his face + your pussy = a match made in heaven, according to mingi.
! - sub!mingi x fem!reader
!! - smut
!!! - 739 words
!!!! - oral (f), facesitting, dacryphilia, begging, hair pulling, praise, mingi goes into subspace a lil (?), coming untouched
NETWORK: @cultofdionysusnet | EVENT : ♡
You love Mingi's nose.
You love to kiss it when he's concentrating, eyebrows furrowed and headphones blasting.
You love the way he crinkled it when he was happy, and held it when he smelled something he hated.
You love to stroke it as he sleeps soundly, tracing the curves of it and the rest of his face.
You also love the way it nudged your clit when you rode his face, and the way you could sit on it if you pleased.
"Sh-shit Min... s'good baby... more..."
This Friday night was being spent as you two usually did, and you wouldn't change a damn thing. There was nothing better than watching Mingi squirm beneath you, nails digging into your thighs as he unashamedly moaned into your pussy. He was the definition of a munch, willing and eager to fall to his knees any time you deemed necessary.
Currently you were on your bed, the netflix show the two of you had meant to watch playing unnoticed in the background as Mingi practically pinned you to his face. While initially you'd been in control of your movements, Mingi wanted you flush against him, forcing you down despite your protests that you were too heavy. He simply murmured that he didn't care before running his tongue between your folds, nose bumping your sensitive bundle of nerves.
Lewd slurping sounds left your boyfriend as you exhaled in relief, the pleasure intoxicating. He wasn't going too fast, you knew he preferred to savour the moment and let you build slowly to climax. Nevertheless, his whimpers and whines beneath you were making your mind fog, your body shake.
"So... good.."
You fidgeted when his words vibrated up your spine, a high-pitched whine leaving you. Being with Mingi like this was the sweetest torture, so much so that it hooked you in until you continually craved for these moments. You would happily spend an entire weekend on his face if he so pleased, letting Mingi have his way with you.
The reverie that had taken ahold of you soon faded away when Mingi began to rub your clit with his fingers, tongue dipping in and out of your hole before lapping around it. Your arousal gushed out onto him, and he eagerly tasted it. This new combination of movements however brought you closer and closer to the edge.
"F-fuck!- Close, Min.. Shit, I'm so fuckin' close."
Mingi whined pathetically into you, face still pressed into you as he begged, his tears now beginning to mix with your slick as his nails dug into the plush flesh of your thighs.
"Oh fuck... please, baby.. pretty please.. cum all over my face, my pretty baby... please-"
His unapologetic cries paired with the stimulation they caused quickly tipped you over the edge, grabbing Mingi's hair and pushing him further into you until he couldn't breath. Your thighs shook around his head as his ears rang from the pressure of you gripping it, sending him into a state of pure bliss. He dutifully lapped at your dripping cunt until you began to relax after your high, letting go of his hair and hissing a little with sensitivity.
Moving up, you hooked a leg over and collapsed next to mingi on the bed, sighing in relief and wrapping an arm around him as he laid still, in some sort of daze. When you kissed his cheek softly and ruffled his hair, he gave you a soft smile to show he was okay.
"You did so well, Min. Such a good boy for me. My good boy."
Not responding to your praise, Mingi simply turned his head to face you, eyes distant as he looked at you.
"I came in my pants."
You froze for a second in disbelief at his confession, mouth agape as you tried to rationalise what you heard. But it had been clear, albeit in a weak tone of voice.
"You... in your pants?"
Mingi just nodded at you, and you couldn't help but chuckle at his lost expression. Cupping his cheek, you pressed a flurry of kisses to his nose, making him break out in a smile.
"I've gotta say, I'm flattered. You like my pussy that much?"
Looking you dead in the eyes, there wasn't a hint of humor in his expression as he spoke.
"I would die between your thighs a happy man."
"Very dramatic... but I don't mind helping you achieve your dream."
Jay, a favorite among classy wives to hire during the hot summer season for a nice, thorough pool cleaning, seems to have a favorite wife of his own.
You.
Or the one where Jay was the pain-in-your-ass son of the family you used to babysit for, but now he’s making it his mission to be the pain-in-your-ass pretend husband that you never asked for, but very clearly need.
minors dni
PAIRING ― park jongseong x afab milf!reader
WORDCOUNT― 18.9k
CONTENT― age gap: reader is 29 and jay is 22, milf trope/single mother reader, college pool boy jay (turned part time babysitter), reader has 1 kid and jay really wants to give her another, reader has morals!! jay just doesn’t see it as a moral issue, he is actually very sweet
!WARNINGS! ― age gap, jay is somewhat of a manipulator, he’s gentle but won’t take no for an answer. dub-con in one instance. major breeding kink and kind of a mommy and daddy kink (domesticity), angst regarding reader and her ex husband, reader has huge tits
NOTE ― this was supposed to be a toxic jay fic but it turned into this instead because i love him so bad…………. NOT PROOF READ, mind the typos. i'm insane for him.
nsfw tags under cut
nsfw tags― big dick jay, masturbation, small instance of dubious consent, tit obsessed jay, groping and grinding, mommy/daddy kink, breeding kink, unprotected sex, cum stuffing-ish, pussy eating, fingering, basically it’s jay doing stuff to you, this ain’t smut this is making love, also reader doesn’t shave her coochie and jay fucking loves it.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Having a stray eye isn’t typically something you afford yourself when it comes to men. Things tend to change with time though, that much you know is true.
It was proven to you for the first time when your ex husband decided to up and leave you three weeks before your due date for a woman–well, girl, fresh out of high school. Years of trust and promises crushed with just a single sentence and a slam of the door. Time must’ve changed you for him to leave so heartlessly. Time must’ve changed him to become so cold.
It was proven again when you were able to heal despite never believing you could. Seconds of pain turned to minutes, to hours. Days. weeks. Months. Years of pain before being able to wake up and feel somewhat numb to it all. Like a flip switch in your head that told you that you can be happy now even if as a single mother. After all, the hard part was over.
It took some four to five years, but it did happen. Time did change you, it healed you, it matured you. As your child grew, so did you. And for the better, you think. You count your blessings of living a life far more lavish than you ever could have anticipated given the circumstances that had been thrown at you. Even to the point of nesting, wanting another child, wanting a big and happy family. But alas, your ex husband had better things to do.
At the end of the day, you’d never be able to call this home yours if you had stayed with your ex husband. He didn’t like this kind of “flashy” lifestyle, and to him, everything you wanted seemed too flashy for him. Perhaps he was right to some extent, as you recognize the brand name goods you now own, solely because you had promised yourself in the depths of your despair that you’ll get to a point in life where you can buy yourself everything you not only need, but want. So, here you are, owning an expensive home, in a nice neighborhood, with a nice car and a nice pool.
Your daughter has everything she could want and need too, aside from a sibling, it’s certainly still more than what you had growing up and it’s all because of you. A fully decorated bedroom drenched in glitter, purples, creams, yellows, and pink, her favorite color. All sorts of play houses, costumes, dolls, a few lego sets, and even some plastic swords and knives for the days she wants to pretend to be her favorite movie characters. Clothes she can grow into, and a nice little fund building up for her as she grows up. Her first car, college, help for a down payment on her own first house.
Both of you have everything you could ever want or need and for that, you’re so proud. Especially knowing your husband would have never believed you could make it this far without him. Still, despite having everything you could ever ask for, there’s something in you that feels empty.
Time changes things.
Time changes a lot of things, you note more than usual, as the man you’ve been ogling for the past three weeks makes himself far more known to you than you ever wished he would.
The interaction with him was always so quick before today and given the fact that he was a complete stranger, you never quite invited him into your home considering–you know, small child and all. You had hired him over text. Jay, your neighbor said his name was. His handsome features didn’t offer you anything more than a clean pool and a wandering eye.
Your neighbor apparently has a friend who has a cousin that has an even nicer pool than you do. Given, it’s only a nicer pool due to the fact that this young man, Jay, tended to it weekly and made damn sure it could be drunk out of if a person had a craving for chlorine.
You feel like an idiot now that it didn’t dawn on you quick enough. Sure, he looked a bit familiar to you but who doesn’t when you’re always out and about seeing so many different faces on a daily basis? His name, Jay, didn’t ring any bells. Now though, the shame of staring at his sweaty pecs and biceps came crashing down the moment you realized who Jay actually is.
He didn’t do a damn thing to remind you either, if anything, all he did was walk around all sweaty in the afternoon heat with his tank top either sticking to him, or off entirely. It appears that you had just been too busy running errands with your child, considering his shifts were always when you were home. Too busy cooking, cleaning, reading, lounging. Too busy looking at…well, not his face.
Too busy to give the man a glance more than that of a slice of pie behind a bakery window.
Jay.
Since fucking when was that his name?
“Park Jongseong.” You whimper near mortified, three weeks too late as you hand him his pay with nervous hands. “Spray-cheese in my hair Jongseong?”
“Ah, was wondering when you’d pick up on that.” He smiles at you with that crooked grin, a knowing look that any man at a bar would give you if he had caught you checking him out. Then, he pockets the hefty amount of cash that you hand to him. “I go by Jay more often these days.” He trails off, an amused smirk half-falling as he looks at your expression of realization. “You can call me whatever you want though.”
He’s well aware of how often you’ve checked him out since he started intentionally taking his clothes off. After all, it’s mid-july by this point and the sun baring down on him doesn’t quite call for a fucking turtle neck sweater. Or a T-shirt, or a tank top, for that matter. It calls for all skin baby, beautifully tanned and toned for you and any of your neighbors to look at if they so wanted to.
Jay doesn’t work out for nothing, after all. Summer after summer, he’s found himself to be quite fond of the rich women that hire him for their pool services. Always wanting an attractive young man to wander around half naked and satiate their lack of sex life with their husbands, or boy-toys, or what have you. He knows all that extra pay isn’t because he does a good job either. He’s gotten winks, small comments, even a few offers of his body for more pay.
He’s turned them all down, of course. For a full-on affair, anyway. Jay has gotten a few blow jobs and quickies as a tip before though, and a lot of that is why he keeps getting referred to more women. Richer women. Never single women.
Until you.
He quite enjoyed catching you looking at him. Especially given the fact that he knew exactly who you were when you introduced yourself to him via text. That little childhood crush on you came back within an instant upon actually seeing you again. Truly, he had forgotten all about you up until that fateful day three weeks ago.
If he’s being honest, he’s been pining something fierce since he first stepped foot on your property. Excitement swelled inside of him just to see you again. To see if you’re still hot, to see how you’re doing, what you’re doing. How your life is going.
He knew you didn’t recognize his nickname through text, and he definitely knew you didn’t recognize him to be eating him up with those eyes of yours either. So, he played along, enjoying it while he could before it would inevitably dawn on you. Still, he remembers you so well from back then. Crazy to know that he rarely thought of you for the past twelve years or so, and how all those little butterflies of his came back in a far more mature way. He was only ten back then, but he’s a man now.
Twenty two and perfectly sound as a man who knows what he likes. The fact that you happen to fall into that category is no fault of his own, honestly. It’s your fault if anyone’s at all. Jay is a man that likes a specific type of woman too. Woman. Not a girl, not a young lady, not a free spirit, nor a prude. He is drawn to the idea of experience, to the idea of settling down. It’s not easy to find that at his age, in college, surrounded by party girls and casual drug use.
And, well, imagine his smile upon seeing your lovely, lavish home with the large pool, no ring on your finger, a whole fucking child, and your motherly instincts when you buckle her into the car for an errand. Oh and the broken fence in the far back of your yard.
You’re a single mom.
A hot single mom who lives lavishly. One who could probably use a man’s help around your house.
He half expected you to be able to recognize him when he appeared for work the first time. He even had a monologue in his head on what to say to you, and how to present himself. You didn’t seem to take notice though, introducing yourself to him as if you hadn’t spent all that time in his childhood home when you were a teenager. Like you never mothered him, or put him to sleep with the soft lul of your voice when you let him watch all those scary movies before bed.
Clearly you’re too busy experiencing life to notice the way he fawns over you too. Hating how you’re more reserved than the other lavish, fixed-up women. You seem to have standards, or maybe it’s just priorities ... that's so hot. Truly, it only makes him want you more because by now, the other women would already be rubbing all over him. The ones who shouldn’t be wanting him the way they do. So, yes, he’s always stealing glances at you with sparkling dark eyes, fantasizing in his head that this pool is his to clean now, because that’s what a good man would do for you, right? With him around servicing your pool and lawn, you’d never need to hire or spend money on another broke ass college student again.
Yes. That’s how quickly he fell into this infatuation solely because you looked at him like you want it without realizing who he was. Hell, without realizing how perfect you are in terms of what he wants.
God, how are you still single?
Like, why do you have a child and a house so beautiful without a man wandering around doing all of this work for you? Not that you couldn’t do it on your own, it’s just, you clearly have the means to make a man do as you please. Why haven’t you?
You happen to fall almost perfectly into the categories of what he’s looking for. Save for the fact that now you recognize him as that kid you used to babysit rather than the man who tries to be sexy while cleaning your pool. Which is a fucking shame, if he’s being honest, to be written off as that same ten year old child rather than a fucking man who very clearly has needs and desires.
The point is– Jay wants you and he parades around your pool for you to look at him. So what if you used to babysit him? It’s not like you’re an old swamp-hag trying to lure him with candy. You’re just…a woman. And he’s just a man.
“Well, thank you for cleaning again,” You trail off in an awkward tone, shifting your eyes to anywhere but him. He watches you though, smiling a smile you know all too well from his childhood antics. It must mean something different now, or maybe not. “I guess I’ll see you next week?”
“Well, actually,” Jay offers, “Would you be opposed to–” You cut him off instantly with an awkward wave of your hand.
You don’t know why you make assumptions, maybe from that damned smile on his face, but you do recall your ex husband reminding you time and time again that it’s one of the things he hated about you.
Assumptions. Always thinking the worst, or perhaps the most filthy of situations and expressions. To be fair, you feel guilty about how you’ve been looking at him, you can’t help but panic trying to pretend like it never happened, and that he never saw it happen.
“I’m not interested, Jongseong.” You respond hastily, pressing your thumb to your bottom lip to bite the skin on it, keeping your eyes away from him with the awkward words. After all, he knew who you were this whole time and paraded around like that?
Even before recognizing him yourself, you know men well enough to know when they’re trying to flaunt. Is it so wrong to assume?
“Interested in what?” Jay tilts his head knowingly, seeing the way you buckle under the guilt of staring at the very man you used to tuck into bed every night. He can see the way you try to push those sexual thoughts you had away in the quick rejection to a simple assumption.
“I was just going to ask if you want me to fix your fence.”
Ah, you did get ahead of yourself through the guilt, and you’re far too aware of it as you draw your eyes back to him and note the expression on his face. Amused, maybe a bit of concern in his eyes, even?
“Ah, um–” You start, trailing your eyes down your fence line never once noticing a break in it. Jay is quick to point though, leaning to you with a whisper of “right there.” And well, you did not need to hear that tone in his voice the way you just did.
God, it’s so awkward.
“Well, how much would that cost me?” You question with an empty voice, staring at the broken fence.
“Free.” He uses the same tone, leaning away from you now and smiling wide. “That is, if you provide lunch.”
Well, despite the awkwardness, that break over there would cost you a pretty penny to fix, and your daughter needs the safety of playing in her own yard without random animals or worse, people, making their way in. Plus, you’re quite fond of saving money. How else would you be here if you weren’t good at it? And now, given that you’re most definitely not interested in Jay, what's the harm in making a few sandwiches for someone you already know well enough? It’s not like you’ve never made him lunch before.
The awkwardness will pass and your guilt will subside. You both will laugh at it over a cold glass of iced lemonade, surely. It’s not like you realized who he was anyway, it’s not like you’re just gonna keep looking at him like that. You should just push forward and it’ll all be fine.
“Hell, I’d even watch the kiddo so you can have a break every now and then.” He watches your reaction, wanting to ask so many questions about why you’re single, who the father is, where he is, why he isn’t here. “After all, I learned quite a bit from you.”
For a second you consider that too.
And there’s three reasons as to why you should. The first being that you were literally just looking for a new child care facility due to learning of the staff coming to work while sick. Your poor daughter came home with a fever just last week, and you’ve had little luck in finding a place with the same educational benefits for her.
The second being that, well, while you’re not hurting for cash or anything, it wouldn’t hurt to be able to put a little more back for her college fund. Or for fun little vacations.
And lastly, despite your guilt of lusting over someone you shouldn’t have, you know Jongseong and you know his family even better. No background check would be needed, your daughter could be in the comfort of her own home rather than a classroom setting that she’s sure to see for at least twenty years of her life in the future.
So, yes. You consider it instantly, and Jay sees it.
You only know of the childhood version of him and, well, the slutty pool-side version of him apparently. If only you knew of that other side of him and how fond he is of watching his own younger cousins. How good he is with children, and how much he clings to the idea of being a father one day.
Jay is great with kids, with or without them having a hot mom.
And well, he knows that he’s fond of looking at you at least. Besides, as long as you can work with his class schedules, he’d be willing to do just about anything to play pretend-husband, even if you’re unaware of it.
“Is that so?” You finally ask, curious eyes looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Shouldn’t you be out living the life? College parties and such?” You add, wondering why such a great deal has managed to flop down on your lap. The idea of even cheaper childcare without the risk of unvaccinated children, and sick caretakers being far too good of a deal to pass up.
“Well, yeah I guess.” He shrugs, leaning backwards to stretch and roll his shoulders. “Not really my scene though. I have classes Monday and Wednesday all day, Tuesday and Thursdays my classes are online. If you can work around that, I’d rather just be making money and chilling.”
You think about it just for a second more when he continues.
“I can be here on weekends too. Maybe you should be the one out relaxing and having some drinks.”
“Well, I don’t quite need that, or for you to be here on weekends.” You think as you say it, knowing you have given up on going out to try and meet men two years ago. “I could pay you though, let’s say, thirty an hour?”
Well, shit, that’s not too bad at all, especially considering he’s about to give up on cleaning the pools of a few women in his contacts for this. It’s a major pay cut, but still enough to get by comfortably if you’ll have him multiple times a week. That plus the pool cleaning money? And free lunch?
“Oh, you don’t go out at all? I don’t see why not, could probably get a man in no time–” Jay ignores the wage offer and pushes to note the singlehood he had been noticing for the past three weeks. “and the pay is fine.”
“Ah, well, the dating pool isn’t so great in this neck of the woods.” You scratch the back of your neck when you say it. “That aside, I'll have her in day care on the days you can’t be here, but it really would be a big help. Thank you for the offer, Jongseong. And for the fence too.”
He watches you with a firm nod, shoving his hands into the pockets of his basketball shorts, still entirely shirtless in front of you.
“And the pool.” You add quietly after a moment.
“I think you’d be surprised about the dating pool.” He smiles as he pushes the subject back to what you had previously said, hoping you believe those words before continuing. “So, when do you want me to start?”
“Is tomorrow too soon? You’re okay to set up here with your online classes?”
“Tomorrow is perfect.” He smiles.
“I’m sure she would be so happy knowing she won’t be going to daycare–” You clap, feeling a bit less awkward despite the boldness of the man in front of you. You’re sure he’s just teasing you for knowing you checked him out. “I know I am.”
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
It’s a little too perfect, actually.
After that first day of watching your child and making a lazy attempt at “fixing your fence,” he’s settled in like it’s home. He wishes it was, with the lavish lifestyle in a house far too pretty compared to his own living space with piles upon piles of laundry he’s too lazy to pick up for himself.
It’s different for you though. Different when he’s here.
Truly, he feels like he’s living the life after a couple of weeks with decent pay and a comfy space to do his homework. He watches your child, which is arguably the hardest part of the job but she’s well behaved for him. In fact, she seems to have taken a shine to him.
He’s starting to be very intentional with taking far too long to work on your fence too, and still maintaining your pool. He’s trying to drag this out for as long as he can. Even if just to see if you still look at him when you come home the same way you did before recognizing him. You never do though. When his shirt is off and he’s wiping his forehead in the sun, you don’t look at him anymore.
Hell, he’s even considered breaking things in your home just to give himself more jobs to do. More things that make him feel needed, like a husband. More things that you thank him for fixing, even if it breaks again two days later.
And ah, the food in your fridge is always free reign to him, that large television in the living room too. God, sometimes he dreads going home, and by sometimes, he means all the time. Who in their right mind would ever fucking want to live outside of this lifestyle? He really can’t believe you’re single, nor can he believe that he has the opportunity to be in your home, close to you. It shouldn’t take too long now to convince you, right? That you don’t necessarily have to be single? That you need him around to live even more comfortably?
In short, Jay is in his head about how he’s practically just roleplaying as your stay-at-home husband before having to go back to his shitty little apartment and remind himself that he’s just a fucking college student with no interest in the people on campus. And like, even with the way you come home from work, all groggy and exhausted on the days he’s there, you always thank him before giving him his pay. What he likes best about those nights is when you’re too exhausted to even pay him and you promise to do it next time.
In his mind, that’s you promising to see him again.
He could give less of a shit about the pay at this point, as long as he gets to be in this house, smelling your favorite candles and dish detergents, seeing you, being a semi-father to a child who deserves more love than the two of you combined can give…he’ll fucking do anything you want for free.
It’s difficult sometimes, like he really can’t help it. Some days wandering around this house and imagining how the two of you could have landed on buying it together. How the rooms would be organized if he were here from the start. Claiming his spot on your couch like any dad would. Playing dolls with your daughter, laughing with her, letting her paint his nails and put his hair in little pigtails. He even cleans your pool as if it were his own, meaning, he genuinely cleans it.
He has taken it upon himself to mow your lawn, confusing the yard workers that you apparently hired years ago. Did he accidentally fire them? Maybe, but any good husband would save you money, right? He checks your mail, waves to your neighbors and lets them make assumptions.
And every single fucking night it’s harder and harder to go back home.
Especially after a full day of playing dad then seeing you come back home so tired. Turning off that switch in his head isn’t easy. He wants to greet you like the husband you don’t have. He wants to ease your hard days in so many ways. Tell you he’s proud of you, that you still look so pretty after an exhausting shift of whatever the fuck you do. He wants to serve you dinner, run you a bath, fix your hair, lay you down– oh, he’s fantasizing again. Unfortunately, he has to settle with seeing the relief on your face when he lets you know in a soft voice that he’s cooked dinner and he will heat it up for you before leaving, kiddo is in her room sleeping, no dishes in the sink, and laundry is folded and put away.
He loves the appreciation in your eyes, and sometimes even sees a glint of sadness. He can tell you wish you had this from a person who isn’t here for pay. Someone who loves you, and loves your child, and feels joy in making your life easier.
Fuck, if only you knew.
And you’d be lying if you tried to say Jay isn’t a godsend to you on the days he babysits. Many times you find yourself wishing he’d just move in and do everything that you can’t do. You’d pay him well, give him a guest room, whatever. But it’s just…not viable to support a full time employee like that, nor is it fair to your daughter.
She needs a parent, not a paid college student who needs some extra cash. You have to be that parent, you have to make time for her and witness all of her joys in life. You have to protect her and never bring in faces of men who claim to want to be a father, only to run and break her heart more than your own.
For now, you settle with this godsend of a little shit you used to babysit. Still you can barely believe that’s the same person, but again…time changes things. And thankfully, the awkwardness of what you did has died down drastically.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Today, you’re more thankful for Jay than you have been previously. After a heavy workload has been lifted off your back with the approval of this project, you need a night out. For the first time in years, you’re giving yourself a night out, all because you have someone you can trust to be here for your daughter.
He was so understanding when you called, even happy to come over right then and there to put her to bed and mostly just house-sit for the night. Even without an end time for him, and even without asking for extra pay, he just…accepted with an understanding tone and that stupid breathy chuckle he gives to you when you ask for favors. “What? You need me there right now? I’m putting on my shoes.” He had said.
It’s the fact that now, as he sits on your couch looking at you in your chosen outfit– he seems a little off. Maybe it’s because you asked him where the best spots in town are because it’s been so long since you’ve gone out, or maybe he just feels awkward seeing so much skin on your body.
To be fair, he didn’t realize you were going out out. He thought that maybe you were gonna go stay with a friend to celebrate and have a drink or two.
In reality though, he’s just awestruck. Already you look great even after your busy days at work but…this is a different level. The way your tits look in that push-up bra and tiny ass top, when he’s used to seeing you head out in some sort of business casual outfit without an ounce of skin showing save for your ankles or wrists…jesus. He’s struggling more than usual to keep himself calm around you, hopping up on one leg when you walk away to try and adjust the chub in his pants, and releasing a small sigh before you’re looking at him again.
His skin feels like it’s on fire knowing you’re going out looking like that.
“You sure you're okay to sleep over? I figure it’ll be easier since I’m not sure when I’ll come home, or if I come home.” You smile with a wink, your stomach in knots over the two shots you’ve taken for the first time in years. “I can call my friends and tell them not to come if you’d rather focus on your studies.”
Jay shakes his head, waving his hands in defense for you as if he didn’t just see the way your tits bounce and squish against your shirt with each move you make.
“No, no! Go on, have fun.” He says, encouraging you to go out despite hoping you come home with no luck of finding a man out there.
Just, look at you. Fuck, he’s staring again. He hates knowing that he could be one of the guys at whatever bar or club you’re landing on tonight. He could be the person that makes sure you don’t come home, getting to plant his face right there. He could be whatever you want him to be if you’re looking like that.
But no, he has to play husband again, which is normally something he’s all too excited to do. Tonight though, he feels like a fucking cuckold. After everything he does for you, after not mentioning how you’ve skipped a few of his payments, after slaving away for hours over your pool, your household chores, fixing and breaking that fucking dishwasher, cooking you dinner every single night he’s here just to make sure you have a meal when you get off of work…you imply you may not come home tonight?
And you’re dressed like that?
And you’re…
God, you just look so good right now. It pains him to know you didn’t dress like this for him, the only man who cares enough to make your life easy. He’s not mad at you, per se, but he’s pissed that you don’t see him as an option despite showing you time and time again that not only is he an option, but the right choice.
This is what you look like when you want to impress a man? This is how you act? How you talk? Fuck, god, fuck– maybe he’s just too deep in his one-sided roleplay but it really, really fucking feels like he’s watching his woman go off and look for someone else to fuck.
“Thank you, Jongseong,” You smile, walking over to him with a saunter in your step and a gentle smile across your lips.
He’s never heard you speak his name so sensually, the way his cock twitches forces him to wince away from you. He’s never even seen you saunter before. Fucking hell, somehow it feels worse seeing you act like this after how many times he’s imagined it, all alone in his room.
A slow walk from you, with the strap of your shirt slipping off your shoulder, fat tits threatening to spill out, lifting the hem of your skirt, or dress, or whatever you’re wearing in his fantasy at that point. Your voice, so soft, so sexy. And you’re practically bringing his fantasy to life right now, except he knows you’re going to fucking walk away from him like this. Into the fucking arms of some random dude at a club.
Probably some loser he’s seen on campus too.
“It means a lot.” You add, popping a quick, platonic kiss to the top of his forehead.
Ah, lipgloss. That little kiss on him is enough to ignite him to the point of no return. He almost wants to skip the part of asking you not to go and straight up just beg that you pick him, that you choose him. It’s not just your home, or the luxuries that come with it. It’s you that he wants. You’re the fucking luxury and you’re just gonna go to some sticky-floored club and pretend he’s not clearly checking you the fuck out right now? Like he’s not about three seconds from dropping to his knees just to see you from the angle you deserve?!
“It’s no problem.” Jay relents, dropping himself onto your couch instead and adjusting his body to sink deep into the cushions just to keep himself from arguing against everything he’s giving you permission to do right now.
Hah. Permission.
“Be safe.” He adds in an even more monotone voice. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
And god, he seethes in his thoughts after you close that door and hop into the car with your friends. You don’t look like a mother tonight, and he wonders if you’ll be upfront and forward with anyone you intend to hit on too. Probably not. He’s well aware of the men in this city, after all, he’s one of them.
It’s really not something he can control after seeing you like that either. Your child is already in bed and he’s just sitting here on your couch with a throbbing, fucking weeping cock thinking about you. What’s stopping him from taking care of it? You’re not here, after all.
You’re not fucking here. But everything about you is.
And that’s how he finds himself in your bedroom for the first time, barely making it a foot into the room before closing the door and dropping to the floor. The scent in your room is different. It’s feminine, gentle, like the energy is kissing him all over and sending goosebumps straight to the head of his cock. He couldn’t even pull it out, already holding his breath with his hand down his pants, vigorously trying to get what he wants so badly yet knowing that his hand will never compare to you.
And it’s here where he feels like a husband. Spilling against his pants with a silent, choked back sob as he stares forward at your bed, and the way you didn’t make it this morning. It’s messy, and he wants to be in that mess of sheets with you more than anything.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Jay hates that he’s now forced to get used to your late night ventures. Every weekend now. Every. Fucking. Weekend. You ask if he’s willing to stay over so you can go unwind, and despite his better (or worse) judgment, he accepts. The only solace he finds in these ventures is knowing you consistently come back home right after usual closing times, and you’re mostly sober. Sometimes a bit whiny that you’re not lucking out, worrying that maybe you’re too old now, or maybe you’re just not as desirable. There have even been a few times where you’ve exposed your ex husband during your rants, giving Jay little hints to follow as to why you’re single, and how he left you.
Still, he knows in your tipsy state that you usually wouldn’t talk about these things with him, but he’s all too happy to get the details once you come home. Mostly because it calms his rising rage at how you’re doing this to not only him, but yourself. It’s mostly because you’re technically coming home to him though.
And every single time, you go back to your bedroom to grab his payment even though it could wait until morning, considering he’s been sleeping in the guest room– all he can think about is how he’s been in your room. He’s gotten off countless times by now by the smell of your room alone, still barely able to even reach your bed to lay in it himself for a better experience. God, he’s probably memorized each little fray in your carpeted bedroom floor by now with how much he’s zoned out on it mid-jerk off session right there on his knees at your door.
He’s truly pathetic for you.
This time though…three in the morning has passed and normally you’d have been stumbling through the door an hour ago. Normally, he’d be fighting back the need to tell you that you’re beautiful, not too old, and entirely desirable. Normally, he would be fisting his cock again in your guest room before sleep, getting off on the idea that he can cum in a house that you live in, smothered by the sheets you meticulously picked out to match the walls of the room. Moaning for you, practically crying for you to let him do it all.
Have you really done it this time? Gone off with some man? Are you getting railed right now in some hotel, or car, or someone’s shitty man-cave? God, his mind is racing, both aroused at the fact that you must be horny to be constantly wanting to go out like this, but equally as devastated because like…he’s right here.
Who the fuck cares if you babysat him? He’s a man. No longer that child who sprayed cheese in your hair or dumped salt into the bag of sugar. He’s a fucking man, cooking you dinner when you work, parenting your child, cleaning your house, maintaining your pool and fence….He does everything for you, why the fuck don’t you see it?!
Click.
Jay’s ears perk up instantly at the sound. He sits up on the couch from his depressed slump of scrolling through his phone, quickly fixing his hair and clearing his throat.
In you stumble, right into the little entryway table with a whisper-screams “Shit, fuck–”
Jay looks at your state before standing to his feet and rushing to you, helping you balance on your feet despite your footing not quite being grounded even with his help. You lean on him closely, letting out an alcohol scented sigh.
His nostrils flare as he holds his breath, feeling your tit press against his arm, smelling the drinks, the sweat, and the dulled perfume on you. Then, a hint of something else. Musk.
You’ve been with a man.
He holds back a gesture at the way you lean on him. Nothing more he could want at this moment but to hold you tightly and tell you that he’s got you, despite the panic in his stomach at the way he sniffs out another man. Out of lust, love, desperation, frustration. This is the closest you’ve been to him for this long. You feel clammy and cold, a clear indication that you drank far, far too much. Your tank top is sticking to you, your eyes are a bit glassy–
“You’re late.” He says shortly.
“Late?!” You raise your voice before looking at him with drowsy eyes, furrowing your brow. “I don’t have a curfe-”
“Shh–” He shushes you, helping you get to the living room. “She’s sleeping and you’re going to have her make a fuss about waking up.”
You giggle to yourself as he drops you onto the couch, now aware that yes, you are not a single college student anymore. You’re a single woman. A fucking mother.
You should’ve just gotten a hotel for the night and slept there to dream a little longer.
“Right.” You laugh, slouching, spreading out wide against the couch and trying to fix your gaze on him. “Why’re you still awake?”
Jay fixes his eyes on you, swallowing around a lump in his throat. The way you’re slouching…seemingly forgetting that you’re wearing a skirt and basically flashing your panties at him. God, the things could do to you right now. The things he could get away with if he wanted to. He tries to shake those thoughts for now, and instead, inspects you from head to toe.
He’s never seen you look so relaxed. Chest raising and falling with each breath, hair a little messy, lipstick stains smeared on the outsides of your lip line. He chooses to ignore the faint swell against your neck indicating someone has been sucking on you. But, well, he can’t ignore it. Both his cock and heart aches at the very thought.
“You’ve been kissing?” Jay tries to ask nonchalantly.
“A lot more than that–” You smile, feeling a flush cross your cheeks before the disappointment hits you square in the gut.
Jay watches your face fall, and he mimics it by falling onto the couch and sitting by your head…you know, allowing you to lay your head on him if you want to. You’d probably not notice his arousal anyway, given your state.
“Oh?” He asks gently, the disappointment now showing plainly on not just your face, but his own.
“Thought I was gonna go home with him, turns out he decided to be done after a blowjob in the parking lot.”
Oh, the way his blood boils. Not for the fact that you were used or rejected, but for the fact that you found someone that you were interested in and genuinely intended to leave your home life in his hands for however fucking long. Really? Just gonna leave him here all alone? Like he couldn’t do better for you?
“It’s for the better–” Jay says as he shivers with irritation, struggling to keep his façade up. It’s definitely not what you wanted to hear, and definitely not what you’d have expected to hear from a college guy at all either.
“This happened last time too, except he didn’t even get me to the parking lot.” You huff, unaware of how much you’re sharing right now.
He bites back the anger yet again, inhaling deeply before releasing a calming breath through his nose just to contain it. So…it has happened more than once?
“Why don’t you let me take you out someday?” He says suddenly, well aware that you’ll probably never remember he said it in the first place.
If anything, he’s testing the waters for his own sake. He’d hate himself forever if he didn’t at least take advantage of this moment a little bit.
“Then who will watch my daughter?” You respond in slurred speech, not even comprehending who it is that’s asking you this question right now. Not even thinking about your history with him, or the family ties.
He, on the other hand, is quite entertained by the way you don’t bring the history up like he expected. His cock twitches at it, bumping your head just a bit, not enough for you to notice apparently. Fuck, it would be so easy for him to pull it out right now, and just…tap your lips with it.
Maybe you’d even open your mouth for him.
“I’ll skip class on a Wednesday, we can go while she’s still in daycare.” He continues through an almost-moan, encouraging the conversation to stay positive.
“Jongseong–” You slur before clearing your throat and sitting back up in a dizzy show of how drunk you are. “You know I can’t do that. It’s too weird.”
In all fairness, you know he has like…a thing for you. After all, why else would a college dude be spending his weekends here babysitting your kid? It’s not like you haven’t noticed the way he checks you out before you go out for the night. Why would he do all of this if he didn’t have some sort of attraction to you? Sure, you’re taking advantage of it as best as you can despite how you didn’t recognize him at first.
Despite how deep down, you very well know how attracted to him you are too.
“Only because you make it weird.” Jay rolls his eyes as he looks at you, spreading his legs out to adjust his comfort, noting the way you glance down to his lap and see it. “I’m a grown man–” He starts, spreading his legs wider, pressing his cock against his pants to the point you can practically see the outline. ”you know this.” He continues, trying to be bold now by reaching forward and moving a strand of your hair from your cheek.
“You’ve seen it.”
You freeze, suddenly feeling entirely too sober to be talking about this kind of thing with him. With Jongseong. God, his mother would fucking kill you if she found out he’s in your house while you’re out trying to get fucked by whoever is willing to love you temporarily.
Jay sees you thinking though, and continues to take the advantage now that he’s feeling brave. Now that you’ve seen the twitch in his pants and haven’t moved off the couch, or told him to go home.
“I saw you watching me when I was cleaning your pool, multiple times.” He whispers snidely. “You stopped when you realized who I am. Why?”
“Jongseo–…” You trail off. “You know this isn’t okay. What would people think of me? There are rules, and I will not go down this route with you.”
A rush of air hits your face and suddenly, warmth hits your cheek. You feel him so close, closer than ever before. It’s dizzying. Jay is over you, hovering with one hand ghosting over your hip.
“You want to though, don’t you?” He gets even closer now, darting his eyes down at your chest and unable to pull them away. “Knowing how good I am with your daughter? How well I clean up? How strong I can be–”
You swallow hard. For a moment, you almost lean into him. You almost melt right then and there, the need for intimacy so heavy inside of you after being left high and dry, knowing that you’d accept it from just about anyone at this point. But– this is Jongseong. You can’t.
You really, really, can’t.
The look of disappointment in his eyes kind of hurts when you’re pushing him away. That playful smirk falling faster than you think your sanity did the day your ex husband left you.
“This–” You pause, realizing all too well how he’s used your drunken state against you for this conversation. “This is your last paycheck.”
“I don’t think so.” The smirk is back now, except…it’s different. “You know I promised her a Barbie dream house next weekend.” He smiles fully now. “She’s a bit attached, you know, even called me dad by accident the other day.”
You’re shocked.
“She…what?”
“You know she’s attached to me already, don’t be selfish.” Jay shrugs at you while rolling his eyes, leaning against the couch again and turning his head to look at you. You try to pretend that you don’t see his hand slightly groping himself. “Guess she misses having a father around. Can’t be too easy for her, especially with her mom going out every weekend trying to fuck guys who would run the second they learn about her.” He ticks his tongue now, as if he’s pitying you more than your daughter.
“Jongseong, that’s not–”
“That’s not, what?”
“That’s not what I’m doing…” You lower your voice to a near whisper, upset that you couldn’t even enjoy the drunken state you came home in, now feeling entirely too sober, and a little sick in the stomach.
“Oh, so you haven’t gotten laid since I’ve been here–” He leans closer again now, trying to resume what he was going to do just moments ago. “They haven’t even touched you, have they?” His hands move to your thigh and presses down as if to hold you in place. “Why?”
“I try not to just sleep with anyone.” You lie, knowing you’d sleep with anyone just to feel wanted for once. And you’re trying to ignore his hands on you right now, trying desperately not to like it. It’s the first time a man has touched you in this house since your husband left you. As expected, you almost feel your knees buckle despite sitting comfortably. “I have to be careful, you know?”
“Mm, I know more than you think.” He leans into you, hovering yet again with his upper half over you as he whispers it. “Don’t need to be careful around me though.” He adds, this time trailing his voice right against your jaw, up to your ear. “You must be so frustrated.” He ghosts his lips there for a moment, waiting for you to push him away, or say something, anything, really.
“Why would I be frustrated?” You lend the smallest of whispers, feeling the goosebumps against your skin rising at the mere thought of giving in just this once.
“Not having anyone to please you.” He adds now, landing a very slight kiss right under your lobe. “Always being used for someone else’s pleasure, maybe?”
You almost nod, feeling weak in your state and thoughts swimming with what if’s, morals, and anxieties. You’re frozen in place despite knowing a simple push would create the distance you need to breathe.
“Your fingers will never be enough, will they?” He continues, essentially chaining you to this couch with his words alone. You can’t help the fight in your head, you need to feel wanted, and you want so badly to feel needed. “I bet you wish someone would love you for all that you are, not all that you have.”
It’s silent as you feel his lips press down again, this time moving his body over you almost entirely. You can feel the couch dip a bit as he places all of his weight on a knee, moving his other leg to stand between yours.
“You must need someone to fill that hole in you by now, right? That pussy of yours?” He continues, his tone a bit more snide now as you give in to his hold with shaky breaths.
And truthfully, Jay has never let himself come on this strong towards someone before. Usually the wives are doing this to him. They’re trying to convince him, encourage him. He’s so fucking horny right now though, with that daze in your eye, your legs spread around his knee, blinking up at him like a cheating wife. As if you want to apologize, as if you need him to forgive you. Need him to make everything better.
“I heard you the other day, you know, talking to your mom–” He smiles, tilting his head to look into your eyes, seeing a small shine in them. “You want another, don’t you?” He continues, moving his lips now just over yours as he, now, presses you firmly against the couch. “You must hate knowing that I’m the only person who can do that for you.”
“God, Jay.” You immediately buckle, not realizing how suddenly he’s not Jongseong at this moment. He’s someone else. He’s Jay.
“Why don’t you go for girls on campus?! Don’t you have parties to be attending on the weekends instead of being here, trying to parent my chil–”
“Lower that voice of yours,” He whispers, eyes now hooded as he looks at you. “You know she’s asleep.”
God, he’s right.
“Besides, why would I want them when I have you right here under me–” He tilts his head. “Looking so disappointed that you like it, too.”
Right then, your moral code shines into the front of your mind at the consideration of giving in.
A weight on one shoulder chanting, “No! What would people say?! What would people think?!”, and then little to no weight on the other shoulder, echoing in a sweet song of “Finally! Someone who will love you! Finally! Someone! Finally!!! Finally!”
You pause, not knowing at all what to do. Your body wants to push him away, even your mind and soul wants you to push him away. But you know deep down, you’d only push him away to see if he will try again. No man has ever tried for you like this, and you need more of it.
To feel desired after so long of neglecting this side of yourself, it’s enough to make a person lose their footing in reality. To give in to just about anyone willing to look at you the way he is right now. It’s the fact that you go out to try and find it, and even with this alone, Jay has satisfied you more than any stranger promising to make you cum.
“I…don’t know what to say–” You stutter. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I do.” Jay smiles, glancing at your lips before meeting your eye again. “Why not hand over the reins and relax for a–” His hand dips under your skirt, cupping your sensitive cunt in one hand alone. “Ah, I knew it.” Then, his other hand finds purchase on your chest, lifting your heavy breast in his hand with a blatant, hard squeeze.
After a sharp inhale you look away from him in shame, afraid to admit it despite the truth of it leaking through your panties and onto his palm.
“Wet.” He smiles, no longer looking at you but flicking his eyes back and forth from between your legs, and to your chest. Still, he fumbles around the wet spot, wanting so badly to lift these fingers to his mouth and taste. He’s fantasized about it, about how you’d taste, how warm it would be, what your pussy would feel like against his fingers–
And just as he’s pushing your panties to the side, pads of his fingers touching right where you need them with his eyes hooded and watching you closely, something snaps.
You push his hand away, only to feel him push back, holding you down with more force, gripping your tit tighter, sliding his fingers in before massaging the slit with a blatant moan on his lips.
Then, you try again, shoving him back only to hear him chuckle and continue his antics until– you jump to your feet. It felt too good, too grounding to have him touching you like this. You nearly stumble back over the coffee table, but you manage to stand tall and firm despite the fact that even though your mind feels sober, your body is fucking wasted.
“Jongseong.” You argue immediately, using his name the same way you did when he was a child. “Stop.”
He throws his hands up in defense, raising his brows in surprise.
“I–” He pauses, staring at you. “I thought you were enjoying it, my mistake.”
It’s the fact that you were. You were enjoying it too much, and there would have been no defending your actions if you had given in to the feeling.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid. That’s what you are.
Your ex husband was right all along. Out of everything you’ve accomplished since your heart was shattered, ripped to shreds, stomped on, you’d think it would take a lot more to break you.
“You ask for too much.” Your ex husband had said once. “You can’t even stand to be alone for one day.” He had said a year or so later. Small digs on who you are and what you need sprinkled into small arguments, only to come more and more from the lips that you kissed and promised to kiss until you die. Until all of his words were to make you feel inadequate. Until everything he said to you stuck with you, forcing your confidence to bury itself six feet under.
Are you to blame? As it stands, maybe. Why else would you be allowing yourself to consider it? Consider Jongseong, you mean. Never in your life would you have considered him of all people to be the one that you need.
Never in your life would you have thought he’d be interested in a woman like you, in a situation like yours, with a child. Why did that night with him stick in your head more than every single mean thing your ex husband said to you? Why did his words seem more believable?
Because you were drunk at the time? Wet, neglected, and drunk?
Then why is it that you’re sitting here on your day off with your beautiful, bright-eyed daughter rummaging through your purse for whatever catches her eye….and you’re thinking about him? About what he's doing right now, how he’s feeling, if he’s eaten.
Why is it that you’ve gone the entire week ignoring his texts, asking if you need him to come resume his job as babysitter? Why the fuck do you want to accept after how he took advantage of your state of mind? After he came onto you and tried to manipulate you?
Despite all of his words ringing true in the back of your head. That was a dirty tactic he pulled on you. Yet, still…you want him back, and god fucking dammit you could cry knowing your daughter called him “dad.” You hadn’t believed him at first, but after this week alone it slipped from her mouth several times.
“He’s not your dad, baby, that’s just Jay.” You remember correcting her more than once, and all she responded to you with was a confused expression.
“Why not?” Is what her little voice gave back to you after her child-like brain decided it was fed up with you correcting her very right assumption of the guy who promised her the Barbie Dream House.
Why not?
Why not?
Well, if you could have an adult conversation with a five year old it would be much easier to answer that. Because he sprayed cheese in your hair. Because you were seventeen and his babysitter when he was ten years old. Because you ogled him without recognizing him as your pool boy. Because of a lot of things.
“Uncle Jay.” You finally corrected her again.
She shook her head, and continued doing and saying as her little mind pleased. It made you miss having a father around for her though. You think she needs it more than you do.
And that fucking Barbie Dream house is what brings Jay back.
Right at your doorstep today, with a gentle knock to the door and a timid smile on his face. He doesn’t even look at you when you open the door, and instead crouches down in front of you with the big, flashy box. He ignores you, tilting himself to look past you and straight at your daughter.
You hold your breath when she runs to Jay, arms spread open and laughter shrieking in your ears. Your heart aches so much at this moment.
Given your work schedule, you’d never gotten to see them interact much. He always came over as she was eating her breakfast, and you always came home after she was put to bed. You guess it’s fair that they have a bond now. She doesn’t even run at you like she does for Jay. In fact, the only time she ever did was when she had a bad day at daycare and had a tummy ache.
She runs to you when she needs you, but she runs to Jay like she wants to. Like she genuinely is attached to him, and his kind smile, and his eyes, and probably that warm embrace that you’ve never let yourself experience.
You watch them, not allowing yourself to melt at the moment because you did not invite him over, nor did you give consent to bring that fucking doll house here. But you can’t say no now, as she clings to his leg when he stands up and looks at you with an almost irritated glint in his eye.
His eyes trail all over you briefly too, as if checking for any new spots or marks that a man could have put on you. You feel seen, dipping your head to not meet his eye and scratching the back of your neck as if to hide a spot there. There isn’t a mark, it’s just…fear? nervousness? anxiety?
And then he hauls the box in for her without saying a word to you. You watch him hard now that his back is turned. His voice sounds so loving when he speaks to your child as if she’s an equal. Plopping down on your living room floor with her and opening the large box.
He Ooo’s and Aahhh’s with her as he pulls each piece out, connecting the walls, the doors, handing her little things to help him with. And both of them are so focused on the task at hand to create a safe space for all of her abused barbie dolls that… you feel invisible.
For the first time ever in front of them both, you feel like you are nothing but a ghost. That he is the single parent. As if you’re forgotten, less loved, not wanted, not even needed.
There’s a bubbling in your gut when you tear up, reminding yourself that what Jay did that night was probably just, well, he’s a man. Men aim to fuck at all times usually, and you guess you should have expected it at one point from him because, again, you’re aware that he’s attracted to you. Even more aware now.
But the way you feel right now outshines that. He’s ignoring you to keep your child happy. She is ignoring you because it seems Jay does a better job at it than you do.
And, well, he’s not holding you down, whispering things in your ear, letting out frustrated little sighs at your drunken or drowsy words now. So, you say nothing. All you can do is go to the kitchen and prepare a snack, trying to force the tears to stay inside of you with quiet sniffles, hoping you can join their little picture perfect moment so that you can be helpful too.
Your heart swells when they both look at you as you present a plate of snacks. You have to hold back tears again at the way their eyes shine, thanking you for the snacks. Jay’s eyes stay on you a bit longer though, as if saying “See? See what you’re making her go without?”
You do see it.
But…it can’t be him. As much as you wish it could be, you just can’t. There has to be another man out there just like him, one that doesn’t have a history with you that would cause whispers and questions. There has to be.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
That moment you witnessed seems to have solidified Jay’s place in your home. Whether it be for babysitting or simply so your child can see him when she’s asking for him (which is often.) It’s kind of an issue, actually, because now the choice isn’t yours anymore and it appears Jay knows that.
You hate that you’re forced to see him for what he is now. How he proves himself over and over again to be the man you need. The issue is that you still don’t want it to be him. The bigger issue is that he’s breaking down your walls, doing little things for you, looking at you with those dark eyes– your resolve cracks and reminds you every time he’s here that maybe it could work. Maybe you’ll give him a chance. Maybe you won’t have to go out anymore looking to fill a void that no one else fits into.
It’s the way that now, you can’t help but to compare him to your ex husband. The man who you loved for so long, who you genuinely thought you’d spend your life with happily and safely. Now, compared to Jay, your ex seems like…nothing. Like a little crack in your resolve. He was older than you by just two years, took care of you for so long, impregnated you, and slowly but surely throughout all that time grew to resent you too.
You still don’t know why, but perhaps it’s just because you were growing into your own. You were becoming more independent, though he never had the capability to realize just how much you depended on him during the very time he left you.
“I just don’t want to do this anymore.” Your ex had said to you on that fateful morning.
Your belly was big as you tried to waddle up to him when he said that. You can’t help but think back now and wonder how pathetic you must have seemed when he yanked his arm from your grip, especially due to the difficulty of your pregnancy already. You were sick through most of it, only having a few good days here or there where that pregnancy glow would make your ex husband second-guess himself.
The slam of the door after that was more exhausting than the months of pregnancy you’d gone through. It felt loud, so loud you could hear it vibrate throughout your whole body. You recall falling to the floor and carefully holding your stomach. It’s like all of the heartbreak pooled there. The loss of your husband three weeks before he got to meet the child he was supposed to love. Her little heart must have been breaking inside of you too.
Double the pain.
And then you were mending yourself on your own. Going into labor early from stress, your family helped take care of you more than her. You were needier. You were broken.
And never, fucking ever, did you think you’d find yourself sitting comfortable in your lavish home realizing that your ex-husband didn’t deserve all of that pain from you. He left you for that girl, and not two months later did she leave him.
Never did you think you’d find yourself thinking about Jay as a replacement either. Well, not a replacement, but like, maybe just…he’s the idea of a perfect dad if you pay attention to how your child talks about him. How they act together. How she cries for him before bed when he’s not there, asking you why you don’t read to her the way Jay does. Why don't you sing to her the way he does? Why don't you use the same voices for her dolls? Why you don’t cut her food like he does, why you don’t do this or that.
That’s what makes it click the most you think. The fact that Jay has given her something you never can. The love of a father. It doesn’t even feel like he’s babysitting at this point, he’s parenting, teaching her lessons, bandaging small boo-boos, fixing her hair,…cooking dinner, cleaning…existing here like he belongs.
Jay has done more for your daughter than your ex husband ever could have, more than you could have done for her too, you think.
Even now, as you come home night after night and see him, you struggle to see him as anyone that isn’t who your daughter needs. Maybe who you need.
His summer semester is coming to an end too, and it’s hard to see him as a college student now. He really does coursework and everything that needs to be done at your home all within a single work day? With no complaints at all? Lately, you’ve noticed that he’s been more focused on studying when he babysits too, but still your daughter listens to him better than she listens to you.
Yet, still, it’s like you’re avoiding each other as you go through the motions, but you notice him more. You feel more discomfort because of it, mostly because you know your resolve about this is breaking. There’s a fear inside of you that revolves around him.
What if you missed your chance?
What if it does end up being a mistake if he still wants you?
You don’t know what to do, but you know you want him.
Some nights, Jay does sleep over due to exhaustion and you don’t even ask him to leave because you know he’s not doing it to try anything. The avoidance is loud. Lately, you come home from work and there he is, sitting up with his laptop on his lap but sound asleep, softly snoring. Each time, you remind yourself of how he’s sacrificing his study time to babysit. You know your child can be distracting and needy when she wants something too, but he doesn’t complain even a little bit. The least you could have done was bring him a blanket, which you did. And you woke the next morning to find him curled up on the same couch, laptop toppled over onto the floor.
Small, gentle acts of kindness towards each other but never face to face. You’ve woken to fresh coffee countless times, made exactly the way you like it because you know he’s watched you make it yourself. You’ve come home to re-stocked items, like milk and eggs, laundry detergent, and even toothpaste. It’s nice, and a small indication that he doesn’t resent you. Even through face-to-face avoidance on your part.
Tonight seemed different though, compared to all of the other nights when you can’t go out. You walked through the door to the smell of dinner and your child still awake, sing-songing at you the moment you walked in.
“Dad said I can stay up late!”
You quirk a brow, her calling him that now becoming a regular occurrence to the point it goes through one ear and out the other for you. You recall discussing her bed time though, with absolutely no exceptions.
“Did he now?” You hug her before taking off your coat, walking with her to the kitchen where you find Jay, placing down a small plate on the table with cartoon characters on it, right in front of two bigger plates with bigger portions of delicious looking food placed neatly on it.
Your heart swells, but your anxiety grows twice as big alongside it. This.
This is what you’ve wanted for so long. This is what you never thought you could find. So, why is it that you still have push-back in your mind? Despite knowing that Jay has proven himself time and time again, you want to argue?!
Perhaps it’s because you like the way he tries. Maybe you’re not ready to lose that feeling of being chased in some way, of being begged to let him stay. Maybe it’s because you begged your husband, desperate for him to keep you, but he left anyway. It feels like Jay gives you power over yourself, over your love-life, over everything, really.
And if you were to actually accept his advances, even just a dinner on your table, what if he stops? What if he gets bored once he gets what he wants? After all, he’s still young, you can’t truly imagine he wants to do this forever.
Not with you, and not with your daughter either.
“What’s all this? Isn’t it a bit late for her to have dinner?” You question him instantly, anxiety bubbling up out of assumption alone.
“We had a small snack a few hours ago.” Jay reassures you. “I finished my exams and had a burst of energy to celebrate, besides, it’s a Friday–” He goes to pull out a chair for you. “You don’t need to be up early either. A late dinner every now and then never hurt anybody.”
The way this is the first time the two of you have had a face-to-face conversation since…that night. His voice calms you, and that’s scary.
You huff, happy because you could easily melt into this chair and pretend you’re having a family dinner, like you always wanted, like you never rejected a touch from him that you desperately wanted. You could just play along and pretend Jay is everything you need. Except, it wouldn’t even be pretending at this point. The whole idea of him has changed. But, again, that anxiety. You still have that little voice holding you back, no matter what you want, or what you need, you fear it’ll be ripped from you again if you were to let yourself be weak for another person.
“I’m really tired, Jongseong.” You explain, walking past the kitchen and towards your bedroom. “Thanks for dinner but I’m not too hungry and I just want to lay down.”
And with that, he watches you leave. No real appreciation, no congratulations on him finishing his exams, not even a kiss to your child’s forehead. Is he still expected to be the one to put her to sleep?
Why is he even here? Why did he do all of this?
His patience is running dry.
So, he eats with your child as your plate goes cold and he leaves it there. If you can’t even handle a dinner at the table with the person who cooked it, you can deal with your own fucking plate. Throw away your own fucking food, wash your own fucking dish. And if you can’t tuck your child into bed, he’ll do it, but you can shove that fake ass exhaustion right up your ass for all he cares.
He knows you’re not exhausted. He’s seen you when you are. You’re just being an asshole to him at this point, trying to appear like you’re perfectly happy with the life you live when your drunken rants prove otherwise. You treat him like everything he does has an ulterior motive. Which, yeah, maybe it does, but he was genuinely excited to have someone celebrate the end of this semester with him. Maybe assuming you’d indulge him went too far. For the first time, he wasn’t doing it to impress you.
By the time Jay gets your daughter to bed, all tucked in with a little tune to fall asleep to, he closes her door and just stands there in the silence on the other side of it.
You must really enjoy being a single mother, huh? This is why too. He always questioned it. You’re so attractive, so well-adjusted. You work hard, your daughter is a sunshine in this world, and you’ve not managed to find anyone to love you yet? He thought he was lucky to be the one getting to spend time with you.
Turns out, you refuse to let anyone in despite Jay knowing, fucking seeing straight through you. You want something from someone. You need it, yearn for it, even. But it’s almost laughable at the way you refuse it.
Excuses, excuses, excuses.
It’s the fucking audacity you have taking advantage of him. You’ve practically led him on. You lend him everything he wants in life. That’s it. You lend it. From flaunting yourself before you go to bars, to exposing all the marks you allow other men to leave on you. Letting him stay in this house, father your child, cook, clean, mend, fix, heal.
From being a faux-father to being minimized to a college student that you used to babysit. He’s offered you relief in so many ways including sexual, and all you fucking do is avoid, deny, fucking reject him. You still go out to bars, later and later you’ll come home with new swells against your skin, but always looking so empty and disappointed. Sometimes he thinks you try to make him jealous. Sometimes, he thinks you want him to try again.
Sometimes, he thinks you get off on the fact that he keeps trying.
And he has tried. Albeit more gently lately, but he has. Small, lingering touches when he hands you your coat to help you get out the door and to work quicker. Starting your car for you before you leave. Fuck, he even opens the goddamn door for you. Anything to make you feel appreciated, respected, and fucking wanted.
The silence is loud in his ears due to the sheer irritation as he drops his head, staring at his feet and knowing it’ll only take a few strides to reach your bedroom. A room he still craves to be in.
He’s raided those drawers by now, because of course he has. Soiling your panties, your sheets, anything that still smells like you when you’re gone for the day, all so he can act normal upon seeing you when you come home. He’s laid in your bed by now too, wondering what it would feel like to have your weight beside him. He fantasized about anything and everything he possibly could in there.
And he’s always warmer. Always cums the hardest with weak, muffled moans as he stuffs your pillows into his mouth to keep quiet. All before cleaning every trace of himself there, closing the door, and wishing he was allowed to exist in there with you.
Right now will be the first time Jay enters your room to your knowledge, and it sucks for him because he has essentially trained himself to get hard every time he opens this fucking door. Still, he composes himself, and it’s a bit of a shock if you’re being honest. You thought he’d go home after this, you were kind of hoping he would after you made it so awkward.
You felt guilty the second you saw his expression fall to your rejection of eating dinner like a big fucking happy family. You want it so bad, you want him so bad.
When you left the kitchen, you immediately went to your room and hopped in the shower, well aware that he wouldn’t follow you. You thought hard while the hot water made attempts to wash away your feelings. Would it have been so bad to just eat with him? With your daughter? With both of them? The way his eyes fell, it burned your heart a little bit.
Still, no answers came to you because you know part of you just wants to see what else he will do for you. Despite the history with him, and despite knowing his entire family would question and scoff at you for it…Is it really so wrong? To want to give him a chance just to see if he’ll leave you too?
Just to see if it’ll hurt when he does it too?
Inviting him to your home almost every day of the week isn’t wrong, right? Forgetting to pay him all those times before, hoping to see him again and get that confidence boost, that wasn’t wrong. Letting your daughter attach herself to him when you swore he wasn’t permanent, no longer having the energy to correct her use of “dad” towards him… none of that is wrong.
It’s all Jay. He’s the one in the wrong for willingly following along, not you. Right?
And as you’re sitting on your bed in your towel, zoning out and staring at your floor, Jay swings your bedroom door open without a single knock, mindfully closes it, and immediately goes off on you.
Somehow, you really expected him to accept your rejection but your heart swells that he didn’t. You don’t think he ever will, and you’re exhausting yourself hoping he’ll prove you wrong.
He’s shown you enough by now. This is what breaks down that wall inside of you, isn’t it?
“What am I doing wrong?” He shoots his first question out in a desperate whisper shout, eyes searing into you before continuing without a single breath. “Because I do everything for her, and i do everything for you, does that really make you so fucking uncomfortable?”
“J–” You try to respond, feeling your skin prickle at the sheer irritation in his expression.
He’s fighting for you.
“Isn’t that what you want?!”
“After everything I do–” He throws his hands up now, running his fingers through his hair as if you make him feel like he wants to rip it out. “After trying to make your life easy while making mine harder, for what? You to not eat the fucking food I made? For you to go to the bar all the time just to come back disappointed like I’m not right here waiting for you to come back?”
“What ar-”
“Don’t ask me any stupid fucking questions, Just answer me.” He drops his hands, stepping up to you, placing both hands on either side of your hips, doing his best not to react to your near-naked body. “Why?”
You lean back, trying to create more distance to try and give him an answer that you don’t even know yourself, but he just keeps closing in. Not letting you escape this time. You’ve never seen him so riled up before, it’s…
Well…
“Because I came onto you? Because I tried to do what no one else will do for you?” His voice shakes when he says it, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. Is he…about to cry?
Only now, seeing him so close with an entirely sober brain do you realize an answer. Maybe not to his question of why, but to the same question you’ve been asking yourself. It’s because of that look in his eye. You’ve never been able to put a word to it, but now with him demanding you explain yourself so closely, you see it.
He’s desperate.
Arguably as desperate as you’ve felt to fill the void. Except, he’s trying to do that for you and you won’t let him out of what? Fucking fear? Hell, at this point the history means close to nothing when it comes to all the new memories he’s made in this home, even without you. The history of babysitting him, the history of your ex husband leaving you. It doesn’t matter.
You think hard, so hard that you feel your eyes burn as you stare up at him. Glancing without intention to his jaw when he clenches it, to his neck when he swallows his words, to his lips, his eyes, the hair falling in his face…and you just–
You reach up, running a soothing hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Then you see those same desperate eyes somehow grow more desperate as he lowers them, leaning into the touch, as if you’ve been starving him the same way you’ve been starved for years. He falls silent too, cutting himself off mid-question just to feel you touch him for the first time.
“I don’t know.” You say, which seems like a better answer than having an excuse. What can you say otherwise? That it’s because it shouldn’t be him? That you’re afraid he’ll realize he’s not ready to settle? To be a dad? He’ll ask why, and it’ll be the same answer you gave on that drunken night. An answer that you no longer care about.
You babysat him when he was a child, but you were still a child too.
You were still a child, and time changes things.
Your ex husband left you, and you’re afraid he will too, especially because he’s so much younger? Who cares?
Your answer seems to fly right past his head though, because he’s still leaning to feel your fingers in his hair, and he’s looking at you as if nothing you say will matter unless you make it hold some weight to him.
“Jongseong–” You pause, scratching right at his nape, uncaring of how you can feel your towel loosening on your body. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
Somehow, his name on your lips is what he needed to hear. The tone of it, the rasp in your voice, your fingers in his hair. Actions speak louder than anything the two of you could say right now, and he can’t help it. Nothing can stop him, not even you at this point.
He hasn’t done anything wrong you say? It’s because he fucking knows what you need.
You inhale deeply, holding your breath when you feel your back hit your mattress, his warm hands instantly taking advantage of your freshly-showered state and tugging at the towel just slightly to let it fall open. You hear a slight breath from him at that moment, an inhale. There, he climbs onto the bed, nudging himself between your legs and trapping you there under him, both hands holding your arms down.
Like he’s afraid you’ll reject him again.
“You’re going to let me take care of you now.” He demands, though to him it sounds more like a plea solely due to the fact that he’s so fucking turned on it’s unreal. That feeling of when your fingers were in his hair? Seeing your naked body? Unshaved pussy? Being in this fucking room with you? It throws him into overdrive, especially with the way you just lay there blinking up at him in surprise. The anger melting away only amplifies it more.
How could you do this to him? Genuinely, how could you have let him fucking suffer for you like this?
Still, you blink up as if you’re a deer caught in headlights and it makes his heart thump against his ribcage. Your eyes are so bright, that glint of sadness he had seen so many times isn’t there right now. And there’s so much adrenaline inside of him, like he needs to move fast before you change your mind again. You’ve not let him do this for some fucking reason or another and now you’re just laying here for him.
There, with your entire body on display, and you appear to be docile. Fucking obedient? Like he always knew you would be if you’d just drop the fucking act?! You were meant for him and him alone, and he’s going to show you why.
In all honesty, you’re tired of denying yourself by now. From the moment you saw him that day cleaning your pool for the first time, you’ve wanted him on some level. It wasn’t an emotional attachment, but a hope, a fantasy for you. And when you recognized him, you were more impressed with him than embarrassed. You tried not to let your eyes wander out of guilt, out of feeling like a pervert.
And then, that day when he came onto you, he was just a man to you. Your faux guilt kept you from letting him, and your hope to be chased kept you from it too. As if you’ve never pleasured yourself to the thought of him, shamefully in this very bed. As if you’ve never called out his name with a silent breath. If you keep going at this point, you’ll lose him before ever knowing what he could really be for you.
This is his last ditch effort to beat you at your own game, and you’re ready to lose.
So, now, you let yourself get lost in him. In his eyes and the way he pleads and makes his demands. He probably doesn’t recognize his strength against you right now, or how much it’s turning you on. With the way he has both hands on your wrists, probably bruising them, and there’s nothing you could do even if you wanted to. His weight holding you down feels better than you imagined.
After so long, with so many failed hookups where you’ve told them of your daughter and all they’ve done in return is get their orgasm then leave…Jay. He wants to take care of you?
He wants to…give you what you need?
Fuck, you know he can. That’s the fucked up part. He’s proved it so many times to you in so many ways. You’ve watched him, the way he moves and acts around you. He’s exactly what you need. You pushed him to this point, where his sanity is on the brink of crashing. Taking it away from him again feels wrong, because it’s exactly what you want.
And when he presses his leg between yours, he knows.
“Again?” He comments, now releasing your wrist from one hand and running it down, able to slip his fingers right into the slick of your bare pussy. “You’re wet.”
You still just blink up at him with an intake of breath at the pleasure, thoughts running left and right on what to do, finally realizing you don’t want to do a damn thing. He’d do it all if you let him. Clean your house, be a father, fix all of the breaks, make you wet.
And you just feel him, the way his fingers play around with what he does to you. You can practically feel his confidence rise at the way you spread your legs a bit more, as if to give him more access. When you look at him, his expression remains harsh, but slowly he moves himself down, lips brushing over one of your nipples while keeping eye contact.
Still that irritated look, like he’s mad you haven’t let him do this before now.
“How many times are you going to pretend like I’m not the one who gets you wet?” He asks before rubbing circles around your clit, tongue flicking in the same way around your nipple. “Like I don’t have a right to take care of you?”
Your breath is still caught in your throat, trying to be careful about what you say right now despite knowing you can’t speak. You focus on what he’s doing instead, losing yourself to something you’ve not felt in far, far too long.
He’s right. He’s gotten you wet more than once by now. More than he knows.
And goddamn, he knew your tits could bounce, but the way they move without the support of a bra, the plush, soft feeling of your nipple growing erect in his mouth, all for him to bite and pull at. He does it too, listening to the little seething sound of pain from you when he pulls all the way back with your nipple between his teeth. Only to let it fall from his mouth and break eye contact with you to see the jiggle as it falls.
His cock twitches, at everything that you are right now, feeling more pleasure through seeing you like this alone compared to fucking his own fist on your bedroom floor. He notes how your legs squeeze him more at the nipple stimulation than his fingers too, memorizing the way your labia falls open between them. He smirks, flicking his tongue more, quicker.
There. There it is.
A low rumble in your chest falls from your lips. Soft, a moan. A very small, delicate sound.
“You like this?” Jay asks, looking up at you, letting his tongue fall from his mouth again and flicking the erect nub. “When I play with your tits?”
You nod, throwing an arm over your face in embarrassment that this is actually happening. You’re letting him. Already you feel yourself heat up more, even when he takes his fingers away from your clit and instead, uses them to flick your other nipple.
And he does this for a few minutes. Paying special attention to your tits, going back and forth with his fingers and tongue to each bud, trying so hard to not stop just to shove his cock between them and use them the way he’s always wanted. He focuses on drawing out more and more little sounds from you instead, slurping his own saliva from your painfully erect nipples, pulling back, blowing cold air, then warming it up again with his lips. All while simultaneously groping, flicking, and pinching with his other hand.
“Jesus, Jay–” You moan quietly, chest rising and falling as he squeezes and licks against you.
That’s right, say his name. Let him fucking know he’s doing what you like. Jay thinks, feeling his cock weep in his pants as he does it. Wondering just how sensitive you are to be reacting like this to simple nipple stimulation. God, he’s wanted to suck on these for so long, and now you’re letting him. They’re so big, so plush. He wants to fucking cover them with his mouth, he wants to bury his face in them, kiss them all over them.
And if they were to get bigger? He moans at the thought, remembering that conversation you had with your mom. You want another. He bets they’d swell up–Oh, fuck yeah. They’d probably hurt to rub against your shirt. God, fuck, he can’t control his thoughts right now.
Finally.
Fucking finally, he has you and he’s not going to let you run away again.
He doesn’t fucking care if it’s forward. He wants what he wants, you want what you want. That want just so happens to line up. Besides, he’s already proved himself to you, he knows it. If you’re letting him do this, maybe you’d let him stay like this.
“Did they get bigger?” He moans briefly as he swaps to your other nipple again. “So full, so heavy, were they leaking all over you?”
You listen to him, trying not to feel the pit in your stomach bubble with even more arousal at his blatant and dirty words, feeling your clit throb at the stimulation your tits are getting right now.
“Makes my dick fucking throb just thinking about it. Fuck–”
“Let me give you another,” He mumbles now, almost mindlessly before looking up at you with an intense gaze as he bites down, indicating that he’s not mindless about it at all.
“Swell you up, make you glow–”
Oh.
Why is that– why are you dripping?
He hears that moan you let out. Different from the others, almost desperate.
“Mm, yeah.” He encourages it, now allowing his hand to travel back down to witness how much wetter you’ve gotten at those words. So messy, so perfect. “Knew you’d want it raw.”
You can’t help the nod, as it comes before you even process his words solely because you feel his fingers slip inside of you. You haven’t been this wet in so, so long. You want to feel it. To be full again, of anything. Of him.
“Ye-” You start, interrupting yourself with a bite of your lip and your eyes rolling back.
“That’s right mama,” He coos, tilting his fingers up and amplifying the pressure inside of you. “Gonna let me take good care of this pussy, yeah?” He adds, lifting from your tits and ghosting his lips over yours.
He watches you closely, that daze in your eye. God, you look so horny right now. There’s nothing more he wants than to see this time and time again. To let you wake up every morning with his warm cum inside of you, to see your belly swell with his child, to see your tits grow until they hurt.
He’d take care of you. He’d take good fucking care of you.
“Say something.” Jay whispers against your lips, darting his tongue out against your lips, angling his fingers up and making you moan. “Say you want me to give it to you raw.”
You open your mouth, feeling his tongue lick and swallow up that moan you just gave him before you try to compose yourself. You can’t help it, you’re so, so sensitive right now and you can’t help but find it incredibly sexy to be here, laid bare, while he’s still fully clothed.
Like he really is doing this for you. He’s not trying to get his own orgasm and leave. You’re weak and those words of “let me give you another” shines in your head. Weak, you’re weak. You should be thinking about condoms, you should be thinking about the consequences of this.
But you’re not.
You do like it raw.
“Jay–” You stutter as you try to grasp the reality of his words, feeling his fingers repeatedly hit right where you need it. “I’m…not protected.”
He moans. Loudly, before huffing out an irritated groan.
“You must really want it then.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Going out all the time trying to get fucked–”
He plunges his fingers in again, deep, and holds them there as he pulls back to look at you. To really look at you, then he glares.
“You’d really let just some fucking dude give you a baby?”
You repeatedly shake your head.
“No!” You retort, thrusting your hips up. “I just–”
“Mhm,” He pulls his fingers out now, sliding himself down so fast that you can barely comprehend him sucking your clit into his mouth before pulling back in a moan at the taste of you. “If mama wants another, daddy will give her one.” He says now, as if to pacify you.
As if to give you everything.
And you’d argue, really, you would. You want another child so bad, but this is– it’s too soon. You haven’t even established a relationship with him yet. Boundaries haven’t been discussed. His college plan– but fuck it’s not entirely your fault that you’re like, super turned on by the idea of it. To the thought of being so filled with cum that there’s no possible way you couldn’t end up pregnant. An indication that, no matter what, no man at a club could fulfill the arousal for you even if they cared to do it.
You’d never have let them actually fuck you raw.
Jay though…how can you keep telling him no?
How could you reject him again when you want it so badly?
Fuck now, think later.
“Yeah–” You say against your better judgement, hands reaching down to his hair so you can grind up against his mouth, lost to the arousal as you mimic what he referred to himself as. “Daddy?”
You feel his mouth fall slack at that, as if you’re accepting him in full now. You feel your clit hit nothing in his open mouth, but it throbs harder.
He knew you were slightly into him for letting him do this at all, but now, you’re truly accepting it. Like you know he’ll fucking do it, like you want him to fucking do it.
“That’s right,” He moans against your clit as he licks at it, barely able to comprehend your voice calling him that but clinging to it all the same. “Gonna let daddy do it all for you.”
Yeah. You are. You’re gonna let him do it. All of it.
And then, the room is enveloped in quiet moans, more from Jay than from you due to your breath being stuck in your throat. His tongue, licking every part of your sensitive cunt, his hands reaching back up to your tits, fondling, pinching, painfully tugging at them as he moans louder, louder, louder for you to want him.
He presses his hips up and against your mattress as he tastes you, so deeply it hurts his cock to neglect it like this. Each rub feels raw, twitching and pulsing to be let out, to be inside of you, on you, against you. Filling you up with his cum, plugging it in as a promise that you can’t leave him even if you wanted to.
He’s going to fucking do exactly what he said he would.
And only when you feel his tongue lap against your hole do you finally release your breath, “Daddy” coming out in a choked back sob. It breaks him, his body going into overdrive as he pulls back and just– stares at you with wild eyes.
You stare back up at him, knowing that calling him that means something more than a cringe little roleplay kink. It means something deeper to him. He wants to be a dad, a real one.
“Oh yeah?” He finally says, hands going straight to his button and zipper.
You can’t help it, biting your lower lip as you blink up, watching his shoulders move, the veins on his arms protruding as he rushes to pull it out and– oh. You moan at it, the way his heavy, slicked up, cock falls out, heavy, needy.
“Daddy–” You urge him on, knowing that it’s driving him absolutely insane.
“Mhm?” He shuffles himself off the bed, letting his pants drop as he lifts his shirt off of him and fucking glares at your tits. “You want daddy’s cock?” He adds now, shooting his eyes up to you as both of his hands land on your legs.
Your mind goes blank when you feel him slide his hands around to the back of your thighs, pushing your legs forward, curling you in on yourself, forcing your pussy to be out and on display for him.
And you watch him, the way he stares down at it. It’s embarrassing to be so seen right now, not having expected to get fucked open by anyone tonight, let alone him. You probably should have shaved or something, or like, not gotten out of the habit in the first place. But he moans at it, mouth falling open at the fact that you are entirely a fucking woman.
A fucking mother.
The prettiest pussy he’s ever fucking seen let alone tasted.
And he moans, breaking the silence, forgetting only for a moment how long he’s been wanting this. It boosts your confidence more than you’ve ever felt. His reaction to this is more than your ex husband’s reaction to you when you were pristine and borderline pornstar quality.
Jay doesn’t see you as used and neglected, he just sees you. And this. This is the pussy he wants. This is what he wants to put his baby in.
When he flicks his eyes back to you, with that same open mouthed expression, it knocks the breath out of you. There’s so much love in his eyes, or maybe lust, you don’t care. You think you’re matching that expression for him too, because it’s like he can’t hold back anymore. He can’t just sit and look at you anymore.
He just can’t.
And you feel it, his thick head pushing past the tightened, pulsing hole and not stopping. He pushes in slowly, painfully slow, to the point you’re both looking at each other with a slack jaw. Finally. The pain of it, the pleasure, the fucking need you’ve been trying to fulfill.
That look on your face drives him wild too, he knows he has you by now. You like it, you love the way he slides in and makes damn sure you feel it the way he does. Every second of the slide pries you open, and he wants to remember this moment forever. He wants you to fucking remember too.
Wants you to know that no one will ever fit inside of you so perfectly, so deeply.
When he finally bottoms out, he leans forward to keep himself buried deep as he ghosts his lips over yours. He feels the way you try to kiss him, but he pulls back with a confident smirk.
“When was the last time you’ve felt a cock so deep in you?” He whispers hotly, knowing you need not answer. Knowing you won’t answer, not with the way you’re instantly lifting your head and kissing him.
Your pussy pulses around him when you lick into his mouth, the first real kiss sending his heart soaring. He twitches inside of you with each squeeze, and kisses you harder, deeper. And somehow, it brings tears to your eyes.
The way he kisses, the way he makes you feel him. Fuck, the way he makes you feel whole, so wanted, like you’re amazing to him. In more ways than just a body to fuck, but he’s stuck around despite all of your avoidance and rejections. You hope you’re making it worth it.
Fuck, you need to feel worth it to him.
“You’d better not fucking pull out.” You groan through a breath, his lips still kissing you through your words as he finally pulls his hips back, fucking in once.
Hard.
Honestly, could you have said anything else at this moment? He’s trying to make this last, he needs it to last. If you keep fucking talking, saying everything he’s ever wanted to hear–
“Fuck,” He moans, his hands moving up to your cheeks as he licks into your mouth. “You can’t–” He continues, fucking in again, moving your body up with each thrust do to the sheer force of him trying to plunge in as deep as he can. “You can’t fucking say that to me right now.”
You’re seeing stars though, unable to say anything else as your eyes roll back at the way the head of his cock practically kisses your cervix with each push into you. He’s so rough, so desperate for it.
You don’t think he expected you to respond either, with the way he keeps his lips on yours, his body pressed so closely that having your legs to your chest means nothing to him now. Mating press be damned, he’s lost his mind to the feeling, not the aesthetic of being a fucking dad.
Your legs wrap around him instead, and he’s all to happy to feel it. Your legs hug him the same way your arms do, the same way your pussy does, and he’s fucking in love with you.
He braces one hand back against your leg, holding it against his hips as he continues to fuck forward, still at the same pace. Deep and with purpose. Every few seconds the bursts of pleasure run through him, making him shiver and moan into your mouth. Little grunts, near whimpers for you to let him give you the world.
More than this. More than fucking, more than taking care of you, more than anything he could ever possibly give you. He’ll find a way.
And then, you’re clenching hard, matching his near-whimpers except moaning in full pants, babbling and drooling cries against his mouth.
“Mama–” Jay soothes, continuing his pace as he tilts his head back to get a good look at that lost gaze in your eyes. “You’re crying?”
You nod with a laugh, tears rolling down the same way the wet of your cunt slips down your ass. You’ve never felt so good, so fucking full. And for some reason, that does him in. Making it last be damned, he genuinely thinks he’s won you over. He can make it last next time, he can do more next time, he can–
He leans back all the way now, onto his knees as your legs try to hug him back to you, and his eyes go straight back to those tits. The way he made a promise. The way they bounce, slick with his sweat from pressing against you.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” He grunts in a breath, now quickening his pace and snapping his hips. Pulling out all the way briefly to plunge into your again. “Can’t get any deeper–” He continues, flicking his eyes from your face, to your tits, to that beautiful pussy of yours swallowing him up.
Now his eyes roll back, hands going back to your thighs to push you back into position. No way in hell can he last, not at a pace like this, inside of a woman like you.
“Don’t pull out.” You repeat again in a breath, seeing his face and the way he focuses solely on you. You know he’s going to cum, and you want him to. You want to feel it, every single fucking drop of it.
“Yeah?” He nods his head with laser-focus on your pussy now, staring down as he points tight, short thrusts inside of you. “Momma wants my cum? Hm?”
Oh, he’s fucking gone.
“She likes it?” He continues to talk himself up. “Likes being so fucking full of it? Yeah?”
Goddamn, fuck, he’s insane.
“Yes, daddy!” You whisper-shout, fingers shooting to your clit, other hand raising to your mouth to silence the moans as to not be too loud.
“Fuck, yeah you do.” He lets out a near growl, his voice low and rumbled as he slaps your hand away, pressing hard on your clit with his thumb as he buries himself in you once more and stiffening his abs. “That’s right.”
And instantly upon feeling him pulse, that first spurt of cum painting your insides, you lose yourself with him. Your fingers drop from your mouth and you release a pornographic moan for him, rutting yourself against him, as if to fuck it deeper into you.
It only prolongs the orgasm though, for both of you.
Jay is silent, trying to keep his eyes open through the pleasure as you pulse and squirt around him, his thumb pressing so hard into your clit, his cock cumming so deep, filling you up so well– He wants to see it. Wants to watch you fall apart for him. Wants to witness the way you let him do this.
And he holds himself there, so hard and so full of pleasure for you. Keeping himself practically impaled against your cervix until your body falls slack. Still, he fucks it into you, holding you in place with a softer moan now. No longer guttural or deep from his chest. His breathing is rough, a soft, near feminine moan leaves his lips as he falls forward onto you.
You wince along with him at the sensitivity, panting, a sweating tangle of a mess the two of you have become. And it’s the fact that it’s the first time you’ve ever gotten off at the same time as someone else. You feel…soft.
Your hands find their way to his hair as his face squished against your tits while he regains breath, not daring to move his hips because your pussy is too warm to leave right now. You brush the sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes, running your fingers all the way back to his nap, and then slowly down his back to rub and scratch.
He shivers at the feeling, humming the same feminine-tone he had released previously. And all he can do is hear your heart thumping against your chest, even through these soft tits of a pillow he’s lying against.
Jay never wants to move again, not from this spot, ever.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
“You know I’m in love with you, right?” Jay mentions briefly after a long moment of silence, looking up at you with his wet hair.
Deep in the night, your food still cold and on the table, you’ve found yourself freshly showered and on your living room couch with Jay’s head on your lap. He made sure to have stayed long enough inside of you to implant…something if it was going to happen. So he didn’t argue a shower, and you didn’t argue letting him join you either.
He had washed you, gently running his hands between your legs with what you can only describe as the softest, most alluring face a man has ever given you. Like he won the lottery, or found the answer to eternal life or something. You repaid him by letting him admire your tits again while you jerked him off, but that’s besides the point.
“Like, I’m not going to leave. I hope you know that.” He adds with a soft groan to your hands still in his hair. His new favorite thing.
You look down at him, hand moving to his cheek as the words hit you in the chest.
There’s anxiety along with happiness, at all of the boundaries and serious conversations that will need to be had now, but still, you feel like you’re glowing when he looks at you.
He didn’t even have to say it, and arguably you probably don’t need to say it back either. You think he sees it in you. Even if he didn’t, you think he’d take anything you give to him and cling to it. After all, it only took one time for you to break entirely for him.
“Are you now?” You smile with a chuckle, looking back to the tv and pretending to watch it. “Well, that’s good. Otherwise I’d be making you go get a plan B or something.”
His eyes narrow at you.
“Like hell I’d let you, even if I didn’t love you.” He groans. “But I do, so don’t ever say that shit again.”
You chuckle, feeling the calm in your home that once felt so chaotic. It’s quiet now, both inside and outside of your head.
“Congratulations, by the way.”
He looks at you with question, quirking a brow.
“For finishing your finals, I mean.” You smile, going back to petting through his hair and feeling like you’re on top of the world, despite what you assume to become half of your world lying his head on top of you.
“Oh, right.” He smiles, now turning his head to watch the tv. “I probably failed them.”
You don’t believe that, but even if he did, you think you could be what he needs too. He wouldn’t have to work if he didn’t want to.
If he’s really in love with you, all he’d have to do is…not leave.
“Are you sure you want to be having these conversations with me? You can just call it a hook-up.” You finally say, hoping he means it, knowing it breaks your heart a bit to give him an out. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m going to trap you here just because I’m a little smitten too.”
Jay glares, blinking up at you.
“I literally just tried to put a baby in you.”
That’s fair.
“And you’re not going to run off? Get cold feet?”
“Can you stop doubting me and just let me do what I want for once?” He argues playfully. “Do you even know how much that barbie fucking dream house costed me? I couldn’t run even if, for some stupid ass reason, wanted to. I love her too.”
Silence for a moment.
“Maybe even more than I love you.”
You really, really, want to believe him.
So, you do.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
please remember to like and reblog! feedback would be lovely too, of course ; 3 ; i'm not below begging.
he doesn’t know where you came from. he’s not even certain you’re human. but he’d do anything for you—anything to keep you happy. that includes indulging—and feeding—your peculiar appetite in any way necessary.
words: 5.2k
PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS! dark content, extremely unequal power dynamics, you’re pretty much his ‘pet’. cannibalism and murder, though the murder is not shown explicitly. yunho lets you take a chunk out of him at one point. self-mutilation, gore. reader is depicted as extremely childlike and innocent due to how she grew up and yunho is depicted as getting off on that fact (he does feel guilty though), unspecified childhood trauma, mentions of punishments such as spanking/belting/cold baths. reader is unaware of basic concepts such as parents, gender etc. blowjobs, throatfucking. it is explicitly stated that reader views yunho as a father. yunho sort of gets off on that. yunho is not a good guy. reader probably doesn’t have the mental capacity to be good or bad. you’re not allowed to leave the apartment.
note: this was intended to be longer, but i don’t have much else to do to it. it may be expanded on at some point. i’m honestly not super happy with it but i wanted to get it out. heed the warnings, this is gross.
The TV is blaring when he wakes up. It’s loud, obnoxiously so, hurting his head a little; the familiar rattle of the local news channel’s morning jingle and the laughter of the presenters.
He’s sure he remembers turning it off last night; a couple beers in, the tail end of an action movie he’s seen a hundred times droning on. He turned it off a little after it ended and trudged down the hall to bed, he’s certain; he remembers stumbling over the wires a little when he went to turn it off at the wall, slightly disoriented by the late night and the alcohol. You were asleep then, quiet and content on his bedroom floor.
You must have turned it back on after he went to bed; you have a habit of wandering around the apartment at night, fiddling with buttons and flicking switches until you get bored or tired and fall asleep where you’re stood. He doesn't love it, but the apartment is secure and you know not to do it in the bedroom when he’s sleeping, so it’s not a huge problem.
You certainly have more destructive habits than that, anyway.
He finds you under the table, when he finally gets up and trudges through to the kitchen; you’re crouching, partially concealed by the tablecloth, toes curled under your feet against the tiled floor.
He doesn’t know what you’re doing. He rarely does. But as long as you’re safe, and obeying him, that’s what matters.
“Get out from there,” he says. The words come out grumbled, his voice still rough, thick with sleep.
You crawl out slowly, begrudgingly, then stand up. He can tell you’re not happy about it, but you’re obeying nonetheless, and that’s enough for him.
Your shirt—his, actually—hangs loose around your body, a little grime seeping into the fabric.
Or it looks like grime, at least. When he looks a little closer he realises it’s actually blood.
He raises an accusing eyebrow, staring you down, and you shrink into yourself like you’ve been caught in the act. Which you have, pretty much.
“Baby,” he sighs. He reaches to grab a dirtied section of the shirt, holding it up to your eyeline where it’s unavoidable. “What did we talk about yesterday?”
“Change,” you answer quietly. “We have to change clothes when they’re dirty.”
He nods, humming. “That’s right. If you’re going to go around wearing shirts with blood on them then you’ll have to stop wearing clothes when you eat. Is that what you want?”
“No, Yu.”
“Arms up.”
You lift your arms obediently, staying still and silent as he slides the shirt up over your head and puts it down on the table. You’re bare now, only panties to protect your modesty, but that’s not something that really registers to either of you. Not with the states you’ve seen each other in—far, far worse than a little nudity.
“Sit down,” he says. “I’ll bring you breakfast.”
He turns off the TV first; it’s too loud this early in the morning, not to mention a waste of money to keep it running like that.
While he’s there, he slides his hand behind the TV stand and retrieves the key he keeps hidden underneath.
You watch him silently. You know what he’s doing—and you know how to be patient, too.
You’ll get what you need; you always do. Yunho has never once allowed you to go without.
The pantry is hidden behind a bookshelf you’ve never cared to browse—you have little use for books anyway. You watch as Yunho hauls it out of the way then slots the key into the lock.
It opens with a quiet click that makes your mouth water instinctively. You hear the fridge open then close, then a drawer, then he emerges again with a white tupperware in his hands.
Fuck. You can already smell it. The minute or so it takes for him to lock up and put everything back into place nearly has you jumping out of your seat.
“We’re running a little low,” Yunho tells you as he puts the box down on the table. “I’ll go out tonight. Stock up a little.”
The lid cracks open. The smell is the first thing to hit—it’s distinct, pungent, unmistakable once you know what it is. It still makes him a little queasy even now. You’re all but heart-eyed like he’s just offered you a gourmet dinner.
“Eat up,” he says. “Before it goes bad.”
You eat with your hands—despite his best efforts, you were never able to get the hang of cutlery, and you barely understood the logic of using it no matter how many times he explained it to you. It was just one of those times where he had to pick his battles, he’d realised; you eat well anyway, never leaving a drop, and that’s what matters.
“How is it?” He asks.
“Good,” you answer. “What is it?”
“Thigh.”
You nod, approving, and he bites back a laugh. “Good girl,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. You’re far too engrossed to hear it; if you do, you don’t reply.
You’re a woman of few words—that’s something he understood about you very early on. He doubts you used them at all before meeting him; when would you have? You were all alone out there, wherever you were; in the very few stories you have told him of your early life, you never once mentioned another person.
He supposes it makes sense; tracks with the complete waste of time it had been trying to find any record of you at all.
To the rest of the world, it seems, you just… don’t exist.
He intends to keep it that way.
“Done,” you announce. You push the box back to him, then push each of your fingers into your mouth, one by one, until they’re licked clean. There’s still some blood around your mouth and trailing down your chin; he sighs, lamenting silently to himself, knowing what he’s going to have to do.
“You’re dirty, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “You’re going to need a wash.”
Your head snaps up, eyes suddenly sharp, your lips set in a firm line. “No,” you growl. “No wash, Yunho.”
He tries to keep his voice level, but the defiance in your voice, in your eyes, has his hand twitching by his side. “You have to, baby, you’re filthy. I don’t like filthy girls, do I?”
It’s true—if it weren’t such an issue it’d almost be funny that someone like him, used to keeping things clean and tidy and very much set in his ways, would be so irrevocably bonded with someone who scarcely even understands why it’s necessary to wash in the first place.
He doesn’t blame you, of course; with the life you’ve had he knows he can’t expect any different. But it does cause problems sometimes.
“Baby,” he repeats. “Do I like filthy girls?”
You shake your head, deflating a little. One way he’s found to make you understand why it’s necessary to do or not do certain things is to frame them around him—Yunho doesn’t like that. Yunho likes this. You have to do it this way, because it makes Yunho happy.
Whatever works, he supposes, and he can’t deny he enjoys the way you’re almost religiously in need of his praise and approval. It’s a level of power he doesn’t quite know what to do with; he certainly wants to maintain it, though.
Other people would just abuse it, anyway.
“Let’s go wash up,” he says. “Then you’ll be nice and clean and I’ll be happy.”
“And reward?” You ask, hope evident in your voice.
He bites back a grin that’s a little more predatory than he can admit of himself. “Yeah, love,” he says. “Then reward.”
It’s as much as a reward for him—more, probably, if you were to ask anyone but you. But you’re not going to ask anyone else, so it doesn’t really matter.
He sets the bath running—it’s easier than trying to put you in the shower, he’s found—at the temperature you seem to hate the least. Not too warm, but not too cold. He doesn’t set it cold unless you’re being really, really bad. You stand hovering behind him while he prepares it; when he’s awake you tend to follow him around the house, not really certain what else to do with yourself. Even facing away from you, he feels the way you tense up when he sets the water running; you relax a little when you see him set it warm, though not entirely, and he bites down a laugh.
“Relax, bunny,” he murmurs. “You’ve been good. S’gonna be just how you like it.”
“Don’t like any of it,” you grumble. He rolls his eyes.
“Okay,” he says, turning off the taps. “In we get. Let’s get you nice and clean, wash this filth off you.”
You don’t fight him when he lifts you up and puts you into the tub; you only do it very occasionally these days, when you’re particularly agitated or bratty, but for the most part he’s weeded that particular instinct out of you. You know, now, not to fight Yunho; not while he’s the one who protects you from the world. Especially not while he can hit that hard.
You stay still, docile, silent as he cleans you up. He rewards you with your favourite fluffy towel, warmed on the radiator, wrapped around you once he dries you off. “All done,” he says. “I’ll get you a clean shirt.”
He slips another old, loose shirt over your head; it falls to your mid-thigh, and the fabric is soft and worn, the colour starting to fade. Then he puts you on your knees by the foot of the bed; grips your jaw between his fingers and yanks it upwards to meet his eyes. “I’m gonna give you your reward,” he says. “Tell me the rule.”
“No teeth,” you recite it, as you always do. “No biting. Only tongue.”
“And if you break that rule, what’ll happen?”
“Belt.”
He hums. He doesn’t particularly enjoy beating you; you don’t put up a fight, at least, not anymore, but your pained whimpers do very little for him. It’s purely a disciplinary measure, one of the few ways to keep you in line that actually deters you. He doesn’t do it often—usually you’re just over his knee and he’s using his hand, or a small brush sometimes—only when it’s something serious. And given your predilection for meat, he definitely views keeping your teeth off his dick as something serious.
“Open your mouth,” he orders, pulling his dick out from his sweats. It slides in easily past your lips and into the warmth. You make a face, wincing slightly, but he knows it’s not the intrusion that’s bothering you; rather the soap he forced into your mouth as he always does before he goes anywhere near it.
He knows exactly the sort of things that have been in that mouth, and it’s nothing he wants on his fingers or his lips or his heavy leaking cock.
You suckle at it eagerly, swirling your tongue around the tip in just the way he taught you; you’re whimpering slightly, the size overwhelming you, staring up at him with those wide, innocent eyes like you don’t even understand what's happening to you, a stray tear playing on your waterline.
Fuck, he shouldn’t be getting off on that. He shouldn’t fucking be doing any of this; you’re so naive, so inexperienced; you have no knowledge of the world beyond his apartment. You can barely string a sentence together; barely understand what he’s saying to you unless he dumbs it down.
You’re like a child. For all intents and purposes, you are one. The guilt and the shame sits heavy in his stomach as he pushes himself down into your throat.
“That’s it,” he groans. “You enjoy it, baby. Do I taste good?”
You make a humming noise, affirmative, tightening your lips around his shaft and he groans. “Shit.” You’re so fucking good at this when you can keep your damn teeth off of him. “Alright,” he says. “I’m gonna cum down your throat. Remember your manners and swallow it.”
It doesn’t take him long; he grabs the back of your head and pulls it towards him then starts to thrust, in and out, faster and harder until he’s fucking your throat and you’re gagging and spluttering around his shaft. Your sweet little hands are fisting at his shirt, curling the fabric around your fists like you’re holding on for dear life. He cums suddenly, quickly, directly into your throat. You probably couldn’t spit it up if you tried with how deep he is; still, though, he pats your head and praises you for swallowing it so sweetly. It’s a point of pride for him, honestly, how well he’s trained you up.
“Alright,” he says, tucking himself back into his sweats. “How you feeling?”
“Fine,” you mumble. You’re still staring up at him with those wide puppy eyes, the way that always gets him though he doubts you’re aware of that; you don’t seem to have any kind of pattern recognition, any understanding of cause and effect. He picks you up with his hands hooked under your arms and sits you down on the edge of the bed, then he crouches down to meet your eyes.
“You sleepy, baby?” He asks. You nod. “Alright, pet. You can sleep in my arms while I watch TV.”
He carries you through, your head tucked into the crook of his neck; by the time he puts you down you’re already snoring. He laughs slightly as he adjusts you so you’re cradled sideways in his lap, your face pressed tightly enough against his chest that your cheeks are squished. You look so cute when you sleep; so harmless.
Really, you look harmless all the time, unless you’re eating. But he’s hardly one to judge, he thinks, not anymore. He’s as inhuman as you are now.
He likes to get your food a few days in advance. He can’t stock up in bulk, unfortunately, because if the meat’s more than a week old it’ll make you sick, so he likes to go out every Friday for it.
It’s all procedural; clinical. He finds it, he brings it back, he cuts it and freezes and stores it. It’s as simple as that.
He gets no thrill from it; no pleasure. That fact is the sole thing that keeps him steady most days.
At just after eleven on Friday, he puts you to bed as he always does. On the nights he goes out, you sleep in your cage; it’s not a punishment, never has been, just a way to ensure you’re safe and contained while he’s gone. He’s tried to make it homely for you, with pillows and blankets and a couple of toys for you to play with; the little stuffed bear you like to pretend to pounce on and the toy car you push around and watch with wonder as the wheels spin against the floor. He’s never gone for too long, and by the time he comes back you’re almost always asleep.
Today’s kill is in two bags, as usual; they’re large, cooled, like the ones his mother would pack his picnics into when he was a child. He’s not particularly fond of cutting people up where they fall, but he knows he’d never be able to pull a body up the stairs without being caught; that’s why he tends to go for dark alleyways, empty buildings, wooded areas and the like—less people to stumble across him while he’s doing what he needs to do.
The gun is in his pocket, safety on, the silencer still wrapped around the barrel. He puts it away first, locked up in the safe, then puts the meat into the freezer and locks the door.
He’s pretty tired tonight. He’ll get the meat ready in the morning. He has to do it when he’s awake and alert and in the right frame of mind or the sight and the smell and the sound of the knife sinking into the muscle will make him retch.
You’re curled up and knocked out in the cage when he returns to the bedroom, your face tucked between your knees and your arms wrapped around your shins. He picks you up, careful not to wake you; you make a soft, quiet noise when he lifts you, somewhere between a whimper and a breath, but you don’t stir.
You sleep pressed against his chest, his face buried in your hair, breathing you in. He savours the nights like this, when you sleep together; your sleep schedule is so irregular that he rarely gets the opportunity to have you like this.
The last thing he’s conscious of is the sound of you murmuring his name against his chest, talking in your sleep.
The next few weeks pass normally enough. You eat well, as you usually do, and you listen to him when he gives you an instruction. He only has to spank you once, for making a fuss when he has to leave, and even that is just a few minutes with his bare hand, comparatively mild; he doesn’t even pull your panties down for it—just lifts up your shirt and slams his hand down until your skin is glowing red.
When he’s done, there’s a little wet patch on the crotch of your panties that he decides not to mention. He definitely notes it, though.
It’s on a Friday morning that things start to go downhill.
He wakes up to a missed call from his father—a bad start. He hardly talks to the man; hasn’t since he left for college, really. The only reason he still engages with him is that his mother is sick in the hospital and his dad is the only person who keeps him updated on it.
He presses the call button begrudgingly. The sound of his father’s voice makes him wince. “Yunho, hello.”
“Hi, dad,” Yunho says. He peers through the crack in his bedroom door, into the small expanse of hallway it reveals. He thought he’d heard you walking around when he was waking up, but when he got out of the shower you’d gone silent. He supposes you’ve fallen asleep somewhere. “What’s up?”
“Your mother is doing better,” his father says. “She’s walking again. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh, that’s good. Yeah. Thanks. Anything else?”
“Are you going to come to visit her?”
Yunho sighs, closing his eyes, massaging the bridge of his nose. “I told you,” he says. “I can’t right now.” He can’t leave you here—and he certainly can’t take you with him. God knows how you’d react, what you’d do; he’s not even certain you fully grasp the concept of anyone else existing but you and him.
“Why not?”
“I have a… I’m having issues with work. And I’m taking care of my friend’s kid.” A lie for several reasons. Yunho doesn’t have any friends.
“Well, bring the kid.”
“I can’t,” he says. “My friend is in the hospital, too. We need to be in the area if something happens.”
His dad doesn’t respond; just scoffs. The sound of the tone when he hangs up makes Yunho flinch, drawing his phone away from his ear. For fuck’s sake.
You’re on the couch, it turns out, only half asleep; Yunho wakes you with a hand on your shoulder and sits you up. “Come on,” he says. “Breakfast.”
“You were talking,” you say, following him through to the kitchen. “Why?”
“My dad called me,” he answers. “First time in months. I was talking to him.”
“Oh,” you nod, sitting yourself down, but there’s a measure of confusion on your face still like something’s not quite computing with you. “Are you my dad?”
You ask it so earnestly and innocently that it makes him sick. Not the question—the way his dick twitches in his pants in response to it. “What?” He shakes his head quickly, his face burning. “No. No, I’m not. Your dad is… your dad is the man that made you and helps you grow up.”
“You help me grow up.”
“Not when you were a child,” he says. “And I didn’t make you. I just look after you.”
“I don’t think I have a dad.”
“Do you have a mom?” He asks. “Like a dad, but a woman.”
You don’t reply; you just stare at him like you’re waiting for him to finish his sentence. He sighs. “A woman. You know what that means?”
“Me?” You ask uncertainly.
“That’s right,” he nods. “A woman has a hole, like you. A man has a dick, like me.”
“I didn’t have a mom,” you respond after a moment. “I had me.”
Yunho hums, processing what you’ve said; this is the most you’ve ever spoken about your life before he found you. There’s so much he wants to know about it; at the same time, though, he thinks he may be better off ignorant. He still doesn’t know what you are, really, why it is you need to eat what you eat, why other foods, other meats make you so sick and weak and grey. He can’t imagine any explanation for that that he wouldn’t regret finding out.
“Well, you have me now,” he says. “And I take care of you.”
“Dad.”
“No, not dad. Yunho.”
“Dad is a man that takes care of me,” you argue. You point at him. “Dad.”
“Not just takes care of you,” he says. “Dads don’t just take care of you, they make you as well. I didn’t make you.”
You frown, your hand falling; Yunho dares to think you look almost… crestfallen. He bites his lip. “Would you like to have had a dad, baby?”
“You,” you reply. “Have a dad that’s you.”
Oh Christ. He holds back a groan, willing himself to think of anything but his half-hard dick and the way that word sounds so soft and sweet and innocent on your tongue.
Well. Anything for his baby, right?
He tells himself over and over that that’s all it is; something to make you happy. “If you want to see me as your dad,” he says, “if you do see me as your dad. That’s okay.”
“I’d be a good…” You pause, frowning slightly. “If you’re dad, what am I?”
“A daughter, I suppose.”
“I’d be a good daughter.”
Yunho smiles. “I know you would.”
You eat quietly, not too messily; the meat he gives you this morning is mostly dried out, a few days in the freezer, so there’s no blood to drip down onto your shirt. When you’re done, you push the plate towards him with a whispered “thank you.”
He’s just about to head out when it happens. He doesn’t know why you decide to lie there, curled up on the floor in the middle of the hallway—he doesn’t even see you until it’s too late. His head is a mess, adrenaline already pumping as he readies himself for what he has to do; he’s rushing to grab his keys from one kitchen when he feels it. His shin presses up against something, something solid, and he’s falling before he can stop himself.
He hears the snap; feels the pain before he even realises what’s happened. When he looks down at his ankle, the break is obvious.
Fuck.
He groans; he tries to get up but the slightest weight on it has him stumbling back down again, hissing in pain, head spinning.
Okay. Shit. This is fine.
He’s set broken bones before; treated them. He did it all the time in college when he volunteered as a first aider. Nobody breaks bones like drunk college kids with someone to impress.
He hops over to the first aid kit, gathering what he needs, then sits down, his bad ankle resting on the chair in front of him. It doesn’t take too long to fix himself up; by the time he does you’ve woken up, wandering curiously into the kitchen; your eyes widen at the sight of him. “What happened?”
“I hurt my ankle,” he says simply. “I tripped over you. In the hall.”
“Oh.”
“How many times have I told you not to fall asleep where you’re in my way?”
You shrug slightly. You have the decency—the awareness, perhaps—to look a little uneasy.
“Well?” He prompts you.
“A few,” you say. “M’sorry.”
“You need to learn to listen,” he tells you. “I keep telling you things over and over and you don’t learn. You don’t obey.”
“Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” he says. “But I won’t be able to go out tonight.”
“What?”
“I can’t put weight on this. I don’t have anything to lean on. I can’t hunt down and kill someone in this state, let alone bring a corpse back to the apartment.”
You blink. “But I need to eat.”
“I can’t do anything for you,” he says. “I can’t get out until this heals a bit. You still have the supplies in the freezer.”
“And then?” You press. “When I finish?”
“We’ll make do,” he says. He pauses briefly, grunting, then gives a low, dry laugh. “You consider this part of your punishment, for never fucking listening to me.”
Only part of it, of course, because you absolutely have a belting in your future once he’s able to stand up again, and by the look on your face he can tell you know that. He could probably do it now, albeit awkwardly, but if he’s going to take the belt to you he’s going to do it with his full strength. Perhaps the wait will do you some good; help the lesson sink in a little deeper.
He tries to ration the food; it lasts you longer than he thought it would, but you have to eat regularly or you start to get sick; grey skin and unsteady on your feet and crying in pain like you’ve been poisoned. He’s learned from experience that, once that sets in, it doesn’t take long for your condition to deteriorate even more.
One week later, he manages to put weight on his ankle again. Not as easily as he’d like, but he manages to jog awkwardly around the apartment.
And a good thing, too, because your food has officially ran out.
He was annoyingly close to making it on time. He has everything ready by the time he’s fit enough to hunt. Just a few hours and he’ll be fully stocked up and the rationing can stop and his baby will have everything she needs again.
It very nearly works. There’s a queasy feeling in his stomach even before he sees you that tells him that it hasn’t.
You’re on the floor when he comes out into the living room. Your skin is greyed, glistening with sweat, and you’re whimpering and clutching your stomach. Fuck. He’s too late.
He curses, rushing over to you, pulling you up and into his arms.
“Baby,” he says. He tries to keep his voice low, steady, even, but panic is setting in and it feels like his stomach is twisting into a tight, tangled knot. “Sweetheart, look at me. Look at me. Stay with me.”
Your eyes are half shut, drooping; he curses under his breath, shaking you, calling your name. Soft at first. Then panicked. Then stern; that’s the one that has you responding.
“Yunho,” you whine. “F-food, please.”
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I can go and get you some.”
“No,” you cry. You’re shaking now, smaller and frailer in his arms than he’s ever seen you, and your skin is ice cold, somehow soaked in sweat and bone dry at the same time. “Need— now. Please. Gonna— gonna…”
“Now?” He repeats.
“Please,” you whisper. “Gonna die.”
He believes you. He looks around the room, searching for something he can use; his eyes land on the kitchen countertop. On the case of knives, locked up.
The realisation sets in like sickness. He knows what he has to do.
“How much do you need?” He asks.
“Not… not that much,” you say. “Just some.”
“Stay here.” He eases you down onto the floor then pushes himself up; the case doesn’t need a key to open, just a simple latch mechanism, even that too advanced for you to crack, so it doesn’t take long to get what he needs. He comes back to kneel by your side, eyes moving between you and the knife and his leg.
Your eyes are closed now, but you’re still awake for the most part, mumbling things he doesn’t understand. You do that sometimes; did it a lot at first before he taught you how to talk. He theorised you’d had your own little language where you were before.
He pulls up his pant leg to around his knee. He goes for the calf, the same leg as his bad ankle; he’s going to take a strip out of it, he decides, down the side, so there’s not too much of him missing and he can go back out and stock up tomorrow, once you’re in the clear. He’ll have to adjust his methods slightly, perhaps, but he’ll get it done. He doesn’t really have a choice.
He inhales, a slow, shaking breath, then lifts the knife to his calf and presses down. He can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut as the blade sinks into his skin.
He bandages it carefully, with the supplies he’s cultivated over years of injuries, usually from people fighting back, that he couldn’t take to a hospital. He admits, though, that this is the worst one yet. Scratches and scrapes and bites and, once, a chain of keys stabbed into his arm, that’s one thing; this is an entire chunk out of his leg. He feels dizzy and sick and the pain makes his eyes water, every movement sore, but there was no alternative. He couldn’t just let you starve. Couldn’t let you die.
A small section of it, just a piece, forced past your cold grey lips and into your mouth, was enough to have you conscious and aware again. He carries you to the table and sets down a plate for the rest.
You’re slower to eat it than you normally are, as if you’re savouring it, savouring the taste of him on your tongue; you stare at it in what looks like wonder when he puts it down onto your plate, poking at it with your finger; pressing down on it so the blood seeps out from where it had been held by the meat.
“Yunho,” you murmur, then smile. “My Yunho.”
“How do I taste?” He asks. His voice is quiet, weak, his head still spinning a little, but you hear it nonetheless.
“Good,” you say. “Thank you. Hurt?”
“Me?” He asks. You nod. “Yeah, it does. It’ll heal, though, it’ll just leave a nasty scar I think.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise,” he says. “You needed to eat.”
You swallow the last piece with a smile; blood drips down your chin and lands on your chest, on his shirt, seeping into the fabric. He helps you take the shirt off as he always does; lowers you carefully into the tub to clean you up.
Usually, he throws the shirts into the washing machine and cleans them before they can stain.
The Lord Knoweth My Name; Being an Account of Certain Disturbances Which Befell Our Household.
ಠ_ಠwarning/content: RATED X. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY. not proof read, chapter one of six, historical puritan au; dialogue is a mix of old and modern english, readers father has passed, supernatural / demonic elements, reader is plagued by dreams including but not limited to: trippy and dark imagery / nipple play / sort of fingering
soundtrack by @jailn & @last-words-ofashootingstar
It feels wrong to hear someone else besides your father preach such as this.
"O Lord Most High, Thou who givest and takest away according to Thy perfect wisdom, we bow beneath Thy hand this day. Thou hast called home Thy servant, who long laboured in Thy vineyard and faithfully broke unto us the Bread of Life. Though our hearts be heavy and our eyes filled with tears, yet we dare not contend with Thy decree, for Thou doest all things well. "
But Jeong Yunho — now Pastor Jeong since your father's passing — he preaches well. He recites prayers without hesitation and he reminds you all of what the bible teaches to do in times such as these.
"Thou hast numbered his days, and when his work was finished, Thou didst grant him rest from his earthly pilgrimage. Teach us, O God, to number our own days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. Let not his voice be forgotten amongst us, but may the truths he preached be written upon our souls. And grant unto us grace to walk faithfully, that when our own summons shall come, we may depart in peace and behold Thy glory. "
His dark eyes come to find your family: your mother, your siblings, and finally — you. You're taking his sudden passing harder than any of them, sobbing and sniffling and near choking on your sorrow.
"Comfort the widow, strengthen the fatherless, and uphold Thy flock, now bereft of its shepherd. Raise up faithful labourers to feed Thy people, and let Thy Word continue to run and be glorified. Through Jesus Christ our only Mediator and Redeemer, unto whom be all honour and dominion, world without end. Amen."
††††††
You stare at the wall of your humble room from the edge of your bed, decorated with dried flowers and pages of your father's preachings.
It's quiet in the home, save for your mother's small cries a few rooms over. Your sister lays in the bed beside your own, silent as a mouse. Your brother lays in the one on the far side of the room.
"Do you think father can see us?" Your young sister asks.
"He is in the Kingdom with our Almighty Father, should he have such reason to look upon us?" You respond, short and snippy.
"Perhaps. If he misses us."
"Why would you miss such lowkey mortals in the presence of our Father and savior?"
"Why must you always be so... discouraging?"
"I am being but truthful."
"You're being a -"
A loud knocking at the door stops your argument before it continues any further. "Go and see who that is," your brother groans from bed, rubbing his temples as he sits.
You make the short journey, looking through the peephole to see Pastor Jeong. "Sir," you greet plainly as you open the door.
"Hello," he smiles, warm and inviting you to smile back despite the circumstances. You do so, a small twitch of your lips. "I've come bearing gifts." He hold up a large wicker basket upon two of his fingers. "From the rest of the community. They all wanted to come themselves but, I didn't want to overwhelm you in your grief."
"Thank you, Pastor," you nod after a moment, stepping aside to make room for him. "Come in, please."
"Thank you, dear," he ducks into the doorframe and stands once inside, his eyes immediately going to the cross over the dinner table. And they linger — so much so that you notice his fixated gaze.
"My father made it. He said he blessed it, specially to protect us children."
"How nice," he smiles again, tearing his eyes from the cross. "Shall I set this on the table?"
"Oh, yes," you gesture timidly, stepping out of his way as he takes long strides.
"Mostly fruit and vegetables from other families gardens, but there is some meat you may want to store."
"How thoughtful of everyone." The silence between you irks you. Unsettles your gut. "Finney!" You yell into the hall, "Jane! Mother! The Pastor is here."
It feels wrong calling someone else the Pastor.
You sigh as you turn back around, and it comes out as a gasp when you see the cross behind Pastor Jeong upside down. "What's the matter?" He asks, his eyes fully black.
When you blink, it's all gone. The cross is right side up and his eyes are a warm chocolate brown.
"Noth- Nothing, sir. I fear my eyes are weary from crying and I must... well, I must have been seeing things."
"What did you see?" He tilts his head, inquisitively.
"Pastor Jeong," your mother greets him hoarsely, in nothing other than her shift and your fathers coat.
"Yunho!" Your sister is more excited, running and hugging the man's long leg.
"Hello, little one," he says, patting her head with a smile.
You blink towards the cross, reassuring yourself that it's right side up. It is. But the knot of dread in your gut remains.
††††††
You awake to your little sisters giggling. It's strange to hear her laughter, as it's been only a week since your father's passing.
"Janey..." You groan sleepily, rolling in your bed to face hers. Only, she isn't there. She's standing by the window in the room, waving out to the woods.
"Jane?" You sit up fully now, holding your blanket to your chest. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing!" She says quickly, running to her bed and spooking you into a small yelp. "I was saying hello to someone."
"Someone in the woods?"
"Not just anyone." She yawns, falling deeper into her pillow, "the witch."
"The witch?" You don't get a response, for she is already asleep. "Jane?"
††††††
"Hello, Pastor," you greet as he walks along the fence of your garden, setting down the bucket of water you carry and wiping your hands on your apron.
"Hello, dearest lady," his words manage to make you smile, as they have over the past two weeks since your father's passing. "Are you hard at work?"
"As the Lord demands it," you grin, "how can I help you, sir?"
You know he's stopped by to check on you and your grieving family. He has every other day. "Your mother has invited me for tea, did she not invite you?"
"She did not have to," you smile, "tea was my idea. I dried some herbs perfect for the heat, last winter."
"You did now?"
"I did." The nod you give is almost proud, and his coming praise makes you even prouder.
"What good planning you've done. Two years ahead on herbs."
"Twas easy." You give a shrug and a smirk, bending to get the bucket when your neckerchief comes undone from your neck and exposes your shoulders and decolletage. "Oh, oops," you feel a heat of shame rising on your face as you feel the man's eyes on you. "My apologies, Pastor, I don't mean to be indecent-" You scramble after the piece of fabric as it blows in the wind.
"Don't worry, dear," he picks it up for you and dusts it off in the wind, folding it accordingly before stepping closer and pulling it back around your neck. His fingers brush against your breasts as he tucks it into your bodice, and you stand in shock at his actions.
If anyone found out he'd touched you — so intimately at that — you'd never shake the rumors.
"I won't tell if you don't." He winks, fingers running along your stiff bodice, that place where your bust is thickest, as he steps past you. "Come, we have tea waiting on us."
"Right," you blink, "tea." You forget the bucket entirely as you turn on your heel and follow him into your home.
"Pastor!" Your mother brightens up at the sight of the man, like much of your family has come to do. "Just in time, I just set the tea to cool."
You head to the basin and rinse your hands while they exchange casual greetings, before moving to more intimate of a topic. "How is the boy?" Pastor Jeong asks while looking down the hall, "has there been any improvement?"
Finney had fallen ill two days after your father was buried — sick with grief, some people were saying. He runs a fever all through the day and night for two weeks now, his skin got to the touch and damp with sweat even in the cool weather. He speaks nonsense, when he does rarely speak. He preaches incoherently for the glory of God and prays quietly for such God to have mercy on his sinner soul.
"He spoke again today. To (Y/n)."
"Do you remember what he said?"
"I don't not know if i could ever forget, sir. He was very... clear today." You dry your hands and sit beside your mother, "very clear."
"And what was it he was so clear about?"He takes a slow sip of tea while you take a moment to recall the words burned into your memory for their blasphemous and bitter tone.
"Lord, I beg Thee, speak plainly, for I can no longer discern Thy hand. Every misfortune appears a judgment, every silence a condemnation. Have I fallen from Thy favor? Have I entertained some secret wickedness beyond my knowledge? Reveal it unto me, though the revelation may break my heart. Tis better to suffer beneath Thy rod than wander forsaken beneath Thy silence. Forgive me, Lord. Most righteous Father, I confess with trembling spirit that I have sinned against Thee. My thoughts have wandered where they ought not, and my heart has harbored rebellion. I deserve Thy wrath and not Thy mercy. Yet I fall upon that mercy still, begging that Thou wouldst not turn Thy face from me. Chasten me if Thou must, but do not abandon me to my corruption. If this be a trial, I am weary. If this be punishment, I do not know my crime. And if this be abandonment, forgive me. For I do not know how to stop searching for the footsteps of a God who no longer walks beside me. Amen."
His eyes widen as you speak so fluidly, your brother's words from earlier this day. "So..."
You look over your shoulder into the hall, where your brothers words still lies in bed feverishly ill, "so, God hath abandoned us."
††††††
The heat is that of summer, sticking to your skin and causing your shift to cling to your damp skin. Despite that, all of the trees are barren of green — as though winter has laid claim to the earth. The sky is a sickly hue of midnight blue, neither day nor night.
The tolling of a church bell sounds across the woods. The sound is low and mournful, and you follow it, hoping to find some comfort in this strange moment.
Yet when you come to a clearing, you see no meetinghouse. Instead, a multitude of figures pass silently before you, each bearing a candle whose flame burns weak and blue. As they draw nearer, dread seizes you, for every face among them is but a blur of flesh.
You flee from that place and come unto a lonely field, wherein stands an apple tree — long dead and stripped of fruit. Darkness falls over the earth as you seek refuge by sitting underneath it, among the twisted and deep roots.
And in that darkness you hear weeping. You know not whether it belongs to another soul, to some creature hidden from sight, or to yourself.
Then comes the sound of footsteps behind you.
Slow. Measured. Drawing ever nearer.
"You poor thing." Yunho's voice echoes in the field despite its quiet nature. You jump up to find the holy man, only your hands and knees before him. "Sweet mourning lamb."
"Pastor-" You finally find your voice within the dread, only for the air to be knocked out of your lungs as he tackles you to the ground, your head colliding with the dirt.
"Let me comfort thee." He moans into your neck, lips pressed against your heavy pulse. "Let me take away thy pain. All you have to do is say you want it." His hands are sliding your shift up your legs, and you know what he must mean.
And despite all of your inner turmoils, your knowing of how sinful this must be set out to become — you whisper, "I want it." Tis just a dream anyways. Dreams are much easier to repent for.
He lifts your shift up to expose your most intimate area, then further; up your belly, then further; exposing your breasts.
"Such a pretty thing..." He trails his thumb over your nipple, making you jolt with a suppressed moan, "so young and full of life. So... supple."
His administrations are quickly an assault to your senses, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses down your neck and to your chest, where he licks at one bud of flesh while toying the other with his fingers.
You gasp freely now, hands patting the ground; not sure where to go. "Hold onto me," he says against your chest, and you're quick to comply, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and holding onto him tightly as his hand drags along down your stomach and over your cunt; cupping it firmly with a groan deep in his throat.
"Virgins get wet so easily," he says under his breath, to himself more than anything as he slides two fingers along your slit.
You awaken by being shaken by Finney, screaming your name. "Heavens, what is wrong with you?!" He turns his head and coughs, hand to his chest.
"What happened?" You sit up in your bed with a groan, a large striking pain on the back of your head which you bring a hand to and hold it gently. You remember it like a puzzle with pieces stitched together at the wrong seams.
"You were tossing and turning like a madwoman and then you started groaning," he takes a step back with a small pout, "are you getting the same sickness as me?"
"No," you shake your head quickly, "no, my head just hurts is all."
While you and your brother are settling into the same bed after you asked him not to leave, Yunho is across town with one hand over his frustrated face — the other in his boxer pants while he tries to remember the taste of your flesh.
there are two things that are irritating wooyoung lately: people won’t stop bringing up the fact that he had chlamydia a year ago, and the podcaster that seems to know more about sex than he does.
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 1/? ~10k words
🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, reader has a boyfriend (who is choi yeonjun.) drinking, banter, explicit content, making fun of religion(?), i genuinely don't know what else to tag i just wrote all of this in one sitting and i can't think about it anymore
“MISSIONARY IS FOR PEOPLE IN LOVE, it is not for people who want their backs blown out until they can’t fucking walk. To my men listening, which, I’m sorry if you are, if your girl is asking you for missionary, she’s in love with you. And to my ladies listening, which, I love you if you are, if your man is asking you for missionary, he’s in love with you.”
Wooyoung picks up his phone from the cupholder beside his gearstick and closes out of Spotify with a gruffled noise. “Bullshit,” he mumbles under his breath. “This girl has never had her knees above her head before.”
“Why’d you turn it off?” San asks from Wooyoung’s passenger seat, his face knitted in frustration. “I was listening to that!”
“She clearly doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Wooyoung argues, sinking further into the leather bucket seats of his car, downshifting as he comes up to a red light. “I don’t know why you insist on listening to it, she’s not giving you any tips you don’t already know.”
“Some of us aren’t as experienced as you, Woo.” He turns his head to see San staring at him with pointed eyes, the older man’s frustration hasn’t settled at all. “She’s a window into the female mind. Girls don’t talk about sex so openly.”
“They do if you just ask,” Wooyoung counters. “They say a lot if you just ask.”
Unscripted. The podcast his entire campus is listening to, talking about, praising, worshiping, Wooyoung hates it down to his very fucking bones. The woman whose voice was just grating through his car’s incredible speaker system claims her pod is an open conversation, an outlet where viewers can send in their questions, topics, so that the ‘taboo’ topic of sex can be spoken about openly, shamelessly.
Wooyoung has no issue talking about sex. It’s far from taboo for him, it’s talked about every day of his life, every hour, he thinks about it every minute. While he gets shit for it from just about everyone in his goddamn life, this woman who he cannot stand is treated like a deity for it. Usually a podcast is paired with a video, some kind of face to the name, something that viewers can fact-check. But this woman is a no-face, no-name ghost.
“You’re telling me if I laid a woman down and asked her to teach me to make her squirt, she’d do it?” San asks, back straightened, brows in his hairline.
Wooyoung turns his head with a dead stare, “Yes, San. It’s really that fucking easy.”
San huffs. “Well, imagine how much cooler it was when I already knew how to do it. You know the reaction I got, after learning step-by-step from Unscripted? My hips were sore the next day. My hips, Wooyoung.”
“You would have gotten the same reaction if you just asked her.” Wooyoung upshifts, engine roaring as his frustration grows. “Women like that shit, teaching, showing you exactly what to do. And when you succeed? God, none of you listen to me, you listen to the no-face, no-resume, self-appointed sex god.”
“No resume?” San snorts. “Maybe we’d rather listen to a woman tell us what women want, and not the self-appointed campus whore.”
Wooyoung can’t even be mad at the jab, because at a different time, he gave himself that exact title. It was like wearing a crown, having women flock to him, his bed filled with someone different every night, learning how to please others with his mind, two hands and his cock. He learned it all himself, by asking, by doing the work, and now his friends were getting a tutorial by some nobody named Unscripted? It’s so corny it threatens to ruin the concept of sex for him.
“Maybe you should try actually asking a woman what she wants,” Wooyoung snaps back, pulling his car into the driveway of his frat. A long strip of blacktop big enough to hold six cars, he liked being parked at the back, not blocked in by anyone else. He could leave whenever he wanted, to fuck whoever he wanted. He throws his car in park and turns to San again. “Maybe you shouldn’t assume what all women want just because a random one told you her tips are universal.”
“I really don’t get why you hate her so much.” San is shaking his head as he reaches for the forty-rack from the backseat. “If you don’t need the tips, then you can simply not listen. Why shit on everyone who enjoys it?”
“I’m not– why are you so offended?” Wooyoung asks before sliding out of the driver’s side, closing the door behind him. Locking the car, starting the trek up to the two story house, Wooyoung continues, “Who cares if I don’t like it?”
“I care because I enjoy it and you’re shitting on my enjoyment.” San keeps Wooyoung’s pace as the sound of bass grows louder, cans of beer clinking together in the case hanging from San’s fingers. “Maybe I wanted to find out if someone is in love with me when they ask me for missionary tonight.”
Wooyoung stops in his tracks. “If a girl wants missionary, she wants your dick so far inside her she can’t breathe. That’s it. She’s not in love with you, she wants your dick to tear her apart. That’s Unscripted.”
San stares for a moment before bursting out in laughter. “Man,” he wheezes, “you should be a guest star or something.”
Wooyoung’s face stays flat, unimpressed. “I would never want my name attached to that shit-show of a fucking podcast. It’d tarnish my good name.”
“Your name has about four STDs and three pregnancy scares attached to it. I don’t think the podcast would tarnish that.”
“I had chlamydia once, San,” Wooyoung bites, walking up the brick steps to the house, voice louder to travel over the sound of bass. “And I took the fucking medication. Drop it, no one talks about that anymore.”
San is smirking as he rips open the door, “Everyone talks about it, Woo. Just not to your face.”
Wooyoung doesn’t even have a chance to respond before the music swallows their conversation whole. Inside the house was a mass of bodies, too many to count, too many to breathe between. But Wooyoung tries anyway, letting the bass cleanse him of his frustration, or maybe that was the brunette he caught out of the corner of his eye that made instinct grab the wheel.
He stores the information for later, when he’s ingested at least three beers and he’s ready to take the party to his bedroom. Her friend was cute, too, darker hair and a silver hoop in her nose, he wonders if they’d both be down for taking the party upstairs.
“You’re back!” Yunho beams from the kitchen, the older man’s head of blonde hair spotting him easily, his eye level above everyone else’s. “Where’s the beer?”
“San has it,” Wooyoung throws a thumb behind him, beside him, he doesn’t know where the hell San had gone. “He’s around here somewhere.”
Yunho smacks his teeth as he looks as far as his brown eyes can see, “Where the fuck else is there to go with a case of forty fucking beers other than the kitchen?”
Wooyoung eyes up the bottle of vodka standing tall on the counter. He wasn’t planning to get drunk tonight, just tipsy enough for his orgasm(s) to feel that much better, but the clear liquid beckons to him. Dares him. And Wooyoung never, ever backs down from anything, let alone a dare.
He pours a shot, then another one, then the jacket clinging to his shoulders feels suffocating. Not the seventy-five people in his house, no, but the leather on his shoulders that hangs off his body enough to feel a summer breeze on the back of his neck. It’s hot enough to swim outside, but Wooyoung was married to his leather jacket the way he was married to casual sex. Wooyoung, sex and leather go together hand-in-hand.
San finally barrels into the kitchen to pack the beers into the fridge, and Wooyoung grabs one before attempting to make his way to the stairs, up to his room where he could hang his precious baby in his closet. He’s stopped twice, a third time in the middle of the staircase, all by women who were wondering why he was going upstairs so early, and why he had no one at his side. Their eyes told him they wanted to take the spot.
After assuring all three of them he’d be right back downstairs, and offering them all a dance and a drink, voices on the other side of his beige bedroom door stop him from going inside. His brows furrow, irritation blooming because why the fuck are there people in his room? He starts to make out words, and the conversation makes his palm hover over the door handle.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” A guy. A voice he doesn’t recognize.
A woman’s voice follows, “Come on, we never do anything like this, it’s risky. Isn’t that fun?”
“What if someone walks in?”
“Let them see.” Her voice drops into something seductive, low and velvety, it makes Wooyoung’s already-warm insides ten times hotter. “Don’t you want to fuck me? We don’t even know who’s room this is.”
“I… we should go back downstairs. Let’s get a drink, dance a little.”
Wooyoung can hear his own bed creak. “So you don’t want to fuck me?”
“That’s not what I said–”
“Fine.” The word is sharp, angry.
The bed creaks again, and before Wooyoung can move, his own bedroom door is ripped open, and a new, beautiful face he’s never seen before is staring at him like he’s a fucking pervert.
“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, voice edged with anger. No, that’s frustration– horny frustration.
Wooyoung can’t help his grin. “Who are you?”
She cringes– physically cringes before gritting her teeth, “Were you listening? Waiting to hear us fuck so you could jerk off or something, you fucking creep?”
Wooyoung doesn’t let the cringe make him falter. His smirk grows, finally looking over her shoulder to see the pitiful, utterly boring man behind her. Tall, buff, but the face of a fucking baby. Someone who definitely wouldn’t fuck her in a stranger’s bedroom, and even if it was Wooyoung’s bedroom, he kind of felt sorry for her.
“I was putting my jacket in my room, actually,” Wooyoung brings his eyes back to her just to watch all the color drain from her face. Before she can offer her apologies, he quips, “But I would have stayed for the show. It’s a shame you didn’t put one on for me.”
Her face that had just read apologetic a second ago morphs into shame, embarrassment, then the sort of rage Wooyoung was expecting. But it wasn’t directed at Wooyoung, it was directed at the man behind her, the one she had her back to, and kept it that way.
Without a word, she pushes past him to rush down the stairs, and Wooyoung steps to the side to let baby-face follow. But before he’s completely out of reach, Wooyoung stops him with, “Hold on.”
The guy turns, hands folded together to hide the tent that Wooyoung couldn’t comprehend why he wasn’t acting on. Sharp jaw, full lips, hair shaggy and unkempt like she had just had her knuckles in it, he was an attractive guy. From looks alone, he seems like a keeper, a real score for the girl Wooyoung would have been trying to get balls deep inside of right now if he wasn’t here.
He doesn’t know why he offers his advice. “When you have a girl like that, you take the risk.”
“You seem to take a lot of risks,” the man says coolly. “I know who you are, chlamydia.”
“Oh my fucking god,” Wooyoung groans, then walks into his bedroom. Stopping in his doorway, he turns to watch baby-face laugh down the stairs, and yells behind him, “That was a year ago, by the way!”
He can still hear the man laughing as he uses too much strength to hook his jacket onto a hanger, and then on the top rack of his closet. Frustration boils in his gut, and anger isn’t a party favor, so he makes his way to his bathroom, washes his face with freezing cold water, and lets his emotions reset before he even thinks about going back downstairs.
Wooyoung loves sex. He loves everything about sex, he loves giving, he loves receiving, he loves pleasure. Life is about enjoying, learning and changing and growing, and to Wooyoung, sex is the perfect blend of all life has to offer. He can’t imagine himself getting into a relationship, a pitiful one like that girl has, and sex becoming… regular. Boring. Not full of fantasy and shamelessness, being so carnally human, giving into your desire, but instead an activity, a routine, something you’re supposed to do so you do it.
No, sex to Wooyoung isn’t a routine, something to be fit into a schedule. Sex is fun, it’s about exploration, trusting someone else enough to be at your most vulnerable, and trusting them to carry you through it. Then trusting them to not call afterwards, or expect another night, or anything else from him at all, for that matter.
Maybe a skewed view on sex and relationships, but that’s Wooyoung’s fantasy, his life, his bible.
Just as he finishes his beer, there’s a knock at his door. He throws himself in-character, a lazy smirk on his lips, assuming it’s one of the girls he talked to on his way up here, in his heart he prays it's the best friends he spotted downstairs.
Much to his dismay, it’s neither. It’s the girlfriend from five minutes ago, still raging, apparently. Her arms are crossed, foot tapping against the carpet, eyes darting everywhere but on Wooyoung like she’s guilty. Already playing the part, Wooyoung leans into his doorframe as he asks, “Back to put on a one-woman show instead?”
She scoffs, “Like I’d ever fuck you.”
Wooyoung’s brows furrow. Interesting reaction. “Okay,” he starts, standing up a little straighter. “Then did you need a place to get yourself off or something? My bed has seen plenty of orgasms, don’t be shy.”
Her face morphs into pure disgust. “God, you’re disgusting, is sex all you think about?”
It’s a rhetorical question, but Wooyoung smiles anyway. “Kinda.”
“I’m here because I know who you are. I have about six friends who have fucked you, and I need your advice,” she says quickly, shamelessly, each and every one of her features flat and serious. When Wooyoung motions for her to continue, intrigued, she asks, “You would have done it, right?”
“Yeah,” she nods. Talking with her hands flying everywhere, she rages, “Fucked me in a random room, in a random house, at a random party on a random Friday night.”
“I’m sensing there’s more to unpack here,” Wooyoung says with growing boredom, shifting his weight on his other foot before leaning against the other side of his dooframe.
“Just answer the question,” she urges, hands landing on her hips.
Wooyoung lets out a short huff. “Your boyfriend is boring,” he says simply. “If you’re already bored with your sex life, then the relationship isn’t going to last. Go shopping, there’s plenty of dudes downstairs that would slobber at the idea of fucking you in my room.” He holds up a finger. “Don’t fuck in my room, though. My room is off-limits.”
Her lips scrunch to one side, a flush on her cheeks. “Is there any way to make him more… adventurous?”
“It’s a personality thing, baby. He doesn’t have the fun-guy gene. Like I said, go shopping, that’s what I’m about to do.” Wooyoung takes a step forward, closing his door behind him. “Shall we?”
“Why do you say that like it’s easy?” she snaps, not moving an inch, leaving an awkwardly small amount of space between them. Usually, Wooyoung would be all over it, but he isn’t in the mood to pick up the pieces of someone else’s relationship tonight. But it seems she’s insistent upon him putting it back together completely as she explains, “We’ve been together for over a year, I can’t just break up with him because he won’t fuck me in a frat house.”
Wooyoung sighs, leaning his back against his closed door. “You’re, what, twenty? Twenty-one? You have your entire life to have shitty, boring sex. Why are you rushing?”
“I refuse to believe that,” she crosses her arms. “That the rest of my life will consist of shitty, boring sex.”
“I can’t fix delusional,” Wooyoung mutters, and to him, that's the end of the conversation.
He’s three steps away from her before she starts it again. “That’s not delusion, that’s optimism. Manifestation. I shouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.”
He stops in his tracks, looking over his shoulder. He retorts, “Someone like me?”
Her brows are high, hands on her hips, one leg bent. Full of attitude. “You never called any of my friends back. Not one. Why would I expect someone like you to understand what a relationship would be like, what it takes to keep one, when you spend your free time sticking your dick in anything that has a hole?”
Wooyoung snorts, a little impressed by the jab, but he’s more irritated that everyone seems to be on his fucking ass tonight. What did he do? He even took San to the liquor store to buy more beer, he should be drowning in pussy by now.
“Fair enough,” he shrugs, he’s more than bored of the conversation at this point. “Enjoy the three minutes of missionary tonight, or will it be forty-five seconds with you on top because he’s too drunk to fuck you properly?”
Her face blooms in Technicolor, and he knows he’s won. With a wide grin, he gives her a little wave over his shoulder, and makes his way down the stairs. He doesn’t have it in him to go back to the kitchen for another drink, or to find any one of his friends and have a conversation, his patience is running thin and his dick is starting to ache from lack of use.
“Hey, Wooyoung.” He’s greeted at the base of the steps by a blonde, he thinks he fucked her last week. Maybe two weeks ago.
He gives her a smirk, “Hey, baby, good to see you.” What was her name again?
He keeps it pushing, searching for the staircase girls, or the two from the entrance that together resemble a monarch butterfly. If he can’t find any of them, maybe he’ll come back to the blonde. If he can remember her name.
Another beer miraculously finds its way to his palm before he finds one half of the butterfly, the one with dark hair, silver through her nose. He’s made out with her twice before the other half finds them, and to his satisfaction, it seems both halves of the butterfly had the plan to make it back to his bedroom tonight.
“One last topic for today: a little birdie asked me about threesomes, and in my heart, I genuinely can’t believe I haven’t touched on this topic sooner. I have a story, I know, surprise surprise, but this one is recent, so I’m excited to debrief it, because I think it’s too scandalous to even bring up to my friends.”
You throw your index cards on the bed. The rest would actually be unscripted, straight off the dome.
“This past weekend I found myself in a… compromising position. Well, several compromising positions, if I’m honest. Imagine you’re hooking up with a guy in a random bedroom of a house party, and the person whose bedroom it is walks inside and wants to join. Sorry– I paused, I was waiting for a gasp or something, but then I remembered I’m by myself.”
You laugh a little before continuing. “I was on my back, hooking up with this really sexy guy who I had met, maybe fifteen minutes prior. You know the house party deal, talk for ten minutes, the boring shit, but it’s the boring shit that gets you on the same page. We’re making out all the way up the stairs, and he pushes me inside this bedroom, undresses me, lays me out on the bed, his head is in between my legs before the door opens.”
“The second guy walks in, and there’s no moment of, what the fuck? Or, oh my god, get out of my room. He smirks, a sexy smirk, the kind of smirk that doesn’t need words, y’know? The guy who’s in between my legs doesn’t stop. He sees the other one, he knows he’s there, but he doesn’t even pause. The second guy takes my mouth, and then I’m being fed while the other one’s eating, and– you know the drill. It was overstimulating, but also… liberating, to be worshiped, to be treated like something holy by two guys whose names I didn’t even know.”
“I feel like MMF threesomes have become something for the male gaze, or maybe they always have been– actually, they always have been. In porn, the woman is treated like some kind of doll, thrown between two guys, used for their pleasure over and over, but what if it’s the opposite? What if it’s the woman who’s using two men for her own pleasure? Double the orgasms, double the penetration, double the foreplay, double the pleasure, what if it’s the woman calling the shots, like some kind of super-straight power bottom action? And I know I shouldn’t use gay terms for straight sex, but hear me out on this…”
“Some of us tend to fear taking control in the bedroom. With one man, with two men, it’s terrifying. But I’ve never been so satisfied or as confident as I felt in that bedroom, ordering pleasure and receiving it. Giving it because I wanted to, because sex is fun, and women are allowed to enjoy sex the way men do. If men can fetishize two women in the bedroom, why can’t we do it back? The only thing I wished for was that they would fuck each other, too. They only kissed. Boring. Sorry if you’re listening, there’s a reason I’m not saying your names.”
Because there are no names to fucking say.
“I need to dedicate an entire episode to exploring threesomes, positions, dynamics, everything. Unforch, there’s just not enough time today, but trust that I will come back to this topic and do a proper debrief of every single one of my thoughts, I just wanted to touch on the topic in case any of my listeners find themselves in the compromising position I was in mere days ago. Do it, enjoy it, and don’t be afraid to walk ‘em like dogs, girls. On the plate for next week are toys– for yourself, for your partner, the best ones for your partner to use on you, I’m diving into all of it. Stay tuned, and I’ll catch you next week, unscripted, as always.”
You press stop on your laptop, cutting off the recording, and take a deep, relieving sigh. Eyes catching the top right corner, you gasp, panic shooting up your spine as you read seven-thirty-two on the clock. Fishing your phone out from the duvet beneath you, you check your notifications, the fourteen texts from your boyfriend, and six missed calls.
You don’t even read them before pressing call on his contact.
“Where the hell are you?” His voice is gruff, angry. Which is fair, because you were supposed to meet him for dinner thirty-two minutes ago.
You hop off the bed, grabbing your mic and shoving it into your closet. “I fell asleep!” you lie, and it rolls off your tongue like butter. “I’m so sorry, Jun, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“We lost our reservation, I’m at the bar next door.”
He hangs up. You curse, throwing your phone back onto your bed before scurrying to your closet to pick out something for drinks and dinner instead of dinner and drinks. You throw your hair up after turning your makeup from daytime to nighttime, and hop in the car with record time. Speeding through the city, thankfully finding quick parking, you’re late to your fifteen-minute promise by four minutes.
Your boyfriend of over a year doesn’t even care that you took the barstool beside him. You barely take in your surroundings, your tunnel vision focused on Yeonjun and only Yeonjun, wondering how the hell you’ll make it up to him.
Wordlessly, he slides you a drink, a martini, extra dirty. Three olives. Your heart aches.
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, eyes finding your lap. “I didn’t mean to miss our reservation, but we can still have fun tonight, right?” You look around you, at the dimly lit bar that seemed to have lost all its patrons to the sardine-packed dance floor. “We can go dance, you love to dance. I’ll get us a reservation for next week.”
His head snaps to yours, dark hair meticulously styled around his forehead, his eyes dark with irritation. “It took me three weeks to get that reservation.”
“Am I going somewhere?” You tilt your head to the side. “Are you going somewhere? I think we have the time to wait another three weeks.”
“That’s not the point,” he urges, watching as you grab the skewer of olives from your martini glass, biting one off the end. “The point is that I did something nice for us, and you didn’t show up.”
“It was an accident,” you say, muffled with your mouth full. Swallowing, you reiterate, “It was an accident, Yeonjun. Don’t let it spoil date night.” His nose crinkles, mouth bending downward. You pop a brow, “What?”
“You called me Yeonjun,” he says, so low it could be considered a whisper. His eyes are brighter when he looks back up at you, “My name is Junie to you.”
It makes a smile break across your lips, a giggle falling past. “You’re right, I’m sorry, Junie. I’ll make it up to you tonight. Or…” you look around, scanning the crowd of drunken people, all seeming in their own world. “I could make it up to you now.”
A deep blush paints his cheeks crimson. “Don’t even start.”
“No?” you tease, smirk on your lips, eyes sparkling as you take a sip of your martini. “You don’t wanna fuck me in the bathroom? So mad at me for missing our fancy, expensive date, you don’t wanna take out all your frustrations on me?”
He shushes you, body turning toward you like he might clamp his hand over your mouth, his shoulders caving inward. “You can’t say shit like that in public, oh my god– what if the bartender heard you, and kicked us out?”
“The bartender is focused on drinks and tips,” you say simply before taking another gulp of your martini. “She’s not worried about me taking my boyfriend’s cock down my throat in the bathroom.” His right hand covers his lap, and it makes you laugh, a snarky giggle. “Look at you, your body wants it, I want it. What are you so afraid of?”
He uses his other hand to count. “A public lewdness charge, or lewd conduct, or public indecency. I’m gonna be a doctor, I will not catch a charge to do what I can do at home.” Your eyes roll without you giving them the okay to do so. He sees it, and immediately he presses, “Why are you so obsessed with this? Why can’t we have sex at your place, or at mine? That’s normal.”
“What’s wrong with trying to spice up our sex life?” Your martini glass hits the bar harder than intended. “I just want you to want me so bad you can’t help yourself, Junie. I want you to fuck me, to really fuck me like it’s not even me you’re fucking.”
Your boyfriend’s ears go bright red, his eyes dancing all around you, and for a second you think he might really clamp his hand over your mouth. “Can you stop saying that shit in public?”
“Whatever,” you huff. “I’ll stop. I’m sorry.”
After a moment of silence, another sip taken from his glass of whiskey, he runs both hands through his hair. Keeping his voice low, he leans into you so you can hear him, “Last weekend, after the party… I fucked you after, didn’t I? Like, really fucked you, like you weren’t even you or whatever.”
No. No, you didn’t.
“Yeah,” you smile, tight-lipped. “You did. Sorry. I must be ovulating or something.”
You’re not ovulating, you’re just fucking bored. You spend your free time talking about sexcapades, basically making up stories, soft porn on a podcast, but in reality, your life doesn’t even come close. The podcast is a dream, a fantasy, what sometimes you wish your life actually was. A sex life that was always new, changing, with one person who loves you as much as you love them, and wants to do new things just as much as you do. Someone who would never judge you for your wants, your needs, your fantasies that sometimes you’re embarrassed to think about, let alone bring up to someone else.
You want someone who you can tell all of them to. You need someone who wants to do them even more than you do, because they want to please you as much as you want to please them.
But that’s not enough to break up with the man sitting beside you, the one who knows everything about you, the one who is the love of your life in so many different ways. How is it that such a huge part of you, such an important part of you, is the only part of him that isn’t a mirror?
“I’ve been thinking lately,” Yeonjun says, his voice uneven like he’s unsure of bringing it up. You raise your brows to let him know you’re listening. “After you graduate, we should get married.”
You blink. “M-Married?”
“I know we talk about it all the time,” he sits back in the stool, keeping his eyes on the amber liquid in his glass. “But I think we should get married. Have a baby.”
You lean forward. “A baby?”
Being pre-med now, he’ll be in school for a hell of a lot longer than you, and he knows it. He smiles to himself, like he’s leaning into his own fantasy as he says, “You can stay home, take care of the baby and stuff until I graduate, start working.”
“I’ll stay home… while you’re in school?” you ask, brows high. “Who’s gonna pay for me and the baby?”
His eyes meet yours, brows knitted together in confusion. “My parents?”
“Don’t you think we should be, y’know, financially secure before even thinking about marriage?”
“I’ll be in my residency program by twenty-six,” he counters. “That’s only four years that my parents will help us. I want to marry you, I want you to have my kids.”
“I don’t want to be married at twenty-two,” you answer, too fast for Yeonjun, too fast for yourself. He winces like you punched him. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you, I just… I don't want to be a married twenty-two year old.”
“What does age have to do with it?” he asks, and you’re stunned that age is what he’s taking from this. “Twnety-two, twenty-six, I’d marry you tomorrow, baby.”
Your head shakes before your mind can comprehend what’s transpiring. “Yeonjun, no. Absolutely not. Why are we talking about this now? Can’t we drink and dance? Have a fun date night like we planned?”
“Absolutely not?” he retorts, sitting straighter. “As if it’s a death sentence to marry me. I thought you’d be jumping up and down right now.”
“You think I’m the type to pop out a baby at twenty-three years old?!” you ask, bewildered. “Yeonjun, I… why would you think I’d be happy?”
“Hear me out,” he counters. “By twenty-two, we’ll have been together for over two years. We can have a long engagement, if you want, be married right before your twenty-third birthday. Technically, you’ll have the baby closer to twenty-four, and my parents only have to help us for two years.”
You’re horrified. What’s even more horrifying is that while you’ve been fantasizing about him fucking you right, he’s been fantasizing about you pregnant. And apparently working out all the logistics for it, too. “Yeonjun,” you whisper. “Let’s talk about this another time. Another day. In another year, or five.”
“This is what any woman would want,” he turns toward you fully. You can’t believe he thinks that’s true. “This is stability, a future. Why are you upset that I want a future with you?”
Your cheeks feel hot, the vodka in your stomach has long ago solidified. It’s heavy, pushing on your bladder, your gut. “I need to go to the bathroom,” you blurt. “I need to pee, I need to think about… about all that.”
You don’t give him time to react before you’re sliding off the stool. Your head feels fuzzy, and it could be from the vodka, from you literally eating zero calories today, but you know it’s from the bomb he just dropped. You know in your soul it’s because that’s a future you cannot give him– that you won’t give him. You didn’t even eat today, and he wants you to be the mother of his child? It’s almost comedic. Or at least it would be if you weren’t stumbling across the bar in the direction of the bathroom, feeling nauseous enough that you might not even make it there.
You can see it, like the light at the end of the tunnel, the glowing, pink neon sign that reads Girls Room. But the walls are closing in, your chest feels heavy, your breaths even heavier, slower, and the sign dims like someone was turning down the brightness.
“Woah.” An arm around your back, strong and thick, scoops you straight up. Were you going down? “Are you okay? Holy shit, you’re gonna pass out. Don’t pass out.”
Your eyes, half-open, can only see the man keeping you steady. Broad shoulders, absolutely insane biceps, slicked back, onyx locks, they show off his sculpted cheeks, his sharp jaw, his dimples. He’s cute, and he’s holding you up like you’re a fucking doll.
“Water,” you croak. He slings your arm over his shoulder, and with his height he’s basically dragging you across the room until he’s sitting you down on a chair, crouching beside you, holding a glass of water up to your lips.
“Slow sips,” he coaxes, his voice soft, pleasant. “Don’t chug it. It’s only eight, how are you hammered at eight o’clock? Guys, we need to be on her time.”
“‘m not hammered,” you mumble through sips. “I’m not even drunk, my boyfriend just told me he wants to tradwife me. I must be having an allergic reaction or something.”
Biceps snorts, you watch as his head tips back in laughter, his dimples showing. “You’re allergic to what, marriage?”
“Do you have any food?” you ask, stomach still feeling wretchedly hollow. Biceps ushers his hand to the table in front of you, and at that moment, you realize nothing in your life could be more embarrassing than this. There’s a table full of men, all with food and drinks in front of them, and you just… you just interrupted. Talking about being allergic to Yeonjun wanting to marry you.
Directly across from you, with the most appetizing plate of chicken tenders and fries in front of him, sat Jung Wooyoung. With his eyes on yours, a humored twinkle swirling in shit brown, you start to stand. “Fuck no,” you shake your head. “I’ll be going now, thanks.”
“Woah, woah, woah,” the man who saved you from eating shit on the bar’s floor stands with you, hands out, palms facing you. His face reads concern, scrunched up, clearly scared that you’ll crumble to the floor again. “Eat something, drink more water, then you can go. I don’t want them to stop the music so they can put you on a gurney.”
You scowl. Even if he saved you, now Biceps is at the top of your shit list.
You redirect your scowl at Wooyoung. Before sitting back in the chair, silently you reach across the table to grab his plate of chicken tenders, and place it in front of yourself.
“Jesus,” another one at the table mutters under his breath. Tall, blonde hair. “What’d you do to her?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Wooyoung shrugs. You eat his chicken, satisfied. “I’ve never even seen her before.”
You laugh, a punched sound of sarcasm. “Right,” you mutter.
“Wooyoung, you asshole,” another one whisper-yells. Shorter than the blonde, golden skin, brown, wavy hair. “You slept with her and forgot? That’s fucked up.”
“I never fucked him,” you seethe. “I don’t want chlamydia.”
The table waits a second before roaring in laughter. Wooyoung thins his eyes, his gaze pointed from across the table. You can’t help your growing, prideful smirk.
“I don’t have chlamydia,” Wooyoung announces after a second, jaw set, eyes dark and pissed. “She tried to fuck her boyfriend in my bedroom last weekend until I broke them up.”
You gasp, mortified. “You’re a liar!”
“Were you not trying to have sex in my room last week?”
“Okay, yes, but–”
“Exactly,” he smirks, satisfied. “So did you get three minutes that night, or forty-five seconds?”
“Wooyoung,” Biceps warns. “Stop it.”
“I got more than you did, I’m sure,” you counter. “Even if you’re disgusting and you.”
“Wow,” his hands come together in a slow clap. “Good for you. Has he gotten any more adventurous? I assume not, since he wants you, three kids, and a white picket fence.”
Your cheeks burn. Biceps, again, warns, “Wooyoung.”
You stand once more, and this time, Biceps doesn’t stop you. The table watches as you stomp all the way back over to Yeonjun, body shaking with irritation, trading one poison for another. You almost forgot what you were coming back to.
“Are you okay?” he asks, cheeks still pink, face bent in concern.
Sinking back into the stool, you reach for your martini, throwing the rest of it back. Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you spit out, “Fine.”
Wooyoung wouldn’t be able to explain himself if someone were to walk into his bedroom right now. They would find him in his desk chair, listening to Unscripted, the podcast he hates, while staring out his window like he was debating the seven wonders of the world.
“Everybody loves a curved dick. It’s like a walking, living, breathing toy, designed to make you cum a thousand times. If it curves upward, missionary, being on top, is your best friend. If it curves to the left, have him fuck you on your side. If it curves to the right, have him fuck you on your other side. If it curves down, you’re lucky if he’s ugly, because you’ll never have to see his face while fucking him again.”
He laughs, then he catches himself laughing, and stops. God, he hates her with such an unimaginable passion, fuck her for making him laugh. His dick is curved, so maybe a part of him feels targeted, but how dare she put him, and what he can only assume is a million other men, into a box? A category? A you can only fuck this way bracket?
The part about ugly guys is funny, but only because he’s not targeted by that one, and he understands the joke. But who’s to say the women he’s with can’t enjoy backshots because his cock curves upward? He’s never received a bad review for it.
He huffs, shutting his laptop, then he smiles when her voice goes silent. Then his stomach drops, because why was he listening to Unscripted past eight at night? And why was he letting her voice dictate his emotions?
He picks himself up, shaking off the thoughts. He needed to clear his mind, think about something else other than the shape of his cock… he needed to fuck. He texted Haewon, no response. Amara, busy. Nadia, working. Daeun apparently transferred schools. Mira didn’t answer either. He had about twenty goddamn minutes before he lost his mind.
Hissing through his teeth, he grabs his gym bag from the corner of his room and leaves. The guys in the living room playing FIFA didn’t ask any questions as Wooyoung basically sprinted through the front door. He always goes to the gym in the morning, at the brink of dawn, when the sun is spreading over the horizon, he’s never gone at night. He figures he’ll do cardio, sprint off the thoughts, the feelings, the ache in his dick that he can’t satisfy with his own hand.
He plugs his phone in after turning over the engine, and the moment his audio connects, it picks up right where she left off.
“I feel like men are insecure about it, and they shouldn’t be. It’s like circumcision, women don’t give a fuck if you have foreskin, as long as you keep it clean. Please, for the love of god, keep it clean–”
He curses as he rips the chord out of his phone. Fuck that. He’ll drive to the gym in fucking silence.
The gym is busy, as he knew it would be, he despises the gym when it's busy. That’s why he goes in the morning, when no one else on campus is awake, only the really smart types who have days jam packed full of shit that require brain energy. That’s what an ass crack of dawn workout is for.
He barely looks up as he scans his ID, but when he catches a glimpse of the face that’s starting to bother him as much as Unscripted’s voice, it catches his attention.
“Oh, hell no,” he groans. This is exactly the opposite of what he needs right now. “Why are you suddenly everywhere?”
You, behind the desk in your bright purple, collared shirt, scoff. “I’m everywhere? You’re everywhere.”
“Shouldn’t you be off getting married?” He can feel his smirk growing. “Pushing out babies and shit?”
“Fuck you,” you grumble, leaning back into the opposite side of the desk. “Shouldn’t you be off giving someone chlamydia?”
“You need to drop that now,” Wooyoung points at you. “I don’t have chlamydia.”
“Aw, is the big-shot whore bothered by my jokes?” you pout, using the worst case of baby-voice Wooyoung’s ever heard. His ears seem to frown, too.
“Big-shot whore?” Wooyoung repeats, face morphing into disappointment. “We need to work on your insults if bantering is going to become our thing.”
“We don’t have a thing,” you’re quick to answer. “There is no we, we does not exist. Go snort a line of pre-workout.”
Wooyoung grins, humored by your irritated expression. “Did he propose yet? Does he have a ring in his underwear drawer? Is he just dying to pop the question? Wait, let me guess: moissanite, set in sterling silver.”
“You’re an asshole,” you gruff, turning away from him like you had work to do. Wooyoung knows you’re not even reading the words on the paper you’re staring at.
He can’t help himself. He walks around the desk until he’s in front of you again and asks, “Does your boyfriend know you almost passed out when he told you his idea of your future?”
“No,” you respond without even looking up at him.
His grin widens. “Is it because he’s boring? Is that why you don’t want to marry him?”
“I do want to marry him,” you finally look up, eyes pointed, gaze angry. Wooyoung’s grin only spreads. “I just don’t want to marry him next fucking year. I think he’s insane for wanting to.”
Wooyoung’s lower lip folds over like he might start fake crying out of cuteness, “How sweet. He wants to lock you down after graduation so he doesn’t have to go wife-hunting while becoming an MD.”
Your face goes flat. “How do you know he’s pre-med?”
“I’m well-connected,” he shrugs. He just has Instagram. “Have you proposed that he doesn’t propose until he’s working?”
“Yes,” you turn again, ignoring his comedic wording, crossing to the other side of the desk as another gym-goer walks inside. You watch as they scan in their ID, what information pops up on the screen. When they walk away, you turn to him again, “Why are you so interested? Shouldn’t you be lifting by now?”
“I’m just absolutely perplexed trying to figure out how you’re going to marry a guy who doesn’t fuck you right.” Wooyoung’s leaning over the counter now, arms crossed, ankles crossed beneath it. Right at home. “Isn’t that, like, a huge part of being with someone forever? Great sex?”
You throw your hands on your hips, “Sex really is all you think about, isn’t it?”
“Humor me,” Wooyoung replies.
You sigh. “I’m wondering how I’m going to do it, too. You told me the night at the party that if I’m already bored with my sex life, then my relationship isn’t going to last. That’s kinda haunting me, even though you’re you, and a relationship is so much more than just sex.”
“Have you tried anything else, other than trying to fuck him in my bedroom?”
Wooyoung watches your cheeks flush in real time. You mutter, “I tried fucking him in the bathroom of Lucky Penny.”
Wooyoung laughs, genuine and true. “Everyone’s fucked at Lucky Penny. He wouldn’t do it?” You shake your head, and Wooyoung ties his lips to one side, shooting you an apologetic stare. “Man, I don’t think he’s fixable.”
“He doesn’t need to be fixed, Wooyoung,” you scold, running a hand through your hair. “There are so many other great, perfect things about him. Sex is the only area where— why am I even telling you this? I should not be confiding in you right now.”
Wooyoung stands, “What else are big-shot whores for, other than to fuck and give advice about fucking?” He’s smiling, but you both know there’s some truth to it.
“Go hit a PR or something,” you shoo him off with a dust of your fingers, turning around.
And surprisingly, he listens. He grabs his headphones from his bag, connecting his phone before putting them over his ears, walking towards the row of treadmills.
“I, personally, love a dick that curves upward. I know I said missionary is for lovers, but if a dick is curved—and even though you don’t love him—you’re going to finish more times in that one session than with your vibrators, and that’s my why.”
At the sound of her voice, he almost rips his headphones off and throws them in the trash. But now that he’s being spoken to personally, and being praised, he throws his bag against the wall, hops on the treadmill, and raises both the incline and speed.
“The reason why there’s different positions for curved dicks? Well, we never learned this in Sex Ed, and some of my listeners, I’ve come to find out, are seriously lacking in the female-genitalia knowledge department.”
Blah blah blah. It’s like he’s watching a repeat episode from one of those nineties sitcoms, he knows all the words, he can follow along like he’s reading the script. But even though his phone is in front of him, resting on the little ledge below the screen of the treadmill, he doesn’t reach for it to turn it off.
“That little recap was for those who didn’t listen to my squirting episode. And if you did, you get a recap anyways, because I think everyone should have it burned to memory where exactly you should stimulate to get your partner off. If you’ve never had a penetrative orgasm, or your curved-dick partner has never given you one, have them listen to this, and you’ll never wish for anything again.”
He’s gotta give it to her, she does know her shit. Wooyoung wonders if he’s met her, if he’s ever fucked her before. He comes to the conclusion that he would know if he fucked her, he’s had some great lays before, even incredible ones, but she seems different. In the sense that it would be memorable, he’d come back to that night in his mind, those nights he only has his fist and his cock. Those nights would be dedicated to her, and her terrifyingly vast knowledge of human anatomy and orgasms.
He stays on the treadmill for an hour, burning through the soles of his sneakers and yet another podcast episode. The topic was making out, which felt really adolescent, but actually had some decent tips that even Wooyoung hasn’t thought of before. Tucking the tips into his back pocket, he throws his headphones back into his bag, wipes down the treadmill, and chugs his water on his way back to the front.
You’re still there, arms crossed, looking like you hate the world.
Wooyoung smiles as he leans over the counter. “I have an idea.”
You smack your teeth. “Great, I’m about to lose brain cells.”
“Shut up,” he quips. “Why don’t you have your boyfriend listen to that podcast that’s going around campus? Unscripted?”
Your face falls impossibly further. “What? No, he doesn’t even watch porn, he would never listen to a sex podcast.”
Wooyoung snorts. “A man in his twenties who doesn’t watch porn? I can’t tell if you’re stupid for believing that or if this guy is secretly super religious.”
“Neither,” you snap. “Leave. Your workout is over.”
“How do you know?” He pops his brows, suddenly offended. “Maybe I’m taking a quick break.”
“Then do it somewhere else,” you shoo him away again, fingers sweeping the air. “And never talk to me about that podcast again.”
“Damn, are you super religious or something?” he asks.
“Wooyoung,” you warn.
“Fine, damn, fine.”
Wooyoung is home for exactly two hours before his night goes to shit.
He showered immediately upon walking through the door, which was a relief, but after laying in his bed and realizing he was in fact not getting laid tonight, the voice in the back of his mind started reminding him of every devious, terrible thing he’s ever done.
That was a strong contender for ruining his night. Instead, he picked himself up, went downstairs to the kitchen, and cleaned up. He did the dishes, loaded the dishwasher, cleaned every surface, even organized the top shelf of the pantry. The other guys knew not to talk to him– they knew when Wooyoung was in this mood, it was best to let him think on it, get it out of his system, rather than to bombard him with every question, every distraction they could think up.
He made himself food, allowed himself something comforting after all the extra cardio he did at the gym. That made it half better. But the real damning of his night happened about thirty minutes later, when he was in his bed, fist wrapped around his cock, fantasizing about the night he had a monarch butterfly in his bed, there were three knocks at his door.
“Busy!” Wooyoung called out, his voice shaky, so close to the edge he could taste it.
“It’s me.” You.
You.
He groans out his frustration, his orgasm that he could taste, now gone. Floating away in the wind, with the rest of his hopes and fucking dreams. Pulling up his sweats, sitting up in his bed, he calls out, “Come in.”
You spill into his room. Literally. You push the door open and it slams behind you, you waste no time throwing your bag to the floor and sitting on the foot of his bed. It takes you all of six seconds to put the pieces together.
“Why are you sweaty?” you ask. Wooyoung doesn’t answer, his face bored. “Why don’t you have a shirt on, and why are you sweaty?”
“I’m in my room, lights off, tissues on my nightstand,” he answers plainly. “What do you think I was doing?”
Like a skittish cat, you jump off his bed, yelping a disgusted noise. “And you just let me come in here? Oh my god, go wash your hands or something, that’s gross, Wooyoung.”
“It’s natural,” he shrugs, leaning back into his pillows. “It’s probably what you do immediately after fucking your boyfriend.” He made himself laugh with that one. You stay silent. His face drops. “Oh shit, am I right? I didn’t mean to be right.”
“Fuck you, whatever,” you snap. “I’m not here to bicker. I need your help.”
Wooyoung groans, head tipping back into his pillows, he already knows what that means. “God, go to fucking counceling or something, stop involving me in your relationship bullshit.”
“You were interested earlier,” you argue. “You brought this upon yourself the night you listened to me in the hallway. You should have told me to fuck off.”
Mumbling to himself, he repeats, “I need to stop being nice. I need to stop being kind.”
“You told me to listen to that podcast earlier, but she thinks like a woman, right? She is a woman, I mean. I need to think like a man,” you’re rambling, pacing at the foot of his bed. “You’re a man, Yeonjun’s mind is closer to yours than mine, like, biologically. I need to think like you. Or I need you to tell me what he’s thinking. I don’t know, but what I do know is that I can’t live my life like this, and I can’t be in a sexless marriage. You have to help me.”
“I am the last person on earth you want to help you,” Wooyoung announces. “I already told you to leave him, what the fuck else do you want me to say?”
“I don’t want to leave him, asshole.” You’re finally still at the center of the foot of his bed, arms wide on either side of you. “I said he doesn’t need to be fixed, but maybe just a little… shaping.”
“To the salon,” Wooyoung responds, in the same singsong tone from the Barbie movie. When your face bends in confusion, he asks, “Oh, we weren’t quoting that sound?”
“I need to fundamentally change my boyfriend’s brain,” you say matter-of-factly. “No, I’m not quoting a stupid video.”
Wooyoung sits up. “So there’s zero chance of you leaving the Jesus freak?”
“He’s not a Jesus freak,” you bite back, but take a step closer to his bed. “But no, there’s not. I love him.”
Wooyoung groans his frustration in a short, harsh noise. “God, fuck,” he runs his hands over his face roughly before they land on his bedspread again. “Okay, what do you want me to do? What’s the quickest way to get you out of my fucking bedroom, again?”
You grin, accomplished as you sit on the foot of his bed again. “I think my first order of business is making sex fun again, like how it was in the beginning. The marriage and baby shit I won’t make you deal with.”
“Thanks,” he responds, tone dripping in sarcasm. “Making sex fun… are you sure you can’t ask any of the six girls I fucked to help you with this? They’re all your friends, right?”
“Do you know how embarrassing it is to tell your friends that your sex life sucks?” you ask, and it’s not rhetorical. You don’t give him time to answer. “You already know, you witnessed it first-hand. Just help me, Wooyoung, something simple, something I can do tonight–”
“Edge him or something,” Wooyoung answers like he’s shoving the words out of his mouth. “You want him to act unlike himself, right? Push him to the limit? Then actually push him to the limit, and see what he does.”
Your face softens. Mumbling, almost under your breath, you wonder, “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Put yourself in control,” Wooyoung continues. “Make him obey you. Is he usually the dominant one?” You nod, coy all of the sudden. “Then you’re going to act unlike yourself, too. Show him what you want. Make him work for it.”
He watches you swallow, he can see the flush on your cheeks even under the dim lighting of his bedroom. His head tilts, a smirk growing, “Are you shy right now? Shy like a fucking virgin.”
“Shut up, Wooyoung,” you bark, but all the bite is gone into thin air, just like his lost orgasm. “I just… I don’t act like this with him. Loud and rude and stuff, I’m not like that with him. What if he doesn’t like it?”
“Like you said, you need to think like a man,” he finds himself soothing you, maybe he can consider this his one good deed of the day. “I’m a man, and I’m giving you sound advice. Try it. If he doesn’t like it, he won't leave you. If he does like it, he’ll probably grab the ring from his underwear drawer.”
You smile, the smallest laugh tumbling out of your lips. “I fucking hate you. If he proposes, you’re getting blamed for that, too.”
Wooyoung doesn’t even realize he’s smiling, too. “You’re really weird for coming to my house while I’m jerking off, by the way.”
“I know where you live, just felt easier to come here. Biceps let me in,” you shrug. “And I didn’t know you’d be jerking off.”
“Biceps?” Wooyoung pops a brow before realizing, “Oh, San.”
“I’m gonna go edge my boyfriend,” you announce, standing from his bed. Grabbing your bag from the floor, you give him a wave, “I’ll update you.”
“Expect an update!” you yell through his closed door, after you’ve shut it behind you.
It takes a minute before Wooyoung realizes he’s smiling, and he quickly wipes it right off his face. Getting cozy under his covers again, he reaches for the lube on his nightstand, and picks back up right where he left off.
[ex-husband!wooyoung x ex-wife!reader] third & final part of the wifey series! (for real this time) smut minors dni 18+ | spoilers in the warnings: pregnant reader, mentions/thoughts about abortion, divorce, walking wooyoung like a dog, wooyoung being wooyoung lol, tooth rotting fluff, pinv, fingering, creampie, in-love sex | wc 19K
thank you so much for reading and interacting with me during the stretch of this series, it's kept me motivated and excited to write, i am so grateful to every single person who reblogged or commented or sent me an ask. i love u fr and i will miss them BADDD
“Did you know mommy’s sick?”
Just past five thirty on a Tuesday night Wooyoung finished eating dinner with Kyungmin, a meal he threw together quick and easy after he picked his son up from after-school care. Standing at his kitchen sink, he turned around to eye his eight year old with a singular eyebrow raised. “Sick?”
“She keeps throwing up,” Kyungmin, eyes focused on his screen laid on top of the kitchen island counter, didn’t spare Wooyoung a glance as he spoke. “All. Day. Long. Yesterday, she threw up while she was driving me home from school.”
Wooyoung fully turned around at that, brows knitted together, kitchen sink still running, the titanium holding three more dishes he still had to wash. “While she was driving? Or did she pull over?”
His son looked at him with such an incredulous look it made Wooyoung feel a little stupid for asking the question. With a little giggle, Kyungmin answered, “She pulled over, duh.”
“Okay, attitude,” Wooyoung is always amused whenever he sees you in your son, even if he thinks Kyungmin is all him. Sitting in the same clothes he wore to school today, a tee shirt, loose jeans that Wooyoung bought him, his favorite Elsa and Anna socks, his eyes went right back to his tablet, the case bright green against the deep granite countertop. “Did she go to the doctor?”
His kid shrugged.
“Kyungmin,” Wooyoung’s tone was stronger, beckoning for his son’s attention. The boy lifted his eyes away from his screen as Wooyoung asked, “Has she said anything about it?”
“Just said she’s sick,” Kyungmin shrugged again, sounding irritated that Wooyoung was taking him away from his screen time, “she told me not to tell you.”
Wooyoung’s smirk was anything but involuntary. His son, indeed. “But you’re telling me anyway?”
“It’s stinky,” he uttered, crinkling his nose as he said it. A little quieter, a little smaller, he mumbled, “And it’s scary.”
“Don’t be scared,” Wooyoung soothed, turning off the kitchen sink before leaning his elbows on the granite, leaning over the countertop so he can be eye-to-eye with his son. “Mommy’s okay, I promise.”
Kyungmin lifted his eyes, a twinkle of fear swirling in whiskey, eyes that were identical to his own. He whispered, “How do you know?”
It made sense then, why he hasn’t been served papers. Even if it fills him with hope, he knows there’s a long fucking way to go before actual progress is made, although it’s already been over two months since that dreadful night on your living room floor. He expected to be served within two weeks, maybe three, but nine have passed and nothing, not a whisper about his least favorite word that starts with D.
God knows he hasn’t brought it up.
“Because daddy’s always right,” Wooyoung gleamed, and the smile made the corner of Kyungmin’s lips curve upward. Wooyoung’s head tilted, “Aren’t I?”
Kyungmin shook his head, “No.”
“Boo,” Wooyoung’s lip lifted, dragging out the word in a sneer. “Come on, I was right this morning when I said making bunny ears with your shoe laces is easier, right?” Kyungmin’s lips pursed like he was trying to fight his smile from growing. Wooyoung made his way around the kitchen counter, coming up behind Kyungmin, “And I was right earlier when I said you’re still ticklish, wasn’t I?”
His hands jumped for Kyungmin’s sides, and his heart sang listening to his son’s loud, wild giggles. He stopped tickling to wrap his arms around him in a tight hug, planting a kiss to the top of his head. “Daddy’s always right, and I said mommy’s gonna be just fine, so trust me, okay?”
Just fine. Nine weeks of pick-ups and drop-offs damn near silent, everything was so fucking far from fine he’s barely slept in weeks. He finally came clean with his therapist, who he hoped and prayed had something legally binding her from reporting his lawyer in some way, which might be the result of leftover anxiety from doing such a thing in the first place.
He should have waited. He probably shouldn’t have done it at all, but he did, and he should have fucking waited to tell you. If you’re pregnant, which he’d place a million dollar bet on if you’re throwing up–if this pregnancy was anything like your pregnancy with Kyungmin–he could have waited until you were farther along. Hell, he could have waited until the baby was born.
Any time would have been better than the time he chose. When you two were on better terms, smoother terms, he should have told you then. When it might’ve felt like everything was falling into place. Instead he ripped things apart all over again, and now they’re worse than they were to begin with and fuck he was back to square one or even something before that. Square negative ten.
His therapist wouldn’t agree with any of that, but whatever. He’s losing his mind. But the little boy in his arms is keeping that singular thread of rationality stronger than steel.
“Come on, stinky, shower time.”
“I’m not stinky,” Kyungmin huffs, “you’re stinky. You smell like… you smell like my butt.”
Wooyoung raises his brows at the little’s head tipped backward into his stomach, “So your butt is stinky?”
Kyungmin smiles, “No.”
“Okay, so maybe we’ll go to bed early tonight, since you forgot how to make sense,” he lifts his son by his armpits onto the floor, and the tablet dangles from his right hand, which Wooyoung scoops up with his own. “This screen is frying your stinky brain.”
“You have a stinky brain,” Kyungmin points, then turns on his heel, giggling just as wild and just as loud all the way to the bathroom.
“This stinky brain created you,” Wooyoung calls after him. “If I’m stinky, you’re stinky!”
“You’re the stinky one!”
Wooyoung can’t help the snort that rips from his nose as he throws the tablet onto his couch, making his way towards the bathroom in the middle of the singular hallway in his entire apartment. Almost-bachelor-pad, Yunho and Aurora had called it. “Then I’ll take a shower after you, stinky boy. Do you need help with the faucet?”
“Yes, please!”
His smile doesn’t leave the entire time he’s in the bathroom. Turning on the faucet to the right temperature, helping Kyungmin with his shirt that got stuck going over his head, even smelling Kyungmin’s stinky socks that really were fucking stinky. Hearing his son laugh again, his favorite sound in the world, he remembers the days he could hold the boy over one forearm like it was yesterday.
Fuck, and he might have another? Another shot at creating a life? Hearing his baby laugh for the first time? Take their first steps? Hear their first word? Another child to see himself in, to see you in, a life created by both of you, by the time he’s spread out on the couch half-listening to Kyungmin singing a song from Kpop Demon Hunters, somehow he mindlessly got his phone out, your contact information on the screen.
Somehow.
You don’t pick up on his first try. So he calls again.
“Is Kyungmin okay?”
You sound like summertime. Even if your voice is ebbed in panic, burnt at the edges like you’re trying to contain the flame, you sound like the morning of August twenty-third, the morning he met you, fifteen years ago.
“He’s fine–”
“What do you want?”
The flame burns freely once more.
He didn’t really think this far. Tongue-tied, he sputters over his next words, “I- um, just- uh–”
“Wooyoung,” your voice is stern, a warning. It doesn’t help how each one of his limbs has seemed to lock up. “What do you want?”
“You.” Fuck his brain and his vocal chords for not working as a team. He lets the following pause settle, hoping you’d take it as a joke, at least. If this was a month ago you would’ve hung up as soon as he said Kyungmin’s fine.
“Well you fucked that up,” you say matter-of-factly, as if he didn’t know it down to his very fucking soul. Closing his eyes, bringing his palm to his forehead, he sighs. “Is there anything in particular that requires you calling my phone at six o’clock on a Tuesday?”
“Am I allowed to talk to you?”
“No.”
“What?” There’s a part of him that feels like throwing the same tantrum Kyungmin threw yesterday. “Why not?”
“Because you’re a deceitful, selfish asshole, and a pain in my fucking ass.”
His lips thin, face going flat. Can he blame any of this on pregnancy hormones yet?
“Look–”
“No.”
“Please–”
“No.”
“Holy shit can I please just fucking–”
“No.”
And the line runs dead. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair, throwing his phone on the couch beside him. He groans after watching it bounce to the floor, sinking deeper into the tough, barely broken-in cushions, knees spreading, he’s really fucking close to throwing that tantrum.
“About nine weeks.”
“Nine?!” Your eyes blow wide, staring at your doctor who’s brown hair curls deliciously around his ears. The word came out no prettier than a loud shriek of terror. “Jesus fucking Christ, I didn’t realize I was that far along.”
“You don’t sound particularly joyful,” Yeosang’s smile doesn’t quite reach his assessing eyes, your doctor but also one of your closest friends. “Which brings my next question, where’s your husband?”
Your eyes thin, “Where’s your wife?”
He lifts the probe from your stomach, popping a brow. He sounds like he’s choosing his words carefully, despite the spark of curiosity in the smooth rasp of his voice, “Got it, won’t ask any more questions in that department. She’s at home with the girls, by the way.”
“Yeah, yeah, happily married and whatever the fuck,” you huff, the paper beneath your head crinkling as it falls back onto the examination seat, chair, table, whatever it is that’s abhorrently uncomfortable beneath your body. “Please wipe the jelly off me before I flip shit.”
Yeosang laughs at that, a tiny giggle under his breath, “Does he even know you’re pregnant?”
“Hell no,” you respond, cringing as he takes a towel to your lower belly, wiping softly.
Yeosang’s head snaps to yours, “Is it his?”
You pull your shirt over your stomach, tugging the paper towels out of the waistband of your leggings, threatening to throw them at him by crumpling them up and holding them over your shoulder. “Whose else would it be, motherfucker?”
“Damn,” Yeosang mumbles, taking a step back, “you’re a bundle of sunshine right now.”
“I’m irritated,” you grind out. “I’m pregnant and still fucking married to my stupid fucking husband.”
“You don’t have to be pregnant,” Yeosang sits back on his stool, a small, blue cushion on wheels. He rolls toward the counter across the room, grabbing his clipboard, “You don’t have to be married, either.”
You sit up on the table, arms planted behind you, knees spread, head tilted. “I know.”
“I’m not gonna ask for details,” he looks up at you over his clipboard, eyes deep, comforting, radiating intelligence. Doctor’s eyes. “But you have options, and support. Obviously you have my silence, too.”
“Thanks,” you shoot him a grim smile before running your fingers through your hair. “Do you and Keni ever think about having more?”
“Two girls is enough,” Yeosang laughs a little. “Winnie is bad as hell. Nina’s good, though, she sleeps like a fuckin’ tank.”
“Kyungmin slept, too,” your smile is a little more genuine at the mention of Kyungmin, but knowing there’s more to discuss brings the frown right back. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I guess I should tell him first.”
Yeosang stands again, “You have some time, do whatever feels right. He doesn’t have to know, either, it’s your choice. Call me and I’ll write you a script if you need it, okay?”
“Thanks, Yeo,” your smile is so close so being real it almost surprises you–the amount of real smiles have been few and far between for the past nine weeks. “Do you need anything from me? Am I good to go?”
“Call me with a decision and then we’ll have the baby talk,” he nods, so sure of himself, so unlike the guy who’s lawn you used to loose your guts on after hazy nights at the bar. Anything before Wooyoung feels like nothing but a fever dream now, any life you had, any experiences.
You sure as hell haven’t gotten any more after him, if after him ever even existed.
With a few waves to some nurses and technicians in goodbye, you trudged your pregnant ass back to your car. An SUV, one big as shit and black, the interior was a sauna after forty-five minutes inside Yeosang’s practice. You were lucky to have him, your friend of a decade now; you met him when he was still studying to get his PhD, when his wife was still his girlfriend, and the two were just happy to be out of their university and settled into something small while Yeosang finished out his schooling. Nights out at the local bars when you were still on the prowl for a man, before you ended up stuck with stupid fucking Wooyoung the moment you walked into corporate city.
It didn’t feel good, knowing there was a life forming inside you, and he wasn’t there to hold your hand through it all. That was easy to admit, but to get over the breach of trust, to ruin all the growth you thought you made with three words, we’re still married. You still spent a year alone, taking care of Kyungmin without any help from him, but you thought you were alone. No ties.
Just to find out you were still married the entire time.
Call me with a decision.
You sighed, feeling the sweat forming at the base of your neck, taking it as a sign to flip the engine and get out of Yeosang’s parking lot. A dim hum of music pours through the speakers, a stupid love song playing, you bare your teeth as a low curse sneaks from between your lips. Even the universe wanted you to call him.
He answers on the first ring.
On speaker, his already loud voice is amplified in your car, filling the cabin of the SUV. “Are you okay?”
You make a face, brows twisted, lips curled, not that he could see you. “Yes? I’m fine. What are you doing?”
“I’m working.” You could almost see him, making the same confused expression that you wore. “Why?”
You glance at the time at the top left corner of the screen before asking, “Can you meet me for an early lunch?”
“Ofcourseareyoukiddingme–”
You try to scowl, but your lips lift at the corners without you allowing them to. “‘Kay. You know where.”
“You know I do.”
It took every single second of your twenty-two minute drive from Yeosang’s practice to Genesis to calm your heart rate, to get all of your thoughts in order. You haven’t spoken to Wooyoung other than a few small arguments over the past nine weeks, all resulting in you hanging up the phone before he could get more than six words out. You didn’t want to hear his explanation, whatever reasoning he’s made up in his brain that’s convinced him any of this is okay.
He’s waiting in the same booth you always shared. And for a second, maybe less, he looks like he did fifteen years ago. Face smoothed out, not a line or a wrinkle to be seen, his hair is longer, his eyes are brighter– but the illusion is gone as soon as it's created.
Because he’s there, he’s smiling, he’s waiting for you. And fuck your heart for picking up speed, for the trickle of sweat at the back of your neck, fuck your brain for remembering that shred of hope you had nine weeks ago. For thinking everything would fall into place, that you could be normal again, that your divorce might’ve been a mistake.
“Hi, wifey.”
He’s surrounded by brown leather and sunshine, the worn, wrinkled booth making his two-piece suit look out of place. Tall windows douse him in warmth, whiskey eyes glowing amber where the sun catches, his skin so glossy it's almost wet. Fuck him, most of all, for being this fucking beautiful, for becoming impossibly more gorgeous with age.
Your top lip curls, “It’s not funny or cute anymore, Wooyoung.”
“There was a time when it was?” He wears a pretty smile, one corner of his mouth lifted in that sinful fucking smirk, showcasing his pointed teeth.
You slip into the other side of the booth and you wish the movement was more graceful, but after years of use the leather isn’t as flexible as it once was, and neither are you. You can remember coming here when you’d just started working three doors down, seeing Wooyoung morning after morning, you can still remember his coffee order, not that it's changed.
If the walls only knew what they created, what would become of the two of you. Maybe they would’ve whispered a secret to you, maybe they’d say don’t let the pretty boy buy you a coffee. Not that you would’ve listened.
“I’m not here to catch up,” you huff a breath, throwing your purse into the space beside you. He’s watching you intently, taking in every detail, every expression, every movement like he’s waiting for something.
“Okay.” It’s an absent-minded word, his eyes dancing around your face, your body, distracted.
Your brows knit together, “Hello?”
His eyes find yours, and like you’d pushed the on button, his smile returns. “Hi, beautiful.”
“We need to talk,” you cross your arms over the table in front of you, back slouched. He nods, face blank of any expression, ready for whatever you’d throw at him. Ball in hand, prepared to pitch, a waitress cuts you off before you even had the chance to speak, placing two plates between you.
Then you notice the water placed just to your left, the coffee already half-drank before Wooyoung. Your brows furrowed so fucking far together they might as well be considered a unibrow.
Thanking the waitress, Wooyoung looks at you warily for a second before he speaks. “I didn’t know if you… wanted coffee, so I just got you water. And what you always used to order when we came here for lunch.”
“The same trick won’t work twice,” your eyes thin, remembering the dinner you shared nine weeks ago. “But thank you.”
His smile is small, his lips mostly flat, pulled up ever so slightly at the edges. “Figured you needed a bite to eat, but I know you’re just here to talk. Go ahead.”
A meal you’ve eaten a thousand times, one that’s always smelled so fucking good your mouth watered, now smelled… wrong. Different, gross. You feel the familiar curling in your stomach, the same one you’ve felt four times a fucking day for the past two weeks, you grab the glass of water and bring it to your lips before your body forces you to gag.
Wooyoung, two hands already curled around his sandwich, halts his movement entirely, like someone pressed pause. “You okay?” You nodded mid-sip, swallowing down the water like it’d fix the issue. Slowly, Wooyoung lowers the sandwich back to his plate, “Are you sure?”
All you can get out is a measly “Yeah.” It wasn’t convincing.
The smell hit your nose again– worse, your stomach flipped, skin going hot, blood sizzling. Panic floods you, heartbeat picking up, you look over your shoulder, finding the bathroom where it’s always been, stored in the corner.
You can hear ceramic sliding against wood, Wooyoung sliding your plate toward himself. He juts his chin in the direction of the bathroom, “Go. It'll be gone when you come back out.”
You find his eye, being met with understanding so fucking clear you wonder if Yeosang called him. You know he didn’t, he wouldn’t break your trust– there was no time to think about it, you sprinted to the fucking corner with one thought on repeat in your mind: Hold it until you reach the bathroom.
You can barely feel your knees crunch against tile for the entire six minutes you’re in the clean, air-conditioned space. When the wave of nausea washes away and all that’s left is the lingering, mild dizziness and slight embarrassment from emptying your guts in a public bathroom, you wash your hands, cup some water into your mouth to wash out the taste of stomach acid, then take a few steadying breaths before walking outside again.
It feels brighter, somehow. Loud, music playing, people dressed in business casual keeping the place buzzing, servers running around, yelling orders over the counter. It eases you further, knowing that no one knows, that no one heard.
When you get back to the booth, he’s quick to let you know that one person knows. He knows.
With full confidence, he says it like he was the one telling you, “You’re pregnant.”
“Surprise” is all you can say, it’s flat, void of warmth or joy. You fall into the booth, bones heavy, forehead still sweaty. You reach for the water again, sucking down more of the ice-cold liquid, willing it to flush out the disgusting feeling that refuses to leave just yet.
“Holy shit,” he says under his breath, eyes widening as he sinks into the booth, drowning in brown leather. “How long have you known? How far along?”
You smack your teeth, “I’ve known for two weeks, but I’m nine weeks along.”
“Nine?!” His eyes nearly fall out of his head, leaning forward again, his upper half hanging over the now cleared-off wood. “Have you seen Yeosang yet?”
“I just left.” You prop an elbow onto the table, leaning your temple into your fist, your tone coming out casual.
Wooyoung’s breath catches, his voice shrinking. “You went without me?”
You nod, “We didn’t really talk about the baby, just that I’m pregnant with one. He told me to call him back with a decision and then we’d discuss.”
“Whether I’m having my liar husband’s baby or not,” you answer quick, sharp. Your words land like a blow, you watch his face bend, softening into something less excited, less shocked.
He’s quiet for a moment, eyes finding the table, processing your words, letting them sink in. There's a beat of silence and you can hear the room again, the music, the chatter, dress shoes against the floor, servers yelling orders. You let him sit in the silence, in the thought.
He looks up again, voice small, nervous, curious, “Are you leaning a certain way, or…?”
You shrug. “I don’t know what the fuck to do, Wooyoung. I don’t want to have a baby alone, but I don’t want anything to do with you, either.”
“I know.” His elbows find the table, rubbing his face with his palms, heaving a rough breath into his hands. Finally sinking back into the booth, he takes another pause before he says, “I fucked up bad, and again, I’m sorry. I’ll be here for you no matter what you decide.”
Your face morphs into surprise. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” he nods, but he doesn’t smile. “Whatever you want, I want.”
“Damn, fuck you for being a good guy,” you smack your teeth, and his brows furrow, a smile daring to curl his lips. “You’re fucking stupid, but you’re like, morally good. And you’re not helping with my decision-making.”
A laugh pushes through his lips, one relieved and confused all at once. “Did you expect me to flip the table and demand you keep it?”
“I don’t know what I expected,” you shrug, shaking your head. “Not that, but I don’t know, maybe a little push back, I guess. Not that I want that, please don’t do that–”
“I had a friend,” he cuts himself off, “Aurora went through that, I went through it with her–”
“You went through it with her–?”
“No!” It comes out loud, sudden. “No, it was Yunho’s–”
“Yunho’s?”
“Jesus Christ let me get one sentence out.” He waits for your sheepish nod before he continues, “Yunho got her pregnant before she was ready to have a kid, we were still in school and really close at that time, I helped her through it, the whole thing. Decision-making, actually doing it, I was in the room with her, I was present for the whole process, start to finish. The choice is very much yours.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “How was she… after?”
“Not pregnant.”
“Wooyoung,” you warn.
He sighs, “Not good, but she didn’t regret it.”
You sit back in the booth, sweaty back hitting the cool leather. Your lips scrunch to one side, “It’s too heavy, all of it. I don’t know if I can forgive you for lying to me, Wooyoung.”
“I can’t blame you,” he answers simply with a shrug, like he knows he’s made in his bed and he’s willing to die in it. “I wouldn’t forgive me, either. But please just… don’t forget I didn’t have any bad intentions. I love you and Kyungmin so fucking much.”
Your face finds your palms, elbows propped up on the table, fingers sliding back into your hair. “I know you didn’t, I know, that makes everything so much more confusing. We’re not kids anymore.”
“Take your time, jagi,” he leans forward onto the table, one arm laying across the wood, fingers landing beside one of your elbows, ghosting your skin like he was scared to touch you. “You don’t have to make a decision today. Sleep on it, sleep on it for a few days, for as long as you can.”
Your eyes land on his palm laid open, wanting so badly to put your hand in his own, to feel the comfort only he can give you. You cross your arms over the table instead.
Throat feeling tight, you will your emotions to stay deep below the surface as you whisper, “I’m tired of making decisions by myself, Wooyoung.”
“I can’t help you with this one, baby,” he frowns, head tilting, keeping his open hand as close to you as he can without touching you. “You know where I stand, how I feel, and you know I’ll be beside you every step of the way with whatever you choose.”
Your face scrunches ever so slightly, “Will you? Because you not being beside me is what got us here in the first place, Woo.”
He pulls his arm back into himself and you can feel the loss of heat even if he hasn’t touched you. “I have a lot to make up for,” he sounds solemn, but not apprehensive. Confident like he knows he’ll have the opportunity to do it. “I meant everything I said when we went out to dinner that night, every single word. I still mean it, I still want to do everything I can to fix us.”
You swallow down your tears, but they still fill your waterline, heavy and hot and salty. “I don’t know if you can fix us, Woo. I don’t think… I don’t think you can.”
As if he wasn’t going back to work in less than a half hour, tears fill his waterline, too. He tightens his mouth to stop his bottom lip from quivering, but you catch it, and you understand the feeling so fucking deeply it makes your own tears fall.
You sit in silence, the world resuming around you all over again. Shouts and shoes and bass, filling the space between you, the wooden table feeling a mile long. Too far away, too much space, too much time spent in grief to come back together. Two people with a past and nothing more.
“Alright,” he says after a few minutes, voice distraught. Swallowing down his tears, ignoring the red that’s bloomed across his cheeks, his neck, he acts like you can’t see that you just shattered his entire world. “If you need anything, if you need me to take Kyungmin, whatever you need, I’m a phone call away.”
Guilt swirls, heavy and leaden and too similar to the nausea you’re nearly used to at this point. Immediately you want to take your words back, even if they’re true, even if you mean them, your heart fucking aches, everything aches. He gets up from his side of the booth, walking around to your side, leaning in with one knee digging into brown leather just to press a kiss on the top of your head.
It feels too much like goodbye.
“I love you,” he says quietly, small enough that you aren’t sure you were supposed to hear it.
Looking up at him, you can’t bring yourself to say it back. He waits for it, lingering just long enough, but he nods with the silence, with the finality of it all, and then he’s gone. Just like that.
Wooyoung stares at the stack of papers on his desk.
On the first read, his heart was so deep in his ass it almost emptied out on the desk chair beneath him. On the second read, tears fell, so many fucking tears he had to reschedule his one o’clock and his two o’clock meeting. On the third read, he decided you’re creative, serving him divorce papers with the same exact disclosures and framing of the fake-divorce Wooyoung curated over a year ago.
An hour later, he’s just pissed off that you served him. That you had some random fuck drop off legal documents at his job, where forty other people work in very close capacity. They can all go fuck themselves if they had anything to say about him, about his marriage, but for you to do that to him? You couldn’t have just handed them to him when he picked up Kyungmin yesterday? This must be why you hid from him, why you’ve been fucking hiding from him, sending Kyungmin out to his car before he had the chance to get out of the driver’s seat. It feels petty, childish. Maybe he deserves it.
His jaw clenches harder the longer he stares, molars grinding to the point of near-injury. His fists curl over his thighs, the rest of his body so locked up he isn’t sure if he can even move right now. He has thirty days to respond. Thirty days to process the fact that he’s no longer a married man. Thirty days to try and fix what he uprooted at his job almost four months ago, with the idea that all of his newfound spare time would be going to you. Thirty days to process that he ruined the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him.
His anger’s gone straight to his head by the time he picks up his phone. Holding it up to his ear, he waits for it to go through before he says, “Can I ask a favor?”
There’s noise in the background, a baby crying, fabric or something rough bristling against the speaker. After a moment of nothing but noise, Aurora’s voice comes through, out of breath as she says, “What’s up?”
“Can you take Kyungmin home with you when you pick up Aden from school today? I’ll pick him up later.”
There’s a pause before she carefully responds, “Yo’s picking him up, but yeah, I’ll tell him. Can I ask why?”
“She served me papers. She’s divorcing me.”
Aurora gasps, “You’re fucking lying.”
Wooyoung runs his free hand over his face, groaning out his frustration, “I need to go over there and talk to her. I haven’t seen her, haven’t talked to her other than a few texts, I don’t even know if she’s still fucking pregnant, Ro.”
“Yes, absolutely, go over there.” Wooyoung can hear her nodding, her voice reassuring as ever, already in plan-mode, search and rescue. “I’m so sorry, Wooyo.”
His heart still laying heavy in the pit of his stomach, he sighs, sitting back in his chair, the tips of his fingers meeting his eyes. “I should’ve seen this coming, but it’s only been two weeks since I met with her at Genesis. Two weeks, and it’s been almost three months since the night I told her we were still married.”
“You said it felt like the end, though, didn’t it?”
Wooyoung deflates in his rickety office chair. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“It’s either you fight for it, or let it end, Woo.” She sounds as sad as he feels, even if he can hear the thirteen other things she’s doing while talking to him. “But you should definitely talk to her before you do anything.”
He sits with the notion for a second: fight it, or let it end. He’s been fighting it, discreetly for over a year, he only got a chance to do it loud and proud for what, six weeks? Not long enough. There’s so much fight left in him that he nearly gets up from the chair and walks to your office building. Letting it end isn’t even a fucking option.
“I don’t want it to end,” he says, twirling the chair around, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of his office. Eyes landing on the building across the street, he stares at the tiny square that’s yours, wishing he could see you in the room behind the tinted window.
“I know.” She sighs, then mumbles something cheery to Sunnie before adding, “It might be what’s best for the two of you. Especially if she isn’t having the baby, you’ve already been co-parenting with Kyungmin for over a year, maybe this is best, Woo.”
“No,” the word comes out harsher than he intended. “It’s not about the baby or Kyung, it’s about us, and I’m not letting her go. I’m not giving up.”
Wooyoung can see her frown, her lips pinned to one side, knowing exactly where the giving up part came from. “Talk to her,” she keeps her voice light, positive before her mom-voice comes out, “but don’t go in there with guns blazing, Jung Wooyoung. Fill me in later when you pick up Kyungmin.”
“Thanks, Ro.”
“I mean it, Woo,” she warns. “Don’t flip out.”
“Got it.”
Easier to say than do, when the stack of papers on his desk was as thick as two of his fingers. His teeth grind again, jaw clenching, he decides he’s done with work today, he can finish whatever the fuck he didn’t do today, tomorrow. Work will be here tomorrow, but he won’t have a wife tomorrow if he doesn’t do something.
He’s already in your driveway when you get home from work. Pulling your car onto the blacktop, your heart pounds in your chest as you kill the engine, legs already shaky as you hop down from the lifted seat. You hear him before you see him, and not one word out of his mouth sounds happy.
“What is this?”
Comfortable clothes, basketball shorts on his legs, a hoodie over his chest, he holds up the thick file you sent directly to his office. His hair was already blowing in the breeze, long strands flipping over to the other side of his head, framing his face that’s angled in frustration.
“Papers,” you answer simply, walking around to the other side of your car, opening up the passenger side door for your purse. At least he hasn’t noticed yet.
“You’re divorcing me?” He follows, standing behind you, voice strained, edged in stress, anger.
You close the passenger side door behind you, “We’re already divorced, Wooyoung, I’m just making it official this time.”
He follows you up the side of your driveway, through the path leading up to your small porch, speaking with each step. “You couldn’t have just told me? Why the fuck did you serve me at my job?”
You’re the epitome of patience as you unlock your front door, walking inside like he wasn’t steaming behind you. “I didn’t want to speak to you, just like I haven’t wanted to speak to you for the past two months. Nothing new.”
He follows, you don’t stop him. “You could have talked to me about this. You didn’t need to make a spectacle out of me, you know how many people work in my building.”
You spin on your heel, spitting every single word, “You could have told me we weren’t really divorced. You could have told me Aurora named her kid after you and made you the godfather. You could have just been here in the first place and I never would have had to fucking divorce you!”
His jaw clenches, fist curling around the stack of papers at his side. “This could have been as amicable as it was the first time.”
“The first time wasn’t fucking real!” You turn again, heading toward your kitchen. “Leave, Wooyoung. Actually, sign the papers and leave them here.”
He stops on one side of the island, you on the other. He throws the stack on the marble countertop, “I’m not signing them.”
You put your purse down on the counter, staring at him over the space of the counter. “What do you mean, you’re not signing them?”
“I don’t want a divorce,” he says so simply it makes you laugh in disbelief.
“You don’t want one?” Your brows raise, the smile on your lips anything but amused, “Too fucking bad, I do. If you don’t sign then it’ll default and you can’t fight anything.”
“Then I’ll fight it,” he shrugs, whiskey eyes wide and wild, “I’ll fight all of it.”
You sigh, grabbing your water bottle, turning around to empty it into your sink behind you. With your free hand holding your back, one leg holding all your weight, you hear his shoes against the hardwood as he walks around the island.
“You’re fucking pregnant,” he says it like he can’t believe it. Looking over your shoulder, his eyes are glued to your middle, impossibly wider now, filled with shock, disbelief. He meets your gaze again, repeating himself, “You’re fucking pregnant.”
You look down, frowning as you realize the dress you put on this morning wasn’t the tiny, almost invisible bump from your insane fucking husband. Of course he noticed. “No shit,” you say as you flip your empty water bottle on the rack to let it dry, completely unphased. Turning to face him, you hold the fabric tight to your belly as you admit, “Eleven weeks now.”
Slowly, one of his hands covers his mouth, his brows furrowing as he stares at the tiny bump that could be confused with constipation beneath your dress. It’s only seconds before his eyes turn glossy, then he takes a step forward hesitantly, waiting for you to stop him.
He stops himself instead, voice shallow as he asks, “You’re keeping it?”
“Kyungmin wants a sibling,” you shrug. “He said he wants someone to play Fashion Runway with at home.”
Wooyoung’s smile is slow as it takes over his entire face. His eyes meet yours, still glossy, full of tears that you aren’t sure are fully happy. “Thank you,” he whispers before his voice gets louder, more sure, his hand still wrapped around his jaw in awe. “Thank you so fucking much. Thank you.”
“Touch,” you say as your arms find your lower back again, a smile threatening to creep across your cheeks. “I know you want to.”
He closes the distance between you, hands out as he takes two steps forward, softly laying them over your belly. “Holy shit,” he whispers. “I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”
“I’m doing this,” you remind him, voice firm, full of indignation, “by myself.” You point your chin towards the paper on the counter, “The papers are waiting for you.”
“You think I’m signing them now?” He pops his brows. “Can we at least talk about it? Especially now, you’re– that’s my kid inside you.”
Your face falls flat, his hands still on your belly. You swat him away as you snap, “There’s nothing to talk about, everything I want is in the packet. I think I’m being pretty fair.”
“You’re being a copier.” His top lip lifts. “Everything in that packet is what I decreed in the first place. At least be original.”
“Stop being funny.” You cross your arms. “Sign the papers.”
“No,” he responds, crossing his arms back. “Now what?”
“You’re a pain in my ass,” you huff, turning around, walking towards the living room.
He follows, “Can we wait? Put a pin in it or something? Come back to it later?”
“Wait for what?” You ask, plopping down on the couch casually, a relieved breath escaping you as you settle in the plush. “Wait for me to push the thing out?”
“It’s not a thing,” he argues as he sits on the opposite side, one leg bent up, his arm stretched along the back. “That’s my daughter in there. I don’t think you should do all of this alone.”
“Well that’s not really up to you, is it?” Your elbow meets the back of the couch, holding up your head. “How do you know it’s a girl? I haven't done the test to find out the gender yet.”
“Stop seeing Yeosang without me,” he frowns, “I want to come, I want to be there.”
“You had your chance to be here.”
“I was there for every appointment with Kyungmin and you know it,” Wooyoung argues, sitting a little straighter. “I’m serious. That’s my baby, too, and I want to be there.”
You groan, head falling back into the cushions. “Fine, Wooyoung. My next appointment is on Monday at nine.”
“Thank you,” he nods, “I’ll pick you up.” After a pause, a moment of silence from you, he adds, “I still don’t think you should do this alone.”
You pick your head up just to snap, “I’d rather do it alone then do it with you.”
“Ouch,” he winces, “I was good to you when you were pregnant with Kyungmin, don’t do that.”
“I’m sorry,” you mutter, followed by a tired groan, letting your head fall back into the cushions again, he’s right. “I know, I remember. I think all the meetings with my lawyer are getting to my head.”
“Why now?” He asks, voice softer, all the anger, amusement from earlier, reshaped into vulnerability. “You’ve had time to divorce me, why do it now?”
You turn your head to see him, what part of his face you could see over the cushion. “I thought we were in agreement the last time we spoke. I thought that was it, and we were moving on.”
“That was only two weeks ago, jagi,” his voice is still soft, comforting as he moves a little closer, inching himself toward you, using one hand to push the cushion down where it blocked your vision. His eyes are clear now, his expression level, serious. “Do you really want to do this by yourself?”
The slightest pout bends your bottom lip. “No,” you answer honestly, “I wish you never told me that we were still married. I could’ve gotten over the Aurora thing, you broke my trust, but that’s doable, y’know? I can get past that. Keeping our marital status a secret is… detrimental. I wish you never said anything. I want you here. I want to do this with you, Wooyoung.”
He’s shaking his head before you finish speaking, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about all of it, and I wish I could take it all back, but I can’t.” His voice cracks as he says, “Please let me fix this. Please let me at least try.”
You stare at him for a second, seeing the determination behind his eyes, the heartache, the love he always wears like a loud accessory when he’s looking at you. Something that’s never changed in the fifteen years his eyes have spent on you. You have every intention of going through with the divorce, every fucking intention to be done with it. Be done with him.
You don’t know what part of you sighs and looks away. “I spent a lot of fucking money on that attorney, Wooyoung.”
He’s quick to answer, giddiness threaded in his words, “I’ll pay for it.”
Your palms meet your face, rubbing at your tired eyes. It’s so frustrating, him coming here and jumbling up everything you’ve been so confident about. Two weeks of meetings, of phone calls, of paperwork, of finally landing on the track of being actually divorced. Again. Hearing the seriousness in his voice, the confidence, knowing he meant everything he’s said in the past few months, all of that combined with the hormones swarming your body and the baby fucking growing inside you.
You groan out, “Fuck, I can’t believe this is happening again. You’re impossible to divorce.”
“You won’t regret it,” his words are excited, all jumbled together, “I swear to god you won’t regret it, I’ll be so good to you and Kyungmin and the baby oh my god we’re having another kid–”
Your hands leave your face, paused in mid-air, brows furrowed as you glance at the man who’s still your fucking husband, “Where is Kyungmin?”
“Aden’s,” he shrugs, “I needed to talk to you and he couldn’t be here for it, not when I didn’t know how it was going to go.”
“Good,” you say through a relieved breath. “He has fun there.”
“They’re good to him,” Wooyoung’s voice is smaller, apprehensive, “Yunho and Aurora.”
“I know,” you agree, “I don’t hate them, Wooyoung. I was pissed at you, big fat liar, not them. Your college girlfriend doesn’t make me jealous, either.”
He stifles a snort, looking down to his lap, “Sounds like something a jealous person would say.”
“Don’t piss me off,” you argue, but a smile tugs at your lips, “my hormones are raging and you’re the only person here to take it out on.”
He laughs at that, a genuine belly laugh, his body sinking into the cushions as he physically relaxes. “I missed you.”
You raise your brows, “Yeah? I don’t think I’ve said one nice thing to you in weeks. Months, maybe.”
He turns his head to you, a lazy grin on his cheeks, “You can say something nice now.”
You look up to the ceiling, lips scrunching in thought, “Hm, weird. Nothing’s coming to mind.”
“You’ll think of something eventually,” his smile doesn’t leave, his tone finally settling into something comfortable, casual as his gaze lands on the details of your living room across from him. After a moment of silence, his head turns to you again, “Are you actually gonna file to dismiss the divorce?”
It’s your turn to smile again, one as mischievous as his signature smirk, “You think it’s that easy? That I’m not gonna make you work for it?” You watch his face morph into something like fear before adding, “You have thirty days, Woo.”
The smell of coffee and food wakes you up.
And the sound of a tiny voice that’s suspiciously far away.
Fear surges through you, jumping out of your bed, racing out of your bedroom and down the main staircase of your house like you were still your high school’s track star. Calling your son’s name, panic searing through your tone, you come to a hard stop in the entryway to your kitchen at the sight before you.
“Morning, mommy,” Kyungmin grins, sitting in his Minecraft pajamas at your kitchen island, a full fucking breakfast half-eaten on the plate in front of him. Beside him is your husband, dressed for work, suit on his body, hair styled back, ready for the day like he’d gotten ready upstairs.
Your hand lands over your heart, adrenaline winding down, are you dreaming? Is this a dream?
“Morning, wifey,” Wooyoung grins, and all you can do is blink. He slides the mug of coffee in his hand over the kitchen island, toward where you stood, “Sorry for breaking in, but at least I made coffee. I brought over some stuff.”
Your brows furrow, slowly stepping closer until your hands wrap around the mug, assessing if you can feel the warmth. “I can’t tell if I’m awake right now.”
Wooyoung laughs, turning on his heel, grabbing the reusable grocery store bag you didn’t even notice sitting on your counter. “You’re very much awake.”
“Why are you here?” You ask before bringing the mug up to your lips, blinking away the crust in your eyes. Before taking a sip, you ask again, “What time is it?”
“Six forty-five,” Wooyoung says casually, so casually you feel confused like this was normal and you’re forgetting something so regular. He turns again, placing the bag between you.
“Daddy said he brought you gifts,” Kyungmin sounds too awake for it to be so early. He usually didn’t wake up for another fifteen minutes, and usually your alarm goes off at six-thirty. He made your coffee, even if he was drinking it already, it’s your coffee, how you make it, how you order it.
“Gifts?” You ask again, meeting Wooyoung’s warning eye, popping a brow.
“Gifts,” Wooyoung repeats with a roll of his eyes like they aren’t really gifts at all, that’s just what he told Kyungmin. “Groceries,” he says, wrapping his hands around the handle of the grocery bag, “I figured I’d come over and make dinner for you guys a few times this week, if that’s okay. Oh, and flowers.” He turns, grabbing the vase you didn’t even notice sitting beside the kitchen sink, an arrangement of all your favorite flowers, your favorite colors. “Spring is nearing, so… flowers.”
Lips parted, eyes wide and blinking, you don’t know what to say, there’s not a single word that comes to mind other than a very unconvincing, “Thank… you?”
Wooyoung looks like he’s trying to hide his grin, lips folded inward, cheeks straining not to show his giddiness. “Small stuff, nothing crazy. Effort.”
“Effort,” you repeat, paired with a slow nod. “Groceries.”
God, why was this like pulling teeth?
“Thirty days,” he points toward you to remind you of your deal before starting to pull groceries out of the bag, as if you’d forgotten. Part of you did, even if it happened three days ago.
“What to expect when you’re expecting,” you sing through a contented sigh, mindless as you pull out a stool to sit on, forgetting who else is in the room.
Kyungmin quickly reminds you he’s very much present by asking you, “What’s expecting?” He glances at Wooyoung, “What are we getting? Are we getting a dog?”
“No,” you respond quickly, “no dog. We’re getting…” You glance at Wooyoung with a look that says help.
You asked Kyungmin how he felt about having another sibling, not that he was getting one. It was too early in the morning to drop a bomb that huge, especially if he didn’t take it well.
Wooyoung’s forearms meet the counter, leaned over the island, eye to eye with your son who’s still glancing back and forth between you with curiosity twinkling in his eyes. “Want me to come over later? I’ll make dinner and help you with vocabulary homework. We can play the multiplication game again.”
“Yes!” Kyungmin shouts, piercing your still-asleep years. “Will you make my favorite?”
“Duh,” Wooyoung rolls his eyes with a smile, like he was already planning it. “Don’t tell mommy,” he whispers, “but there’s ice cream in the bag with your name on it.”
Your smile grows watching Kyungmin’s eyes light up, flaring with excitement and sheer fucking joy before he whispers his agreement. Heart wrenching at the sight of the two together, Wooyoung and his miniature twin, you have to look away to not fall into the rabbit hole of what it would’ve been like if you never separated.
A spiral you’ve been down too many times before.
You sip your coffee while watching Wooyoung maneuver around your kitchen like it was still his. Putting groceries away where they belonged, keeping conversation with you and Kyungmin about your day ahead, you tried to let yourself exist in the same space without feeling completely confused and slightly weirded out about the normalcy of it all.
Coming unannounced, bringing groceries, flowers, telling Kyungmin he’ll be here later without asking you but instead expecting you to be okay with it… as much as the rabbit hole of what-ifs calls to you, you have an eight year old son who doesn't need to be confused.
“Time to go get dressed,” you say to your son with a small smile that you know Wooyoung is seeing right through. Slowing his movements, coming to a standstill on the other side of the island in preparation for the conversation he knows is coming, he nods toward Kyungmin who looks at him like he’d keep him home from school.
After quickly realizing this wasn’t a special day and his father was just here for no apparent reason, he scoots off his stool and makes for the staircase with a gruff. He definitely thought you were going to keep him home, and the three of you were doing something today. The thought makes your chest feel heavier.
When he’s out of earshot, you quirk a brow at your husband, “What are you doing?”
He’s quick to respond, “You gave me thirty days. Today’s day one.”
“So you break into my house?” You whisper-shout.
“I still have a key,” he points to the hallway leading to the front of your house, where you know his key is sitting on the table beside the front door. “And technically it’s still my house, too.”
“Don’t give me technicality bullshit,” you huff, “it’s seven in the fucking morning and you woke up our son for breakfast completely unannounced. You don’t think that’ll confuse him?”
“Confused? I'm his dad,” he argues, “and he woke up on his own, I didn’t wake him up. My plan was to have you wake up first and be all excited that I was bringing you goodies.”
“Goodies,” you quirk a brow, “flowers and food?”
He smacks his lips. “I thought it was cute.”
The snort that escapes you is completely involuntary. Voice half-amused, the fight isn’t quite gone from your soul as you say, “You can’t just come here unannounced, Wooyoung.”
“You gave me thirty days,” he says, dumbfounded. “Are we gonna repeat last time? Fuck until you consider seeing me in daylight?” You scowl, but he doesn’t let up. “This is asking a lot, but just go with it, please. I know what I’m doing.”
“You know what you’re doing,” you repeat, mocking him, “my ass.”
“I thought the flowers would butter you up at least a little,” he turns, grabbing the vase, then places it in front of him, lowering his body so just his pouting face was visible on top of the colorful, blooming petals. “They’re pretty, just like you.”
That pulls a laugh straight from your chest, shaking your head, “You’re beyond helping, Jung Wooyoung. Down to your soul you’re batshit insane.”
“Only for you,” he’s grinning now. “Wouldn’t do this shit for anyone else and you know it.”
And you do know it, as much as part of you wishes he was bothering someone else at seven in the goddamn morning. Rolling your eyes, you turn, “I’m going to get ready for work.”
“Can I come watch?”
“No, but you can take Kyungmin to school.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Monday at nine came and went with surprising ease. Not that you thought Wooyoung would act ridiculous at your doctor’s appointment, but you didn’t think he’d be as normal as he was. A blood test, an NT scan, he stood by your side through the whole thing, nodding and joking with Yeosang as if the doctor didn’t know about anything going on between you. And technically, he didn’t– not the details, at least, the only surprise he showed was the glimmer of shock in his deep chocolate eyes upon opening the door and catching Wooyoung looking through his cabinets.
“Beautiful Monday,” Wooyoung sighs with nothing but unadulterated joy, grinning ear to fucking ear with his eyes closed, standing still on the sidewalk in front of his SUV as he lets the sunshine beat down on his skin. “Your levels are even, I’m gonna be a girl dad, I just found out I’m psychic, everything is good in the world.”
You snort, rolling your eyes, “Everything?”
He cracks one eye open, “Am I missing something?”
“An open civil case,” your lips are tied up on one side with an evil smirk.
Wooyoung opens his eyes to scowl, then pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door. Before he moves to the driver’s side, he asks, “Do you need help getting in?”
“I’m only twelve weeks.” You roll your eyes again, something you’ve done so many times in the past week you think your eye muscles are now made of steel. “She’s gonna be big, though, I can smell the back pain from here.”
You and Wooyoung climb into his car at the same time and you grimace when the stale heat engulfs you whole. “Holy shit, turn on the AC.”
“What’s the back pain feel like?” He asks, turning on the car, hands immediately shooting for the knobs to put the air conditioning on full blast. “Similar to standing on your feet all day?”
You pull your seatbelt over your chest, clicking it into place. “It’s usually in my lower back, kinda like boob-carrying back pain, but worse. Like having a watermelon strapped to your front all day, you’re in a constant arch, it burns and you can’t really do anything for it if you’re out and about.”
He winces like he can feel phantom pain in his back. Turning to you, face solemn, he asks, “Do you think it’ll be better or worse since it’s your second time?”
You shrug, “Give me a month or two and I’ll have the answer for you.”
The air finally turns somewhat cold and you sink into the seat like it was a blessing from the heavens, it starts washing the heat off you, dusting away the idle air. Eyes closed, head lolling towards your husband who starts pulling out of the parking spot, you ask, “What are you making for dinner tonight?”
Wooyoung snorts, “That’s all you care about? We aren’t gonna debrief how we’re having a girl and the fact that I was right?”
“First time being right in your life, you must be excited,” you peek an eye open to tease, and he looks at you with his face bent up in offense.
“Rude,” he scoffs in response, but it doesn’t hide the amusement in his tone. “I never even said I was coming over tonight. Should we tell Kyungminnie he’s gonna have a sister?”
You can feel the heat of shame crawling to the tips of your ears for assuming he’d be over tonight. He came over twice last week, and did just as he promised, made dinner, let Kyungmin have his ice cream, then helped him with homework and played the multiplication game that you found yourself inadequate at playing. It’s been a long time since you’ve done third grade math– Kyungmin multiplied the numbers faster than you did.
Wooyoung’s been… strangely aware. First and foremost, with what he’s been cooking the three of you for dinner. Balanced meals, healthy but still delicious, things you enjoy eating now that the wave of constant nausea has let up. Careful with what he says to Kyungmin, never hinting towards there being more to the picture than you’re letting on, reminding Kyungmin he was coming over for him and him only. In a kind way. In an unsuspecting way. A way that kind of made you feel sour, even if you knew the reason behind it, even if you didn’t want him to say anything else. Hormones.
It’s been too easy to slip into routine, to find comfort in him being around. Having eyes watching over you, your son, to feel safe in a way you haven’t felt in so long. It’s different than the weeks you spent sleeping with him, you haven’t so much as kissed him in the past week, you haven’t given him eyes, not a single sexual remark or joke has been made from either of you. It’s been strictly domestic, a husband coming home from work, a husband cooking dinner for his wife, a father doing homework with his son. You hate that you’ve been loving every goddamn second of it.
“Sure,” you respond with only half of your consciousness attached to it, too in your head to give him your full attention.
He side-eyes you, popping a brow. “Sure? You’re about to tell your son he’s gonna have a sibling, and all you can say is sure?”
“Well, are you even gonna come over?” It slips out before you can think about it, sounding impatient. Almost desperate. Irritable in the way that means you’re hopeful.
Coming to a stop at a red light, Wooyoung glances at you in the passenger seat with the quickest-spreaking smirk he’s ever worn. Like an accusation, all too proudly he says, “You want me to come over.”
There’s heat on the apples of your cheeks. Unconvincingly, you defend yourself, “No.”
“Yes,” he argues, his smile mischievous. “You like having me there. Admit it, you miss me.”
“No!” You sit a little straighter, brows furrowing, voice pitched and so obviously lying your entire body fills with embarrassment. “I just like not having to cook.”
“Sure,” he doesn’t sound like he agrees. Turning back to the road, to the light that turns green, he cruises forward with two hands on the wheel.
“You clean my kitchen.” You sound too defensive. “And you’re helping Kyungmin with his homework. And you did my laundry last night. Three things I no longer have to do if you’re there.”
“Right,” he nods, brows furrowing, bottom lip bending over, looking like he agrees but you both know it’s pretend. Sarcastic, even. Leaning his head towards you but not looking at you, he says, “Just say you miss me, baby. I won’t make fun of you for it. I miss you too.”
You swear under your breath, arms crossing, head turning to look out the window. You do miss him, you’ve missed this part of him for so long, the part you didn’t get to see the last time you were trying the whole Wooyoung-comes-around-again thing out. Maybe you should have started here last time, instead of getting caught up in the way it felt to have him inside of you again.
You might miss that most of all.
You shake off the thoughts, eyeing Wooyoung in the barely-there reflection in the window, his smirk still present. Still incriminating. Still proof that he knows you better than you know yourself.
“It’s still not enough to call it off,” you mumble, so quietly you aren’t sure if he’ll be able to hear you. But he does, with how his smirk falters, his lips settling into a line. It didn’t feel as good as you thought it would to say the words.
“I know,” he responds, voice softer now, all amusement gone. “Trust me.”
You frown, guilt settling into cracks you didn’t know were there. He lied to you, kept things from you, then threw them at you like a fucking bomb and expected you to come out of the other side unharmed. You shouldn’t feel guilty.
But you do. To soften the blow, you turn again, arms uncurling from your chest, hands landing in your lap with a sigh, toying with your fingers. Voice coming out uneasy, you ask, “So… you wanna tell Kyungmin?”
“If you’re ready for it,” he fakes a smile, a bending press of his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We can wait a couple weeks, ‘til we’re out of the danger zone. You’ll be in your second trimester next week.”
Your cheeks heat at the awkwardness you created when there’s never fucking been awkwardness between you, like, ever. “That’s smart,” you say, not at all convincing, pulling your lips together. “Will you still come over tonight?”
His head turns to the left, arms crossing over one another as he makes a turn, and even though you know he’s driving the both of you to work, it still feels intentional. “To make you dinner, clean your kitchen and do your laundry?”
You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth. You deserved that one.
“To spend time with your son,” you try, turning your head to face him, sounding optimistic. “And your daughter… And your wife.”
His demeanor cracks with that, a smile blooming across his cheeks, and it settles something in your chest. Smiling back, you lean a little closer, “You can brag to everyone at work about your psychic abilities.”
“I hand-picked that fucking sperm,” he says, full of conviction, picking back up the discussion you’ve had twice now like you never put it down. “I knew exactly which one was fertilizing that egg, jagi. I knew it.”
And you really can’t stop–nor do you want to stop–the easygoing laugh that spills from your lips, nodding along, agreeing with him. “I know you did, I believe you.”
“I’m at the store.”
“What store?” You ask into your phone, twirling your hair around one finger, knees bent up to your chest on the couch.
“The store,” he responds like it was the only answer, his voice clipped through the speaker of your phone. “I’ll be there soon, let me check out.”
“What are you getting?” You ask again, lowering your hand in front of you, examining your nonexistent manicure. You need one.
“Things,” he answers, voice tight. Your top lip curls, eyes finding the ceiling. “I’m literally checking out now, I’ll be home in ten minutes.”
You sit up a little, sly grin curving your lips, “Well what if I need things from the store?”
He swears under his breath, “Baby, why do you think I’m here? I already know what you need.”
You watch Kyungmin on the living room floor, belly pressed flat to the rug, feet dangling in the air as his little fingers work his tablet better than you ever could.
Your cheeks heat, smile growing, “You have no idea what I need, Jung Wooyoung.”
Kyungmin whips his head around, “You’re talking to daddy? Is he coming over?”
“Yes, he’s coming over,” you answer Kyungmin just as Wooyoung barks into your ear, “You’re a fucking pervert.”
You laugh, picking up the same piece of hair to twirl around your finger again. “See you soon.”
“When I get there you better—”
You hang up the phone, sly smirk still warm, etched into your cheeks. All week it’s felt like you have an itch you can’t fucking scratch, an itch you want Wooyoung to scratch, but he won’t even try to reach it.
You think the hormones might be blinding you, maybe taking over your entire nervous system. Maybe your hormones were in charge of your brain entirely at this point.
Texts, phone calls, other than the three times he’s been over this week already, it’s like dangling a treat in front of a dog who doesn’t fucking want it. Close proximity is driving you insane, you think, or maybe it’s just the effect of having Wooyoung around, acting so normal and so domestic it’s sinking you deeper into the fantasy of what could be. What could’ve been this whole time. What you miss so badly.
You pick yourself up off the couch to the kitchen, needing something to do with your hands to get your mind out of the gutter, where it’s seemed to have taken permanent residence. Why doesn’t he want you? It’s the question you’ve been asking yourself since Monday night, like as soon as you noticed the lack of sexual tension, it showed itself like it’s been waiting in hiding.
Ten minutes of washing the dishes, all from Kyungmin’s school lunch and the lunch you brought to work, Wooyoung was walking through your front door as promised. You heard Kyungmin yell, Wooyoung’s excited greeting, and then your son’s following giggle that you’re convinced could cure anything.
It’s only seconds before he makes his way to the kitchen, you look over your shoulder as he sets two reusable grocery bags on the marble island, a soft smile already on his sculpted, bronzy cheeks.
“Wow,” he starts, already amused, “not leaving the dishes for me?”
You turn off the faucet, grabbing a dish towel to dry your hands on before turning around, your coy smile tucked to the side. “Thought you might want a break from scrubbing my Tupperware.”
Dressed in business casual, clothes a little wrinkled, hair disheveled like he ran his fingers through it forty five times today, you don’t hide the fact that your eyes are scanning every single inch of him. With the way his smile spreads, how his eyes lower, you know he can see right through you. It’s not like you’ve hidden it well— or tried to.
“If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were buttering me up now,” his thick brows wiggle over his mismatched eyes.
A small sound of amusement is all you can conjure before taking a step towards the island, pressing your forearms against the marble, leaning over your crossed arms. “What’s in the bags?”
“Things,” he answers, eyes sparkling with mischief. You thin your eyes, moving like you’d start opening them yourself, but he stops you with a palm facing you. “Stay away from my things, I know what you need and where they go. Go sit down or something.”
You stand up straight, crossing your arms over your chest, scowling. “No, I’m bored and I want to know what things are in the bags.”
He laughs under his breath, “You’re bored?”
“I’ve been waiting,” you huff, “you took a long time at the store.”
“Look at you,” he muses, “you’re pouting.”
“So?” Your head tilts. “Maybe I am pouting.”
His brows raise before he starts digging into the first bag, pulling out produce while he shakes his head, “Look how the turn tables.”
You’d laugh at the joke he’s made a thousand times if you didn’t know just how true it was. He’s supposed to be the one proving himself to you and with every passing day you’re losing the ability to hold onto your certainty, your hormones driving you to near insanity, your will as strong as thread at this point. There’s a tiny voice inside you that reminds you you’re not above begging for it.
And yet he gives you nothing.
“For you,” he says casually, pushing a bag towards you and two bottles. Quirking a brow, your hands find the things, holding them up to read the labels.
“You said you were running low on prenatals,” he explains as he continues emptying the bags, not even looking at you. “Plus epsom salts for a bath, I read online somewhere that the soap is good for pregnancy, there’s herbs in it that soothe aches and make you sleepy or something. Figured it could help the back pain before it really starts.”
Your eyes flicker upward, watching him as he empties the bags like it was no big deal. Thick, focused brows, veiny hands moving fluidly, a singular strand of hair thickened by product laying over his face, you can feel your heart beating. When your silence hits him, he glances upward, meeting your stare, and he pauses his movement to ask, “What?”
You shake your head, just once, barely anything more than a small movement. “Nothing, I just… I’m lucky. And I appreciate you.”
One brow raises, smirk rising on the same side of his face, “Now you’re really buttering me up.”
You laugh because it’s funny, but your heart throbs in your chest like it knows that Wooyoung is in front of you, like it beats only for him and it’s waiting for your mind to catch up.
Your mind is far past catching up. You walk around the counter, steady feet bringing you to his side, and you force yourself between him and the counter to wrap your arms around his middle. Your arms squeeze tight, burying your head in his chest, forehead meeting right where his shirt is unbuttoned, your skin pressed against his.
Spicy, woodsy, a hint of outside… sweaty, just a little. In the way that makes you want to eat him. But you don’t let your mind drift just yet, savoring the smell of him, the feeling of his skin pressed against yours, how he feels in your arms.
It takes him a second to process, but his arms wrap around your back, engulfing you in his hold as he leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head in the same exact spot he did three weeks ago. When you thought it was over.
How the fuck could you ever think it was over?
Mumbling into his chest, coming out muffled, you say, “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He doesn’t need a second to process that, the words coming out before he could think about them, he doesn’t need to think about them. Never once did he have to think about them, not with you.
Your grip loosens a little, but you don’t let go. He seems perfectly content holding you to him, flat palms sliding up and down your back, a smile you can’t see quickly crawling across his cheeks.
Finally looking up, into his whiskey eyes burnt by the dim lighting of the kitchen, you whisper, “Thank you.”
He’s looking at you like you’re his entire world. Like nothing before this moment has ever mattered, and nothing after it will matter either, because right now it’s you and him and that’s all he’s ever wanted.
“Anything for you.” He leans down to press a small kiss to your forehead. “You know that.”
A smile tugs at your lips, “Anything?”
He smacks his lips, “Don’t ruin the moment, that was sweet.”
Your grin spreads, head dropping until your forehead meets his chest again, hands falling from around his back to drop down to his hips. “Why is it always me?” You look up again, lashes fluttering, “It’s always me who’s begging to get in your pants.”
His face morphs into cockiness, his shoulders shrugging casually, “Guess I’m that good.”
You try to scoff, but it comes out like a laugh as you smack your palm against his hip, “I’m serious, Wooyoung. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”
His amused smile falls, hands sliding down to your hips, pushing your back against the counter. He keeps himself close, eyes scanning your face, gaze dropping down to your lips. Small, quiet yet full of lust, he asks, “You think I don’t want you?”
Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening. Your hands fly up between you, pressed against his chest as you stutter over your thoughts, “A- um, a little, kinda.”
His head drops down to your neck, the curve of his nose ghosting against the shell of your ear and your whole body shivers in response, back arching against the counter.
He keeps his voice low, “You don’t realize that I think about fucking you every time we’re in this kitchen?”
Your heart picks up speed, breath going heavy and ragged, body twitching as he speaks like he’s fucking touching you. All you can mumble is his name, soft but drenched in arousal, fingers clutching onto his shirt.
“Lifting you up on this counter,” he drawls, voice like honey, hands reaching for the marble, arms caging you in. “Just like I did a few months ago, except I think about taking it slow this time, teasing you until you’re begging. Touching you until you’re crying for it.”
Your skin touches, his lip against the spot below your neck; his breath warm and inviting, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand, goosebumps raise on your skin. The smallest noise escapes you, pitched and needy, you’d be embarrassed by it if the arousal wasn’t intoxicating.
He brings his face back to yours, so close your foreheads are almost touching.
“Look at me.”
You do, eyes full of anticipation, his lips so close you could taste them. He grins.
Then he’s pressing a kiss to your cheek and moving off of you like nothing ever happened. Sliding the bags down the counter so he can keep unloading groceries, you blink at him, dumbfounded, terrorized.
“What the fuck?” You whisper-yell.
He looks at you casually over his shoulder, “What?”
“You’re an asshole,” you spit, “you’re such a fucking asshole.”
He cracks a smile at that, going back to his groceries, "Didn't I tell you to go sit down ten minutes ago?”
All you can do is scowl, all the way back to the fucking couch where you tuck your knees up to your chest.
Kyungmin looks over his shoulder from the floor, wearing raised, curious brows as he asks, “Wanna play with me?”
Friday has been your favorite day of the week since you could remember. In college, it meant classes were over, you had your weekends free to drink your bodyweight in liquor and party anywhere and everywhere without the looming dread of classes in the morning sitting on your shoulders. When you started working, Friday’s clockout time called to you at a mere seven in the morning, reminding you that when you go home, you get to change into a cocktail dress and your clubbing pumps and go out with the girls from your office. When you met Wooyoung, Friday meant that you got to spend your weekend with him, partying, fucking, learning each other down to the bone.
When you got pregnant the first time, Friday meant you got to go home and sleep.
Now you’re pregnant a second time, and Friday no longer means you get to go home and sleep.
You get to listen to your eight year old with a chronic case of the zoomies, especially after an abnormally warm day full of sunshine that radiates upcoming spring, instead of being tired, he’s ready to share all the adrenaline he’s felt all day with you. And you love it– every single second of him racing around your backyard with a widespread grin, shouting giggles that could cure any foul mood you’ve ever been in, but you’re especially tired today, and you don’t have it in you to do anything but sit in your patio chair and watch.
“Mommy, play with me!” He shouts across the lawn, the sound piercing your eardrums even if there’s yards of breeze intercepting it. “Let’s play Runway,” he starts, feet bringing him closer to you, dropping the bat he was just swinging against the tee you still owned because he aged out of tee ball just one year ago. “It’s like Fashion Runway, but instead of Fashion, we walk.”
You can’t help yourself, the snort that rips from your nose is inevitable. “You wanna walk with me?”
“Runway, mommy,” he corrects you, a hand on his denim-clad hip. Jeans and a tee shirt, one you realized an hour ago is stained with the condiments you put on the sandwich from his school lunch. “You have to walk like you’re walking down a runway, and I’ll judge it. One is bad, ten is good.”
Your brows raise over the sunglasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, amused and actually interested, “Oh, is it a competition?”
Kyungmin smirks, “Yeah, and I’m gonna win. You go first.”
“Excuse me, mister runway model,” you say, pushing yourself off the patio chair by the armrests. You think you’re nearing popping, your belly definitely… protruding now. Not big by any means, at your fourteen weeks of pregnancy, but you think you’re almost visible. Obvious. Maybe. You wonder how Kyungmin hasn’t said anything yet, when he usually asks a thousand questions if you style your hair differently.
Kyungmin sits in the patio chair after you’ve stood up, and claps his hands together as you walk through the lawn, standing facing him just a few feet away. “Okay mommy!” He yells from the chair, “You can walk now.”
Damn, impatient, too. You flip your hair over your shoulder, one hand on your hip, and conjure up the sassiest walk, imagining yourself on a runway, putting in effort for the sake of your kid. The same kid who loses his fucking shit, clapping and giggling like it was the funniest thing he’s ever seen.
When you walk up to the edge of the stone patio, Kyungmin is still giggling, but he says, “It’s good that you’re not a model, mommy.”
You scoff, standing straight, but the laughter that comes from your back door sliding open steals both of your attention before you have the chance to talk back to your son.
“Daddy!” Kyungmin squeals.
Wooyoung walks onto the patio, grinning like he knows he wasn’t supposed to see that but he loved every second of it. “What do you mean? That was the best model walk I’ve ever seen.” He’s eyeing up Kyungmin now as he says, “Tell mommy she could be a model before you hurt her feelings.”
You try to interject, “He didn’t–”
“You’re a good model, mommy,” Kyungmin says, and he almost sounds like he means it. “You should see Aden do it,” he pushes himself up off the patio chair, “he does it like this.”
You’re shaking your head as you walk towards Wooyoung, ready to greet him, but Kyungmin’s screech of “Look!” has you turning right back around.
Your jaw drops as your son puts his hand on his hip and sways his hips as he walks toward the patio. You scoff, “You just did exactly what I did!”
Wooyoung snorts from beside you, “He might’ve done it better than you, jagi.”
“What number?” Kyungmin asks, grin as wide as his eyes, his arms wrapping around your middle when his quick moving feet bring him right to you. “Judge time.”
You bend down and press a kiss to his sweaty hair, “Ten. What’s my number?”
Kyungmin’s eyes slide to Wooyoung, and out of your peripherals you can see Wooyoung holding up ten fingers. Your son giggles, looking back at you, “Nine.”
“Y’know what?” You bring your palms to his cheeks, squeezing, “I’ll take it.”
“Let’s play again,” Kyungmin squeezes you a little tighter, making you choke out a noise. “Daddy has to walk this time, too.”
“I think that’s a beautiful idea,” you smirk, side-eyeing your husband from beneath your shades. Expecting pushback, his grin turns feline. Your brows raise.
“Scared of a lil’ competition?” He wiggles his own brows, “I’m about to win, just so you know. Kyungmin, you’re going down.”
“Damn, was my walk really that bad?” You ask, brows coming together as you turn to Wooyoung. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”
He leans closer when Kyungmin runs off into the lawn, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I thought it was perfect. Hi, by the way.”
“Hi,” you’re smiling already, and you know the flush on your cheeks isn’t from the afternoon sun anymore. It’s his fourth time here this week and it’s only Friday, by this point there’s not a bone in your body that isn’t okay with it. The opposite, actually, staring at him in his business-casual clothes, dress pants loose and elongating his strong legs, dress shirt unbuttoned and untucked on one side, sleeves folded up to his elbows. His pants black, his shirt a deep gray color, the silhouette, the colors, it all contrasts against his build and his sickeningly sweet-looking skin, making you salivate.
This is the third day in a fucking row that just looking at him has made you weak in the knees. You’ve been curbing your cravings well enough since last week against your kitchen island, you’ve kept a safe distance since, not looking at him for too long, you don’t want to risk the rejection that you still aren’t sure was rejection, again. But the more insatiable your thirst grows, the more it feels fucking impossible, especially when he looks like that, when he’s doing tasks for you around the house, when he’s making dinner and eating it with you, when he’s showing up at your house right after work with his belt already off and his shirt halfway untucked.
You’re still not above begging. He’s still not giving you an inch.
Kyungmin walks first, as attitudey and sass-filled as you imagined it would be, and both you and Wooyoung shout ten. You walk next without an ounce of embarrassment, and Wooyoung shouts ten, but Kyungmin shouts eight. Then Wooyoung walks, using his hips like he had a rope attached through his belt loops pulling him forward, like a real fucking high-fashion model.
With your jaw pressed to the stone of the patio, you yell, “You motherfucker, why are you good at this?”
“Mommy!” Kyungmin shouts, disapproving of your swear.
A belly laugh leaves Wooyoung, head dipping down, palms clutching his stomach before they land on his knees in a doubled-over crouch. You scoff, “I’m serious, what the hell is going on? Do you have a history in modeling that I should know about? Something else you’re hiding?”
“I think… nine,” Kyungmin says from your side, ignoring you with his hands on his hips, brows slanted, hiding his smile like he knows Wooyoung’s walk was perfect but refuses to outright admit it.
You snort, “That was a ten if I’ve ever seen a fucking ten.”
Kyungmin shouts again, “Mommy!”
“Stop swearing, you’re bothering the boy,” Wooyoung ushers a hand in Kyungmin’s direction, face still bent up in laughter, tight from trying to hide his smile. Just a moment passes of his lips tucked between his teeth before he laughs again, “I’m sorry– I’m sorry, that was so fucking funny.”
Kyungmin’s voice is stern as he warns, “Daddy.”
“I’m sorry!” Wooyoung shouts, his palms flying up in defense, laughter still laced in his words. “Come on, let’s go inside.”
Kyungmin makes for the door first, mumbling like he didn’t think you’d hear, “I told you mommy would lose.”
Wooyoung catches up to you in a light jog, one hand pressed to the small of your back as you cross the threshold to walk inside your kitchen. Your head snaps sideways at the touch and he looks blissfully unaware at how the heat from his palm shoots electricity up your spine, reminding you of just short of a week ago, his arms on the counter behind you, caging you in, whispering nasty shit in your ear…
There’s happiness in the air, bleeding between you and him and your son, even the girl growing steadily in your belly. You don’t want to ruin it by sinking your mind to the gutter, where it was a week ago, how you sulked the entire night and yet he still left your house with a kiss to your cheek and a smirk on his lips. He won’t fucking give in and your body is reacting to every look, every touch like a livewire.
He meets your eye, mischief twinkling in chocolate, he knows. You take a quick step forward, too fast for his hand to stay on your body, it’s purposeful.
“Homework, dinner, showers, bedtime,” you mumble under your breath as if you needed to remind yourself of the schedule, using it like a bucket of cool water, the words ice in your veins.
And that schedule you continued to repeat to yourself all night. Homework was swift with Wooyoung’s quick-working mind helping Kyungmin, and other than making dinner, having him here to help with math was something you desperately needed and never even thought of. Third-grade math was a nuisance to you, mortifyingly irritating, and sometimes you remember that it's just going to get worse. More complicated. It’s been a long time since you’ve attempted long-division and you’ll avoid it at all costs if you can.
You ended up ordering takeout, the three of you sat on the floor of your living room, eating from containers on the coffee table, watching the movie playing on the TV across the room. Frozen, again, for the thirteen-millionth time, more than once Kyungmin began singing along, and you instinctively sang along with him, then Wooyoung, too. You think the three of you might know this movie word for word.
By the time the end credits were rolling onto your screen, your back was pressed to the edge of the couch, your head lolled onto the cushions, eyes half open. You supposed singing along to the movie took the last bit of energy right out of you, exhaustion sitting heavy on your chest, your shoulders.
Kyungmin was still wide awake, bouncing from watching his favorite movie yet another time. Sitting beside Wooyoung on the floor, his legs thrown over Wooyoung’s lap, his head turned sideways, towards the screen across the room, you could barely hear his fast-moving mouth about how much he loves Elsa. How he wanted to be her, have her magic, ice powers, how he wanted a sister like Anna– all things you’ve heard a thousand times before, but they landed differently this time, and as Wooyoung’s head turned sideways to look at you, you know you were both thinking that you hope to give him a sister like Anna.
His gaze lingered, though, taking in your half-awake state, low-lidded eyes, slouched body that you’re sure did not look comfortable. It was, at least, as comfortable as it could be for movie watching on the floor.
“Shower time,” Wooyoung rips his gaze from you to look at Kyungmin. Your son whines, pulling his legs from Wooyoung’s lap to roll over on the floor. Wooyoung’s face stays straight, an unmovable force, “Come on, you’ll feel better when you’re clean.”
“I already feel good,” Kyungmin whines, “I’m clean. I showered last night.”
“Are we gonna have the stinky conversation again?” Wooyoung asks, amusement playing in the line of his lips. “Mommy’s gonna cry if she gets a whiff of you.”
You crack a grin at that, even if Kyungmin refuses to take the bait. He sits up, arms stretched out behind him, brows slanted downward as he asks, “Can’t I shower in the morning?”
“No,” you interject, “you already don’t want to wake up in the morning, I’m not fighting you to shower.”
“I won’t fight!” Kyungmin counters. “I’ll get up, mommy, I promise.”
“I don’t even believe that,” Wooyoung reaches forward, grabbing him by his ankles and tugging the boy towards him. “Go shower.”
Kyungmin giggles as his butt slides against the floor, toward his father. “Can I eat ice cream after?”
“Sure,” Wooyoung nods. “But only if you smell clean. Remember to wash your hair twice, with shampoo.”
Kyungmin stands from the floor just to scowl at his father, “I know how to wash my hair.”
Wooyoung just raises his brows like this was an argument they’ve had before, one you have no knowledge of. He doesn’t respond, though, and Kyungmin doesn’t argue as he turns for the staircase, running two steps at a time so he can get to his dessert as fast as humanly possible.
Wooyoung wastes no time as soon as the shower turns on. He slides closer to you, eyes zeroed in on your tired expression as he asks, “Why don’t you go take a bath?”
You pop a brow, “Are you saying I smell, too?”
“I’m saying you look like you need to relax,” he says smoothly, easing you with a soft smile. “I’ll get him ready for bed, ice cream and all.”
Like it was meant to be or something, you yawn. Your back arches, arms stretching over your head, neck turning away from Wooyoung. “I don’t feel like walking all the way up there.”
“I’ll carry you?” You turn back to see him grinning, playful, eyes flaring amusement. You can see his collarbones beneath the collar of his shirt, fully untucked now, his pants that were once pressed now wrinkled and littered with tiny balls of fuzz. “I’ll even start running the water for you. Use the new soaps I got you, see if you like ‘em.”
“I’ll wait until Kyungie goes to bed–”
“I’ll put him to bed,” Wooyoung cuts you off. “And by put him to bed I mean I’m gonna close the door and let him fall asleep on his own, like a big boy.”
You roll your eyes, smile growing, “Are you gonna drill that into me forever?”
“I’m not drilling anything else into you,” he responds, too quick for him not to have been waiting to use that response.
Your face falls, lips bending into a frown. “I know,” you respond, a bite to the words, sounding like that’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. “Why not?”
“Because we tried it the other way already,” he slides down on the floor, head lolling backward, mimicking the way you’re sitting. “That didn’t work, so I’m using my thirty days wisely. No sex until you have a ring on your finger again.”
“They’re upstairs, on my dresser,” you say, jutting your chin towards the staircase. “Go get them, I’ll put them on.”
He side-eyes you. “You know what I mean, asshole.”
“Oh, now I’m the asshole?” You sit up a little. “You’re the one who won’t fuck your wife.”
“Because you’re only my wife legally,” he mumbles, voice quieter. “I want to have sex when you want your husband, because I’m your husband, not because you just want to have sex. Does that make sense? I think I confused myself.”
Your palms find the floor on either side of you, pushing upward until your legs are under you before you stand up straight. Tilting your head, ignoring his rambling, you ask, “Has your lawyer called you?”
“No,” his brows furrow as he lifts his head. “Why?”
You shrug, “Just wondering.”
He was right, you did need to fucking relax.
The smell of lavender and chamomile fills your bathroom, steam fogging the white gold-lined mirror on your marble vanity, turning the once crystal-clear glass shower door cloudy. Bubbles surround you, popping every few seconds, swirling with each slight movement of your body. Your neck stretches over the back end, eyes closed, body submerged beneath the water that teeters on the edge of hot. You’ve already drained some water and refilled the white, ceramic tub once, not wanting to escape serenity just yet. It’s been too long since you’ve properly relaxed without worrying about work, your husband, your son, anything. Everything.
You were content on staying here, letting your body soak in the water, in the sweet smells, for as long as you possibly could. The first your eyes have opened is when you hear a hand on the door handle, pushing it open quickly and then closing it even quicker. Wooyoung walks in, eyes on you as soon as you’re in view, silently crossing the bathroom in a few long strides before crouching beside the tub.
“Care to join?” You ask, head turned toward him.
He cracks a smile, head dropping down to huff a laugh under his breath. It’s empty, like he had something on his mind. His hands reach over the side of the tub, bronzy fingers playing in the warm water, “Do you like the soaps? The salts?”
You nod, “Mhm, ‘m very relaxed.”
“Good,” he nods, lips scrunching to one side. He had more to say.
“What’s up?” You ask, searching his face for the answer before he had a chance to verbalize it.
He takes a beat. “We haven’t talked about it,” he finally says, eyes meeting yours, pupils big and dilated. “Us. At all, not once during these past few weeks.”
“Okay,” you say assuredly, then readjust. Sitting up a little taller, using your hands pushing against the bottom of the tub, the water covers just above the apex of your breasts. “Let’s talk.”
He swallows, eyes dancing across your face, your shoulders, like he’s fighting for his life to not let his gaze drop past your collarbones. You smile.
“Where’s your head at?” he asks, forcing his gaze upward. “Do you wanna do this?”
You lean over the side, throwing an arm along the edge of the tub, laying your cheek on your forearm to look up at him. “Do I wanna do what?”
He shifts, sitting on the floor, legs bent, criss-crossed. He keeps his face close to yours, just slightly below you. “Be with me,” he wonders, “have another baby with me.”
You crack another smile, one so genuine it takes over your entire face. “I’ve wanted to the whole time, dummy.”
“Don’t toy with me, jagi,” his lips fall to a line. “Be serious. Are we doing this or are we not?”
You sigh. “You know,” you start, twisting your legs, the fluid noise of water sloshing following. “That day you brought me the soaps, the gummies, things I didn’t ask for but you know I needed…” Wooyoung nods, eyes twinkling with optimism. “It reminded me what kind of man you are. Who you used to be, before your priority became work–”
“I told you–”
“Let me finish,” you cut him off, eyes stern. He nods. “Even though you weren’t here, I know it was for Kyung, for me. I knew it, and even though I divorced you–the first time–I hoped you’d fight it. That you’d fix everything as soon as I brought up divorce, admit your wrongs and fucking grovel or something.” He frowns, but you don’t give him a second to respond. “I’ve missed this part of you. I’ve missed the part that’s present, that supports me as a partner and not just a checkbook. That’s what matters to me.” His frown deepens, eyes glazing over. You lift your head, reaching for humor, “Crybaby.”
“You’re the crybaby,” he counters, but a smile tugs at his lips. He wipes two thumbs under his eyes as he says, “Don’t forget we have to send two kids to college.”
You bark out a laugh, a genuine laugh. “We’ll figure it out. I just want— all I’ve ever wanted is you here, Wooyoung.”
He leans forward, pressing a short, sweet kiss to your lips. Keeping himself close, barely a millimeter between your faces, he whispers, “I will be.”
“Good,” your smile grows, “because I called my lawyer like, two days ago. I think we need your signature before the judge can sign off on the motion.”
He snaps his head backward, eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
“Why would I lie?” You laugh a little, leaning your chin on your forearm again. “Are you really that surprised? I thought I’ve been making it pretty clear.”
He shakes his head ever so slightly in disbelief as he stutters, “I don’t– I guess, I don’t know. You’re pregnant.”
Your eyes droop in a scowl, “Are you about to call me horny and hormonal?”
His lips tighten, trapping his smile, “No.”
You laugh again, leaning back into the tub, letting your head lay against the ceramic. “I love you, idiot. I don’t want to do this without you, you’re my best friend.”
“You’re my best friend, too,” his bottom lip bends over in a pout, eyes glossy all over again. “I’m sorry for everything I put you through, baby. I swear to God I never had bad intentions with any of it.”
“I know,” you mumble, reaching your hand over the side of the tub. He tangles his fingers with yours, squeezing your wet palm, reveling in the silence, the shifting, the togetherness both of you fucking ached for. You smile, eyes twinkling with the idea, “Do you wanna go get my rings?”
He beams, muttering an excited yes before he pushes himself upward. It takes him all of seven seconds to run out to your bedroom, connected to your bathroom, to grab your wedding band and your engagement ring from the ceramic box atop your dresser and to run back into the bathroom. The movement was so Kyungmin you couldn’t help but laugh when he knelt beside the tub again.
Wordlessly, you hold your left hand out, and he slides your wedding band on your ring finger first, a silver ring encrusted with diamonds. Then your engagement ring, a simple silver band, at the center a recently polished diamond set with four prongs. You hold it up to the dim light of the bathroom, admiring how the diamonds catch the amber hue, sparkling, shining, immediately regretting ever taking them off.
“You really did a good job,” your head tilts in admiration. “I’ve missed this fuckin’ rock.”
He snorts, lifting himself up and over you, planting both hands on either side of the tub as his upper half stretches over the side, pressing his lips against yours. Your other hand leaves the water to cup his cheek, savoring the taste of him, home. Knowing it was real this time, knowing you were choosing this. Him, all over again. You deepen the kiss as the feeling blooms, pushing your tongue between his lips, using your hand on his cheek to bring him closer.
“I love you,” he says into your mouth, voice cushioned by the remnants of relief.
You moan the softest sound of pleasure into his parted lips, “I love you.”
You feel him smile against you, one mischievous and him. “Should we consummate our renewed marital status?”
Keeping your hand on his cheek, you push him away a singular inch, popping a brow. “You really have to ask me that?”
“Mm, I know,” he leans forward to kiss you again, his outstretched arm leaving the ceramic to hold your cheek, running a thumb over your skin. “All that blood pumping down there, I’ve been so mean, denying my pregnant wife.”
His hand falls to your neck and you gasp, legs twitching in the water. You don’t have it in you to respond, already lost in the way his touch feels, just a few months without him should be nothing compared to the year you spent apart. But you weren’t pregnant then.
“Come to bed,” he purrs against your lips. “As much as I’d love to fuck my wife in the bath, I’d rather spread your legs as wide as I can get ‘em.”
The idea makes you snort, “How flexible do you think I am?”
He plants another kiss to your lips before responding. “Doesn’t matter. I’m stretching you out anyway, aren’t I?”
You pull the plug from the drain with a roll of your eyes before Wooyoung helps you up by your arms, then grabs the white towel that sat folded on the toilet lid. Holding it open for you, he wraps you in white cotton until your back is pressed to his chest, his arms snug around your front, fingers still holding the towel closed.
Leaning into him, his scent, his warmth, even if you’re already standing in your home, it’s never felt more like it. Quietly, you mutter, “I missed you.”
He presses a kiss to the side of your head instead of responding. You tilt it to the side, looking up at him, his beautiful, sculpted face you’ve spent fifteen years loving. Clear skin, soft and smooth, whiskey eyes, the freckle perfectly centered beneath one of them, there’s a wrench in your gut and it hurts. You love him so much it aches.
Wordlessly, you press your lips against his, and it relives the ache ever so slightly. Til’ death do you part, he’s yours, he always has been, he always will be. And like he’s confirming it, his tongue slips into your mouth, his hands leaving the towel to turn you by your hips, the cotton falling to the floor. Your arms reach over his shoulders, back arching into him, your bare front pressing into his clothed one, you didn’t care.
“Easy,” he mumbles into your mouth. “Let me get you on the bed first.”
You respond by kissing him harder. Your mouths move melodically, your fingers finding the soft, ebony locks on his head, his palms leaving your hips just to start undoing the buttons on his shirt. You help him push it off his shoulders, panting into his mouth as your fingers dart for the button at the hem of his slacks, fingers sliding the zipper down.
He grunts when your palm meets his clothed length. “Jagi,” he grits out, chest heaving. “Baby, fuck– wait.”
“No,” you huff, kissing him again. Fingers meeting the elastic of his briefs, you push them over his hips, gripping the base of his length and tugging.
He groans, breaking away just to suck in a harsh breath, his abdomen flexing.
“Fuck me.” You’re staring up at him, and you’re positive you look crazed; eyes wide, unblinking, lips swollen and wet, chest heaving.
He doesn’t seem to care. He pulls your wrist from his cock, bending at his knees to scoop his other arm under your legs, lifting you in one quick motion. You stop yourself from yelping, arms swinging around his neck, holding on for dear fucking life as he opens the door with the hand that was supposed to be cradling your back.
So strong, the realization shoots straight to your throbbing clit. He lays you down on the bed, wet body soaking the comforter, neither of you care as he gets his pants, his briefs off his body, crawling over you. He keeps his voice quiet, barely above a whisper as he says, “What do you want?”
“You,” you quip, breathless. “Inside, inside, please.”
He studies you for a millisecond before he moves. Palms splayed over the underside of your thighs, he pushes them upward as he leans down between them, tongue poking out to lick a stripe through your folds. Hissing quietly, you watch his mouth bend, angled cheeks sucking in before he parts his lips in the smallest O to land a glob of spit on your core.
Grip loosening on your thighs, he sits on his calves, taking one hand to the base of his cock, smearing the spit along your folds. You release a breath, eyes screwing shut, fingers curling into the sheets, reminding yourself you need to be silent.
“Take a breath,” his voice is damn near silent, too. You obey, sucking in deep as he prods at your entrance, releasing the breath as he pushes in, agonizingly slow. You open your eyes to see his face twisted up in pleasure, jaw slack, muscles flexed, veins protruding in his sculpted arms.
You curse under your breath and he opens his eyes. “So good,” he whispers, sheathing himself fully, cock buried to the hilt. “Nothing fuckin’ feels like you.”
Your head tilts a singular degree, “You have much to compare me to?”
His lips flatten, eyes following suit. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”
Your lips bend in a smirk, legs spreading further. “Move.”
“Be nice,” he mutters, cock twitching inside you. “Been awhile.”
“Gonna cum if I’m mean?”
He bends at the hips, elbows landing on either side of your head, arms close enough that you might as well be scooped beneath his elbows. His forehead pressed against yours, he whispers, “Gonna cum if you’re nice, too.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Lay there,” he smiles, then presses a short kiss to your lips. “Let me take care of you.”
When he starts moving, it takes everything in you not to moan. Not to squeal, not to squeak, not to cry. Jaw falling open, brows furrowing, your fingers fly to his arms, nails cutting crescents into his skin.
“Oh my god,” his voice is low, quiet and ragged, his head dipping into the pocket of your shoulder. Your legs wrap around him, the smallest whimper escaping your mouth, in chorus to the slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out. Instead of the loud slapping of skin against skin, it was raw, a quiet, creamy noise filling the quiet room, each grind of his hips to the same beat as your breathing.
It’s almost worse than being fucked mercilessly. Caged beneath him, body a livewire, arching and jerking just for every movement to be stopped, forced into stillness, it’s almost worse. You’re panting, hips fucking back into him, toes curling over the expanse of his back, the pit of pleasure in the base of your gut spreads heat through each limb.
“Woo,” you pant, “I need, I need– oh my god.”
His lips find your neck, but he doesn’t pick up speed. Cock curving upward, massaging against your walls, his tongue spreads flat against the curve of your neck, lips closing over the stripe of spit. Mumbling, so quiet it’s a murmur, he says, “You need me.”
“Yes,” you whisper, eyes screwing shut, fingers clawing into his arms harder. Your body tightens, muscles strained, but he rocks into you with the same rhythm, unbothered by your body clenching. “I need you– I, I love you.”
His teeth find your skin, a rumble of a groan melting into your neck. “I love you.”
“No,” you urge through a hiss. “I love you.”
His hips rock a little harsher, a twitch in his rhythm. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” you’re whimpering, “I love you, I love you.”
He picks up speed, cock still brushing the spot on the inside of your walls. “Say you’re mine, jagi, ‘h my god.”
Your hips tilt, breath turning ragged, voice rising in pitch as your pleasure blooms. “I’m y-yours, I’m yours. Always will be.”
He lifts his head to press his lips against yours messily, tongue slipping into your mouth, hips grinding into you, pulling you closer to the line he drew for you. The one he made for you, because you’ve always been his, and he’ll always be yours.
His hands cup your cheeks, pulling his lips from yours, hips never once breaking their rhythm. His cheeks cave again, lips pursing, and you open your mouth in waiting. A droplet of spit dribbles slowly from his mouth and you catch it on your tongue, never once taking your eyes off of him, unblinking, letting him see that you’d take anything he gave. He watches your throat bob as you swallow.
“Mine.” He sounds on the brink, his voice a quiet, hardened thing. “Cum for me.”
It doesn’t take long, not when your feet hit the mattress, pushing your hips upward, allowing him to hit that spot in perfect rhythm. After a week or two of denial, you’ve been on the cusp since he’d walked inside the bathroom.
“So perfect,” he says. It’s primal, how he stares at you coming undone around his cock, jaw pried open and eyebrows knitted together. “I fucking love you.”
You can feel him twitching as you clench around the width of him, nails slicing into his skin, hips jerking wildlessly under his own. He keeps you pinned as he reaches down, picking up a thigh to push it upward, knees spreading to fuck into you harder without slapping his hips against you.
You whimper, overstimulation looming, pleasure unending and all-consuming. “Wooyoung– Wooyoung.”
“Close,” he grinds his teeth. “Fuck, need to fill you up, jagi. Need to fill you up.”
His words make your hips rise to meet his, small squeaks escaping as his other hand finds your hair, knuckles finding purchase in your roots. Not hard, but enough, claim in another form; he needed it, needed you, in any way he could get you. Any way he could have you.
“Cum,” you cry. “Please, please please. I need it.”
“Say you love me.”
“I love you!” Your fingers find the duvet beneath you, curling into the plush, nerves beyond fried. Rambling, your voice a winded whine, “I love you, please fill me up, cum inside me until I’m leaking, made me feel so good, Woo. Need it inside.”
He moans, and it’s small, but it’s verbal. Cock twitching, hips losing rhythm, his abdomen clenches as he finally unravels, painting your insides with ropes of white-hot heavy warmth. You sigh in relief, in the warmth, the comfort of his release like an embrace.
He lets go of your thigh to reach for your cheek, pressing his lips against yours. Whispering into each other’s mouths, mumbles of I love you and thank you and I missed you, over and over and over, all between kisses and tastes of each other’s tongues.
It feels like forever that you stay like that, far past his cock softening inside you, his release leaking out, ignoring the tickle as it races for the duvet beneath. You didn’t care, not with his lips on yours, your hands in his hair, his scent in your nose, the world could end around you and you still wouldn’t fucking care. Like stitching time back together, seam by seam, when you’re both wearing flushed cheeks and swollen lips, you finally part with lazy grins and cheeks aching from giggling. He kisses down your chest, two of his palms splayed over your tummy, peppering a hundred, a thousand kisses to the skin circling your belly-button.
“I’m so excited,” he says, like he’d been waiting to say it. “I can’t wait to see you bursting, belly all full ‘n round. I can’t wait to have another.”
He lays his head on your stomach, body stretched out on the bed. Your hand finds his hair, scratching at his scalp as an easy sigh falls from your lips. “Me too,” you smile, and you mean it. “And I’m excited for you to be here. Normalcy.”
His fingers dance over your skin, featherlight, his cheek pressed to your tummy. “Can I move back in tomorrow?”
A quiet laugh tumbles off your lips. “We’ll take it slow, we have an eight year old who notices things, Wooyoung.”
“He literally wants me to live here,” his eyes slide upward. “He’ll be happy.”
“We’ll talk to him,” you nod in confirmation, fingers continuing to scratch in his hair.
He purrs, the vibration tickling your belly, making you twitch. “I love you,” he says softly, a pause before he adds, “wifey.”
Your grin spreads at the nickname. “I love you too.”
[ex-husband!wooyo x ex-wife!reader] 𓈒𓏸.°• part two to wifey | smut minors dni 18+, raw p in v, creampies, breeding, sweet talk, dirty talk, mommy/daddy, nothing too crazy i turned up the plot this time | 9.7k
there are some special appearances in this from @chimivx 's friends ᢉ𐭩 if you're curious about yunho's wife n kids, read tcmc ‼️ if you wanna know everything about wooyoung and aurora, how yunho and aurora came to be, if you're curious about the lore at all, pls start here :) thank you plum for letting me write a story from your story, i love your people very very very much, almost as much as i love u u terrifying mastermind genius ₊˚⊹♡
Like fucking clockwork.
You close the door to Kyungmin’s room quietly, hearing the soft noise of the latch clicking into place, face scrunching together, silently praying that you don’t hear his small voice call you back inside.
At the same time, Wooyoung’s key turns in your front door, heavy, deep brown wood groaning open. On silent feet he ushers himself inside, closing the door quietly behind him, lips tucked between his teeth to enforce the silence.
From the top of the staircase, you see him dressed in oversized charcoal at the bottom, kicking his sneakers off his feet while throwing his phone, wallet and keys on the entryway table. Skipping down the stairs, you forgo greeting him, whispering, “Be quiet, he just went down.”
“He’s eight,” Wooyoung whispers back, “you still tuck him in?”
“He begs me to,” your brows knit together, “he doesn’t beg you?”
“No,” his lips spread in a grin, “he’s a big boy at my house.”
You scoff, “Shut up, he’ll always be my baby.” Leading him into the living room, you keep your voice low, louder than a whisper, “We have to be quiet.”
“You have to be quiet,” he corrects you, tone teasing, smirking as you lay back on the couch. The TV is on but muted, the lamp in the corner coating the living area in dusky orange even if the sun had gone to sleep hours ago.
“I am quiet,” you pout as he crawls over you, wasting no time, crouching between your parted legs, a hand falling to the back of the couch for purchase as he pecks a short kiss to your lips.
“Don’t tease tonight,” you grab hold of his hoodie, pulling him close enough for your lips to touch, “I don’t have it in me to fight for it.”
He smiles, kissing you again, parting your lips with his own, hands moving to the armrest to keep him steady as he lowers his hips into you. You gasp into his mouth at the friction, your tiny shorts doing nothing to shield you from his weight.
“Then don’t fight,” he moves to kiss your jaw, your head tilts to let him in, his breath is hot against your skin, “lay there and behave for once.”
Your hands find his neck, his cheeks, pulling him back up to kiss you deeper, head lifting off the pillow, calves hooking over the back of his thighs. He makes a grumbled noise, tongue licking into your mouth like he was searching for something, one hand falling from the armrest to tug at the hem of your hoodie, pushing it upward.
“Off.”
One word, a singular order, you sink further down the couch after pulling it off your body in a rush, throwing the pillow beneath your head to the floor, giving him space to plant his elbows above your shoulders.
“Don’t wait,” you murmur into his mouth, “I can take it.”
He hums, taking your bottom lip between his teeth before he answers, “You don’t know how to take it.”
“Then I’ll fucking learn,” your feet tug at his sweatpants, spine bending toward him, “get inside me.”
“Antsy,” he sits back on his knees, pushing his sweatpants and his briefs down in one quick motion. “Like I haven’t been fucking you right or something.”
“You haven’t been here in a week,” you argue, pushing your shorts down to your ankles, kicking them on the floor, “you haven’t been fucking me at all.”
“I had our kid for four of those days,” he pulls your thighs over his, sliding his cock through your folds, “I didn’t see you at my door after he went to bed. On his own, might I add.”
You loose a shaky breath as his tip collides with your clit, hips bucking up towards him, “Shit, I was busy, Wooyoung. What about those three days then?”
He pauses, glancing up at you, “You serious?”
“Yes?” You blink, “What were you doing? You had Friday, Saturday and Sunday.”
He laughs, lining himself up, holding his breath as he pushes inside. Your lips part in a silent scream, head tilting backwards to dig into the couch cushions, hands clawing at your own thighs for something. He stills once he’s fully seated, chest heaving, veiny forearms reaching for your ankles.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he grinds out, voice tight with restrain, pushing your knees up to your chest. “Careful what you say, wifey. Might think you want me for real.”
“Regretting,” you squeak, eyes screwed shut tight, “s’big.”
He’d laugh again if your pussy didn’t look so pretty trying to keep him in. Walls fluttering around the base of him, your clit pulsed, begging for attention already, he started a slow, deep grind of his hips, making sure he filled you up all the way with each one.
“So wet for me, mommy. Didn’t even have to touch you,” he keeps his palms splayed on your thighs, bearing his weight as he leans forward, pressing a kiss to the arch of your foot that dangles in the air.
You whimper, face scrunching in pleasure, core clenching around him, he kisses up to your ankle, grazing his teeth against your skin, your hands shoot for his wrists, his forearms, just to hold them. Forcing words out, you say, “Been waiting for this, for you.”
“A whole week,” he picks up the pace, voice leaning into condescending, “must have been so hard.”
Your breath catches, eyes rolling back, a soft moan tumbling off your tongue, “Fuck, ‘t was. It was.”
“Quiet,” he reminds you, “or I’ll stop.”
“You won’t stop,” you mutter, fingers tightening over his wrists, a challenge.
At that he stills, sitting back on his calves, leaving just the tip inside. “I won’t what?”
Jaw clenching, your hips follow him, he lays his palms over bone to keep you still. You stay like that for a moment, a game of chicken, eyes locked on his that stare at you expectantly. Obedience, silence, submission, he loves you bratty, he’s a brat himself, but when it comes to fucking you open on your couch just past nine at night, he expects you to listen.
“Fine,” you shift against the cushions, “fine, you win.”
He pulls you onto his cock by your hips without a word and you have to slap a hand over your mouth to force yourself silent. The angle, the ease in which he mounted you onto him, your eyes slammed shut, gasping out a broken sound into your palm, he fills you up perfectly, carving into you like you were built to take him and him only, it’s war to not cry out in pleasure.
“Fuck,” under his breath, low, he tells you how good you feel in one blurted word. You roll your hips against him, meeting his thrusts, curved cock dragging along the front of your walls with each grind.
“More,” you plead, grabbing for him, “kiss me.”
He crawls over you, elbows beside your ears again, pressing his lips to yours with a softness reserved for you. His hips slow, your ankles crossing over his back, pushing his hoodie up with your heels just to feel more of his skin against you.
“Yes,” you whisper, breathing the same air, bodies moving together now, “just like that, daddy.”
His forehead meets yours, a quiet noise of pleasure rumbling from his chest, “‘m not gonna last.”
You kiss him again, tongue slotting between his lips, hands tugging at his roots, body moving in the shape of his, the only thing you can hear is your breath singing in harmony and the slick sound of your bodies conjoining.
Six weeks of Wooyoung breaking you down on your couch, your kitchen counter, your living room floor, once against the wall just outside of your hallway bathroom. You don’t know what it is, you haven’t spoken any more of what it means, what comes next, the only thing you know is that you can’t stop.
“Want me to fill you up? Fuck you full?”
You’re nodding, tongue catching on his lips, delirious with pleasure, your body ached for him. Burned for him. Only him. Always him– till death do you part.
“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, voice pitched and whiny.
His hips stutter, he tucks his head into your neck to muffle his groan, fingers tightening in your hair that’s sprawled out around your head like a blanket. Losing his rhythm, his slow deep strokes turning shallow, quick– chasing a high he found so easily with you.
Your toes curl over his back, chin tipping up when you feel the warmth spread, the heaviness, the feeling was indescribable. Claimed, owned, like he was marking his territory, it made your stomach swirl with affection, enough to pick his head up by his hair and kiss him again.
Your hips rock, he whimpers. “T-too much, jagi, no.”
So warm, you glide against him, too slippery for there to be any resistance. The sound you make is small but it says everything you can’t, that you need more, you aren’t done.
“D’you wanna sit on my face?" You hold his flushed cheeks instead, doe eyes staring up into his dilated pupils, begging. He shakes his head, “Can’t fuck you again, can’t.”
“Pussy,” you smack your teeth, “are you serious?”
“I’ll make you cum in under three,” he feeds you a peck of his lips, “promise.”
“Mommy?”
Both of your heads turn toward the staircase, the small voice that couldn’t see you from the platform at the top. It takes all of a millisecond for you to push Wooyoung away from you and jump off the couch.
“Coming!” You call, grabbing your shorts from the floor. Pulling them up your thighs, clenching hard to keep Wooyoung inside, you hiss at your ex, “Don’t fucking leave, you owe me.”
“Yes, mommy,” he nods, grin amused and lazy, “duty calls.”
You run up the stairs to find your brown-haired boy standing at the top, one of his fists rubbing at his eye, his favorite Frozen pajamas already pulled up and twisted at each and every hem. Before you have a chance to speak, he asks, “Who’s here?”
“No one,” you speak quietly, softly, turning him around by his shoulders, guiding him back into his bedroom. “Come on, baby, bed time.”
Five minutes of staring at the ceiling feels like a fucking lifetime until his tiny breaths turn slower, deeper. Creeping out of his bedroom once more, closing his door even softer than you did the first time, you nearly sprint down the steps to find Wooyoung still half-clothed.
“Now what if I brought him down here?” You stand before the couch, hands on your hips.
“Why the hell would you do that?” He quips, leaning forward to grab you by the hips, pulling you back down to him. “He’s asleep?”
“Out like a light,” you throw your arms over his shoulders, taking your spot in his lap. “You promised me something.”
“Is that all I’m good for?” His brows raise and the question takes you by surprise.
Wiping the smirk off your lips, your arms lower a little, disarmed. “Sex?”
“Yeah,” he sits up a little, shifting where you sat on his lap. “We’ve been sneaking around for over a month, I haven’t pressed the date thing because you’ve never been one to break your promises and–”
“You were serious?” You push your brows up to your hairline, cutting him off. To make it clear, you repeat, “You seriously want to take me on a date.”
His head cocks to the side, “You didn’t think I was serious? Of course I want to take you out.”
“We’re divorced,” you argue, leaning back, adding space between you.
“I’m aware,” he says, as if he really means no shit. “You’re on my lap right now, I’m still dripping out of you, are you planning on fucking me after the sun goes down for the rest of our lives?”
“Not for the rest of our lives,” you shake your head a little, brows knitted together, confused.
“Oh, then until you’re over it?” He blows amusement through his nose. “We made a tiny human who’s upstairs right now and I’m suddenly disposable?”
“That’s not what I meant,” you rub your palms over your face, sucking in a deep breath. “I just thought this was, like, an agreement. I didn’t think either of us wanted anything more, I’m sorry if I misread the situation.”
“We’d have a chance to talk about it if you didn’t kick me out as soon as you came.”
“Wooyoung,” you gasp sharply, offended, “I do not do that.”
His brows raise, forgoing a verbal response. You think back on the past six weeks, remembering each and every night you’ve shoved him out of your front door as soon as he pulled his pants up, the memories flash through your mind like a medley. Your lips flatten, cheeks heating, guilt and shame forming in the pit of your belly.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, just above a whisper.
“You really don’t want anything more?”
He sounds wounded and your heart cracks beneath your ribs. His brows are upturned, mismatched eyes rounded out, pink lips still swollen from earlier almost pouting. You swallow, taking a second to be honest with yourself and your feelings… This works. The last six weeks have worked so effortlessly, so easily, you’ve been spending your days bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so fulfilled you haven’t even considered what comes next. If anything comes next.
“I haven’t been this happy in awhile,” you reply honestly, “I think I don’t want to fuck anything up, our sex life wasn’t this consistent when we were still married, it’s nice.”
His fingers squeeze your hips, pulling you closer to him, a small smile forming on his full lips. “All I want to do is take you out one time, jagi. We don’t have to put any pressure on it, let’s just go out for dinner, have a few drinks and talk. It’s been a long time since we’ve just talked.”
It puts a smile on your face, too. You run a hand through his hair, locks of coal soft between your fingers, “Okay, let’s go this weekend.”
His face lights up, “Really?”
You snort, “Yes, really. I’ll get a babysitter for Saturday and–”
“I’ll bring him to Yunho’s,” his hands slide up to your waist, under the hem of your tank, leaning forward until his chest brushes against you. “He hasn’t seen Aden in awhile, maybe they can have a sleepover.”
Your hands find the base of his neck, pulling him flush to you, “A sleepover?”
Wooyoung’s lips find yours, a small kiss, his hands traveling upward, cupping your breasts beneath your tank, “Maybe we can have a sleepover of our own.”
You gasp into his touch, brows furrowing in pleasure, “Please.”
“You can have me all night,” he reaches for the hem of your tank, pulling it swiftly over your head before his hands go right back to toying with your chest, pressing his thumbs over your nipples as he says, “We can fuck in our big, comfortable bed, all night if you want to. Just like old times.”
You moan softly, quietly, head going fuzzy like he’d cast a spell on you, “Let’s go up there now.”
He keeps his eyes on yours as he leans forward, tongue poking out to circle over your nipple before his lips wrap around it, sucking harshly. You suck in a sharp gasp, face twisting in pleasure, hips grinding into him beneath you, “Fuck, Wooyoung.”
“Saturday,” his voice is low, gravelly, it sends a shiver up your spine. “Tonight you get to ride my face.”
You can’t argue. Not when he brushes his nose over your spit-soaked nipple, giving you a perfect view of the curve of cartilage, already imagining bucking your hips against it.
Immediately you’re climbing off of his lap, pointing to the rug beneath your feet, “On the floor.”
“Whatever you want, mommy.”
“Damn.”
It’s loud enough for the neighbors to hear. On your porch, fist over his lips, his brows are scrunched like he can’t believe his eyes, he looks you up and down three times before he whistles.
You snort, rolling your eyes, pulling your front door closed behind you. “Shut up, Wooyoung.”
He steps backwards, down one of your cement stairs, watching as you bend over slightly to lock your front door. Voice amused, he continues, “All dressed up for lil’ ole me? The dreaded ex?”
You turn around with a smile, “I’m keeping my word.”
His hand goes over his heart, frowning, “That hurt.”
“Shut up,” you shake your head, fighting your amusement as you move to step down, following him, he keeps his feet planted where he stands, an unmovable force.
Then he cracks a grin. “What, you’re not even gonna kiss me hello?”
You cross your arms over the front of your dress, sleek and red and hugging every inch of your body you want to be hugged. You got it on sale, an outfit you’ve been saving for the right occasion, you can’t believe tonight, of all nights, is the night you took it off the hanger.
You can’t believe you pulled it out for Wooyoung.
“Good things come to those who wait,” you sing, “if you’re on your best behavior maybe you’ll get a kiss goodnight.”
He groans, head tipping backward, eyes squeezing shut, “You’re gonna make me hard.”
“I hate you,” you laugh, pushing on his chest, making him tumble backward a step. You follow him down the staircase, towards his still-running SUV in your driveway, “Where are we going?”
He said to dress nice, two days ago in a short text-exchange that started off with you asking if he forgot to drop off Kyungmin’s backpack, which you found in the corner of your living room approximately nine seconds later. Two texts back and forth before he reminded you of your date tonight, that he’d already made the plans with Yunho and Aurora, Kyungmin would stay over at their house tonight to have a sleepover with their son, Aden.
Yunho was Wooyoung’s friend from college, living only fifteen minutes from where you lived on the outskirts of the city, suburbia with a good school district, which is where Kyungmin had met their son, Aden, the second of four. You wondered how they did it, you had your hands tied with only one.
“It’s a surprise,” he walks to the passenger side, opening the door for you.
“Wow,” you raise your brows, “such a gentleman. Who even are you anymore?”
He holds an arm out for you to grab as you climb in, “I’m just a husband taking his sexy ass wife out to dinner, that’s all.”
“Ex-husband,” you correct, “ex-wife.”
He leans against the door with a smile, “Whatever you say.”
He looks good. Dress pants on his legs, tailored, all his dress pants are. A button-up, rolled up on his veiny forearms, showcasing his tattoo, the top two buttons undone. Dressed in all black so his golden skin gleams in each pocket where it shows, fuck he knows how to dress himself and God it pisses you off. His hair is styled, down, tucked behind his ears, it frames his face effortlessly, beautifully, part of you wants to ask if you can make a pit-stop in the backseat.
It’s a thirty minute drive, filled with the same soft rock playing from his speakers, he talks over it the whole time. From Kyungmin to work to his apartment, which he nags at you that you still haven’t seen the inside of, the conversation is as easy as it always is. Bickering, of course, but you’ve been bickering since you were twenty-two. Fifteen years of partnership, of friendship, of learning each other down to particles and atoms, awkward silence has never existed between you.
A fancy restaurant, one that just opened in the city, dim lighting and red velvet and black leather, you couldn’t tell if you were supposed to eat dinner or each other. Side-eyeing Wooyoung as the hostess brought you to your table, the moment she left you quirked a brow, “Is this foreplay?”
He grabs the drink menu, “It can be if you want it to be.”
So shameless it makes your lips part. “Are we in a restaurant or a sex club?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a restaurant,” he doesn’t look up over the menu, “but we could make it a sex club if you want to make it a sex club.” You snort, reaching over to steal the drink menu from his hands. He scoffs, “No way you’re reading that as if you aren’t gonna nurse one margarita until it’s tequila-water.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, “maybe I’m in the mood for something different.”
You quickly scan the specials, the list of bottles they carry, different brands of wine they have. Pursing your lips, you quickly realize you’re not in the mood for something different.
Shoving the menu back into his hands, you mumble, “Fine.”
He laughs, a high, amused giggle, “You’re so predictable.”
“You just know me,” you huff, “not predictable.”
When the waiter comes by, Wooyoung not only orders his beer, but he orders your margarita, too. Casamigos, salt on the rim, you don’t correct him because you’re as predictable as they come. Your cheeks heat up anyway, you might be predictable but he remembers and it sends a streak of heat up your spine. Whatever.
You’re reading the menu, or trying to with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, seeing words but not ingesting any of them. Maybe you should just let him order your meal for you, too.
“What’s bothering you?” He asks, and you glance upward like he’s ripped you out of a trance.
You purse your lips, shaking your head a little, defensive. “Nothing.”
“I’ve known you for over a decade,” his lips curl at the corner, “I’ve lived with you, I’ve loved you, you’re the mother of my son. Is it so crazy that I know you? One year spent apart out of fifteen is nothing.”
You can feel the heat in the tips of your ears, you forgot he knows you down to your thoughts, too. A small sigh escapes you, “Do you wanna start now? Before there’s even any food on the table?”
He leans forward, smile mischievous, “Hey, there’s bread.”
You push air out of your nose, amused as you sit back in the upholstered chair. “It’s just stupid. We’ve only been divorced for a year, and look at us. We’re in a sex club that has a kitchen.”
His lips thin before he answers. “Did you really think we’d stay separated?"
“Yes?” Your head tilts with the question. “Did you not?”
“No,” he answers honestly, “I’ve been working on myself a lot this past year. All the time spent away from you, Kyungie, it’s given me space that I never wanted. Space I’ve filled with things to better myself, for him, for you.”
“What, did you get a promotion or something?” You quirk a brow, “Work stuff?”
He smacks his teeth, “I went to therapy.”
“You went to therapy?” Your brows meet your hairline, “Like, the couch and everything?”
“No, she made me sit on the floor,” he muses. “She actually has a brown, leather chair. She helped me figure a lot of my shit out, that way when it was time for me to propose the idea of us seeing each other again, it’d be different. I’d be different.”
“Woo, I had no idea,” your heart picks up speed in your chest. “I didn’t even know that you were this… bothered about us separating, to be honest.”
His face scrunches up in disbelief, “That’s bullshit.”
“I’m serious!” You argue, “The divorce process was so smooth, I guess over time I got it in my head that it was smooth because it was mutual.”
“It was never, not even for a second, mutual.”
“You made it easy,” you shrug, picking up your margarita, taking a sip. “You never told me the details, I only knew what I found out from your mother. She never mentioned therapy.”
“You knew what I wanted you to know,” he sets his menu down in front of him. “It’s not like we were exactly on speaking terms, you didn’t give me the opportunity to fix anything while we were still together, either.”
Your stomach churns. “I gave you a lot of chances, Wooyoung.”
“Not enough,” he argues, not sternly, earnestly. He picks up his beer. “You gave up on me.”
“I gave up on being a single mother in my own marriage,” your voice is low, quiet. Your throat feels tight.
The waiter comes, Wooyoung orders for the both of you, something you would’ve chosen for yourself. Your thoughts are too loud for you to pay it any mind.
“I’ll have to live with the fact that I made you feel that way until the day I die,” his face is solemn, his words so honest your heart feels like stone in your chest. “But I thought I was doing the right thing, setting us up for our future, setting our son up for his future. For a long time I couldn’t understand why that wasn’t enough for you.”
“But you understand now?”
He nods, “Strangely enough, you making that deal with me at the conference, about having San speak, it might’ve been the final piece that put everything together. I feel like I can see it clearly now, and it feels so fucking stupid looking back.”
“Yeah?” Your lips curve at the corners, “Did your therapist enjoy my ultimatum?”
“I think she thinks we’re childish,” he laughs a little, “she doesn’t say that, but I can kinda feel it. Like we’re still kids playing at being adults.”
“We are,” your smile widens, “but now I keep wipes and snacks in my purse instead of lipgloss and condoms that we never used.”
“Don’t talk mommy to me right now,” his face scrunches together like you pressed your foot against his crotch. “We’re still in public.”
You stare at him over the salt on the rim of your glass, taking a sip of your margarita before you mumble, “I don’t think anyone here would be bothered.”
“I want to try again,” he wipes the smile off his face, voice a little louder, stronger. “Just to lay everything on the table, I’ve been wanting to try again and if a hookup at a work conference is the start of it unfolding, then so be it.”
You take a second before responding. “Do you really feel like I gave up on you?”
“Yes,” there’s no room for uncertainty, the agreement is crystal clear. “But I know I pushed you to that point, and I know in the end it was my fault. I should have been around more to help you. Just to have been there.”
Your bottom lip quivers, he catches it as soon as the first twitch tugs at your mouth.
“No, no crying,” he reaches his hand across the table, searching for yours. You tangle your fingers with his, his palm warm, fingers encasing your hand within his own perfectly like you were made for each other. “If you’re open to trying again, to giving me another chance, it’ll be different this time. I’m different, but I still love you, I still want to be beside you.”
You wipe at your eyes before tears fall past your waterline, “I love you too, but I did my makeup for this.”
“And it looks beautiful,” his lips curve, “but it’s just gonna get ruined later, anyway.”
“Why would it–” You meet his eye, the mischievous glint. “Oh, fuck you.”
“Hopefully I’m lucky and you will fuck me.”
“Is sex all you think about?” You laugh, then tease him, “Is that all I’m good for?”
He glares across the table, “Too soon.”
“You’re the one who said we were gonna roll around in my bed all night.”
“Once upon a time, it was our bed,” he releases your fingers to point at you, “and I know it’s lonely in that big ass bed without me.”
“Who’s to say I’m lonely?” You taunt, “Maybe there’s been plenty of men warming my bed since we separated.”
“You,” he says it like it’s obvious, “at the conference you said there was no one else, so unless you lied, you’ve spent over a year alone, in that bed, playing with yourself and wishing it was me.”
You think everyone in the restaurant could hear the gasp that erupted from your chest. Wooyoung’s head tips back in laughter and you curse under your breath, whisper-shouting, “We’re in public, Jung Wooyoung.”
“The mom-voice makes it funnier,” he’s still laughing, a hand over his mouth, “scolding me like I’m five. Fuck, do you remember when Kyungmin drew all over the wall in the living room? With fucking Sharpies?”
You groan, digging your head into your palms, elbows propped up on the table. “Still to this day I fucking hate the feeling of Magic Erasers.”
“You sounded just like that,” he takes a deep breath to control his laughter, then puts on his best you-voice to mock you. “Jung Kyungmin, we color in coloring books, not on the walls.”
The memory makes you smile, even laugh a bit under your breath, “It’s only funny now because I got the Sharpie off the wall.”
“It was funny then, too, trust me.”
The food comes hot and perfect, neither of you speak for the first few bites, until Wooyoung catches you staring at his plate, at his food. Mid-bite he pauses, popping a brow, “Want to try?”
You smile, and he smiles back, reaching over, fork in hand. The sound that leaves you is almost fitting for the restaurant you’re in. “I like yours,” you mumble, putting on your best doe-eyed look, making him snort.
“I’d be mad, but I’m too nostalgic,” he hums, satisfied with a smile on his cheeks he reaches over to grab your plate, switching it with his own. “Can I pretend I ordered mine for the sole intent of giving it to you?”
“No,” you hum happily, “it’s better that you gave yours to me. More romantic that way.”
He shakes his head, “First day back and you’re already spoiled.”
“Technically I still haven’t agreed,” you shrug, eyes on your food, about to take another bite before you realized Wooyoung had paused entirely. Looking over the table, you giggle at his deadpanned face, brows flat, lips flat, his entire face flat.
“Not funny.” He tightens his lips again. “Are you agreeing? Do you want to give me another chance?”
“Is this an immediate answer kind of thing?” You ask, food still halfway to your mouth, “Or can I get back to you on it?”
He purses his lips like he’s deciding the answer for himself before he gives you one. Eventually, when your bite is swallowed, he answers. “I guess you can think about it.”
“You guess?” Facing your plate, your eyes flicker across the table.
“Do you understand how long I’ve been waiting?” He doesn’t sound aggressive or forceful, or like he’s urging you towards an answer. “I had you for fifteen years and I just spent over an entire year without you.”
“You say that like I didn’t spend a year without you, too,” you argue, “you aren’t alone in that feeling, Wooyoung.”
“I just want my life back,” his voice settles into something just above a whisper, too raw for the crowded restaurant. “I want you, I want Kyungminnie, I want to come home.”
You swear you can see an entire year of pain in his eyes. Chocolate that’s usually melted, milky sweet, a delicacy, is deepened into something dark; hardened with time spent apart, changed with a life lesson that needed to be felt in order to be learned. He’s the same but he’s different, you can feel it, you know it.
All you can do is pray he doesn’t disappoint you again.
He keeps his hand on your thigh the entire drive home.
Quiet for once, the calm before the storm, you use the silence to think about your time spent apart, how it affected you. He was right, alone in your king-sized bed, but more than that you’ve learned so much about yourself in the year spent away from him. Kids fresh out of college, thrown into the workforce, pregnant before your first paycheck, court-signed documents without a big party to follow, your adult life has been spent entirely by his side.
You’ve learned strength. You’ve learned to trust yourself. You’ve come to fall in love with yourself, by yourself, the you that wasn’t half-Jung. Despite the tears, the nights drowning in self-doubt, of not knowing what the next day would look like, you did it.
And now he’s back, and he promised that he changed.
You don’t know whether or not to trust the tiny voice in the back of your mind, you don’t know if it’s nerves or a gut-feeling. But when you turn your head to the side, to the man you’ve spent fifteen years loving, adoring, his chiseled jaw and his curved nose and the veiny, tattooed forearm that’s attached to the steering wheel, it’s easy to admit that you want him to come home, too.
You missed him. You miss him, and he’s beside you.
You miss him making the bed in the morning, having coffee on the pot downstairs, already prepped for you. You miss him shoveling the driveway in the winter, mowing the lawn in the summer. You miss him taking out the trash. You miss him fixing a toy when Kyungmin breaks it. You miss him doing your fucking taxes. You miss him doing the dishes after you cooked dinner, you miss him stealing the dishes out of your hands when he cooked dinner.
You miss the mundane things.
You miss the way he kisses you goodmorning, when he gets home from work, before bed, randomly, mid-day on a Saturday. You miss him making Kyungmin laugh. You miss the way his skin feels on yours, the way he finishes your thought before you’ve finished it, the way he makes it so easy to believe that it’s possible to love another human so much.
You miss him present most of all.
“If I agree,” you speak into the silence, his fingers add the slightest pressure onto your thigh. “You swear you’ll be around?”
“Yes.” The word is final. “I’ve made the changes already. You’re my priority.”
You don’t answer, you let the words sink in. It’ll take time, learning to believe him, learning to trust his words again, but something settles in your chest, in your gut, something calm. It reminds you that you can still be yourself, you can still be strong, you can still trust yourself, you can still be in love with yourself– but he’s here to love you, to trust you, to lean on you for strength, too. There’s something about it that’s comforting, that’s right.
The house is dark when you walk through your front door. You forgot to leave the lights on, the lamp in the corner of the living room, the one above the kitchen sink. So scatterbrained about being out with Wooyoung, about your kid sleeping at someone else’s house, you huff a curse as soon as the darkness welcomes you home.
While you turn the lamp on, without a word he’s in the kitchen, turning on the other above the sink.
And for some reason that’s enough.
Maybe it’s how he looks, doused in twilight, standing in the kitchen he designed. Shadows finding home in the structure of his face, the tattoo on his forearm, the veins that swirled around it, blending into the vines, rippling each thorn of the rose. Maybe it was just the fact that after all this time, seeing him here, in your kitchen that you left exactly how it was the day you kicked him out, reminded you just how deeply you love him. That even though you’ve spent a year apart and you’ve learned to love so much about yourself, the part of you that you love most, is the half of you that’s him.
You hope he feels it as you kiss him, standing in the space between the two counters, the long, skinny walkway between the sink and the island. Your arms around his shoulders, his find your waist, sliding down to your hips, then behind you, taking two fistfuls of your ass.
You squeak into the kiss and he turns you, scooping under your thighs to lift you, placing your ass on the kitchen counter. You don’t break the kiss, feet hooking around his back, fingers curling into his roots, tongue sliding between his lips like you were the one coming home.
He hikes your dress up, warm palms searing the skin beneath fabric, slipping under the hem just to rest there like he couldn’t deny himself feeling you any longer. You’re panting into his mouth, sizzling under his touch, you whisper, “I need you.”
He pulls away, putting an inch between your faces, “Here?”
“I don’t care where,” your hands find his cheeks, holding him close, “I need you, Jung Wooyoung.”
His eyes flicker over your features like he’s reading your thoughts and it takes him all of a second for his fingers to dart to the hem of your dress. You lift yourself so it pools around your hips, reaching forward for his button-up, getting only three unbuttoned while his fingers work the button and zipper of his pants. Both of you panting, heartbeats uneven, your feet stretch to reach the opposite counter, palms planted on the one you sat on, shifting yourself to the edge as Wooyoung frees himself from his briefs.
Your tongue pokes out to wet your lips, tasting remnants of your lipstick and his saliva on your tongue. The lack of a rebuttal from him, of snarky, taunting comments– this was different than him filling you silently on your living room couch. One hand moves your thin, lace thong to the side as the other grips his length, prodding at your entrance, making you gasp.
He fills you quickly, slipping inside with barely any resistance, the two of you moaning out in relief and pleasure. He grumbles out a curse, reaching the hilt, hands finding your hips, fingers bruising into your skin.
“Jagi,” he whispers. “Wanna give you a baby.”
Your eyes meet his and he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the world. Like nothing else matters except you and him, like the outside world melted away, like you haven’t built and ruined a life between you. Like it was fifteen years ago and you’d just opened the first page of your love story.
“Do it, then,” you whisper back, eyes glossy, throat tight. “Give me one.”
“Can I?” He asks, face stone, as if you couldn’t feel his cock twitch inside you. He wasn’t asking permission, he was questioning the possibility.
Counting in your head, you wait a moment to reply, “Yes. Slim, but yes.”
He grins ear to ear, that same shit-eating grin he wears when he gets what he wants whether he fights for it or not. Then he moves, a shallow, promising thrust, grinding into the deepest spot inside you, making you hiss out a curse.
“Have to fill you,” his eyes find your meeting, watching himself as he barely thrusts, keeping himself buried. “Nice n’ deep. Make sure it takes.”
Your head dips backward, arching into him, skin catching on the glossiness of the counter you’d wiped down before you left the house. “Please.”
He grunts, fingers searing your skin, picking up his pace. “Fuck, need to see you pregnant. Belly full of my fuckin’ kid.”
“Wooyoung,” your voice is breathy, shaky, full of arousal as you moan his name, it makes him grunt out a curse, hips slapping against yours, reverberating through the room, bouncing off the stainless steel appliances.
His hands on your hips use the strength of his arms to lift you, pulling you off the counter with too much fucking ease. He slips out of you before your feet hit the floor, but he’s back inside you as soon as your back presses against the cool wood of the kitchen floor, freshly mopped this morning, knowing he’d be here tonight.
His lips are on yours, your legs hooked over his back, panties thrown somewhere you didn’t care to see. His shirt is open, still over his shoulders, trapping you between the open panels like it was shading you from something, anything that wasn’t him.
His hair feels silken between your fingers as you tug at his roots, keeping him as close as possible, never close enough. Murmuring words into each other’s lips, the sound of his skin hitting yours muted it, like the two of you were stuck in a time-warp, a lovesick bubble you entered fifteen years ago.
Pressure builds with each thrust, your moans growing in pitch, and Wooyoung keeps his eyes on yours, his bottom lip touching yours, assessing, watching, feeling, waiting for you to crest your peak without any stimulation to your clit. His eyes flare when your breathing catches, keeping his rhythm unfaltering, his angle locked, muttering yes, yes as you approach the high only he can give you.
He groans when he feels the pressure blow, as you clench around him, the heels of your feet digging into his back, he catches your lips between his own to feel everything, all of it, all of you.
The silence says everything. You’re stuck in euphoria as his cock drags over that same spot inside you, his head dropped down to your shoulder, your nails clawing at his back as he takes you for everything you’re worth. Every drop of pleasure, every emotion, you handed everything over to him, put it in his palms, let him cradle it– had you ever even taken it back for yourself?
“Gonna give you a baby,” he mutters into your skin, voice jagged like the edge of a blade, a man slicing a promise into your skin. “Gonna give you a girl this time. Pretty like her mama.”
“Yes,” it’s a whimper, a plea. “I love you, please– I love you.”
He grunts, heavy and rough, hips smacking yours with fervor, picking up his pace, weighting his thrusts. He picks up his head, palms finding your cheeks, holding your scrunched up face between them before he presses his mouth to yours, and you can taste the I love you too on his tongue.
Into his mouth, weak, soft, you utter, “I missed you.”
And why the admittance brought tears to your eyes, you aren’t sure. But they fell to his thumbs and he seemed to understand even if you didn’t, kissing you deeper, tongue slotting into your mouth as if he was soothing your scars.
He finished inside you with a low grunt that vibrated through you and into the hardwood beneath, cock hilted, buried so deep you weren’t sure where you ended and he began. You wanted to stay there, full of him, in the bubble you’d fucking missed being in, but his phone ringing on top of the counter had you both moving before you could breathe.
“Yunho,” is all he said before he pressed the phone up to his ear, still panting, brows furrowed. You stood up, dress falling over your hips, thighs wet and legs jelly, you leaned an arm over the counter for stability, silent enough to hear Yunho on the line.
Yeah, he threw up… Asking for you… Rory took his temp, he has a fever… He’s on the couch now… Okay, see you soon…
Wooyoung hung up with a sigh, “Rain check for rolling around in our bed?”
You cracked a smile, “What’s your schedule looking like on Monday?”
Wooyoung snorts as he tucks himself into his slacks, fingers working his buttons, “I’ll drive.”
Aurora had the door open before you’d made it up the steps of their front porch. “Sorry for cutting the date night short.”
Her sad smile was full of apology, she had one arm on the door as she held it open for the two of you. Pajama pants on her legs, slippers on her feet, her oversized tee that said Nasara University had one shoulder cut off. Hair tied in a bun on top of her head, bare-faced, so effortlessly gorgeous you felt self-conscious even if you were still in your red dress.
“Thanks for taking care of him, Ro,” Wooyoung replies. “Yunho said he’s on the couch?”
Ro. A nickname you haven’t heard before. Storing the info for later, you followed Wooyoung inside, taking note that their house was full of everything warm and cozy. Toys littered the floor, picture frames on the walls, nothing was tidy or put together. Not dirty, but… Lived in. Like six people lived here and not one of them was hiding the fact. The TV on and playing an old cartoon from when you were all kids, three out of Yunho and Aurora’s four sat on the living room floor just before Kyungmin who was curled up on the couch, blanket covering his body.
You stayed back while Wooyoung crossed the room, saying hi to the kiddos before scooping Kyungmin up in his arms. Aurora spoke while you watched him, “Yunho’s upstairs with the baby, she woke up when the kids started screaming about throw up.”
“Sorry,” you scratched the back of your head, cheeks flaring heat. You hoped you didn’t smell like sex. You also hoped she wasn’t thinking about the fact that you and Wooyoung are divorced and together right now.
But she just waved her hand, “Please, don’t be. She’s a terrible sleeper anyways, and all four of them were playing dress up in June’s room. She was bound to wake up sooner or later.”
“Dress up?” You cracked a smile.
“June has the time of her life dressing up her siblings,” she smiled with you, “and I think Aden enjoys it more than she does. They call it Fashion Runway, and Kyungmin was the star tonight, just so you know. June and Aden said he’s their new muse.”
You snort, not a lick of surprise on your face, “I need to see this.”
“You guys should come over more,” she offers, looking at Wooyoung as he returns with your gray-faced son’s head on his shoulder. “We should do the things the cool families do, hangout while the kids hangout, conjoined vacations and shit. We live so close and we never do anything.”
You look at Wooyoung who nods like he was brushing her off. “Yeah, sure. Don’t you wanna wait til’ Sunnie gets a little older?”
Her brows furrow, “No?”
“Sunnie’s a cute name,” you turn to her. “I didn’t know that was her name. How old is she?”
“Her first birthday is next month, I invited you guys, he didn’t tell you?” Her brows furrow further as you shake your head. Her eyes thin as she glances at Wooyoung, “Sunnie’s short for Woosun. Named after her godfather who apparently doesn’t want to come to her first birthday party.”
You will your face into staying neutral, like you knew Wooyoung was Aurora’s daughter’s godfather. “Woosun’s a gorgeous name.”
“Yunho came up with it,” her smile is proud, and if she could see yours, the one you’re hiding behind your stone features, you think she might be terrified of you. Your eyes find Wooyoung’s and he looks as gray as Kyungmin, face dropped, fear rippling in his chocolate brown eyes.
“Thanks again for taking care of him, Aurora.” You barely hear her response as she gives you a side-hug. She smells clean, like grapefruit and vanilla, a hint of baby formula like she’d just finished feeding Woosun. Woosun.
You don’t speak until after Wooyoung buckles in Kyungmin, your son still somehow knocked out in the backseat, head lolled to the side. Wooyoung tugged on the seatbelt twice, making sure it was locked, keeping him in place. You see the glitter on him then, on his eyelids, his cheeks, his hair, he’s in clothes that aren’t is. God, did he throw up on his own clothes? You didn’t even notice, nor did you ask for his clothes back. You’d have Wooyoung text her tomorrow.
Seated in the driver’s, he flips the engine, eerily quiet. Waiting for you. So you start.
“I thought Yunho was your friend from college.”
He takes a steadying breath before he speaks, “He was, is. But I’ve always been friendlier with Ro.”
“Ro,” you repeat, lips scrunching together. Your head shakes slowly, “Define friendlier.”
“Baby, we went to college together–”
“Don’t baby me,” you snap, keeping your voice quiet to not wake up your son, “you just tried to give me a daughter and then I find out you’re the godfather of someone else’s?”
“I was going to–”
“You were going to tell me nothing,” you snap again, hearing your heartbeat in your ears. “You used to fuck her, then? In college? Is that why we’ve never hung out with them?”
“It was more than that,” his voice is defensive, curt. Your lips snap shut, eyes widening a fraction. “We were together for a while, but it was… complicated. Everything about that time was complicated.”
“She named her fucking kid after you,” your voice is quiet but not any less venomous. “You know everything about me. Everything. And after fifteen years, I’d expect to know everything about you. Why keep it a secret?”
He keeps his eyes on the road, even if they blaze with emotion; fear, guilt, shame, remorse. “I don’t know if I can even explain it, she’s– she’s special. Different from a girlfriend or a hookup, we went through a lot of tough shit together.”
Eyes widening further, throat tightening, you can taste the salt lining your eyes. Your voice comes out hoarse, “She’s so special that you couldn’t tell your wife about her?”
“There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t make you feel like this. She’s married, happily, with four kids. If you knew our history you wouldn’t want me around her.”
“And that’s more important? Being around her? Than me knowing the truth?”
“No,” he shakes his head tight. “No, it’s not. I spent a lot of time at their house while we were separated, and the three of us got really close again–”
“So that’s why she said we should all hangout,” you laugh a little, it’s dry, lacking amusement. “She wants to know what the wicked ex-wife that divorced you is like.”
“No,” he counters, voice raising, exasperated. “I never said anything bad about you, fuck. After the conference I talked to them, and she needs a girlfriend. I basically pimped you out to her, to be her friend.”
“Pimped me out to a girl you used to date. Fuck. Go through tough shit with.”
“We weren’t close during our marriage,” he argues, eyes flickering up to check on the still-sleeping Kyungmin through the rear-view mirror. “I sought them out after you divorced me, I needed a friend, and I knew Kyungmin and Aden were in the same class, I– they helped me.”
“Your ex-girlfriend and her husband helped you. Did they invite you into their bed? Help take your mind off your sad, divorced heart?”
“I’m not going to talk until you stop seeing red. Calm down and then speak to me like an adult.”
Crossing your arms over your chest, you stare out the window, and let the tears fall.
Kyungmin lay on the couch, asleep again after another round of emptying the contents of his stomach into the same stained bowl you use for popcorn on movie nights. You and Wooyoung sat on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, staring at him. So small, his face looks so peaceful, in a deep, hopefully dreamless sleep. He changed your lives eight years ago. Forced you into an adulthood you weren’t prepared for, the greatest blessing you didn’t ask for. A gift.
“Think he has the flu?” Wooyoung asks after too long of staring at the boy you created in silence. His hands stretched behind him, legs in front of him, body sagged with exhaustion. It’s been a long day.
“Maybe a stomach bug,” you reply through a sigh, sitting with your arms curled around your knees. “Time will tell. If his fever’s still up tomorrow, I’ll take him to the doctor.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I’m his father, I want to.”
You swear, it’s grumbled, irritated. You can still feel the stickiness between your thighs, almost like it’s taunting you now. Telling you good job, you get to have another baby with a liar!
“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Wooyoung’s voice is grave. “Aurora is harmless. I don’t love her, I’m not into her, there’s nothing left between us but friendship.”
“You’re missing the point, Wooyoung. It’s not about her, it’s about the fact that you kept it from me for fifteen years.”
“It wasn’t relevant for fifteen years. But it’s relevant now, and I’m telling you.”
“Because you were put in a situation where you had to tell me,” your head snaps to the side, glaring at him. “You should have told me when we had the whole exes conversation over a decade ago, or maybe when you found out Aden was in the same class as Kyung, or when she named her daughter after you, or when she made you the fucking godfather. You had a million-and-one chances to tell me.”
Wooyoung sighs, “It was a wound I didn’t want to reopen back then, but I should have. I’m sorry.”
“It feels wrong,” you look back at Kyungmin, a frown on your lips. “Knowing you had a relationship with these people deep enough for them to name their child after you, and I don’t know any of it. It makes me feel like I don’t know you, like there’s a side of you that you’ve kept from me all these years.”
“Do you want to know the full story?” He glances sideways, and the look you give him is an obvious yes. He sighs, “Fuck. Alright.”
And you sit there, for an entire hour as he reveals a side of himself that you’ve never gotten a glimpse of. Partying, threesomes, Aurora, men– so many men, and even though that part didn’t take you by surprise, it did make you wonder. The tough shit was about her, Yunho surprisingly, her father, her own personal issues that Wooyoung had adopted like his own and helped her through. Living with his cousin, switching his major, supporting his mother, all the fucked up people who went to his university that married each other. You wondered how well they turned out.
“Her and Yunho, made for each other. Their kids were a blessing, and they started younger than we did. Then kept fucking going.”
It made you laugh a little, and as the sound hit his ears, he finally cracked a small smile. Glancing at you, he muttered, “I did love her, I loved everything about her. But our relationship, me in her life, it was for a purpose, y’know? And when it was fulfilled, after I’d done what I was… destined to do or whatever, her life got a lot better. She got better. Everything got better, actually.”
“You were all too young for all of that shit.” It’s all you could say. All you could muster up seeing Wooyoung’s life twenty years ago pass through his eyes, listening to him describe it like it happened yesterday.
“I know,” he heaved a sigh, laying back on his elbows. “But then I met you and I thought it was my turn to be happy. To feel like I had it all figured out.”
“Then I got pregnant.”
He laughed, a rich, light sound. “Then you got pregnant.” He sat in silence for a moment, glancing at your son on the couch, before he bit his lip in contemplation. “I have something else to tell you. Since we’re being honest.”
Your heart dropped, skin feeling icy-hot. Nervously glancing at him, your voice comes out shaky as you ask, “What?”
“We’re still married.”
You blinked. “No we’re not.”
“Yes we are.”
Fingers meeting the floor on either side of you, you shook your head, warning, “Wooyoung.”
“That’s why the divorce process was so easy,” he isn’t looking at you, his eyes stay on Kyungmin, unblinking. “Because I never filed for it.”
“I filed for it,” you counter.
“With my lawyer,” his eyes meet yours. “Who I paid generously not to file.”
“What? I–”
The walls felt like they were closing in. He continued, “I thought it was hasty. That you would regret it, or that you didn’t mean it, or that I’d fix it, I don’t know. I couldn’t stomach the idea of us not being together, so I faked it.”
“You pay me child-support, Wooyoung.”
“I know,” he shrugs, lips thin. “I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think we’d stay apart forever.”
You stare at him for a moment, a thunderstorm brewing beneath your skin. “Get out.”
His head snaps to the side, eyes wide, “What?”
“Get out,” you repeat, firmer. “Get the fuck out.”
“Wait– Let me explain, I–”
“Jung Wooyoung get the fuck out of my house.”
“I love you,” he argues, voice strained, turning his entire body to face you as you start standing up. “With my entire heart and soul. I can’t live without you any longer, without him, please talk to me– please talk this out, please–”
“I’m filing first thing tomorrow morning,” you bite, voice so fucking harsh and venemous you can’t believe it came from your lips. “With a different lawyer, my own fucking lawyer. You better hope and pray that I’m not fucking pregnant.”
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coup de grâce
You've been with Vernon for some time now. He's not sure what you are—a hallucination, a demon, a prolonged nightmare he can't wake up from—but everywhere he goes, you follow, and after years of this, he's finally growing weary of your demands. He's finally growing weary of your bloodthirst.
♫ Seize the Power Remix YONAKA, WHITENO1SE, DEGO
PAIRING: idol!vernon x fem!reader
WC: 13k
TAGS: supernatural, vernon pov, originally tagged this as porn with an essence of plot but that's a joke now lmao, plot with porn
A/N: y'all don't even KNOW how much love i have for tumblr user @sailorsoons and that's a me issue bc i need to be even louder about it than i already am. HAPPY (belated) BIRTHDAY MY LOVELY HALI!!! baby was the best thing that ever happened to me bc 1. soonyoung duh and 2. now i get to annoy you incessantly. ilysm. in fact, i love you so much, i forced myself to be brave and write someone other than joshua or soonyoung. pls clap. if you're not tumblr user sailorsoons, go wish her a happy (belated) birthday and thank her for being born and having a huge brain and writing baby <3
A/N PT. 2 (really channeling hali's a/n style here): this fic is. idk. it's not dead dove, but i realize not everyone is the same brand of deranged i am and it could very well offend you (or be the most vanilla thing you ever read! idk!). out of an abundance of caution, pls go through all the warnings before reading! and if you think you can handle it but then read something you hate, pls feel empowered to simply exit out! p.s. not edited or beta'd or even reread. just rawdogging it <3
WARNINGS READ ALL OF THEM!
CONTENT: vernie used as a condescending nickname, murder, misogyny, hallucinations (he suspects he might be schizophrenic), panic attacks, dissociating, mentions of violence against women/trafficking/sexual assault (not against either mc, always in the past, and never described in detail), victim blaming, multiple instances of vomiting, mentions of demons/ghosts, blood, knives, poisoning, mentions of being 5150’d, blasphemy?, mentions of gods and different versions of the afterlife, age difference bc reader is literally ancient?, on that note - power dynamic, mentions of flaying, mentions of cannibalism, side character smokes cigarettes, use of aave by a non-black idol
SMUT: marked at the start and end, unprotected piv, creampie, oral m. receiving, nipple play, fingering, there is no explicit consent bc without getting too spoilery reader is all-knowing, but it is absolutely consensual, is beforecare a thing or is that just part of foreplay... forecare if you will, hair pulling, SPIT YEEAAAAHHHAAHAHAHA (i feel normal things about spit), hallucinations during sex, crying blood during sex, oh and hair pulling
IT'S BEEN 72 HOURS SINCE VERNON STARTED HIS NEW ANTIPSYCHOTICS. As he stares at you through the mirror, casually leaning against the stalls behind him, he thinks it's safe to say that—like the several other prescriptions that came before—they aren’t working. Not even a little bit. You look and sound every bit as clear as you always have since you started tormenting him with your existence a few years ago.
He swallows around the dry lump in his throat as the corner of your lips quirks up into a small smirk, and he leans forward to turn the faucet on, violently scrubbing at his face and wondering if drowning in a sink would free him of you or just subject him to eternity in the afterlife with you. He turns the faucet off and straightens back up, letting the rivulets of water race down his neck and into his shirt.
“Don’t tell me you’re getting tired of me, Vernie?”
Your voice is smooth and saccharine the way it always is—like everything is a joke only you’re in on. It echoes slightly in the empty restroom. It’s so full-bodied, he’d be able to replay the sound of it in his head for years to come if you ever granted him the mercy of leaving him the fuck alone. He could mistake you for a friend talking to him. Your voice sounds normal. It sounds too real to only be inside his head.
It started with faint whispers, the sensation of someone grazing his skin like they were walking by, strong urges to look or even walk a certain direction, feeling convinced someone was watching him. Then, one day, you were just… there. You were there, with your bright ruby eyes, half-lidded but always sharp and cunning and assessing.
For years, you whispered obscene things in Vernon’s ears about the people around him. You went where he went and you always had something to say about everyone he came across. Something that made the idea of killing them excusable to you. You described terrible things done to women you knew in the utmost detail—something he obviously never asked about. You enjoyed it when people caught him talking to you. You reveled in people thinking he was crazy, so most of the time, you were saying and doing things just to get a reaction—at least that’s what he assumed you were doing whenever you suggested something insane like pushing a stranger down the stairs or grabbing a pair of scissors and plunging them into his manager.
It’s like you were a physical manifestation of his intrusive thoughts, if every single one of them were violent. Vernon stomached it because it never went beyond your largely general soliloquies about the joys of spilling blood. He didn't want to derail his future by doing anything more than asking for medicine. He could let your “jokes” slide if the worst that came from you entering his life was never having a full eight hours of sleep and being stuck in a constant state of overstimulation for years. A waking nightmare but nothing compared to how his life would disintegrate if it became public knowledge that he was hearing and seeing things.
Recently, though, that changed. You decided to graduate from imagining Vernon committing these fantasies to demanding it, prompting an immediate visit to his doctor, who made it clear she desperately wanted him committed. And maybe he should be; after all, openly admitting that a woman who isn't even really there is trying to convince him to murder someone is as good a reason as any to get a one-way ticket into a hospital. But his psychiatrist was getting nowhere with his team, who was committed to having him making music and touring for as long as he continued breathing.
A fruitful career simply didn't include a proper treatment plan for possible schizophrenia. How could it?
“You've tried every pill and injection under the sun, Vernie,” you remind him, a mocking, cloying lilt to your voice. “All kinds of testing and therapy… dozens of doctors who insist your brain is functioning normally… don't you think it's time to accept I'm not just a voice inside that pretty, little head?”
He squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heels of his palms into them long enough that colors begin to bloom and burst behind his eyelids. You click your tongue in pity.
“Poor thing,” you coo. He opens his eyes and represses a sigh when he sees your reflection behind a blooming spot of red. The colors fade fast. “So preoccupied with pesky mortal things like ethics… and laws… and guilt. So cumbersome… so boring!” You groan the last word and roll your eyes.
“Not everyone’s idea of fun is killing a peer.”
You let your eyes wander to the ceiling. “‘Peer,’” you repeat, mouth smiling around the word as you repeat it. “What a funny thing to call Lee Rihwan.”
“It’s what he is.” His voice is just above a whisper, the way he’s grown used to talking to you in case someone is nearby and within earshot. He’s sure his team has to work overtime trying to convince people in the building that he just likes talking to himself.
“Sure…” you say slowly like you’re talking to a toddler whose opinion you don’t want to discount. You’re still nodding when your eyes come back down to meet his. “That’s one word to describe him.” He steels himself for what’s coming—the same words you’ve thrown at him for weeks now. “But my choice of words would be predator. Abuser. Pervert. Rapist.”
Vernon’s knuckles turn white around the edge of the sink.
“Do you want to be considered peers with a rapist, Vernon?”
“You don’t—”
“I do.” You say it with the same resolute finality you have hundreds of times before. “I know.”
Vernon forces himself to release the porcelain and turn to face you. He’s a few inches taller than you, but the way you hold yourself has him fighting to keep from cowering away. You stare at him blankly.
You can’t possibly know. How on earth would you? You’re with him at all hours of the day, and to top it all off, you’re not real. But you look it. And you sound it. From the way your hair falls around your face to the way you tap a long, claw-like nail against your elbow where your arms are crossed. Every time you open your mouth to say something that will potentially ruin Vernon’s life even more than you already have. Even the way you smell—simultaneously sweet and sharply bitter, warm, and so dense, he feels like he can choke on it. Everything about you screams real, including the defiant look in your eye—the sheer rage he can see underneath the surface—and it gives him the sinking feeling you do know. You know all about the insidious and horrific things Lee Rihwan does in his free time, and you’ve truthfully told Vernon.
He pushes past you into the nearest stall and vomits his lunch. You don’t say anything after he flushes and emerges a minute later, and your silence persists as he washes his face again and gargles water, wincing at the burn of his stomach acid in his throat.
Vernon turns away from you without another word and practically runs out of the restroom. You don’t follow him out into the hallway, but when he opens the door to his studio, you’re seated on the couch he has pushed up against the wall opposite his mixing desk. He inhales sharply but doesn’t give you the satisfaction of yelling or ripping his own hair out the way he has in the past. Instead, he quietly closes his door and sits at his desk, hand reaching for his noise-cancelling headphones and meeting nothing but air where they should be hanging on their stand.
He frowns and looks over to find they’re gone.
“You can’t just put these on every time you want to run away from reality.” He turns around in his seat to find his headphones around your thigh, which is crossed over your other leg.
“What a funny thing to call yourself,” he deadpans, using your own words. You raise an eyebrow in a wordless question. “Reality,” he clarifies.
You scoff, but your lips surprisingly turn up into a smile. Vernon frowns. You shake your head at him like you’re amused by him. He always feels a little smaller around you. You uncross your legs and stand from the couch, his headphones still wrapped around your thigh as you walk toward him. He kicks at the floor in an attempt to roll away, but you’re faster.
You hook the toe of your boot onto the bottom of his seat and pull him in before grasping the headrest and roughly spinning the seat around to face you.
“Dude!” Vernon shouts reflexively, sure that your movements are enough to give him whiplash.
You ignore the glare he aims at you and you tilt your head at him. “Vernon, do you know what a coup de grâce is?”
Those deep red eyes of yours briefly flash gold as you lean down and set the hand that’s not on his headrest on the arm of his chair, effectively caging him in. He presses himself further back into his seat in a futile attempt at creating space.
“No,” he mutters, suddenly conscious that his breath smells like stomach acid and your face is inches from his.
“It's French,” you inform him, eyes straying toward the ceiling again. “When translated literally, it means ‘stroke of grace.’ Or in other, less pretentious, less convoluted words…”
Your gaze takes its time coming back down to meet his. When it does, he feels a sickening chill run down his spine, and like a predator enjoying the hunt, your movements become slow and calculated. You lean your weight forward, the plastic arm of the chair creaking under the vice grip you have on it. You don't stop until your mouth just barely grazes his ear. He fights both the urge to flinch and the instinct to breathe your spiced, heady scent in deeply.
“Mercy killing,” you whisper. He feels your lips form a small smile against his skin before you pull back and look at him once more. “Putting a person who is already mortally wounded out of their misery. Allowing them to… die.”
As if he needs a definition for mercy killing. His stomach twists but he keeps his face expressionless anyway. Still, your mouth twitches like you can see right through him. No, more than that—like you can actually read his mind. And whatever you see makes you want to smirk.
“But Lee Rihwan isn't mortally wounded,” he exposes the major flaw in your line of thinking.
You laugh like the point is more a punchline than it is a counterargument. “Isn’t he? Aren’t they all? Most of these sick fucks were born like this. Most of them spent their entire lives like this—tricking, pillaging, beating, raping, killing. That's the worst kind of terminal sickness if you ask me. Someone should put them out of their misery.”
He narrows his eyes at you. “Wouldn't that be an execution then?”
“Great!” you exclaim, straightening back up and clapping once. Your eyes burn a brighter red as you smile widely at him. “You found a synonym! So you do understand.”
He glares at you silently.
You roll your eyes at his stubbornness. “What these people really deserve, Vernon, is a lifetime of suffering and pain,” you tell him. “An execution is a mercy. Trust me, you don't want me having my way with them because if it were up to me, they would never die. They would never get a second of rest from the hurt I want to put them through.
“But I know you're good. I know you have… feelings or whatever.” You wave your hand at him dismissively and with a level of revulsion he would find funny under any other circumstance. “So instead of decades of unrelentless and neverending gore and torture, I'm giving you the easy option. Kill them.”
The way you say it so casually, Vernon is confident you truly believe this is the easy option. You truly think finding a way to kill an idol as famous as Lee Rihwan without getting caught and without losing his mind any more than he already has is the easy option.
In fact, you have so much confidence that it's the easy option that it does make Vernon pause to wonder if you have a point—if death really would be a mercy to his industry senior. If everything you've whispered into his ear about Rihwan is true, then he's inclined to agree with you that the least of what the man deserves is the same amount of pain he's inflicted on others. Death would be an easy way out.
But who is Vernon to decide who receives mercy? He isn't god. A weak voice in the back of his head, heavily cloaked in denial also supplies: And who's to say what the hallucination is claiming is even true?
“I don't lie, Vernon,” you say easily. His suspicion that you can see right through him increases. “It's the one sin I really don't have any use for.”
Killing. Killing is the sin you have use for. And you're asking him to do it for you. You're asking him to take human life.
“Listen,” you say when he fails to say anything for a long stretch of time. “Your mistake is thinking these are people. Sympathizing with them by imagining a humanity that isn't even there—probably was never there to begin with. You need to start seeing them the way they see me.”
“How do they see you?” he asks, intrigued by the turn of conversation. Is he not the only person who can see you?
“Hm,” you hum, laughing a little as you do. Whether it's because you think it's a silly question or you're pleased he's asking at all, he can't tell. “They see me…” you start, immediately tapering off soon after you do.
You frown a little like even those three words are a lie. Do they see you at all? He isn't given much time to contemplate it because your gaze goes over his head, toward the glass separating the mixing room from the recording room. He turns to find you watching your reflection as you seemingly zone out, eyes turning a molten gold as you speak. They did that sometimes—turn gold. He found it even more unnerving than the demonic red.
“They see me like a wild animal they can hunt for sport, expected to be obedient upon capture,” you finally continue. “One they're wholly unafraid to beat endlessly for doing something as innate as howling or urinating. An animal that should be grateful they even allow it to breathe. An animal that should understand that every day it wakes up is a day they've decided it can still be worth something to them. It can still serve them somehow.”
He can't imagine anyone allowing you to do anything. But from the way your eyes narrow at yourself like you're reliving a memory that disappoints you, he thinks it's possible—if you aren't just in his head—that there may have been a time where you weren't always like… this. A manifestation of anger.
Your eyes flick to his reflection so suddenly, he startles a little.
“You need to look at them… the way they look at women.”
There’s something heartachingly human about the way you say that. You say it with the pain of a woman—a human woman—that understands what it’s like to be anything other than a man in this world. And Vernon has a younger sister. He might not ever truly understand it, but he knows; this is what it sounds like when a woman is tired of dragging herself through a society that keeps kicking her down.
Save for your constantly changing eyes, he thinks you look like any other person he’d come across out in the real world. Maybe you were once. Or maybe you're just a demon playing games.
But it's been years at this point, and he thinks he has the right to ask you, “Who are you?”
Your eyes fade back to their usual red and you smirk humorlessly. You walk around to where he turned his seat, and you lean against his desk. His eyes go from your reflection in the glass to your face.
“When the souls of women depart your plane, and move on to wherever their gods call them to,” you say, fingers curling around the edge of the table, “only one thing gets left behind.”
“What is it?” he asks impatiently once he realizes he's actually getting an answer from you. Previous attempts at this conversation ended with dumb answers like “your worst nightmare” and “your imaginary friend.”
“Their rage.” Your eyes flash gold and he feels a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach. “There's no place in any version of the After for such an ugly feeling, and when they leave that behind, I collect.”
You hinge at the hips so that you're eye level with him. He refrains from leaning back as far as he can go, trying to stay as still as possible. This close, Vernon can see the way your eyes swirl like a storm, a deep undercurrent of gold constantly beneath the surface.
“I pick up the piece of them they didn't get to exercise on Earth. I get to have the piece of them everyone hated them for. And I get to nurture it and grow it and protect it and love it the way no one did while its mother was still alive.”
“You're… the ghost of every woman's rage…?” he asks, trying to wrap his mind around the concept. It wasn't the answer he was expecting and it doesn't make him feel any more enlightened about who you are and why you're haunting him.
“I'm no ghost, Vernon,” you shake your head, hand coming up to brush a strand of hair away from his forehead, one long nail grazing his skin. You sit up once more. “I am every woman's rage. Every single one.”
You push off the table, and you unceremoniously rip his headphones off your thigh.
“They’re tired, Vernie,” you sigh. “It's time for somebody to pay,” you say as you gently place the headphones over his ears. Your voice becomes muffled, and even though he can still hear you just fine, his eyes instinctively drop down to your lips to read them. They’re pink and plush and they form your next threat. “So you can either do it consciously or you can do it with me inside that meat sack of yours at the steering wheel.”
Vernon's eyes widen at the threat, one you've never made in all the years you've been with him. You smile and pat him on the shoulder when you’re satisfied with the way his headphones sit on his head. You walk past him and toward the door, allowing him to release a shallow breath that does nothing to loosen the sudden tightness in his chest.
“Either way,” you say just as you reach the door. You turn around and meet his eyes, “you're the coup de grâce, and whether you like it or not, Lee Rihwan is being put down and out of his miserable existence. Tomorrow.”
You disappear just as the door opens where you stood, and a producer on his team, Lee Jihoon appears, his head poking in like he wasn’t sure if he’d catch Vernon in here.
“Oh, hey!” he says, nodding. He frowns a little when Vernon doesn’t answer, his eyes still trained on the spot you had just been standing in. “Um, did you still want to have a session? I came by a few minutes ago but you weren’t here, so I wasn’t sure if you were busy.”
“Huh?” he murmurs even though he registers the question just a moment later. He shakes his head and looks over at Jihoon. “Yeah—yes. Let’s record.”
Anything to take his mind off the looming decision he’ll have to make: do it himself or let you take the reins. No matter the choice, though, it seemed like come tomorrow, he’d be a murderer.
“WHO ARE YOU TALKING TO?” The police officer tilts his head at Vernon from the front desk, a perplexed expression on his face.
“Is the pig bothering you, Vernie?” you ask, amused and smiling sweetly as he fights to keep his eyes from flicking over to where you’re seated across from him in the waiting room. “You should grab his pen and gouge his—”
“Uh, I’m on the phone,” he says loudly, pointing at the single earbud that he’s made a habit of wearing in public in case he needs an excuse. Like now. “Am I too loud?”
He'd be able to see your smirk from a mile away, even as he fights to maintain eye contact with the officer. Thankfully, the man shakes his head and has nothing more than a grunt to respond with, attention coming back down to whatever paperwork he was sifting through.
Vernon presses his palms against his thighs and drags hard enough that it hurts a little, but it does nothing for the clamminess. His knee bounces slightly.
“I’m telling you this is a waste of time and energy,” you tell him for the thousandth time since he got to the police station. “Do you think killing this fucker would be my first resort if the police would be any help?”
He’s wearing a face mask, a hat, and the hood of his sweatshirt to avoid being spotted by any fans, but he knows you can see the flat look on his face.
You smile. “Okay, fine. Ya got me!” you exclaim, waving a hand at him so lightheartedly, he wants to throw up again. “I do vote killing every time, but I’m still right; the police aren’t going to do jack shit for you. They hardly ever do until there’s already a body to show for it.”
You speak like you know firsthand, but if you’re carrying the rage of every woman that’s ever existed since the beginning of time like you say you are… he supposes you do know.
“In fact, you’re probably incriminating yourself by being here,” you add. His knee stops bouncing as he frowns. “What are they going to think when Lee Rihwan’s body is found tomorrow and the last thing you did was accuse him of all sorts of sick shit the day before?” you point out. “And for what? He’s still going to die, and the police still aren’t going to help you. Now you’re just murder suspect number one. Congratulations.”
“And what if I’m here to be committed?” he asks, even though that wasn’t the goal.
Really, he doesn’t know what the goal was. He has no idea what he was originally hoping for when he thought to come down to the station after his session with Jihoon. Maybe he thought a detective could take on a case looking into Rihwan so he wouldn’t have to do anything. Maybe he thought they’d say they were ahead of him and already looking into it and to not worry. Now, he’s thinking maybe he can just tell them the truth about you and get forcibly put into a hospital.
You stare at him like you’re trying to figure out if he’s being serious, but your expression gives nothing away about what you’re thinking.
“Okay,” you say. “If getting 5150’d is your grand plan, I’m in.” He rolls his eyes. Of course you are. “That could be nice. Just you and me.” Your voice makes it sound like you’re detailing a romantic date rather than an involuntary mental health hold at the hospital. Your refusal to be serious should be aggravating, but it just makes him fidget. “Alone in a psych ward for several days. You, probably handcuffed to the bed after admitting you have voices trying to convince you to commit murder. Me, dreaming about all the ways you can kill the doctor whenever they come in to evaluate you. Me, telling you about the first thing I’ll do in your body once we’re out. Me—”
Vernon doesn’t entertain you with a reaction other than standing up immediately and heading toward the exit, ignoring the way you very obviously suppress a smile at your victory. He’s a mile clear of the police station, approaching the monstrous hill toward his neighborhood when he finally talks to you again. He doesn’t need to turn around to see if you’re following; he can smell the sweet smoke in the air that always accompanies you, even with the breeze blowing downhill.
“I hate you.”
You bark out a single laugh. “I’m sure you do.”
“You’re going to hell.” He knows it’s a dumb thing to say to someone he’s half sure is a demon that came from hell, but he doesn’t care. His patience is running thin the closer the clock ticks toward the next day. The day he’s expected to kill someone.
“I can assure you I’m not,” you say, surprisingly surrendering information about yourself.
It isn’t much, but if you don’t live in hell, you can’t be a demon. Right? Vernon rolls his eyes at himself. He’s spent years with you, and instead of reading every little thing he could about monsters, he settled for draining the battery on his noise-cancelling headphones and squeezing his eyes shut as he faced the corner of his bedroom.
“Do you get joy out of this?” he asks, already knowing the answer.
“Yes,” you answer easily. “I get heaps of joy out of driving you crazy and it’s important work. Both can be true.”
The worst part is that he can’t even argue you on that. He gets the nagging feeling you’re being honest, and if you are, it is important that someone stop Rihwan. He just doesn’t understand why it has to be him—why it has to be at the expense of his sanity. He doesn’t even understand why it can’t be you.
“We can’t harm you idiots,” you answer his unasked question. “So we do our bidding through you instead.” You don’t give him a chance to ask who “we” is. “Otherwise, you can sleep peacefully tonight knowing that if I could, I would string Lee Rihwan up myself and flay him in front of his label’s building to make an example out of him before deep frying his skin and eating it like fucking chicharron.”
He doesn’t even know what that is and he feels queasy at the idea. He forces his legs to keep moving, starting his trek up the hill. “What’s ch—”
“Not important,” you sigh, granting him the small mercy of ignorance. “The point is that it needs to happen, and it’s you. So just suck it up.”
He glares at the sidewalk ahead of him. “You’re evil.”
“Good, I fit right in with every single human on this godforsaken planet then,” you bite back.
He scoffs. “A little rich coming from you, the rage monster begging me to kill someone.”
Vernon stops in his tracks, grunting as he flinches away from where you abruptly appear in front of him. He looks up to find those fiery eyes on him, your irritation evident from the way your usually warm scent stings his nose with a bitter, acrid note.
“I predate humanity, Vernon,” you tell him icily. “I came before all these silly, little human constructs that plague you, like morals and laws.” You spit the words like the concept of such things is beneath you. “I raised your world. And once you all came along, hellbent on destroying it, I still stayed to carry and nurture the forgotten parts of every woman who’s ever been forced to exist on this tragic fucking planet.
“I’m made up of all the women that have come before you. Generations and generations of them—all inside me. When your mother dies, and when your sister follows, they’ll return to me too. And I’ll continue to do it long, long after all of you are gone. I’m more human than anyone you’ve ever met.”
You say it calmly, and it somehow makes it a thousand times worse than if you had screamed it at him.
“So I can be a monster. I couldn’t give less of a fuck, but I invite you to think about the fact that if I’m a monster and I’m made of your pain and suffering, what does that make all of you?”
He shakes his head, mouth opening in exhausted disbelief. When he finally finds words, the question he asks is one he’s asked you thousands of times before. “Why are you doing this to me?”
It’s the first time he’s asked you outside of a full-blown panic attack that had you cruelly laughing at him. It’s the first time he’s asked you with a clear mind—at least as clear of a mind as he can have with you in his life. You stare at him hard, and a small part of him fears that he’s going to burst into flames under your gaze. But slowly, you withdraw your hands from your repository of rage, and the expression on your face relaxes.
“Please,” he says, voice shaking. “Just tell me why you’re doing this to me.”
“Do you know what prophets have in common, Vernon?” You take a large step forward so that you’re almost nose-to-nose with him on the steeper part of the sloping street. He doesn’t know if his heart is beating as hard as it is from the cardio or from how close you are to his face now that you’re virtually the same height. “Across time and religions and mythologies and continents—do you know what they have in common?”
He doesn’t answer right away, eyes instead falling to the thick, red scarf he hadn’t initially noticed you now have wrapped around your neck, covering your face from the nose down. It’s a weak attempt to distract himself from the fact that he can feel your breath on his face. He doesn’t bother asking where you got the scarf from, knowing well enough by now to be unsurprised by the things he sees you pluck from thin air. Instead, he just stares at it, trying his best to calm his heartrate. You don’t rush him through it, watching him blankly. Maybe even patiently.
“I have no idea what they have in common,” he finally says, taking a tiny step back and disguising it as a shift of weight. You, thankfully, stay put and continue without missing a beat, as if there was never a lull in the conversation to begin with.
“They’re hardly ever chosen because they’re the strongest or smartest or most obedient,” you inform him. “Most of the time, they’re even othered—misunderstood at best, hated at worst. Some are socially awkward, others are obnoxious fucking assholes.” Vernon coughs to cover an unwilling laugh. “You’d also be surprised to know that a number of them weren’t even particularly pious.”
“Isn’t believing in God kind of a requirement?” he asks, frowning and completely, successfully derailed from his original question.
You shrug. “Well, I guess it depends on the god you’re looking at. In Greek mythology, a Trojan princess was given the gift of prophecy but was also cursed for her disobedience. Greek gods were a little… self-involved. Faith and devotion were more important than being a good person.”
Vernon tries to recall what he learned about Ancient Greece in the little time he spent in the public schooling system. He thinks it tracks.
“But if you look at Moses, Muhammad, Jonah,” you continue, “they were all prophets who were either terrified of being chosen or actively fought their god back every step of the way.” You pause to give him a pointed look, saying so much with just your eyes visible. “Mere belief in a god doesn’t automatically make you qualified to be their voice. Can you imagine if it did?” You frown suddenly, eyes narrowing at the sky as you think. “Though… looking at the state of your world, I suppose that’s the reality now. Huh.”
“Why are you giving me a lesson on the history of religion?” he asks tiredly.
You look back down at him. “A healthy level of disobedience is a sign that someone feels empowered in their agency,” you say, and Vernon is lost enough that he’s unsure if that answers his question at all. “Obedience is weak. It’s fragile. It’s fickle in who it follows. But agency is choice, and choice makes you think critically. It makes you wonder if what you’re doing is right or wrong. It makes you stop and utilize even half a wrinkle in your fucking brain.”
Vernon’s lips twitch like they’re threatening a smile on him.
“A god should want someone who questions and doubts and rebels because when they finally do see the truth,” you step forward, taking back the space his small shuffle afforded him earlier, “When they finally come around,” your eyes scan his face slowly and deliberately, “and they always do… their belief and devotion are tenfold because they saw and considered every other avenue, and they still chose this. And the things they’ll do in the name of their god after that?” You shake your head. “Knows no fucking bounds.”
Vernon feels the hair on the back of his neck stand. “I… but that…”
“I’m not doing anything to you, Vernon,” you finally answer his first question. “I chose you. Of the billions of pathetic, wretched, little humans I’ve watched over the neverending centuries, I chose you. And now… now, I’m done arguing with you. You’ve exercised all your options. You’ve seen doctors, therapists, and policemen. You’ve medicated yourself. You’ve bargained and begged and negotiated. And now, you either come around. Or I’ll come in.” You make the threat to use his body for the third time today.
“There’s…” he sputters several more syllables after that, none of them forming together to make any sort of sense. The weight of what you’re telling him settles on his shoulders, and he feels himself slump forward, deflated. “What is—the… but… I thought you… I thought you were a monster.” The first sentence he’s able to say coherently, and it’s one that doesn’t even matter.
You snort. “Maybe, on some level, ‘monster’ and ‘god’ and even ‘human’ are synonymous.”
He stares at you dumbly, mouth still agape in shock. “If you chose me… if I’m a…” He can’t even bring himself to say the word. Surely, there must have been better options for prophets. But as he looks at you, an endless well of confidence and wisdom at your disposal, he knows you’re not someone who makes mistakes. “If I’m your… prophet… does that make you… God…?”
You shrug. “I don’t really do titles. Feels a little too… earthly.” You look disgusted at the thought. “Besides, calling me God would be a little dismissive of the hundreds of thousands of deities hanging out around here.”
He doesn’t know why, but that’s not the answer he thinks he wanted to hear. It must show on his face because when he doesn’t respond, you raise your eyebrows at him.
“Why? Will imagining me as a god help you get this done?”
Vernon feels his brows furrow into a frown as he mulls the idea over in his head. Your words, as much as he hated to admit it, resonated with him. He’s felt othered his entire life—not hated or disliked, but just not someone anyone would choose first. He wants to feel chosen. If he’s your prophet, he wants to feel like you’re the god that chose him. He wants to believe he’s someone you would choose first.
His silence seems to be answer enough for you. You take your hand out of your coat pocket and bring it up to gently pull his face mask down, the cold immediately biting at his bare skin. For a few seconds, you just stare at him, taking in his entire face. Then, you cup a hand to his cheek, impossibly hot the way it always is. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. And as if it’s a reward, you run your thumb across his cheek, the shape of your mouth turning a little mean as you watch something in him immediately and irreversibly unwind for you. He exhales. You breathe in.
“I’ve already chosen you,” you tell him. “So go ahead. Make me your god, Vernon. I’ll give you something to believe in.”
VERNON DIDN’T GET ANY SLEEP LAST NIGHT, which is unfortunate considering how big of a day this is shaping up to be—performing at the MNet Asian Music Awards, being nominated for several daesangs, finding a discreet and clean way to murder his senior. And you’re nowhere to be found.
You spent the rest of the night quietly following him around until he finally went home, and even then, your presence persisted. You didn’t need to say anything else; you did your job. He doesn’t know where or when it happened—or if it happened over the years you’ve spent apparently wearing him down. But sometime, some way, you managed to make a clean cut through the last strand of his sanity. You managed to convince him that everything you’ve told him about Lee Rihwan was true.
He has a network of idol friends that traffics women. He’s assaulted a number of women—both in and outside of the industry. He’s drugged women. He’s beat girlfriends. His recent victims have been getting younger and younger. Vernon finally believes you, and for the few minutes he was able to doze off last night, you disappeared, yet to return.
Every moment he sits in the audience, positioned between groups as a solo artist and politely clapping and smiling, is a moment he feels like he might just jump right out of his own skin. Mercy comes in the form of his manager coming to escort him backstage to prepare for his performance.
The contrast between the audience, where he had been blissfully dissociating, and the chaos backstage is jarring, assaulting his senses mercilessly and grabbing at his already panicky and fleeting attention from every direction. The lights are too white and too bright. The halls smell like ammonia and sweat. Staff run about with headsets, shouting frantically into mics and gesturing wildly. Idols socialize around snack tables, picking at finger foods but never really eating. Some of them retreat to corners to film dance challenges together. Some—the rookies—stop and stare in awe as he walks by.
He gives a shallow bow of the head at each person he makes eye contact with, the fog over his brain thickening the longer he goes without your voice whispering in his ear, which is a first. Usually, he couldn’t focus on a single thing while you were breathing down his neck. Now, he feels unprepared. Vulnerable.
The manager leads him to a room where his outfit for the performance is hanging, leaving him to change in privacy. Vernon has most of what the stylist picked out for him on, save for his top, when the room fills with the bittersweet smell of smoke, like someone just lit incense. The relief can move him to tears right now.
“Miss me?”
He presses his lips together, his fingers fumbling with the top in his hands. It’s a mess of holes and strings, and he’s been struggling to figure out where his head and arms go for the last two minutes.
“Where have you been?” he asks, voice clipped. Even he can hear the desperation in his question. He can hear how fragile the control he has on his emotions is, and he’s mortified to find that he sounds every bit as needy as he seems to feel.
“It was a heavy night going into a heavy day,” you say from somewhere behind him. “I figured I’d give you some breathing room.”
“Heavy days have never stopped you before.” Countless panic attacks, hours spent begging to be left alone, schedules that demanded every second his attention and energy, and you have never given him breathing room.
“You’ve never killed someone before either,” you point out as you walk around to his front and take the blouse from him. He looks up at you, but your attention is fixed on the stupid piece of fabric. “But consider it noted.” After a few moments, you look up at him briefly, eyes a deep and velvety shade of crimson today. You look pleased as you return your focus to the shirt. “You don’t like breathing room. Won’t give you any.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he protests. He doesn’t know why because you’re right. He doesn’t like it and he doesn’t want it. Something about thinking of you as his god has him wanting you close.
You nod at him, ready for him to slip into the blouse. When his head is through, he finds you a lot closer than before, your bodies almost pressed flush together. “You didn’t have to,” you respond, guiding him through the fabric, fingers brushing his skin as you do.
You hardly ever touch him, and after last night, it’s not the same dread that used to put him in a chokehold whenever he felt your fire hot skin against his in any capacity. It’s unsettling and divine and addicting.
You have him in the top in seconds, though you don’t do it without running your hands down the entire length of his torso as you let the fabric fall around him. Goosebumps erupt everywhere you touch, and he feels his dick twitch in his jeans. You don’t say anything, and as always, your face doesn’t give a single emotion away.
“You'll be out there?” he asks quietly.
You smirk. “Feeling a little clingy, are we?” Vernon feels his cheeks grow hot, but he doesn't deny it. “What did I say?” you click your tongue at him like you're disappointed he wasn't listening. “No more breathing room. Careful what you wish for.”
He hears the warning loud and clear, but his brain still accepts it like a promise. You step aside and nod at the door.
“Break a leg.” There’s a loud knock, and he turns toward it.
“Vernon, are you ready?” his manager shouts. “You’re on in three!”
By the time Vernon is onstage and facing the roar of his fans, the anxiety that was buzzing and crackling under his skin earlier has simmered down to an almost non-existent thrum, mostly suffocated by the lingering ghost of a god’s touch on his body. He does his best to tune the crowd’s deafening adoration out, trying to focus only on his own breathing and the fluttering pulse in his throat as he stands alone, waiting for his cue to start singing. It’s dark, nothing but the bobbing glow of lightsticks being waved erratically at him. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes.
Vernon is always filled with a near-debilitating level of gratitude whenever he’s in this very position. He knows there are people who wait their whole lives to see him—people who might only ever get to see him this one time—so it’s his responsibility to put on his best performance yet. Today, though, what he feels isn’t gratitude for having people who love his music or for being made famous. Today, he feels thankful that these silent screams feel like a cleansing. They feel like liberation.
“‘Black Eye,’ verse one,” the sound engineer announces through his in-ear. The metronome kicks in and the engineer starts counting him down. “Two… three… four…”
With his eyes still closed, Vernon wraps a hand around the mic stand and sings the first few words of a song he wrote earlier this year about his desperation to escape you. The spotlight bears down on him hot and bright, the beats roll through his body like a second heartbeat, and he no longer feels the heaviness he remembered drowning in when this song came to life. For the first time in years, he feels weightless. New. Reborn.
When he finally opens his eyes, taking his first glimpse at the crowd, all he sees is the spotlight. Then, as his sight adjusts and the light sweeps across the stage, he realizes he’s staring right at you, seated where he was just minutes ago. You’re sitting as casually as you always do, eyes carefully trained on him while you bob your head slightly along to the song. It isn’t hard to forget the cheers and chants or the bass vibrating against his ribs once he finds you. And when you realize his gaze isn’t frantically running away from you the way it usually does, you raise an eyebrow at him in question. With the confidence only the stage can lend him, he answers with a smirk.
Don’t leave me in the dark. You said you won’t be far.
Maybe a part of him has always craved a reason to worship you.
VERNON DOESN’T BOTHER FINDING YOU AFTER THE PERFORMANCE. After all, you both know you’ll find him whether or not he wants to be found. Instead, while he’s hopped up on the adrenaline of a perfect stage and the sensation of being free, he decides now is as good a time as ever to do what he’s been told to.
“What has you in such a rush?”
Your voice is just a few paces behind him as he weaves through a hallway full of idols and staff members. There are too many people around so he doesn’t respond. He does, however, look over his shoulder, and when he sees the knowing smile on your lips, he knows you’re being purposefully daft. He rolls his eyes as he faces back forward.
“What?” you ask innocently. “Just wondering. I am your god, you know. I think I should know what you’re up to.” He stops moving, freezing in the middle of the hallway. It draws a few curious glances, but he pays them no mind. “Oooh.”
Just a few steps and you’re situated in front of Vernon, smirking up at him. Your eyes rake his body up and down. Your pointer finger reaches out to hook into a single chain from his stack of necklaces and pull, easily untangling it. You gently bring the silver back to rest against his chest and release it.
“You like that, huh?” you pose it as a question, but he knows it’s more an observation than anything else. “When I say I’m your god?”
He purses his lips and swallows nothing. His face grows warm, and you grin widely because you know he can’t respond to anything without drawing more attention.
“Don’t worry, Vernie,” you whisper. “I like it too.” Then, like you didn’t just fluster him to hell and back, you step away from him, turn toward the hallway to his right, and nod. “Last room on the left. He’s on the fire escape, sneaking in a cigarette break.”
Rihwan is exactly where you told him he’d be, and when Vernon steps out onto the fire escape with him, he startles and curses under his breath when he realizes it’s just him.
“Vernon!” he shouts in delight, flicking his still lit cigarette carelessly over his shoulder before immediately lighting another one. His gaze follows the cigarette and he notes how high up they are. Rihwan tilts his pack toward him, offering.
“Don’t you dare,” you mutter. Vernon looks up to see you on the stairs above them, body laid across the steps with your elbows propping you up. Your face is tilted toward the stars, but it’s clear you know he heard you perfectly fine.
“Sure,” he says anyway, no intention of smoking anything. Still, your head whips toward him at the blatant disobedience. Rihwan hands him a cigarette and cups his hand around it to block the winter breeze. He lights it for him before shoving his own lit stick between his lips and inhaling deeply.
“When are you performing?” he asks after he exhales a huge plume of smoke. Vernon can’t help but wince a little at the scent. It’s not the kind of smoke he’s used to. “You’ll kill that shit.”
“You sure are, aren't you, Vernie?” you ask. “The performance, his body limb from limb… that nasty tongue, that even nastier di—”
“Hello?” Rihwan sing-songs the word, elongating the end. “This’ll be huge. Finna break the internet for sure.”
You scoff. And as if you're his conscience, Vernon feels his face fight to refrain from mirroring the irked expression he knows you’re already sporting.
“‘Finna,’” you repeat from above them. “Not that we needed any more, but that, itself, is an amazing reason to kill this idiot and wipe him off the face of the earth.”
“Uh, I just finished actually,” Vernon finally answers.
“Oh fuck, sorry I missed it, man,” Rihwan apologizes. He wonders how he ever thought anything that came out of this man’s mouth was sincere. He sounds perpetually disingenuous.
“No worries,” Vernon shrugs it off, tapping his hand against the railing of the fire escape to shake the burning ash off the tip of the cigarette. He has yet to take a drag and Rihwan hasn’t noticed. “I was actually looking for you.”
“Hm?” he hums, eyebrows rising. “What’s up?”
“I, uh, heard you have some crazy ragers—you and your friends,” he says, knowing his attempt at sounding like he’s never been discreet in his life has succeeded when Rihwan’s posture stiffens. Vernon sees movement in his peripheral, and he knows you’ve moved to stand next to him, intrigued by the turn of conversation.
“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” his senior asks carefully.
“Say Park Nari,” you tell him, your spiced scent filling his nose and saving him from the stink of nicotine once more.
“Park Nari,” he repeats immediately.
Rihwan’s entire body goes rigid, and when his eyes meet Vernon’s, he can see the evil you’ve been trying to show him for the last few weeks clear as day. He didn’t need any more convincing after last night, but if he did, the glare Rihwan is aiming at him would’ve done it.
“Park Nari?” he sneers at the name. “Whatever that bitch told you is a lie. She wanted it. You should’ve seen the skirt she had on. Fucking whore.”
The air around them suddenly feels so dense, and Vernon knows you're the reason for it.
He forces a smirk and Rihwan laughs, obviously relieved at his reaction. The moment doesn’t last long, though, because Vernon looks over his shoulder, right at you and asks, “Do you think he’ll die from this height?”
“Bruh, what?” Rihwan asks dumbly.
Your eyes—a rare, bright golden hue—flit to him, and if you’re surprised he’s addressing you directly, you don’t show it. “Yup” is all you say.
“Cool.” He drops the cigarette to the floor and crushes it under his foot.
“Bro. What’s cool? You’re—hey, what the fuck?!”
Vernon lunges at him, grabs him by the collar, and pulls him up and out of the crouch he’s in, and Rihwan’s next several curses come out in a jumbled screech. They’re the last words he ever utters. In a single movement, before the man can gain his footing or even process what’s happening to him, Vernon shoves him over the railing.
It's eerily silent after that. He doesn't know what he was expecting—maybe Rihwan screaming on the way down, maybe the thud of his body, maybe more of a fight before he was even thrown off the fire escape. But the moments following are so quiet, his brain could mistake it for peaceful.
Both of you peek over the edge, finding the man’s mangled body on the concrete below, a pool of blood already spreading around him. You close your eyes and hum, sounding pleased , and Vernon likens it to a cat purring. You push away from the railing and look up at him, your eyes back to their usual red.
“He’s dead,” Vernon announces. He thinks he’s testing how those words feel in his mouth. How the truth feels inside his brain.
“Yeah. He is.”
“I killed him.”
“Yeah. You did.” Your face stays blank, anticipating whatever reaction he gives you no matter how small or large. “Are you going to have a panic attack over it now? Kick, scream, rip your hair out?”
Vernon wishes he could laugh. He just shakes his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
Your next question is: “Are you going to throw up?”
It’s a testament to how well you know him because he isn’t even fully through the deep breath he takes before he starts nodding vigorously. “Yeah, probably.”
You sigh and gesture toward the window back into the building. “Okay, let’s maybe do that away from the crime scene.”
BY THE TIME VERNON GETS HOME, it’s well past midnight, his throat is raw from vomiting, and the adrenaline has been completely expelled from his system, leaving him exhausted in all definitions of the word. He makes it to the door of his bedroom before his brain seems to completely shut off, refusing to send signals to any other part of his body.
“Come on.”
You gently press both hands to Vernon’s shoulder blades and push, guiding him further into his bedroom. His body is pliant, more than willing to have someone else do the hard work of thinking and doing right now. You bring him into his en suite and point to all the things he should do—brush his teeth, wash his face, shower. He doesn’t have the brainpower to care if you see him naked or not, and thankfully, you don’t make one of your usual snarky comments, simply helping him undress before pushing him into the shower and telling him when to shampoo, rinse, condition, rinse, scrub, rinse.
“Okay, ready to come out?” you ask once he hears the timer on his towel warmer go off. “Your precious rich boy towels are ready.”
Vernon hears you. He knows what you’re asking him to do, but he doesn’t know how to obey. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the floor, letting the scorching water run down his scalp, neck, and face, the rest of it swirling endlessly around the drain. Around and around and around and around and—
“Hey.”
He jumps at the sensation of your hand touching his shoulder.
“Come out,” you coax him softly. The softest he’s ever heard your voice get. “Let’s dry off then you can go to sleep.” You pause and when he doesn’t move, you add, “I’ll even skip summoning any demons to haunt your nightmares or anything.”
“I killed someone today.” It’s the first thing he says since being on the fire escape with you.
You don’t respond, but your hand does slip off his back.
“I know he deserved it, but… I… I killed someone today.”
“Well,” you sigh. “At least you know he deserved it.”
Vernon lifts his head and blinks water out of his eyes as he tries to breathe evenly. He visualizes a box, just like his therapist told him to, inhaling the length of the box, then exhaling the width, and repeating. He doesn’t realize how small the box has gotten in his mind until you’re turning him around to face you. You push him up against the tiles, one hand on his shoulder and the other pressing flat and firm against his chest.
“Too fast,” you tell him, pressing harder against his sternum to keep him from hyperventilating his way into a panic attack. The shower water hits you from the neck down, but you ignore it, your eyes steady on him as you guide him. “Remember what that horrid therapist taught you. In…” You inhale with him and he follows. “Pause in the corner…” He holds his breath. “And out… pause in the corner.”
Vernon doesn’t know how long he repeats it, but by the time he feels a little more like himself again, the water is cold and you’re soaked to the bone, clothes and all. You notice him coming back, and you reach out with the hand that was on his shoulder to turn off the water, like you knew changing any small thing earlier than he was ready would’ve sent him into a panic attack.
“Uh, I’m… I’m sorry,” he says, suddenly very conscious of how naked he is. He circles his fingers around your wrist to pull you off his chest, but you stay put, completely immovable. You keep staring at him, and even with the steam between you, thick and heavy, he can easily see the dark red in your eyes.
“You did well, Vernon,” you murmur. “You did good. You are good.”
His instinct is to frown, mostly because the words sound especially foreign coming out of your mouth. You’re not in the business of complimenting him, and the few times you have called him good, it was said with a degree of revulsion.
“You’ve only ever said that like you were disappointed in me,” he points out.
“I was never disappointed. I just don’t have a lot of patience for people who won’t do the right thing for the sake of not rocking the boat,” you grumble like it’s annoying for you to recall how stubborn Vernon was not even 48 hours ago. You shake your head. “But you were always going to do the right thing. And you did.”
“And I’ll keep doing the right thing?” he asks quietly.
You nod solemnly, and he thinks of all the prophets you mentioned who didn’t want this, who argued with their gods, who were cast out. “You’ll be like them,” you say. “You’ll do what you have to for your god and you’ll probably lose a lot because of it—maybe even yourself. And you’ll probably hate me by the time you’re done with me. But I chose you. And you’ll keep doing the right thing.”
Vernon accepts the towels you warmed, drying off and dressing up on his own, and he crawls into bed with promises from you that he won’t dream of a single thing tonight. Still, he hardly sleeps, busy tossing and turning for hours and thinking of the ways he can thank you for tonight. The ways he can tell you that he thinks he regrets all the years he spent resisting you. That he’d gladly lose himself to this. To you. In any way you want him to.
“I can hear you thinking,” you say into the darkness after he turns over for what feels like the millionth time. Over the years, you made yourself comfortable taking the spot next to him even though he was clear about you making his skin crawl, but tonight, you’re curled up on his chaise in the corner, giving him space he didn’t need or want or ask for.
“Yeah?” he responds, voice gravely from exhaustion. He yawns before asking, “What am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking you want to thank me. And that you’re eager to… serve your god.”
He freezes underneath his duvet and opens his eyes.
“Now you’re realizing that I actually can hear you thinking and I’m not just saying that.”
He sits up abruptly, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He finds you where he said good night to you (another first since he likes to just ignore you when you’re in his home), underneath a blanket with a book that you stole from his studio in your lap.
“I don’t need light to see,” you answer his unasked question as you close the book and it disappears. You settle further into the chaise and get comfortable, red eyes glowing as you stare right back at him. “Does it unnerve you?”
“You reading my fucking mind? Yes, that unnerves me!” he shouts, voice cracking from how embarrassed he is. What horrific things has he thought about in the last several years? In the last several hours? He can’t even figure it out without you apparently being able to see everything yourself.
“I can’t read your mind,” you argue. “I just… know. And to be fair, it wasn’t as clear before as it is now that you’ve…” your hand makes an appearance from under the blanket to wave erratically in the air, “y’know.”
“What?”
You sigh. “Accepted the prophecy and spilled blood in my honor.”
He frowns. “Spilled blood… in your… honor…”
“Yeah, that’s technically what you did,” you say, nodding. “If it were, say, maybe three centuries earlier, the word for it would be sacrifice.”
Vernon balks at you. “A sacrifice?”
“Yes, Vernie, a sacrifice,” you repeat in exasperation. “Please do not have another panic attack over it. I would much rather you puke and call it a day.” He glares at your shape. “Well? Just say it.”
“Say what?”
“Whatever it is you want to say that’s keeping you up.”
“I thought you just knew.”
“I do.” He doesn’t know why he expected you to deny it. Of course you wouldn’t. You found no use in lying. “So you might as well say it.”
The silence that stretches between the two of you is long and heavy with Vernon’s thoughts—a jumble of him trying to make sense of his feelings and him trying to stop thinking about his feelings so you can’t “just know” them.
Does he start with thanking you for the night? Telling you no one has ever brought him down from the edge like that? Okay, don’t think about that; that’s so vulnerable. How about finding a way to tell you you’re wrong—that he won’t hate you at the end of this, even if it means losing himself. Stop thinking. Literally just stop thinking.
It must amuse you by minute five because that’s when you giggle to yourself.
“What?” he seethes, still incredibly annoyed.
Your answer is to rise from the chaise and walk to his side of the bed (designated to him simply because he got used to making room for you over the years). You’re in your usual black silk pajamas, which you’ve made clear in the past were just a courtesy to him, as you didn’t “subscribe” to the idea of clothing where you’re from.
“It’s still true,” you say, smirking. You get into bed with him and wordlessly situate yourself on his lap, smirk turning into a full-blown grin when he inhales sharply and brings his fists to his mouth to keep from touching you. “Where I’m from… clothing doesn’t even exist.”
Don’t think, don’t think, don’t fucking think.
“Do you want to see?”
Oh my god, please don’t fucking think.
“Hm?” you hum, your hands starting at his shoulders before traveling down his chest and resting against his stomach. You don’t move any lower but his cock still twitches, and he knows you feel it when you immediately press your core to his.
“Oh my god,” he whimpers, fists going to his eyes now as he squeezes them shut.
“That’s right, Vernie,” you say sweetly. “Your god.”
The two words are enough to get him half hard, and you take the opportunity to slowly rock your hips into him. Vernon’s chest starts to rise and fall quickly the harder he gets under you, and when it’s clear you have no desire to stop, he lets his hands fall to his side, palms pressing against the mattress as he leans back against his headboard and watches you through half-lidded eyes.
“I already know, Vernon,” you say, voice calm and steady, even as you grind down rougher on his fully-hard cock. “Any thought or feeling or instinct you’ve had—I’ve known it all. It’s how I knew to choose you.” You bring one hand up to his cheek, cupping it in a manner startlingly gentle compared to what your hips are doing to his. “It’s how I knew you were mine.” He groans, hips bucking up into you reflexively. “So just tell me.”
“I’ll worship you” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. He doesn’t have to think about what to say; it’s just what comes out, and it feels right. Your hips slow. “God, I’ll worship you until the end of time. Wherever you go, whatever I need to do.” He gasps as you stop moving but sit your entire weight down on him. He closes his eyes, head still tilted against the headboard. “I worship you,” he whispers in a daze.
Your nails slowly drag down his face until you reach his chin. You take it in your grasp and pull down forcefully. His exhale comes out as a hiss and his eyes are on you once more.
“And only me,” you tell him.
“Only you.”
“Oh, Vernie, baby,” you coo, leaning closer without releasing him. “You were so good today.” He moans pathetically, hips writhing under you uncontrollably. You squeeze your thighs around his hips to still him. “I should reward you, hmm?” You graze your lips across his, the hold you have on his chin keeping him from surging forward to kiss you properly. “That’s what a god should do, right?” you ask, breath tickling his skin as your lips continue to skim his face.
“Yes,” he breathes. “Please.”
Without giving him a chance to prepare, your lips envelope his—exactly as harsh and rough as Vernon always imagined you would be. His hands instinctively come up to grasp your waist, and you allow it, your hips rolling again as you swallow every moan, sigh, and whimper straight out of his mouth. He happily gives it all to you.
Your arms snake around his neck, fingers carding through his hair and closing a fist around it.
“Ah…” he gasps as you pull him off you by the hair, his scalp stinging as you hold him away. You leave open-mouthed kisses down his throat before you lean back, your fist relaxing in his hair. You scratch his scalp briefly before you withdraw your hands.
“Don’t look away,” you order him. Gun to his head, he truly doesn’t think he’d be able to anyway. You take the hem of your top and pull it over your head, your chest bare underneath.
“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes dropping to your breasts. “Can I—”
“Not yet,” you answer, pushing his hands back down to your waist from where they inched up.
You grip the collar of Vernon’s shirt, and with zero hesitation, you quickly rip the fabric down the middle with no struggle. You inhale sharply, the first sign he receives that you’re enjoying this even a fraction of the amount he is.
Your frenzied movements relax and you take your time pushing the ruined fabric away from his chest and off his shoulders, letting him take his arms out himself as you occupy yourself with his body.
“You’re very beautiful for a mortal,” you murmur.
Vernon snorts. “Thanks.”
Your eyes flick up to his, so dark that he can barely make out the color in them. “I’m not being facetious,” you tell him as your fingers close around his nipple, pinching hard. He thrusts up against you in response. “You’re hot, Vernon.”
He doesn’t get a chance to say anything because you duck your head and take his nipple in your mouth, circling your tongue around it before biting and pulling, the sensation making the tightening coil at the bottom of his stomach feel almost painful. He loves it.
It doesn’t take long for you to travel further down, ass in the air as you shimmy down his body—a sight that makes his dick throb so hard, he swears he feels his heartbeat in it. You pause, look up at him, and smirk as you arch your back and send your ass even higher.
“Fuck,” he breathes again. “I forgot.” You know everything happening inside his head.
“You won’t feel so upset about it in a few minutes, Vernie baby,” you tease. “You’ll find having someone who knows exactly what you want fucking you into oblivion… pleasant.”
He groans at just the thought of what you'll look like split open on him. You make it to his crotch, and you do exactly the same with his shirt, completely destroying his sweats.
“You can just ask me to take them off,” he jokes.
“And you would take entirely too long,” you tell him, wrapping your hand around his length and pumping up and down several times. He thinks if you plan to put him in your mouth, he might die in this very bed. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
Before he can understand what you’re saying, you take his entire cock into your mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat and even slipping down it a bit. And you—you. You don't even fucking gag, wasting no time bobbing up and down his shaft.
“Oh fuck,” he gasps, hands diving into your hair and collecting it away from your face so he can see you as you make it clear how happy you are to reward him. “Shit, ba…” He stops himself before he calls you anything he shouldn't.
You release his dick with a wet, sloppy pop, and your hand continues to pump up and down, your own saliva oozing between your fingers as you squeeze hard around him.
“You can call me anything you want tonight,” you inform him. “Tonight is all about you.”
“Want… want you to feel good too.”
“You have no idea how good you've made me feel tonight, Vernon,” you tell him, eyes flashing gold. “You spilled blood for me.”
He doesn't know what that means, but from the way you say it—with barely controlled desire—he knows it's satiating enough to have you excited to pay him back like this.
“I'll do whatever you want,” he says. He doesn't know if it's honest, but he thinks it is in the moment. “I'll spill as much blood as you want. Sacrifice anyone you want me to. Anything for you, baby.”
Your grip tightens and your pace quickens, making him close his eyes and frown hard, desperately trying to think of anything aside from coming too soon.
The strokes slow to a stop and the bed dips briefly before he opens his eyes to find you completely naked now, repositioning yourself on his lap again.
“You're perfect,” he rasps. “So fucking perfect.”
You smile sweetly at him as you take his hand in yours and lead it to your chest, your fingers closing over his and making him squeeze hard. Your tit fits perfectly in Vernon's hand, so full and soft, and he doesn't care that you're older than the world itself—it was made for him.
“That's right,” you assure him, grinding against his cock messily like your own control is finally slipping. “All of me. Just for you.”
He moans as you leave stripes of your arousal on his skin everywhere your cunt touches, dripping obscenely and ready for him. You guide his other hand to your pussy. He doesn't need guidance as he presses his thumb to your clit and runs his middle and ring finger along your slit a few times, collecting your slick before easily slipping the two digits into you.
“Oh, Vernon,” you sigh lewdly. You squeeze hard around his fingers as he thrusts them in and out of you, still massaging your clit as he does.
You close your eyes as you tilt your head back, moaning so obscenely, the sound reverberates through every inch of him. He thinks he can come untouched like this, pinned down by perfection and power and divinity. Vernon has never seen anyone or anything as beautiful as you. You riding his fingers with your mouth hung open in pleasure. Your hand squeezing his mercilessly while it's wrapped around your tit.
“Mmm, need you,” he groans, thrusting his hips so that his cock presses against your ass.
And like the benevolent god you're proving yourself to be, you relent, pulling his fingers out of your pussy and into your mouth at the same time you finally sink onto his cock in one motion.
“Fuck!” he groans, his free hand coming to squeeze your waist.
Your tits bounce in his face as you ride his dick at an immediately merciless pace, licking and sucking yourself off his fingers while you do. You make a show of it, your tongue splitting his fingers and twisting as you clean him off thoroughly. Then, when there's nothing left, you lean forward, press your chests together, and cage Vernon's face with both hands, thumbs coaxing his mouth open.
“Wide,” you gasp between bounces, and he opens his mouth wider.
You lean even closer. And then without sacrificing the unforgiving pace of your hips, you spit into his mouth, the act vulgar and dirty and possessive in a way Vernon has never experienced. Your arousal and saliva on his tongue, in the back of his throat, inside him—like you're the only one who’ll ever be there. Part of him knows you will be.
Your lips follow, slotting between his, tongues joining not long after. Both of you exchange moans and gasps as he continues fucking into you. When you pull away, your thumbs run across his bottom lip in opposite directions, wiping away both of your saliva. Then, you wrap your hands around his neck and pull him close, the position so intimate, Vernon feels whatever you unwound in him the night prior completely disintegrate.
His hands run down your back and your hips as he leaves small, featherlight kisses on your shoulder, until his hands come to a rest on your ass. He squeezes hard and you moan, slamming down on him even harder once his cock has dragged almost all the way out of you.
“Vernon,” you whisper in his ear a few moments later.
“Yeah, baby,” he grunts, hips desperately thrusting up to meet yours.
You pull back to look at him and when he meets your eyes, they're completely black, the whites and reds and even golds of your usual eye color completely gone. In any other scenario, it probably would've scared him. But after tonight, maybe not. Either way, he just thrusts up into you even harder at the reminder that he's inside a deity—that you're otherworldly and perfect beyond human comprehension, and you still chose him to be here. Losing himself in you the way he promised he would.
“Your f… your faith and devotion… they taste so… so good,” you gasp, seemingly choking on the pleasure you're feeling. “Oh my god, it feels so fucking good,” you cry, a drop of red escaping the corner of your eye. He reaches up to wipe it away. A tear, he thinks.
For the first time since you've entered Vernon's life, your control completely slips. More tears fall from your eyes, and this time when he reaches up to wipe them away, he sees and feels things he can't explain. Glimpses of countless women in their happiest memories, with their loved ones, in their favorite places. Bursts of joy, gratitude, contentedness, safety, relief—all emotions he can sense are rare to whoever is reaching out to lend them to him. The last tear brings him back to his home, where he sees himself tossing and turning in bed, taking a moment to realize he's watching through your eyes. He feels ready.
“I'm going to come,” he hears your voice.
Vernon doesn't know when he shut his eyes but when he opens them, you're lying flat on your stomach, pinned under him with both of you facing the foot of his bed. Your ass recoils with every thrust as he rams into you desperately, and he feels his tip brushing up against the ridged spot inside of you.
“Vernon, baby,” you gasp, voice muffled by his sheets. “I'm coming!”
“I'm with you,” he whispers, planting kisses everywhere he can reach—your cheek, neck, shoulder. “I'm with you. I have you, and I worship you.” He thinks of your tears and everything you carry. He adds: “All of you.”
The words do it, and you cry out, walls clamping down on him so hard, he comes on the spot, collapsing on top of you to hug you to his body as he fills you up to the brim—until he's leaking right out of you. His hips eventually roll to a slow stop, but his lips keep leaving kisses across your skin as your muscles start to relax under him.
When you turn over, your eyes are their normal red again, but you look different. It takes a moment for Vernon to realize he's never seen you look… peaceful. There's an easy smile he's never seen before on those beautiful lips, and your entire body is soft and pliant under his.
You shake your head at him. “You have no idea what you've just done.”
“Some kind of ritualistic sacrifice?” he asks, hoping that his joke remains exactly that. A joke.
You shake your head. “Nope,” you say, to his relief. You bring a hand up to run through his hair before cradling his face. “But I'm afraid you're never allowed to leave now, Vernie baby. Not even death will help you escape me.”
He thinks that you probably expect that to scare him. But when he thinks of the safety and trust he felt with you tonight, all the people you both need to bring to justice, and all the things he still needs and wants to learn about you, there's hardly any room left for fear.
Vernon shrugs. “You promise?”
You smirk, eyes flashing gold.
A/N: this had. sooo much more but at the rate i was going, i would've had to post it for hali's next birthday LMAO. so perhaps i will revisit this. perchance. permaybe. ILY HALI! IF YOU HATE THIS, NO YOU DON'T!
Money, sex, and a lifetime of feeling like luck was never really on your side—until the universe decided to fuck with you in the most inconvenient way possible. What started as simple coexisting turned into something more when you paid a little too much attention to your quiet, awkward, painfully responsible roommate—who, on paper, is a complete fucking loser. But, hey, he’s not that bad!
In which Sim Jaeyun becomes the only genuinely good, unfairly lucky thing that’s ever happened to you… and just like everything else in your life, good things have a way of slipping right through your fingers. So now you have to figure it out, fix it, or risk losing the only thing that ever felt right before you run Out of Luck.
1: AGAINST THE ODDS
content tags and warnings: roommate au! romantic comedy, jake is an engineering student x volleyball varsity player reader, ANGST for this chapter! profanities, jake has braces! hopeless romantic reader (she almost get off), internal conflict, jake is such an awkward introverted baby (he likes lego and collects hot-wheels), burning slowburn (slow pacing i swear), superstitious beliefs, lots of awkward erm moments, jake is secretly a simp, reader is pathetic, ft. karina, other kpop idols and robots as side characters. explicit content (smut): sub! jake, virginity loss, handjob, lots of kissing, grinding, unprotected sex. (WC: 35.2K)
Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life too, which felt like a cruel fucking trifecta to kick off 2026.
As if the universe had taken one look at you and decided to stack the odds just to see how much you could take before cracking. You rang in the new year under the table eating grapes, promising yourself things would get better even though you didn't really believe it, because every year started the same way—broke, tired, horny, and stuck pretending you had your shit together when you absolutely didn't.
Well... this year, your varsity scholarship barely did more than keep you enrolled, covering tuition and some little allowance, nothing else, which meant every other expense came straight out of your pocket, and college was already draining you dry without rent, utilities, groceries, and all the other bullshit that came with trying to survive in the city.
You worked your ass off, trained until your muscles screamed, counted every dollar like it might disappear if you didn't watch it closely enough, and still it never felt like enough, the numbers never quite lining up no matter how careful you were. Living alone had been a nice idea, but it died fast once you actually looked at the prices, reality slapping you hard enough that you didn't bother pretending anymore.
That was how you ended up scanning roommate listings with a pit in your stomach, sitting through awkward interviews, nodding politely while doing mental math in your head, telling yourself you could deal with almost anyone if it meant splitting the bills and not drowning.
That was how you ended up with a roommate. Andddd your roommate was a boy named Sim Jaeyun.
"Is he like so handsome and hot?" Karina yelled as she spiked the ball straight at you, and you dropped to your knees on the covered court to receive it. "Most people fall in love with their roommates! Take it as a chance—remember when Coach made you eat grapes under the table during New Year's? They said you'd meet your true love within the year. It's a sign!"
No. What the fuck.
Because Sim Jaeyun was... different, and that was putting it nicely. Geeky was the first word that always popped into your head whenever you thought about him, followed closely by awkward as hell, because the first time you met him during that short, painfully quiet interview, he stuttered through half his sentences and wouldn't stop fidgeting with his hands like they had a mind of their own, tapping, twisting, pulling at his sleeves until you wondered if he was going to vibrate right out of the chair.
Still, annoyingly enough, he was better than most of the people who applied—clean record, stable background, no weird red flags on paper—which was how he made the cut despite the whole mess of nerves.
The first week really sealed it for you, though, because when you came back from training one night, you found him sprawled on the living room floor for hours, surrounded by Lego pieces, carefully snapping them together with this intense focus, and you just stood there for a moment, eyebrow twitching, face twisting before you could stop yourself. You weren't trying to be judgmental—at least that's what you told yourself—but watching a grown man play with Legos like that weirded you the fuck out, and the word loser lodged itself in your brain whether you liked it or not.
Sometimes you'd pass by his room and sneak a glance inside, catching sight of his tiny model cars lined up neatly on a shelf, perfectly arranged, and every time it made your stomach tighten with secondhand embarrassment, because this was the guy you were stuck sharing a space with, the supposed "true love" the universe was trying to shove into your life, and you already knew there was no fucking way.
"Come on, tell me more about this roommate of yours, why are you so quiet about it? It's been like five months," Karina laughed, and you couldn't help yourself as you spiked the ball straight toward her face, irritation snapping through your arm, only for her to catch it effortlessly and fling it right back at you like it was nothing.
You scoffed as you received it, rolling your shoulders, already annoyed at how easily she brushed you off.
"It's nothing special like you're trying to romanticize, okay?" you shot back. "All I know is he's an engineering major with this weird-ass Lego and tiny car obsession, and whenever he actually talks—which is rare as hell—it's always about practical shit like the rent, the electricity bill, or some absentminded 'hi' if we happen to cross paths at the exact right second."
"Oooh, a nerdy type?" Karina teased, eyes lighting up as she bounced on her feet, clearly enjoying this way too much. "So he's not that talkative? Why don't you try asking him more?"
"Why would I?" you shot back, eyebrow lifting just as the shrill sound of the coach's whistle cut through the air, making both of you snap your heads toward the court as he signaled for a break.
You grabbed your towel and water bottle, walking alongside Karina toward the bench, sweat clinging to your skin while she kept running her mouth like she always did. "Because it's for the thrill," she continued, lowering her voice only slightly, hands hovering in the air as if she were pitching some grand idea. "I mean, you literally told us you want to get laid but you don't do hookups, so hello? The opportunity is right there in your fucking apartment. Grab it. So you don't have to masturbate all the time."
"Jesus, no," you muttered, unscrewing your bottle and taking a long drink, water spilling down your chin as you scoffed. "I bet that man is a fucking virgin," you added without hesitation, already pushing off the bench and heading back toward the court as the break ended, trying to leave the whole conversation behind with your towel tossed over your shoulder.
"And what if he was?" Karina shouted after you. "Are you not curious at all? You're not even talking about it, and it's a man. It's a big deal!"
You clenched your jaw as you took your position, telling yourself to shut it out, to focus on the ball, the court, the rhythm of your body moving the way it always had, but her words slipped under your skin anyway.
It wasn't like Sim Jaeyun—Jake, as he awkwardly introduced himself—was unattractive, and that realization annoyed you even more, because technically, objectively, he had the kind of face people trusted without thinking twice. Innocent-looking, pale skin that never seemed to tan no matter how much time passed, a pointed nose, plump lips that curved into an almost shy smile, and those stupid braces flashing whenever he talked about something painfully mundane like daily water consumption, as if that was the most important thing in the world.
And fuck, speaking of masturbation, that thought made you shift uncomfortably because you did it—a lot—at least you used to, but somewhere along the line it had stopped, and you couldn't even pinpoint when or why. Maybe it was the brutal training schedule, the constant exhaustion, your body collapsing into bed every night without energy for anything else, or maybe it was the fact that you were now living with a boy, his quiet presence seeping into your routines in ways you didn't want to think about too closely... wait NO, you were not going to let Karina's words worm their way into your head, not when you had bigger priorities, like finally getting some long-overdue "me time" with your own body. You'd barely had the space to breathe, let alone touch yourself properly, and now there was the added complication of sharing an apartment with a guy.
Thin walls, shared spaces, the constant awareness that someone else existed just a few steps away made everything feel awkward and exposed, like privacy had become this fragile thing you had to tiptoe around. But then... why the fuck were you letting his weird shy-boy aura control what you did with your own body in your own apartment? Get a grip. It was 2026, for fuck's sake, and women didn't have to shrink themselves or pretend they didn't have needs, didn't want pleasure, didn't get horny. It wasn't embarrassing to want it, to crave it, to take care of yourself, and you refused to feel guilty about it. You decided right then that you were masturbating tonight, no excuses, no letting some awkward roommate situation dictate your life.
When you got home, you dumped your bag by the door and locked yourself in your room, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the bed, trying to force your muscles to relax and your mind to shut the hell up.
Jake was just some innocent presence in your thoughts, nothing more, but... maybe he really was some timid little virgin. He was so damn quiet, so careful, that doing something dirty under the same roof almost felt wrong, like you were corrupting the space just by wanting it. And of course, the more you tried not to think about him, the more firmly he lodged himself in your head, sooo stubborn and intrusive.
"Shit," you breathed, shifting on the bed as your fingers slid between your thighs, touching yourself slowly. "Stop thinking, stop thinking, fuck," you whispered, eyes squeezing shut, but the moment you did, your brain betrayed you, flashing an image of him sitting in the living room, hunched over his stupid Lego sets, completely absorbed and unaware.
Your eyes flew open when you felt how wet you were getting, heat pooling low in your belly, because suddenly the idea of getting off in the same space where he always sat, that couch where he spent hours building his little towers, started to turn you on. You imagined yourself sprawled there instead, hand buried between your thighs, touching yourself openly while he sat just a few feet away, quiet and focused, oblivious or maybe not, and the image sent a dirty thrill through you that made your breath hitch. What the fuck?!
"Weirdo," you thought, jaw tightening as your fingers moved faster. You're a fucking weirdo, and yet you didn't stop, didn't pull your hand away, because your body didn't give a shit about shame.
You let out a soft, broken sound as your hand finally slid where the tension had been coiling all night, nudging your underwear aside, your pulse spiking when your brain betrayed you again with the idea of him noticing, of him catching you in the act, the possibility alone pouring gasoline on an already reckless fire. You couldn't stop imagining his reaction if he walked in and saw you sprawled on the couch, touching yourself without shame—eyes blown wide, jaw slack, stuttering over some useless apology while his ears burned red—or worse, the thought that he wouldn't even realize what you were doing, that he'd sit there beside you completely oblivious while your body unraveled, sent an uneasy shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with pleasure.
Dude? You barely even talked to him. You shared a space, not a life, and your brain choosing this to fixate on made you feel unhinged in the most irritating way.
"Shit," you muttered out loud, dragging yourself back into reality when a sudden noise broke through your haze. Some kind of rummaging echoing from outside your room.
Your eyebrows knitted together in irritation as you shoved yourself off the bed, fixing your clothes, wiping your hands and padded across the floor. When you opened the door and stepped into the living room, the sight waiting for you, Jake was face down on the floor, his arms spread out. And circling nearby, bumping into his side, was a little round vacuum robot, whirring around.
This was it. This was the image your brain had been spiraling over all night. You stared at him for a long second, annoyance with disbelief, and the tension draining out of you in one sharp exhale. What a fucking loser.
"Uhh, hey," you said. You walked a little closer, looking down at him with your arms crossed. "Are you okay?" Your eyes flicked toward the robot, then back to him. "Where the hell did that come from?"
Jake pushed himself up on his elbows, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead, his glasses tilted crooked on his face. His cheeks were red—whether from embarrassment or just hitting the floor, you couldn't tell. "Ah... uh... my friend gave it to me," he muttered quickly. He didn't look up at you once, his eyes glued to the floor as if meeting your gaze would make him combust. "I-It's, uh... I fixed it. There's still an error but... uhhh, it would help us clean... you know."
You narrowed your eyes at the little robot, watching it bump clumsily against the leg of the table, circle around for a second, and then slam itself into the same spot again.
"Uh... I thought these things were supposed to, like, go the other way when they hit something?" You raised your eyebrow, arms folded as you leaned against the wall, still focused on the thing rolling around.
"It's still not fixed," Jake admitted under his breath, his tone shrinking down even more. He sat himself upright, knees bent, scratching at the back of his head. "W-Wait, I... I'll just turn it off."
You watched him scramble toward the robot, his movements frantic, It almost made you laugh, how hard he tried not to fuck up while he was clearly already fucking up. His shoulders were tense, his breath a little quick, and you could practically feel how badly he wanted this scene to end and you thought he was some kind of idiot.
The thing was, after that day, your eyes didn't really stop following him.
Okaaay, it was nothing, just the result of sharing the same damn space with another person, bound to notice shit when you lived under the same roof, and if anyone was to blame, it was Karina and her big mouth planting stupid ideas in your head. Still, it felt like some traitorous part of your brain had started recording him without permission, filing away details you had no reason to care about, noticing patterns you definitely didn't ask for.
In the mornings, when you dragged yourself out of bed half-dead and sore, there he was in the kitchen, quiet as always, pouring chocolate almond milk into a mug and sipping it like some kind of kid who never grew out of comfort drinks. No coffee, no energy drink, no caffeine-fueled desperation like a normal college student, just fucking chocolate almond milk, and it made you wrinkle your nose every time because who the hell does that and survives?
When you mentioned it to Karina one day during warm-ups, she didn't even hesitate. "Okay, I bet his cum tastes good," she said casually, and you stopped mid–jumping jack, staring at her like she'd lost her goddamn mind, heat crawling up your neck despite yourself.
That was also when you started noticing his schedule, because it was painfully predictable in a way that almost felt unsettling. Out of the apartment by eight, back by five, every single day, like his life ran on rails and deviation wasn't an option, and when you realized he actually went to bed at eight in the fucking evening, you nearly laughed out loud. Nobody did that. Nobody except him, apparently, which finally explained why the apartment was always dark and dead silent when you stumbled home late, and why that stupid little sign taped to the wall—Please don't turn the lights on—existed at all. He actually lived by that shit!
"Isn't he so cute and healthy?!" Karina cooed the second you mentioned it, pinching your cheeks between her fingers like you were some kind of toy, and you immediately scoffed, swatting her hand away with a slap. She laughed, completely unfazed, while you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, already regretting ever opening your mouth in the first place.
You were absolutely going to blame her for all of this, because if she hadn't started running her mouth about your roommate like he was some kind of rare fucking specimen, none of these thoughts would've taken root. What was so malicious about having a boy roommate anyway? It wasn't a love story, it wasn't fate, it wasn't some goddamn porn plot waiting to happen— and you were getting real tired of your own brain trying to spin it into something bigger than it was, especially when you were flat on your back staring at the ceiling, hands resting on your stomach, forcing yourself to breathe like everything was normal.
"Uh... h-hello..." Three soft knocks landed on your door, followed by another quiet, hesitant "hi," and your chest tightened instantly, irritation floating with the fact that of course it had to be him, the very devil that had been squatting in your thoughts nonstop.
You sighed, staring up at the ceiling for a beat longer like maybe ignoring him would make him disappear, but then another knock came, a little firmer this time, and your eyebrow twitched as annoyance finally won out. You sat up with a sharp movement, clicked your tongue, and stood, swinging the door open hard, only to be met with Jake standing there with his shoulders hunched in that familiar way, back slightly scrunched, an awkward smile tugging at his lips.
"Hi..." he mumble as he scratched at the back of his neck, and your eyes dropped immediately, not out of kindness but because you didn't feel like dealing with his face yet, landing instead on his feet.
Dinosaur slippers. Bright, stupid dinosaur slippers, tapping softly against the floor as he shifted his weight.
"I-I wanted to give you the advance payment... u-uh..." he trailed off, fumbling with something in his hands, and you just stood there, watching him struggle.
He finally managed to hold it out to you, bills slightly wrinkled, that same awkward smile glued to his lips, and your eyes betrayed you by drifting up instead of staying where they should've been. Pointed nose, plump lips, the shine of his braces catching the light when he swallowed nervously—fuck, this was absolutely Karina's fault, because somehow, without warning, he looked more attractive than he ever had before.
"Jake," you said, scratching at your ear and straightening your posture, refusing to look directly at him as you took the money from his hand, your fingers brushing his for half a second too long, your heartbeat kicking stupidly hard at the contact.
"Hm?" he responded softly, and you bit your lip, finally lifting your gaze to him, your brain screaming at you to shut up while your mouth had other plans. Ask him something normal... just a question— casual, harmless question— because you were only... a little interested, and that didn't mean shit.
"Do you have a girlfriend?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, blunt and way too direct, and you mentally slapped yourself immediately, because great, now you sounded like the weird one.
"H-huh?" His face went red almost instantly, color blooming across his cheeks as he fumbled with the fabric of his pajama pants, wiping his hands over and over. "I—I don't have..." he said quietly, trailing off as if the sentence itself embarrassed him.
You pressed your lips together and looked away, nodding like that was nothing to react to, crossing your arms and staring down at the floor before glancing back up at him again. "You haven't had anyone?" Fuck, stupid, dumb decision! You cursed yourself again, because apparently you'd lost all sense tonight.
"Uh... I had one b-back in high school," he admitted, eyes still avoiding yours. "But it didn't work."
"Ah," you nodded, forcing a neutral tone you didn't entirely feel, shifting your weight as you stood there in the doorway with money in your hand, suddenly aware that what started as an annoying, harmless question had cracked something open, and now neither of you seemed quite sure how to close it again.
You weren't even sure how you managed to fall asleep that night, because the embarrassment clung to you heavier than exhaustion ever did, replaying the scene over and over until your head hurt. When morning came, you stayed in your room longer than usual, listening for movement outside, making damn sure he wasn't in the living room or the kitchen or anywhere you might accidentally run into him, because the thought of seeing his face after that made your stomach knot. You slipped out only when the apartment was quiet, grabbing your things and leaving like a coward.
Stupid. Idiot. So fucking dumb. You and him barely talked, and suddenly you were asking personal questions like you had any right to them. What the hell would he think? That you were weird? Desperate? Bored? You groaned to yourself, dragging a hand down your face as you walked, already hating how much space the whole thing was taking up in your head.
"This is all your fault," you snapped later, shoving Karina's shoulder as you told her what happened, only for her to burst out laughing.
"Admit it," she said, grinning wide. "You're interested. I mean, something pushed you to talk to him and even ask personal shit."
"It wouldn't be like that if you weren't planting ideas in my head," you hissed back, glaring at her, pointing at your head.
"Oh, dear, dear," she mocked, shaking her head as she leaned in and traced stupid little hearts over your chest with her finger. "You wouldn't be affected at all if it wasn't already there. Stop denying it and just accept it fully."
"Let's think about progress," she continued, clearly enjoying this way too much. "Next time, talk to him more. Ask what songs he listens to, what food he likes—"
"Shut up," you cut in immediately, heat crawling up your neck as you folded your arms tighter. "It's embarrassing."
"No. Listen to me," Karina said, grabbing your shoulder and physically turning you back toward her like she wasn't about to let you escape this. "He's single. And I swear I don't even know him, but from everything you've told me, he's perfect for you. When you see him, don't act all awkward and twitchy. Be confident. Stand straight. Shoulders back. Don't cross your arms like you're about to fight someone." She started counting on her fingers. "Maintain eye contact—even though he won't, that's your advantage. Smile a little. Ask him something normal, like what he's working on, or why he drinks chocolate almond milk, or anything. And if he stutters? Don't jump in. Let him finish. Let him drown a little."
You stared at her with your lips pursed, face twisted in pure secondhand embarrassment. "And why exactly should I listen to you?"
"Because I'm right," she said instantly. Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Is he your type or not?"
You swallowed. "No. What the fuck."
She didn't miss a beat. "But would you fuck him?"
Silence, your brain running in useless circles while Karina just watched you like she already knew the answer. You exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. "...Why... not," you muttered.
You hated how much her words stuck with you, hated how they pushed at something you'd been trying to ignore, because when you got home from practice later that evening, there he was in the living room.
Jake was sitting on the floor, legs folded awkwardly as he unscrewed the little vacuum robot, fiddling with its insides before setting it down and watching it.
The moment it rolled in your direction, you saw him stiffen, shoulders tightening before he forced that same awkward smile onto his face.
You paused, heart thudding harder than necessary, Karina's voice echoing in your head, and forced yourself to do exactly what she'd said. You lifted your chin, met his eyes even when he almost looked away, and spoke first.
"Hi," you said, steadying your voice as you held the eye contact.
"Hi," he replied softly, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed, hands hovering uselessly near the robot.
Your gaze drifted to the little vacuum circling around aimlessly, bumping once against the wall before correcting itself. "...So it's fixed now?" you asked casually, even as you swallowed the lump forming in your throat.
"Y-Yeah," he nodded quickly. "D-Don't worry, it's just a battery issue. It w-won't affect the electric bill."
Of course that was his first concern. You huffed internally, dropped your bag onto the table, and before you could overthink it, you walked straight over and sat down next to him on the floor. Close. He stiffened instantly, shoulders locking up as he subtly scooted a few inches away, trying—and failing—to make it look natural.
"Have you had dinner?" you asked, keeping your tone light, like Karina's voice wasn't screaming instructions in your head. "I was thinking of ordering something. You wanna check?"
Normal. This was normal. Roommates did this shit all the time. It wasn't weird unless someone made it weird.
"Uh—I already a-ate—"
"What about chicken?" you cut, sitting up straighter as you scrolled through your phone and angled it toward him, a poor excuse to lean closer. "Or burgers? Wait—shit, I'm actually on a diet right now. Are you okay with veggies?"
You waited, and... nothing. When you finally looked at him, you realized he was barely breathing, blinking like he'd forgotten how, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like looking at you directly might short-circuit him. "Uh... I already ate," he repeated, voice dropping smaller.
"Oh."
Before you could recover, he stood abruptly, movement jerky, still refusing to meet your eyes as he pointed vaguely toward his room. "I—I need to, uh... I have something to do," he said, bowing slightly out of pure habit before retreating, the door opening and closing with a soft final click.
You stared at the door for a long second before letting your phone drop onto the table, sinking back with a long sigh. Fuck. That went great.
"Maybe he just got overwhelmed?" Karina said the next day, eyebrows raised as she watched you slump forward, elbows on your knees, retelling the disaster. "You did tell me you kind of talk a lot. Or he's just shy as hell."
"What if he thinks I'm weird?" you muttered, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to replay everything from his side.
"No," she said immediately. "Absolutely not. We will try again. Casual questions only. Like... ask about the weather. It's raining today, right?"
And you did. You actually tried. You walked fast all the way home, phone clutched in your hand as you kept checking the time, timing it just right for when Jake was usually in the living room. 6:39 p.m. You fumbled with your keys, nearly tripping over your own feet as you pushed the door open, breath a little too rushed, and thank fuck—there he was, sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.
You pretended to stretch your shoulders as you stepped inside, rolling your neck like you were just another exhausted student coming home, your jersey lifting slightly and revealing more of your black shorts than necessary.
"It's so rainy, fuck," you complained aloud. "I didn't bring an umbrella, so I ran all the way from the university. God, my body hurts," you added, letting out a small groan with your eyes closed, even though it was a lie—you ran because training went overtime and because you didn't want to miss another chance to talk to him.
Silence.
When he didn't respond, you cracked one eye open, then the other, glancing toward him only to find him still completely fixated on the TV, posture relaxed, attention fully absorbed. Your mouth fell open slightly, irritation bubbling up, and when you drifted a little closer to your room under the excuse of passing by. That was when you finally caught what he was watching—some kind of documentary, planets and stars filling the screen, a calm narrator talking about galaxies, gravity, and shit you barely remembered from high school.
You paused, blinking. Seriously? This was his way of relaxing? Sitting there quietly, absorbing new information like it was entertainment? You scoffed under your breath, suddenly feeling stupid, because now talking about the weather felt painfully dumb in comparison, like small talk he wouldn't even care about. Without another word, you turned and went into your room, shutting the door a little harder and dropping onto your bed before forcing yourself to open your notes and study for quizzes you barely cared about.
"Don't give up," Karina said firmly, gripping your shoulders when you sagged forward on the bench, this rare break finally giving you room to breathe after weeks of nonstop training with the city-wide university tournament looming over your head.
"He can barely look at me," you snapped, pointing at yourself, teeth gritted in frustration.
"Because you're too hot and beautiful," she shot back without missing a beat. "He's overwhelmed. He's probably thinking you're so so hot that his brain is literally short-circuiting every time you talk to him. Think about it—it's been a long time since his last relationship." She smoothed your hair like she was calming a feral animal, tone softening.
You both went quiet after that, and you stared off to the side, chewing on the thought despite yourself. Right. Maybe he really was just awkward because it'd been a long time. Maybe you were coming on too strong without realizing it. You needed to be subtle, calmer, casual, like you didn't give a shit even if part of you very clearly did. Play it cool.
That night, you came home with two cups of ramen swinging lightly from your hand, your chest rose and fell from the walk up the stairs, shoulders finally dropping in relief when you stepped inside and saw Jake in the living room. He was crouched on the floor again, tools scattered around him as he fiddled with another robot you'd never seen before, while the stupid circular vacuum from before rolled lazily around the room.
"Hi," you said, still catching your breath.
He looked up at you, eyes wide and innocent for half a second before that familiar awkward smile kicked in, forced and shy all at once, and fuck, the sight of it irritated you because he was unfairly cute in a way that made no sense. "Hi," he replied softly.
You lifted the two ramen cups and walked toward the table, setting your bag down as casually as you could manage. "I bought two," you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Got my daily sports allowance and wanted to treat myself... then I thought of you." You shuffled the plastic lids, pretending to be more focused on that than the way his attention locked onto you. "You're probably hungry, right?"
You didn't wait for his answer. You slid one of the ramen cups toward him and finally met his eyes, holding his gaze just long enough to make your point clear without saying it outright, your mouth curling into a small smile. "...Right?"
"U-Uh... t-thank you," he whispered as he shrank in on himself, shoulders curling forward while he opened the container. He flashed you that same awkward, almost childish smile again, and fuck, he's really really so cute.
You sat across from him at the table, the two of you eating in silence, the only sounds the soft slurp of noodles and the faint hum of the appliances around you. You poked at your ramen with your chopsticks more than you actually ate, stealing glances at him while he chewed, trying to find an opening that didn't feel forced, something that wouldn't send him running again. "Soo..." you started, dragging the word out like a test. "You're a scholar too?"
Jake nodded before he even spoke, eyes lifting briefly before darting away again. "Yes," he said.
You nodded back like you were genuinely interested, leaning your elbow on the table. "How much allowance do they give you?" you asked. "Or is it the same as mine? I heard academic scholars can apply outside the university too, like government stuff."
He nodded again, eyes flicking up to you for half a second before he went back to biting his noodles, slurping softly like that was easier than talking. You kept going anyway, because silence made your skin crawl. "Sometimes I wish I was smart instead of just... sport-inclined," you admitted with a half-laugh, slumping your shoulders for emphasis. "Like, what the hell am I supposed to do after I decide I'm done with volleyball?"
You looked at him, waiting, hoping, and the silence stretched out so long it felt loud, ringing in your ears until you swore you could hear imaginary crickets chirping in your head. Embarrassment crept up your neck, heat blooming as you realized this was it again—you talking, oversharing, filling space while he stayed quiet.
"I'm done for now," you said abruptly, clacking your chopsticks against the plastic before snapping the lid shut, forcing a smile that felt stiff on your face. You stood, shoved the ramen into the fridge with more force and retreated to your room, closing the door behind you.
Bitch, you thought, dropping onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. All you ever do is embarrass yourself!
The next morning, Sunday dragged itself, and the only thing on your schedule was volleyball training, which somehow made it worse. Your body ached in that familiar, dull way, muscles stiff and protesting as you forced yourself out of bed and into the living room to pack your bag, movements sluggish. You were halfway through shoving your gear inside when you realized the bathroom door was open, steam drifting lazily into the hallway, and you froze mid-motion when he stepped out.
Jake stood there with a towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp and sticking up in odd places, dressed in his usual comfortable home clothes like it was any other morning, and for a split second your brain short-circuited. What the hell? It was Sunday. He never woke up early on Sundays!
The sight of him caught you so off guard that your mouth moved before your thoughts caught up. "A-Are you done?" you asked, forcing a stiff smile and immediately wanting to slap yourself for stuttering like an idiot.
He nodded, eyes sliding away from yours almost instantly, stepping past you with that small, polite bow he always did. The air felt weirdly tight after he passed, and you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the bathroom door.
By the time you were on the court with Karina, dropping your bag down beside hers and joining her for stretches. "I swear he's not interested," you muttered, brow scrunched as you stretched out your legs. "I might just give up."
"Wow," Karina replied dryly, glancing at you. "Good morning to you too."
You rolled your eyes and pushed into a half split, focusing on your breathing. "Everything is your fault," you went on, shifting your weight, arching your back to stretch deeper. "And yeah, okay, I admit he's cute and attractive and whatever, but—ugh." You abandoned the stretch altogether, dropping onto the floor and flailing your hands in frustration. "He won't even talk to me, no matter what I try or what you tell me to do."
"Maybe because—" Karina started.
"No," you cut her off immediately, rubbing your face. "I'm done. Why am I even doing this?" You weren't sure if the question was meant for her or yourself, and that uncertainty only made it worse.
You didn't even know what you wanted—maybe you wanted him in your bed, maybe you were just bored, lonely, horny, maybe you wanted a boyfriend, or maybe you just wanted something to break the monotony of your days.
Fuck, you honestly didn't know.You pushed yourself up to your feet with a sharp exhale, forcing your shoulders back as training began, telling yourself this was it, that you were un-crushing him, that whatever weird hold he'd had on your thoughts was gone. You just needed to focus, sweat it out, forget the way he'd looked that morning, forget the way your chest had tightened for no good reason, and move the hell on!
And so you went back to not caring about him—or at least you tried to. You kept things strictly transactional, clipped conversations that revolved around rent, water bills, electrical bills, and nothing else, the kind of exchanges that didn't require eye contact or emotion or the risk of awkward pauses. You timed your routines carefully, stayed in your room more, wore your headphones even when nothing was playing.
Somehow, though, the apartment got weirder instead of quieter.
At some point, there were suddenly two circular vacuum robots roaming the place, one pink and one white, bumping lazily into furniture like bored pets, and then there was a third one that made you pause the first time you saw it. This one had a small screen instead of a blank surface, animated eyes blinking as it rolled around the house, looping endlessly in wide, slow circles like it was patrolling its territory. It was unsettling in a way you couldn't quite explain, especially the way it behaved whenever you came home.
The first time it happened, you stepped through the front door, already halfway to your room when the robot rolled toward you, stopping just short of your feet. Its eyes widened slightly on the screen, focusing on you, and then a soft, robotic voice chimed, "Hi."
You stopped, stared at it, and after a second of confused silence, answered back without thinking. "Hi," you muttered, eyebrows knitting together as you watched it blink like it was pleased with the response. You shook your head and went to your room.
But it kept happening. Every time you came home after training at 7:30, without fail, the robot would find you, roll closer, look up at you with those stupid animated eyes, and greet you. "Hi." Over and over again, like some kind of programmed acknowledgment that you existed, and it annoyed you! Part of you wondered why a machine noticed you more consistently than the person who built it?
Whatever.
When tournament month finally hit, it felt less like a schedule and more like a slow, grinding punishment that refused to end. Hell week stretched into hell weeks, days bleeding into each other until your body stopped distinguishing between soreness and exhaustion, and your mind lived in a constant fog of drills, scrimmages, ice packs, and shouted instructions. Your team kept winning—somehow—defeating other universities one after another, which meant you qualified for the next rounds, which also meant more training, longer hours, heavier pressure. Victory didn't feel like relief anymore; it felt like another door slamming shut behind you.
After one match, you stood on the edge of the court, hands on your hips, chest heaving as you watched people filter out of the bleachers. Couples laughed, friends clapped each other on the back, families waved and called out names, and you wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to just be normal—to be a regular college student who watched sports for fun instead of bleeding for it, who cheered and went home without their knees screaming or shoulders burning. Would life be easier that way? Would you have more space in your head for things that weren't survival and performance and pushing yourself past your limits?
And then your thoughts drifted further. Would you have found a lover by now? If your life wasn't so wrapped up in training? Someone you met in a theory class, bonding over shared misery and late-night study sessions, or someone introduced through friends, a clean, easy connection that didn't feel so fucking complicated.
The idea made your chest tighten, and you frowned at yourself, annoyed. Why were you suddenly like this? Why so emotional, so restless? Were you really that lonely? What the hell was wrong with being single anyway? You'd been fine before. You had friends. You had people to talk to. You weren't isolated!
Except you knew it wasn't the same. You watched your teammates get swallowed into hugs after the match, hands squeezing shoulders, foreheads pressed together, quiet comfort exchanged even without words, and you felt it then—a sharp, stupid ache. While they leaned into someone else's warmth, you retreated to the back room alone, wiping sweat off your face, peeling off your jersey, changing in silence. Maybe this was just who you were—someone who got jealous not because you lacked people, but because everyone else seemed to have that person, someone to lean on when their body gave out, when the day finally caught up with them.
By the time you dragged yourself home, your limbs felt heavy, movements are sluggish as you kicked off your shoes and let the door shut behind you. The familiar hums filling the space as the robots whirled around the floor, doing their endless loops. One of them—the one with the animated eyes—rolled toward you like it always did, eyes blinking up at you before that same neutral voice chimed.
"Hi."
"Hi," you replied automatically. Normally you would've gone straight to your room, but lately Jake had been staying holed up behind his door, and the living room felt strangely empty without him.
You dropped your bag, pulled a beer from it, popped it open, and took a long drink before letting yourself sink down onto the floor. The robot lingered nearby, hovering like it was waiting for something.
You stared at it for a second, exhaled slowly, and shook your head. "Do you know how to say anything besides hi?" you asked it quietly.
The robot blinked, its animated eyes widening and shrinking in a way that almost felt intentional, and you huffed out a weak smile despite yourself. Your fingers hovered over its smooth, round surface, stopping just short of touching it. "I don't really know shit about these things," you muttered, gesturing vaguely at it, "but aren't you supposed to be, like... a comfort robot or something? The kind people put on their desks so they don't feel so damn alone." You tilted your head, squinting at it. "But you're round. And you roll. You're like... a vacuum with feelings."
The robot blinked again.
You took another sip of your beer, the bitterness sitting heavy on your tongue. "I think I'm so lonely I might cry," you admitted, voice cracking just a little as a hiccup slipped out of you. You set the beer aside and started peeling off your protective gear, fingers clumsy, dropping the pads onto the floor one by one. Bruises bloomed across your skin—dark, ugly marks layered over older ones.
"I don't want to be a libero anymore," you said flatly, staring down at your legs. "God, why am I not rich? Or smart? Or just... lucky for once."
You looked back at the robot, its eyes fixed on you like it was actually listening. "I wish I had someone," you continued. "Someone who'd hug me after games. Someone I could talk to when training's over and my body feels like it's about to give out." You scoffed and lifted a finger, pointing at it like you were lecturing. "You know my teammates? Let me introduce you, since apparently you're the only thing paying attention right now."
"So there's Karina," you said, holding up one finger. "She's our setter, loud as hell, always running her mouth, and yeah—she's dating the basketball captain." Another finger. "Rei's the youngest, dating some art dancer who comes to all her games and cries like a baby." Another. "Giselle's gay, she's in a relationship, and Ningning's with her. I swear they fight all the time, but it's kinda cute because they're both middle blockers and stubborn as shit." You kept going, listing names, relationships, connections, until your hand dropped back into your lap. "Winter—well, that's not even her real name. And Yunjin, Yuna, Yeji, Ryujin... all in relationships."
You leaned back against the sofa, sliding down slightly as you sat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers. "Everyone has someone," you whispered.
"Why... am I such a fucking loser?" you laughed, the sound is too loud in the quiet apartment, echoing for a second before it died out. The laugh collapsed in on itself, and you buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking as tears burned behind your eyes. You didn't bother wiping them away when they spilled over, there was no one around to see you break—just a robot blinking back at you, silently witnessing everything you'd been holding in for far too long.
"I want someone," you choked out into your palm, the words are so ugly and bare, pathetic in a way that hurt to admit out loud. You dragged your hands down your face and looked at the robot again, eyes wet, vision blurry. "God, that sounded so fucking sad," you laughed weakly.
"Maybe you should ask your owner to build me one of those realistic human robots." You sniffed, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "Ask him to make one for me, yeah? Since apparently I can't even talk to him like a normal person."
Your laugh came again, tears still sliding down your cheeks as you shook your head. You leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, words spilling out now that you'd opened the floodgates. "I want him to make me a boyfriend with high emotional intelligence," you said bitterly, counting it off in your head like a stupid wish list. "Someone who'd cook me healthy meals that actually fit my training, because finding decent food is a nightmare. Someone who'd show up to every tournament, even the shitty ones, and cheer for me."
Your voice dropped. "Someone who'd listen. Someone who wouldn't freak out when I'm exhausted or pissed or quiet. Someone who'd talk to me through the hard days instead of making me feel like I'm too much." You swallowed, chest tight, then let out a shaky breath. "And yeah," you added, snorting through your tears, "someone who'd fuck me hard enough to knock the stress out of my body and make me forget everything else for a while. How does that sound, huh?"
For a second, there was only the low hum of the apartment. Then the robot's screen shifted, animated eyes changing as a little emoticon popped up—round, pink, unmistakably blushing.
Your eyes widened. Then you burst out laughing, real laughter this time. "No fucking way," you said between laughs, wiping at your face. "Did you just blush at that?" You leaned closer, still grinning like an idiot through tear-streaked cheeks. "Are you programmed with PG-13 only or what?"
The robot blinked once, then shook its round body side to side like it was offended. You gasped dramatically, pointing at it. "Oh my god. You are judging me." You sniffed, then tilted your head. "Okay, smartass. What does the fox say?"
The screen flickered. Suddenly the robot's eyes morphed into exaggerated fox eyes, whiskers popping up on either side as its little screen started wobbling in place.
"Tingining-ngining-ngining."
You choked on your own laughter, hands slapping against the floor as you doubled over. "No—no way—stop," you wheezed, laughing harder as the robot kept dancing, completely unbothered. Tears streamed down your face again, but this time they were from laughing so hard your chest hurt.
You stayed there for hours after that, talking absolute nonsense to it, asking stupid questions, daring it to do random shit, reacting like it was some kind of miracle instead of a rolling piece of metal with a screen. At some point your words slowed, your body sagged, and without even realizing it, you slid down where you sat, head resting against the sofa, eyes finally drifting shut.
Morning came and you woke up confused, the first thing you registered being how soft everything felt. You were lying on the sofa, not the floor like you remembered, a blanket pulled up around you, tucked snugly enough. You blinked, staring at the ceiling, then shifted slightly and froze. Your skin felt... warm. Not sore in the usual way. When you pushed the blanket aside, you saw neat bandages wrapped around your bruises, carefully placed, clean, and faintly scented with something herbal that made your muscles relax just breathing it in.
"What the fuck..." you murmured, sitting up slowly. Your head wasn't pounding. You weren't dizzy. You definitely weren't drunk enough to forget doing this. You glanced around the living room, heart starting to thump harder as pieces didn't line up. The robot sat docked in its corner, screen dark. The apartment was quiet—too quiet.
You dragged the blanket tighter around yourself, staring at your own hands. Did you do this? No. You would've remembered bandaging yourself. And the smell, so warm, so clean, so comforting—it wasn't yours. Your chest fluttered uncomfortably. Of course you weren't stupid. You weren't that fucking oblivious. Someone had moved you. Someone had carefully lifted your dead weight off the floor, arranged you on the sofa, wrapped a blanket around you like you were fragile instead of a grown woman who could bench half the team. Someone had cleaned you up, bandaged your bruises, and let you sleep it off instead of waking you or leaving you there like a mess. And there was really only one person in that apartment who would've done it.
Jake.
Jake.
Heat start crawling up your neck as your brain started filling in the blanks you didn't want answers to. Why the fuck would he do that? You stared down at the bandages again, fingers hovering over them. You didn't remember waking up. You didn't remember him touching you. It was only a beer, sure, but you'd been emotional, rambling, spilling your guts to a robot like a lunatic.
God. What if you'd talked in your sleep? What if you'd laughed too loud, cried harder, said something you shouldn't have? Worse—what if you'd drunkenly confessed how fucking lonely you were, how badly you wanted someone, how much you'd been thinking about him without ever meaning to? The thought made your face burn. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
You couldn't look at him after that. You didn't even try.
For the next few days, you turned into a ghost in your own apartment, timing everything around him without even meaning to. Training ended at 6:30, but you didn't go home until eleven, sometimes closer to midnight, killing time wherever you could—late dinners, extra stretching or workouts, pointless walks—until you finally started crashing at Ryujin's place in the next building over. Her couch became familiar, her fridge raided, her complaints ignored. Anything to avoid running into him in the living room, anything to avoid seeing that awkward smile and wondering what the fuck he knew about you now.
Your head wasn't in the game either, and it showed.
"You seriously need to stop pulling faces on court," Ryujin said one afternoon, shoving her phone in your face while you were still catching your breath. Sweat dripped down your temples as you squinted at the screen, instantly recognizing the photo—your body low in a squat, eyes sharp, eyebrow raised, jaw set like you were ready to kill someone. The sports journalist had caught you mid-focus, mid-intimidation, and it was already blowing up on the university page.
"What do you want me to do?" you snapped, irritated, pushing the phone away. "Smile at the other team?"
"At least look... approachable?" she said, shrugging. "I mean, that's your default face, yeah, but you know when I first met you, I thought you hated me."
You glanced at her, pausing.
"You didn't talk to me for weeks when I joined," she continued, stretching her calves casually. "I legit thought I pissed you off somehow. Then one day you just asked me to grab lunch with you like nothing happened, and that's when I realized you were actually nice. Just... intense."
You scoffed, rubbing the back of your neck. "That's just how I am."
Unfortunately for you, that day lined up perfectly with everyone else having a life. Ryujin had a date with her girlfriend, Karina was off doing couple shit with hers, and you were left with too much energy and nowhere to dump it. You went to the gym even though training had ended early, pushing yourself through another pointless workout just to avoid going home, until your muscles finally protested enough to force you to stop. By the time you dragged yourself back to the apartment, it was already 7:04 PM.
You unlocked the door and stepped inside, pretending to be deeply invested in your phone as you kicked off your shoes and slid them into the rack beside your roommate's. The apartment was calm in that familiar way, and right on cue, there he was— Jake was fresh out of the bathroom, towel slung loosely over his shoulder, wearing those ridiculous dinosaur slippers. Seven o'clock. Of course. You could already tell he was winding down, getting ready for his absurdly early bedtime.
Your eyes met for half a second. You looked away immediately, pulse kicking hard against your ribs. You walked past him like you didn't care, thumb scrolling mindlessly through takeout apps you weren't even reading, already reaching for your bedroom doorknob when his voice stopped you.
"I—I always... uh... cook food f-for dinner..."
You froze, fingers tightening around the knob as your brain scrambled to process what you'd just heard. You turned your head slightly, not fully facing him, afraid that if you did your face would give you away. He was standing a few steps behind you, shoulders tense, eyes glued somewhere near the floor.
"I-If you want to eat," he added quickly, words tripping over each other, "uh... it's on the table..."
Before you could say anything—before you could even decide what the hell you wanted to say—he retreated, practically speed-walking into his room and shutting the door.
You stood there in the hallway, hand still on the doorknob, staring at nothing. What the fuck was that?
You could order takeout. Obviously. That had been the plan. But this was the first time he'd actually initiated anything. Was this his way of talking to you? Of trying? Why were you even overthinking this? It was just food. Fucking food. "Get a grip," you muttered, yanking off your varsity jacket and tossing it over the chair. Curiosity won anyway. You walked toward the table and lifted the food cover, already telling yourself it was just about saving money, nothing else.
Your mouth watered instantly. In front of you was a Chicken breast that are perfectly cooked. Sweet potato, roasted just enough. Steamed broccoli, still bright green, not soggy, not sad. This is kind of meal athletes killed themselves. The kind of meal you'd complained about not having time or money to prep a hundred times. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," you whispered. This was exactly what your body needed. You might've laughed if you weren't so close to crying. After weeks of exhaustion, shitty schedules, loneliness you pretended didn't exist, here was this quiet, nerdy, awkward roommate who barely looked you in the eye—coincedently cooking the perfect post-training dinner.
You didn't even bother pretending to be civilized about it. You dropped into the chair and dug in like you hadn't eaten in days, shoveling food into your mouth with zero shame, chewing fast, shoulders finally loosening as real fuel hit your system. The chicken was tender, the sweet potato was so soft, the broccoli exactly how you liked it, and you were too busy inhaling everything to notice the soft whirring near your feet.
"Hi," the robot chirped, rolling up beside your chair like it always did.
You waved it off vaguely, mouth full, head down, focused on the plate. It didn't even cross your mind then that the robot hadn't been greeting you lately when you came home past midnight, that it used to roll toward you every time. You were too hungry, too focused, too busy scraping the plate clean to notice anything beyond the food in front of you.
The next day, you came home a little earlier than usual, around eight. Training had been brutal, your legs shaking by the time you unlocked the door, and you were already mentally preparing yourself for instant noodles or whatever garbage you could throw together without collapsing. Instead, you stopped short.
Another meal sat on the table.
This time it was tofu stir-fry with rice, still covered, steam faintly trapped beneath the lid. The robot sat docked beside the table like it was guarding the food, screen dark, finally resting. You glanced toward the sink and noticed a single plate already washed and set aside—proof that Jake had eaten earlier. Your stomach growled embarrassingly loud.
You didn't overthink it. You just sat down and ate, quietly this time. God's perfect, it was convenience. Timing. Coincidence. That he probably cooked in bulk and didn't want leftovers to go bad. You definitely didn't think about how the portions were always just right for you, or how the meals lined up perfectly with your training load.
And then it kept happening.
The next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Sometimes you came home early and ate while he was already locked in his room. Sometimes you came home late and the food was still there, waiting. You rarely saw him. You rarely spoke. But you ate. Every night.
Every night, no matter what time you came home, there was food waiting. Always balanced. Always exactly what your body needed, like someone had been paying attention—really paying attention—to what an exhausted athlete needed to survive. You stopped ordering takeout without even realizing it. Your fridge stayed full longer. Your energy during training didn't crash as hard. Your muscles recovered faster.
"You're gaining weight," your coach said one afternoon, flipping through his clipboard as he read off numbers.
Your heart jumped. "Huh? Is that a bad thing?" you asked, nerves creeping up your spine.
He raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "No. It's a good thing." He looked up at you, "I've been telling you to eat more for months. Looks like you're finally listening." He closed the clipboard and stepped closer, ruffling your hair roughly. "Finals are coming up. You need more muscle if you want to keep up your defense."
You laughed awkwardly, nodding along. Don't think about it too much. Don't think about it too much. Don't think about it too much. It's healthy, right? That's all that matters. Your body feels better, stronger, steadier during drills. You don't feel like you're about to collapse halfway through practice anymore. Whatever you're eating is exactly what your body needs. Exactly what it's been begging for. And yeah—fuck—it's also exactly what your heart didn't know it was starving for, but you're not touching that thought. Not with a ten-foot pole.
"What if he's purposely cooking too much so you'll eat?" Karina had said earlier, lips curled into that wicked smile she always wore when she knew she was poking at something sensitive.
No. Absolutely not. You refused to let that sink in. You wouldn't let her words crawl under your skin and set everything on fire again. Roommates do this shit. People share food. People are nice without ulterior motives. It's normal. It's fucking normal. Just because you're a hopeless romantic doesn't mean you get to project that onto someone who's clearly just... kind. Assuming otherwise would make things awkward again, and you were done with awkward.
With training dismissed early that day, you stopped by the grocery store on your way home, wandering the aisles without much thought until something familiar caught your eye. Chocolate almond milk. The same brand. The one he always drank in the mornings. You stared at it for a second longer before grabbing and tossing it into your basket.
You got home at 5:30 PM sharp.
The smell of savory cooking hit you the moment you stepped inside. Jake stood in the kitchen wearing an apron, moving carefully between the counter and the stove. Soft music played in the background, Cigarettes After Sex, of all things.
When he noticed you, he startled like he'd been caught. His eyes widened, body jerking awkwardly as he took a step back, then forward, clearly unsure what to do with himself. "Y-You're h-here— wait—"
"Groceries," you said quietly, cutting him off before he could spiral, offering a small smile as you set the plastic bag on the table. You pulled out the carton of almond milk and held it up slightly. "I bought you this."
He stared at it, his mouth fell open just a little, eyes flicking from the carton to your face and back again, cheeks already starting to color.
"I've been eating your food for a week," you added, shrugging lightly, forcing your voice to stay steady. "Consider it a thank you."
"T-Thank you," he whispered, eyes flicking up to yours for half a second before he turned his back, shoulders hunching slightly as he went back to stirring whatever was on the stove.
You busied yourself with the groceries, unloading them one by one. Yogurts into the fridge. Vegetables in the crisper. Almond milk placed carefully on the shelf where you'd seen his before. When you were done, you grabbed your bag, already planning to retreat to your room and give both of you space, because that was safer.
"H-Hey." His voice stopped you mid-step.
You turned around slowly, heart doing that stupid stutter again, and found him standing by the table with two plates in his hands. He set them down carefully, and for a moment he actually held your gaze. Really held it. The eye contact made something like an electric flicker through you that you almost looked away first—but then he broke it, eyes darting off to the side like he'd just realized what he was doing.
"Let's— I-I cooked dinner," he said, words tumbling over each other. "There's a-a lot, so l-let's share."
Fuck. You swallowed, nodded, and quietly took a seat across from him before your mouth could betray you by saying something stupid. You both served yourselves rice in silence, the clink of utensils and the low hum of the music filling the space between you. The food was good and for a few minutes you just ate, letting the tension settle instead of fighting it.
"You listen to CAS?" you asked eventually, nodding toward the speaker.
He froze for a split second, shoulders tensing. "Y-Yeah," he said softly. "I... uh... it helps me focus. And... relax." He glanced up at you, then away again, fingers tightening around his chopsticks. "Y-You?"
"Casual listener," you replied, reaching for the rice bowl again without thinking, scooping out another generous serving and plopping it onto your plate. "I prefer loud music. Like, really loud." You shrugged, already chewing as you talked, words slightly muffled because that was just how you ate. "It helps me focus during workouts, especially during hard training days. Phonk music, mostly. Some of my teammates are into it, so I kinda adopted it." You rambled on, barely realizing how much food you'd shoved into your mouth, cheeks full, posture relaxed in a way you hadn't been around him before.
There was a brief pause, you were still chewing when Jake quietly leaned forward and placed the last slice of meat onto your plate. The movement made you stop mid-bite. Your eyes dropped to the food, then lifted slowly to him, finding him watching you with that same awkward concentration, lips pressed together before they curved into a small, uncertain smile.
"I-I listen to music similar to CAS," he continued, voice gaining a bit of momentum like he was warming up. "A-And wave to earth too, b-because it helps me calm my mind. Makes it easier to sleep early." He scratched the back of his neck, clearly rambling now, which somehow made it worse in the best way.
Your brain short-circuited. Fully. You stared at him for a second too long, then forced yourself to finish chewing, swallowing slowly as you tried to get your thoughts back in order.
"I—" you started, then stopped, laughing awkwardly under your breath. "Yeah. That... checks out." You gestured vaguely with your chopsticks. "I mean, I noticed you go to bed at eight." You let out another small laugh, embarrassment creeping in fast. "That stupid sign on the wall finally made sense."
His ears turned red almost instantly. "S-Sorry," he blurted out. "I didn't mean to be... annoying."
"It's not annoying," you said immediately, a little too fast, shaking your head like your life depended on clearing that up. The last thing you wanted was for him to retreat back into himself again. "It's just... different." You hesitated, then added more softly, "Kinda impressive, actually. Most college students have completely fucked body clocks and awful habits." You snorted lightly. "Speaking from experience."
He nodded, relief loosening his shoulders just a bit. "Uh... yeah. I-I try not to pick up bad habits," he said. "I-I value time a lot. What we do and what we eat affects how our body p-performs." He gestured vaguely at the table, at the food. "If I get sick, a-a lot of time gets w-wasted."
You stared at him, chopsticks paused halfway to your mouth.
Okay. What the fuck. This guy went to bed at eight, didn't drink caffeine, cooked balanced meals, and talked wisely about time and health. Made you want to smack yourself for ever writing him off as just some awkward nerd with Lego sets and robots. You could feel it now, that pull in your chest, that annoying curiosity digging deeper, urging you to peel back more layers you hadn't even known were there.
And God help you, he was talking. Actually talking. To you.
"Yeah," you said, finally swallowing your bite. "You're right." You leaned back slightly in your chair, lips twitching as you tried to play it off. "Teach me your ways, then. I clearly need your level of dedication." What the fuck are you saying?
He blinked, then let out a small, surprised sound that might've been a laugh. "I-I'm not that dedicated," he said quickly, waving a hand like he was swatting the idea away. "Just... organized."
"Sure," you replied, smirking faintly. "That's what all disciplined people say."
He ducked his head, embarrassed again, but this time it was lighter in the air. Less tension.
And it made it really fucking hard to pretend you didn't care.
The next day proved that. You didn't even linger after training like you usually did. No extra laps, no pointless cooldowns, no killing time just to avoid going home. You showered, changed, and headed straight back, heart thudding with a stupid mix of anticipation and denial. When you opened the apartment door, the familiar sounds of the soft whirr of the robot vacuums roaming the floor and the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen greeted you immediately. He was cooking again!
"I bought apples," you said, setting the bag down on the table.
Jake glanced over his shoulder, offered you a quiet, "Hi," paired with that same awkward smile that somehow felt less awkward every time you saw it. He turned back to the stove, setting down plates—rice, and vegetable soup. And yeah, his dinners were always exactly what you were supposed to be eating after training. Jackpot was an understatement.
"Is it okay if I eat with you?" you asked, already pulling out a chair and sitting down like you'd made the decision before finishing the sentence. "I mean, you cook for yourself."
"Of course... I-It's okay," he said quickly, nodding.
You watched him a little too closely, waiting, hoping he'd say more instead of retreating into silence. He hesitated, eyes flicking toward you, then away, lips parting as if he was debating with himself. "I-I've been cooking more these days," he admitted. "B-Because... uh... I was thinking of gaining weight myself, b-but I think my appetite c-can't really keep up."
"Ohhh," you said, snapping your fingers. "Yeah, that makes sense." You leaned forward, already getting animated without realizing it. "You're gonna need a loooot of protein for that. My coach never shuts up about it, especially for me. Defense needs muscle, apparently." You laughed lightly, rambling now, turning toward him with an easy smile as you scooped soup straight into your rice. "My budget's always shit though, so I rely on protein powders and gym meals."
He nodded slowly, listening, before going quiet again and digging into his food. Somehow, that quiet didn't feel awkward. It felt comfortable.
You didn't notice how relaxed you looked, how your shoulders dropped, how your expression softened as you ate. You didn't notice how naturally you mirrored his pace, slowing down, breathing easier. You definitely didn't notice the way your heart jumped when he picked up one of the apples you'd bought, peeled it carefully, and slid it onto your plate without a word.
Your pulse spiked, so stupid and fast. "Thanks," you murmured, suddenly very aware of him sitting across from you, of how close this all felt without crossing any lines.
God, don't read into it too much. You told yourself that firmly. He's just nice. He's your roommate. He cooks. He shares. He listens.
But fuck—how were you not supposed to like him when he made space for you so quietly, when being around him started to feel like rest?
"It felt nice," you sighed, sprawled flat on the court with your arms stretched above your head. Sweat cooled against your skin as the basketball players ran laps around you. Karina sat beside you, legs crossed, phone in hand, thumbs flying across the screen. She glanced down at you, eyebrows lifting slowly, curiosity sharpening her expression as she clocked how distant you looked.
"What exactly feels nice?" she asked, frowning. "Because it sure as hell isn't sharing the court with these fuckers. Our training schedule's been cut all week." She tilted her chin toward the far end of the court, where her boyfriend was jogging past, shirt clinging to him. She grimaced. "Look at him. I bet he smells like an ass."
You huffed out a weak laugh but didn't move, eyes fixed on the ceiling lights glowing overhead. "It just... feels nice," you repeated. Your voice dipped as the thought finally slipped out. "Am I really that lonely that I start liking someone just because they pay a little attention to me?" You swallowed, jaw tightening. "I mean, I already knew I was fucked the moment I caught myself thinking about him while touching myself, and we hadn't even had a proper conversation. Just you, planting bullshit ideas in my head like a menace."
"Oh my God," Karina gasped, dropping her phone instantly. She rolled onto the floor beside you, mirroring your position but turning onto her side to face you, eyes wide and way too excited for your liking. "Is this about your cute nerd roommate again?"
You didn't answer. You kept staring at the lights, blinking slowly, letting the words tumble out because once they started, it felt impossible to stop. "He cooks extra food without making it a thing," you said. "Like it's nothing. And I eat it. And sometimes I talk. Just starting dumb shit about my day. And that night I passed out on the floor, he carried me to the couch and wrapped my bruises, and I woke up with bandages that actually helped." Your throat tightened. "So what, Karina? Am I really that pathetic for feeling like this?"
Karina stared at you for a long moment, her teasing expression finally softening. She reached out and poked your forehead. "First of all, shut up," she said gently. "Second of all, you're not pathetic. You're human." She sighed and lay back, hands folded on her stomach. "You're exhausted. You train like a beast, you carry your team, and you come home to an empty room most nights. Of course small kindness feels huge right now."
You turned your head slightly, finally looking at her. "But what if I'm just projecting?" you asked. "What if I'm clinging to scraps because I don't want to feel alone anymore?"
"That's called being aware," she replied. "Not desperate." She nudged your shoulder. "And listen to me. You're not imagining things out of nowhere. He didn't have to cook extra. He didn't have to move you. He didn't have to take care of your bruises. Those are choices." She paused, then added carefully, "Does that mean he's in love with you? No. But it means you're not crazy for feeling something."
You exhaled slowly, chest easing just a little. "I don't even know what I want," you admitted. "I just know it feels... safe. And that scares the shit out of me."
Karina smiled softly. "Good. It should scare you a little. That means it matters. Lmao." She squeezed your hand. "Just don't rush it. Let it breathe. You're allowed to want someone. You're allowed to be taken care of sometimes."
You smiled faintly to yourself. Right. Don't rush. Go with the flow. Let it breathe. Jake probably had no idea what was spiraling around in your head anyway. You could keep this normal, no stupid fantasies. There was nothing to lose if you kept it like that... right?
"You can call them Whitey, Pinky, and Bumble," Jake said casually, gesturing toward the living room.
You followed his hand. The two vacuum robots were roaming around like usual, bumping gently into chair legs and correcting themselves. The pink one spun lazily near the couch, the white one hovered closer to the dining table, and Bumble—the one with the animated eyes—was docked near the TV, screen dimmed as she recharged.
You almost snorted. It was stupid how endearing it felt. Any other time, with any other guy, you'd probably be weirded the fuck out. But with Jake? It just slid into place too easily, like another quiet, odd piece of him you were already getting used to. White robot: Whitey. Pink robot: Pinky. And Bumble... because apparently it's soft blue glow reminded him of a bumblebee.
"That's... very on the nose," you said, lips twitching as Whitey rolled dangerously close to your foot. You shifted your leg, and the robot obediently veered away. "Does your course actually teach you this stuff, or are you just secretly a scientist?"
Jake let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "Uh... I'm a civil engineer," he said, rubbing the back of his ear. "B-But I have a friend. He's... uh... computer and electrical engineering." He hesitated, words tangling like they always did when he tried to explain himself. "We... sometimes make things."
You leaned back against the chair, listening.
"Bumble was... uh..." He paused, glancing toward the robot like he was checking if she could hear him. "She was supposed to be a vacuum robot for desks. It was for our Grade 12 STEM research. But our teacher said vacuum robots were too common, and we... didn't know enough about coding back then." He shrugged awkwardly. "So we just... continued it anyway. Changed her design. That's why she's small."
Oh.
You blinked. Of course he had friends like that. Smart, curious, building things just because they could. Of course he carried projects from years ago instead of throwing them away. And of course he called the robot she, like she was a person, or a pet, or something he cared about.
"That's actually kind of impressive," you said honestly, eyes flicking back to Bumble. "You kept working on her even after the project ended."
Jake's shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped. "I... didn't want to waste it," he said quietly. "Time, I mean."
And there it was again, that quiet, infuriatingly gentle way he treated time and effort, like both were fragile things you weren't supposed to waste or throw around carelessly. God, he was cute.
You hated how easily it slipped past your defenses, how your brain kept screaming don't read into it while your body already had its own stupid opinions. Still, you couldn't deny it anymore, not even to yourself. Something had shifted. Maybe a door cracked open, maybe you'd just stopped bracing so hard, but suddenly there was space between you that didn't feel awkward or tense. It felt... safe. Comfortable. Like you didn't have to perform or fill the silence for once. And the fucked up part was, what you'd said earlier was true.
It really did feel nice.
"I... cook for breakfast," he said one morning while you were tying your shoes, backpack already slung over your shoulder, half-awake and mentally preparing yourself to survive another long day. "D-do you want to eat before you go?"
You should've said no. You almost always grabbed coffee and whatever sad snack you could find on campus, ate standing up, rushed through everything like your life. But you just nodded, sitting at the table in the early morning light, eating something warm and balanced while he moved quietly around the kitchen, you realized your shoulders weren't tight for once. You weren't rushing. You weren't thinking about the next thing you had to do.
It felt nice. Way too nice.
Later that week, after a practice match wrapped up earlier than expected, you found yourself standing outside his door, heart beating faster than it should've over something so stupid. You knocked anyway. When he opened the door a minute later, one earphone dangling loose, hair slightly messy, that familiar awkward smile creeping onto his face, you almost chickened out.
"Am I... disturbing you or something?" you asked, forcing a casual tone that didn't quite hide the nerves twisting in your gut. He shook his head, and you felt the tension in your shoulders finally ease.
"Uh... I was just fixing my books," he said. "Why?"
You took a breath, then another. "I bought snacks. Chips and stuff," you said, holding up the bag. "I was just wondering if you... wanted to watch a movie with me."
Immediately your brain started spiraling, tearing you apart for how you phrased it. Too direct. Too demanding. You should've softened it, given him an out, made it sound like an optional, no-pressure thing. God, what if this was crossing some invisible roommate line? You braced yourself for rejection, already rehearsing how you'd laugh it off, how you'd pretend you weren't embarrassed if he said no. You told yourself it was fine. You hoped he'd be gentle about it if he did.
"Uh, sure," he said after a beat, smiling that shy, crooked smile. "Let me fix my things quick."
You ended up on the couch together, a polite distance between you, snacks spread across the table. 50 First Dates played on the screen, and even though some scenes were objectively funny, you found yourself holding back, afraid of laughing too loud. You were hyperaware of everything—your posture, the way you chewed, the way your knee bounced slightly with leftover adrenaline.
Then Jake laughed, mouth full of chips, a soft, unguarded sound that slipped out before he could stop it. You froze, turning to look at him, watching the way his shoulders hunched as he laughed, how genuine it was, how unfiltered. And fuck. Something loosened in you. You smiled before you could stop yourself, then laughed too.
It felt nice, and you weren't used to nice things sticking around without demanding something in return.
Jake wasn't some mystery anymore, not really, at least not on paper. Third-year Civil Engineering student, double scholar, university-funded and government-backed, the kind of résumé that made professors nod approvingly and parents brag to relatives. President's Lister every damn semester, GWA floating between 1.27 and 1.46. You learned these things not because he bragged—he never did—but because papers were left on the table, emails popped up on his phone screen when it lit up, certificates tucked neatly into folders he handled with care. He was impressive in a way that didn't shove itself in your face.
As a roommate, Jake was... steady. Organized without being controlling, balanced in a way that made you painfully aware of how messy your own routines were. He slept at eight, woke up early, moved through the apartment. You noticed small things you shouldn't have been paying attention to, like how he liked sour candy and kept a stash hidden in one drawer, how his fingers fidgeted when he was nervous or thinking too hard, how he couldn't leave broken things alone. A loose screw, a cracked hinge —he'd insist it was still usable, still salvageable, like throwing something away felt wrong to him on a fundamental level. Sometimes you wondered if that applied to people too, if he believed everything and everyone could be fixed if you just gave it enough patience.
You noticed more than you meant to. Jake liked stars, documentaries about space that played quietly in the background while he worked, liked the ocean even though he rarely talked about it, liked anything that revolved around science or math or systems that made sense. It was almost funny how predictable he was once you paid attention, how comforting that predictability became without you realizing it. You caught yourself syncing your schedule around his without meaning to, coming home earlier, lingering longer, listening for his footsteps like it mattered whether he was there or not.
It felt nice going home to someone, where the apartment didn't feel empty when you unlocked the door. Having someone to talk to, even if the conversations were simple and sometimes awkward, felt like relief after days filled with noise and expectations. Having someone prepare meals that actually made your body feel better instead of worse, someone who noticed when you were too tired to cook and never made you feel guilty for it, felt dangerously close to being taken care of. And doing nothing together—sitting on opposite ends of the couch, eating in silence, watching something stupid, sharing space without pressure.
"There's a typhoon coming up, and God help me with this heavy rainfall," Ryujin groaned dramatically, flopping onto the gym bleachers with her hands pressed against her temples. You could hear the rain hammering against the roof above. "My body is so fucking sore, finals are coming, and you're telling me I still have to endure a goddamn storm outside?" Her voice cracked at the end.
"You all act as if we're not aiming for nationals," Giselle said, bouncing the ball with an almost lazy precision, her eyes flicking sideways at the group of basketball players lounging at the edge of the court. They were obnoxiously loud, laughing and showing off, and Giselle's glare could've frozen them mid-air if that were even possible. She tossed the ball in your direction, and you tightened your grip, flexing your fingers around the ball, feeling the familiar pressure in your palms that meant focus—control. You set yourself, crouched low, and spiked it with everything you had.
"They are already giving out tickets for the finals," Rei whined from the sidelines, dragging her towel across her shoulders as she leaned against the wall. "My boyfriend won't shut up because everyone is hyped about it. It's gonna sell out in like, five minutes." You snorted because, as usual, she was dramatic about everything, and as usual, you were the only one sitting there without someone to care or argue or plan with.
"Coach gave us tickets for our friends, right? Only two each! I need three for my boyfriend and his friends. Can some of you spare an extra?" Winter demanded, arms flailing slightly as she leaned toward Ningning and Giselle. "Giselle, give me yours! Ningning, come on, you're on our team!"
"No. We're giving them to our other friends," Ningning said sharply, slapping Winter's hands away.
"Not fair! I'll treat you to Taco Bell if you just give me one!" Winter snapped back. The rest of the team was clustered around, debating, negotiating, trading possibilities.
"Winter," you muttered, rolling your eyes even as you adjusted your feet and tossed the ball into the air, "just take my tickets. I don't have friends to give them to anyway." You tossed the volleyball up and down in your hands, practicing your set.
You could feel her gaze burning on you, even though you weren't looking directly. "Really?! Like, both of your tickets?" she pressed, a note of disbelief in her voice.
You barely had time to nod before the ball smacked you straight in the face, ricocheting sideways, and suddenly your brain betrayed you. Out of nowhere, an image of Jake popped into your head—his stupid braces smile, the one that twisted your stomach every time you saw it, the one that made you stupidly aware of your own heartbeat and that little thrill you always swore wasn't there. You blinked, flustered, and hit the ball again, flinching slightly as the team waited.
"Actually... just one," you said quickly, fumbling for a way to sound casual. Karina let out a sharp whistle behind you, and Winter's lips pouted in mock outrage. "I was... planning to give it to my... friend," you added, stumbling over the lie.
"Wow, suddenly you have a friend!" Winter exclaimed with mock indignation, "but fine, that's cool! You promise that one is mine, no taking it back, ha!"
If you asked him to watch your game... would that be too personal? It wasn't like you were asking him to cheer for you, or scream your name from the stands, or wait for you after with flowers and sweaty hugs like your teammates' partners did. It was just a game. An outdoor thing... Still, it felt like crossing some invisible line, like letting him see a part of your life that didn't exist inside shared rent. Letting him see you as more than just his roommate who ate his food and sat beside him on the couch.
You told yourself not to overthink it, even though overthinking was already happening at full speed. It was normal. He was your roommate. You talked now. You shared meals. Of course you'd invite him. That's what normal people did, right? That's what people who weren't emotionally fucked did.
The thunder cracked overhead and rain poured down by the time you got home, your clothes damp, your muscles aching, your head buzzing with too many thoughts, the familiar hum of the TV filling the space. Jake was on the couch, exactly where you half-expected him to be, watching one of his documentaries, posture straightening the second he noticed you. You dropped your bag onto the table and rolled your shoulders.
"Hi," he said softly, eyes flicking up to meet yours before darting away again.
"Hi," you replied, sitting down beside him with that same respectful distance you'd both somehow agreed on without ever discussing it. Your eyes drifted to the screen, absorbing nothing of whatever science-heavy topic was playing.
The silence stretched, like both of you were waiting for permission to speak.
"I made salad earlier—"
"Are you interested in sports—"
You both stopped at the exact same time, voices colliding awkwardly in the air. You turned toward him, mouth slightly open, blinking in surprise, and he mirrored you perfectly, eyes wide behind his glasses.
"You first," you said, exhaling a short laugh to break the tension.
He cleared his throat, nodding toward the dining table. "I made salad earlier. If you want to... I didn't expect you to be here early, so I didn't get to cook dinner right away..." His words tumbled out unevenly.
"Ah," you leaned back, glancing down at your feet. "It's okay. Coach said we should go home early to relax anyway. I'll eat it later. Thank you." Your voice softened without you meaning it to.
Another pause settled in. The documentary kept playing, some distant narration about oceans or planets or whatever, but neither of you were listening anymore. "So..." he started, breath hitching slightly as he stared at the floor. "What were you saying?"
This was it. Your chest tightened as you inhaled deeply, bracing yourself, forcing the words out before you could chicken out. "Are you interested in watching the tournament finals on the 24th?" you asked, eyes flicking toward him before darting away again. "I have a ticket, and I figured I could give it to you... if you want to."
The seconds that followed felt cruelly loud. You could hear the clock ticking, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the rain still hammering outside. You stared at the floor, then at him, then anywhere but his face, mentally preparing yourself for whatever came next.
"I'm—" he began, and you looked at him despite yourself. His mouth opened and closed like he was searching for the right words, hands fidgeting in his lap. Another beat passed, then another. "T-thank you," he said finally, voice quiet, apologetic. "But I'm not really into that... especially with big crowds. S-sorry." He squeezed his eyes shut afterward, like he was bracing for impact.
Oh.
Of course. It made sense. Crowds, noises, people—it was everything he avoided. You'd known that before you even asked. The game would start at six-thirty, probably end close to eight if it dragged on, loud and packed and overwhelming. Saying yes would've been completely out of character for him.
You forced a small nod, a smile you hoped looked convincing. "It's okay," you said quickly. "I figured. Just thought I'd ask."
And that should've been the end of it. You'd tried. You'd done the brave thing. That was enough. So why did disappointment settle in your chest anyway. Why did it sting more than you expected, like you'd been quietly hoping for something you had no right to hope for?
You were considered lucky, at least according to every bullshit horoscope Karina ever forced you to listen to during some booth event you never even wanted to attend. Apparently, the stars loved you. Apparently, fate had a soft spot for you. She once read aloud that you were supposed to fall down a flight of stairs when you were four years old, crack your head open, ruin everything before it even began, but some divine intervention stepped in and said no, not today. You survived childhood without dramatic tragedy, without scars that people could point at and say, see, that's where it all went wrong.
Back in elementary school, during tryouts, you didn't even know what defense really meant. You just knew you were fast, stubborn, and didn't like backing down when something came flying at you. Everyone else flinched, screamed, covered their faces, cried when the ball hit too hard. When the coach spiked it straight toward you, you reacted without thinking, arms locking, wrists steady. The ball bounced back clean, and just like that, you were a libero. Just like that, people said you were lucky, like it wasn't your reflexes, your pain tolerance, your refusal to be scared that made it happen.
Because luck, real luck, was supposed to feel good, and most of the time it didn't. On the court, when you spiked and the middle blockers mistimed their jump and sent the ball out of bounds, earning your team the point, you didn't feel joy. You just reset your stance and waited for the next play.
When allowance day came and you counted your money and realized you had just enough left to afford ramen for the week, people called you lucky, joked about your budgeting skills. You weren't happy then either. You were relieved, maybe, but relief tasted nothing like happiness.
And when your teammates whispered about how lucky you were for hooking up with that handsome men's volleyball player, the one everyone drooled over, they didn't know he was gay and spiraling through an identity crisis, and they sure as hell didn't know how awkward and hollow the sex was. They envied you. You lay there afterward staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but discomfort and regret, wondering how something everyone hyped up could feel so fucking empty.
You were unlucky in the kind of life you wanted but couldn't seem to reach, no matter how many points you saved, how many games you won, how many scholarships you earned. You worked hard, you pushed your body past exhaustion, you sacrificed sleep and weekends and normal college shit, and yet when it came to the softer parts of living, the parts people took for granted, you always seemed to come up short. Love didn't land where it was supposed to. Comfort felt temporary, like something borrowed that could be taken back at any moment.
"God, aren't they being misogynistic?" Karina's voice exploded through your phone, echoing slightly because someone else in the group call was yelling at the same time. It was already past 10:36 in the evening and the Viber group call lit up your screen, faces popping in and out, voices overlapping, screenshots being spammed into the chat. One of them showed the Men's Volleyball Team's group chat from your university, their messages dripping with mockery, acting like your qualification to the finals was some kind of joke. Saying you wouldn't survive Men's Volleyball, telling you to stop being egoistic, laughing about how you "wouldn't even win against them" if you played on their side.
You turned the volume down as you started packing your things for tomorrow. Your mind was tired, body sore, and halfway through, you remembered your other bag was still in the living room. You scratched behind your ear and stood, phone still pressed between your shoulder and cheek, listening to the call as you padded out of your room. You didn't turn on the main lights, already knowing Jake would be asleep by now.
"I mean, it's completely different when it comes to force, agility, speed," you said calmly. "But skills? That's not gendered. The best response is no response. Their egos are just bruised because they didn't qualify. With that attitude, I doubt they ever will." You sighed softly, ducking into the living room and kneeling by your bag. "God help those boys."
"Like?!" Giselle yelled through the phone, her face practically vibrating with rage on your screen. "They're being fucking misogynistic! Did you see their group chat? They're mocking you specifically for being fierce during matches! Look at this shit—'I can't wait for them to lose tomorrow, let's see if her fierce face stays then.' Bitch, I'm about to throw hands. Tell me to do something and I will."
You lowered the volume again, a small laugh slipping out despite yourself. Honestly, if you were being real, you didn't care that much. Not because it wasn't wrong, but because you were too damn tired to give their words any big deal. You started pulling unnecessary things out of your gym bag, tossing wrappers and old tape into the bin. Men talking shit was practically background noise at this point.
Then your hand froze. The ticket slipped into view between your fingers. You held it there, two fingers pinching the corner, staring at it like it might say something back. The girls were still yelling in the background, voices overlapping, insults flying freely now.
"They're giving small dick energy," Yunjin chimed in loudly. "I mean, it's obvious. There's literally no imprint when they wear gray shorts."
You barely reacted. Your eyes stayed on the ticket, chest tight, thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely. Jake's awkward smile. His quiet apologies. The way he'd shut his eyes when he said no, like he hated disappointing you even when he hadn't done anything wrong. Sighs, he is so cute.
Without letting yourself think any further, you opened the bin and dropped the ticket inside. You grabbed your bag, stood up, and walked back into your room, shutting the door behind you with careful quiet.
When finals finally rolled around, you found yourself moving in circles, literally and figuratively, as the coach herded you into a tight formation at center court. Everyone's hands were linked, fingers brushing, gripping just enough to feel grounded. The coach, in his usual way, told you all to close your eyes and "ask the universe for guidance."
You closed your eyes, not because you believed in any divine intervention, not really. You were too much of a realist for that. Still, it felt nice, comforting even, to pretend. To hope. To imagine the universe leaned in and whispered, Yeah, you can do this. You will win, but not because of luck—because you earned it. Your shoulders loosened slightly, the tension in your jaw softening as you let yourself breathe into the ritual, even as every fiber of your body screamed with exhaustion from training.
Around you, the girls were buzzing with energy, eyes closed but faces alight, humming a silent rhythm of anticipation. Their drive from yesterday had carried over—Karina's fist clenched in quiet determination, Giselle bouncing slightly on her heels, Winter rocking back on the balls of her feet like she was about to launch herself forward. You felt a twinge of envy—how easy it seemed for them to throw themselves into hope, to lean on belief, even if it was in some hokey pre-game ritual. You, meanwhile, were caught in this weird limbo between wanting to believe in the magic of it and knowing, deep down, that you relied on nothing but your own hands and legs to make anything happen.
Hm.
What else could tonight bring? Maybe a good meal after? You glanced at your teammates, at the VIP section with its flowers and loud supporters, thinking about how nice it would be if someone threw a bouquet your way too. Not that you deserved one—hell, your muscles were probably going to scream at you tomorrow regardless. You almost snorted at yourself. Ridiculous. Wanting someone to soothe your sore body, to run a hand over a knot in your shoulder, to be there after everything, like it was some kind of reward for existing.
You could picture the universe rolling its eyes if it were a person. Slapping you upside the head. Really? You want that too? Just for surviving a volleyball match?
The corners of your lips twitched into a small, ironic smile as you closed your eyes again. You tried not to think about Jake—the way he cooked extra portions, the way he smiled awkwardly when he handed them to you. Not that it had anything to do with the universe or magic or divine intervention. Not really. And yet, as your fingers brushed against the hands of your teammates, as your legs trembled in anticipation of the first whistle, a tiny, secret part of you hoped he was somewhere out there, watching or thinking of you, maybe even wishing for you in his quiet, careful way. Geez, so out of reach.
The whistle blew.
Finals was hell in the most honest way possible, finals dragged on longer than your lungs wanted and demanded more than your body should reasonably give. It was the most intense match of the season, not just because of the score, but because of what was hanging over everyone's heads. Regionals. You didn't just want it, you needed it. You had refused to back down this far. You were not about to stop now, not when nationals were just one brutal step closer.
The crowd roared every time you sprinted out of bounds, every time you threw your body after that fucking ball like it owed you money. You barely felt the sting when your chest slammed against the floor after a dive, only thinking it as something to deal with later. Adrenaline was pumping so hard your heartbeat felt louder than the whistles, louder than the screams. You pushed yourself up, sweat blurring your vision as you glanced at the other team, then back at your own. Everyone looked wrecked. Knees bent, hands on thighs, jerseys soaked through. You were all running on fumes and stubbornness at this point.
Your chest heaved as you sucked in air, the scoreboard flashing in the corner of your vision. Big mistake. Numbers swam in your head. Forty. Thirty-nine. Too close. Way too close. The noise pressed in on you from every direction, cheers crashing over your thoughts until it felt like your skull might split open. Fuck. Don't look. Don't think. You needed to make it into regionals. Regionals. You needed to make it—
Huh?
Your eyes flicked to the VIP section without meaning to, drawn by something that didn't belong. Someone stiff. Someone painfully familiar. For half a second, your brain refused to process it, like it was some fucked-up hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But no. He was real. Sitting there in a Type D university uniform, shoulders tense, posture straight like he didn't know what to do with himself in a place this loud, this crowded. Jake. Your nerdy, early-sleeping, crowd-hating roommate. And in his left hand, of all things, he was holding a blue balloon.
What the fuck was Jake doing here?
Your heart stuttered, not from the game this time, but from the sheer wrongness of it. It was past eight!
When his gaze finally met yours, it was like the rest of the gym dropped out of existence. He gave you that same awkward, painfully familiar smile, the one that always looked like it was halfway between nervous and sincere. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and waved. The crowd was deafening, chants and stomping and whistles crashing over each other, but somehow you still caught it. His lips moved, barely forming the words, but you read them clear as day.
Bring it home.
Your throat closed. Championship. He meant championship. And fuck, you didn't know how something so simple could rearrange you from the inside out. People always said liking someone made you stupid, made you corny, made you weak. Maybe it did. Because suddenly your chest felt too full, like someone had plugged you straight into a charger you didn't even know you were running on empty from. You dragged your eyes back to the court, licked your dry lips, tried to flatten your expression—but it was useless. The smile crept up anyway. You were smiling. Inside the fucking court. In the middle of finals. Like an idiot.
The whistle blew again, and instead of dread, something hot surged through you. You felt full. Fueled. Like the last hours of exhaustion had been replaced with pure, reckless purpose. Your legs moved before you thought, sprinting, cutting, diving. You hit the floor hard, again and again, arms burning as you popped the ball up just in time. The pain was there, sure, but it didn't slow you down.
You got up grinning, clapping for your teammates, shouting encouragement you never fucking shouted before.
They stared at you like you'd lost your mind. Probably because you had. You never did this shit. You were the quiet one, the focused one, the one who saved the ball and moved on. But now you were smiling at them, slapping hands, nodding like yeah, we've fucking got this. And weirdly, it worked.
You planted your feet again, wiping your sweaty palms against your shorts, lungs burning as you bent into position.
For regionals. For your team. For the boy in the VIP section holding a blue balloon like an idiot, who had no fucking idea he'd just become your lucky charm.
The serve came flying toward you.
And you didn't miss.
Your arms burned as the ball ricocheted cleanly upward, exactly where it needed to go—and then the whistle screamed through the gym. For half a second, everything froze. Your lungs forgot how to work. Your legs locked like they'd finally decided they were done carrying you.
"And just like that, with the score of 50–43, Decelis Academy earns the champion title!"
The roar hit you like a fucking wave. It crashed into your chest, into your ears, into your bones. Your knees buckled, and if your teammates hadn't swarmed you immediately, you would've kissed the floor right there. Arms wrapped around you, lifting you up, spinning you, screaming into your hair. You screamed too hands flying to your face as tears spilled without permission. Your body shook, adrenaline still screaming even though the fight was over.
You did it. You fucking did it! The students from your university went feral in the stands, chants echoing, banners waving. Someone shoved a towel over your shoulders, someone else slapped your back hard enough to knock the air out of you. When they finally set you down, your legs wobbled like jelly, barely holding your weight. The trophy hadn't even been handed out yet, the awards still being organized, but your chest was already too full. Too loud. Too alive.
And then your eyes went to the bleachers.
He was standing. Not sitting stiff anymore, not hiding behind his shoulders—standing, gripping the rail. Your nerdy little roommate. Your heart did that stupid thing again, skipping like it always did around him. Without thinking, without waiting, your feet moved on their own, carrying you toward him.
"Hi," you said when you reached him, breathless, sweaty, grinning like a fucking idiot.
"Hi," he replied, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were shining. Bright. Wide. Almost overwhelmed. "Y-You looked so cool," he said, words tumbling out faster than usual. "With all the defense, and the jumps, and the spikes, and the serves—" His hands moved as he spoke, clumsy little gestures like he was trying to reenact the whole game at once.
Your heart softened so hard it almost hurt. You laughed. "It's already nine," you said, teasing, tilting your head. "You're supposed to be asleep."
He smiled and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I couldn't miss something s-so cool," he admitted. "I don't know what other words to use, but... losing an hour or two of sleep is worth it." Then his brows pulled together, concern slipping in. "You dived really hard though. Does it hurt?" He pressed a hand to his own chest like he felt it too.
You laughed again, shaking your head. This—this was the longest he'd ever talked to you without tripping over himself, and fuck, it was endearing as hell. "It's no big deal," you said lightly, tapping your foot against the ground. "I'm trained for that." Then, quieter, more honest, "Thanks for watching. It... feels nice. Knowing someone out there was actually watching me."
You glanced away, embarrassed by your own sincerity, then looked back just as he reached down and pulled something up from behind his chair.
Your heart fucking stopped.
The universe had jokes, apparently. Personal ones.
"Uh... f-for you," he said, holding it out with both hands. "For bringing pride to the Academy. And for... being the coolest roommate ever." He let out a nervous laugh. It was a LEGO bouquet. Big colorful bouquet, wrapped in pink. Painfully thoughtful. Flowers that wouldn't die. Flowers that fit him perfectly.
Your vision blurred before you even realized what was happening. You didn't think and didn't hesitate. You just moved—vaulting forward, ignoring the metal barrier between the court and the bleachers, throwing yourself straight into him. Your face buried against his neck. You clutched the bouquet awkwardly as your other arm wrapped around him like you were afraid he'd disappear.
He froze at first, breath hitching, body stiff with surprise.
Then—slowly, carefully—his free arm came around your waist. It was hesitant in that painfully sincere way, like he was asking permission without words. His hand pressed flat against your back, warm through the thin fabric of your jersey, and after a second it began to move—small, slow circles that comforted you, that reached somewhere deep inside your chest and eased something you didn't even realize had been clenched for years.
"Thank you," you whispered, voice breaking despite your effort to hold it together.
The tears still came anyway. It felt nice—no, it felt right. You trained your body to take hits, to throw yourself into floors, to stand tall and hard and unshakable. But here you were, soft as hell for a boy who held you like you might shatter if he squeezed too hard.
You slowly pulled back from the hug, and the distance between you was barely anything. Too close. Intimate in a way that made your breath hitch. You noticed everything at once—how sharp his nose was up close, how full his lips were when he wasn't biting them, how his skin smelled clean and familiar. Your arms were still looped around him, your fingers resting against his back and you were staring at his face like your brain had short-circuited.
His cheeks were flushed red, eyes wide, frozen.
"S-sorry," you blurted, snapping back to reality and pulling away.
Before the silence could swallow you whole, your teammates shouted your name, waving you over, yelling about awards and photos and medals. You swallowed hard, nodding as you stepped back, heart still beating stupidly fast.
You hesitated, then handed him the LEGO bouquet. "Hold this for me?" you said, already half-turning away before he could answer.
As you walked back toward the court, you bit down on your lip so hard it almost hurt, trying to stop the grin that threatened to split your face open. You swung your arms back and forth like that might shake the feeling out of your system. It didn't help. Not even a little. You could already imagine Karina's smug, knowing smile from a mile away.
Sure enough—
"Care to introduce us to your companion?" Karina teased, nudging you with her shoulder as medals were placed around your neck.
You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning.
The celebration dragged on—photos, cheers, teammates getting swallowed by their partners, hugs turning into kisses, laughter spilling everywhere. When it finally became too much, you slipped away from the crowd.
And Jake was still there. Sitting on the bench. Waiting. Like he hadn't even considered leaving without you.
"Let's go home?" you asked softly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly very aware of how tired your body was now that the adrenaline was fading.
He nodded immediately and stood up, a little too fast. His gaze dropped to your bag, then back up to you, then away again. He gestured vaguely toward it, fingers twitching at his side.
You frowned slightly. "Hm?" you asked, lifting your head to look at him, confused.
"Uh..." He scratched the back of his head, lips pressing together like he was debating something internally. His ears were already red. Without waiting for your response, he stepped closer and carefully took the bag from your shoulder, sliding the strap off you and onto himself instead. He left you holding only the LEGO bouquet.
"Oh," you said, letting out a small, awkward laugh.
You glanced around at the lingering crowd, then back at him, then anywhere but directly at his face. You swung your upper half just to bleed off the urge to scream, or laugh, or do something completely unhinged like grab his hand or kiss his stupid, careful mouth. Your heart was still racing, your muscles still buzzing, and now this—this quiet, domestic kind of care—was hitting you harder.
The silence between you stretched as you walked back to the apartment. It wasn't awkward, not really, but it was loud in its own way. You could feel every unsaid thing vibrating in the air. You wanted to say something—anything—but every possible sentence felt like a trap you'd fall into and embarrass yourself with. So you stayed quiet. Let your footsteps match his. Let the city noise do the talking for you.
When you finally stepped inside the apartment, you froze.
The table was covered in foil and containers—different shapes, different sizes, way more food than two people needed. And there, lined up neatly in the living room like little soldiers, were Whitey, Pinky, and Bumble, powered down, silent for once, which means only one thing. Jake had been here before the finals. Long before.
Your brain immediately went to war with itself.
Did he cook all of this before going to your game? Where the hell did he even get the ticket? How did he manage his time—his precious, carefully scheduled time—to cook this much? Did he order it instead? Was this planned? Was this normal?
Why did he watch your game?
You watched him set your bag down gently on the couch. He moved toward the table, fumbling with the food covers, suddenly clumsy again.
"Uh... y'know, I—I wasn't supposed to watch," he started, almost rushed. "I ordered a bunch of meals for you to eat after, but... I—" He stopped himself, staring at the food like it might give him the right words. He scratched at his ear, shoulders curling inward. "Uh... I..."
"Thank you," you said, cutting him off gently before he could spiral any further.
He looked at you with wide eyes, you smiled at him and nodded as you sat down in the living room, the tension easing just enough to breathe again.
As usual, you ate in silence. And as usual, you ate comfortably around him. Shoving food into your mouth, muttering little "mm" sounds between bites, nodding at how good everything tasted, even closing your eyes like you were savoring.
And God, Jake really was the best roommate you'd ever accidentally asked the universe for.
If you thought about it too long, he felt like the only lucky thing that had ever landed in your life without strings attached. How being around him made you happy. How you didn't have to plan your words or armor yourself up. How you could be tired, bruised, vulnerable, and still be met with care instead of judgment.
When you finally finished eating, you leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Thank you for the meal!" you said brightly, reaching out and slapping his back in a burst of affection.
Jake arched forward slightly and let out a soft whine, clearly not expecting it.
"Shit—sorry!" you laughed immediately, panic and amusement colliding as you rubbed the spot you'd hit. "I forget you're not built like one of my teammates."
He huffed out a shy laugh, shaking his head, ears red again.
By the time everything was packed up and wiped down, it was already past eleven. There were no leftovers—of course there weren't. Your body had burned through everything like fuel dumped straight into a fire. You stretched your arms over your head and volunteered to wash the dishes, half-joking that it was the least you could do after eating like a starved animal. Jake protested at first, shaking his head and mumbling something about it being fine, but after a bit of back and forth he gave in, hovering awkwardly nearby like he wasn't sure whether to help or get out of your way.
You worked side by side in silence, the comfortable kind this time. Plates clinking, water running. It felt domestic in a way that made you uneasy.
When you finished and wiped your hands dry, you crouched near Bumble, who was shut down and charging by the wall. It felt weird that it didn't greet you tonight. You had half a mind to flick it on just to hear that familiar robotic "Hi." You wanted to tell it everything—that you won, that you were heading to regionals, that you earned a title you'd bled for. That somehow—against all odds—you were developing feelings for its awkward, gentle owner without even meaning to. You snorted softly at yourself and patted Bumble's rounded top "I'll tell you tomorrow," you whispered, like it could hear you.
You grabbed a towel and headed to the bathroom. The hot water hit your skin and you hissed, muscles screaming in protest, bruises blooming darker under the steam. You leaned your forehead against the tile and let yourself breathe, replaying flashes of the night—Jake in the crowd, the balloon, the Lego bouquet, his arms around you. Fuck. You shook your head hard, rinsed off, and wrapped the towel around yourself before your thoughts went somewhere dangerous.
When you stepped back into the living room, hair damp and towel slung over your shoulder, you expected the lights to be dimmed and Jake to be long asleep like usual.
Instead, you froze.
He was still there, crouched near the wall, focused on powering down the vacuum robots one by one. Whitey and Pinky blinked to life, then began their slow, looping rounds across the floor, humming softly.
"Oh," you said before you could stop yourself. "You're... still not asleep."
Jake glanced up, startled, then pushed himself to his feet. "Y-Yeah," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... uh... I needed to shut them down properly. They, um... run better if I don't leave it for the morning."
You nodded and sat down on the couch, absently rubbing your hair with the towel, watching Whitey bump gently into the leg of the coffee table before redirecting itself. Your body sank into the cushions, heavy and spent, but your mind was still buzzing.
"Thanks," you added quietly, not looking at him. "For... everything. Tonight."
It suddenly sounded too intimate, too loaded, and you immediately regretted not cushioning it with a joke or some careless shrug. You could almost predict what would happen next—his shoulders stiffening, that polite little cough, the retreat.
Sure enough, you heard him clear his throat, footsteps padding toward his room, and you exhaled slowly. Do not be stupid about it.
The door clicked shut. You were already settling deeper into the couch, telling your heart to calm the fuck down, when the door opened again. You frowned, lifting your head just in time to see Jake step back into the living room with a small cloth in his hand. He didn't look at you right away. Instead, he moved to the refrigerator, rummaging around. You watched him with a crease between your brows, confused.
When he turned back around, your breath caught. He crossed the space between you without rushing, then knelt down in front of the couch. Your eyes widened as he gently took hold of your foot, so careful, his gaze fixed on the angry bruises blooming along your shin and ankle. Up close, they looked worse—swollen, and darkening.
"Wait—you don't have to," you blurted, heat rushing up your neck. You reached for him instinctively, fingers closing around his wrist as if to stop him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was.
He shook his head before you could pull away. "J-Just... let me," he said quietly, his voice steadier than you'd ever heard it. "Please."
The word please was was sincere. Caring. Like this was something he wanted to do, not something he felt obligated to offer. Your grip loosened without you even realizing it, fingers slipping from his wrist as you gave a small nod, surrendering.
The cloth was cool when it touched your skin, and you hissed softly before the ache eased just enough to make you sag back against the couch. Jake worked carefully, dabbing, not pressing too hard, his movements slow like he was afraid of hurting you. You watched him from above, the way his brows knitted in concentration, the way his thumb hovered before every touch as if silently asking permission.
In that moment, with your legs aching and your heart doing stupid, hopeful things, you felt it clearly—like the universe had finally thrown you a bone. You swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes, and let yourself wish—just a little—that this wasn't the end of it. That maybe, if you were brave enough, it could become something more.
The rain was relentless, hammering down on the campus like it wanted to wash everything away. You weren't supposed to be here—technically, the university might announce a suspension for this one-day anniversary celebration, and yet, here you were, dragged into anywhere by your batchmates. Booths sprawled across the open field, tents flapping violently in the wind, people shouting over the rainfall, trying to make their sales, their events, their little festivals matter despite the downpour. Your mind was flying, your focus already zeroed in on the smell of food wafting through the air.
Your batchmates were bouncing around like hyperactive ping-pong balls, dragging you to every booth, explaining every club, organization, or activity. You smiled, nodded, occasionally talking back, but your attention was already elsewhere. You made a beeline for the food tents, because at least there you could indulge without pretending to care too much about the rest of. You handed over your allowance, little coins and bills disappearing faster than you could count, but it didn't matter. You were eating! You were alive!
"This is Caramelized Banana! It's a banana with melted sugar on top. We also have banana wrapped, no sugar, or with sugar, and you can dip it in our chocolate syrup! It's a recipe popular in the Philippines—" You nodded, intrigued despite yourself, and bought one, your teeth sinking into the warm sweetness. You didn't even mind the vendor's continued spiel, too busy savoring the sticky sugar sliding down your fingers.
"Nachos with a lot of melted cheese! Would you like that? Buy here, come!" Oh, cheese. You couldn't say no. You grabbed it, scarfed down the gooey chips, and licked your fingers. The crowd barely mattered, the wet grass barely mattered—you had your food and that was enough.
"Nasi Goreng, originated from Malaysia, and we also have Murtabak with curry dipping sauce—" One you hadn't tried before, hm, promising. You bought it anyway, letting the unfamiliar spice surprise you.
You wandered, hands overloaded with plates, cups, skewers, dripping food and drink. You smiled at familiar faces, waved at acquaintances, all without really stopping, just enjoying the simple pleasure of eating. But then, of course, you saw Karina, by the Engineering booth. And just like some magnetic pull, she was staring right at you, that big, wide, infuriatingly cheerful grin on her face.
Your first instinct was to turn on your heel and walk fast, hoping she wouldn't catch up. Ha. Of course, she did, slinging an arm around your shoulder and tugging you in the direction she wanted.
"Come on," she sing-songed, leaning heavily into you. "You're really not interested in the Engineering booths? That's wild." She grinned, nuzzling her nose against your cheek in that infuriatingly intimate way she had. "I saw your cute little roommate earlier, you know. Passing papers to the Grade 12 students. He looked all serious and responsible. Wanna say hi? Let's go say hi."
You huffed through the banana cue still in your mouth, your cheeks hollowing as you chewed. Three days had passed since the finals, three days of rest and light training, but your mind was still a battlefield. Thoughts of him kept creeping in, and the more you tried to ignore them, the louder they became. You wanted to avoid him—yes, goddamn yes—but at the same time, every fiber of you ached to see him, to be near him, to steal a moment that wasn't really yours.
Karina jabbed your side playfully again, practically dragging you forward, and you let yourself be led, cheeks flaming hotter with each step. Your stomach was twisting like a knot of nerves and excitement as she maneuvered you through the rain-slicked paths, past other tents, right to the Engineering booth where Jake was standing. Flyers were scattered across the table, little models of buildings precariously balanced on top, and he was carefully carrying one in his hands.
"O-Oh, hi," he stammered when his gaze landed on you. You forced a small, awkward smile and waved, trying to look casual, though your knees threatened to buckle under the intensity of your own heartbeat. His eyes flicked to Karina, who was grinning and waving energetically at him, and you could feel her elbows nudging you forward with impatience.
"Hi! I'm Karina, her friend!" she chirped, pointing at you. She looped her arms around yours in a sort of gesture, pressing her hip gently against yours, signaling you to do something—anything—so you wouldn't freeze completely.
"Hi, I'm Jake..." he said, his words catching slightly as he placed the tiny building models on the table with deliberate care, his gaze snapping back to you immediately. Karina squealed again, poking your side for emphasis, and you could barely focus on anything except the way his eyes met yours.
The past three days, he had been almost invisible in the apartment, buried in whatever work the booth had demanded. You had tried to cook dinner once, thinking maybe it would be a way to reach out, but you burned the rice, cursing yourself under your breath. After that, you'd stuck to ordering takeout, leaving it neatly on the table for him, only to be met with his quiet thanks and a promise to sleep early because of his busy schedule. Talking to him directly had always been this impossible thing, a wall of nerves and hesitation that you could never figure out how to scale.
"Uh..." you said finally. "What's around your booth?" You felt Karina pinch your back sharply, a mischievous jab reminding you to ask more, not less.
"M-Mostly, just models and blueprints of b-buildings. N-nothing special, sorry—our plan was to encourage the Grade 12 students to enroll in our c-courses... that's why..."
You nodded, staring at the mini-building he had just placed down, but your gaze inevitably wandered to his hands. White, slender, pale hands, veiny in the softest, most perfect way. Hands that looked like they could build worlds or crush them, delicate and capable at the same time. You swallowed hard, blinking, your mind wandering to impossible thoughts—holding those hands, wrapping yours around them. It was infuriating how unfairly perfect he was in every little way, how nothing about him seemed flawed, nothing you could grasp onto to stop yourself from melting quietly inside.
"The fuck are you doing? Ask him more!" Karina hissed into your ear, breaking through your daze and making you jump slightly.
"Uh... you want some food?" you blurted, holding up the banana cue you still had, dipping it in chocolate sauce with trembling hands. Your fingers shook as you offered it to him, locking eyes with his as if your courage depended on it. You could see the sudden widening of his eyes behind his glasses, a tiny flare of surprise that made your stomach twist. "It's a banana with sugar... I roamed around the area and ate all of their food. Haha..." You tried to laugh lightly, hoping it sounded casual instead of awkward.
Jake's hands were still slightly dusty from handling the models, and he rubbed them awkwardly on his pants. "Uh... D-Do you have alcohol wipes or—"
"It's okay, just take a bite. I'll hold it for you," you said quickly, forcing your voice calm even though your heart was hammering. Your feet tapped nervously against the ground as you leaned slightly forward, the tiniest tremor of excitement running up your spine.
Then he leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, and took a bite. Your fingers tightened around the stick as you watched him, the small tunnel of the booth around you fading until all you could see was him. Karina's muffled clap from the side snapped you briefly back, and you caught her giving you a sly thumbs-up, eyes closed in encouragement as if saying, Finally, you're doing it.
God, Jake is so handsome it knocks the air clean out of you. Your brain short-circuits in the dumbest way possible, every thought evaporating until there's nothing left but him—standing there, biting into your food. You watch his lips close around the banana, the faint shine of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, the way his jaw moves when he chews. He nods softly, murmuring a quiet thanks, his palm hovering over his mouth as if he's embarrassed to be seen enjoying it too much.
You don't move. You barely breathe. It's humiliating how sensitive you suddenly feel to everything—how close he is, how warm the air feels between you, how one small movement from him makes your stomach flip. Seconds pass, maybe minutes, you're not sure. Then Jake looks up and catches you staring, really staring, and your chest tightens painfully because fuck, you didn't even try to hide it.
Karina, bless her soul, steps in before you can combust on the spot. "Jake? Right?" she says brightly, already reaching out to clap a hand on his shoulder. He jumps a little at the contact, stiff as a board. "Actually, my friend Sangwon—you know Sangwon? Yeah? He's an engineer. He's gonna take over the booth with Leo in a bit." She gestures wildly behind her, where Sangwon and Leo are walking past with drinks in their hands. "What if you two just roam around the area? My friend here is a loner," she adds, squeezing your arm hard, "and it might be nice for you to walk instead of being stuck here all day, hmm?"
Jake freezes completely, eyes darting between Karina and you. Sangwon and Leo stop mid-step, staring at Karina. "Are you fucking with me?" Sangwon mutters, incredulous. Leo just blinks, mouth open.
"Shut up," Karina snaps without looking at them.
"Actually—" you finally manage to speak, like you just woke up from a dream. You clear your throat and glance at Jake, trying not to melt under the way his attention snaps back to you instantly. "I saw at the other booth... the sponsored one... they were selling Hot Wheels."
"Really?!" Jake's eyes widen so much they practically light up behind his glasses. The shift is immediate and endearing as hell, all his stiffness melting into pure, unfiltered excitement. "Like... the die-cast ones? Or the limited edition—" He cuts himself off, realizing he's rambling.
You smile before you can stop yourself. You don't even know what are the die cast or the limited editions but— "I think I saw some limited ones," you say. "Near the food stalls."
Karina grins, "see?" she declares. "Go. Walk. Talk. I'll handle the booth." She physically pushes Jake a step away from the table, then nudges you forward too.
Jake hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides, then looks at you like he's asking permission without saying it. "I-If... if you don't mind," he says quietly.
You shrug, pretending your heart isn't slamming against your ribs. "Yeah. I don't mind."
And just like that, you're walking side by side, away from the booth. Your shoulders almost brush, close enough that you're hyper-aware of it, but neither of you moves away.
"How do you know I like Hot Wheels?" Jake asks after a moment.
You shrug, like it's nothing, like it didn't take weeks of quiet observation to notice. "Dunno," you say casually. "Every time I talk about rent or bills and you open your door, I just... notice the tiny cars." You glance at him, then gesture vaguely behind you. "They're lined up. Organized. Very... you."
He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You continue before you can second-guess yourself. "But you kinda like everything, right? Stars. Oceans. Dinosaurs. All that science stuff." You pause, then add, "There's a lot of booths here that reminded me of you." The moment the words leave your mouth, you bite your lip.
"Really?" he says, stopping for half a second just to look at you properly. Not a quick glance—an actual look. His eyes search your face like he's checking if you're joking, if this is some kind of tease. When he realizes you're not, his ears turn red almost instantly. "Let's take a look then," he adds, a little brighter.
You nod, grateful for the excuse to look away, and guide him toward the booth you spotted earlier. The Hot Wheels stand is crowded with students leaning over glass cases, bright lights reflecting off tiny polished cars. Rows and rows of them—limited editions, old-school designs, racing models, cartoonish ones.
"Oh my God," Jake breathes. The words slip out before he can stop them, and you swear you've never seen him look so openly excited. He leans closer to the glass, hands clasped behind his back like a kid trying not to press his face against a window. "Th-This is— I've never seen this many in one place."
You watch him instead of the cars. The way his eyes light up, the way he rocks slightly on his heels, trying to contain himself. It hits you then—this is what it looks like when someone feels safe enough to be fully themselves.
"These ones are rare," you say, pointing at a row near the back, pretending you know more than you do. "I heard people were lining up early for them."
Jake leans in closer, his arm brushing yours accidentally. "Y-Yeah," he says, "I've only seen pictures of these online."
You're not even really looking at the cars anymore. You're watching him—how his focus sharpens, how his shoulders loosen, how this small joy pulls him out of his shell. Then, without thinking too much about it, he reaches out and lightly wraps his fingers around your forearm. "C-Come here," he murmurs, already tugging you a step to the side. "Take a look at this."
He points at a single car nestled among the others. "That one," he says, "It's a Super Treasure Hunt. See the 'TH' logo?" He leans closer to the glass, his grip on you tightening just a fraction. "They don't make a lot of them. People s-search for years sometimes."
"And... what about it?" you ask, heat creeps up your neck. Your cheeks flush, not just from the closeness, but from the way he's still holding you—thumb resting against your skin. You don't pull away. You don't want to.
Jake finally realizes what he's doing and stiffens slightly, his fingers twitching like he's about to let go. "S-Sorry," he starts, panicking, "I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay," you cut in quickly, turning your arm just enough that his hand stays where it is. You meet his eyes. "You're excited. I get it."
His mouth opens, then closes, then he lets out a small, breathy laugh. "I, uh... I just—" He swallows. "I think it's c-cool. When something small means that much."
You smile without thinking, slow and soft, nodding along. Yeah. Totally relatable. Your life has been built on small things that meant everything.
You and him end up roaming around the booths despite the shit weather, rain misting the air and soaking the edges of banners and tents. For once, you don't care. For once, you're not rushing, not counting time, not worrying about training schedules or what comes next. And really—this is the first time you see him like this. Not just Jake-the-roommate, or Jake-the-awkward-genius, but Jake letting himself exist out loud.
"It's my first time roaming around this much," he says, eyes wide as he takes everything in. His hand is still loosely wrapped around your arm. "Wow... I think there's a lot more compared to last year." His other hand is full of paper bags from the Hot Wheels booth.
You hum, letting him talk, letting him lead, and he really does. He points things out with this quiet excitement that sneaks up on you. The biology booth makes him stop dead in his tracks. "And that one—" he says, tugging you closer, voice lifting despite himself. "They're doing dissections. Look, that's a scorpion—see how detailed it is? And they patched it up themselves. That's so cool." His words tumble over each other, hands moving.
Then he's already dragging you again, apologizing under his breath but smiling all the same, pulling you toward a booth filled with wires, blinking LEDs, half-built machines. You figure it's IT or robotics—something adjacent to his world. His eyes light up immediately, pupils blown wide.
"This one—" he says, pointing at a small rectangular robot with tiny arms and legs. "It's an emo robot. Originally meant to sit on desks." He wiggles his finger in front of it, and the robot mirrors the motion, its digital eyes shifting expressions. Jake laughs under his breath, soft and fond. "I wanted one before, but it was expensive. So maybe Bumble can be an improvisation." He glances at you. "Someday... what do you think?"
You look at the robot, then back at him, then shake your head lightly. "I think I like Bumble more," you say honestly. "She greets me. Judges me silently."
He snorts before he can stop himself, clapping a hand over his mouth. And God—there it is again. That sound. That real laugh. It makes something warm bloom in your chest.
"Y-Yeah," he says, smiling openly now. "She does that."
And somehow, after that, everything loosens. The tension you didn't even realize you were carrying melts into the background as the two of you keep walking, drifting from booth to booth, laughing more than you expect to. It's awkward, yeah—there are pauses, stutters, moments where you both talk at once and then stop—but it's the good kind. He points at everything like a kid seeing the world for the first time, rambling about random facts, half-formed theories, things he read once and never forgot. And you listen. Really listen. Not because you feel like you have to, but because hearing him talk like this feels... comforting.
You catch yourself smiling for no damn reason, nodding along while he explains why certain materials work better in buildings or why he likes models more than finished structures. He talks with his hands, fingers fidgeting when he gets excited, eyes lighting up in a way that makes your chest ache a little.
"They said after this," you say eventually, glancing up at the sky, "judging by the weather, the government might suspend classes." The clouds above are heavy and gray, the wind sharp enough to bite through your clothes.
You're halfway through the walk back when the sky finally gives up pretending. Rain pours down all at once, soaking you in seconds. You both stop, startled, then look at each other like idiots before breaking into a run. Jake hugs the paper bags to his chest, trying—and failing—to shield them with his body.
"Oh no—!" he yelps, slipping slightly, and you grab his arm without thinking, dragging him forward.
You fumble with your keys at the door, hands slick and shaking, rain blurring your vision as you finally get it open. The two of you stumble inside, slamming the door shut behind you, breathing hard. For a second there's just the sound of rain pounding against the walls and your own uneven breaths.
Then you look at each other.
And you both lose it.
Laughter bursts out of you, echoing through the apartment. Water drips from your hair, down your face, soaking your clothes. Jake's curls are plastered to his forehead, his glasses fogged, his braces flashing as he grins and pushes his wet hair back with his palm.
God. He looks ridiculous. And beautiful.
Your chest feels warm, too full, as you watch him walk over and carefully set the bags on the couch like he's still worried about them, even now. He glances back at you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, still smiling like this moment.
"We should immediately shower and change our clothes," he said, voice still a little breathless from laughing.
By the time you wrapped yourself in a towel and crawled into bed, your body finally gave in. The government suspension announcement came not long after. Continuous heavy rainfall. Classes canceled. City on standby. You stared at the window instead, watching water race down the glass in uneven lines, your mind is finally quiet. Just an unfamiliar sense of peace.
You didn't even realize how long you'd been lying there until a soft knock pulled you out of it.
It was too early for you to feel human again, too early to leave the bed—but of course, it was Jake. Standing at your door, holding a bowl with both hands. "Uh... I made b-breakfast," he said. "Porridge. With egg." He hesitated, then added, "If you're hungry."
God. You could live like this forever.
After washing the dishes together—your hands bumping once, both of you apologizing at the same time—you leaned against the counter, watching him wipe the table with careful strokes.
"Do you think it'll take weeks?" you asked, glancing at your phone. "Another typhoon's coming, right? Friday, I think."
He shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Dunno. Our profs already sent some online activities." He paused, then added, almost apologetic, "I still have to study."
"Sucks to be you," you said, grinning. "I just wanna be lazy all day. But also... being lazy gets boring fast."
He lifted his head then, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was a brief pause, like he was debating with himself, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Wanna b-build a Lego with me?"
Oh fuck. Your heart did that stupid thing again—jumping, twisting. You nodded anyway, too fast, too eager. "Yeah," you said. "Sure. Why not."
That was how you ended up on the living room floor, legs folded awkwardly, backs against the couch, Lego pieces scattered everywhere. Jake sat close—but not too close—careful in the way he always was, knees tucked in, sleeves pushed up as his fingers worked with quiet focus. He explained things as he went, apologizing every time he thought he was talking too much, which only made you want to hear more. You kept stealing glances at him, the way his brow furrowed when a piece didn't fit, the little hum he made under his breath when he figured it out.
And it didn't stop there.
The next morning, the rain was still relentless, hammering against the windows with no mercy, wind howling. You were half-awake, wrapped in a blanket, when Jake hovered near the couch, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Uh... do you wanna watch a series?" he asked, holding his tablet. "I—I started it last week. It's... kinda long."
You agreed before your brain could catch up, again.
That's how you ended up watching a chess series together, bodies sunk into the couch, knees occasionally brushing. You didn't understand half of it, but you liked the way he watched—leaning forward, eyes sharp, fully absorbed. You pointed at the screen when the female lead pulled off some insane move, eyebrows raised. "I don't get how it works," you said honestly, "but she's cool as hell."
He smiled at that, a real one, eyes lighting up. "Y-Yeah. She is." He hesitated, then added, softer, "She's really smart."
Hours slipped by without either of you noticing. Episodes blurred together. You asked questions, most of them are dumb ones, sometimes ones that made him pause and think. When the character lost a crucial match, you frowned at the screen. "Why did she lose?"
Jake straightened a bit. "B-Because she got checkmated," he said gently. "There's... rules. A lot of patterns. Math, too." He leaned forward, pointing at the paused screen. "Her queen is trapped here. If she moves it, her king's exposed. No safe squares left."
You nodded slowly, pretending you understood more than you did, eyes flicking between the screen and him. He kept explaining anyway, hands moving as he talked, sketching invisible boards in the air.
Night fell without ceremony. The rain didn't let up. At some point, you realized your head had tipped onto his shoulder, your body was warm and heavy against his side. He stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, breathing evening. Neither of you said anything. The show kept playing. Your eyes drifted shut.
Another morning arrived with rain slamming against the windows like it was angry at the city itself. The wind howled, rattling the glass hard enough that it felt alive. Your phone buzzed with the announcement before you even checked the time: University Suspension — Classes Cancelled Until Further Notice. You stared at the screen for a second, then let yourself fall back against the couch with a breathy laugh. Trapped. Stuck. Whatever word people wanted to use. You didn't mind it. Not when being stuck meant him.
What surprised you most was him. Jake, who used to barely look at you without stuttering himself into knots, was the one filling the space now. He suggested things quietly but confidently—movies, games, stupid little activities that somehow filled the hours without feeling forced. He brought out board games you didn't even know he owned, set up playlists that hummed softly in the background. It was like once the outside world paused, he stepped forward like this was where he belonged.
"Wow," you said, staring down at the chessboard. "I can't believe we were just watching a chess series, and now we're actually playing." You picked up a random piece—no idea what it was—and shoved it forward. "This is unfair. I couldn't even comprehend a single rule."
You glanced up at Jake, expecting a laugh or at least a smug look, but he was focused—elbows on his knees, chin tilted down, eyes fixed on the board and cute as hell.
"You can't place it there," he said calmly, reaching out before you could protest. His fingers brushed yours as he lifted the piece you'd just moved, the contact brief but electric, like your skin had suddenly woken up. He shifted it to another square, "I can eat you."
You froze. He froze too. Then his eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he realized what he'd just said. "Y–Your piece," he corrected quickly, voice dropping, ears turning red. "I mean. The piece. I'll take it."
You stared at him for a second. And then you laughed, leaning back on your hands as the sound spilled out of you. "Holy shit," you said, grinning. "Buy me dinner first, nerd."
He let out a strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand as his shoulders shook. "I—I didn't mean it like that," he muttered, mortified.
"I know," you said, still smiling. You leaned forward again, elbows resting on your knees, eyes dropping to the board like you were suddenly very invested in this stupid little war of wooden pieces. Your fingers traced the edge of a pawn absentmindedly. "But I don't mind..."
"Mind... what?" he asked, tentative, eyes flicking up to you and then away again like he was afraid of what he might see on your face.
You didn't even give yourself time to overthink it, you were just done pretending you didn't feel this pull. "You eating me." —and your mouth moved before your brain could chicken out. Fuck. You were flirting. You were actually, openly flirting.
Jake froze like you'd hit a pause button on him. His hand hovered over one of his pieces, then he snapped back to life and shoved it forward a little too fast, the wood clacking loudly against the board. You leaned forward too, mirroring him, reaching for one of your pieces and sliding it closer to his side of the board, deliberately slow, deliberately close. You lifted your eyes to his face, watching the way his blush deepened, spreading from his ears down his neck.
"My piece," you added quickly, lips twitching. "I mean." You pulled it back with a grin that told him you absolutely did not mean just that.
He swallowed hard as he moved again, taking your piece this time, fingers trembling just slightly. You caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he gulped, the way his jaw tightened like he was trying very hard to keep it together. God, he was cute like this—unraveled but trying, flustered but still playing, still sitting there with you instead of running for his room.
"I—I..." he started, then stopped, exhaling through his nose. "I know," he said finally, like he was bracing himself. "Your turn."
You didn't move right away. You just looked at the board, then at him, heart thudding harder than it had any right to over a chess game and a few words loaded with way too much meaning. Slowly, you picked up a piece and nudged it forward, smiling faintly to yourself as if you were enjoying how this felt far more than you should.
"Okie," you said lightly, then—just to be an asshole—you shoved another random chess piece forward. Jake scratched his head, blinking at the board.
"You can't move it from the back to the front, it's the Queen. You're exposing it," he said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. You almost laughed at how serious he was, brows furrowed, already reaching out to fix your mistake.
The next few hours blurred into him lecturing you about chess pieces, strategies, positioning, endgames, openings—things you half-listened to while watching the way his hands moved.
It didn't shock you at all that most of your pieces were eaten, one by one, until the board looked pitiful on your side. He leaned back slightly, studying it, then glanced up at you. "You're cornered," he said, almost apologetic.
"Sucks," you muttered, staring at your lonely queen. You tilted your head, eyes flicking up to his. "But I'm facing your queen. Is it not a checkmate?"
Jake blinked. Once. Twice. Then he leaned forward again, squinting at the board, lips parted in concentration. You watched him closely, the way his shoulders tensed, the way he bit his lower lip without realizing it. After a long moment, he froze, realization dawning on his face. "...Shit," he breathed.
You grinned, resting your chin on your palm. "Guess I win."
"Y-You didn't even know what you were doing!" he said.
"Nah!" You clapped your hands loudly, then you pointed straight at him like you'd just defeated a final boss. "You lose, loser!" You stuck your tongue out without shame, leaning into the childish victory.
You pushed yourself up from the floor and climbed onto the couch, ignoring the scattered chess pieces. You did a slow spin, arms swaying dramatically, hips moving just enough to be obnoxious. "Bow to your champion!" you declared, laughing at your own stupidity as you were trying to annoy him. But you stopped mid-twirl.
Jake wasn't annoyed, he wasn't scrambling to defend himself. He was just staring at you. A wide smile stretched across his face, braces flashing. His eyes were bright, crinkled at the corners, completely unguarded. He looked at you like you were something entertaining and precious at the same time.
Your stomach flipped. The teasing energy drained out of you in an instant. You stepped down from the couch and sat back on the floor across from him, suddenly more aware of the space between you. The chessboard sat abandoned, pieces knocked over like the game didn't matter anymore.
"So," you said, clearing your throat as you folded your legs under you. You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the playful tone even though your pulse had started racing. "Do winners have a prize?"
Jake's smile softened immediately. He looked down at his hands, then rubbed the back of his ear, and right on cue, the tips turned red. He pressed his lips together, then bit the lower one gently like he was thinking too hard. His feet shuffled against the floor, restless, nervous energy buzzing off him.
At first, you weren't sure what he was thinking. Maybe he thought you meant snacks. Maybe he was calculating some logical reward system in his head. But the longer he stayed quiet, the more your mind spiraled. Is he thinking what you're thinking? Or are you just being delusional? Your heart pounded louder, drowning out the rain for a second. He kept biting his lip, glancing up at you and then away again. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatpants.
"I—" he started, then stopped. He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. "What kind of prize?" he asked.
You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your knees were only inches away from his. "I don't know," you said, watching his face carefully. "You're the one who lost."
His eyes lifted to yours, and this time, he didn't look away. The storm outside continued raging, wind howling, rain pounding relentlessly, but inside, everything was suspended in this quiet, dangerous pause. You could see the conflict in his expression—the nervousness, the want, the restraint. He swallowed again. "I can... cook?" he offered, almost shyly. "Or... d-do the dishes for a week?"
You stared at him for a second. And then you laughed softly, shaking your head. Of course he would offer something practical. Of course he'd default to taking care of you in the safest way possible. "You're such a nerd," you murmured.
He smiled again, uncertain. "Is that... not okay?"
You looked up at the ceiling, pretending to think about it. Your teeth caught your lower lip as your mind spiraled. If you say this, you're crossing the line. If you say this, you're not just flirting anymore—you're stepping over that invisible boundary that kept things safe. If you say this, you might lose the easy mornings, the quiet dinners — But then again... what the hell were you so scared of?
"What about a kiss?" you asked, finally looking back at him, forcing your voice to stay steady. You watched it happen in real time—the shift in his face. His eyes widened just slightly, then softened, then panicked. Color bloomed across his cheeks, spreading down his neck in a slow, undeniable flush. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but no sound came out. For a second, you regretted it.
"Forget it," you said quickly, nerves snapping at you. You moved to stand, heart racing, ready to laugh it off, ready to run before you saw rejection in his eyes. But you didn't get far when a firm hand wrapped around your wrist. It wasn't rough, but it wasn't hesitant either. It caught you mid-motion and pulled you back down with enough strength to surprise you. A small yelp escaped your throat, cut short when you felt his lips against yours.
Your eyes flew open. Jake's were closed, brows slightly furrowed like he was concentrating too hard. His lips were soft—warmer than you expected. He kissed you like he did everything else: carefully at first, uncertain. You could feel the inexperience in the way he tilted his head a little too abruptly, the way his mouth moved like he wasn't sure what rhythm to follow.
Your shock melted fast. You closed your eyes and leaned in properly this time, pushing the chessboard out of the way with a clatter of wooden pieces hitting the floor. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping them, feeling the solid warmth beneath his shirt. He let out the smallest, breathy sound against your mouth, half a whine, half a gasp.
The cold wind outside rattled the windows, but the room felt like it was closing in, warm with the sound of your breathing mixing together. You moved your lips more deliberately, guiding the kiss, pressing closer. When you brushed your tongue lightly against his bottom lip—slow, asking—he froze for a split second before he opened up. A quiet, shaky moan slipped from him as you deepened it, tasting him, feeling the way his hands tightened around your waist. His fingers dug in just enough to make you aware of them.
Still kissing him, you shifted your weight and swung a leg over, settling onto his lap without breaking contact. He inhaled sharply into your mouth at the movement, his grip adjusting to keep you steady. You could feel how tense he was beneath you, how his whole body seemed lit up by every point of contact. Your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair. You pulled him closer, and this time, he responded without pause—kissing you back with more confidence. A sharp gasp escaped you when his grip on your waist tightened suddenly, pulling your body flush against his. The pressure of him beneath the thin fabric of his pajama pants was obvious. Your head spun so fast you didn't even think about pulling away for air. It felt like your bodies had turned into magnets, stuck together with a force neither of you had the will to fight.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
Your hips shifted slowly, a roll meant to test him. You refused to break the kiss, and when the heat between your legs pressed directly against the tense outline beneath you, a quiet moan slipped from your throat before you could stop it. The sound vibrated between your mouths. That was when Jake broke the kiss.
Your lips chased his, catching his bottom lip between your teeth before he could pull too far away. The separation was reluctant, both of you breathing hard like you'd just sprinted a mile. Your chest rose and fell rapidly while you stayed seated on his lap, fingers still tangled in his hair like you might drag him back if he dared move too far.
"What— why?" you asked, your voice still shaky and breathless.
Jake's face was flushed a deep red, spreading from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. His glasses had fogged slightly from the heat between you. For a second he just stared at you, then he shook his head once, almost frustrated, and pulled his glasses off. Without much care he tossed them somewhere toward the floor beside the couch where they landed with a faint clatter. Before you could even react, his hands returned to you and he leaned forward again, capturing your mouth in another kiss.
This one was different. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore. His grip on your waist was firmer, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A small squeal escaped you when he suddenly stood, lifting you effortlessly like you weighed nothing. The sudden movement made your arms tighten around his neck while your legs wrapped around his waist, locking you against him. The new position pressed your bodies together even closer, heat building fast between you as he carried you across the room without breaking the kiss for more than a second.
Your mind tried to catch up, tried to ask what the hell was about to happen next, but the thought dissolved the moment his mouth found yours again. Overthinking felt impossible now. The only thing that mattered was the feeling of his lips, the warmth of his hands, the way your pulse pounded in your ears. You had spent too long ignoring the tension between you, pretending it wasn't there.
Right now you didn't care about tomorrow, or consequences, or whatever awkwardness might follow.
Right now you just wanted him.
Jake's breathing had turned uneven by the time your mouth drifted away from his lips. Your kisses trailed along the corner of his mouth, brushing his cheek before moving down to his jaw. You nipped lightly at the warm skin there, feeling the way his body tensed beneath your hold. One of his hands slid up your back while the other steadied you against him, fingers flexing slightly like he wasn't entirely sure where to touch first. "Where?" he whispered.
The word barely made it out before your teeth grazed his skin again. You could feel his pulse under your lips. You didn't answer, instead, you dragged your mouth slowly along his jaw toward his ear, letting the silence stretch while his grip on you tightened almost unconsciously. Your fingers brushed through the hair at the back of his neck again, tugging making him inhale sharply.
Then you finally murmured your answer against his ear. "Your room"
Your cunt fluttered at the sound of your own words, heat pooling wet as a low, long whine escaped him. You barely had time to register the sensation before you were being carried again, the familiar weightless surge of being lifted making your stomach knot with anticipation and arousal. The world blurred around you, furniture and light flashing past as he moved. You tried to hold onto something, but there was nothing to hold onto except him. Every nerve ending in your body was awake, every touch of his hand, every movement of his body against yours, sending sparks you didn't even know you could feel.
When he finally lowered you onto the bed, it was gentle despite the desperation in his hold. His hands guided you, careful, cradling your head like you were made of something fragile he didn't want to break. The bed beneath you was soft, yielding under your weight, but somehow it didn't lessen the intimacy of the moment—the way he leaned over you, holding you steady, letting you both pause before the next wave hit. You froze for a heartbeat, just staring at him.
Seeing Jake without his glasses was like seeing him stripped bare in a way you hadn't noticed before. His eyes were glossy and brilliant, gleaming with something almost otherworldly. There was a kind of intensity in them, like the stars he loved to watch in those documentaries he'd obsess over, but alive, raw, and focused entirely on you. You could see a storm of desire and confusion, clarity and hesitation all tangled up behind those shining orbs, and even though you didn't understand all of it, it made something coil tight in your chest.
You just leaned in, pressing your lips against him, trailing soft, hungry kisses across his nose, the tip of his chin, the curve of his cheeks, letting your hands wander freely over the hard lines of his triceps, feeling the muscle tense and flex under your touch.
"Still with me?" you whispered, your teeth grazing his jaw as you tugged lightly, testing him, teasing him, feeling the shiver roll down his spine. Your hands drifted to his, guiding them up your body, threading his fingers through the fabric of your shirt, pressing them to your chest. "Is this okay?" you asked, your eyes locked on his, searching, and needing him to answer without words.
Jake gasped sharply, chest rising and falling, his eyes wide, pupils blown, and the flush spreading across his face so deep it looked almost painful. His cock twitched insistently beneath his pajama pants. Every nerve in his body screamed for more, as if your hands on him had awakened something he had been holding back. You moved slowly, coaxing him, rubbing him through the fabric, kneading the hard length of him in small, teasing motions while letting your fingers drift over the edges of his hips and down the side of his thighs. At first, his hands hovered uncertainly, until he finally mirrored you, sliding over your chest, kneading your breasts softly, fingers gentle yet unsteady.
A shared whine broke through your lips almost without thought. You couldn't bear the waiting any longer. Your hands fumbled at your top, ripping it free along with the bra in one shameless movement. The sudden freedom of your bare skin against the cool air made you shiver, and you felt him lean closer immediately, drawing in your scent as if it intoxicated him. He found the confidence to follow your earlier movements, pressing his mouth to your jaw, nibbling in small, sharp bites that made you wince, pulling a low moan from your chest despite the sting.
"Pretty," he whispered in a way that made you question if you'd imagined it. "So... so, pretty." He repeated it, a breathless chant, before diving back into your lips with renewed hunger.
You lost track of time, swallowed whole by the rhythm of his mouth and the press of his body against yours. His arms wrapped tighter around you, fingers pressing against your back and shoulders. Your bare breasts brushed against the fabric of his shirt, and the friction made your stomach coil tight with heat. You wanted more—you wanted all of it—but you were afraid to ask, afraid that if you broke the kiss to say so, he would retreat into awkwardness and the fragile tension you'd built would shatter. So instead, you cut the kiss abruptly, pressing the back of his head against your chest, guiding him where you wanted without speaking.
"Nghh," you moaned, tilting your head back, arching your back, letting him explore freely. His lips closed around your nipple, sucking with the inexperience of someone trying to mimic what they thought they should do. It was awkward but it sent shocks through your body. You felt him adapt, he swirled his tongue over your areola, teasing, learning, feeling. You guided one of his hands into your other breast, holding the back of his palm against your skin as he kneaded gently, and your eyes closed, lost in sensation.
He seemed to catch every nuance in your reactions, every small gasp that slipped out of your mouth, every tremor that ran through your body when he touched the right spot. His tongue flicked slowly between your nipples while his thumbs moved in steady circles around them, rough pads grazing the sensitive skin again and again. The sensation made your breath hitch sharply, another helpless gasp leaving your throat as your fingers curled into his hair. Jake stayed there for a long moment, almost stubborn about it, alternating between sucking, licking, and pressing soft kisses against your chest.
Eventually he pulled away, his lips lingering for a second before he leaned back up to capture your mouth again.
Oh boy, Jake must really love kissing.
You dragged him closer, one hand gripping the back of his neck while your body shifted beneath him. Your hips rolled upward without thinking, pressing into him, searching for friction. The kiss quickly turned messy as both of you started moving at the same time, your bodies grinding together clumsily on the bed. Each time your hips pushed up you felt the hard pressure of him through the fabric between you, and the contact made a low sound rumble from his chest.
"Re... move," you muttered between kisses, the word breaking apart as your lips kept bumping into his. Your fingers tugged impatiently at his shirt, pulling at the fabric.
Jake let out another strained whine before pulling away. He fumbled with his clothes quickly, clearly not thinking about grace or neatness. His shirt disappeared first, tossed somewhere beside the bed, and then his hands went straight for the waistband of his pajama pants. In his rush he dragged them down together with his boxers, pushing the fabric down his hips in one impatient motion.
"Oh..." you whispered before you could stop yourself, your body shifting backward slightly against the mattress.
Jake stood there for a second, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling while he looked at you, trying to read your reaction. But your attention had already dropped lower. Your gaze locked on him, on the obvious heat and color of his cock, the flushed pink that leaned almost red under the soft light in the room. You could see the veins along the base, the damp shine at the tip where precum had already gathered. It looked almost angry, twitching slightly with each breath he took.
How the hell had Jake—your awkward, nerdy, always-overthinking roommate—been hiding something like that?
Jake noticed where you were looking. His shoulders shifted awkwardly and his hand moved as if he wanted to cover himself, the embarrassment creeping back onto his face. But before he could actually hide anything, you moved. You pushed yourself up onto your knees on the mattress and reached forward, catching his wrist and pulling it aside. Your other hand slid forward immediately after, your palm wrapping around his cock.
"No— ahh—" Jake's head tipped back the moment your hand closed around him.
You felt the warmth of it against your palm, and your fingers tightened slightly without thinking. His reaction made you reach up with your free hand, grabbing lightly at the back of his neck and pulling him down toward you again. Your lips crashed back into his before he could say anything else. The angle was awkward now, with him half leaning over you and most of his weight pressing down onto the mattress while your hand stayed wrapped around him. His hips kept shifting forward, brushing against your palm. You deepened the kiss, your mouth moving slowly against his while your hand finally started to move. Your grip circled him carefully at first, sliding upward and then back down in a slow motion as you tested the rhythm.
Jake's moan burst straight into your mouth. His entire body jerked in response, hips twitching sharply against your hand. His legs tensed, muscles tightening as if he'd been hit with a sudden wave of sensation he wasn't prepared for. The sound he made this time was even more desperate, muffled by the kiss.
And then you felt the sudden spurt against your hand, the unmistakable wetness as his body reacted faster than either of you expected. Your movement slowed automatically, your mind catching up with what had just happened.
Oh... Oh.
Jake pulled away from your mouth so suddenly, his breath ragged and uneven as he immediately buried his face into the crook of your neck. The movement was clumsy like he was trying to disappear somewhere inside you. His entire body collapsed forward, and you swore the air left your lungs for a second under the full weight of him. He wasn't holding himself up anymore—he was just draped over you, chest pressed to yours, arms braced awkwardly on either side of your shoulders. You could feel how hot his skin was, how fast his heart was pounding against you. One of his hands quickly grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from him. He didn't say anything. He just breathed hard against your neck, warm bursts of air brushing your skin while his body stayed tense.
A small patch of warmth spreading slowly against your neck. At first you thought it was just his breath, or sweat from how heated everything had gotten but — "Are you..." you paused, confused, one hand coming up to touch his back carefully, fingers brushing along his spine. "Crying?"
"Sorry I cum too fast," he whimpered into your neck, his voice muffled and shaking as he buried his face deeper against your skin. His head shook slightly as he said it, the motion rubbing his cheek against you.
Your eyes widened immediately. "Hey—no, it's okay, shhh, stop—" You started patting his back quickly, almost awkwardly, because the sudden shift in mood caught you completely off guard. His shoulders trembled under your hands as his quiet crying turned louder, broken breaths hitching against your skin. You didn't even understand what exactly had upset him so much — like, he was still hard, twitching against your thigh.
"Shhh, stop crying," you said again, your palm moving slowly up and down his back in an attempt to calm him. Your fingers traced small circles between his shoulder blades, trying to soothe him.
"So—sorry," he hiccupped, the word breaking apart in his throat. His arms slid fully around your back now, hugging you tightly.
"I told you, it's fine," you murmured, your voice gentler now. You kept rubbing his back while staring up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what the hell had just happened in the last few minutes. "It's really fine. You don't have to freak out about it." After a moment you hesitated before asking carefully, "Do you want to stop—"
"No."
The answer came out as a strained whine before you could even finish the question. His voice cracked around the word, his hips shifted again against yours, the movement dragging his still-hard cock against your thigh through the mess he'd already made. The mattress creaked softly beneath both of you as his weight shifted forward, his body clinging to yours. He held onto you tighter, arms wrapped around your back, face still buried deep in your neck like he couldn't bear the embarrassment of looking at you.
You stared at the ceiling for a second, processing the situation, then exhaled sharply and shoved at his shoulders. "Okay— move."
With more strength than he expected, you pushed him back, forcing him to roll off you so you could sit up. The sudden shift made him blink in confusion, his hair messy and his face still flushed as he stared at you. You tossed your hair back over your shoulder, chest rising and falling as you quickly reached down and tugged your bottoms off your hips. The fabric peeled away easily, damp where your arousal had soaked through, and you didn't even bother hiding it. Jake watched the entire thing, his chest still heaving as his eyes dragged over your body.
Swinging your leg over him, you straddled his hips and settled directly over his shaft. The moment your weight pressed down, he sucked in a sharp breath and shut his eyes tight, his head tipping back against the pillow. Your panties were still clinging to you, the wet patch obvious against the thin fabric as you slowly started grinding your hips down against him. The friction made your stomach tighten immediately, your clit dragging over his cock with every slow roll of your hips.
"First time?" you asked, like you weren't currently rubbing your soaked panties all over his cock. Your hands braced on the mattress on either side of his shoulders as you leaned forward slightly, adjusting your rhythm. You rolled your hips in small circles, testing different angles, letting the pressure build while watching his reactions closely.
Jake nodded quickly, eyes still shut. His hands moved to your hips automatically, gripping them tight.
Your movements sped up a little and the change in pace made him whine louder, the sound escaping his throat in a helpless, high note that made your stomach flutter. His fingers dug into your skin, nails pressing hard into the soft flesh of your hips, and you actually winced at the pressure. His entire body tensed beneath you, thighs tightening, his breathing breaking into uneven gasps.
And then it happened again. His hips jerked sharply upward with another loud whine, the movement uncontrolled as he came.
"Ahh— sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Please, please, please—" he panicked immediately, his eyes snapping open wide. Fresh tears were already shining in them again as his body trembled beneath you. His cock twitched visibly between your thighs, another small spurt of cum leaking from the flushed tip as he tried to catch his breath. The poor guy looked like he was having a full crisis.
Meanwhile, you just moaned. The friction hadn't stopped for you. Your hips had kept moving through his entire meltdown, chasing the pressure building between your legs.
Your hands moved to push his hand away from your hips so you could pull back, assuming his frantic "please" meant he was getting overwhelmed.
But his hands didn't let go. Not even a little. Instead, his grip tightened. You blinked in confusion as he actively tried to guide your hips again, pulling you forward so your soaked panties slid against his cock once more. The thing was still hard—still angry and flushed and twitching despite the fact that he had already finished twice in less than a few minutes.
What the hell? How can this man cum so fast yet still not go soft?
"Please, please, please," he whined again, his voice breaking as he suddenly sat up. His arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling your body flush against his chest as he started guiding your hips with both hands. The motion forced your grinding to continue, your soaked panties dragging over the sensitive head of his cock again and again. Each pass made him shudder violently. His breath kept catching in his throat, little helpless sounds escaping him every time your hips rolled forward. The mattress creaked beneath you with every movement, the room filled with the mix of his shaky whining and your heavier breathing.
Still wrapped in his arms, you shifted slightly in his lap. One hand slid down between your bodies and hooked into the side of your panties, dragging the damp fabric aside.
The moment your bare cunt brushed against his cock, Jake's reaction was loud, a broken moan tearing out of him, you leaned forward quickly and kissed him hard to shut him up, swallowing the noise before it could get any louder.
If he kept whining like that—face flushed, voice trembling—you were pretty sure you'd lose control just from hearing him. Fuck. His mouth was warm and messy against yours, his breathing still shaking as your hips kept moving slowly against him.
Your hand slipped down to his cock, fingers wrapping around it again. He wasn't fully soft, not even close, but there was still a slight give to him under your palm. You pulled back from the kiss just enough for both of you to breathe, your foreheads almost touching while your breaths mixed together. Your eyes stayed locked on his as you guided him between your legs.
Slowly, deliberately, you started rubbing the length of him against your cunt, dragging the tip along your slick folds. Your hand moved with controlled rhythm, sliding him up and down, occasionally letting the head bump against your entrance before pulling him away again.
"Lay down for me," you murmured. You guided him backward onto the mattress, one hand pressing lightly against his chest until he sank into the pillows. Your own body hovered above him as you stayed straddled over his hips. You were painfully wet by now, your stomach tight with the need for friction that grinding alone hadn't been able to satisfy. Even so, you stayed patient with him. Your fingers brushed over his face, pushing some messy strands of hair away from his forehead before trailing down his cheek. You kept eye contact the whole time, your hand gliding over his chest.
Slowly, you lowered yourself. The first contact made your mouth fall open slightly. The tip of him pressed against you, and you paused there for a moment just to breathe. Your legs trembled faintly as you started easing yourself down inch by inch. Jake's whining came back louder than before, almost helpless as his hands shot up to grip your hips. His head spun with the sensation, ears ringing as the tight heat of your pussy slowly took him in. Meanwhile your breathing grew heavier the further you sank down, your body adjusting to the stretch.
By the time you were fully seated on him, he was hard again, completely, filling you while your thighs trembled on either side of his hips.
"F–fuck," you muttered under your breath, biting down on your lower lip as you braced your hands against his chest. You lifted your hips slightly, letting a little of him slide out before lowering yourself again in a slow, controlled motion. The stretch made your face tighten, your brows pulling together as you focused more on the building pleasure than the sharp edge of discomfort from his size. "Fuck... fuck, fuck!"
Jake looked like he was barely holding himself together beneath you. A faint vein stood out along his forehead, his teeth pressing into his lip as he tried to keep quiet. He was clearly trying to control himself, trying not to lose it too fast again. But your hips told a different story. The way you moved, the sight of your body rising and lowering on top of him, the expression on your face as you adjusted to the feeling—it all dragged him closer to the edge again.
"Wait— wait... ahh," he groaned suddenly. Your hands slid from his chest down toward his knees as you shifted your weight, adjusting your position slightly. The new angle changed the way he felt inside you, and Jake let out another broken sound the moment you started moving again. You rolled your hips carefully at first, searching for the spot that felt right, letting your body experiment with the motion until the pressure finally lined up the way you needed.
A loud moan tore out of you as your hips sped up without thinking, your body chasing the sensation as you kept hitting the same spot again and again. Jake reacted just as quickly, sitting up to distract himself, his mouth finding your chest as he pressed against you. His arms wrapped around your back while his tongue dragged over your nipples, the contact making your whining grow louder with every movement.
Your vision blurred slightly as the sensation kept building, the pressure inside your body tightening in slow, relentless waves that refused to ease up. It felt like sparks were going off behind your eyes, tiny bursts of light flickering every time your hips dropped back down onto him. You were riding him harder now without even realizing it. The bed creaked beneath both of you with every movement, your thighs burning as they worked to keep you balanced while your body chased the pressure building deep in your stomach. Each roll of your hips dragged another broken breath from your lungs, your fingers tightening against his shoulders as the heat between your legs kept climbing higher.
Jake suddenly bit down on your breast. The sharp sting hit at the same moment his body jerked beneath you. His cock throbbed hard inside you as he came again, another hot pulse spilling deep while his hips twitched helplessly under your weight.
"Shit!" you cried out, the sudden jolt of sensation ripping straight through your body.
Jake only answered with a muffled whine against your chest, his mouth still pressed to your skin, hot bursts of air hitting your breast while his teeth loosened and his lips dragged weakly over the spot he'd bitten. His shoulders trembled under your hands, and you could feel the way his body struggled to handle the sensation as it moved through him.
Your hips didn't stop moving even with his body shaking under you, you kept rocking against him, your body chasing the last stretch of the high that hadn't quite broken yet. The movement forced more small sounds out of him, soft whines and broken breaths that vibrated directly into your chest where his face stayed buried. The heat between you felt overwhelming, your bodies still pressed close together while the tension inside you continued to wind tighter and tighter.
"Little more... little more— please," you breathed out as the pressure finally climbed to the edge.
Your legs trembled where they were wrapped around his hips, muscles tightening as the feeling crested higher. Your arms slid up around his shoulders, pulling him closer into you while your body reacted, tightening around him as the sensation finally tipped over. Your hips stuttered slightly but didn't stop, still rocking against him as the wave rolled through your body.
For a moment everything felt hot and heavy and loud in your head. What almost made you laugh, though, was the fact that Jake still hadn't stopped. His cock was still twitching inside you while your body clenched around him, another weak pulse followed the last. It felt like you were still milking him dry while your body finished riding out the tail end of your own high.
"Hah..." you breathed out shakily, your hips slowed, your body still moving slightly while you tried to steady yourself. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, lungs dragging in deep breaths as the tension slowly drained from your muscles. The moment stretched out quietly around you, the room filled only with the sound of both of you breathing and the faint rustle of sheets under your shifting weight.
Eventually your strength gave out. Your body leaned forward, pressing closer to him as the last of the tension faded from your limbs. You tilted your head down and brushed a soft kiss against his lips. It lingered there for a second, both of you still catching your breath as his mouth responded weakly beneath yours.
As your body finally relaxed, you let yourself slump forward and collapse gently against his shoulder, your cheek resting against his skin while your chest rose and fell heavily. Jake stayed still beneath you, arms loose around your back as you feel the world around you collapsed.
Sometimes, the universe had a sick sense of humor. It let you taste something so perfect just long enough for you to believe in it, only to remind you the next morning that happiness wasn't something you were allowed to hold on to without consequences. Maybe that was the lesson life kept trying to shove down your throat. Not every good moment turns into a good life.
Luck was temporary, a fleeting thing people grabbed with desperate hands. It felt real when it happened—bright and full and intoxicating—but it never stayed long. Because every time the universe handed you something good, there was always that lurking feeling in the back of your head that a disaster was waiting right around the corner, ready to collect the price.
You woke up to the sound of wind slamming violently against the windows. The glass rattled in its frame, branches scraping somewhere outside like fingers clawing at the walls. You groaned under your breath and rolled onto your back, one hand dragging lazily across your face before scratching the back of your head. Your body felt heavy, muscles loose from sleep, your brain foggy as hell. For a moment everything felt blurry—your surroundings, your thoughts, the slow realization creeping in that something wasn't quite right. Then you stretched your arms above your head, arching your back slightly, and your eyes opened fully.
You weren't in your room. The ceiling looked different. Your stomach flipped when the memory from last night flickered somewhere in the back of your mind... And Jake wasn't beside you.
"Huh?" you muttered to yourself, the confusion hitting you all at once. You sat up quickly, the blanket sliding down to your lap as you scanned the room. His desk lamp was off, the room dim except for the gray light leaking through the curtains from the storm outside. That was when you noticed the small pill sitting neatly on the bedside table beside a glass of water.
You reached for it slowly, fingers curling around the foil packet as your eyes squinted to read the label. Plan B. You stared at it for a long moment, turning it between your fingers. You were still dressed in your own clothes—same shirt, same shorts from yesterday. The apartment was quiet except for the storm raging outside, and when you glanced toward the corner of the room, you noticed the power strip lights were dead.
No electricity. Ah...right. The storm. You rubbed your face with one hand and slid out of the bed, walking over to the window to push it shut more firmly. The wind was forcing cold air through the cracks, when you finished, you stepped into the hallway and padded slowly toward the living room.
"Hey," you sighed in relief the moment you saw him.
Jake stood near the kitchen counter, quietly cleaning up the snack wrappers and empty cups left behind from earlier.
Your shoulders relaxed instantly at the sight of him. You walked closer. "Just clean it in the morning. It's really dark in here. You could trip on something." Your hand reached out automatically, fingers brushing his shoulder in a familiar, comfortable gesture. "I mean it's like—what—11:45 PM? Let's just go back to bed—"
"Uh." He cut you off. Your smile faded immediately when he gently removed your hand from his shoulder without even looking at you. He tossed the trash bag into the bin, his back stiff as he turned slightly away. It felt like someone had flipped a switch.
No, worse. It felt like everything had reset back to the beginning.
"Jake?" you said carefully. You stepped toward him, but before you could say anything else, he brushed past you and walked straight down the hallway. The door to his room shut with a quiet click, and you were left standing there in the middle of the living room. Confused. Frozen.
"Jake?" you called again, your voice smaller now as you walked toward his door. Your chest tightened, questions crashing into your head all at once.
What did you do? Everything had felt fine. More than fine. You were laughing, he looked happy. You were happy. So what the hell changed?
Maybe he was just overwhelmed. Maybe this was new to him. Jake wasn't the type of guy who would just shut someone out after something that intimate... right? Right?
You rested your hand lightly against the door, staring at the wood like you could see through it. "I'll give you time," you said quietly through the door. "Just... talk to me, okay?"
But he never did. The next morning came, then the day after that, and then the days kept piling on top of each other. Every time you knocked on his door, there was no answer. Sometimes you tried the doorknob just in case, hoping maybe it had been left unlocked by accident, but it never was. Always locked. Always shut. You would linger in the living room longer than usual, pretending to scroll through your phone or watch something, just waiting for the sound of his door opening. It never happened.
When classes started again, the pattern became obvious. Jake would leave ridiculously early, long before you even woke up. His shoes would be gone from the rack by the door, his bag missing from the chair. Sometimes the only proof he'd even been home was the faint smell of his almond milk lingering in the kitchen or the clean plate drying on the rack. And Sundays—God, Sundays were the worst. That used to be the one day he was always around, fixing something in the apartment, tinkering with his stupid robots or cooking meals. Now you would wake up, step into the living room, and the place would feel hollow.
You never found him there anymore. And every night before eight, the same thing happened. His room stayed dark and empty. Is he avoiding you? Dumbass. Of course he is. How naive could you be to pretend you hadn't noticed already? The signs were right there! He wasn't busy. He wasn't overwhelmed. He was avoiding you.
You didn't fucking understand. That was the worst part. If he had said something—anything—you could've dealt with it. You could've argued with him, yelled at him, laughed it off if it turned out to be something stupid. But this silence? This cowardly disappearing act? It drove you insane.
You wanted to talk to him.
Hell, you wanted to curse him out.
After you had sex, that's it? That's fucking it? What the hell was going on inside his head? You kept replaying that night over and over in your mind, trying to find the moment where everything went wrong. The chess game. The teasing. The kiss. The way he had looked at you like he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.
You're n0t dumb, you refuse to be dumb. You are fucking sure he felt that pull too. You are not delusional, right? You felt it! You fucking felt it in your hands, in your body, in your soul.
"I had sex," you said flatly, staring into nothing.
Ryujin barely reacted at first, just giving you a quick side glance as she continued bouncing the against the wall. It was the start of regional training, but your head was somewhere else entirely. Karina was off in Japan, living her best life, leaving you here dealing with whatever the hell this was. Figures. Of course she'd disappear right when you actually needed someone to scream at.
"Congrats?" Ryujin finally said, catching the ball and tossing it lightly in her hands. "What's with the long face?"
You watched the ball leave her hand again, hit the wall, bounce back in the same rhythm. You shrugged, forcing your shoulders to move like it didn't matter. "I don't know. He's not talking to me."
Ryujin's lips pressed into a thin line as she caught the ball again, this time pausing for a second before throwing it harder. "He?" she repeated, tone already shifting into something judgmental. "As usual. Men are usually like that. Don't expect anything from them, really—"
"He—" you cut her off. You exhaled hard, running your hand through your hair as your irritation flared up. "He is not like those other men." And the way you said it was defensive. You weren't letting her lump him into that category. Not him.
"I'm his first," you added, like you were trying to convince both her and yourself at the same time. "It must've been... awkward for him. I don't know. Maybe he didn't like it, maybe that's why he's avoiding me. I'm sure—"
Your hand pressed against your chest, fingers gripping your shirt like you could physically hold onto the feeling buried there. You turned to look at her fully now, your expression tighter, more serious than before.
"I'm sure he likes me," you said, voice lower, more vulnerable than you wanted it to be. "But... why won't he talk to me?"
Ryujin stared at you for a long second, like she was trying to figure out how deep you were already in before deciding how hard she needed to hit you with reality. Then she let out a sharp sigh. She crouched down in front of you, dropping the ball to the floor where it rolled a little before settling between her feet, forgotten.
"Look," she started, hands lifting and gesturing in the air like she was trying to physically piece her thoughts together. "I—I'm not good at this shit, okay? I don't do... whatever the hell this is." She paused, sucking in a breath before pointing straight at you. "I like girls. I don't deal with men and their bullshit. But you—" her finger jabbed lightly toward your chest again. "Did you seriously just let your guard down with a man because you think he's not like the rest of those fuckers?"
"You don't get it—" you tried to cut in, frustration rising immediately, your brows pulling together as your hands clenched at your sides, you had to defend Jake.
"I do not," she shot back just as fast, her voice is sharp as her words, it was cutting right through you. She straightened slightly but stayed crouched in front of you, her eyes locked onto yours. "I'm not the one who got fucked and then ghosted. That's you."
For a second you couldn't even respond. Your jaw tightened, your throat going dry, but she didn't stop.
"You're the one who knows him," she continued. "You're the one who keeps telling me all this shit about how he's different, how he's nice or whag." She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. "So yeah, I'm gonna say whatever the hell I want because you're the one feeding me all of that, and now you're sitting here confused like this came out of nowhere."
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as her words started sinking in deeper than you wanted them to. Because she wasn't entirely wrong. Even Karina would say that to your face even though she started this all. Because,look at you. What the hell happen to you?
"But he's not like that," you insisted again, though your voice wasn't as strong this time. "He wouldn't just... use me and leave. That's not him."
Ryujin tilted her head slightly, studying your face like she was trying to decide if you actually believed that or if you were just desperately clinging to it.
"Then what is it?" she asked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like that."
You opened your mouth, ready to argue, ready to defend him again—but nothing came out. Because you didn't know.
Your mind scrambled for an explanation, something that made sense, something that fit the version of Jake you had built in your head. The quiet guy who cooked for you, who stayed up to watch your games, who held you gently like you mattered.
That Jake wouldn't just disappear. Right?
"He's not... confident," you said finally, grasping at something, anything. "He overthinks. He gets overwhelmed. Maybe he just doesn't know what to do after... after everything."
Ryujin didn't immediately respond. She just watched you. "Okay," she said after a moment, nodding slowly. "Let's say you're right. Let's say he's just overwhelmed or confused or whatever the hell excuse you want to give him." She leaned forward a little, her gaze narrowing. "Then why isn't he talking to you?"
Right...
"Because if he actually liked you the way you think he does," she continued, "he wouldn't just leave you hanging like this. He'd at least try. Even if he's awkward. Even if he's bad at it. He'd try."
Your chest tightened again, your fingers curling into your shirt as you looked away from her, your thoughts spiraling.
You hated how that made sense.
"I'm not saying he doesn't like you," Ryujin added, exhaling as she picked the ball back up and held it loosely in her hands. "But liking someone and actually doing something about it? Two very different things."
Then she tossed the ball lightly toward you, snapping you out of your thoughts.
"Talk to him," she said simply.
You blinked, catching it automatically.
"He's avoiding me," you muttered, the frustration creeping back in.
"Then corner him," she shot back without hesitation. "You're telling me you can chase down a ball flying out of bounds but you can't corner that one?"
Ryujin stood up fully now, rolling her shoulders before glancing down at you one last time.
"Stop overthinking what he feels," she added,"You're already doing enough of that for the both of you. Just get your answer straight from him."
She paused, then added— "And if he still runs? Then you'll know exactly what kind of guy he is."
Your steps were sharp and fast as you made your way back to the apartment. The towel hung loosely over your shoulder, damp from training, your hair still slightly wet from sweat, as your mind was too busy running in circles, replaying his silence, replaying that night over and over until it made your chest feel tight.
You weren't going to let this drag on anymore.
Your grip tightened around the plastic bag in your hand, the thin material crinkling loudly as your fingers dug into it. You inhaled deeply like you were preparing yourself for something bigger than just a conversation. Maybe this was it—the point where everything either made sense or completely fell apart.
You weren't even sure which one you were more afraid of.
You exhaled sharply and stopped in front of your door, staring at it for a second longer. You didn't believe in fate. But right now, you found yourself hoping—just a little—that whatever the hell this was would finally lead somewhere. That all this confusion, all this frustration, wouldn't just end in nothing.
You pushed the door open with another exhale and there he was.
Jake stood in the living room, slightly hunched over as he turned on the robots one by one. Whitey buzzed to life first, then Pinky, while Bumble sat near the TV, its faint light flickering on. The scene looked so normal, so painfully familiar, like nothing had changed.
Except everything had.
He froze the second he saw you. His eyes widened behind his glasses, his whole body going stiff. Your jaw tightened. Of course he looked shocked. You weren't supposed to be here this early. You were supposed to be at training, sweating it out, you had just ran away from your training when it was supposed to be a short fucking break.
Your gaze didn't leave him, watching every small movement as he scrambled slightly. His hand hovered awkwardly near the table, his body already shifting like he was about to move—probably toward his room, probably to shut the door again, probably to run.
Not this time. Before he could even take a full step, you moved.
Your feet carried you across the room in seconds, your hand shooting out to grab his shoulder and shove him back before he could react. His back hit the wall, the impact making him wince, a strained sound slipping past his lips as his body tensed. "H-Hurts..." he muttered, teeth clenching as his eyes squeezed shut for a second.
And yeah, for a split second, you felt it—that flicker of guilt in your chest. But it didn't last. Your hands pressed harder against his shoulders, keeping him there, pinning him in place before he could even think about slipping away again. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he stiffened under your touch, but he didn't push you off. He didn't try to fight back.
"Let's talk, Jake." Your voice came out firm, leaving no room for excuses this time.
His eyes opened slowly, meeting yours, and you saw it again. That same look. Conflicted. Overwhelmed.
"I—" he started, his voice catching immediately, like the words got stuck somewhere in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure, restless, like he didn't know where to put them or what to do with them.
You leaned in just slightly. "No," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You don't get to 'I—' your way out of this again."Your grip on his shoulders tightened just a bit. "You've been avoiding me for days," you continued. "Locked doors, leaving early, disappearing on weekends—what the hell is that, Jake?"
He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering away from yours for a second before snapping back, like he couldn't decide where to look. "I wasn't—" he tried again, weaker this time.
"You were," you cut in immediately, your expression is pained. "Don't lie to me. Not now."
Silence fell between you for a moment, filled only by the faint whirring of the robots moving around the floor like nothing was happening.
Your chest rose and fell with a deep breath before you forced the words out. "Was it a mistake?" you asked, eyes locked on him, searching for anything—any reaction, any sign that this wasn't all in your head.
The silence stretched for a second too long, and you pushed again, your voice tightening despite yourself. "Because if it was," you continued, "then just say it. Don't do this shit where you pretend I don't exist."
Jake didn't answer. He didn't even look at you.
His head stayed slightly turned away, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder like you weren't even there. You watched his lips press together, then part slightly as he bit down on the inside of it, nervous and restless. His fingers twitched at his sides, fidgeting in that familiar way you used to find endearing—tapping against his thigh, curling and uncurling like he didn't know what to do with them.
Now it just pissed you off.
"Jake," you whispered, your voice dropping. Your hand moved without thinking, fingers brushing against his cheek, turning his face toward you despite the resistance. His skin was warm under your touch, his jaw tense, and when his eyes finally met yours, it only made your chest ache more. "Those things we did... was it just a mistake?" you asked again. "Talk to me. I— I thought we... we were going somewhere." Your voice faltered, breaking in the middle of your sentence. "Is it... just me?"
You hated how the quetion made you sound so small.
You didn't even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin.
"I like you too much," you admitted, your voice trembling now, barely holding together. "Is that wrong?" You sniffed, your lips shaking as you tried to keep yourself from completely falling apart in front of him. But Jake—he still wasn't saying anything. He wasn't moving. He wasn't even looking at you properly anymore, his gaze dropping again like he couldn't handle it.
Like he couldn't handle you.
"Talk to me, please," you said again, more desperate this time. Your fingers tapped lightly against his cheek, not harsh, just enough to get his attention, to pull him back to you. You leaned forward until your forehead pressed against his, your eyes closing as your tears kept falling, your grip on his face tightening just a little like you were afraid he'd slip away if you let go. "Just... say something," you whispered, your breath uneven, your whole body tense with the wait.
Maybe he just needed time.
Maybe he wasn't good with words.
Maybe he just needed a push.
But how long were you supposed to wait?
"Talk to me, fuck it!" you suddenly snapped, your voice breaking as it rose, the frustration and hurt finally spilling over. Your hands dropped from his face back to his shoulders, gripping him again, harder this time. You felt him flinch under your touch, his body trembling slightly as he shook his head.
"Sorry... Jake... please," you muttered again, your voice dropping back down, almost pleading now. Your grip loosened without you realizing it, your fingers slipping from his shoulders as something cold settled in your chest. The moment his hands gently moved yours away—careful, hesitant, but firm enough to create distance—it felt like everything just... stopped.
Like the world paused right there.
"I like you too much, is that wrong?" you repeated, but this time it came out emptier. Your arms fell to your sides, your gaze dropping to the floor because you couldn't keep looking at him anymore. "It's pathetic," you let out a weak, humorless breath. "And I'm still here, choosing to be open about it, getting fucking desperate over you." Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you forced yourself to look up again, your eyes glassy but steady. "Tell me... do I really not mean anything to you?"
You lifted your hand slightly, pointing at his chest, right over his heart.Your throat felt tight, dry, like every word you were about to say had to claw its way out, and still, you forced it. You needed to hear it. Needed him to say it straight instead of hiding behind silence. Needed something solid, even if it fucking hurt.
"S-sorry." He shook his head, not even meeting your eyes, and that alone felt worse than anything he could've said. "I—I... I don't think I feel the same way, that's why I-I feel guilty... on what happen... Sorry." The words stumbled out of him, broken and unsure, but they landed heavy, each one hitting you like a punch you didn't even try to dodge.
You were the one who dropped your head this time, your gaze falling to the floor as your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to say something—but nothing came out. Your ears started ringing loud, drowning out everything else. Everything blurred into this distant, muted noise while your mind tried to catch up, tried to process what the fuck he just said. It didn't make sense. It didn't line up with anything you felt, anything you thought you saw in him. Your chest tightened, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls like your body forgot how to do something as basic as breathing.
"Sorry..." he said again, softer this time, like repeating it would somehow make it better, like it would fix anything. It didn't. It just made your vision blur more, tears spilling out faster than you could stop them, your face heating up with it as you stood there, stuck, unable to move forward or back.
"T-The things you d-did? T-The things w-we did?" Your voice cracked, stuttering over itself as you tried to piece together something that would make this make sense. But it didn't. None of it fucking did. Bullshit. This was bullshit. You were still denying it even as it was being shoved right in your face, because accepting it felt worse than anything else. What was he even saying? That it meant nothing? That you meant nothing? That all of that—every look, every touch—was just... what? A mistake?
"I-I just want to be a g-good roommate b-because I-I can't b-be vocal like a normal person... Uh... I'm sorry—" He kept going, stumbling through his explanation, but it only made your head spin more, your frustration bubbling up underneath the hurt. His words felt disconnected, like excuses that didn't match what actually happened between you.
"We had sex." You cut through it, your voice barely above a whisper, but it hit harder than anything else you said. Your eyes darted anywhere but at him—walls, floor, the stupid edge of the table—like maybe one of them would give you an answer, something to hold onto. But there was nothing. Just that same suffocating silence pressing in around you.
"I-I'm s-sorry, really. P-Please." His foot tapped nervously against the floor, the sound sharp and repetitive, grating against your already fraying nerves.
You shook your head slowly, the motion weak, almost disbelieving, as the plastic bag slipped from your hand without you even noticing. It hit the floor with a soft crumple before spilling open, the Hot Wheels cars tumbling out and scattering across the tiles.
Jake's eyes dropped immediately, widening as he stared at the mess, his chest tightening visibly. But you didn't follow his gaze. You couldn't. Your focus stayed unfixed, your steps already moving backward as your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides, your body didn't know what to do with all the shit building up inside you.
"Sorry." The word left your mouth, not even sounding like it belonged to you. It wasn't clear what you were apologizing for anymore—your feelings, your assumptions, yourself—but it was the only thing you could manage before turning away.
You walked out, leaving everything behind. The hallway felt narrow, too suffocating, like the walls were closing in the longer you stayed there, so you kept moving, one step after another, not even caring where the hell you were going as long as it was away. Your breathing was uneven, chest rising too fast, like you couldn't get enough air no matter how hard you tried.
You sniffled harshly, dragging the back of your hand across your face, smearing tears you couldn't seem to fucking stop. It was frustrating—annoying as hell—because you hated crying like this.
"Stop," you muttered under your breath. "Just fucking stop." But it didn't listen. The tears kept coming, blurring your vision until everything in front of you looked warped and unstable.
By the time you reached the stairwell, your steps had already turned sloppy, careless. You barely held onto the railing, your grip loose, your focus shot. Your eyes stung, your nose clogged, your head pounding with everything you were trying—and failing—to process. You took a step down, then another, too fast, too unsteady—
—and your foot slipped.
"Shit!" The curse tore out of you as your body lurched forward, your balance completely gone. You didn't even have time to catch yourself before you went down hard, your back hitting first, then your shoulder, then your face grazing against the edge of a step. The impact knocked the air out of you, an ugly sound leaving your throat as pain shot through your body.
For a moment, you just stayed there, sprawled awkwardly on the cold concrete, your body stunned. The pain registered slowly—your back aching, your limbs sore, your face throbbing—but none of it hit as hard as what was already twisting inside your chest. It was dull compared to that. Almost nothing.
You pushed yourself up slowly, wincing as your body protested, your hand pressing against the floor for support. Warm liquid dripped down over your lips, and when you touched your nose, your fingers came away stained red. Blood. Of course. You let out a weak, humorless breath, almost a laugh but not quite, your shoulders shaking for all the wrong reasons.
You just... gave up.
You dragged yourself to the side, leaning heavily against the wall, your body curling in on itself like you were trying to make yourself smaller, less visible, less there. Your palm covered your face, but it didn't do shit to muffle the sound that came out of you—a broken, shaky whine that turned into full-on crying before you could stop it. Your chest hurt, your throat burned, your head spun, and everything—everything—felt like too much.
It fucking hurt.
Not just your body, not just the sting on your face or the soreness creeping into your muscles.
You were that lonely, weren't you? A pathetic loser crying in a stairwell because she got rejected. Because she let herself believe something that wasn't even real to begin with.
You let out a shaky breath, your hand tightening against your face as if you could press the thought away. "I told you so," you muttered to yourself. You sounded fucking ridiculous. Delusional, even. Thinking it meant something. Thinking he meant something.
Of course you were the one who initiated it. Of course you were the one who crossed the line first. Sex in college was normal—casual, meaningless, easy to walk away from. People did it all the time!
You fucking hated it. Because you weren't built for that.
In the end, it all lined up, didn't it?
Unlucky with money. Unlucky with sex. Unlucky with love.
You let out a weak, broken laugh that dissolved immediately into another sob, your body curling tighter against the wall as if that would hold you together.
.✦ ex-husband!wooyo x ex-wife!reader
݁.✦ porn w a little plot, they have a kid together and it's kyungmin lol, smut minors dni 18+, p in v unprotected, hella dirty talk, wooyo is dominant but kinda just a little shit, oral f!receiving, degradation, hella teasing, big ole breeding kink, n creampie, they call each other daddy/mommy, omfg i used the word jagi pls lmk if u fw jagi im nervous, they argue a little, they're deffo still in love lowk i could have made this a story but i had brainworms. uhhh lmk if i missed anything i don't feel like rereading it
.✦ wc ~9k | straight up copying @chimivx's layouts lately shoutout plum
.✦ wooyoung brainworms 🧘♀️ | part two here!
“When will Daddy be here?”
Suitcase packed, carry-on zipped, as soon as the words left your eight year old son’s mouth, the doorbell rang. A grin breaking out across his face, he cheered, jumping up from his spot on your bed to race down the steps.
“I’m coming– I’m coming– Daddy!”
You hear the front door rip open and the laugh rolling off your ex-husband’s lips, you could bet money on the fact that he just picked Kyungmin up in his arms and spun him around. Throwing your carry-on over your shoulder, your purse on the other, you rolled your suitcase out of your bedroom and into the hallway, stopping at the platform at the top of your stairs.
You should have bet the money. Hoodie on his upper half, baggy jeans on his lower and tucked into the boots on his feet, Wooyoung has Kyungmin tucked into his chest, one arm around his back, the other cradling the back of his head. He stops twirling, smile staying as he catches your eye at the top of the steps, taking a second before softly placing Kyungmin back on the floor.
“You’re late,” your voice comes out clipped, one hand still wrapped around the handle of your suitcase.
He runs a hand through his long, black hair, “There was traffic.”
“I have a flight to catch,” you bite back.
His head tilts, smile deepening to a smirk, “And who’s driving you to the airport?”
“An asshole,” you mumble under your breath, hiking your bags higher over your shoulders, free hand reaching for the railing to keep you balanced before you start for the stairs.
“Here,” he springs into action, taking it two stairs at a time, taking your luggage from your hand before you can get a word out. “I got it.”
“I had it,” you argue, looking down at him, he just smiles.
“I know very well how capable you are, wifey.”
You smack your teeth, huffing down the rest of the stairs, “How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?”
“Come on,” he sings, “it’s funny. Wanna open the trunk for me, Kyungminnie?”
“Yes!” Your eight year old shouts, hauling ass out of your front door and sprinting down the lawn to your driveway. Looking at Wooyoung again, it dawns on you like it always does how much the two look alike, especially as your son gets older.
“You’re seriously not going?” You ask Wooyoung as you close your front door behind you, locking it with the silver key on your split ring.
He calls over his shoulder as he rolls your suitcase down your driveway, “Unless they call me in, no.”
A conference for your job, two states over. You and Wooyoung have always been employed in the same line of work, opposing companies, but essentially the same job. It’s how you met in the first place, fifteen years ago, when you were both fresh out of college and ready to enter the workforce. The conference was held annually, usually you and Wooyoung would travel together, before you divorced him.
You hum, storing the information. You whole-heartedly think he was asked to go already, especially since all of your coworkers have already told you the higher-ups in his company were attending, the higher-ups included his name on the list. He must not be going to spare you, and in a way, you’re grateful for it.
Opening the backseat of his SUV, you throw your carry-on inside, brow quirking at the sight of his bare backseat. “Where’s Kyungie’s booster seat?” You ask over the seats to Wooyoung who’s throwing your suitcase in the trunk.
“Let me press the button!” Kyungmin shouts, and Wooyoung gruffs a strangled noise as he picks your son up by his waist, lifting him high enough so he can press the button to close the trunk.
“He’s big as shit, he doesn’t need one anymore,” Wooyoung says casually after putting him back on the ground.
“Bullshit.” Kyungmin is tall as shit for his age. “He’s only eight!”
Wooyoung opens the door on the other side of the backseat, leaning over Kyungmin after he crawls inside to click his seatbelt into place. “Have you read up on it?”
Not recently.
“He can sit all the way back, bend his knees over the edge, the lap belt is across his hips, the shoulder belt is on his shoulder,” he eyes you from the other side of the car, hand on the car door. “He’s fine.”
“Why didn’t you tell me daddy lets you ride without a booster seat?” You ask Kyungmin, ignoring how Wooyoung clearly did his research.
Kyungmin smiles and it’s the exact fucking replica of Wooyoung’s sly grin, “You would be mad and then I can’t be big anymore.”
You sigh, tucking your carry-on in once more before closing the car door. Climbing into the passenger seat, your voice is laced with irritation, “There are some things you should discuss with me, y’know.”
“You research everything,” Wooyoung pushes the button beside the steering wheel and the engine roars to life, “my bad for assuming you’d research car safety, too.”
Cheeks hot, you cross your arms, settling into the comfortable seat of his SUV. He had you there.
It’s a thirty minute drive to the airport, spent listening to soft rock through the speakers, Kyungmin humming along in the backseat to songs you had no idea he knew. So much changes in a year, your son growing like a weed, building a different relationship with his father you weren’t there to supervise. You didn’t need to, you knew that, their time together was theirs, but it’s been a minute since the three of you were together for an extended period of time, outside of pick-ups and drop-offs.
Pulling up outside the airport, while Wooyoung unpacks your luggage and your carry-on, you’re halfway into the backseat saying your goodbyes to your son. Tears prickling your lashes, it’s always hard to leave him, even if the conference was only for the weekend.
You close the door and meet Wooyoung on the other side of the SUV, wiping the tears from your eyes, “Call me if anything happens.”
“Nothing’s gonna happen,” he takes the carry-on from his own shoulder and slips it onto yours with care. “Text me when you land, I’ll call you after he showers so you can say goodnight.”
“Thanks again for driving me,” you give him a tight-lipped smile, “I’m sorry, my dad was busy–”
Wooyoung cuts you off by shaking his head, his smile warm, “Go have a drink before your flight, sleep on the plane. Don’t apologize for something I was happy to do.”
“Okay,” you whisper, meeting his eye, “Thanks, Woo.”
“Have fun for me, wifey. Tell Mingi and Seonghwa I say hello.”
Rolling your eyes, you snort as you turn on your heel, “Tell them yourself!”
You always forget how big this conference is until you’re here again.
Mingi and Seonghwa on either side of you like pillars, you enter the foyer space, the hotel decked out in red and gold detailing, fancy. Men in suits, women in pantsuits, everyone looked about the same, in different fonts. All here for networking until the schedule begins, splitting off into the theater rooms for speakers, boardrooms for workshops, or sneaking off to the hotel bar to ease the chip of performance off their shoulders.
“Wooyoung’s really not coming?” Mingi asks, gray two-piece suit clinging to his body, buff and broad but slim.
Seonghwa, Mingi’s smaller, shorter half, adds, “I thought he was guest speaking this year.”
Your brows raise, news to you. Mingi shakes his head, blonde hair gelled back not moving an inch, “I heard he gave it to Choi San.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” you argue, approaching closer to the check-in table. “That would give San the upper hand, he wouldn’t let him have it even if it killed him.”
Greeting the red-haired woman at the table, you tell her the three of your names, and she hands you all lanyards with a tri-fold paper schedule. You thank her, and as you split off towards the theater room, Seonghwa continues, “What if he gave it to San because you’re here? Maybe he just wanted to have Kyungmin for the weekend.”
Black hair, short and cropped, faded along his temples, his deep onyx suit makes his skin appear even more golden than usual. He stands out, beautiful and chiseled, like he should be on a runway instead of in an office. You scoff, “He has Kyungie every other weekend, Hwa. This job is like his second baby, his first baby, he wouldn’t just let San have what’s rightfully his.”
Mingi chuckles, stealing your attention, shoulders shaking with each laugh. Rings on his fingers, tie dark and patterned with streaks of silver, Mingi adds his own style into strict, corporate fashion, you have to respect him for it. You can’t be bothered, half of your closet is from a department store.
“I seriously think he’s not here because you’re here,” Mingi shrugs, “just my opinion, though.”
“I’m here every year!” You argue, “We’re divorced, not archnemeses.”
Seonghwa shrugs, “I agree with Mingi.”
“He said hi to you guys, by the way,” you look between the two, taking three open seats at the edge of a row in the middle of the audience, “when he dropped me off at the airport.”
“Wow, he dropped you off,” Mingi feigns surprise, brows pushed up, “intimate.”
You smack your teeth, “Don’t be stupid.”
The crowd gets quiet, the projected screens on either side of the stage lighting up, you cross a leg over your knee and settle into your seat, waiting for the speaker to walk onstage. You should have called Wooyoung this morning, you think, you wonder what Kyungmin’s doing today, if he misses you.
Reaching into your purse with the intention of texting him, checking the pocket you always keep your phone in, you realize it isn't there. Furrowing your brows, panic in your blood, you pull your purse onto your lap, sorting through it, pushing past the old ziploc bags of snacks, lip balm, hand sanitizer, wipes, tissues, a small bottle of sunscreen. No phone. Eyes blowing wide, you whisper to Mingi, “I don’t have my phone. What if Wooyoung calls me?”
Seonghwa nudges your side, eyes on the stage, “I don’t think he’ll call.”
Looking at Seonghwa confused, you hear his voice blow through the room. Speaking into the mic, voice smooth and velvety yet strict and powerful, your jaw drops to the fucking floor. Wooyoung is onstage, long hair pinned back, in the dark gray business-casual outfit he used to keep in the back of your closet instead of a suit.
“Where the fuck is my kid if he’s here?” You’re rigid with terror, ass at the edge of your seat like you were ready to get up and walk onstage, fists squeezing the absolute shit out of the straps of your purse. “He’s supposed to be at home, with my kid.”
Mingi’s hand lands on your flexed bicep, “Kyung’s probably with Woo’s parents, right? He probably got called here last minute, breathe. He wouldn’t leave him stranded or home alone.”
The reminder etches a semblance of relief in your stone bones, but you don’t let yourself feel it. Why didn’t he tell you? You talked to him just last night before he put Kyungmin to bed, he spoke nothing of hopping on a flight and overnighting himself here.
You could kill him. You hear nothing of his speech, not a single word, too consumed by rage and confusion to even hear the topic. You sat with a rigid spine and bouncing knees for the entire hour, jaw clenched, fists tucked into your purse to hide how they didn’t uncurl once. The moment it was over you were up on your feet, barreling through the side of the theater room up to the side of the stage, face bent down in anger.
He sees you before you see him.
“Where the fuck is your phone?” He asks, pulling you by your arm behind one of the screens, standing facing one another, parallel to the back wall of the room.
“Why the fuck are you here?” You whisper-yell, “Where is my son?”
“Our son is with my parents,” he whisper-yells back, “which you would know if you picked up your goddamn phone, I’ve been calling you since last night.”
Your brows furrow, head shaking in utter confusion, “I-I I left it in the room, maybe it’s dead? I–”
“What, did you get laid as soon as I got off the phone last night?” He looks dead serious, “Too important to answer my call about getting put on a red-eye here in the middle of the night?”
You’re replaying the events of last night in your head, did you not plug in your phone after you ended the call? You ate your room service, watched a movie, you wish you would have gotten laid, but a hotel room means you’re free to be alone with your right hand, watching– Oh.
Your cheeks flush, “No, Wooyoung, it must have died, I didn’t even think this morning, I was rushing here after the alarm clock went off.”
“You didn’t think to call me?”
“No!” You shake your head, voice a little louder now, “I didn’t. I think you’re more than capable of taking care of our son without me breathing down your fucking neck, Wooyoung.”
He straightens, face calming, a brow popping in question. “Really?”
“Yes,” you heave a breath, running a hand through your hair, “Jesus Christ. Kyungie’s with your mom?”
Wooyoung nods, “I dropped him off around midnight, I told her we’ll pick him up when we get back, she wants us to stay for dinner. Parked my car at the airport, I got a seat on your flight back.”
Your top lip lifts, “She wants us to stay for dinner?”
“Definitely gonna convince you to take me back,” Wooyoung’s lips flatten in a line.
You fake a cough into your first, “I think I’m coming down with something.”
He rolls his eyes, “I already told her no, don’t worry. Do you want to call her from my phone?”
“No,” you shake your head, “he’s probably having the time of his life. I’ll leave them alone.”
“Are we all free from the shackles of your velcro- parenting?” He grins, eyebrows wiggling.
“Fuck off,” you grumble, “I’m going back to my seat. Nice presentation, by the way.”
“Thanks, wifey,” you can hear humor in his voice, the sly grin on his lips. You shoot him the middle finger behind your back before you’re in front of any eyes.
The rest of the conference is boring. Networking is the only fun part of it, but only when the person you’re talking to hates their job as much as you do. Other than that, it’s small talk of shareholding and statistics, each word off your lips makes you thirsty for liquor.
“Ah, Wooyoungie’s wifey.”
Eyes pointed, you turn your head to find the perpetrator who approaches your back, you were now seated at the bar to avoid this exact thing happening. Choi San, senior executive of his company, a ray of fucking sunshine if he isn’t talking about the direction of your company or trying to fully recruit you for your skills.
You force a smile on your cheeks, “Not Wooyoung’s wife anymore, you know this.”
“Is that why you’re drinking alone at the bar?” He raises his brows, coming up beside you, forgoing the bar stool to stand with his elbows planted on marble.
Your brows slant inward, more annoyed than anything, “Come on, San.”
He chuckles, head dipping low between his shoulders, his dimples visible even engulfed in shadow. He picks his head up, voice teasing, “Are we on a first-name basis now?”
“Mr. Choi,” you correct yourself, voice playful, a grin clawing onto your own cheeks. “Apologies, sir.”
“I like that better,” he eyes your drink, a margarita half watered-down, “now can I ask why you’re drinking alone at the bar?”
“Boredom,” you say through a breath, “nothing better to do than drink tequila. Maybe then I can convince myself I enjoy talking numbers when I’m not being paid to do it.”
His lips purse, smile evident even with the scrunch, “Usually you’re on top of this event.” Humming, he pulls the barstool under him, sitting facing you with his knees spread. “Not interested this year?”
“I miss my kid,” you sigh, cheek landing in your closed fist.
He frowns, “Most single mothers would be enjoying a weekend of freedom.”
“Then I guess I’m not most mothers,” you bring your drink to your lips, eyeing him with low lids over the rim. You can feel it radiating off him, the attraction, the want. You make a show of batting your lashes.
A rivalry he and Wooyoung have, ever since San started at the company, a constant petty, childish fight of who will come out on top. Who makes more money, who’s more successful, Wooyoung has used your marriage and your son for years in spiteful arguments, something Wooyoung has but San does not. You don’t know if he’ll ever marry or have kids, you don’t know if he has any interest in it at all.
“Are you flirting with me, Mrs. Jung?” San cracks a smirk, it makes a shiver run down your spine. You’re most certainly not, but maybe the tequila and utter boredom has pulled something frisky in your tone, especially sitting beside a man like him. You don’t answer, placing your glass back down on the bar carefully, and San’s smirk grows. “Dangerous, I can see why Wooyoungie tied you down.”
You pop a brow, “Yeah? Please, do tell.”
There’s no harm in not denying it. Or allowing him to continue, at the very least. You haven’t gotten laid in awhile, haven’t been flirted with, haven’t felt desired in too long. You don’t really care about attention from him, of all people, but it’s kind of nice, in a way– even if you know very well how off-limits Choi San is, and that you won’t let it go any farther.
San’s voice is hushed, eyes low, drinking up your figure like he’d been waiting for this day to come, “You’re intelligent, successful, you don’t let your kindness make you vulnerable.”
You can’t help the giddiness that begins to form, “So you’re the type that likes brains and not beauty?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know I’d fuck you brainless,” he chuckles a little, settling into the barstool, pulling his suit jacket tighter. “You’ve known that for a long, long time.”
And you’ve ignored it for even longer. It still makes your feet shift on the barstool, deepening the ache in your gut you didn’t have before he sat down, he’s never been so bold before. Over the years, in your marriage, you always blamed his flirty tone, wandering eyes on his and Wooyoung’s rivalry. Which is probably exactly what this is, something to hold over Woo’s head, or at least he’d plan to if you went through with it. Which you won’t, but it’s fun to hear what could be if the circumstances were different.
“I have,” you nod, picking up your glass again, “is that what you want, Mr. Choi?”
“I’d make you forget Wooyoung exists,” he leans in, voice low, eyes piercing, “I’d fuck you better than he ever did.”
You hum, swirling the watered-down drink in your glass, “Good to know.”
His lips pursed, eyes dancing with thought before he says, “We’re staying in the same hotel, meet me at the bar tonight if you want it, too.”
You give him nothing but a short, small nod before bringing your drink up to your lips again. You watch him as he walks away, his tailored suit painted onto his ass, his thighs, he exuded money. Poise. He’s never gone as far as this, never been so blunt, never fed you a real option. But you suppose he never could, you’ve been married every time he’s talked to you, up until now.
You laugh a little to yourself before throwing the rest of your drink back.
Exhausted was an understatement for how you felt after the first day of the conference. Tomorrow would be filled with more guest speakers, more workshops, your body dragged as you hitched a ride with Mingi back to the hotel. Your phone was right where you left it, plugged into the charger, but your charger wasn’t plugged into the fucking wall.
Undressing yourself, you called Wooyoung’s mom upon your screen lighting up again, having a quick chat with her before she put Kyungmin on the phone. After he ditched you for ice cream, Wooyoung’s mom was back on the phone, asking you how the conference is, then diving into how crazy it is that they put Wooyoung on a red-eye, how important and successful he is, how you’re so lucky to have him.
“I know mom, thanks, I know,” you mumble between every sentence, face twitching in annoyance, your back pressed to the perfectly made bed, body sprawled out with exhaustion. It’s like she doesn’t even care that you aren’t together anymore.
“You two are coming to dinner on Sunday, yes?” She asks, and you kick your feet out, face scrunching together in a silent whine. “I already bought food at the grocery store today.”
After a silent, agonizing sigh, you answer, “Yup, we’ll be there.”
How could you say no after Woo dropped your son off in the middle of the night?
Her voice raises ten octaves in excitement, “Oh, thank god, we miss you, sweetie. I’m so excited to see you!”
“Can’t wait to see you, too,” your lips fold into a tight, flat smile. “Tell Kyung I said goodnight.”
“I will, we’ll call you in the morning,” you can hear her nod, her voice shaky from sheer joy, “sleep well, sweetheart.”
“You too,” you hang up the phone, then groan, long and low, a sigh following it. Fuck. The most pure-hearted woman, you think you broke her heart worse than Wooyoung’s when you divorced him. Fuck. You can’t believe you agreed to dinner. It’s the least you could do.
You need a fucking drink. The hotel room only has airplane bottles of wine, all white, nothing red, even in the overpriced fridge selection. Sighing, you drag yourself into the bathroom, taking a quick shower before throwing on comfortable clothes and heading to the elevators at the end of the hall.
The bar was empty save for one, probably the only person on the entire earth who you didn’t care if they saw you with wet hair and baggy sweats on. “I just got off the phone with your mom,” you say, pulling out the barstool beside him.
He picks his head up, still dressed in business-casual, “Yeah? I called her when I left the conference, Kyungmin’s having fun.”
“I told her we’d stay for dinner on Sunday,” you reluctantly admit, flagging down the bartender.
“Put it on my tab,” Wooyoung adds after you gave him your drink order, making you scowl.
“I can pay for my own drinks,” you mutter.
Wooyoung smiles, “Consider it my pre-paid thanks for dinner on Sunday, wifey. It'll make her whole year.”
“I’m only coming because she’s watching Kyungie,” you shoot daggers at him, ignoring the nickname, “even exchange. No need for you to pay my tab.”
Wooyoung groans, leaning back in the chair, “Can you go one day without arguing with me?”
Shaking your head, you simply respond, “No, that’s why I divorced you.”
Wooyoung stares at you for a second before snorting, “Ouch.”
“Thanks,” you mumble, both to Wooyoung and the bartender as he places your drink on top of a cocktail napkin. “You didn’t even go up yet? You’re still dressed.”
“Needed to think,” he shrugs, fingers playing with the label on his beer bottle. “They want me to speak again tomorrow, someone didn’t show.”
“Oh, shit,” your face scrunches up as you take a sip, “you gotta make up a new presentation tonight?”
He nods, lips bent, staring at his beer bottle. You lean onto the bar, “Why don’t you let San present?”
He looks up at you, eyes pointed, “Fuck no.”
“Why not?” You make a face like that was the only clear, viable option. “He has one ready to go, does he not?”
“I was asked to present,” his voice grows harsher, “me. Not him.”
“I know, but–”
“You know what, let me ask you something.” He sits up straighter in his stool, eyebrows bent above a look so sharp it could kill. “Are you sleeping with him? Is that why you didn’t answer me last night?”
You blink at him, thrice, “What–?”
“I saw you at the bar today,” he continues, voice utterly venomous, “then he said something to me, insinuating that you fuck. Or fucked. Or are fucking.”
“Do you think that low of me?” Your laugh is out of sheer disbelief. “That I’d fuck him, of all people? He flirts with me, and I don’t exactly stop him, but–”
His laugh mirrors yours, “Exactly. That’s exactly why he said that shit to me.”
“Why should I stop him?” You argue back, “It’s nice to hear that someone fucking wants me, my life is nothing but work and Kyungmin. Even when we were still married my life was nothing but work and Kyungmin, you had no interest in–”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” his voice is steady but bruising, “I’m not starting this argument with you again.”
“What, did you forget why I divorced you or something?” Your hands fly, eyes wide and piercing, “That I was sick of being married to a fucking machine?”
Wooyoung turns to face the bar again, shaking his head, “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m unbelievable,” your laugh has no warmth in it, “you just started being a father and I’m unbelievable.”
“I just started being a father?” He turns his head again, eyes wider than yours now, baffled. “Did you hit your fucking head or something?”
“We split up over a year ago,” your voice is nothing short of theatrical, “drop the fake-surprise, Wooyoung. It’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”
“And it’s all the same bullshit you’ve been spewing for years,” he takes a long sip of his beer, “maybe you should fuck San, he might be a better fit for you, you’re both liars.”
Slowly nodding, you sink into your seat, voice taunting, “He did say he’d make me forget you ever existed. That he’d fuck me better than you ever did. Should I find out? He’s coming down here tonight to get me, to bring me back up to his room…”
Wooyoung’s grip tightens around his beer bottle, eyes laser-focused onto the bar like the swirls in marble was the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. You grin.
“…He seems big, real strong, too. Bet he’d throw me around the room, maybe even get me pregnant again. Kyungmin would like a sibling, don’t you think?”
“What are you doing?” He finally looks at you again, voice ragged, angry and blunt.
You shrug, “Since you think me and Sannie would be so great together, I’m exploring options.”
As if it were a movie, something straight out of fucking Netflix, Choi San walks through the deep oak double-doors, still in his tailored suit, a cocky smirk spreading when he sees you. It widens, dimples showing when he spots Wooyoung beside you.
Wooyoung lets out a nasty chuckle, “You’re not kidding.”
“Why would I joke about it?” You lift a brow, “I told you, it was nice to feel wanted.”
“You wanna give Kyungmin a sibling?” He’s looking at you again, and his mismatched eyes are asking more than one question. Heat curls low, it’s been a long, long time since he’s looked at you that way, since he’s said anything more than a passive joke.
You swallow, words caught in your throat.
“Answer me, jagi,” he leans in closer, voice still laced with anger, but it’s morphed into something deeper, rooted in jealousy, in possession. He hasn’t called you that since before you brought up separating, it makes your lips part, eyebrows folding in just enough to crease at the center. “If you’re gonna give him a sibling, it’ll be with his father.”
Licking your lips, seeing nothing but truth and determination in his eyes, you find yourself nodding, whispering a short, “Okay.”
“Charge it to my room, 1117,” he tells the bartender, slamming a bill on the marble before grabbing you by the wrist, dragging you right past San without as much as a glance. You don’t even look at him, you don’t need to, clearly you’ve lost your fucking mind following Wooyoung to the elevators.
The moment the doors open he’s pushing you inside roughly, caging you in against the wall, forehead pressed to yours. “You wanna get fucked?”
You arch into him, whispering, “Yeah.”
“You want me to fuck you full? Get you pregnant again?”
“Fuck,” you whimper, fingers finding his jacket, “yes.”
You tug him closer by his jacket, tilting your head up to find his lips with your own. Your head is fuzzy, body charged with electricity from your argument, being in a goddamn elevator with him pressed to you, your leg lifts to clamp over his back, tugging him impossibly closer.
Nostalgic isn’t the word, it’s like muscle memory, how your lips messily tangle, tongues slotting into each other’s mouths how you’ve always done, two people who know each other better than anyone else. He groans, hips rutting into yours, making you moan into his mouth, hands flying up to his hair, tugging at his roots.
“You don’t want San,” he mutters into your mouth, breath heavy, voice rough. “You want me.”
“Shut up,” you mumble back, chasing his lips, he doesn’t let you have them.
“Say it,” he urges, fingers digging into your sides, pushing you harder against the wall. “Say you want me.”
“I want to be fucked,” your voice is clipped, annoyed, “do it, before I go back to the bar.”
His chuckle isn’t amused nor entertained, it’s harsh and unforgiving and makes a chill down up your fucking spine. The elevator dings and he pulls away from you, turning around, leaving the elevator as if he’s completely unaffected. You follow after him, on his heel as he makes for his room, he doesn’t say anything as he places his card up against the sensor, pushing the door open when it rings green.
“Oh, you’re coming in?” He asks, face unreadable.
You pause with one foot through the doorway, “Does it look like I’m coming in?”
He lets go of the door as you walk inside his room, light walls, bare, it mirrors yours. He takes off his jacket, hanging it in the closet, “Thought you were gonna go get fucked by San, you want him to throw you around, don’t you?”
You whine, “Wooyoung.”
He pulls his shirt over his head, exposing his bronzy skin, his sculpted abdomen, his hipbones that poke out from above his waistband. You’re salivating taking in the sight of him, it’s been so long since you’ve seen him, touched him.
He starts unbuttoning his slacks, staring at you like he’s bored, “You want me or him?”
You don’t know why you’re putting up a fight. You agreed to this already, your lips still feel swollen, your fingertips are buzzing with need– but admission is letting him win, and you can’t let him win.
“I want,” you mumble as he pulls his zipper down, purposely flexing his body, staring at you through lowered brows. Your breath grows shallow, licking your lips as he pushes them down his thighs, “I want–”
“What?” He tilts his head, voice taunting as he kicks them off his feet, taking a step toward you. His length is prominent through his briefs, a wet spot clear on onyx nylon, “Tell me, jagi.”
“I want,” your fingertips tug at the hem of the zip-up on your upper half, eyes locked into how his veiny hand curls over his length, voice small from how deep into the daze you’ve sank already, “you.”
Approaching you, his height engulfing you, making you feel small, your head tilts upward to see him. His smirk grows, two fingers landing on your zipper, “You want who?”
He slides it down before you answer, jacket falling off your shoulders, revealing the black, lacy bralette you wore underneath. It’s comfortable, and you wore it for that sole reason, despite how it looks, but his jaw ticks when he sees it, chocolate eyes going deep, melted, burnt.
You watch as his fingers find the center, tugging on the elastic band, letting it snap back against your skin. You gasp, a small sound, looking back up at him with glassy eyes, “Stop toying with me and do something.”
“I’m not touching you until you do as I say.” Fingers sinking into the waistband of your sweats, he bends to tug them down your hips, leaving you nearly bare, slowly standing up straight again, his nose so close to your skin he nearly touches you. “Tell me who you want to fuck you.”
“You, you fucking prick,” your back arches as he reaches his full height again, “I want you to fuck me.”
An amused smirk spreads across his cheeks before he feigns a pout, “That was mean, mommy.” Taking his hands to your shoulders, his fingertips trail down your sides, dancing against your skin, his touch, that word, his tone making you shiver. “Be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you.”
“Why are you teasing me?” You huff, each touch feeling like zaps of electricity, it’s clear he wants to take his time, wants to get you worked up. You want him to fuck you, to ruin you, to put a baby in you, you don’t want him nice. “Fuck me already, Wooyoung.”
“We have time,” his hand hinds your hair, scratching into your scalp before running his fingers through it, cupping your cheek afterward. “No kid, no interruptions, just us. When’s the last time we had that?”
“Way before we split up,” you melt into his palm, soft against your skin, comforting. Home. Your voice comes out airy, almost a whisper, “Fuck, we shouldn’t be doing this.”
Guilt– already sneaking up your spine, he catches it before it has the chance to spread. “Why not?” His hand that was on your cheek slides down to your jaw, smiling down at you viciously before his grip tightens, “You want a baby, don’t you? Wanted to get fucked so badly you planned to fuck my coworker.”
You whimper as he moves you backward, eyes wide, skin sizzling. He pushes you down onto the bed with nothing but his palm on your face, “You wanted this, and you know there’s no one else who fucks you like I do. Say it.”
“No one else,” you whisper, back already arching as he crawls on top of you, “just you, Woo, no one else fucks me like you do.”
He sucks in a breath, almost a hiss, brows furrowing as his fingers hook into your panties, knees pressed to the mattress on either side of your legs. “You want my mouth? Or my cock? When’s the last time this pussy was stretched out, huh?”
“Mouth,” you lift your hips easy for him as he tugs your black panties down your thighs, “long time.”
“Long time?” He smirks, back to taunting, “Was the last person me?”
“Fuck you,” you grumble out, “do something.”
He sits up straighter and you can feel the cool air of the room on your already-wet core, knees pinning together. “Hiding from me now?” His voice makes you want to rip your fucking hair out. “When I’m the only person who can make this pussy cum? Be nice to me, mommy.”
“Stop calling me that,” your fingers tighten in the comforter below you, “it’s fucked up.”
“I used to call you that all the time,” his brows furrow, “you remember what you used to call me?”
You shake your head, whining, “Stop playing games, Wooyoung.”
“Just give in,” he smacks the side of your thigh, “I’m here, right in front of you, waiting for you to hump my nose like a bitch in heat like you always fuckin’ do. Just say the words, jagi.”
His words, the sting makes you moan, thighs tightening just to get some friction. Resistance is a band pulled taut, you finally feel something vital in you crack, the band snapping, your lips move before you can think about the defeated words leaving them. “Yes, the last person was you, daddy. Need your mouth, your cock, need you to do something– fuck me, please.”
His smile is feline, “There she is.”
Two hands on your knees spread you wide, he dives down to press his tongue flat to your core, eyes flying back into his head when he tastes you. You moan at the same time, your fingers flying down to tangle in his slick roots as he starts lapping at your folds, drinking up every drop you’ve accumulated.
“So sweet,” he moans into you, “missed this pussy.”
Your breath is leaving you in short, shallow puffs, but a cocky, hazy smirk forms on your lips despite the pleasure, “Who’s pussy?”
“Mommy’s,” he says with a smile, eyeing you from between your legs, so shameless it makes you giggle, cut off by a sharp, strangled moan when his nose runs over your clit. “Forget I know you? Like the back of my hand?”
“Been a long time,” you lift yourself up on one elbow, your other hand in his hair, feet hooked over his back as you grind your hips up against his mouth, his nose. “Fuck, feels good.”
His eyes flutter closed, letting your hips grind against him, tongue pushed out pointed, catching on your entrance with each grind of your hips. Your clit ghosts his nose and you gasp, you’re sensitive, you haven’t gotten head in years, you think. “Sh– it,” you stutter, “so good, Woo, ohmygod.”
He groans into you, arms wrapping around your thighs, fingers digging into your hips. Keeping you in rhythm, not letting you falter, he fucks your hips onto his face with perfect pace, each movement strategic, practiced like he did this regularly. It has you weak, toes curling, head dipping back, hips moving recklessly, quicker with each drag over his hot, wet mouth.
He’s loving it, face knitted up in bliss, his hips rutting into the mattress like he needed the relief. The noises you make are loud, lewd, a hymn of pleasure only he could give you, in harmony with the squelching sounds of his mouth against your core, so dirty and nasty it edges you further, brings the pit in your stomach forward like his mouth was a toy.
“Close,” you gasp and his fingers tighten on your hips, head nodding faster, in tune with your rocking hips. Your breath catches as his nose flicks over your clit, the same pace, same pressure, same rhythm, you stutter babbles as the pressure in your gut builds, sounds growing in pitch, muddling closer together, “Fuck, daddy, I’m g’na fucking cum.”
He moans into you like he knew the vibration of his voice would push you over the edge and it fucking does, the sound that leaves you is strained, loud, vulnerably shrill. Joints locking up, face scrunching, head tucked into your chest, you spasm beneath his hold and he rocks you through it, keeping you steady, his rhythm never once faltering as your pleasure hits his peak, rushing through you like a tidal wave, the strongest orgasm you’ve had in a long time.
He slows down with your shaking limbs that lose their speed, breath finally returning to you, heavy and desperate and relieving all at once. “Holy shit,” you breathe through the words, fingers loosening in his hair, tucking your arm beneath you, leaning on both elbows to look down at him. “Intense.”
His smirk returns tenfold, “Of course it was, I made you cum.”
You flatten out on the bed, a soft giggle escaping you as you roll your eyes, “Cocky.”
He presses one more soft kiss to your clit that makes you gasp, body jerking, “For good reason, did you hear yourself?”
You smack your lips, voice amused, “I have half a mind to leave now, asshole. Thanks for the big O, baby daddy, I’ll go back to my room now.”
He crawls on top of you, pulling your thighs down, flush to his own, leaning down so your foreheads are mere centimeters apart, “Baby daddy? Ex-husband is a better title than baby daddy.”
You tilt your chin up, smiling, “How about sperm donor?”
He presses his lips to yours, rough, soul-sucking, you arch into him, hips bucking up to gain friction again. He smiles into your lips, “So mean for someone who just came on her ex-husband’s face like a dirty fuckin’ slut.”
Something small, pitched and shaky leaves you from the tip of your throat, you throw your arms around his shoulders, pressing your lips to his again like you needed him. Tucking him into you, his hips dig against yours, his bare chest pressed flat, elbows landing on either side of your head. You kiss for a while, sloppy and messy and nostalgic, swapping spit like it was candy, tongues gliding into each other’s mouths like you were making up for lost time.
His hand slips between your bodies, two fingers adding pressure onto your clit, he groans at the wetness, the heat that bleeds into him. “So wet, she missed me, huh?”
“S-shit, inside,” you gasp, grinding your hips against his fingers, “please.”
He presses his lips to yours, kissing you once, twice before pulling away, keeping your chins touching, both of your lips parted and touching as he slips two fingers inside, moaning into each other’s mouths.
He curls them immediately, making you cry out, hands finding his hair again, fingertips clawing into his scalp. He hisses, “So tight, fuck, how am I gonna fit, huh?”
“You’ll– shi– ah, y-you’ll fit,” sensitivity looms, body twitching underneath him, clenching around his fingers that sink so deliciously deep. You kiss him again, grinding against his fingers that scissor you open, “You’ll make it fit.”
He smiles against you, fingers making quick work of your leaking core, “Missed this pussy, can’t believe you haven’t given it up to anyone else.”
“No time,” you whisper and he crooks his fingers angrily, making you squeal out a cry, “fuck!”
“Try again,” he slows, bottom lip ghosting yours, “get it right this time, or I’ll stop.”
“It’s yours,” you whimper, “I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours.”
He’s chuckling as he kisses you again, smiling into your mouth as his fingers massage the front of your walls, calculated and angled, like he was trained to make only your body sing. He stops only to tug his briefs down his legs and the chill that engulfs you is conscious, it reminds you who’s on top of you, who’s pulling these noises from the deepest part of your gut.
Tattoos on display, minus the one at the tip of his spine, skin littered with droplets of mocha, spots you’ve kissed enough times to be burned into your memory. Body lean, strong, angular and unforgiving, all you can do is stare at his beauty, let it calm you, excite you, resurrect you from the loneliness you’ve endured.
His cock springs up between his hipbones, leaking, red, it begged for you even if Wooyoung didn’t, you wonder if this is how he’s felt this whole time. “Missed you,” it slips out of your mouth, two involuntary words pulled straight from the back of your mind, an area gone untouched for over a year.
“Yeah?” He crawls back on top of you, “Missed me or fucking me?”
“Both,” your hands come up to cradle his cheeks, hooking your ankles over his back, “come over more.”
He laughs as he rests a hand on the back of your thigh, unhooking your legs as he pushes it backward, lining himself up with your entrance, “You haven’t invited me over since I moved out.”
“It’s not like you’ve asked to come over either.”
You gasp as he starts pushing inside, hands falling, back arching as he sinks into you inch by inch. His cock is heavy, the stretch is tight, it renders you silent, face scrunched up, a streak of searing heat with each new inch.
“Take it,” he sounds rough himself, voice edged with restraint. “Open up, jagi. This pussy’s mine, it wants me, it’s made f’me.”
Your fingers find his forearm, other hand clawing into the sheets as a broken cry leaves your lips, “Fuck.”
When he sheathes himself fully he leans down, planting a kiss to your slacked jaw, a soft press of his lips that makes you twitch, breath shaky. He plans another one on your lips, voice low, “I haven’t asked to come over because I know you don’t want me there.”
“I want you there.”
“You divorced me.”
“Then let’s get married again,” your whine is loud, core clenching, grinding your hips against his cock.
He laughs again before pulling out, a slow drag of his veiny cock against your walls, mushroom tip dragging against the spot against your inner walls, “You’re cockdrunk.”
He slams in all the way and your body locks up so hard you can’t breathe, his smile is condescending, pushing himself up until his back is straight, grip iron on your calf as he holds it over your chest. His abdomen flexes with each roll of his hips, fucking into you so deep you can feel it in your throat, you hold his gaze, eyes watering, brows furrowed, lips pried open.
“Look at you,” he cooes, “like the day I fuckin’ met you, so hungry for it. So desperate for my cock you wanna marry me again.”
“Shut up,” you whisper, bending your other knee just to feel him deeper, “just fuck me.”
“I am fucking you,” he argues, exuding something vile, “and you’re acting like you can’t get enough, it’s pathetic.”
You moan, back arching, holding your other leg back by tucking your hand under your knee, “I can’t.”
“I know, jagi,” he nods, eyes sliding down to where you meet, watching his own cock split you open, how your folds pulse around him, clit twitching. “No one fucks you like I do, right?”
You shake your head, body burning at the sound of him bullying into you, so wet and loud it’s obscene. Your voice comes out raw, shaky, “No one else, just you, daddy– shit, just you.”
He grunts, reaching for your other leg, bending down to throw them over his shoulders, hands planted down on the mattress on either side of your head. “You want me to fuck you full? Give you another baby?”
You reach for him, pulling him down to kiss you, all teeth and broken noises, “Y–es, daddy, please.”
The noise of wet skin slapping skin dances with your cries of pleasure in the air, Wooyoung’s muddled grunts mixing into the symphony, your hips raised to meet his thrusts and his cock dragging against that spot inside you that has you seeing stars, you wail. It’s too good, it’s overwhelming, you’ve never felt like this before, so consumed by pleasure and passion you don’t notice the tears spilling down your cheeks.
“Cryin’ for me?” He leans down to lick the tear that runs down your cheek, his tongue heavy, warm. He kisses you after, sloppy and slow, so unlike the brutal pace of his cock. “Gonna take care of you, mommy. Gonna give you another baby.”
You’re clenching around him nonstop, the pleasure sharp, his words making it so much worse. He frees one leg from his shoulder to tuck his hand between your legs again, pressing his fingers to your clit, “Cum around my cock, jagi. Let me feel it, wanna feel you cum.”
Your hips are bucking with no rhythm, an animalistic, pathetic need to obey him, you need him to reward you, to fill you up. His fingers work in precise circles, tight and harsh, it doesn’t take long for the pressure to build with his cock moving in the same flow. You go silent, breath caught, and he smiles.
“Gonna cum on daddy’s cock? Gonna give it to me?”
All you can do is nod, fingers curling into his hair, all you can do is lay there and fucking take it.
“Cum for me, mommy, c’mon.”
It pushes you over, pressure blowing just as intense as the first time, he fucks you through it, moaning, head turning to sink his teeth into your calf. You seize beneath him, nerve endings fried, mind-blowing pleasure the only thing you can feel, you don’t know what sounds are leaving you, what you’re saying, it’s all too much. He chokes on another moan, cock pulsing inside you, hips stuttering, you watch with glassy eyes as he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, tilting his head to watch himself fuck into you.
“Please,” a small, broken word, it’s the only word you can manage, body still locked tight.
“Did so good,” he shakes his head, “fuck– gonna fill you up so full.”
“Look at me,” you whisper and he picks his head up, face contorted in pleasure, hips bucking. “Look at me while you fill me up, please.”
It makes his face twist, hips stuttering, a loud, extended moan pushing from the base of his gut before his hips move out of rhythm, fucking into you like you’re a toy, relentlessly chasing his own high.
“Gonna,” he stutters, you nod with each word, “gonna fill you up.”
“Uh-huh, please.”
His hips finally still, body falling forward, down to his elbows as he gives you the last few thrusts, deep enough for his release to hit its mark, to do as he promised. Warmth spreads through you, heavy, full, it racks a shiver through you, swallowing down a moan.
He tucks his face into your neck, breath heavy, he plants a soft kiss against your sweaty skin. With nothing to hold him back, he whispers, “I love you.”
“I love you too,” you answer, too earnest for what just transpired, arms wrapping around his back, nails trailing against his soft skin. “We haven’t said that in a long time.”
Face still buried, his words are muffled against your skin, “I think I’ll always love you.”
“So will I,” you say it like it’s obvious, voice heavy with exhaustion, “we have a kid together, Wooyoung.”
His cock twitches inside you, soft and spent, you can feel him smile. “Maybe two.”
“I’m not ovulating,” your hands come up to his hair, pulling his face away from your neck to look at you, “chances are low. You really want another one?”
“I thought you did, too,” his brows furrow, “what did we just say all that shit for?”
You shrug, “It was hot.”
He snorts, lowering his head to press his lips to yours, softer than the rest, slower. Filled with all the time you’ve gone untouched, spent separated, each one tearing down the tall, thick wall of resentment between you, brick by brick.
“Does this mean anything, then?” He finally pulls away to ask, and you’re becoming uncomfortably aware of him still inside you.
“Depends,” you whisper, shifting beneath him. Cocking your head, you ask, “Are you still a selfish, narcissistic asshole that only cares about his job?”
He shakes his head, mumbling, “No.”
“Okay,” you lift your chin, “prove it, then. Let San speak tomorrow.”
He snarls, “What the fuck does this have to do with San?”
You smack your teeth, brushing sweaty strands of hair out of his pretty face, “It’s a step forward. Do it and I’ll let you take me out on a date.”
He sits back on his calves, careful in his movements, he slips out of you slowly, intentionally. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your overly sensitive clit and it makes you gasp, hips twitching once. You smile through the stimulation, the feeling is nostalgic, something he used to do every time you had sex. You look up at him through heavy lids as he runs his hands up and down your thighs like he doesn’t want to stop touching you.
He finally huffs, “Okay, but I have to make a few calls and get it cleared first.” Leaning down to press a kiss to the side of your knee, he asks, “Do you wanna stay here tonight?”
“Can we shower and order room service and watch a movie?” The question comes quick, as if you knew he’d ask, you lift yourself up on your elbows as he starts crawling off the bed.
“Duh,” he grins, “c’mon, shower time and then we’ll call Kyungminnie.”
You gasp, a smile breaking out across your cheeks, “My baby.”
“Our baby,” he corrects, grabbing you by the ankles, pulling you to the edge of the bed, “Up.”
I’M NOT A PARK ANYMORE, I TOOK MY WIFE’S NAME … ❤︎ park sunghoon
PART 1, PART 2─── bored of your life, you go on tinder and match with a hot guy named park sunghoon, who in his bio, states that he’s “date to marry.” but he offers you a deal: fake a marriage with him to annoy his obnoxious family and he’ll pay you for it.
or you’re in a fake marriage with sunghoon and he takes your last name to piss his relatives off. oh and did i tell you that he’s lowkey obsessed with you? even though he’s just your “fake husband.”
contains husband!sunghoon x wife!reader. smau, romcom, strangers to fake lovers to real lovers. fake marriage au. obsessed!sunghoon. sunghoon is a multi billionaire. use of y/n l/n for the reader's name (+ nicknames like baby, my love, angel, pretty..) opposite of slow burn. feat mayor!jake, grocery store owner!jay (hoon's opps) :D
( 🪽 ) —— this is more chaotic than part 1 lol. hoon is EXTREMELY downbad for reader (and she's in denial), we meet hoon’s mom, & we see their relationship progressing >< despite it being a fast-burn, they’re just fake dating/fake flirting (but actually like eo) #fakedatingbesttrope #sorryforanytypos. anw hope y'all like this one likes, comments, & reblogs r greatly appreciated <3
( 🪽 ) —— reached my pic limit so i didnt get to add the divider LMAOOO. but here u guys go! ALSO THX FOR READING! im thankful for everyone who liked the first part! tell me if u guys want angst or js romcom for part 3 hehe >< (i also thought of making sunghoon jealous or smth but ill think abt it)
ty to my taglist i love y'all <3
taglist 1: @cokewithcameron @pumrikku @sunnysidesins @hongtyong @taesansnovia @fein4hoon @samvagejkflxhrt @yurilover249 @honeymoonave777 @ohmymelon @run2min @nyfwyeonjun @foreveronez @dina-10s-blog @enhapagluuuuu @iiunique @12e45 @all4moi @sleepymochiiii @mijjinthefridge
@vanheee @idkhahaha1234 @mysticalmf @hyunjinslongasslegs @ryukumi @gracesalvatore @somuchdard @megamatt43 @jakeycakeys @enhapocketz @autumnsgr3ysolace @satorus-slut @tamedhoon @sharknadoooo0 @nonchalantkumi @xoalzox @marianaconta123 @itsgigi444 @sarinhaluvskats @yangflavor1009 @heehee67 @sunnotes @gae-ping-boosay @bmbivan @mailovesreading @510-5 @gayterry1000 @nonachoss @isa942572 @mynameistakenfml
I’M NOT A PARK ANYMORE, I TOOK MY WIFE’S NAME … ❤︎ park sunghoon
PART 1, PART 2 ─── bored of your life, you go on tinder and match with a hot guy named park sunghoon, who in his bio, states that he’s “date to marry.” but he offers you a deal: fake a marriage with him to annoy his obnoxious family and he’ll pay you for it.
or you’re in a fake marriage with sunghoon and he takes your last name to piss his relatives off. oh and did i tell you that he’s lowkey obsessed with you? even though he’s just your “fake husband.”
contains husband!sunghoon x wife!reader. smau, romcom, strangers to lovers, fake marriage au. obsessed!sunghoon. sunghoon comes from a rich fam. use of y/n. yn is lowk easy. opposite of slowburn but dw their relationship actually progresses
( 🪽 ) —— first enha smau >< hope u guys like it :P likes, comments, & reblogs r appreciated <3 btw i have never used tinder so i js edited shi .. also there's a videocall part that'll take a few seconds to load.. also pls their texts gets funnier, its still pt1!
( 🪽 ) —— TY FOR READING! worked on this baby for a WHILE... finally posting it FAHH. do comment if u wanna be tagged in the next part :P i'll try my best to post the next part asap (as i literally have 3 ongoing smaus rn..)
ㅤ18+ 2559 ꕤ extreme gore, bodily injury, possessive behaviour, graphic violent, blunt force trauma, psychological horror, murder fantasy, blood & violence against women, obsessive themes, stabbing, strangulation, one (1) mentioned of razor.
𓆩 ✩ 𓆪 part of my kill!kill!kill! series.
and now i’m yelling over her
she yelling over me
all that that means
is neither of us is listening
music has always been sacred between you and SUNGHOON.
more than just a casual hobby, it was how the two of you communicate—through lyrics, melodies, and shared silences. some emotions were always too heavy—especially for sunghoon, who spent most of his life keeping things to himself until it got real and intimate like this.
most of the time, late nights are spent lying on his bed, vinyl spinning softly on his player, sharing headphones, fingers intertwined… those were the moments sunghoon felt the closest to you.
the two of you don’t really share the same music sense, but he loved how your eyes flutter when a certain line from his choice of music hit you. he loved how you’d squeeze his hand when the song said something you couldn’t say yourself.
music was intimate.
holy.
just like tonight.
the two of you were tangled on his bed, lights dimmed—only the warm bedside table that cast soft shadows over. sunghoon lay on his back with you curled against his chest, his arm loosely around your waist.
the vinyl cracked as an old, romantic ballad began to play—slow piano and softer vocals, this timeless love song that was written in dark meant for slow dancing.
you hummed softly, a nostalgic smile forming on your lips.
even though it’s been so long,
my love for you keeps going strong,
i remember the things we used to do,
“oh… this song,” you whispered, voice warm with memory. “i didn’t know you had a record of natalia cole.”
sunghoon stayed quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing circles on your bare waist. your top hiked up a little when you shifted. his voice came out calm, almost like a hum, indifferent.
“yeah? i like this album a lot,” he said softly, eyes still on the spinning vinyl. “you like her, baby?”
you shook your head lightly, still smiling.
“mm, not really… but my ex used to dedicate this song to me all the time. he said it was our song—for whenever he missed me. it’s funny hearing it now.”
what?
sunghoon’s hand stopped moving on your waist.
almost instantly, something shifted behind his eyes. you couldn’t see it since you were still curled against his chest, but his jaw tightened, eyebrows furrowed in a cold what the fuck? expression.
on the outside, he remained mostly still. calm. still cool, still composed. but inside, a storm was raging violently.
that song. a song from one of his favourite albums that he played for you on the vinyl. the one playing while you’re here laying in his arms, in his bed, in his space—had been “their song”? your worthless, piece of shit ex boyfriend claimed it first? had played it for you? whispered the same lyrics he felt for you?
his chest tightened.
fuck—sunghoon knew it was in the past now, but it had happened once. that’s not just something sunghoon could put aside. sure, he knew you’ve dated once or twice before, but he never knew that the two of you did such intimate acts like this too.
sunghoon slowly sat up a little, reaching over to lift the needle off the vinyl, stopping the song mid–lyric.
you blinked, lifted your head.
“baby? why’d you stop it?”
sunghoon gave a small, lazy shrug. “just felt like changing it.”
but his mind was spiraling. how dare you smile like that while talking about another man? how dare you look so nostalgic over a song that should belong to us?
you sat up lightly, studying his face with a small, amused smile.
“...are you jealous, hoonie?”
he let out a soft scoff, leaning back against the headboard. “jealous?” he raised an eyebrow. “of what?”
you tilted your head, that teasing smile still plastered on your pretty face. “because i said my ex dedicated this song to me—then you got all quiet and changed the record right after.”
sunghoon stayed quiet for a second, then spoke lowly, still trying to sound indifferent.
“yeah. i don’t like it.”
you blinked, a little surprised by his honesty.
“oh… well, it’s just a song, baby. and he’s an ex—it’s a long time ago.”
that sentence seemed to flip a switch.
for someone who’s supposed to be an ex—for something supposed to be a long time ago—why did you still remember it? why did you mention it if it’s just a song?
sunghoon turned his head to look at you fully. his tone was still calm, but not laced with a sharp edge beneath.
“just a song?” he repeated. “then why are you smiling like that when you talk about him dedicating it to you? why does your face light up when you remember something he did?”
you frowned, slightly taken aback. “sunghoon, you’re overreacting. it’s just nostalgia for me. it really doesn’t mean anything anymore.”
“it means something to me,” he said quietly, but his eyes had grown darker. “i hate knowing another guy used to play this song for you. i hate knowing he called it your song—and now every time i hear it, i’m only goin’ to fucking think of him touching you and whispering those lyrics to you.”
the argument was starting to build.
what’s up with him—? you frowned, getting confused. he was never as worked as this before. truly, it’s just a fucking song.
you sighed, “it’s not that deep—”
“it is that deep,” he cut in, voice still low but firmer. “you’re mine, now. i don’t want anything from your past still making you smile like that.”
a heavy silence settled between you two.
you hated when sunghoon acted like this. crossing your arms, you leaned back against the headboard, no longer looking at him.
great—now the mood’s ruined because of this stupid fucking song.
“...it’s really not that serious.” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes.
that was your mistake.
sunghoon’s entire demeanour shifted.
“oh yeah?” his voice was still quiet, but cold now. there was a slight scoff to it. “then tell me more about how he dedicated it to you.”
he played the song again. the record spinned beneath the needle.
you glanced at him, annoyed. “sunghoon, come on—”
“no, no, tell me.” he sat up straighter, eyes locked on you. “did he play it while you guys kissed? did he whisper the lyrics in your ear? did he say he loved you while this song was on? did he play it while he fucked you?”
your eyes widened. “what the hell is wrong with you? he’s an ex! it was years ago!”
“exactly! so why the fuck are you still smiling about it?” his tone sharpened. “why does your face light up when you talk about another man’s song for you?”
“it’s just nostalgia! gosh, you’re being ridicul—”
“ridiculous?” he cut you off, letting a low, bitter laugh out. “i’m ridiculous for now wanting my girlfriend to reminisce about her ex while she’s in my bed?”
the argument boiled harder. your voice overlapped, tension thickening the air.
you snapped, “you’re acting insecure as hell right no—”
that was the final trigger.
sunghoon moved fast.
his hand shot out—grabbing the back of your head roughly. his fingers curled and tightened around your hair in a viscous grip, digging hard into your scalp until you swore you felt your strands were ripping out. his nails scraped against your skin as he twisted his wrist, yanking your head back so he could get better leverage.
then he slammed your face down with force into the spinning vinyl record.
CRRRAAACCK—!
the thick vinyl shattered instantly under the impact. sharp, jagged pieces exploded outward like broken glass. the edge of the record sliced into your forehead and cheek, carving long, ugly gashes across your skin. blood burst out immediately, smearing across the broken record and dripping onto the bedsheets in warm rivulets.
you screamed in agony, the sound muffled as he kept your face pressed down against the spinning wreckage. your hands shot up to grip his wrist, drawing your nails to pry him off.
a sharp shade embedded itself into your cheek, cutting through flesh and nearly reaching the inside of your mouth. another piece sliced dangerously close to your eye, but blood poured into it and blurring your vision red.
sunghoon’s breathing was heavy but still controlled, his grip unrelenting as he ground your face harder. the distorted, warped sound of natalie cole’ voice kept skipping underneath your bloodied face—the romantic lyrics now twisted and grotesque.
i miss you like crazy,
i miss you like crazy,
ever since you went away,
every hour of the day,
i miss you like crazy
“still feelin’ nostalgic?” he whispered against your eyes, voice low and terrifyingly calm. “does it still remind you of him?”
he lifted your head slightly, only to slam it down again even harder into the shattered vinyl.
more pieces of the record broke and dug into your skin. a long, razor sharp shard sliced across your eyebrow and eyelid. your nose throbbed painfully—broken.
sunghoon finally released your hair, letting your body drop heavily onto the bed.
you lay there gasping and whimpering, fingers curled into the white–red bedsheet. face a bloody mess, you were trembling, barely able to think through the pain, but still conscious.
sunghoon stared down at you for a moment, breathing steadily, his expression eerily calm. you thought it was over, then—thought sunghoon was finally done with his lesson on you—
then he reached over and grabbed the entire record player—the vintage machine, wood base and all—lifting it with both hands.
you barely had time to register through your red blurry vision what was happening before he brought it down with viscous force.
the heavy record player slammed directly onto your upper body. you whimpered, cried out in pain as your whole body bounced on the mattress from the impact, a choke scream ripping from your throat—followed with a bloodied cough.
the hard wooden base bruised your ribs.
CRASH.
your body bounced harder this time, the bed creaking loudly as the heavy player smashed down onto your stomach and chest. your heard something crack—possibly a rib, or a bone. blood sprayed and soaked the sheets.
“i hate it, i hate it, yn, shit,” he hissed, slamming the entire player down onto you again and again. your body jerked and bounced pathetically with every brutal hit. each impact forced the air out of your lungs in wet cries.
your face was already a mangled mess—now your body too. your body sunghoon loved very much. deep slashes across your pretty face, and bruises and cuts across your torso wherever the machine landed. even breathing was painful.
one eye swollen shut, filled with blood.
your boyfriend finally paused, holding the broken record player in his hands while looking down at your twitching, whimpering, non–responding body.
“alright now, baby,” he panted, a few strands of hair stuck to his forehead from the effort. he dropped the heavy record player on the bed next to him, then reached for his phone on the nightstand.
“let’s dedicate a song for right now… right here.”
well, i'd rather see you dead, little girl,
than to be with another man,
you better keep your head, little girl,
or i won't know where I am,
sunghoon hovered over your broken, twitching body. blood continued to leak as he gentle brushed some bloody hair away from your forehead, almost tenderly, as the deep gravelly voice song:
well, you know that i'm a wicked guy
and i was born with a jealous mind
and i can't spend my whole life
trying just to make you toe the line
“you hear that?” he whispered, leaning down close to your ear. “i’m a jealous man—and this one’s better. this song is only for you and me.”
he pressed a soft kiss to your bloodied temple, right over a deep cut, while the song continued playing—dark obsessive lyrics filling the room as you lay there barely conscious, whimpering weakly.
it was as if the lyrics were pressing on your cuts.
let this be a sermon
i mean everything i’ve said
baby, i'm determined
and i'd rather see you dead
sunghoon pulled back slightly, staring down your face. and i’d rather see you dead—than to be with another man. even if you’re his now. sunghoon couldn’t allow another man residing in your thoughts.
he reached for black aux cord of the record player—and without a word, looped it around your neck.
your eyes widened in panic as you felt the cord tighten.
“mmh—! sunghoon—ack—please!”
sunghoon straddled your chest as you tried to pry him off—so he pinned your arms down with his knees. slowly, he began pulling the cord from both ends.
the cord dug deep into your already blood–slick neck, cutting into skin. you choked instantly, a wet gurgling sound escaping your ruined lips as your body jerked violently underneath him.
“i’d rather see you dead…” he whispered along with the song as he pulled harder.
your legs kicked weakly against the mattress. your fingers scratched useless at his hands and the cord, but you were already too weak from his earlier beating. blood from your face and chest continued to pour as you thrashed.
sunghoon never raised his voice, instead, he simply leaned closer, watching your face intently as he tightened the cord even more, muscles flexing in his arms.
your face turned a deep, ugly purple. your tongue protruded slightly. your one remaining eye rolled back, tears mixing with blood.
“ack—hngh,” you cried and choked out sobs, head tipping back as the cord pulled at your skin. the thick wire dug mercilessly into the soft flesh of your neck, crushing your windpipe. so tight it cuts into your skin, drawing blood that trickled down your collarbones.
your body convulsed beneath him. bloody foam bubbled at the corners of your mouth.
you stiffened, then began jerking in violent spasms—that’s just your body reacting to survival. your back arched off the bed as your lungs burned for air. a final, pitiful “hngh—” escaped you before your movements died down.
sunghoon leaned down closer, pressing his forehead against yours while still choking the last bit of life out of you.
“stop remembering him,” he murmured against your bloody lips. “just die thinking of me,”
you better run for your life if you can, little girl,
hide your head in the sand, little girl,
catch you with another man,
that's the end, little girl,
your body gave a few more weak twitches… then went completely limp.
when you stopped struggling entirely, only then did sunghoon slowly loosen the cord, lowering your body back into the bed. the cord left a horrifyingly deep ligature mark left behind.
he stared at your dead face for a long moment before gently brushing your hair back.
my love, there's only you in my life,
the only thing that's right,
oh.
this was the song sunghoon had dedicated to you.
he turned his head towards his phone lying on the floor. the screen was still lit, showing the song’s cover.
“...baby?”
his voice came out hoarse.
“yn?”
when he turned his head to face you again—
your face was still destroyed, body unnaturally still.
sometimes, JUNGWON tries not to let the fact that you’re slightly older than him bother him so much.
he tells himself it doesn’t matter. age is just a number and besides, you’ve never treated him like a kid, never babied him in front of others. but no matter how hard he tries to suppress it, the gap is always there—subtle, persistent, gnawing at the back of his mind like a splinter he can’t quite grip.
you were already building your career when he was still struggling with his degree. you had your own wage, your own routines, your own work–life balance, your own life that felt more put–together than his…
sometimes it makes him a little frustrated whenever he watched you on important calls or meetings, typing away on your laptop with that ‘corporate’ expression on—using jargons he don’t understand with people twice his age.
it made him feel like the younger one—like he was still trying to catch up.
and jungwon hated it.
because all he wanted was to be a man. your man. the one you leaned on. the one you looked up to. the one who took care of you—not the other way around.
that’s why he cherished nights like tonight.
the candlelit dinner at the upscale restaurant, soft live jazz and band humming in the background. jungwon had pulled out your chair, ordered for you, treated you like a proper lady all evening. for a few precious hours, the age gap felt smaller. he felt—
equal.
maybe even a little superior.
“this is so good, baby,” you smiled, taking another bite of the tender steak.
jungwon leaned back slightly in his seat, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips as he watched you enjoy the food he chose.
“i’m glad,” he said. “i remembered you liked this sauce last time we went to a place like this. the chef here is one of the best in the city—i made sure to ask for the best table too.”
you blushed—jungwon liked that.
you chatted lightly between bites—about the ambiance, the wine, and how nice it was to dress up for a proper date night that’s not at home. jungwon kept the conversation flowing naturally, speaking maturely that made him seem older than his age.
he reached across the table and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“you look so beautiful tonight,” he murmured, eyes soft but confident. “i like to see you relaxed like this. you work so hard… you deserve nights where you don’t have to think about anything.”
for a while, the conversation stayed light and comfortable. jungwon was playing his ideal role perfectly—the composed, caring boyfriend. the older one.
then you set your fork down, eyes sparkling with excitement.
“by the way… i got the official offer today. they gave me a promotion.”
jungwon’s fingers tightened slightly around his glass, but his gentle smile stayed perfectly.
“really?” he said. “that’s big news. tell me more about it.”
you lit up as you explained the details—the new title… the new office desk, the pay raise, how it would open more doors for you. your words came out fast and bright, jungwon could barely grasp all of it.
“—i’ll probably have to travel once or twice a month at first, and it’s definitely going to be harder—but i think i can handle it. this is so huge.”
jungwon nodded slowly, listening like the understanding partner. he even reached over and placed his hand on top of yours, thumb brushing your knuckles affectionately.
“...i’m proud of you,” he murmured, smiling. “you’ve worked hard.”
on the surface, he looked so supportive. so mature. so unbothered.
busier. more important. travel. further away.
the age gap he tried so hard to ignore suddenly felt wider than ever. while you climbed higher, jungwon’s stairs were wobbling. he would still be him. the younger one, always. the one waiting for your schedule to clear. the one who still felt like he had to prove himself.
what if you start looking down on me? what if you realise you don’t need me anymore? what if you meet those older, more successful men at your new job?
just then, your phone vibrated on the table. you glanced at the screen and gave him an apologetic smile.
“sorry, baby. it’s my team leader—i have to take this real quick.”
you stood up, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek and excused yourself, walking toward the quieter hallway near the restroom.
jungwon sat alone at the table, looking every bit the composed young man. his mind was spiraling.
just tell her. tell her you don’t want to take it. tell her you need her time. tell her she belongs with you, not in some office. just tell her. tell her tell her tell her tell her tell her tell her.
he stared at the empty seat across from him, blinking blankly.
if she really loved me, she would understand… right?
a few minutes later, you returned, sliding back with a bright expression.
“sorry about that. where were we?”
jungwon glanced up—breaking into reality.
“i don’t want you to take it,” jungwon said calmly, cutting you off. his voice was quiet but firm, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made you pause.
you blinked, surprised, a confused smile played on your face. “won… i—i thought you’re happy about it. it’s huge for me.”
“i said no.”
the shift in his tone made you frown. “jungwon, you’re being unreasonable, this is my career, i’ve worked hard for—”
there it was.
that age gap he hated so much.
sure. the age between the two of you will never change—but inferiority can. jungwon will show you, who’s truly the older one—the mature one—in this relationship. the one in control.
his hand moved—he grabbed the full bottle of red wine by the neck and swung it with brutal force across the table.
CRACK.
the thick glass slammed into the side of your head with a sickening sound. you let out a sharp cry as you body jolted violently to the side. the bottle didn’t break on first hit—it was strudy—but the impact split the skin on your temple instantly. blood poured down the side of your face, staining your dinner dress.
you screamed—jungwon stood up, eyes wild with feral behind that angelic face.
“you think you’re so much older? so much more mature?” he hissed, grabbing you by the hair and yanking you halfway across the table.
“you think you know everything—? is that it?”
he raised the bottle again.
this time, it shattered against your skull. red wine and blood exploded everywhere—mixing together in a grotesque shade of crimson that spilled the white tablecloth. you collapsed onto the floor between the chair, dazed and whimpering, shards of glass glinting in your hair and deep into your flesh.
jungwon stepped around the table slowly, looming over your fallen body. the other diners screamed—falling down onto their asses.
he crouched down, gripping your chin roughly, forcing your bleeding, dazed face to look up at him.
“look at you,” he whispered, voice trembling. “you don’t know anything, yn. you don’t know shit!”
jungwon pressed his thumb against the deep gash on your temple, making you sob in pain. your body jerked weakly on the floor as fresh blood poured over his fingers.
unconsciously, unbeknowingly—he was also tearing up, streaming down his own cheeks.
he didn’t even realise he was crying—angry tears slipping from his pretty eyes while his face twisted in frustration. the sight of him crying while hurting you only made everything feel more pathetic.
he looked exactly like what he hated being seen as.
young, overwhelmed, a boy throwing a tantrum.
“i—i’m not your baby tonight. i’m your man. and you’re going to learn that when i beat it into your skull.”
he reached for the steak knife on the table.
his hand shook as he gripped it tightly. tears kept flowing, blurring his vision, but he didn’t stop—he only raised the knife high.
“i hate it… i hate feeling like this because of you,” he cried, voice breaking even as he brought the knife down with brutal force.
the blade sank deep into your shoulder—tearing past through your layers of skin, your flesh, just beside your bone as you screamed aloud.
he pulled it out, sobbing harder now, and stabbed you again—this time in your upper chest, dangerously close to your collarbone.
“i just wanted you to let me take care of you,” he choked out between tears, stabbing you a third, then fourth, then fifth time—tears and snot mixing with the blood that was getting everywhere. “why is that so hard?! why am i never enough for you?!”
your body convulsed underneath him, weak gurgles escaping your lips as blood filled your lungs. jungwon kept crying uncontrollably, stabbing you again and again and again in a messy, emotional frenzy—shoulders, chest, tummy, neck, jugular—each thrust driven by all the insecurity and jealousy he’d be swallowing.
even as he was killing you, he still looked like a boy throwing the world’s most violent tantrum.
jungwon kept crying uncontrollably, his pretty face completely twisted and soaked. he looked so young like this. youngest he’s ever been.
he stabbed you again and again. your eyes were losing focus, body twitching weaker and weaker. a thick bubble of blood formed at the corner of your lips.
jungwon leaned down closer, his tears dripping directly onto your dying face.his hand trembled as he raised the knife, gripping with both hands.
“...if you won’t let me take care of you,” he whispered shakily, voice thick with tears. his chest heaved, breathing heavily. “then i’ll make sure no one else can ever have you.”
with a broken childish cry, he brought the knife down with all his strength directly into the centre of your forehead.
the blade sank deep, cracking bone. your body jerked once… twice… then went completely still. eyes wide open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.
jungwon stayed there, straddling your corpse, knife still buried, standing straight and tall in your forehead, sobbing loudly. he reached for your phone on the table, shakily, with his bloodied fingers, typed in your passcode to your phone—
i quit.
deep, jagged stab wounds covered your shoulders, and upper chest. blood poured freely from the multiple puncture wounds, soaking through. one deep gash on the side of your neck made blood spurt with every weak, nonexistent heartbeat.
your stomach had been stabbed thrice, causing dark red to pool beneath you on the marble floor.
your face was pale and slick with sweat and blood. your once perfectly styled hair was now a mess, strands sticking to the blood on your forehead and neck.
ruined.
your younger boyfriend wiped his tears with his thumb, smearing crimson over his flushed cheeks as he sniffled his sobs. his pretty eyes were swollen and red. the contrast was pathetic—this angelic boy sitting on top of a mutilated corpse.
“—won? jungwon baby, why are you crying?”
you gasped, eyes widened as you reached over to wipe the tears pooling in his eyes.
he hadn’t even noticed he was actually crying.
how childish.
“ah…” jungwon let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, quickly composing himself. but his voice was a little thick. “it’s nothing, baby. i’m okay.”
you didn’t look convinced at all. your brows furrowed with concern as you kept wiping his tears, your touch so gentle.
“tell me,” you whispered, searching his eyes. “why are you crying? did i say something wrong?”
jungwon stared at your perfectly intact face. your forehead was empty. no knife buried there. just you, looking at him with that older–sister worry that always made his blood boil and his heart ache.
“n—no, really. it’s nothing,” he denied softly, nuzzling into your warm palm on his cheek.
“just…” he continued, chuckling dryly. jungwon swallowed the lump in his throat, his lips brushed the heel of your palm.
› pairings: yoon jeonghan x female reader
› aus: dilf jeonghan, boyfriend jeonghan, jeonghan is a dad
› genres: fluff, smut (18+)
› word count: 9.7k
› warnings: porn with a sliver (🤏🏻) of plot, jeonghan is so down bad, he likes to dom you just a little, pussy eating, masturbation, reader is on birth control but this is not mentioned, unprotected p in v sex, breeding kink, creampies, light choking, dirty talk, daddy kink, after care. pet names: baby, babe, darling, sweetheart (hers) babe, daddy (his)
› author's note: i lost my mind and just wrote this. i never write drabbles but yoon jeonghan always changes my mind simply by existing LOL DRABBLE—THIS THING TURNED INTO A FULLY FLEDGED ONE SHOT HAHAKJDHKGJH THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A DRABBLE HAKJHF
› shoutout to @aeristudios for suggesting baby names, and for giving me the inspiration to do this, jskdfjh.
and to @coupsiedaisee for watching me spiral in real time for the yoon jeonghan. thanks. thank you for working out certain plot points with me and for proofing this! 🩵🥺
› disclaimer: minors DO NOT INTERACT. this post is intended for 18+ readers ONLY. please have your age stated in your blog description and try not to look like a bot please 🙂
It was only supposed to be a nap.
You and Yoon Jeonghan have been dating for a few months now. Ever since you met him, your life has turned around, and you’ve never felt luckier. Jeonghan walked into your life with the smoothness of a trainwreck—in the best way possible. One afternoon, you came out of work and started getting rained on out of nowhere. And he happened to be the only guy willing to share his umbrella.
You started talking, waiting for the storm to subside. He took your number, and you were surprised to receive a phone call the very next day. It wasn’t exactly easy to navigate the waters since you learned he was a single parent. Dating was hard enough already, and all of your friends thought you had lost your mind when you started dating a single parent in his thirties.
“I’m barely thirty,” he’d say with a laugh, the tips of his ears turning bright red whenever someone commented on it.
Jeonghan made things feel lighter, even if his life was a complete mess sometimes. He provided you with a sense of normalcy, a sense of security. Even though you were in your mid-twenties, sometimes you worried you were on different wavelengths. But as the months went by, you found that it was easier than breathing.
Both of you fell into a rhythm. Sometimes you’d visit him, sometimes he’d come to yours with his two-year-old strapped to his hip. You’d dine together, watch some mindless TV, or play games. And whenever he could get the chance to, he’d take you out on dates, just the two of you.
Tonight, you came to his apartment straight from work. It was pasta and pizza night, and it was one of the very first nights that you would stay so late at his house. Neither Jeonghan nor you would stay at each other’s places. You weren’t quite there yet.
Typically, you’d see him wearing his clothes from work—a button-down white shirt, black pants, slacks, belt that matched his shoes. Very clean cut in his work uniform, to the exception of the pair of wacky socks he wore—like salmon pink socks with cute little potted cacti. That’s the kind of man Jeonghan was.
But when he answered the door, you were surprised by what you saw. Sometimes you would see him wearing his uniform still, but with some bits already dishevelled, like his tie would be loose around his neck and his shirt with the buttons half-undone. No. This time, Jeonghan was wearing a white oversized white tee, with bright green shorts and a white cap on his head.
And something about it made your blood stir.
But you had to remain composed. You cleared your throat as you padded through his apartment barefoot.
“What are you cooking tonight, sir?” you asked playfully, following him into the open kitchen of his apartment.
The place was small, but perfect for him and Sohee—it felt lived in, toys scattered in the living room where most of life happened. There was a creamy white rug placed in the centre of the room, a baby chair where Sohee was hyper fixating on a bag of water and peas, while Jeonghan was busy in the kitchen.
Jeonghan eyed you briefly. A smirk broke into the frown he was previously wearing. “Cooking?” he drawled slowly as he appeared to be fighting to open a bottle of wine. “Pasta and pizza. I got up at the crack of dawn to make the spaghetti from scratch with my bare hands.”
“Oh, really?” you smirked, clearly catching on to his game.
“Yeah, obviously,” he said, masking a giggle with a cough. “What, did you think I would order food and then reheat it in the oven?”
You eyed the oven, which showed you the pizza that was currently being heated up. “I would never,” you giggled softly, pushing yourself to your tiptoes to reach for a kiss.
Jeonghan tilted his head to you, aiming for you to kiss him on the lips. But coordination between you failed. In the midst of him focusing on stopping the pasta from burning, and you standing on your tiptoes, you ended up kissing his cheek.
“Stay still,” you whined, making him chuckle. Bringing a hand to cup his cheek, you fixed him in place for you to prop a quick kiss on his lips.
Jeonghan clicked his tongue. “Kiss me properly,” he complained, pouting and knitting his eyebrows in a frown.
“Pay attention to me, then,” you argued, laughing at his reaction.
“I can’t—I’m cooking,” he emphasized with half a laugh. But then he turned the stove off, quickly placing his hands on your waist to push you back against the kitchen sink. The movement was smooth, making you think that he had wanted to do this the moment he saw you walk into the kitchen.
“You are a kitchen hazard,” he huffed, his voice low, barely audible.
“Why?” you asked, laughing softly.
He tilted his head to yours, the tip of his nose bumping against your own. “Cause you’re distracting the chef,” he whispered, joining his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle, almost as if he wanted just to feel your lips with his own and nothing else. Then slowly, as he kissed you again, his tongue brushed your bottom lip ever so slightly, drawing an airy moan from you.
But then, an alarm went off, snapping him back to reality. Jeonghan tensed at the sharp sound, but leaned his forehead against yours. “Dinner’s ready.”
“I’ll get Sohee,” you whispered without opening your eyes yet.
That gained you another kiss—this one was even more brief, fleeting. But it denoted the need he had to have his lips on yours. He stepped back, though begrudgingly.
This was the only push and pull you had with Jeonghan.
In all of the months you’ve been dating, you have never gone past kissing. The only times you both have been close to doing something other than kissing were the few make-out sessions where he dared to slip his hands beneath your blouse, only to feel your back or your waist.
Yoon Jeonghan was the only man in your life who exerted control over himself.
And it was confusing at times.
Not because you questioned his affection, or his desire for you. You knew he wanted you. But for some reason, he controlled himself every time things got a little too heated. And well you… you wanted this man. More than you allowed yourself to admit.
The boyish aspect he sported as he wore his cap, the laid back look… you found it too hard to resist.
But you resisted it anyway. You skirted through the living room, through the rug cluttered with toys that told a story—a train was on the ground, surrounded by little cowboys and ponies. You smirked to yourself, knowing what story Jeonghan might’ve crafted for baby Sohee moments before he got up to get dinner ready.
You lifted Sohee from her chair, mirroring the little squeal she let out as you wrapped her in your arms. “Hi, young lady,” you cooed, smiling at her as she clapped her tiny hands together. Sohee was a perfect little girl with big bright eyes, a head full of messy black hair and the cutest smile— just like her father’s.
Jeonghan had finished setting up the small round table and was approaching you with a small towel he normally used to wipe the drool off of Sohee’s chin. “She might not be hungry, though. Apparently, she ate all of her meals at day care, not just animal crackers,” he commented with a slight but noticeably contented look on his face.
You made a shocked expression, grabbing her attention fully. “She did?” you asked, and the baby giggled at your face. “That’s awesome! Daddy must be so proud of you!”
Jeonghan blinked, his gaze shifting from his daughter’s face to yours. Now, this wasn’t the first time you called him daddy, but you were beginning to notice that it had an effect on him. His eyes widened slightly, and he seemed to stumble over his words before he even uttered them.
He ended up just smiling shyly.
“Come on, let’s put you in your chair,” you said, pretending not to have seen his reaction.
As you safely put Sohee in her highchair, she held onto your hair, making fists around the loose strands and clenching them tightly as you placed her safely.
“Sohee,” Jeonghan sighed reproachfully, catching her tiny fists around your hair before you did.
“Oh—” you muttered.
But Jeonghan was quick, grabbing Sohee’s favorite cup and placing it in front of her strategically. “Look here, Sohee!” he cooed, his tone rising in a way that made you go a little feral with cuteness aggression.
But it did the trick—Sohee instantly went for her sippy cup, silently latching her mouth to it and started drinking from it.
“You okay, sweetheart?” he muttered as you stood back. Jeonghan was standing behind you, so you bumped back against him blindly, his hand falling on your lower hip by accident.
Your whole body became alight with excitement. A little too much of it. “Yeah!” you sighed, your tone sounding too high. You cleared your throat.
If Jeonghan noticed, he did not react. “Please,” he motioned to the chair for you to sit.
You sat down beside Sohee, looking at the table as Jeonghan placed the pizza at the centre. “Hawaiian pizza?” you arched an eyebrow.
Jeonghan stopped, two empty glasses in his hands as he was just about to place them on the table. “Isn’t it your favourite?” he asked, sounding horrified.
“Yes, i-it is,” you replied, face switching into a frown. “How did you know?”
He relaxed visibly, his shoulders going slack as he resumed putting the glasses on the table, then turned to grab the bottle of wine. “Well, you told me,” he said, smirking.
“I did?” you asked.
Jeonghan joined the round table, and it was small enough that he was close to you and Sohee at the same time. “Yeah, you did. Our second date, remember?”
“Uh, yeah. Totally,” you said, not hiding the evident unseriousness in your tone.
Jeonghan huffed. “Ah, you don’t remember,” he clicked his tongue again. “Maybe you should pay more attention to me,” he emphasized jokingly.
You giggled. “You’re right, it is my favorite,” you said, leaning in to place a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thanks for remembering.”
Jeonghan smiled shyly, looking down as you pressed your lips against his cheek. He directed a long look at you as you leaned back on your chair. “Let’s hope she likes it too,” he mumbled, cutting a small piece from his slice of pizza and pinching it with a fork.
“She might not be big on it,” you mumbled softly, looking at Jeonghan as he drove the fork in front of her face. “Not everyone likes pineapple on pizza.”
He glanced at you. “You’re right about that,” he huffed playfully.
“You don’t like it?”
He shrugged, still waiting for Sohee to take the bite. “I don’t mind it,” he replied. “I just think it changes the whole meal. A snack turned into a dessert.”
“So you think pizza is a snack?” you inquired, arching an eyebrow.
“I just don’t think it’s a meal on its own, you know? It needs to have company, like pasta,” he replied with a light smile, his gaze shifting between your face to his daughter’s as she finally took the piece of pizza into her mouth.
“Oh, moment of truth,” you muttered, completely forgetting what Jeonghan just told you.
Sohee appeared to be completely intrigued by the piece of food that had just entered her mouth. She chewed, her face progressively becoming more and more interested in swallowing just to get another mouthful immediately.
“It appears she likes it,” Jeonghan mumbled happily, exchanging a look with you.
“Of course she does,” you asserted. You gave him a confident wink. “Sohee’s like me. She has good taste.”
Jeonghan smiled, content that Sohee was liking the food she was trying for the first time. But there was more in the twinkle of his eyes as he looked at you—you were able to appreciate it.
He was happy.
After dinner, you offered to tidy the kitchen as he bathed Sohee and got her ready for bed. Usually Fridays were more relaxed for you both, since none of you had to work the next day—but something about that day had left you feeling tired, and sleepy. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was work, you didn’t know.
But you were feeling too tired to drive back home, and in all honesty, you didn’t want to leave yet.
You sat on the couch, waiting for Jeonghan as he put Sohee to bed, and then you could have a moment between you two—which was probably going to end up with you watching something on TV, occasionally stopping to kiss until it got too steamy for either of you. It was usually like this. And this rhythm had you slowly falling into a steady step—familiarity.
You realized you liked it. You could get used to it.
However, tonight, your body had other plans for you.
One moment you were waiting for Jeonghan on the sofa, shutting your eyes, and the next you opened them to find yourself in his queen-sized bed, covered with a weighted blanket.
You instantly tensed, scrambling to sit up.
Jeonghan was lying beside you, not completely asleep but not quite awake either.
The lights were off, but the curtains weren’t exactly fully closed, so you could see his face thanks to the sliver of light that slipped through the parted curtains. He lifted his eyebrows, blinking slowly at you. “Hey,” he croaked.
“Oh my god,” you mumbled. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”
In the darkness, you saw him frown. “Why are you sorry for that?” he asked, his voice soft, laced with tiredness.
You realized that he was still wearing the same clothes, sans the cap. Now, you could see his black hair, which he kept trimmed short. You gulped. “I—” you sighed, finding no excuses to give him. “I should go home.”
Jeonghan lifted his head from the pillows, still frowning. “It’s late,” he mumbled. “And you don’t have to go. You could stay.”
The air in your lungs seemed to vanish in an instant. You knew the implications of staying the night at his place—sharing a bed with him meant you taking things to the next level. A whole more intimate level.
“Jeonghan…” you muttered, but there was no reason for you to say no. You wanted to stay. And you were aching to lie down next to him.
He noticed something in your tone, the hesitation perhaps. Because he smiled softly, stretching an arm towards you. “Come,” he whispered, motioning over to his side of the bed.
You turned over, lying down in front of him. Jeonghan received you in his arms instantly, wrapping one arm over your waist and slipping the other under you, effortlessly pulling your chest closer to his.
Your breath hitched when you felt his warmth, instinctively finding his chest with your palm and pushing some invisible inches of distance between you. It was futile.
Jeonghan started giggling, crushing his lips on your face. “You’re nervous,” he finally realized, pressing his lips repeatedly against yours. “It’s not like we’ve never slept together before.”
“No, we’ve slept naps together,” you interjected. “And on a couch. Never on a bed.”
“Imagine this as taking a longer nap,” he said, shrugging slightly.
“In a bed,” you added shakily, skirting the pads of your fingers down his chest nervously.
Jeonghan laughed, aiming for another kiss. “Mm-mmph,” he hummed against your lips.
Your pulse quickened. The kisses Jeonghan was giving you were mere pecks, lips pressing against yours repeatedly, gently. It wasn’t until a grunt escaped him, the arm perched on your waist switching so his hand could park on your lower back. He tilted his head, pushing yours so you could part your lips, giving him access.
Jeonghan had a killer factor. And it wasn’t his good looks, or that he was a great kisser, no. Yoon Jeonghan had a duality that only you knew. He could appear composed to some people, fun to others. A good father. A good co-worker. But the thing that never failed to make you want to die a little was just how sexy he could be.
And given the fact that he’d never gone past kisses made you a little crazy.
He kissed you again, now locking his lips with yours, humming into your mouth as you dared to swipe the tip of your tongue on his bottom lip. His hand slipped from your lower back, circling your waist and sliding to meet your hip. Inches closer to your bottom.
“Jeonghan,” you whispered, bringing a hand to cup the side of his neck.
“Want me to stop?” he mumbled, his tone gentle and sweet.
You moved your hand from his neck, shaking your head in tiny motions as you cupped his chin. “No—just a bit longer,” you whispered, diving for another kiss.
Jeonghan returned the kiss just as heatedly, his hand on your hip pressing slightly so his fingertips dipped into the fabric of your skirt. You didn’t even realize that he’d pushed the blanket down, or had you done it?
The sweet pecks had turned into a make-out session. It became harder to breathe, your body felt heavier and hotter. His lips were losing their gentleness, his chest closer to yours to the point it was noticeable in the shift in his breathing.
He pulled away, just slightly, so he could speak. “Tell me when to stop,” he said, his tone rising a bit in desperation. As though he was getting closer to a line he wouldn’t be able to come back from.
“Just as long as you are comfortable, I’m okay,” you whispered, still unable to get a grip on your nervousness.
Now, you weren’t completely inexperienced in sex. You’ve had your fair share of experiences, multiple partners in the past. But there was something about Jeonghan, something about his kiss that melted you away completely—it made you feel like a beginner all over again.
“Me?” he whispered, chuckling softly.
“Yeah, dummy, you,” you said, frowning slightly. “I thought you didn’t want to…”
He pulled away, getting a better look at your face. “Didn’t want to what?” he asked, matching the frown on your face with his own.
“You know,” you mumbled, shrugging with reluctance. “You always pull away when the kissing gets too much, or when your hands go too far.”
He blinked. “I never realized you saw it like that,” he said, softer now.
“Well, explain to me how you think I saw it,” you mumbled, showing him a coy smile.
He seemed to slow down. “I thought you wanted to take things slowly,” he emphasized, still speaking gently.
The statement made your mind race. All the occasions that Jeonghan left you feeling a little too hot, panting, and wet have been because he thought you were the one pulling the brakes? “Jeonghan, what?” you asked, genuinely confused. “I thought you didn’t want to take things there yet,” you replied, hating yourself for speaking figuratively. Your face heated up.
He smiled fondly at you. “Really?” he mumbled, raising his eyebrows briefly as he leaned his forehead against yours. “You have no idea.”
Jeonghan kissed you again, your breath catching as his lips locked with yours. The arm that was under your body wrapped over your back, as the hand on your hip held you tightly. You never would’ve guessed what he was attempting to do, because when he turned over on his back, he brought your body with him too. Now, you were lying on top of him, your full body weight pressing down on his body.
You had no time to protest—not that you actually had something to protest. But this was the very first time you both dared to do something like this. And it wasn’t because of any kind of convictions you had, it was just because you both failed to interpret the assumed distance.
And now that he knew you also wanted him, it was as though he was released from a self-imposed prison.
Jeonghan let his hands roam free on your back, leaving your hips to press his palms on the line of your back, feeling you over your clothes. He hummed into your mouth as you continued to kiss him fervently, as though his lips were magnetic, calling you to him.
Suddenly, your clothes became too much. You wanted to get rid of his oversized t-shirt, the shorts. Everything.
And Jeonghan was thinking the same, apparently. Because his hands moved further down on your body, his fingers pinched the stiff fabric of your dress shirt from your work uniform, hiking it up so he could hide his hands beneath it.
Despite his touch being cold, you welcomed it. Your body was hot, feverish as his lips continued to explore yours, his tongue meeting your own in a seamless dance. Your heartbeat was going a mile per second, so fast and so hard you could hear it thumping in your temples. It was almost embarrassing how a simple make-out session could make you feel like you were running a marathon.
It was his effect.
“Hannie,” you called, your tone honeyed and airy.
“Should I stop now?” he asked again, and you realized from his tone that he was aroused as well. It sounded low, raspy.
“No, no,” you mumbled dumbly. “Please, just give it to me. Give me everything,” you pleaded, past caring how pathetic you sounded.
But again, you wanted this man.
Jeonghan didn’t need further confirmation.
His hands slipped from under your dress shirt down and over your skirt, fully cupping your ass over your clothes. “Sit on me,” he mumbled gruffly, swallowing hard.
You let out a strangled and tiny noise from your mouth. But you followed his instruction, moving your knees to each side of his hips—not caring that the movement was hiking your skirt up your thighs, to the point that it barely covered your butt anymore.
Jeonghan didn’t skip a beat, his hand circling your neck to motion you back on his lips. You were straddling now, so it was easier to lean over him to kiss him fully. You grabbed his face with one hand, while the other slipped on the side of his head, fingernails grazing his scalp, feeling his short hair in between your fingertips.
He moaned, the sound muffled by your mouth, reverberating in your chest. It made your blood dance, arousal sizzling under your skin, your heart race even quicker. Instinctively, you pressed your hips down, accidentally grinding your crotch against his. You could feel him through your panties, the hardening bulge beneath his shorts—its warmth.
His hands gripped you harder, motioning you to repeat that same movement by pressing your hips down on him, making you feel his growing boner. You broke the kiss, but only to feel his breath on your lips. “God, Jeonghan,” you whispered shakily.
Jeonghan knew you were nervous by your tone alone. “Tell me what you need, baby,” he told you, his voice still sounding raspy.
After hearing the word baby come out of his mouth, you could not speak past this point. All you knew was his hands on you, the very evident hard-on pressing against your crotch. And Jeonghan’s warmth, the need he had for you, all of that just robbed you of words.
But you could only utter one word. “More,” you said, already knowing that without your consent, he wouldn’t do anything.
You were sure that Jeonghan could feel your rapid pulse beneath his fingertips, his hand still parked around your neck. He motioned you to his lips again, a tiny gasp spilling from his mouth when you shifted on top of him, pressing your ass on his hardened cock. It made you moan too, the sound muffled by his mouth.
His hand slipped from your neck, fingers fumbling over the buttons of your dress shirt. The second his thumb went over the first button, your core started pulsing with need and heavy arousal.
You kissed his mouth, your hand feeling his short hair while the other one felt him up his chest. His heart was beating rapidly too. You could feel it vibrating beneath your palm. His fingers continued their descent down the buttons of your shirt, undoing each one of them with great care. Like giving you ample time to stop him if you changed your mind.
But you, on the other hand, were aching for him to get it done. To get your clothes off so you could start taking his. However, Jeonghan seemed to be taking his sweet time to the point that you began to think that he was doing it to fluster you more.
As soon as the last button of your shirt came off, you pulled back from his lips, leaning back on top of him so you could get a better view of his face. His eyes roamed all over your face and body as you let the dress shirt slip off your shoulders, taking it off your arms to then discard it somewhere on the floor.
Jeonghan’s eyes widened slightly when he saw your chest, covered only by the white lace bra that you were debating to take off at that moment. But Jeonghan sat up with you still straddling him, his hands switched from your hips to your back, palms feeling you up as he reached for the line of your bra.
He looked at your face directly, his eyes reading yours as his fingers unclasped your bra. Your skin immediately prickled, a shudder running down from your nape to your tailbone. You felt his hands move, fingers reaching the straps of your pretty bra to slide them down your shoulders, then your arms.
He paused, his eyes outlining the features of your face one more time before his gaze dove into your chest. Then he leaned over, pressing a sweet kiss on your collarbone, his wet lips brushing your skin made your eyelids flutter close.
Your mouth parted, his mouth continuing to kiss down your chest, was slowly driving you insane. “Oh, Hannie,” you moaned, the sound sweet and almost pathetic.
He responded with a moan of his own, but his sounded raspy, almost animalistic. It made your blood surge, pushing you to press down on him harder. Jeonghan grunted again, this time in protest, as though you were fighting for control, and he would not allow that.
In one motion, he flipped your body over, pressing your back against the mattress. You gasped, your eyes finding him. He never handled you with such force, let alone put you down like this, because he wanted to cage your body with his.
He made no comment about your alarmed expression, but a cheeky smile drew on his beautiful lips before he dipped his head to kiss you again. You were now lying on your back, Jeonghan was slotting his body between your thighs, which you were parting for him, careless that your skirt was already up your belly.
Jeonghan slipped his hands between the mattress and your butt, finding the zipper with his fingers all too effortlessly. It made you think that he had already located the zipper way before this, which meant he’d been looking at your ass as well. The zipper came down, and his hands quickly moved the skirt down.
“I love when you wear this,” he said gruffly, pulling away to remove the skirt from your legs. “But right now, it needs to go.”
He discarded your skirt somewhere in the bedroom, and you heard the metallic sound of the zipper hitting the floor, snapping you to reality. Your hands acted on their own, finding his oversized t-shirt and pulling it over his head, which he let you do all too willingly, even helped you with tossing the shirt to the floor as well.
You giggled softly, stretching your arms to him so he could come back to slotting his hips between your thighs. Once he pressed his bare chest with yours, you wrapped your arms around him, skirting the pads of your fingers along the line of his back, feeling his skin prickle as well.
You loved that he showed no hesitation. He wanted this as much as you did, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. He initially bristled when your fingers started dancing on his bare skin, but as he let out a brief giggle, you realized that he was just ticklish and responding to your touch.
The sound alone made you go entirely feral, if you weren’t feeling like that already. You let your hands roam on his back, searching for the waistband of his green shorts, beginning to pull them down.
But Jeonghan seized your hands, grabbing them by the wrists and pinning them up your head. “Hold them right there,” he said, his tone raspy and laced with a hint of playfulness.
You did what he said, though not by obedience alone, but because Jeonghan had caged you with his body. He lowered his hips on yours, making you feel the size of his hard cock, then the warmth of his chest against yours.
He made a trail of kisses, starting from your cheekbone to your lips, then trailing down to meet the line of your jaw, the crook of your neck and your collarbones. Then, with a fleeting glance at your face, he dipped his head to kiss your chest, kissing your boobs with such deliberation that it made you think he wanted to do this for a long time. He hummed against your skin, tasting your skin as he wrapped his mouth around your left nipple.
You winced slightly under him, but then relaxed instantly when the tip of his tongue swirled around your areola, to then suckle at it and kiss it. Then he did the same with your other nipple, now the feeling was so sweet that you closed your eyes, moaning salaciously.
Jeonghan lifted his head, shushing you softly. But then he giggled bashfully. “We don’t want to wake the baby up,” he warned you, the same spark of playfulness making a return.
“Right,” you whispered, shame tingling beneath your cheeks. “I’m sorry.”
Jeonghan shook his head. “No, you’re alright,” he whispered back, pushing his forehead against yours before propping a light kiss on your lips. “You’re perfect.”
Your heart shuddered. You cupped his face with your hands, meeting his lips with your own with soft pecks. “Want to keep going?” you whispered, your tone rising a little, making you sound shy.
“Yes,” he replied with determination. He swallowed hard, but then you felt him raise his eyebrows slightly. “And you?”
“Yeah,” you replied, giggling at yourself. “I’ve wanted you for so long,” you admitted.
“Mmn,” he hummed, giving you another light kiss. “If only you knew how badly I wanted you,” he replied, matching your giggle.
“You can show me now,” you told him, your tone sweet and melted in arousal for him. “I’ll be quiet.”
“But not too quiet,” he said. “I like the way you sound.”
Something came over you, like a bright light bulb going on and off inside your brain. You smiled cheekily, even though he was still leaning his forehead on yours and couldn’t see you. “Yes, daddy,” you replied.
Jeonghan let out a sigh, and you knew that he was smiling just by the sound alone. He hummed, closing the space between his mouth and yours to kiss it. “You will be the end of me,” he told you, giggling softly.
But then he wasted no time, continuing to explore your bare skin with his lips. He returned to kissing your chest, teasing your nipples with the tip of his tongue, and he did this slowly, as though getting to know how your skin tasted, how it felt on his lips. You were sure now—Yoon Jeonghan had been wanting to do this for a long time.
You remained silent, feeling too aroused and too needy to get things done to even speak. You felt as though your tongue had grown heavy in your mouth, and you were submitted to only watch and feel what Jeonghan did to you. He saw back on his knees, his fingers hooking around the waistband of your panties.
You exchanged a glance with him, and you knew that he was asking for permission just with a look. You nodded, and he started to pull your panties in his direction, taking them off your legs. You retracted your legs, lifting your knees up for him to take your panties off completely, and left them aside on the bed.
Now, you were utterly naked on his bed. For a split second, you wondered how this situation would look from afar—pitch black in the dead of night, only a sliver of streetlight seeping through a crack in the curtains. Jeonghan, half-naked and crawling on top of your body, as you welcomed him in your arms, parting your legs for him.
“You’re so beautiful,” he drawled, pushing his lips against your own. “You don’t know how many times I imagined you here with me,” he whispered coyly.
“Yeah?” you replied in kind.
“Mm-mmph,” he hummed. “So many times. And even then, all those things I thought about don’t even come close to the beauty you are in real life.”
“Hannie,” you giggled sheepishly.
He laughed against your mouth. “My pretty girl,” he said tenderly, kissing you one more time. “So perfect. And sweet.”
Your eyelids fluttered close, as he kissed the underside of your jaw, then your neck. You sighed. “All yours, daddy.”
Now, you were sure that word had an effect on him. He let out a hum against your skin, moving to kiss your collarbones, your chest, your belly. “All fucking mine,” he said aloofly, leaving wet kisses around your belly button.
The room fell silent again, all to the exception of your quiet moans and sighs, and the smacking of Jeonghan’s wet lips as he kissed your lower tummy, inching closer to where you needed him the most.
Now, part of you was finding it hard to believe what he was doing. Even if you had experiences with other people, they were never close to the man Yoon Jeonghan was. All of your past partners seemed to shrink in comparison just by the confidence he exuded—every move was deliberate despite his initial nervousness.
And you attributed that nervousness to how much he cared about this—about taking this step with you. Because you were also nervous. You had never liked someone this much. And had never even waited to have sex with someone for so long while dating.
“Hannie,” you mumbled shakily when he kissed your mound, sending you furtive glances to check in on you.
He lifted his head, and you saw his face. His lips were swollen and wet from kissing you, his eyes darkened and half-lidded with lust. “Want daddy to eat you out, baby?”
“Oh god—” you gasped. “Yes, yes, please.”
Jeonghan only smiled in response. It was a small smile, drawing on his face slowly. He said nothing, keeping his darkened gaze on you as he moved his mouth to kiss the top of your pussy.
You blinked repeatedly, mouth parting to let out a tiny moan. Your body twitched, and you laughed at your own involuntary response as his lips pressed a kiss just an inch lower. “God, Jeonghan, please just do it already,” you pleaded.
Jeonghan grabbed your thighs, holding them open as he bowed his head between them, pulling out his tongue and running it against your outer lips. The feeling was exquisite, making your back stir on his bed, and your head sink on his pillow. Your mouth fell open, and you had to clamp your palm against it to muffle a moan.
He blinked, raising his gaze to look at you briefly before he continued licking your outer lips. You noticed he was doing this to tease you only, right before he did the real thing. He licked your outer lips, kissed them and nipped them with his lips until you were a squirming mess.
“Please, please, please,” you begged over and over, sounding even more pathetic than before.
And he obliged, even if you weren’t voicing what you actually needed. Which was his mouth on your clit. But he did this slowly, working up to it. He gave you a broad stroke with his tongue in between your folds, drinking your arousal straight from your core with a pleased moan on his part.
He licked you over and over until his mouth found your swollen clit, wrapping his lips around it once, as though kissing it only. He flicked it with the tip of his tongue, only to get you to moan and thrash under him.
But he did not comment on it, even if you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was enjoying this. He brought a hand to your tummy, placing it flat against the top of your mound and then he latched his mouth around your clit again, beginning to suckle at it.
“Oh—” you gasped, leaving your mouth open wide as he teased your clit with his lips around it, sucking and pressing his wet tongue against it, moving it slightly from side to side. “God,” you cried out, squeezing your eyes shut.
He did this for a couple of minutes, only switching the pace and motion of his tongue when your moans became raunchier.
The room was soon flooded with the sounds you made and the sounds of Jeonghan’s mouth against your dripping wet pussy. Other than that, it was dead silent in the house, and you were becoming addicted to this game of sorts, of trying and failing to keep quiet. And part of you began to think that this was why Jeonghan kept edging you with his mouth.
“Daddy, I want to cum,” you told him. Running your fingertips on his scalp, feeling his short hair underneath your fingernails. “Please, help me cum,” you pleaded, your tone raw and sweet.
Your thighs were shaking. The rest of your body was so tense with arousal, you were sure you would break. But Jeonghan gave you what you so desperately wanted—sucking and licking your clit until you reached your climax. Tension broke in your body, filling you up with sweet, sweet pleasure.
Your fingers coiled around his hair, back arching as you let your orgasm consume you. “Fuck! Yes, yes, yes, Jeonghan,” you whined quietly, pleasure robbing you of sanity as you started sobbing and shaking on his bed.
He didn’t stop, not until you began panting and heaving. He left a sweet kiss on your top mound again, lifting his head from your ruined pussy. “Felt good?” he asked.
You pushed yourself to sit on the bed, hands quickly finding the waistband of his shorts and started tugging them down with shaky fingers. “Yeah. Amazing,” you sighed, not caring how pathetic you sounded.
Jeonghan was on his knees, looking at you fumble with the remainder of his clothes. He brought a hand to cup your cheek once you got rid of both his green shorts and his grey boxers. You raised your head to meet his gaze, and you knew that he just wanted to have an image of you like this.
You bent down, grabbing his hard cock with one hand and propping a prim kiss on his cockhead. You sent him a glance, moving your lips to press them on his shaft. Jeonghan was well-groomed and had a pretty cock. It was long, and the tip matched the color of his lips. And it was warm, hard and leaking precum from his slit.
His eyelids fluttered slightly. “Lay back, baby,” he whispered.
You obeyed, moving to lie back again on the pillows as he moved on his knees slowly. His gaze roved all over your naked body as he placed his hands on each side of your head, and then lowered himself to his elbows.
You ran your palms down his chest, feeling the muscle of his abdomen clenching slightly when your fingernails grazed against his skin. But he was kissing you again, as though he couldn’t go for too long without joining his lips with your own. His breathing shifted, and your fingers wrapping around his hard cock again made him groan into the kiss.
You rolled your hand on his cock, stroking him languidly as he positioned his knees on the bed, making you open your thighs wide for him. And then you guided the tip of his cock to your pussy, rubbing his cockhead up and down your wet folds just to get a reaction from him.
Jeonghan groaned, but didn’t stop you. And when his cockhead finally notched against your entrance, he pushed his hips against yours, slipping his bare cock inside you all in one go.
The kiss was broken. Your head sank on the pillows, and Jeonghan pulled back to see your face as he stuffed you full of his cock. Your eyebrows knitted, mouth parting as you let out a silent cry.
“You’re good?” he asked you softly, but his breath was ragged already.
You wanted to say yes. You felt better than you ever had in your entire life. An exhale came from your nose; you were already fucked out.
Jeonghan nudged the tip of his nose against yours. “Mn?” he hummed gently. “Baby?”
“I’m good, Jeonghan,” you mumbled, wrapping your arms over his shoulders. “Perfect,” you mouthed.
Jeonghan giggled, starting to move. “Yes, you are, baby,” he said sweetly. “So perfect.”
You wished you could say something just as endearing. But you were quickly robbed of speech completely. Your mind had gone blank, going from the shocking orgasm Jeonghan gave you with his mouth to stuffing you full of his cock.
Jeonghan let his head fall on the crook of your neck, using your hair to muffle a raw moan as he moved his hips against yours, thrusting his cock inside you at an insanely good and steady pace.
You had closed your eyes, letting him take you however he pleased. You were too gone, melted in a puddle of arousal—it was then you realized just how wet you were. Your skin was covered in a sheen layer of sweat, your face smeared with tears of pleasure, and you could feel your pussy dripping with a mixture of your arousal and his spit. So wet in fact that every time Jeonghan moved, you could hear it.
You had started to match Jeonghan’s moans, except that he could muffle them on the curve of your neck. You were trying not to be loud, but it was proving to be a harder task than it initially was.
Jeonghan moved his head, probably thinking the same thing you were, because he crushed his mouth against yours—kissing you so passionately that all you could think was that he was trying to get you to shut up.
But he leaned his forehead against yours, breathing raggedly as his thrusts picked the pace up. “You feel so good,” he whispered shakily. “I’m not going to last long.”
“It’s okay. I want you to cum,” you replied, letting your fingers feel his skin. His back, his lats, his hips as he rolled them on top of yours.
The moan he let out this time was raspy, but he was able to drown it out in your mouth. “Where do you want me?”
Your mind spun with the question. And you knew then—you were crazy. Because you had to be. “Cum inside me,” you said, hating the sound that came from your lips. Raw, honeyed, like a whine.
Jeonghan grunted in a near-animalistic way, his thrusts stuttering in their pace, but he kept ramming his cock in and out of your pussy. “Fuck,” he whispered. And he rarely cussed when he was with you, and that was how you knew he was growing more and more desperate. Closer to his orgasm.
“Jeonghan,” you whined, knowing now that he was just as insane as you were. You cupped the back of his head with your hands, feeling his trimmed hair in between your fingers. “I want you to fill me up, daddy. Please, please.”
He let out a long, raspy moan, his breath caressing your lips as he started gasping more, pushing his hips against yours in a languid manner. You knew he was cumming inside you, and the thought of it made you moan with him, tilting your hips for him to fuck his cum deeper into you.
Jeonghan opened his hand, finding your head to caress your hair. He was panting, his chest touching your own every time he drew in air through his mouth. His thumb started moving side to side, caressing your temple.
You were shaking, hands slipping from his head, but stopped at his neck, feeling his pulse.
Then you felt his lips over yours, making you part your lips for him to have access to your mouth. His tongue rolled inside your mouth, drawing an airy moan from you. You could taste yourself on his tongue, on his lips. The act alone made your walls clench around him.
And he felt it.
Jeonghan grunted. And for a split second, you thought you were beginning to go insane because you felt him move, pushing his hips ever so slightly against yours. But no, Jeonghan was thrusting inside you again, moving his hips languidly, so slowly.
But before you could utter a question, something, he pulled back. Now sitting on his knees, Jeonghan grabbed your hips, starting to fuck you down his cock, which was beginning to harden again.
“Fuck,” Jeonghan sighed, tilting his head back but only briefly. His gaze roved all over you, from your face to your body and down your pussy, where his cum was spilling out of your swollen and tight entrance.
You could only look at him. He had a fucked out look on his face, and you realized that his skin was also covered in a sheen film of sweat. Your gaze trailed down to his abdomen and the way it contracted slightly with each thrust of his hips against yours, to then his happy trail leading down his pubic hair, which was smeared with a creamy white string of your arousal. And he was also looking at you, where your bodies joined, where his cum was dripping out.
His cock slipped out of you, making you both emit a sound at the same time. You smiled softly at him, and he mirrored your smile back. He grabbed his cock, coated with his cum and your juices, only to drive it back in your pussy, pushing his cum deep inside your walls.
Your entire body was overtaken with an intense shudder. Jeonghan kept fucking you like this, moving your hips to meet his rapid thrusts. He was beginning to look tired, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing one of your thighs with one hand and hiking it up his shoulder.
You whined at the change in position, now you could feel his cock reaching deeper inside you at each thrust.
“Fuck,” he whispered tiredly, letting his head tilt back. “You feel so good, baby,” he repeated. “You’re squeezing me so good.”
You could only moan in response, which made Jeonghan smile, turning his face to press a kiss on the inner side of your knee. The feeling of his lips on your skin only intensified the pleasure building inside you.
“Jeonghan,” you called.
“Yes, baby?”
“Fuck me harder,” you pleaded.
It was at that moment you knew—you could never let go of this man. Because Yoon Jeonghan smiled at your request and gave in anyway. He grabbed your other leg and hiked it on his shoulder, now fucking you harder, driving his cock inside you deeper.
You let out a whine. The deeper he went inside you, the closer you felt to your second orgasm. And this time it was quicker, being so stimulated that pleasure built easily in your body. But it was the whole situation that drove you insane—trying to keep quiet while Jeonghan rammed his cock inside you, his cum spilling out of you, headboard slamming softly against the wall, everything.
“Jeonghan!” you gasped, a strangled noise coming out of you as your second orgasm barreled down your spine, so hard you had to squeeze your eyes shut and clench the blanket with your hands.
He let out a sound through gritted teeth, and you knew by the way his thrusts slowed down that he was cumming with you, too. “Fuck,” he whispered, thrusting tiredly now, sloppily. He eased your legs back to the bed, crawling back on top of your body to kiss you again.
The kiss was languid, heavy with the need to rest and go back to sleep. But you were both latched to each other, kissing passionately despite the urge to breathe properly again. You were tired, yes, but were also happy beyond belief.
You cupped his cheek as he broke the kiss with a gasp. “You okay?” he asked.
You giggled. “You have to stop asking me that,” you replied, caressing his cheek with your thumb. “Yes, Hannie. I’m okay.”
He blinked slowly, bumping the tip of your nose with his own. “Do you want to sleep now?”
You nodded. “Definitely,” you said.
Jeonghan smiled fondly at you. “Okay. But before that, let me take care of you. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you replied, your tone tiny and so sweet.
It made Jeonghan smile. “Alright,” he said, kissing you one more time before he peeled his body off of yours.
He climbed off the bed and walked to the bathroom. Moments later, you heard the water from the shower running. As he came back to the bedroom, you got a better view of your boyfriend. He was glorious—wholly naked, fucked out look on his face. And all yours.
“Don’t give me that look,” he said as soon as he noticed you, smiling knowingly.
“What? What look?” you asked, playing coy.
He leaned over the bed, placing his hands at each side of your face. “The kind of look that makes me want to climb up here and keep making love to you all night long.”
You giggled amusedly. “Jeonghan, you’re threatening me with a good time.”
He smirked. “Oh, darling. And I haven’t even started with you,” he said, pressing a kiss on the corner of your mouth.
A tingling sensation shot down, straight to your core.
Jeonghan must’ve caught a reaction on your face, because he only giggled. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Once back in the bedroom, your tummy twisted anxiously when you saw the aftermath of what you had done—clothes scattered on the floor, the blanket tousled on one side of the bed and the messy covers and pillows.
You began to pick the clothes from the floor, gathering them in a neat pile while Jeonghan checked in on Sohee quickly. When he came back, your tummy fluttered again. He looked different, recently showered and ready to sleep, a different side to his confident face.
He had given you a t-shirt to wear and also offered to lend you sweatpants, which you declined, given that his t-shirt was already oversized and almost reached your knees.
A part of you felt different now. Not bad, exactly. Like you had reached the end of a chapter and were now beginning another. You and Jeonghan had had this routine of sorts for months before you started a sexual relationship, but it just felt so different now. It made you nervous.
Would he look at you differently now?
“Is something wrong?” Jeonghan asked, the sound of his voice snapping you out of your thoughts.
Jeonghan was opening the bedcovers and sheets for you both, motioning you over with his head.
“No. Nothing’s wrong,” you replied, trying your best to mask your self-doubt. You crossed the bedroom and slipped into the bed.
When Jeonghan clicked his tongue, you realized that you had taken a space that was far from his usual spot on his bed. “Come here,” he giggled softly, noticing your shyness now.
“Sorry,” you whispered, cuddling up to him. “Force of habit.”
“Mmn, yeah,” he muttered, looking at you as you leaned your head on his shoulder. He emitted a soft laugh, wrapping an arm around you. “Not anymore. Mkay?”
“Okay,” you replied, letting your worries go.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
You moved your head on his chest to look at him briefly. “Of course.”
“Why did you think I wanted to take things slow?” he asked. His tone was soft, quiet.
You blinked. “Because I thought you didn’t want to risk things changing between us…” You trailed off. “You know? You have a lot on your plate with Sohee and your ex.”
The last word spilled from you like a curse.
You and Jeonghan always skirted around that topic of conversation. All you knew was that Jeonghan had a very fleeting relationship with Sohee’s mother, and it ended up with her getting pregnant. Jeonghan had full custody of Sohee, and you had also come to learn that his ex only liked to appear in both Jeonghan’s and Sohee’s lives sporadically. But on those occasions, she always seemed to make it a living hell for him.
Jeonghan blinked, and you knew your words had left a heavy impact on him.
Your heart squeezed. “I shouldn’t have,” you added nervously, looking away. “I’m so sorry.”
A pause.
Jeonghan slipped his fingers beneath your chin, tilting your head up to meet your eye again. “No,” he mumbled. “We can talk about it.”
“Okay,” you whispered shakily.
“I don’t want you to think that there are things we can’t talk about, you know?” he said, worry beginning to set into the features of his face. “And maybe I’m to blame here, because I didn’t want to bombard you with my stuff.”
“What do you mean?” you said.
Jeonghan sighed, and it wasn’t out of tiredness or exasperation. He was looking for the words to say. “When I met you, I was terrified of some things. I debated whether to tell you about Sohee on the first date. I just didn’t want to say something that would scare you away,” he lowered his gaze briefly. “And I debated even more on telling you about my ex.”
“But you did tell me about Sohee on our first date,” you reminded him, frowning a little. “And about your ex on our second date.”
Jeonghan smirked slowly. “So you do remember our second date.”
“Of course I do, dummy,” you said. And then it clicked. You didn’t remember telling Jeonghan about your favorite kind of pizza because he had just told you about his evil ex. And that was his way of changing the topic. “I must’ve been digesting a lot of information while we talked about Hawaiian pizza, you know?”
He offered you a solemn look. “And you still stuck around. You could’ve walked away, but you didn’t,” he whispered, looking at you longingly. “You still haven’t.”
You parted your mouth. “I don’t think I want to, Jeonghan,” you replied in kind.
His gaze softened. “If something happens, will you talk about it with me?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” you mouthed. “Can I ask you now?”
Jeonghan nodded, blinking at you sleepily.
“Why did you think I wanted to take things slow?”
“Same thing,” he responded reluctantly at first. He let out a sigh. “I thought you didn’t want things to get messy, you know? I have a kid and I’m alone in this. I didn’t want to hold it against you if you didn’t want to get sexually involved with me.”
A smile broke into the features of your face. You pushed yourself up to kiss him tenderly. “You’re such a dummy,” you whispered.
“Me?” he giggled, holding you closer so he could press another kiss on your lips. “What did I do?”
“I’ve wanted you from the moment we met,” you told him, and it was the truth.
“How was I supposed to know?” he said, clearly clueless.
“I thought you always noticed,” you said, still in disbelief.
“But you never said anything.”
“Jeonghan,” you deadpanned. “I really like you. Like really, really like you.”
He smiled sheepishly, blinking slowly. “Well, I know that. I really like you too. I just wanted to wait until you felt ready to take things to the next level.”
“Babe, I literally called you daddy and let you cum inside me not only once, but twice,” you told him with a flat tone.
Jeonghan almost choked on his laughter. “Sweetheart! You can’t just say those things,” he said, sounding both scandalized and amused.
“Why not?” you said, clicking your tongue. “You’re always saying weird stuff as well.”
“Really?” he said, and you nodded at him. “Am I weird?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, I’m weird then,” he said with a faux defeated tone.
“You’re weird like pineapple on pizza,” you said. “Sweet and salty at the same time.”
He emitted a low chuckle. “That’s really corny, babe. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. I work hard on my metaphors,” you replied primly.
“I’ll give this metaphor a seven out of ten,” he smirked.
You gasped. “Admit it, you love my metaphors.”
“Yeah, like I love pineapple on pizza,” he said, letting the sarcasm coat his words. He brushed his fingers down the line of your jaw, looking at you fondly. “You’re weird too.”
“The kind of weird that matches yours,” you said confidently.
Jeonghan smirked, closing the space between his lips and yours. “Absolutely.”
› author's note pt. 2: i need to give him a kid. or kids, plural. like asap, please. i'm begging 😭
i literally wrote this in between calls from work. like it literally took me 24 hours to write this, no joke. jeonghan just drives me insane. i have no explanation for this 🧍🏻♀️ i might just be ovulating but let's be real — i'm always thinking about jeonghan, and right now the baby fever is going wild. you'll see in future fics lololol
i want to thank you all for being here and for reading so far!! i recently gave away 25 free spots on my patreon!! i'm so excited hehe, i might giveaway more spots in the future! thank you guys for joining! 🥺🩵
Johnny Suh is insufferable. He’s rich, arrogant, and anything but funny. You refuse to believe he is worth anything more than walking away from– over and over again– because you keep showing up for his friends, and his friend’s keep forcing you to talk to him.
ao3 | main m.list | minors do not interact.
TOTAL WORDCOUNT ― 88k
PAIRING ― johnny x afab reader
CONTENT ― enemies to lovers, soft top johnny, female reader, extreme slow burn, pining, anxiety, arguments, jealousy, college setting, talk of home life troubles, partying, and drinking.
other tags are provided before each chapter.
SIDE CHARACTERS ― mark lee as the platonic soulmate, haechan as the guy who can’t keep a job, taeyong as the story teller, jaehyun as the guy who exists when he feels like it, unnamed best friend, made up ex girlfriend of johnny for drama purposes
WARNING!! reader visibly blushes and can be lifted.
!! CHAPTERS !!
one ―14.8k
two ― 17.2k
three ―13.1k
four ― 15.4k
five ― 11.5k
finale ―16.2k
if you think you’ve read this fic before, it’s because you have. l*cas was a side character and i have since went through and replaced him. i have also edited the entire fic and changed the title.
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