leaned in, pressing his lips to your chest. He kept his eyes locked with yours as best as he could manage, his stare reverent. 

“So, you were thinking, if we did this tonight, you’d just go straight for my throat,” Hwa said softly. “Because I love seeing pretty lingerie on an even prettier woman. Look at you, how this hugs your curves... your breasts... fuck me sideways, you're lethal, do you know that?"

“Um…” Now it was your turn to be a little flustered. “It was more comfortable than the other stuff I had,” you laughed.

“I see. Well, as much as I like this on you,” he told you, now tracing over the florals in the lace, “I think I’d like it better on the floor, and you sitting on my face.”

You couldn’t help it— you did a double take at his words, and he burst out laughing. You quickly followed, and it took a moment for both of you to calm down.

“Was that too much?” Seonghwa giggled. “Oh my god.”

“No, no,” you wheezed. “It… I… It was fucking hot. I just… I’ve never done this with anyone who was this… bold? No, that’s not it…” 

“Ponder it later,” he instructed you, slipping the straps of your bodysuit off your shoulders. "I need you before I go insane."

“Okay, but hang on,” you said, holding up a finger. “You have to get naked too.”

“Oh, that’s part of the plan, don’t worry,” he laughed. “Tell you what…”

He directed your hands to his waist, and you slowly pushed the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt up his body, delighting in the way he shuddered under your touch. You helped him out of the shirt, adding it to the chair with your dress. You hooked your thumbs into his sweatpants next, and he did not make any move to stop you. You looked up at him as you slipped the pants down, trying desperately not to look down as you felt his hard cock spring free. 

“No underwear, huh?”

“More comfortable,” he shrugged. “When I dance pole sometimes, I wear a thong,” he winked at you.

“Okay, we’re gonna revisit that later,” you blinked at him. “Yeah. I'm going to see to see that up close and personal."

“Mmhmm, sounds good,” he murmured, “because right now I need less talking, more of you sitting on my face.”

“Seonghwa,” you whined.

“Gonna need a lot more of you whimpering my name as well,” he whispered in your ear before nipping at your earlobe. 

He stood, spinning around so you were standing with your back to the bed, and gently, he pushed you down onto the mattress, where he spent a few moments letting his hands wander over skin and fabric, caressing your curves, and murmuring quiet praise under his breath. He worshiped your body like you were a goddess sent to earth solely for him, and you let him, half listening to his words, and half wondering where he had been all your life.

Slowly, he worked the bodysuit off of you, and once you were fully bare before him, he leaned over you, pressing his naked body to your own. His hard cock rested against your leg, hot and heavy, and you wanted it so desperately in that moment that you let out a loud whimper.

“Patience, baby,” Hwa cooed as he brought a hand up your leg slowly, starting at the knee, until he reached your soaked center. You had been wet since his dancing downstairs, at this point you were almost embarrassed, because you could feel your own slick with every single movement. 

“Holy shit,” he hissed as his slender fingers parted your folds. “Oh. Oh god,” he whispered as he sank two fingers inside you easily. You yelped and arched your back, and Hwa was there, hand on your belly as he soothed your surprise. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips, and you watched his eyes roll back as he tasted you. 

In a flash, he was on the bed behind you, motioning for you to sit up, so he could lay down. He helped you clamber up to the head of the bed, steadying yourself with the headboard as you straddled him. You peered down, biting your lip. You’d never sat on someone’s face before, for various reasons, but Hwa was driving you insane in the best way, and you were desperate to have that tongue inside you. 

Even so, you had to double check.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” 

Seonghwa did not give you a verbal answer, and instead locked his strong arms around your thighs, pulling your center down to meet his warm, waiting mouth. 

You clapped a hand over your mouth immediately as you let out a small shriek, feeling Hwa slipping that long tongue inside you over and over, flicking your clit, sucking on it in varying intensities. You began to rock on his face out of habit, and then stopped, suddenly worried about him again. He tapped on your thigh to get your attention.

“Ride my face,” he commanded, voice muffled. “You won’t hurt me. Ride my face,  baby. I wanna taste it when you come into my mouth. You’ll be good for me and come all over my face, won’t you?”

“Hwaaa,” you whined loudly, every nerve in your body on fire as you found an easy rhythm that promised to send you plummeting off the edge in no time. 

“Mmm… tastes so good… so good for me,” he was mumbling as he helped you move. “So good… come for me, let me taste how sweet… fuck… oh god…”

You came suddenly and without warning, holding onto the headboard so hard you were afraid you’d break it as your vision whited out, body shaking like a leaf as Hwa continued to eat you through it like you were the last thing he’d ever taste. He finally relented when you begged him to, and helped you down from your perch to lie next to him. You lay there, breathing ragged and mostly boneless, as he reached for some tissues to clean his face. You managed to maneuver yourself onto your side, taking the tissues from him and gently wiping his face clean.

Once you were done, he disposed of the trash and curled on his side to face you, nuzzling your nose with his. 

“How are you feeling?”

“Like it’s been several years since I came that hard and I’m glad I don’t have to work tomorrow, because I seem to have misplaced my brain,” you said smoothly, eliciting a giggle from Seonghwa. 

“Good.”

“However,” you continued, “there’s still the matter of your pleasure,” you told him, running gentle fingertips down his side, enjoying the way he shivered. He really did have a dancer’s body through and through— not too bulky, but lithe and muscular, and the honey gold of his skin against the white sheets on his bed made you feel a little insane. You pushed him onto his back, sitting up now so you could lean over him, peppering him with kisses. 

“Fuck, that feels so nice,” Hwa sighed, eyes fluttering shut. They didn’t stay that way for long, as your lips locked over one of his nipples, sucking gently while you swirled your tongue around it. Now it was his turn to whine your name, one hand fisted in your hair. You moved lower, running your tongue over the hard planes of his abdomen, delighting in the way he squirmed and whimpered. You pulled back for a second, and finally steeled yourself to reach for his cock, which was standing at attention and clearly needing some— head angry and red, leaking pre-cum at an astonishing rate. You watched it drip down the shaft for a second, not knowing where you wanted to go from here. 

How does this man even have a pretty dick? It’s crazy, really.

The second you touched him, Seonghwa pulled a pillow over his face to muffle the cry he let out, and you laughed out loud. 

“Sensitive, hmm?”

All he could do was groan in a low tone, and you gave him a few soft, deliciously slow strokes that had him grasping at the sheets. You smeared pre-cum over the head with your thumb, and he whined your name loudly. 

“Sit on me,” he gasped. “Please. Oh fuck, sit on my cock, please.”

“Seonghwa—”

“Don’t you dare bring that up right now,” he said in a stern tone, and you bit back the words you were going to say. “You’re not going to hurt me. Now… baby… please…” He peered down at you, eyes wild with need. “Sit on my cock.”

You moved up to straddle him, enjoying how vocal he was every time you touched him.

You were still not prepared for the long string of curse words that left his lips as you began to rub the head of his cock between your slick folds, and you sat down every so slightly, letting just the tip of him press inside you. 

His hands were on your hips in a vice grip in the next second, and he was pushing inside you now, slowly, so slowly, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was perfect, his pretty cock filling you up just right, and when he bottomed out inside you, he sighed contentedly. 

“Oh, perfect… so warm… wet… god, baby, fuck me, use me, ride me,” he mumbled. “Please. Ride me until we both come so hard we can't walk straight. I'll beg if I have to."

"Hmm. I could stand to see you beg, but we can save that for later," you told him as you leaned in for a quick kiss.

You found a comfortable position in moments, leaning over him as you rode him into the mattress just the way he’d asked. At his urging, you let your movements get rougher, faster, and his whimpers and deep moans spurred you on. All the while, the head of his cock was hitting you just right with every thrust, and you weren’t sure how much longer you would last. 

“Oh…” You realized suddenly that you were too close, but before you could stop, Seonghwa was begging you to keep moving, amid his incoherent babbling at how good you felt. Meanwhile, every bit of friction, the drag of his hard cock against your walls, even as wet as you were, was sending you into a tailspin.

You felt yourself tipping, and you let go, stars behind your eyes this time. As your body shook, you felt Seonghwa arch his back, his cock pulsing inside you as he came, crying out your name. He kept you moving, pushing you into another climax before the first had subsided, and again, only stopped when you begged for him to relent.

“Mmmm… fuck ,” Seonghwa muttered as you slumped over him, both of you gasping for air. 

“Yes, I believe we accomplished our goal,” you snickered as you rolled to one side, only for Seonghwa to quickly close the gap, slotting his body against yours and beginning to pepper your face with soft, warm kisses. 

“You know,” he told you as he gave you a tender kiss on the lips. “This is the best first date I ever had.” 

“Hmm, same,” you told him. 

“Do you wanna shower with me?” He asked. “I’ll change the bedsheets too, so we’re not sleeping in a mess,” he giggled. 

“You want me to stay?” You asked, somewhat dubiously, despite what he’d just confessed to you.

“Of course I want you to stay, silly,” he told you. “You’re mine now, we agreed. I heard it.”

“Yours,” you echoed.

“Look,” he told you, kissing your forehead. “If getting to know you this week, and the delightful time we’ve had together tonight is any indicator, I can tell you confidently that yes, I want you to stay, and I might not ever want to let you go, at that.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a plan,” you said sleepily. 

You weren’t normally one to talk in such a way at this stage, but something about being with Hwa just felt right. And as he tucked you back into bed after a shower that was steamy in more ways than one, you knew, deep in your heart, that this was real, and that he meant it when he said he was here to stay. 

It had been a long time since you’d believed you could find love. But here in the dark, in Seonghwa’s arms, it felt like a sure possibility, and you were going to run with it, for as long as you could. 

“Goodnight, dear heart,” he told you softly as he curled around you protectively. “Sweet dreams.”

[themoonlightfae]

the so unknown - master list

you had always scoffed at the idea that vampires could be real.

a chance meeting leaves you questioning everything you know, and then some.

MAIN SERIES:

WC: 141,669

Genre: Vampire AU

Rating: Explicit

Completed: 240924 on ao3

Part 1: Dancing In The Dark

Part 2: Ready And Waiting To Fall

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Epilogue

Part 3: People, Running

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Epilogue

Part 4: Smoke & Ribbons

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

The Spinoffs:

Teasing to Please

[themoonlightfae]

Teasing to Please

Pairings: fem!Reader x Matz

Part of The So Unknown - The Spinoffs

Summary: You've been teasing Hongjoong relentlessly for a week. This comes back to bite you after a group date with Seonghwa, but let's be real: you're not sorry.

Genre: Vampire AU

WC (Total): 2,662

Rating: Explicit

Originally Published: 250519 on ao3

Tags: Under the cut

Tags: alternate Universe - vampire, plot what plot/porn without plot, safe sane and consensual, established relationship, teasing, orgasm denial, St. Andrew's Cross, pussy slapping, sensory play, bondage, light dom/sub, threesome - F/M/M, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough sex, vaginal fingering, squirting

You grunted as Seonghwa pushed you roughly against the wall of the garage, following you quickly to slot his lithe form against yours. You wrapped your arms around his waist instinctively as his lips met your own again. He nipped at your lip before delving his tongue into your mouth, gasping as you slid one hand over the growing bulge in his jeans and began to rub up and down his length.

Both of you stopped suddenly as someone cleared their throat loudly. You sprung apart to see Hongjoong standing there, holding the car keys in one hand and his bag with the other, a bemused expression on his fair features. 

“Couldn’t even wait five minutes?” He smirked. "Like horny teenagers."

“You say like you didn’t have your tongue down her throat at the drive in,” Seonghwa countered. “Let’s go watch Casablanca!” Seonghwa said in sing-song, making a face at Hongjoong. “"How much of the movie did you actually watch, Joong?”

Hongjoong was now looking a level of sheepishness that you hadn’t seen in decades, and you giggled. 

“He has a point,” you shrugged.

Your gaze flicked back to Seonghwa. “Although you’re far from innocent yourself. Between the two of you, I didn’t see the majority of the film. Just saying,” you added with a smirk. “The end credits were nice at least.”

“Hey, did Mingi text you back?” Hongjoong asked Seonghwa, apropos of nothing, and you raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” Seonghwa nodded, and you caught the wicked grin on his face before he managed to smooth it over. “We’re good.” 

Hongjoong sidled up to you slowly, and in that moment you realized that the two of them were eyeing you like a meal. 

“Little bird…” Hongjoong whispered. “What would you say to a little fun in Mingi’s newly finished playroom?”

You gulped, but the word was past your lips before you could think twice.

“Absolutely.”

A short while later, you found yourself lying between Hongjoong and Seonghwa on the bed in the playroom, all clothing long forgotten on the floor and their hands wandering every inch of your exposed skin. You already felt like a live wire under their ministrations, and they had scarcely touched you except to tease in every spot you wanted it most. 

“Is there anything off the table tonight?” Seonghwa asked softly as he dragged his lips over your shoulder. 

“Not that I can think of,” you told him, gasping as he nipped at you. “What did you have in mind?”

You peered back behind you to see that same demonic smile you’d gotten a glimpse of earlier, and your heart, though it had not beat in ages, dropped into your stomach all the same. It had been well over a hundred years since you'd come to be with these men, and they still drove you just as wild as they had when you had first started your relationships. 

“Hmm, I’m not sure," he said, his gaze almost bordering on cautious as he looked down at you. “So many options. Hongjoong? What do you think?”

You looked back to see Joong’s gaze extended beyond the bed, to the far wall where the St. Andrews cross stood. 

In all your years with the clan, Mingi had yet to strap you to it. You’d discussed it plenty of times, but Mingi usually lost patience easily these days, more inclined to cut right to the chase and fuck you senseless until neither of you could form any coherent thought. 

“I have a few ideas,” he said with a smirk. “Little bird…” 

“Hmm?” 

“Get up.”

You shivered. You moved instinctually to do exactly what he said, but then you had another, much more dangerous thought.

Oh. Oh god. Do I even dare? 

You zoned back in to see Hongjoong, now staring at you expectantly, one eyebrow cocked high. You gasped as you felt Seonghwa’s fingers digging into your hip. 

“Do what he says, darling. Now."

“Or what?” You asked before you could stop yourself, enjoying the butterflies in your stomach far too much as Hongjoong’s stare turned sour. 

“Ah-ah,” he tutted. “That won’t do.”

“Color?” Seonghwa whispered in your ear. 

“Green,” you answered quickly. 

Before you could register, the two of them had you on your feet and were marching you across the room. You shivered as the cool wood of the cross touched your skin. Seonghwa and Hongjoong made quick work of the bindings, and Seonghwa stepped forward, holding a blindfold. 

“Wait,” Hongjoong said, holding up a hand. “She’s being a brat. Wouldn’t it be better to know what’s coming?”

“No,” Seonghwa started, and stopped the second you started giggling. 

“Are you guys really gonna stand there and debate whether to blindfold me, while you have me strapped in here?” You snickered. “Seriously.”

“Fuck it,” Hongjoong said. “Blindfold her.” 

Once Seonghwa had the blindfold securely in place, you felt someone come near, lips brushing the shell of your ear, and you shivered. 

“You’re going to obey your masters tonight,” Hongjoong whispered. “Do you understand? No ifs, ands, and certainly no buts.”

You stifled a laugh, and you could tell he knew, as swiftly as his hand connected with your center— the slap wasn’t enough to hurt, but it certainly got your attention, and every other thought you had faded away as you felt wetness pooling between your legs, the sting of Hongjoong’s hand still lingering.

“Yes sir,” you nodded, though you had little intent to let them have what they wanted that easily. 

In the background, you heard Seonghwa muttering, and the sounds of things being moved around in a drawer. You had no idea what to expect— Mingi had told you that he had ordered many new toys for the clan’s new playroom, and you had not pried, wanting to be surprised.

You had also expected your first time in this room to be with Mingi. 

Trial by fire…

Seconds later, the prickle of a pinwheel grazed down the side of your neck, but it was gone just as quickly, and you whined loudly. You heard Seonghwa chuckle. 

“Hmm, I like the way you think, Hwa,” Hongjoong said smoothly. “Oh, thank you,” he added, and your mind was racing again, desperation at the forefront as you tried to decipher what they were about to do. 

A feather touch on your inner thigh made you yelp in surprise, and you tried to take deep breaths as it worked its way up your body, across and over your breasts, and back down. Meanwhile, Seonghwa continued to tease with the pinwheel— both of them seemingly hellbent on driving you insane as they teased you. They were certainly making sure to hit each and every sensitive spot they were aware of, and it wasn’t long before you were a quivering mess, so turned on you could barely stand it, your cunt nearly dripping. 

“So desperate to be touched, little bird?” Hongjoong asked. "You want a cock inside you, hmm? I can tell."

Well, yes, but that sounds like a trap.

You weighed your options quickly, and again decided on the one you knew would get a rise out of Hongjoong. The two of you had been teasing each other for days, and you’d made it your mission to be a brat, just for fun. It wasn’t your norm, but it was fun to mix things up once in a while. Especially when it got Hongjoong this riled.

Another slap to your center snapped you back to reality.

“I asked you a question,” Hongjoong hissed. “Color, love?”

“Yeah, I know,” you told him. “I heard you. And it’s green,” you said nonchalantly, shrugging your shoulders just because you knew it would drive him crazier. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Good? That’s laughable,” Hongjoong returned. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing this week, little bird. Pressing my buttons like you have.”

“Hey, at least I know how to work a large variety of buttons,” you shot back, earning another, harder swat to your sensitive folds. 

You heard Seonghwa giggling, and another sound of skin on skin, deducing quickly that Hongjoong had likely punched Hwa in the arm. 

“You are being quite naughty, my moon,” Hwa’s voice sounded in your ear, and you felt his body, so close to yours, and yet so far away. The proximity alone made your head spin, and you longed for them to touch you.

Can't give in now.

“Quite sure I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you replied. 

Seonghwa laughed softly, nipping at your earlobe before running just the tip of his long tongue down your neck. 

“Is that right? You mean to tell me that Hongjoong is just being dramatic? You haven’t been an unholy terror all week?”

“I hardly think ‘unholy terror’ is fair,” you scoffed. "A minor terror at best, maybe."

You felt Hongjoong next to you immediately, his lips back against your ear. You could feel the annoyance rolling off of him in waves, and you bit your lip. 

“Oh really? So you don’t think that edging me for an hour yesterday and then leaving me to my own devices was troublesome at all, hmm?”

“I mean,” you giggled. “ I had fun.”

You were getting a little tired of being tied up now, if for no other reason than you wanted just a bit to rest your arms. But you were too committed to the bit to stop being a brat now. You knew Hongjoong had been stressed; the newest move had not gone as smoothly as previous ones and he had spent many hours on the phone that week, trying to track down a significant amount of half the clan’s belongings. This combined with the normal pressure he always felt as the clan's leader had done a number on him.

It seemed your words were enough, however, and after a short whispered back and forth between your lovers, you found yourself untied. You reached for the blindfold, and Hongjoong tutted again. 

“Don’t even dare, little bird.”

“Don’t? Really? But what if…” Your fingertips brushed the fabric, and you could feel the glare he was giving you.

“Little bird…”

“Hmm?” You said sweetly. “You seem stressed, Joongie. Something bothering you?”

“Yes,” he said, as two sets of hands grabbed you roughly, all but dragging you back across the room, bending you over the bed. 

You felt hands on your waist, pulling you down slightly, as the head of a cock brushed against your slick folds. You were so wet it was almost embarrassing, and Hongjoong lost no time in aligning himself and pushing into you in one devastatingly hard thrust. A string of curses followed as he bottomed out, and he set a punishing pace at once, slamming back into you each time with a ferocity that left you breathless despite not needing to breathe at all. 

A split second later, nimble fingers undid your blindfold, and you were met with the sight of Seonghwa, sitting in front of you on the bed, legs spread, cock on full display and standing at attention, the tip angry red and leaking pre-cum. 

“Suck… him…” Hongjoong grunted. “If… if you want… to… come…”

It dawned on you what Hongjoong’s game was without him having to say a word, and you obediently ducked your head, taking Hwa’s cock into your mouth, inch by glorious inch. You brought one hand up to cup his balls as you did so, relishing the deep moan that came from Seonghwa’s throat as you worked his rock-hard cock with your tongue.

“Fuck,” he whined as you increased your pace. “Your mouth is absolutely sinful,” he added, and you peered up at him through your lashes as you grasped the base of his cock with your other hand, somehow managing to maintain your composure as Hongjoong continued to rail into you with strokes so hard they shook the bed. 

Your own release was building, the thrill of teasing Hongjoong combined with the teasing you’d received earlier leaving you incredibly sensitive, and you felt yourself tightening around Hongjoong’s cock. He stopped suddely, and you whined. 

“No,” he said, pushing inside you again and staying still. “Not yet, little bird. Not after you've been such a fucking brat. I thought I told you to obey.”

You ignored him, knowing it would just further irritate him, and concentrated on swirling your tongue around the head of Seonghwa’s cock. Moments later, Hongjoong began again, timing his first thrust just as you took Seonghwa to the hilt, causing you to choke slightly. Seonghwa fisted a hand in your hair, laughing to himself as he held your head still, now fucking up into your mouth slowly, that demon grin plastered on his face once more as he watched you drooling around his length. 

“Mmm,” Hongjoong grunted, his fingers digging into you hips with much more pressure now. “Fuck.”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, grinning as best you could as Seonghwa shivered. You were still playing with his balls as you sucked him, and you could tell he was getting close just as quickly as Hongjoong was, as both their thrusts became messier, more erratic. 

Seonghwa was the first to come, and you swallowed every drop obediently, knowing that Hongjoong would never let you have your own release otherwise. 

As Seonghwa slumped back onto the bed, propping himself on his elbows, Hongjoong was muttering behind you, a mix of curses and moans, and with one final thrust, he emptied himself deep inside you, cock twitching as he came so hard that you heard him stifling his own scream of pleasure, other hand still gripping your hip tightly as he shook and shuddered against you. You mourned the feeling of fullness as he pulled out. You had been so close, and he hadn’t even noticed, not that you were upset. You had accomplished your goal. 

“So… good…” Hongjoong sighed. “But little bird, you didn’t come for me. That just won’t do.” 

“I volunteer as tribute,” Seonghwa said quickly, tugging you up onto the bed with him. You looked back to see Hongjoong was staring at the two of you, puzzled.

“Huh?”

“Ah, someone is behind on their pop culture studies again,” Hwa smirked as he laid you back against the pillows, settling between your legs. “No wonder you’ve been giving him such a hard time.”

“Don’t be mean to me,” Hongjoong whined, his demeanor much calmer now in more ways than one as he clambered up onto the bed to lay next to you, just as Seonghwa closed his lips around your clit. You shrieked, so sensitive that you could barely stand it, realizing no one had even touched the swollen bud until now. 

Seonghwa was making up for it quickly, however, and now it was your turn to pull his hair as he suckled at your clit, pushing three fingers deep inside you and beginning to thrust. Hongjoong was teasing your nipples, nipping and sucking in time with Seonghwa, and it wasn’t long at all before you were teetering on the edge once more, white-hot pleasure building deep in your core and threatening to overwhelm you. 

“Hwa,” you whined loudly. “Please… right there…” 

“Come,” they both commanded at once. 

It was a little unnerving how it seemed to work every time, yet you found yourself writhing on the bed anyway, screaming their names as you soaked the bedsheets with your own cum. 

“So good for us,” Hongjoong cooed as you came down from your high and Seonghwa settled on your other side. “Sometimes.”

“What can I say?” You giggled. “I aim to misbehave.”

“Heh,” Seonghwa snickered. “Bet he doesn’t get that one either.”

“What?” Hongjoong was staring at you quizzically once more. 

You glanced back at Seonghwa, and the two of you burst into wild laughter. 

“Hey! Stop making fun of me!” Hongjoong huffed. 

“Or what?” You retorted. 

“Keep it up and you’ll find out,” he whispered in your ear. 

Hmm. Challenge accepted. 

It was going to be a very long night.

[themoonlightfae]

Smoke & Ribbons - Epilogue

Pairings: Fem!Reader x OT8

Summary: Six years after you've been turned, and you are finally fully settling into the vampire lifestyle. That is, until one large mistake by one of your clanmates and some hidden feelings from some of the others turn everything on its head.

Genre: Vampire AU

WC (Total): 53,400

Rating: Explicit

Originally Published (Completed): 240923 on ao3

Tags: Under the cut

A/N: Set six years after People, Running

Tags: happy endings, sweet surprises, unconditional love, found family, talk of forever

Fifty years later…

You got out of the car carefully, almost hesitantly, part of you inexplicably wanting to run away. But Hongjoong was there to help you before you could blink twice, and you let yourself be pulled into an embrace before you closed the car door. 

“I can’t believe it’s still here,” you whispered, staring up once again at your childhood home. “It was old when I lived in it. And look, it’s been kept up, the yard is done with flowers and everything.” 

You noticed the large SOLD sign in the front yard, and sighed. 

“Still being passed around though. That sucks.”

You took a step closer. The neighborhood was very different from how it had been, even before you and the clan had left all those years ago. But now, thanks to the eviction of Andrei’s clan, and Andrei’s death at the hands of another, you and yours were now free to come back to your hometown, whenever you wanted. 

Much to Hongjoong’s surprise, you had voted to stay in the Pacific Northwest more than once now, having fallen in love with everything there— the people, the scenery, the weather, and everything in between. The clan had moved up and down the coast a few times, but were now back at Mercer Island after thirty years gone. 

But at the same time, you had missed your real home too much. 

So here you were. Hongjoong had agreed to bring you, happy to oblige his little bird with some nostalgia and good feelings from fond memories. The two of you had spent the day wandering the town, regaling each other with stories of past escapades. 

Hongjoong tapped you on the shoulder and handed you a large envelope. Puzzled, you took it, turning it over. It was unmarked. 

“Well? Open it, little bird,” Hongjoong said gleefully. 

“What did you do?” You shot him a glare, not that you could contain it behind your grin. Hongjoong was forever doting on you, in every way he could think of.

Inside were two pieces of paper— the title and deed to the house, and a shining new set of keys. 

You stared at the papers for several minutes without speaking, turning the keys over in your hand, before glancing up at Hongjoong, who was looking at you lovingly. 

“It’s yours now, little bird. And you can do whatever you want with it. But I know this place is important to you, so when I saw it was available again, I bought it immediately. We can go to the courthouse tomorrow and I’ll sign it over to you officially, but… yeah. Welcome home, my love.”

“But… our home is in Washington right now,” you stuttered, confused again. 

“Ah, yes,” Hongjoong nodded. “We have about five years before we absolutely have to move again, I think. And when we do, if you want to come back here, all you have to do is say the word.”

“Okay, but…” You frowned, glancing up at the old yellow house in front of you. “What about all of you? And what you all want?”

“Come here,” Hongjoong said softly, pulling you back into a gentle hug. You buried your face in his shoulder, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. 

A commotion behind you caused you to spring apart from Joong, and you turned to find the rest of the clan piling out of the house, excitedly running towards you. Seconds later, you were in the very center of a large group embrace. 

“What?!” You exclaimed. “Where did you all… what is all this?”

“We had to see you get the house, jagiya,” Yeosang said brightly as everyone let go. He stepped forward, kissing the tip of your nose. 

“Yeah. Couldn’t pass that one up,” Wooyoung giggled. “Your face was priceless, by the way. And yes, I took pictures.”

“But…” You said again. “I mean… don’t get me wrong, this is so special and so… I just… we don’t live here anymore.”

“Dear heart, are you saying that because you’ve moved on, or because you don’t want to put us out?” Yunho asked, and you glowered at him, because he had in fact hit the nail on the head. 

“You don’t need to worry about that, precious girl,” Mingi piped up. 

“Bu—”

“No,” Jongho said flatly as he put his hand over your  mouth. “No more buts.” He removed his hand, and you opened your mouth again, but he gave you such a ridiculously silly ‘I dare you’ face that you closed it again, clapping your own hand over your mouth to contain your giggles. 

Seonghwa moved closer to you, brushing a stray hair out of your face. San popped out from behind him, stepping forward to give you a peck on the cheek.

“They’re right,” Seonghwa told you quietly. “You needn’t worry about all of us. It’s okay.”

Hongjoong stepped forward, taking your hands in his. 

“Little bird, you should know by now that our home is not a place, and it hasn’t been for quite a while now.” He smiled softly as you tilted your head, somewhat confused. 

“Our home is you,” Yeosang said, and you heard murmurs of affirmation as the rest of the clan chimed in. “We don’t need anything, it doesn’t matter where we live, as long as we all have you, we are home.”

“I…” You started. “Fuck, I wish I could cry right now.” You spun in a slow circle, looking at all of them, gathered around you and beaming with love and affection. “I love each one of you so very much, that there isn’t enough time in the universe to show you.”

Hongjoong kissed your lips softly, and tapped gently on the round, white gold pendant of the necklace you wore. ‘Always’ was engraved in the center, under a spray of everyone’s birth flowers. It had been a gift from Hongjoong to the rest of the clan, the first summer in Washington. 

“Always,” Hongjoong echoed. 

“Always,” you repeated. 

Always. You’d never put much stock in always, when you’d been human. You’d had your heart broken enough times to think you’d always know better. 

But now, standing here with the loves of your life, you were ready to scream it to the mountaintops, the stars, and anything and anyone else who’d listen. 

“Come on,” Wooyoung offered a hand, tugging you up the sidewalk towards the house. “The future is waiting, Tidbit.”

It certainly is, isn’t it? I can’t wait.